Catling's Bane (The Rose Shield Book 1) Page 21

  A lithe woman with white streaks in her blond coif cleared her throat. When Oaron acknowledged her, she rose to her feet and bowed. “High Wardess Sianna-Bes, Your Radiance. I have two sons, both single and worthy of the heiress’s bond.”

  “Forgive me, Sianna-Bes,” Vianne said. “But aren’t your sons several summers over thirty. Lelaine is merely seventeen?”

  “Too old,” the king muttered.

  “I have a grandson as well,” Sianna said, her steely eyes twitching. She peered at the four doyen and frowned at the influencers against the wall, her own talent likely among them.

  “Closer in age, true.” Vianne nodded thoughtfully. “I believe he’s nine.”

  “Too young,” the king snapped, and the woman sank into her seat, her jaw clenched.

  “Ah,” Oaron stared at the distant wall. “Manus-Lim would be too old as well by those standards. We might consider Algar’s sons.”

  “One is a drunkard,” Barrick-Kar stated. “The other is bonded.”

  “He offered up a bonded son?” Vianne balked. “What would he do? Murder his son’s wife?”

  The king mirrored her disgust.

  Commander Jagur raised a hand, his eyes as hard as his face. “The Farlander clans would readily offer up a chieftain if it brings a solution to their plight.”

  Vianne glared at him, and the king narrowed his eyes. If any of the other councilors had an opinion, they didn’t voice it. Vianne smoothed her hair and sighed. “Perhaps, Lelaine might choose for herself.”

  The king pursed his thin lips. “Where did Lelaine run off to? I thought she… I thought… Where are my ambassadors?” He tried to rise from his chair, the wet stain on his blue robe visible for all to see. Catling glanced at Whitt and the dour concern written on his face.

  Oaron took the king’s arm, steadying him. “Perhaps it’s time to give your guests a rest.”

  The stooped monarch studied the room as if noticing them for the first time.

  “Might Lelaine choose for herself, Your Radiance?” Vianne asked.

  The king smiled. “Of course, you can, my dear.”

  Every soul stood and bowed while the councilor led the fading king from the room. Vianne swept toward Catling. “Follow me. Quickly.”

  “But…” Catling cried. “Whitt. Whitt is here.” She spun to Whitt, only to encounter his back. The commander relayed instructions while eyeing Vianne, a curious frown wrinkling his brow.

  Vianne glanced over her shoulder. “All the more reason for haste.” She clutched Catling’s hand and towed her from the hall.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Vianne shut the door and sagged against the polished wood, eyes closed, a hand to her stomach. She had wrenched Catling from the hall without thinking, desperate to avoid a conversation with Jagur. His presence had rattled her beyond reason, and the king’s wandering confusion had proved harder to manage than she’d imagined. Rarely did she lose control, and the experience frayed her nerves.

  Mentors had warned her that bonds outside the guild rarely survived. How could they when such a disparity in power inevitably bred suspicion? She’d recognized the challenge, observed Jagur’s discomfort and her own temptation to soothe his emotions. More than a decade later, her questions continued to nag; how many more years until she finally set aside the man molded behind Guardian’s walls?

  A deep breath steadied her, and she paused to debate with her heart. Noble goals had returned her to Ava-Grea. Her desire had always been to maintain peace and stability, and she still believed her guild had the will and power to steer Ellegeance in an advantageous direction. She’d sworn oaths; she bore a duty. And he was bonded, estranged but bonded, a fact she should care about more than she did.

  She glanced at Catling, the girl gazing out the window. Uncertainty riddled her decisions. Another victory or another mistake? How could she feel protective and detached at the same time? As much as Catling’s shield embodied opportunity, it possessed danger beyond imagining. Vianne clenched her fists and swallowed her emotions. She would kill the girl if she couldn’t control her or trust her, and the answer to that question drew ever nearer.

  Without a word, she smoothed her jacket and exited into the gardens. Despite her warning, Catling would soon follow, seeking Whitt. It couldn’t be helped, and they’d sort through the consequences when the deed was done. If Anian hadn’t mucked things up in the south, Whitt would still be on his farm with his family. Not a mote of remorse troubled her conscience for the fat influencer’s death.

  Other timelier concerns pressed as she climbed the spiral stairs to the twentieth tier, escorted by four well-armed guardsmen. The royal quarters wreathed the circular platform like a jeweled crown. Pools of luminescence bubbled along the walkways, and an orchard of fruit trees offered fragrant shade. The heiress waited at a glass table set for two beneath branches laden with pink lissom. At first glance, she appeared younger than her seventeen years with a childlike softness to her cheeks and blond ringlets arranged over her shoulders. Yet, her smile of coy innocence belied the shrewd intelligence in her blue eyes.

  Vianne bowed. “My respects, Heiress, and my gratitude for your willingness to speak with me.

  “Your message hinted of utmost urgency.” The young woman extended an inviting hand toward the open seat.

  “That was its intent.” Vianne smiled and glided into the cushioned chair. “May we speak privately?”

  The young woman glanced at the four guards standing sentinel in the shade. “On one condition. Swear you won’t influence me.”

  “I give you my oath,” Vianne said. “My goal is quite the opposite.”

  “Well then, I’m intrigued. Follow me.”

  An hour later, the heiress sat at the rear of a small sailing skiff, handling both the tiller and mainsheet as they glided across the swells. A boatload of guards followed near enough for a rescue, but too far to hear more than the wind and waves.

  “Is there anything I can do, Heiress?” Vianne gripped the wooden gunwale, a keen eye out for sea monsters. She secured a basket of provisions between her feet.

  “Call me Lelaine and pour us two cups of wine. You’ll find a full bottle in our supplies.”

  Vianne shifted her attention to the basket. “No doubt you’re aware that wine dulls my ability. I swore I wouldn’t attempt to sway you.”

  “A precaution.” Lelaine tilted her head, blue eyes challenging. “Do you refuse?”

  “Not at all.” Vianne filled two cups and drank hers without delay.

  “I love sailing.” Lelaine tied off the sheet and accepted a cup. “It’s the only time I’m sure my feelings are my own.”

  “I suspect your father’s failing health has complicated all aspects of your life.”

  “I don’t even know him.” Lelaine downed her wine. “He doesn’t know himself. When was the last time he had a true feeling or thought free of manipulation? I loathe influencers, Vianne, and the control you exert. I want my own heart and mind, my own decisions. Nothing frightens me more than the prospect of waking up in the night to find an unfamiliar woman living in my skin.”

  “Yourself.”

  “Precisely. I refuse to be a puppet.” The heiress burped and smiled. “My regrets. I’ll have another.”

  Vianne poured the wine. “Your suitors attempt to sway you with influence? That hardly promotes trust.”

  The heiress frowned. “Don’t take me for a fool, Vianne. You’re sharper than that. Life is ruthless and manipulative. It makes me angry and sad at the same time.” She drained her cup. “My suitors are wooing my father for the moment. They want more than my hand, and now’s the time to work their magic.”

  “Yet you feel the influence?”

  “No, not always. They’re subtle. Yet, there are times, I no longer trust myself.” She patted her chest. “My dreams are my own, and during the day this helps” She handed the cup to Vianne and nodded at the wine bottle.

  The empty cup idled in Vianne’s fingers as she gazed a
t the iridescent sea and the dark shadows gliding beneath the waves. She didn’t envy the heiress’s position but wouldn’t apologize for her guild either. “When your father succumbs, you will rule, Lelaine.”

  “Terrifying, isn’t it?”

  “That depends on your vision.” Vianne searched the basket for solid food.

  “I shall do my duty, Influencer. My father raised me well. I’ve little doubt that my mother cleared my path of competition. I gave up girlish dreams as a child, and I’ve experienced enough ruthlessness to appreciate its power. The king instructed me in the burden of duty. It hovers over my future like a thunderhead, and the title of heiress has added weight. My duty to the realm takes precedence to my wishes, and I shall make all necessary sacrifices.”

  A shout from the other boat caught Vianne’s attention. The guards wished to remind the heiress that they were far at sea. Vianne gauged the distance to the tier city with a gust of trepidation. “I suppose we might turn around.”

  Lelaine freed the sheet and set the tiller to steer them into the wind. “Your goal?”

  “My goal?” Vianne had forgotten her earlier statement meriting the sail. She smiled to think the heiress had remembered. “Just rule for the realm’s citizens. Ellegean strength and prosperity. What if I’d discovered a way to shield you from influence?”

  Lelaine snapped to attention. “Shield me?”

  “Yes, shield you. No more influence over your emotions. No more manipulation of your desires.”

  “How?”

  “There are conditions.” Vianne met the young woman’s eyes.

  “To which I expect I’ll agree.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Whitt paced the courtyard gardens of the eighteenth tier like a lover awaiting his heart’s reply. Even with the breeze, Elan-Sia sweltered. Sweat beaded along his hairline and trickled down his back. He had run the commander’s errands as if his future and fortune would vanish at the bell’s next toll, and he’d panted his way up from the docks. The thought that he had missed her or might not find her boiled his blood.

  In the king’s council chamber, he’d heeded his superior’s call. For a mere moment, he’d turned his back, and Catling had disappeared. He would have darted after her then, but Commander Jagur smacked of a foul temper, barking orders about plans to depart before he squandered another worthless day in the presence of imbeciles. As far as the commander was concerned, the entire journey had been a colossal waste of Guardian time.

  His hood down, jerkin unbuttoned, Whitt fidgeted by a rose arbor skirting the shade of the higher tier. He watched the door to the visitors’ quarters, both rooted to the spot and tempted to seek Catling elsewhere. Then Vianne glided into the sunlight. He turned his face to the blooms, willing himself invisible. At the doyen’s urging, he’d walked away in Ava-Grea, but that time Catling hadn’t spotted him. This time, he couldn’t leave without… without what?

  He broke a blossom from the climbing vines, absently plucked the petals, and tossed what remained over his shoulder. What if Catling didn’t come out? Should he go in? What if she wasn’t there at all? He sank to the edge of a slatted bench and wiped sweat from his forehead with a sleeve.

  The door slid open once again, and Catling stepped from the shadows. She paused, unrecognizable if not for the impression of a rose shading her right eye. He bolted to his feet, nervous laughter quivering through his bones. “Catling!”

  She scanned the courtyard, and when she found him, a dazzling smile brightened her face. As she danced his way, his heart pounded, mouth moving without emitting an intelligible sound.

  “Catling.”

  “Whitt.” She stopped before him. “I saw you inside.”

  “I was afraid I’d missed you.” He scraped a hand through his cropped hair. “We’re leaving in the morning for Guardian.”

  “You’re wearing greens.”

  “I’ve joined the Warriors’ Guild.” Lifting a sleeve, he showed her the dagger inked into his skin. “I’m the commander’s aide. And you?”

  “I’m with Vianne.” Her fingers rose to her eye. “She rarely has me shield anyone… except lately.”

  “She’s kept you safe, though.”

  “I spend a great many hours at dull lessons.” Catling smiled. “I’m not sure there’s so much to be frightened of after all.”

  Whitt swallowed his heart, mouth dry as Summertide dust. His experience told him otherwise. The world felt perilous, baring a brutal indifference where survival and death balanced on a whim. He’d aged beyond his years, jaded and leagues apart from the boy he’d been and the girl standing before him.

  “Can we walk?” She clasped his hand before he could reply, and they strolled along the promenade. Potted roses in full and fragrant bloom adorned the tier. Four waterfalls poured from above into shallow pools, flowed a short course, and plunged through gaps to the tier below. Whitt paused and raised his face to the cool mist, his eyes closed, relishing the break from the heat.

  “When were you last home?” she asked. “I miss the stead. How is everyone?”

  The question jarred him. He’d expected it, dreaded it, but to hear it asked stopped his heart. “They’re…” He gazed at her, longing to share the burden of pain. The wrenching account of death trembled on his tongue. He had planned to tell her, contemplated the terrible words, how to soften them, how to tend to her grief. His eyes welled as Vianne’s warning echoed in his chest: Catling would feel responsible. What good would it do to crush her with something she couldn’t change? He smiled. “I haven’t seen them in some time. I miss them too.”

  Catling wiped her eyes and threaded her arms around him. “I miss them almost as much as I’ve missed you.”

  Sorrow melted from his skin, the embrace too dear to let pass. His arms encircled her, and he chuckled as he rested his chin on the crown of her head. “Tell me about Ava-Grea.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” She released him. “Little has changed. I want to go home.”

  They left the veil of mist behind and idled at an arched wall with a view of the sea. Whitt deflected every question about home, told her nothing of his years in Mur-Vallis and the swamps around Ava-Grea. He chatted instead of the granite and timber fortress guarding the cleft to the Far Wolds, the switchback roads and stinging storms painting the Fangwold in ice. He described his study of history and strategy, his training, and duties. “I run messages and tend to the needs of disgruntled dignitaries.”

  “Is it as terrible in the Far Wolds as the commander describes?”

  He nodded. “I haven’t traveled there, but I don’t doubt it. My commander isn’t one for exaggeration.”

  “Are you happy?” She held his hand and peered into his eyes with an eagerness he couldn’t resist.

  “Yes, I’m happy.” The words tasted bittersweet on his tongue.

  “Whitt.” Tavor’s voice turned Whitt’s head. The sergeant stood by the tier’s stair, bald head shiny with sweat. “Commander wants you.”

  “Now?” Whitt asked.

  “No,” the man frowned and crossed his arms. “He worried I was bored and gave me an errand for no reason at all. Yes, now.”

  Whitt swung back to Catling and grasped her hands. “I have to go. I…” He had no promises, none he could keep. “Perhaps we’ll cross paths again. If we don’t, I—”

  “Whitt!” Tavor groused. “Move it.”

  “I need a moment, Sir,” he called, unable to resist the tears pooling in Catling’s eyes. “I won’t forget you, Catling. Those were my brightest days.” He kissed her forehead, and before his heart split in two, he turned and headed for the waiting guardian.

  “Whitt,” she called.

  He stopped and glanced at her.

  “Someday I’m going home to the stead. Someday I’m going home.”

  What could he say? He smiled and walked away.

  ***

  Catling stood at the open window, gazing over the luminescent sea. The moons’ serene faces rivaled the wa
ter’s rippling light, all three waxing, the flood tides gathering on the near horizon. Silhouettes of Cull Tarr skudders and dragnets rocked in the swells, lanterns ringing their decks.

  Her minutes with Whitt had bloodied old wounds, tainted the traces of joy she’d scraped from her new life. His farewell had rung of a finality she refused to accept. It clawed at her heart, the yearning to return home drowning all other desires. And though she stood as still and silent as the stars, her soul fought against the restraints shackling her choices.

  When the door whispered open, she turned from the view. Vianne stood by the portal with a stranger, both of them softly hued beneath the tubes of circulating luminescence. The unfamiliar woman nodded in greeting and drew back her cowl, freeing a cascade of blond curls.

  “Lelaine-Elan, Heiress of Ellegeance,” Vianne said in introduction. “Catling.”

  “My respects.” Catling bowed deeply, straightened, and waited, her expression empty.

  “Indifferent to the aura of royalty?” the woman asked.

  “A difficult day,” Vianne replied, gesturing to a cluster of seating. “Please, Heiress, Catling.”

  Catling obeyed, sitting stiffly in the chair facing the heiress.

  “Vianne has told me much about you,” Lelaine said, the implication clear. “Yet, I realize you know little about me. I shall be queen upon my father’s death. I shall rule Ellegeance, and it is my duty and wish to lead with an even hand, to care for all my countrymen, to protect our borders, and promote peace with our neighbors. My parents raised me to fulfill this obligation, the responsibility branded into my bones.”

  When she paused, Catling nodded.

  “I tell you, I detest influencers.” She spared a wry smile for Vianne who refrained from responding. “I suspect I am influenced from the moment I step from my chambers to the moment I return. The influencers here are highly skilled, so subtle I no longer trust my feelings. I’m afraid to make decisions, fearful that my heart and will aren’t mine. How do I rule if I don’t trust my own word?”