Five Lands Saga Box Set 1 (Five Lands Saga Box Sets), page 8
Kenton let out a breath. There very clearly was at least one ring that could do such a thing, but he supposed it was outside of her expertise. Here was another way in which Diamis had made things difficult: he’d murdered everyone who might have been able to answer Kenton’s questions.
Kenton’s eyes flicked once more to the feathered charm that supposedly masked the sound of movement. Something like that could come in handy, but he wasn’t fond of trusting his life to a bit of magicked rubbish he barely understood. He shook his head. “Not today. Thank you for your help.”
The disappointment wasn’t particularly unexpected, given that it was the last effort short of giving Perchaya a pair of gloves, but it sat heavy on his shoulders nonetheless. He had little hope that speaking with Colm would net him any better information.
Kenton made his way to the tavern a few streets away, slowly, as he figured it would take a bit for Colm to make up a reason to leave the shop—a delivery he needed to make, perhaps, though Kenton didn’t particularly care what the excuse was, as long as it was convincing. Kenton couldn’t stay out on the streets much longer. There was always the chance a blood mage might be watching through the eyes of that Vorgalian, in which case it would only take the time for the mage to tip off the soldiers before they came after him.
He hoped the mage was careful with her blood, because Diamis would surely love to learn the secrets of a Vorgalian.
The tavern was open, but a quick glance through the bottle-glass windows showed it to be nearly empty. Kenton decided to circle the block again rather than go inside and attract attention as the lone patron. When he came back around, Colm was leaning against the outside wall of the tavern, munching on an apple in an obvious attempt to look casual. He caught sight of Kenton and lowered the apple, his eyes darting around nervously. Kenton wasn’t sure whether the man was more worried about being caught by the guards or the mage.
At least Kenton could be fairly certain he wasn’t a blood puppet. The man wasn’t particularly stealthy or clever and tended to make those around him too nervous to leave him in places where he might see something useful.
Besides, Kenton had interacted with Colm before and was still alive.
“I didn’t expect to see you in the shop,” Colm said. Sweat beaded along his receding hairline.
“My employer has concerns,” Kenton said with a small shrug. “But those concerns aren’t yours. Do you have anything new for me?”
Colm’s eyes darted around, and Kenton resisted the urge to roll his own. Searching for information on the bearers—even on behalf of some made-up employer who was a secretive religious scholar—was definitely something Kenton wanted to keep quiet, but it was Colm’s demeanor, not Kenton’s secrets, that was going to draw the guards.
“I heard,” Colm said, leaning so unnecessarily close that Kenton could smell rotting bits of the man’s dinner, “that the rebels didn’t kill the princess after all.” He sniffed dramatically. “They got the wrong girl.”
This time Kenton gave in to the urge to roll his eyes. He dearly hoped Colm had some information that Kenton hadn’t witnessed for himself. He wished they’d gotten her—Diamis’ daughter. Knowing that unnatural creature was dead and gone would have put Kenton’s mind at ease. The girl wearing the deep green dress who stepped from the carriage had been far from where he stood, but he knew it was her. That long-ago image had flashed in his mind so vividly he could smell the salty metallic tang of blood. “Unless you think the princess is a godbearer,” Kenton said, “I’m going to have to question why you think that’s relevant.”
Colm gave a shaky nod and went on. “I also heard a rumor about a girl in Sevairn who can remain underwater for near an hour.”
Kenton kept his face carefully neutral, despite the tension suddenly straining his every nerve. “Sevairn?”
“Yeah, came from somewhere in the mountains. She’s been working with a traveling circus for a while, does all sorts of tricks with water, but my source says they look like more than tricks.” Colm gave Kenton a pointed look, obviously pleased with this revelation.
Kenton was less pleased. A girl wandering the mountains of godless Sevairn was unlikely enough to be the bearer of the goddess Mirilina, but working with a traveling circus? If she was alive long enough to do her water-tricks after the first public display, then she wasn’t one of the four prophesied bearers. As with the man who set himself on fire, Kenton wasn’t the only one looking for them. And now that Perchaya had put on the ring to call them together, Kenton feared someone else might notice them assembling and find them before he could.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“A man in Unlath who they say can turn acorns to pearls and pearls to acorns.”
One of the reasons he’d picked Colm was that, as an assistant to a Vorgalian, he was likelier than Kenton’s other sources to be able to rule out rumors of feats that could easily be done with Vorgalian magic. So it was unlikely this was done with a charm. It sounded either like a total fabrication or a clever sleight-of-hand. Either way, not what he was looking for.
“This is useless,” he said. “I need magic with an obvious link to the Four. Fire for Nerendal, stone or earth for Kotali, water for Mirilina, something with the moon for Arkista.”
“There’s one more,” Colm said quickly. “A local one. But I don’t think it’s what you’re looking for. It’s just resistance trickery, nothing real.”
Kenton narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”
“The rebels here hit Tehlran’s army a few weeks ago,” he said. “And one of the guards was incapacitated. He claimed a woman climbed into a window and used the moonlight to blind him.” Colm shrugged. “I’ve seen that trick. It’s done with fire and metal shavings and mirrors.”
Kenton’s pulse quickened, but he merely nodded. It could very well be such a trick. And yet . . .
Moonlight.
A woman working with the resistance and using her powers in secret was a better lead than a performer in the circus or a trickster with some charmed Vorgalian trinket—though Colm could be right that it was a simple trick of chemistry. Still, a godbearer who evaded Diamis’ notice after using their powers in public would have to have some kind of cover, some kind of explanation that would cast doubt on whether their powers were real.
It was a good lead, if Kenton could contact the resistance and find her. That would have been easier two days ago—for all he knew the fool had gone and gotten herself killed in the riots. “I’ll pass this along to my master,” Kenton said. “And I trust, as usual, that you won’t discuss this with anyone else. Unless you want your creditors to hear that you’ve been spending your evenings losing more of their money at cards.”
Colm’s face paled. Another thing Kenton liked in his informants was leverage, and a gambling habit combined with a penchant for borrowing money from less-than-reputable sources was a particularly good enticement for Colm to keep silent.
The man wet his lips and nodded. Kenton paid him a few coins, and Colm left, winding his way back in the direction of the magic shop.
As Kenton made his way to Perchaya’s house, he reached into his coat pocket for the gloves he’d bought—a pair of fur-lined ones for cold weather and lacy opaque ones for indoors. The gloves were nice—and expensive—but it was a pittance compared to what he’d done to her. A thin bandage for the gaping wound he’d inflicted.
It was something, though, as was the lead about the woman who could channel moonlight. He would find her and determine whether she was one of the bearers he’d sought for so long. Now that he’d found Perchaya and she’d activated the ring, one bearer should be able to help them find the others. They should be drawn together, like metal to a lodestone. If he could just keep Perchaya safe in the meantime, he might be able to gather them all, to help them find their godstones, help them stop Diamis’ plans to loose the God of Blood on the world. Kenton knew what it felt like to have everyone you loved killed. He might not have a soul left that he cared about, but that wasn’t going to happen to the rest of the world. Not as long as he stood in Diamis’ way.
And then, when it was over, Kenton would kill the Lord General for the things that he’d done to Kenton’s family, or, at long last, die trying.
Six
Lord Jaemeson of Grisham stood in the courtyard gardens in the middle of Lord Governor Tehlran’s palace, running his hands through his hair, smoothing out his doublet, making sure everything was in place for his accidental run-in with Lady Daniella. Jaeme strolled through the garden at a relaxed pace, concealing his nerves. He reached down into one of the planters, picked up a small rock, and tucked it into his pocket. The stone was hard to the touch, but as Jaeme rolled it between his fingers, it became pliable, and he worked it evenly until the surface was smooth as glass, the ball as round as a marble.
The familiar feeling calmed him.
Ostensibly Jaeme was here to discuss trade between Sevairn and Mortiche along the Trace river—a dubious gesture of good-will on even more dubiously neutral ground, given Diamis’ hold over Andronim—though the other knights who’d accompanied him were far more qualified for that task. Which was good, because he had another, more urgent task to attend to.
As he’d tailed Daniella these last few days, he’d learned that in her free time she liked to frequent this garden, safe within the walls of the palace. Jaeme could hardly fault her for that. If he’d arrived in Drepaine to the shouts of a crowd who wanted him dead and had watched another fall in front of his eyes when it should have been him, he’d have also been looking for a safe, peaceful escape. As it was, Jaeme had felt oddly restless over the last few days in Drepaine, unable to leave the palace. He’d itched to venture into the city, to travel south, to look for something, though he didn’t know what. It was irrational, of course—a mere wish to avoid his mission—and Jaeme remained dutifully confined to the palace, though he’d waited several days before approaching Daniella, hoping the time would calm her nerves.
Daniella seemed especially fond of a particular bubbling fountain; Jaeme had seen her pass hours there in the afternoon light. He almost wished that one of the rebels would sneak into the gardens to attack her there. A flash of sword fighting never hurt a good seduction, and an opportunity to protect Daniella would certainly get him on her good side.
Jaeme walked down the garden path toward the fountain, passing under a trellis woven through with vines that dangled fragrant purple and red blooms, as the fountain itself came into view. It was large, surrounded by a circular pool whose wide lip rested two feet off the ground, made of cream marble with veins of dark bronze. The matching tiles that formed a pathway around the base shimmered in the sunlight.
And there, kneeling at the very edge of the marble lip of the pool, was Daniella. She had shed the heavy, ornate surcoat she’d worn for the day’s meetings—black velvet embroidered in Sevairnese gold—and left it lying behind her on the tile. Beneath it she wore a plain burgundy tunic dress, which seemed like it should clash with her fiery red hair, but instead complimented it nicely.
Jaeme paused by a meticulously-trimmed lilac bush, observing the way she stared down into the pool as if something about it displeased her. She reached up and, one by one, pulled out the pins that held her hair, letting it fall attractively down her back.
Daniella pulled out the last of the pins, and as she brought it around to collect it in her palm with the others, it slipped through her fingers, dropping into the water with a soft plunk. Jaeme stepped up behind her. If he couldn’t save her from murderous rebels, he could at least fetch her hairpin.
“Let me get that,” he said.
Daniella startled and spun around too quickly. The fabric under her knees slid on the marble and with an unceremonious yelp, she pitched backwards into the pool, water splashing out over the edge.
A few droplets hit Jaeme’s face as he gaped at her. He supposed maybe her nerves hadn’t calmed as much as he’d hoped. He hadn’t meant to necessitate her rescue from the fountain, but if his experience with women had taught him anything, it was that one took full advantage of the opportunities that arose.
He stepped forward and offered her his hand. Thankfully the pool wasn’t deep; Daniella pushed herself up on her palms and knelt in the fountain, sputtering, water dripping from every soaking inch of her. She looked up at him and then recoiled toward the center of the fountain, regarding his extended hand with suspicion.
Jaeme paused. Her fearful expression led him to believe she was wary of something beyond the rebels who wanted her dead. He softened his voice. “I didn’t mean to startle you, my lady,” he said. “I only wanted to help. Will you allow me?”
Daniella’s cheeks pinkened, and Jaeme doubted that was solely a result of the cold water. She ignored his hand and proceeded to climb out of the fountain herself, her sodden calfskin shoes squishing against the ground, water pooling on the tile at her feet.
So much for his daring rescue, though Jaeme supposed it was his fault that she’d ended up in the fountain. Daniella squished a few steps further, still eyeing him as if she already suspected he wasn’t what he seemed. He worried that she was going to run off before he managed to turn this into a charming encounter, one she might expect to laugh about someday. He couldn’t help but notice how her dress—already cut close to flatter her figure—clung in all the right places. If he was going to have to seduce her under the orders of a council of old men, at least she was quite stunning in her own right. Though at this moment, she looked as if she might be sick.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, pulling the curtain of red hair back from her face. Her eyes were a deep forest green that reminded him of the grove behind his castle back home.
Until that moment he hadn’t noticed the large scab on her forehead—it had been expertly disguised by the swoop of her hair, probably the cause for all those pins that he always imagined must jab women painfully in the skull. One of the many perks of having been born a man.
He pointed to the wound. “I certainly hope I wasn’t the cause of that.”
She brought her fingers up to it gingerly, wincing at even that light touch, though she did appear to relax somewhat. “No, I hit my head in the attack. As you can tell, I’m having a spectacular week.”
He returned to his charming smile, always a staple. “My lady, I have to tell you that your dive into that fountain was so gracefully executed, so breathtaking in its form and elegance that I believe this will inspire a new form of sport among the genteel women of Andronim.”
“You’re mocking me,” she said flatly. She wrung out her hair, splashing water onto the tile.
That was true, but he’d hoped to do it endearingly. “My lady, I would not dream of mocking Sevairn’s finest jewel.”
She gritted her teeth. “Maybe not, but I’m obviously the one who fell into the fountain in her place.”
He paused for a moment, then tried again. “I don’t think you give your exquisite beauty enough credit, my lady. Especially now. You resemble a portrait I’ve seen of one of the Derdonian Water Maidens.”
She gave him a dubious look, which Jaeme granted was warranted, as the only thing exquisite about her right now was her level of humiliation—and, well, the clinging of that dress—and she currently resembled a drowned rat, though a very pretty one. After a space of a few heartbeats, he cleared his throat.
“I’m well aware when I’m being ridiculed,” she said. “Even if you disguise it in flowery language.”
Jaeme paused. The charge from the Dukes Council to seduce her shouldn’t have been this difficult. Yes, Daniella was a princess, but most women—at least those around her age, a few years younger than his own—swooned when he looked at them, and spent most of the conversation eagerly trying to keep it going. Daniella seemed content to squash all further contact with him under her shoe. Back home in Mortiche, he might have let her alone, content to move on to easier targets, of which there were always plenty.
Today, he didn’t have a choice, though he wondered if the Dukes Council had known that Daniella would be difficult to bed; if this was part of the test. With his left hand positioned behind his back—a ridiculous courtly stance the Andronish noblemen favored—he massaged the stone he still held in his palm. “Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m Lord Jaemeson of Grisham, very humbly at your service.” He bowed himself slightly and then straightened.
She pursed her lips. “Really? I wasn’t aware that overblown flattery was considered a service in Mortiche. Or were you referring to the service of frightening women into fountains?”
Behind his back, Jaeme squished his stone flat. He was still casting about for a new angle when Daniella crossed her arms over her chest. “I won’t be requiring your services of any type,” she added. “Thank you.”
Ugh. This was going even worse than he had thought. Perhaps she was on edge for fear he was a blood puppet, sent to spy on her. There’d been numerous noblemen from all over Mortiche who’d discovered recently that servants of theirs were being controlled by blood magic. Jaeme didn’t know where that particular blight was coming from, but he supposed it might also be getting worse outside of Mortiche.
It was time to call on the knighthood. That usually got women talking, even if they only wanted to hear of his brave deeds, when Jaeme’s experience erred more on the side of wooing women. “As a knight of Mortiche, aiding women in distress is second to my nature.”
“Hmm,” Daniella said, as if considering. “I did always love to read the old knighthood ballads. ‘The Grey Knight Who Speared the Woltrecht’ is a favorite of mine. But I have to admit, I’ve not found many similarities between the knights in those tales and the reputations of actual knights. The integrity, the loyalty, the respect for women . . .”
