Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Read online

  She smiled at his rant, but the Cull Tarr worried her beyond their convoluted faith. “They desire Ellegeance. They believe they have a right to it, that Lelaine is weak and vulnerable. Gannon, she does little to dissuade them. She treats them with integrity, swears she perceives the plotting behind their graciousness, but I know how dangerous they are. They tried to reach me using Rose. Then they tried to shove me from the tier.”

  “She told me, Catling. I’m sorry for it.”

  “Influencers are involved. The Cull Tarr want us under their thumbs or out of their way. I think they must know about me or guess so, and if they can’t control my eye, they’ll settle for my death.”

  He faced her. “Do you need more guards?”

  “No.” She sighed. “Lelaine would assign a battalion if I asked. Whitt and Rose are as safe as…” She held her breath, the statement unintentional. Her heart fluttered, a twinge of panic shunting through her veins at her carelessness.

  “I know,” he whispered. “Whitt told me.”

  “I left her with Raker.” She expected his horror and disgust, his utter disapproval of her choice to abandon her child, especially to a madman, to the swamp, a place he’d fled. Tears leapt to her eyes. “I’m a ghastly mother, but I had no choice, Gannon. Everyone I love ends up dead.”

  “She’s in the south with Whitt.”

  Catling swallowed, searching his eyes. “Why? Why did he take her south? That’s so far away.”

  “Whitt told me that after your visit to the swamp, they had… unwelcome guests. He had to flee with her.”

  His words stung. She had once again foolishly put them in jeopardy. Any illusion of seeing her daughter again vanished. Gannon grabbed her shoulders as her face twisted, pain peeling away her skin and laying her emotions bare. “This will end, Catling. I swear one day this will all be over, and you can go home.”

  “I don’t have a home,” she cried.

  “You do.” He held her tight. “It’s wherever your heart resides.”

  ***

  Gannon paced in Lelaine’s chambers. His meeting earlier in the day with the council had produced nothing but the uncanny feeling that little had changed in Elan-Sia during his absence—the same faces, the same problems, and no progress. Catling and Colton had flanked Lelaine’s chair while she drank. Her trio of councilors had argued among themselves, and he’d paced like Tor’s caged bear. He supposed Tiler’s presence counted as a change. The once Mur-Vallis enforcer had settled his bulk at the table and helped himself to a whole roasted duck, limiting his inappropriate comments to confirmation of Gannon’s account.

  “Come to bed.” Lelaine reclined on her pillows, silken sheets tugged up under her arms and hiding her nakedness. “We’ll talk more about your southern troubles tomorrow.”

  “They’re your troubles. I’m merely foolish enough to attempt to fix them.” He sat on the bed’s edge and unlaced his boots. “Do you remember telling me that you would defend the Farlanders against Ellegean aggression?”

  “Yes, but that isn’t the situation, is it? Some violence between peoples is normal.”

  “True.” He nodded. “Yet, you’ll stand honorably by your word?”

  “Of course, Gannon. Now, that you’ve cleverly challenged and been assured of my honor, will you come to bed?”

  He pried off his boots and rubbed his feet. “Tiler and I plan to go back within the week. The warm weather doesn’t last long down there, and we have work to do if we’re going to make a difference.”

  “I want you to stay. You were gone longer than I wished.” She ran her fingers down his back. “I’ll send someone else.”

  He sighed, enjoying her tickling as much as her words. The thought of giving up on the south had occurred to him, and he’d contemplated the luxury of that choice his entire trip downriver. The next steps involved risk, and unless he owned the courage to see it through, a return trip wasted everyone’s time.

  Staying also marked him as a coward. Granted, certain things made his skin crawl, like spiders and rats, but he’d never flinched before the power of wealth and status. He’d stood up to guards, high wards, shipmasters, and influencers. It hadn’t always occurred painlessly, but he’d accomplished at least one thing of importance: he’d created a different future for the warrens. Integrity and righteousness had rallied to his side, as they did again.

  He stripped off his shirt, tossed it to a chair, and lay back, his head in her lap, his eyes closed. She scratched her fingernails through his hair, something his grandmother had done when he stood knee high. “I need to finish it, Lelaine. By the end of Harvest before the pass to Guardian closes. Someone else would be forced to start again.”

  “It’s not your decision,” she said, her queenly tone hardening her voice.

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong, my dear.” He chuckled when her fingernails stopped scratching. “You can withdraw your support, but my choices and future are mine. Our time together is still undefined, still a matter of choice.” He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “I love you, but I’m tired of games and politics. Any day, you might decide your course, cast me off, and bond with a Shiplord.”

  “I’m not bonding with the Shiplord.” She flicked her fingernail on his forehead.

  He grabbed her hand. “A high ward’s son, then. I’m getting older, Lelaine. Gads, I’m thirty-two summers. I want something steadier, a family, a home. I’d like more out of life than being the queen’s pastime.”

  When she didn’t respond, he got up and poured himself a goblet of water, wishing for wine. He avoided her eyes, reluctant to face her anger.

  She sighed. “Go finish what you must. Then come back. I need to bond and produce heirs.” His eyebrows shot up, and he grinned at her. She flopped back on her pillow with a groan. “That will give me time to gently break the news to the Shiplord.”

  “I accept your proposal.” He stripped off his trousers and slid under the blankets when what he really wanted to do was leap onto the bed and dance. “Can we begin tonight?” He kissed her, and his hand slid between her legs.

  “When you return, I’ll forgo my maiden teas.” She squirmed and giggled. “That will encourage you to take extra care of yourself.”

  “There’s something that will bring me home faster,” he said, enjoying the new meaning of the word “home.”

  She eyed him. “Will I like your request?”

  “Maybe.” He furrowed his brow, shifting closer to her, enjoying the softness of her skin. “Yes, decidedly. I’m optimistic.”

  “Fine, what?’

  “Pardon Whitt.”

  She slapped his hand away. “He’s a traitor and fugitive.”

  Despite her protest, his fingers returned to her thigh and slid into their previous position. “He’s not a traitor, and he’s the best… the only man who can get this treaty done. I can’t succeed without him, and you need this trouble behind you.”

  She inhaled, and her body relaxed under his touch. “This is gamesmanship, and you’re cheating.”

  “I need Whitt’s pardon, Lelaine.”

  “Oh, fine.” She rolled toward him, seeking his lips.

  “In writing,” he whispered, kissing her.

  “You’re exasperating,” she breathed, her eyes closed.

  “Now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Gah!” She squirmed out of bed, stomped in all her naked loveliness to her tidy writing table, and scrawled his letter, not giving a piff about the splattered ink.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Two days shy of Brightest Night, Gannon dismounted outside the stable in Guardian. Tiler landed beside him with a grunt, and his horse snorted, apparently as pleased to part ways with the man as the man was to part ways with the horse. The stableman stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a piece of hay between his teeth.

  “We’ll be taking the horses over the pass in a few days,” Gannon said as he unhitched his gear from the saddle. Guardian kept scores of horses for travel between the lake, fortress, and
Far Wolds. Their use was free to men and women of the Warriors’ Guild but cost him a pair of silvers each. If they weren’t back to the waystation at the lake by Harvest, Lelaine would forfeit another handful of shiny coins.

  The stableman spat out the hay and grabbed the loose reins. “Breaking anyone out this time?”

  “Depends on who’s behind bars,” Gannon replied with a grin. Freeing Whitt from Guardian’s cells hadn’t gone over well with the Commander or the men Catling incapacitated, including Tavor. Yet, to the rest of Guardian, Whitt’s escape hadn’t broken any hearts.

  “Drunkards and fighters.” The stableman handed the reins off to two scrappy girls who led the horses inside.

  “I’ll have to skip the rescue.” Gannon swung his bags over a shoulder. “I’ve got until Harvest to bring peace to the Far Wolds.”

  “Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

  With a halfhearted chuckle, Gannon hiked up the slope toward the citadel. He’d request a meeting with Jagur before finding quarters and a meal.

  “Dipping nutwit.” Tiler stomped at his side. “What did he mean by needing luck?”

  Gannon shrugged. “Could be nothing or anything. They probably didn’t wait for us to start riling things up.”

  “The whole place is probably covered in bird bung.”

  “Or vines.”

  “Or spiders.” Tiler thumped Gannon on the shoulder and guffawed

  “You’re as witty as a stubbed toe, you know that?”

  They left word with the commander’s page, a pudgy-cheeked boy with a disconcertingly low voice. Gannon rented a room above a tavern that for a few moments reminded him of the Ship’s Fate and Farrow. He hadn’t thought of his flame-haired friend in years and regretted that he’d never told her how he felt about her before she died.

  Tiler dropped his gear onto the roomiest bed. “Nothing to do now but share a jug and indulge the appetite. Good grub in Guardian.”

  “You say that about every village and tier city we’ve traveled, and it shows.”

  Tiler patted his stomach. “All muscle.”

  “Come on.” Gannon canted his head toward the door. “I could use a tipple myself.”

  They drank, ate, slept, left another message for Jagur, drank more, and on their third day of pickling themselves, Gannon left Tiler snoring in their room while he went in search of Tavor. He’d rely on ample history with the bald, hawk-nosed warrior to make up for Whitt’s escape; he hoped.

  He found the sergeant on the practice field teaching new recruits how to beat the bones out of each other. On the tiered slope above the field, he watched the bouts, wincing with each hit and hissing through his teeth. In the warrens, there were no practice fights; he’d learned how to throw a fist or thrust a blade out of necessity. He’d taken his share of beatings through the years, and it hurt like Founders’ Hell every time.

  Tavor nodded to him and forced him to wait until some poor redheaded pip lost a tooth. Only then did the warrior send his underlings limping off to lick their wounds. Gannon ambled onto the field, removed the queen’s letter from his pocket, and handed it over. “If it matters, my regrets for taking you down during the escape.”

  After reading the missive, Tavor handed it back. “Whitt made his choice.”

  “He wanted to stay and let Guardian hang him. Honor, oath, loyalty, and all that nonsense.” Gannon tucked the letter in his jacket. “Catling influenced him right out Guardian’s gate. I need him—or rather the queen needs him—to help me end the conflicts in the Far Wolds. You spent time there. You know as much as I about the challenges.”

  “A tall order.” Tavor hung on his staff. “Two men can’t do it, and three’s no better.”

  “Can you give Jagur a push for me? He’s ignoring my messages.”

  “He’s stubborn as a stump.” Tavor picked up his staff, rested it on his shoulder, and ambled down toward the citadel. “Where will I find you?”

  Gannon strode beside him. “The Iron Cup.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Tavor paused and faced him. “I always liked Whitt. It’s a relief to know he meant to keep his word.”

  “This is bigger than me or him or Guardian or oaths.” Gannon looked up toward the pass and the snow clinging to the peaks. “We could use you and Cale if Jagur can spare you.”

  Tavor chuckled. “I know a few new recruits who wouldn’t mind kicking my backside out the gate.”

  ***

  The commander sat behind his desk, studying Lelaine’s letter, scowling, and puffing on his pipe until the smoke in his office acquired the density of an Ava-Grea fog. He neglected to invite Gannon to sit despite the empty chairs, and he ignored the polite coughing. Tavor leaned on the wall by the narrow window, quiet as a plank of wood and probably trying to blend in with the furniture.

  “Damn well about time we did something about the Wolds.” Jagur dropped the letter. “Is this mine?”

  “You’re welcome to copy it. That one’s for Whitt.”

  “Whitt.” The commander rubbed his forehead. “You realize the queen’s pardon has nothing to do with our guild and oaths.”

  No, Gannon didn’t know. He was a warrens rat and guilds didn’t exist in the warrens. “It must have fled my mind while he and I were trying to protect the Farlanders from the Ellegean lawbreakers.”

  Jagur eyed him from beneath his thick brows. “I’m sympathetic to the cause.”

  “Then admit that part of you approved of his actions.” The conversation irked Gannon’s sense of fairness, and his hopeful mood had one foot wallowing in combative scorn.

  “He broke the law.”

  “A law engaged in breaking the law.” Gannon helped himself to a seat and crossed an ankle over his knee. “I don’t see High Ward Antoris and his henchmen teetering on the gallows.”

  The scowl on Jagur’s face took a downward turn. “Whitt will be dismissed from the Warriors’ Guild. He will present himself for his discharge at his earliest convenience, and the guild’s dagger will be flayed from his arm.”

  Tavor shifted at the wall and rubbed a hand over his hairless head. Gannon didn’t like the sentence either, but it beat a hanging. He dropped his foot to the floor and pivoted to face both men. “I’m assuming you recall the conversation we held here in Guardian, the one where Lelaine stated that she’ll protect the Farlanders from Ellegean aggression?”

  The commander grunted, Tavor nodded, and Gannon waved the pipe smoke from his face. “She hasn’t forgotten it either. I need Guardian prepared to defend the treaty, stand against Ellegean lawbreakers, and protect the Farlanders per the queen’s command. All actions deemed in the realm’s best interests, which your oath requires you to uphold.” He raised his eyebrows. “Or do we need to flay every forearm in Guardian?”

  Jagur studied his pipe, tapped out the ash, and set it on a wood stand. “Privileged intelligence?”

  “In plain view. I’m certain Lodan sends reports.”

  The commander drummed his fingers on the desk. “Our queen has found some stones.”

  “She wants this resolved before Harvest.”

  “A tall order.” Jagur exchanged a glance with his sergeant. “I’m tempted to send you and Cale. That’s the point of your presence here, isn’t it?”

  Tavor shrugged. “Not a bad idea. Cale’s kicking at the gate, and someone else can handle training.”

  “I’m amazed you found time to think it through on such short notice.” Jagur looked at Gannon over the rims of his spectacles. “What are your plans?”

  Gannon grinned. “To serve my queen, achieve her objective, and get my ass back to Elan-Sia before the snow.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Whitt hung back with Sim and Cylas at the forest’s edge. Word that Gannon had returned reached the camp two days ago and set in motion plans that pressed for action like a rain-swollen river against a leaky dam. News that Tavor and Cale rode with him was a promising sign but raised questions Whitt longed to ask.

  “Time to
begin,” Cylas said. They’d convinced another gifted woman to join them, and she pressed her lips together, glancing downhill and across the road to the steep slope on the other side. They’d left their horses tethered to branches a distance back, afraid they might rear or bolt when the land began to shake.

  The road connected Tor to Falcyn and soon would be busy with trade and the transportation of supplies. Everything north of the Fangwold had to move through the pass into Tor before traveling east and west to its sister cities. Tor suffered an unusually sopping week of torrential downpours that washed out the track to Outlyer, and Falcyn was about to lose its connection to the rest of Ellegeance.

  The task would take the three Farlander mages to initiate if they could do it at all. Dawn lay heartbeats away, the time of day, along with dusk, when Cylas said the kari’s power reached its peak.

  Whitt exhaled, a spectator waiting helplessly for others to bear the load. He gazed at Sim’s profile as she concentrated, her tapered ears poking through her silken hair. Never one to retreat, her long exile to the rebel camp had been torturous. She vibrated with excitement, her skin glowing in the buttery light.

  “I’m ready,” she said as the first of the day’s sunrays hit her eyes.

  “We focus on the top,” Cylas said. “The soil is wet and heavy. The friction is weak there. There will be sacrifice, but the impact will be dramatic.”

  Sim reached for Whitt’s hand as she faced the mountainside. The sun spilled down the wooded slope, and Whitt held his breath, his gaze scanning the higher elevations for movement.

  The slide began as a low growl, but it wasn’t until the first tree ripped free of the ground that he glimpsed the unfolding destruction. Sim released his hand, scraped her fingers through her hair, and clasped them behind her head. The growl rose into a roar as the mountain’s face broke free. A river of dirt and rock streamed from the height, growing into a brown cascade as it shook the ground loose.