Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 21

  Or was he?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Gannon blew a steamy breath into his cupped hands and rubbed them together before shoving them under his armpits. The terran horse snorted a cloud of frozen mist into the early Springseed night. All three moons rode the sky in quarters, marking the first Balance of the season, an auspicious night for clandestine meetings if one were superstitious.

  How anyone could call the season Springseed was beyond him. The snow melted into patches of grimy crust and the rivers thawed, but the wind rattled his bones, and he hadn’t felt his toes since Harvest. He and Tiler crossed the Whiprill’s west fork. The luminescent water plunged through a rocky gorge, tumbled over boulders, and carved the streambed’s muddy banks. The torrent’s roar drowned out all the night-noises except his complaining.

  “The clans can keep the south for all I care. Why Ellegeance can’t build in the empty spaces between the tier cities is another unfathomable mystery.”

  “Torch benders.” Tiler slouched on his saddle, lacking anything else of interest to do. The big man looked twice his normal size with layered clothes and a fur cloak covering him like a bear.

  “And why can’t Ellegeance expand east and west?” Gannon groused. “It’s not as though anyone lives there. I think. Have we even explored in those directions?

  “Can’t answer that.”

  Gannon sighed. “We’re fighting an illegal battle over rock and snow. It makes no sense.”

  “I agree.” The reply wasn’t Tiler’s.

  Gannon winced and twisted around in his saddle. It wasn’t the first time he was out of his element or the first time someone snuck up behind him. Tiler reined his horse around and raised his gloved paws. Gannon did the same except he returned his hands to his armpits.

  Two wooly horses emerged from the trees, a huge hound between them. The riders wore Farlander garb, tall black boots, leather jerkins over layers of rough-woven shirts, and a short cloak with a deep cowl. One of them drew back his hood, a flaxen-haired Farlander who could pound Gannon’s head down between his shoulder blades if he had the inclination. “I’m Lian.”

  “Gannon,” Gannon said, attempting not to stare at the scars cut into the man’s face. “I’m here by order of Lelaine-Elan, Queen of Ellegeance. He canted his head toward the man-bear. “Tiler, from… the north.”

  The other horseman brushed back his hood, and Gannon’s lip quirked up in a smile.

  “Holy codwits!” Tiler chuckled. “Thought you went north.”

  Whitt nodded. “I did, but the heat was more than I could handle.” He leaned back in his saddle and pulled his hood back over his head. “We have a fire in the forest if you’re interested. Or we can talk here.”

  “How far?” Gannon worried his nose was close to falling off his face. “Never mind. We’ll follow.” He rode up alongside Whitt. “I honestly didn’t know who I’d find up here. I’m relieved it’s you.”

  “I don’t think the clans would have responded.” Whitt guided his horse toward the trees.

  Gannon sighed and followed. After his final disastrous non-conversation with the high ward, he’d decided to try the Farlanders and, at least, get the pulse of their anger, determination, and flexibility. That took him into the compound outside the city wall. At best, it was like talking to Raker; they spoke the same language even if they didn’t understand each other. At worst, he got what he’d expected, an earful of defiance and smoldering violence, a marked contrast to the inane good-nature of Jafe, his first close encounter with a native. With each conversation, he’d dropped earnest requests to meet with the rebels, and it had required half of Winterchill to receive an invitation.

  The horse took a quick step up the wooded slope, and Gannon caught up with Whitt. “The high ward and his council aren’t budging, Whitt. I tried. They plan to seize the uninhabited south, and anyone who lives here is in the way. I thought nothing could be as hard as wresting power from the tiers, but these men don’t see the Farlanders as human.”

  “They are,” Whitt said. “We’re related. We’re too similar to be otherwise. The Founders dropped them here first maybe. I don’t know. But we can mate, have children, love, bleed. It might be convenient to pretend otherwise, but it’s not right. The high ward is wrong in this, and so is Lelaine.”

  “She’s trying.” Gannon held the reins with one hand while he thawed the other. He shrugged; he couldn’t even convince himself.

  “Not hard enough.” Whitt glanced at him. “Ellegeance is misguided; completely in the wrong. She should have stopped this years ago. Her father should have intervened before it became her problem. A lot of lives would have been saved.”

  “I’m not giving up yet.”

  Whitt reined in his horse, and Gannon halted beside him.

  “There’s something I ought to tell you, but I’m not convinced I should.”

  Gannon rocked in his saddle and sucked in a breath. He trusted Whitt, but if the man hesitated to share his secrets, Gannon wasn’t sure he wanted to know them after all. If the clansmen plotted war, he couldn’t protect that knowledge, and if they’d laid a trap up the trail, he and Tiler might as well dig their own graves. He hadn’t paid attention to their direction, and he was already as cold as the dead. “Too late to change your mind, Whitt.”

  “Rose is here.”

  It took a couple heartbeats for Gannon’s brain to accept what his ears heard. “Rose?” He shook his head. “The dead one.”

  “Catling left her with Raker.” Whitt coughed into his arm. “It was too dangerous. I brought her here.”

  “A baby in the swamp is a death sentence.”

  “The swamp didn’t threaten her.” Whitt heeled his horse into a walk. “It was the Cull Tarr.”

  “They’re everywhere,” Gannon said. “As slippery as fish. They preach to your heart’s desire, betray you on the spot, and then swear you misunderstood their intentions.”

  “She’s safe here as long as the Farlanders are left alone.”

  “Does Catling know?”

  “Not yet.” Whitt steered their horses up a rise. The hound ran ahead, its thick coat silver in the moonlight. “The fewer who know where she is, the safer she’ll be. I trust you to tell Catling if she asks or needs to know.”

  “I suppose there isn’t much chance you’ll tell her yourself.” Gannon regretted saying it, but the truth was evident in Whitt’s appeal. The affection between the two had been conspicuous from the start, and it endured despite all the interference, his included. He should have left Catling alone long ago, and yet, without her, the warrens would still be the decrepit pits of his youth. She was sacrificed, not she alone, but one he rued. “My regrets for playing a part in that.”

  Whitt didn’t reply, and they rode in silence until ahead of them the soft glow of a fire burnished the trunks and branches of several trees. The blaze itself hid behind the jagged silhouette of an earthen barrier. Several Farlanders crept from the shadows to greet them, took his reins, and led the horses in before vanishing again into the forest. Gannon dismounted behind Whitt and glanced back at Tiler who jumped down and lumbered over to join them.

  “Could use a tipple,” Tiler said.

  “No tipple out here.” Whitt chuckled. “A hot broth if we’re lucky.”

  “I thought we headed to a camp,” Tiler complained.

  Whitt led them toward the vine-strewn rocks and boulders that slowly took shape in the shadows. “We can mount up and ride another four hours if you’d prefer.”

  “Broth will do,” Gannon said.

  “The basher’s getting soft.” Tiler pointed at him with a sideways thumb.

  Gannon ignored the bear-man’s chuckle and slipped between the rocks after Whitt. A comfortable fire burned in the center of a depression, a leather pot dangling from a tripod above the flames. Altogether, four Farlanders had gathered around the fire, including a woman. One of the men was older, leaner, his face unscarred and his hair cropped into a short bristle. Two hounds lay at t
he fire’s edge, muzzles on their paws.

  “Gannon and Tiler,” Whitt introduced them and then started with the woman. “This is Sim. That’s Tev, and Cylas, our chief.”

  “My respects.” Gannon bowed and the Farlanders chuckled.

  “No reason to bow.” Whitt gestured to a damp log. “Take a seat.”

  Gannon sat and stretched his legs toward the fire, the warmth welcome. Tiler shed his bearskin and eyed the soup. Tev tossed him a bowl, and he helped himself.

  “I’ve already told everyone who you are,” Whitt said to Gannon and broke a sturdy stick in half. He threw the longer length on the fire and swung the other half to the old man. “Tiler is from Mur-Vallis, as well. He also saved my life once. Both of them fought in the Tiers’ Rebellion and brought justice to the warrens. Gannon told me the high ward refuses to honor the treaty and won’t consider an honest negotiation.”

  “Then why are you here?” Sim asked.

  Gannon looked up from the fire. The woman was alluring, her short hair tucked behind her tapered ears, green eyes almost glowing in the flickering light. She was also Farlander, three-fingered, long-limbed, and as tall as he. “I won’t be here for long,” he replied. “Tiler and I head north to Elan-Sia when the pass opens. We’ll deliver a discouraging report, and I’m convinced that nothing will change unless we force it.”

  Tiler chuckled. “High Ward Antoris and his council jammed one too many thistles in the old sack.”

  “True, but regardless of that,”—Gannon held his hands out to the fire—“I know the queen, and I think I can convince her to do what’s right; I did with the warrens. But it will require action to coerce her into accepting a workable solution. I need a plan to prove my points, something that won’t jeopardize your position or set my efforts back. The last thing I need is for the Farlanders to prove High Ward Antoris right.”

  “Right about what?” Tev asked.

  Gannon accepted a bowl of soup from Whitt. “That the Farlanders are belligerent.”

  “With good reason.” Sim tensed her shoulders.

  “I’m not arguing that,” Gannon said.

  She tilted her head revealing the pale green spots on the side of her neck. “What’s in it for you? Why help us?”

  “Because he made a lousy criminal.” Tiler slurped his broth, and Gannon eyed him. “It’s true, Gan. You’re loyal as a wart and swayed by a tear. You got a heart made out of lucky cakes, and you don’t like seeing anyone beat down.” He faced the Farlanders. “He got this itch about doing the noble thing, always has, even when it’s the stupidest hog-swallowing thing to do.”

  Gannon thinned his lips in a stumped smile. He couldn’t recollect someone ever accusing him of nobility. “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Your reputation bought you time,” Whitt said. “A year and a half ago I asked the clans to give me until Harvest. When I returned to the south and you were still here, I begged for more. Eventually, Gannon, time is bound to run out.”

  “Do you have a plan?” Cylas asked. The old chief held the broken stick across his knees, and Gannon could have sworn it had lengthened since Whitt handed it to him.

  “Not yet.” He pivoted to face Whitt who sat on a crumbling jut of ledge beside the woman. “Do you remember what Lelai… the queen said about aggression?” Whitt shook his head. “She said Guardian won’t protect the Farlanders as long as they are the aggressors. You asked her if she would defend the Farlanders if the roles reversed and Ellegeans went on the attack. She said ‘yes,’ that Ellegeance is a peaceful realm. She uttered that statement in front of Jagur, and I believe she and the commander can be forced to back her words.”

  “You wish the Ellegeans to attack us?” Sim narrowed her eyes. “They already do. They’ve stolen lives. Where were your queen and your guardians then?”

  “I don’t fault your mistrust, and I don’t know how to escalate without condemning the clans.” Gannon took a final gulp of soup before it turned cold. “I agree there’s danger, and things may deteriorate before they improve, but you need Guardian on your side. I plan to chat with Commander Jagur on my return trip north.”

  Cylas passed the stick to Whitt who broke it on his knee. He tossed half into the fire and handed the remaining piece back to the old man. Gannon scratched his head where a tree branch brushed his scalp. “The only way I can think to shift the queen’s duty is to put up…” He swatted at the branch and slid farther down on the log. “Put up with a certain amount of…eyah!” He stood up, snapped and twisted off the branch’s twiggy end, and flung it into the fire.

  Tiler stared at him, looking as if he’d stuffed a whole egg in his mouth. The old man’s half of a stick seemed longer. The Farlander woman buried her face in Whitt’s shoulder and was crying or laughing. Gannon shook his head to clear it and sat down. “As I was saying, I know there are risks, but the high ward isn’t going to agree to—bah!” Gannon jumped up, spun around, grabbed the branch, and stopped. The end he’d broken off had sprung new growth.

  The gathering behind him broke into laughter. Gannon faced them, peeved at the prank while he attempted to discuss a serious matter involving danger and likely death. Sim bent over guffawing into her knees, and Whitt wiped tears from his eyes. Tiler howled like a sick wolf. The fire flared with a sudden burst of heat, interrupting the noise. Cylas held a finger to his lips and handed Gannon the stick, long again. “Break it for the fire.”

  Gannon set it against a log at an angle and stomped on it, snapping it in two. He threw part of it on the fire and handed the other half back. “A mage?”

  “Remember Wister?” Whitt asked. “The Farlander in Mur-Vallis who called the crows?”

  “The day I noticed Catling.” Gannon remembered it well.

  Whitt held Sim’s hand. “I think there’s a way to make life hard for the Ellegeans. It’s tricky. In the long run, it won’t save us from violence, but it will frustrate the high ward’s ambitions, and if we’re careful, we won’t appear to be the aggressors.”

  “Don’t push too hard until I return,” Gannon warned them. “I have to pinch the queen, and we need Guardian prepared.”

  “We’ll buy time and spread the word among the clans,” Cylas said. “We’ll use the gifts given us by the kari to save the kari.”

  “The kari?” Gannon asked.

  “The spirits of the land.” Whitt met his eyes. “The luminescence.”

  ***

  By the time Whitt, Sim, and the other Farlanders rode into their permanent camp, dainty Misanda set beyond the hills. Stars still sprinkled the black horizon, but Sogul and Clio painted the rest of the sky in pastel light. Whitt tended the horses in silence and then crawled into the hut where Sim warmed their pallet. A luminescent lantern glowed dimly in the corner, and she raised a finger to her lips. At the other side of the small dwelling, Rose cuddled in the arms of the girl who’d watched her for the evening, the two of them asleep beneath a mound of blankets and furs.

  He stripped and slid in beside Sim, weary but restless, his mind rambling. “I told him about Rose,” he whispered, “so he could tell Catling.”

  “I thought you’d decided not to.” She stretched out at his side, sharing her warmth.

  “Catling thinks she’s in the swamps, but she has a right to know.”

  “She is our daughter now.” Sim rested her head on Whitt’s shoulder. “We will keep her safe.”

  He smiled, the sentiment shared. A season beyond two winters, Rose chattered and galloped and hopped, got her fingers into messy trouble, and influenced more than he cared for. They’d returned to the old reprimand, and she seemed eager to please when she wasn’t testing her boundaries, frightened or angry. On those occasions, she was ruthless. Now and then, she spoke of Catling and cried, but they were tears easily comforted with kisses, time on a lap, and whispered commiseration.

  “Do you think it will work?” He rolled onto his side and slid his hand up her thigh.

  Her slanted eyes opened wide. �
��Will what work? What you’re doing is working.”

  “I meant Gannon’s plan,” he whispered but continued his efforts under their blankets.

  “Oh.” She closed her eyes. “Hm. Talk tomorrow.”

  He could live with that. It was a rare luxury to lark about in bed without a child between them.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Catling faced the sea and wind, drinking in the balmy scent of brine. Darkest night had passed, but the flood tides reigned, the delta and Slipsilver swollen and purling with white froth. Breakers pounded against the rock jetties guarding Elan-Sia from the worst of the northern storms. From a distance, the fountains of spray reminded her of waterdragons. She hadn’t sailed in years and missed what seemed careless days in light of more recent losses.

  She missed her fury too. For years, anger had propelled her through the day. Rage at Algar, at influencers, at her helplessness. Revenge had driven her forward, granted her a reason to endure, given meaning to her existence. With few exceptions, that too slipped away as she distanced herself from those she loved, resigned to a life of both servitude and danger. In her heart, she knew it was unendurable, that in the end, she would break.

  “I missed the city.” Gannon stepped to the gap in the windbreak. She slid over, making room for him. He’d arrived a day ago and taken ample time to bath, shave, trim his curls, eat, sleep, and purchase new clothes. “I’ve scarcely begun to thaw. When I left Tor, snow still crusted the pass.”

  “You’re from the Mur-Vallis warrens.” She nudged him with an elbow. “You should be used to cold and dirt.”

  “My father was an underlord. I was privileged.”

  “What’s worse, Tor or a Cull Tarr ship?”

  He groaned. “I’m adaptable, but I don’t have to enjoy it.”

  “Are there Cull Tarr in Tor?”

  “Not as many as here.” He glanced over his shoulder to check for prying ears. “Even so, they’re infiltrating the south. The high ward’s justices spout off about the Book of Protocols as if they’ve actually read it. The Cull Tarr preachers’ interpretations are equally cockeyed. As a set of procedures and a code of conduct, it’s workable, but only if it applies to everyone. I think a former Shiplord twisted it into a faith as a means of granting him the patronage of the gods. That way the mortal man could do as he pleased.”