Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 30

  Gannon inhaled and raked a hand through his hair, lips pressed between his teeth. “Let me go talk to him.”

  “When I say so.” Jagur turned to his lieutenants and barked out orders, “Get the last of our forces over there. City guards in the rear and guardians up front; we don’t need any scorched tempers losing control.”

  “Commander.” The gray-haired lieutenant handed him a view-glass. “They have children in their ranks.”

  Jagur raised the contraption to his eye and squinted. The man was right. Children walked among the adults. “They may hope that hampers our ability to fight.”

  “And they’d be right,” Gannon insisted. “Let me talk to them.”

  “Not yet.” He scanned the enemy with the glass, trying to find the point of the wedge. He spotted plenty of spears and longbows before Whitt came into view, riding easily, under no duress. He handed the view-glass back. “Battle formation. No one moves until I give the order.”

  The horn blew and orders careened down the line. The last guardians, men and women, broke into a double step, hoofing it toward the Ellegean side. Lieutenant Bram rode ahead to oversee the formation. The Farlanders began to spread out, though the bulk of them continued to cluster in the middle. Jagur steered his horse toward his own swelling ranks as the Ellegean forces melded together.

  A shout went up behind him. Movement flashed in the corner of his eye, and he swiveled for a look. Gannon had peeled off and raced across the field toward the Farlander army.

  “Commander, should we take him down?” an archer shouted.

  “No.” Jagur watched him ride as if his life hung by a bowstring. “Let him go.”

  Across the field, Gannon slowed and approached Whitt. The enemy advance halted, and then Whitt, Gannon, and a huge Farlander rode to the middle of the field. Whitt and the Farlander reined in their mounts while Gannon galloped forward. Jagur waited until Gannon rode up and fell in beside him.

  “They request a parlay,” Gannon said, out of breath.

  “I can see that.” Jagur gestured to a pair of guardians. “Put this man under arrest.”

  “What?” Gannon’s face twisted. “I didn’t—”

  “You disobeyed an order.” Jagur surveyed the combined Ellegean forces as they jostled into position, his guardians sober, the men from Tor eager for the fight.

  “You can’t arrest me, Commander,” Gannon argued. “I’m the queen’s emissary.”

  Jagur chuckled. “I can and I did.”

  “Talk to them,” Gannon pleaded as the guardians hauled him away. “That’s Kalis, the settlement’s chief.”

  “I intend to.” Jagur rubbed his jaw and studied the Farlander force, looking for any indication of strategy. He muttered to himself, “A settlement, not a camp. What’s their game?”

  Time had run out. “Lieutenants!” he bellowed. The two officers returned at a canter. “If this parlay goes sour, you’re in charge until Nordin or Lodan returns.”

  “Yes, Sir,” the gray-haired lieutenant replied.

  Jagur picked four veterans from the vanguard. “Time for a chat.” He clucked at the horse and gave it a tap of his heels, leading his men onto the field at a walk. The pace granted him time for an assessment of the force he faced. Between the adults, the clans had tucked hundreds of children. The thought of loosing arrows into that mass of people, battling over little heads, and the inevitable spilling of innocent blood sickened him. The specter of dead children fueled his outrage, and he curled his hands into fists. Only savages would place their children in an army.

  He halted, facing Whitt and the Farlander chief.

  “Commander Jagur,” Whitt saluted.

  Jagur didn’t reply.

  Unflinching, Whitt gestured to the chief beside him, a broad man with snowy hair falling to his waist. His naked chest and arms, every inch of his face wore a patchwork of mirrored scars. He sat tall and proud on a native horse, its shaggy fur braided and hung with bones. “This is Kalis, high chief among the Farlanders. He speaks for all the Far Wolds villages and settlements.”

  “My respects, Commander,” the Farlander said, his voice like gravel.

  Jagur frowned. “I’m hard pressed to return the greeting while faced with your army. I’ve lost fine men defending your people.”

  The chief swiveled to peer at the throng behind him. He turned back, an eyebrow arched above a slanted green eye. “Whitt tells me guardians are honorable, that you, Commander Jagur, are trustworthy, a noble man at heart.” He pressed his fist to his chest. “My army, as you call it, is full of children. What kind of people kills children? Ah, I remember, now. Ellegeans kill children. No wonder you would think this is an army.”

  A guardian behind Jagur huffed, and he raised a hand for silence. “If that isn’t an army, what are your intentions?”

  Kalis reared up on his saddle and cast a questioning eye at the Ellegean battle lines before he swung his gaze to the man beside him. Whitt nodded and the chief faced Jagur. “The Farlanders wish to renegotiate a fair treaty. We do not thrive on war. The land does not beg for more destruction. We surrender to the protection of Guardian and the queen of Ellegeance and have been assured of justice.”

  A part of Jagur wanted that entire statement repeated, and yet he’d heard every word. “You surrender?”

  “We surrender,” Kalis confirmed. “There are four-thousand of us in the Far Wolds. We all surrender.”

  Jagur pinched the bridge of his nose, a new headache replacing the old one. He glanced at Whitt. The young man smiled in return. “The war is over, Commander.”

  Jagur bowed to the Farlander chief. “My respects.” He turned to Whitt and repeated the gesture. “My respects, Lieutenant. If this was your plan from the beginning, you’re a better strategist than I. Well done.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Whitt rode through the gap as the snow thinned into a veil of lacy flakes. They landed on his cloak as perfect stars and melted in his breath. The topmost edge of the citadel peeked from between the rocks and trees. Home called, his place in Guardian restored. All lay right in his world.

  “Don’t look so happy,” Gannon rode beside him, wearing his bedroll over his cloak. “It’s not even Winterchill.”

  “Soon.”

  “It’s freezing.”

  “Balmy.” He smiled. “Rose turns three on Brightest Night.”

  “I feel ancient.” Gannon groaned. “I have gray hair.”

  Whitt laughed. “Hardly noticeable.” At twenty-one summers he felt old too, his body battle-weary. The pending trip to Elan-Sia gave him pause, but it afforded him time to ponder how he might balance his duty to Guardian, his bond with Sim, and his role as a parent. Rose’s uninhibited use of influence weighed on his mind.

  The work in the Far Wolds was far from complete. A new high ward occupied the lavish hall, a man willing to accept whatever terms the commander presented in exchange for the queen’s backing, the coveted title, and accompanying prestige. The Ellegean territory shrank though the boundaries still extended beyond the tier cities. The Farlanders expressed satisfaction with their role as stewards of the land in exchange for their acceptance of a permanent Ellegean presence and all that entailed.

  Kalis had set his mages to sprouting food from the soil, and the kari complied with astonishing results. Nevertheless, the cold season would be hard on them all, and Springseed guaranteed unexpected hurdles.

  The treeless track between the Fangwold’s peaks descended into brittle scrub brush and scraggly trees that gradually grew in height and crowded out the light of day. The guardians traveled slowly, most of the men on foot. The hushed forest turned silver, jade, and brown as they rode down below the snow line. Dusk ripened into darkness as the sentries signaled their arrival, and the gates to Guardian swung open.

  Whitt groomed his horse and left it in the paddock for the stable hands to pasture. He went in search of his women, a journey ending in the citadel’s guest quarters. The door opened at his first knock. Sim me
lted into him, humming her smiles, and kissing and shushing him. She made a quiet gesture to a child’s bed where Rose slept, her body longer, face older, and petal lips parted by soft breaths. All too wonderful, he stood with his arms around Sim and sighed.

  “We did it, Sim.”

  “I heard. I am so proud of you. We missed you.”

  “I want to wake her.”

  Sim released him with a squeeze. “She would be disappointed if you didn’t.”

  He stripped off his cloak and weapons belt, the layers of armor and his scuffed boots. Grimy and stinky, he sat on the edge of Rose’s bed and stroked her hair with calloused and scarred hands. The child’s eyes fluttered. “Hello,” he whispered.

  “You came home.” Rose smiled, and half-asleep, crawled into his lap.

  “I’m happy to be home.” He rocked her and then gently lay her down and drew up the blankets. He washed in cold luminescence as Sim inspected his fresh scars. She fussed over the gash scoring his ribs, and when he felt suitably clean, he slid under her blankets and invited her to join him.

  An hour later, Whitt lay on his back, contented, the bed a luxury compared to the cots and mats and lumpy ground that served over the years, the woman beside him even more enjoyable than the bed. “We need to talk.”

  Sim rose to her elbow, a question in her green eyes. “That sounds dire.”

  “No.” He smiled. “Only something I’m afraid you won’t take kindly to.”

  “So tell me.” She sat up and hugged her knees.

  He’d missed her curves, the sight of her, tracing the pale green pattern of spots adorning her body. He loosened her arm and kissed her hand. “In two days, I leave for Elan-Sia with Jagur and Gannon. With the season turning, we can’t delay. We have the new treaty for the queen to approve. I have to be there.”

  “That’s all?” Her shoulders relaxed. “You frighten me for nothing.”

  “I want you and Rose to join me.” He waited while the new information mortared Sim’s fluid grace into a wall of stone.

  “Why?” She searched his face. “Why? We can stay in Guardian. It’s dangerous for her there. Her mother gave her away because it wasn’t safe. Elan-Sia is full of Cull Tarr and influencers, Ellegeans and a selfish queen.”

  “She’ll go as our daughter.”

  “I’ll stand out like a white doe, Whitt. And no one will believe she’s a half-blood. Why? Why risk it? Why risk her?”

  He rose and faced her, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Rose is an influencer, Sim. Remember what happened in the fire. That wasn’t the first time she spread fear and endangered lives, her life. I haven’t stopped fretting about her. She influences constantly, without a thought, without understanding the implications.”

  “What are you saying?” Sim demanded.

  He put his fingers to his lips. “That while we’re there, perhaps Catling can teach her how to manage her power in a way we can’t, or she can teach us how to guide her. Rose needs help controlling her influence before her skills become more powerful, before she uses them in front of the wrong person or in the wrong situation and gets herself or others killed.”

  Sim blinked at him, beating back her tears. He knew she couldn’t deny it. The terror in the fire had paralyzed her. She wiped her eyes, and breathed her question, “What if Catling wishes to keep her? What if she takes her from us? Rose doesn’t know her. We love her. She’s ours.”

  He sighed, the truth behind her resistance clear. “It would be her right as Rose’s mother, wouldn’t it? As much as it would break our hearts? But Sim, I don’t believe Catling will. I doubt she’ll let anyone near you or Rose. I know her; she’ll cherish the time, but she won’t risk her daughter.” He stretched out on the bed and pulled Sim into his arms. “She’ll see how much you love her, and when my duty in Elan-Sia is done, Rose will return to Guardian with us.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  “Then I’m wrong. Rose has to learn to control her influence. We need to give her that chance.”

  **

  Catling didn’t require the power of her eye to perceive the genuine leap of joy in Lelaine when Gannon strolled into the council chambers. He’d thinned and aged since they’d last seen him, but he wore a delighted smile for his love. He bent to his queen.

  Grinning like a crescent moon, Lelaine dipped her head. “I’d begun to question if you would ever return, Gannon of Mur-Vallis.”

  “My respects, Your Grace, Lelaine-Elan. We knotted every rope, string, and ribbon.” He handed a rolled and sealed scroll to Oaron. “The treaty. Keep it safe until I’ve enjoyed a proper bath.”

  He surveyed the room’s other occupants, nodding cordially to Councilors Edark and Laris, less so to Ambassador Linc and the doyen who sat at the table’s end.

  Vianne and Dalcoran had arrived in Elan-Sia only days ago, summoned by the queen to discuss the various gripes about her choice for a bond, and more recently, the resolution of strife in the south. Word of High Ward Antoris’s hanging had spread by bird, and the other high wards were none too pleased.

  Catling’s shield had been in full employ with the doyen’s presence, and Gannon’s arrival promised a period of longed-for respite. Lelaine and Gannon would require at least a full day of intimate reacquaintance. She blushed at her thoughts, and Gannon winked at her as if he’d read her mind.

  “You were successful?” Vianne asked.

  “Successful beyond expectations.” The smile on Gannon’s face faded, signs of weariness returning. “I anticipate peace in the Far Wolds. But, you should know it came with loss of life and immense hardship.”

  Whitt’s name danced on Catling’s tongue, and she bit down hard on the urge to whisk Gannon away and bury him in questions. He knew about Rose too, surely understood that some word of her wellbeing couldn’t come soon enough. Were they safe? Were they in the Wolds or had the commander forgiven Whitt and allowed his return to Guardian?

  “This meeting is adjourned.” Lelaine rose from her chair, and by the look on every face, the announcement surprised not a soul.

  Gannon approached the queen and caressed her hand as he leaned close to her ear and glided by. “A moment with Catling. I have news for her that can’t wait.”

  The sober cast to his face sent ripples of anxiety up Catling’s spine. Her breath held tight in her chest, she frowned. Lelaine’s forehead creased with the same worry-lines.

  “Nothing so dire.” Gannon stepped back at their expressions. “He’s alive and safe. Everyone’s fine.”

  “You’re exasperating.” Lelaine huffed. “Poor Catling turned as pale as smoke. Walk me to my chambers and then the two of you may spend all the time you need.” She beckoned to Colton, and the four of them retreated into the tier’s depth.

  At Lelaine’s door, Catling released her shield and continued on with Gannon, the mystery driving her mad. As soon as they stepped into the potted garden, she gripped his arm. The sea wind blew through her garments, chilling her, and she didn’t care. “It’s about Rose, isn’t it? Otherwise, you would have told me in front of Lelaine. Did something happen to her? Is she safe?”

  “She’s here, Catling.” His reassurance breached her panic. “Whitt’s here.”

  “Here? Where?” She pressed a hand to her heart, capturing the pulse of exuberance before reality beat it down with a swell of trepidation. “Why? Why would he bring her here?” She sank to a bench, accepting that perhaps he hadn’t a choice. If Jagur required his presence in Elan-Sia, he couldn’t leave her behind.

  “There’s more.” Gannon sat beside her.

  Catling faced him, brushing aside the hair that blew across her rose eye. “Tell me.”

  “He’s bonded. With a Farlander woman.”

  A flush of emotion warmed her face, and she fought the rising tears blurring her eyes. Bonded, of course. She should have anticipated it, eventually. Her shock felt foolish and naive. Of course, Whitt was free to love, to choose a life without her. They’d said farewell so many times, their
chances snatched away by duty and circumstance. What did she expect? That they would both pine away with loneliness? She swallowed and eased out an eternal breath. “Is she here?”

  “She is. They’re saying Rose is theirs, though she lacks any Farlander features. Sim is tender and loving with her, and your daughter is clearly fond of her.”

  “Sim?” Catling shivered. “I recall that name from the stead. I think Whitt knew her as a child.”

  Gannon rose and offered his hand. “Let’s get your cloak. They’re waiting for you on the nineteenth tier in the guest quarters.”

  Her hand slid into his, and they retreated to the hall’s warmth. She kissed his cheek before relinquishing him to the queen’s affections and descending the spiral stair to the lower tier.

  In her quarters, she sought refuge, pacing and calming her heart and mind with a dose of reason. Tears flowed and ebbed and flowed like the tides until she stitched a ragged seam across the gulf that had opened in her heart. She’d lost Whitt, his bonding a final death to her dreams and their childhood promises. But Rose.

  Rose pushed Whitt into the shadowed corners of Catling’s mind. She clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles turned white. This was her wish, wasn’t it? A safe and loving home for Rose? A life free of danger, of queens and influencers? The life of a normal little girl?

  She halted in the middle of her floor. How long would they be in Elan-Sia? How many days would she have with her daughter before they departed for the south? How many hours would Lelaine demand? Why was she wasting time? She rubbed a little color into her pallid cheeks, drew on her cloak, and hurried down the tier’s inner lanes. A smile plastered to her face, she knocked on the guest quarter’s door.

  A moment later, Whitt stood before her. “Whitt.”

  “Catling.” He smiled and stepped aside. “This is Sim, and you know the little one there.” Farther in the room, Rose held Sim’s hand, not a baby, but a little girl, half her face coyly hidden against the woman’s elbow. The fair woman stood like a block of wood, her emerald eyes narrowed to slits.