The Broken Realm Page 12

  Yesenia sighed. “Aiden is a monster, but he isn’t foolish enough to add your sister’s murder to his crimes. He will be fortunate if he isn’t the victim of some revenge for what he did to my brother. He’s betrayed not one but two Reaches. If he hadn’t fled like a coward, we’d be listening to the cleric recite the dead-given rites.”

  Corin placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “One day, Yesenia. I will help you do it.”

  Maeryn rolled her eyes. “You both so easily forget his alliance with The Pretender. He is protected. He can do as he pleases. Do you think he would have dispatched of Byrne had Eoghan not blessed it?”

  Yesenia glared in response. “I have a different take. Sister.”

  Maeryn waved a hand. “By all means. Sister.”

  “I do not think Eoghan blessed my brother’s murder at all. I think this is yet another instance of Aiden overreaching his authority and overestimating his value to the crown. So no, I do not believe he’s there scheming and conspiring these long weeks. I think Eoghan is weary of him and has done something about it.”

  “If that were so, Eoghan would proclaim that for all the kingdom to know. It would be his men here, not Aiden’s.”

  Yesenia smiled bitterly. “But don’t you see? Aiden can yet be of use, even as a prisoner. Why waste his own men when Aiden’s are still perfectly useful? When it was Aiden, and not Eoghan, who determined the way to subdue the great Medvedev for his purpose?”

  Maeryn smirked, but her eyes betrayed her. She realized the wisdom in Yesenia’s supposition. Aiden was too vain, too consumed with the belief his way was the only way, to leave his men without guidance. If he was scheming with the king, he would want them all to know. It would be yet another flex of his presumption of power.

  “I’m afraid it’s time,” Corin said, exhaling. “If there is word, we will again send for you, Maeryn. If there is not, then we will again meet in a fortnight.” He stepped across the room and took both her hands in his. She shivered, but squeezed back. “You are not alone. We yet lack the wisdom to make the change the Reach deserves, but when we do, we will.”

  “I only wish for a future where a fair and just Quinlanden sits upon the throne of the keep,” Maeryn whispered. She slipped away without saying goodbye to Yesenia.

  “I don’t trust her. Nor have I ever liked the way she looks upon you,” Yesenia said when Maeryn was gone.

  “She’s Blackwood, through and through. Don’t let her adaptability fool you. She’s done what was necessary to survive in Aiden’s world.” Corin turned. With a grin, he added, “And there’s not a woman alive who could turn my head away from Yesenia Warwick. Shall I show you, before our guards return?”

  * * *

  Clarissant Tyndall stood at the door to the Round Room, named so by her husband, Griffath, for the plain and simple reason that the room was cylindrical in shape. But it was not a room at all. It was once an old cistern that Griffath had stripped and turned into a place of business, separate of the keep, at the edge of the Tyndall lands. Close enough to the falls to form a natural barrier of sound, keeping words both in and out. The men of crimson and gold swarming Wildwood Falls tried to keep Griffath from retreating to his favored place, but Clarissant had charmed them with distractions; enough for him to slip away for the most urgent of matters.

  Not with magic. The bane of Clarissant’s life was that she was not born a magic dealer. But she’d learned her own form of witchery, studying with the type of women who were not welcome in Great Cities of the Westerlands. It was not the same, but she valued it more, for she’d worked through her sweat and tears for every ounce of power she wielded.

  “Griff,” she said from the entrance. She was the only other person with a key to the Round Room. “The Rush Riders have returned. Arturo is among them.”

  Griffath looked up, weary. His brother, Rhydian, was on his feet before the words were out of her mouth.

  “Did you guide him here?” Rhydian asked. “To us?”

  “I did,” Clarissant replied, but was looking at her husband. Griffath’s exhaustion settled into the lines of his face; lines that seemed to appear with Aiden’s men. More scratched their way along his flesh when these same men raped their daughter, Lyria. And again when young Jonah returned home beaten close to death.

  Rhydian’s soft smile put her at ease. She didn’t have much use for the Reliquary, but Rhydian seemed born to have a place in its ranks. He was both assuming and servile; docile and a force. He was hardly three decades into his life but was a Grand Minister of the Reliquary, a role usually reserved for men closer to death than birth. He was the highest ranking clergyman in the Westerlands, and in the kingdom was second only to the Archminister. He spent some of the year at the Resplendent Reliquary, and the rest at Longwood Rush and traveling the Reach, serving in the name of the Guardians. But when news of the betrayal of Byrne reached his ears, he’d ridden directly for Wildwood Falls, and had been a stalwart presence at his brother’s side since.

  “He has news of Marsh,” Clarissant said carefully. “He wanted to share with all of us together.”

  Griffath’s face crumbled. “He’s dead, then.”

  Clarissant shook her head. Now she did look at her husband’s brother, for strength. “I would have seen that in his eyes.”

  “And I would have never made you wait to hear such a terrible truth.” Arturo’s deep voice called from behind her.

  A swift wind passed by Clarissant as Rhydian flew by and landed in Arturo’s firm embrace. “Brother,” he whispered, and there was something else, something she heard but was not meant to as they lingered overlong in one another’s arms.

  Arturo broke away and nodded at Griffath. “Steward Tyndall.”

  “Rider Blackfen. Your travels were fair and without incident, I hope.”

  “They were. Mostly.” He leaned his longbow against the wall. “I won’t make you wait longer for news of your son. He’s safe in Wulfsgate. He arrived there with Emberley Blackwood.”

  “Wulfsgate!” Clarissant declared. “Marsh is in the Northerlands?” She looked at her husband in her astonishment, but he, too, was making sense of this strange news.

  “Indeed,” Arturo replied. He removed his metal bracers, and then his plate chest armor, setting both aside. He sank into the chair across from Griffath. “I cannot say how they got there, or why they chose the destination, only that they are both well and safe. Lady Dereham has sworn her men to protect their safekeeping.”

  “Lady Dereham?” Griffath asked. “And what of the Lord of Wulfsgate?”

  Arturo smirked. “The lady is the Lord of Wulfsgate.”

  “Guardians,” Clarissant whispered. “I’m relieved he is safe, as he would not be here.”

  “And he has served Lady Ember well. At least one of the Blackwood children are now safe, thanks to him,” Arturo said. “Pride should accompany your relief.”

  “Yes,” Griffath said, slowly exhaling. “He brings honor to our house.”

  “Are there men of crimson and gold in the north yet?” Clarissant asked.

  “Not as of my travels there. The Northerlands have closed all borders, land and sea. The only ones allowed in or out do so on special permission from the Derehams, of which I was able to obtain, through great effort. I asked Lady Dereham to allow the children to remain in Wulfsgate, presuming they are most safe there with these precautions in place. Lady Ember in particular is in especial danger in the Westerlands. If the winds do not change, she may be our future Lady of Longwood.”

  “Yes,” Rhydian said. “You did right.”

  “Did you see him? With your own eyes?” Clarissant asked.

  “Aye. I did. And Lady Ember. Lady Blackwood’s sister, Lady Earwyn, resides in Wulfsgate, as you know. She looks after them. I delivered your words to Marsh, and he was grateful to receive them. He wished for you both to know he is well and asked that you not worry after him.”

  Griffath sucked in both lips. Clarissant recognized her husband’s attempt
to stave off tears. The veins at his temples throbbed in response to this effort.

  “Thank you. For finding him. For delivering our words to our boy.”

  Arturo bowed in his chair. “If we could safely usher Lyria and Jonah there, I would escort them myself.”

  It was Clarissant’s turn to fight tears. “They will all die for what they’ve done to my children. I will see it done myself.”

  “And I will aid you,” Arturo answered. “But I fear I am not long for staying in Wildwood.”

  Rhydian shifted back and forth on his feet. “Where will you go next?”

  “Greystone Abbey.” He looked at Rhydian. “And I would like you to join me.”

  “It is true, then,” Griffath said. “Easlan James is collecting men.”

  Arturo nodded. “It is the only place in the Westerlands where Aiden’s men are not lingering like flies on shit. Any Westerlander knows Greystone Abbey and the men running it are essential to the Westerlands, but Aiden didn’t trouble to educate himself before sneaking across the River Rush to mark himself a traitor.”

  “I will go,” Rhydian said. “I can travel freely. Even Aiden would not dare assail a man of the Reliquary.”

  “As of now, the Rush Riders are able to move unmolested as well, as long as we are not traveling in numbers and formation,” Arturo said. “I do not expect this to remain so for long.”

  “Are all the Great Cities sending men? And the Lesser?” Griffath asked.

  “Most,” Arturo said. He looked at his hands. “Some fear the consequences of standing against the crimson and gold. Others wonder at how Asherley could abandon them.”

  “Abandon them!” Clarissant cried. “A true Westerlander would never question Lady Asherley’s faithfulness to her people!”

  Arturo nodded solemnly. “And yet, she is not here. Her lands are overrun with fear and self-preservation.” He rocked forward and launched to his feet. “Others, like us, would see the fear ended.”

  “You leave now?” Griffath asked. “So soon?”

  “Every moment wasted is a moment we condone this lawless subjugation.”

  “What if we sent Jonah?” Clarissant asked, her hopefulness outweighing her sense of reality.

  “We would not make it beyond the town gate,” Rhydian said. “I know his suffering pains you. As it does all of us. But he would not survive if marked a traitor.”

  “And you? Will they not wonder at the Grand Minister of the Westerlands gone missing?”

  “My role often requires travel. If they ask, I’ve returned to the Reliquary.”

  Arturo replaced the armor he’d shed only moments before. “We must go. One more thing. There’s whispers among the loyal that Joran Rosewood is in Greystone. And another... someone else of great magic, whose name has not been revealed. I don’t know if either fact will be important to our cause, but we will take what help is offered. We will take back our Reach.”

  Clarissant kissed him on both cheeks. “We must or there will soon not be a Reach to take back.”

  * * *

  Khallum observed, with a mix of anger and indifference, the miners storming the shores beyond the keep, fists raised to the sky, angered voices carrying across the sea breeze. He had half a mind to remind them they were squandering what little energy remained to them. It wasn’t his fault they were starving. Not his fault that the ratsbane Quinlanden had murdered Khallum’s brother and then launched the kingdom into a chaos that was not quite war, but could be. It would take so little to topple the careful orchestration of agitated guards and closed borders.

  He’d closed his borders, as well. He had no other choice. Both the Westerlands and Easterlands were under the control of the king now. Most of the Southerland food imports came from the Westerlands, but he could trust nothing coming across the Reach thanks to The Deceiver. They subsisted now on what they could bring in from the sea. Only in the borderlands were heartier foods growable, but the Southerlanders were not farmers. They’d left that to their neighbors, and now they were paying for it.

  They wanted war, the miners. Khallum had war in his blood, and he’d enjoy, all too well, the weight of a claymore in his hand as he swung it upon the skull of a Quinlanden or Rhiagain grunt. But, for once, he had something within his grasp that not even war could supersede. More than he’d known he had when he sent Ryan Strong into the Wastelands to bring Darrick Rhiagain home. He had not only the father, but also the son. But both their lives were in precarious balance, counting on what meager shelter they had in exile. He did not think many Southerland men were loyal to the crown after all the abuse their Reach had suffered under the Rhiagain reign, but he was not certain enough to stake everything upon this faith.

  Everyone awaited his direction, and he had none to give. He was shamed by his fear of action, by how it had all brought him straight to his knees. Asherley and Assyria. His men in Whitecliffe. The ones dying below him, before his very eyes. They all looked to him, and for what?

  “You stand here for hours as if your presence alone will change their empty bellies,” Gwyn said from behind him. He was surprised she’d entered the Hall of Warring. She was the only woman who could enter without special dispensation, and she rarely abused this privilege. But he’d given her cause to worry once more; he’d failed to adequately ease her mind on the uncertainties ahead.

  “That isnae why I stand here.”

  “What will you do?”

  Khallum bristled at the question and loaded an appropriate response. But his anger wasn’t for her. “I’ve yet to decide.” He grunted and added, “I cannae resume trade with closed borders. I have no money coming into the Reach without minerals going out. If I halt mining production, I’ll have none for when trading resumes. Either way, the miners starve.”

  “Aye, husband. You’ve no control over what others put in motion. But what of your own plans?”

  He tightened his grip on the balustrade, stained white from the years of bird shit. “Speak plainly. I’ve not the spirits for anything less.”

  Gwyn appeared at his side. She wrapped her shawl tight against the assaulting sea wind. “Go to Whitecliffe, Khallum. There’s nothing you can do here, but there is power in seeing your work before your eyes. What you put in action. The freedom you alone will deliver the realm. And yes...” Gwyn pointed at the emaciated mob. “These men, as well. They cannot know what you’ve done for them, but they will. And those strong enough to survive to see it will revere you beyond any king this kingdom has ever had.”

  “You think I should go to him? And draw eyes upon Whitecliffe?”

  “Your men will tell the people of Warwicktown you are meeting with your men about The Deceiver. About The Pretender. That you are rallying.”

  “You’ve it all laid out, then, have ye? Think ye know what’s best?”

  Gwyn shook her head. “I’m only the mother of your children. You are the father of this entire Reach. A man of action. A Warwick. That man does not stand by and watch his world dissolve into chaos. He reaches into that chaos, commands the center, and makes it his own.”

  Khallum closed his eyes, rolled his shoulders forward, and pressed his exhale into the briny air. “I cannae fail at this, Gwyn. There isnae another plan.”

  “Then donnae let mere men do a lord’s work. You belong at the side of the king.” She turned to him. “The real king.”

  The Guardians Don’t Make Mistakes

  9

  The Last Stand of the Westerlands

  Ravenna’s smooth hips designed the perfect movement, arcing under his hands as she slid herself over him in full, agonizing strokes. Riding with such beautiful dexterity, as if her skill had been spun from centuries of practice. The way she pulled him closer to finish, his undoing, and yet stilled him, drawing out both their pleasure, was a magic of its own kind.

  Somewhere in him screamed a denial, but it never touched his lips, and as she rolled forward, her dark hair tickling the beads of sweat dancing upon the flesh of his chest, he spilled so har
d within her that he feared they might both fly from the bed.

  He struggled for words through ragged breaths. Now he had to find them, this couldn’t go on. He’d sworn it would never, and now never had come to pass in this way, but ahh, her mouth was upon him now, reviving him once more, and oh, Guardians, had there ever been anything so soft, so wonderful, so...

  Jesse awoke with a violent start, hearing Ravenna’s smooth voice in two places at once. She was humming some soft whisper against his cock, but she was also standing at the end of his bed, calling his name in escalating urgency.

  One reality faded away as the other took solid form. Ravenna was telling him to wake, quickly, that they had visitors. Jesse propped himself upon one arm, trying in futile desperation to clear his mind before she could read it. With his other, he swiped in awkward moves at the sweat that painted him everywhere now, not just his chest. What he needed was a dip in the river beyond the keep, but it seemed that would have to wait.

  Ravenna watched these strange ministrations with a curious look, saying nothing. She waited for him to gift her with his full attention, and then began again, with a touch of exasperation.

  “Kaslan is downstairs, and he’s brought visitors with him.”

  “Who?”

  Ravenna didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and left him, but he didn’t miss the tiny smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

  She knew.

  When she was gone, Jesse fell back against the bed, arm over his eyes. Spent. Ashamed. On top of it all, he’d slept longer than the others, and the day was already getting ahead of him.

  But he could ruminate on his failings as a man later. He had business downstairs.

  He dressed quickly and made his way to the main floor, where the small room was now full of life. He didn’t recognize the newcomers, but he didn’t need an introduction for the young man wrapped in Esmerelda’s arms.