The Broken Realm Page 3

  Gretchen, in a haphazard flurry, gathered some sweaters and his chronicle. She’d looked Aylen in the eye and said, you will understand, one day, when you are a mother. The destruction of your soul if one of your own is taken.

  Gretchen hadn’t meant the words with malice, but they’d cut Aylen anyway, who had always seen herself one day tending her own brood. But Christian was single-mindedly against having children. He’d joined the Sepulchre to be rid of the expectations of family. She’d known this before she married him, and nothing had changed since. It was the only wedge between them.

  I will make sure he knows how you yearn to hold him once more, Lady Dereham.

  Aylen remembered this as the cart began the slow approach down the narrow, steep side path that led to the system of caves. Christian dismounted Sun and led the horses and ponies by hand. They bucked, fighting the decline, but he whispered softly into their ears and their angst eased some.

  She spotted Pieter’s thatch of red hair behind some bushes. “Christian. The signal.”

  Christian sounded the series of whistles, and Pieter jumped out, thrashing through the snow as he bounded toward them.

  He threw himself into his brother’s arms, and the two men stayed this way long enough for the beasts to grow restless again.

  “How are things inside?” Christian asked.

  “Lady Blackwood and the princess argue constantly. Day and night. They’ve argued since we ported, weeks ago. I wonder if they will ever stop,” Pieter said. He glanced back toward the caves. “Stefan wants to play all day. He’s run Ransom and me ragged with his demands. I tried to tell him there are no pirates in the Northerland Range, because you need ships for piracy, but he doesn’t believe me. He says I’m lying to him.”

  Christian smiled at Aylen. “We perhaps have some relief for that, courtesy of Aylen. Something else to grab his attention.”

  “And don’t forget, Stefan has never had friends before. He must be so happy to have some now, even if they are older and have outgrown their imagination,” Aylen said.

  Pieter nodded at Aylen. “And, eh, Anabella, she’s afraid.”

  “Afraid?” Aylen pressed.

  “For her son. For Stefan,” Pieter said. “She has these nightmares. She sees the king take him away from her.” He lowered his voice. “She sees the king take her son’s life.”

  Christian shook his head. “The king will not find them here. Our men are manning all ports. We will know if anyone who is not meant to be here tries to make land.”

  “They could come through the Hinterlands.”

  Aylen smiled. “They’d not fare well there, I’m afraid. Men who veer from the path in those lands don’t often find it again. Even if they took the Compass Road, Salthill is a veritable barricade these days. The Northerlands are well and truly cut off from the kingdom, Pieter. For better or worse.”

  Pieter didn’t look convinced. “We are not as well guarded up here. We have only one man. Ransom would say two, but he can hardly pick up Scholar Edevane’s sword without wincing.”

  Christian tousled his red hair. “You forgot to mention Pieter Dereham, the most fearsome wulf cub of the Northern Reach.”

  This elicited the grin Christian had been after. “Did you at least bring me a bow?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Pieter brightened. “No more rabbit traps, then. We’ll eat true meat again.” His smile faded. “It isn’t easy being so close to home but forbidden from returning.”

  “I know,” Christian said. “I wish it were different. Mother misses you so.” He clapped a hand over Pieter’s shoulder. “But you know why this isn’t possible right now. There is no way we could keep your presence secret, and secrets grow longer legs the more who possess them.”

  “And why can’t Mother or Father come here?”

  “You say you are not well guarded. But that isn’t true, Pieter. The absence of others is what protects you. They stay away to keep you safe.”

  “I have a letter for you, from your mother,” Aylen said, slipping the vellum from inside her coat. “If you’d like to write one in return, I’ll be happy to take it to her.”

  Pieter turned his head to hide the budding tears. He nodded. “Right. Sure.”

  Christian turned to Aylen. “Shall we? Our friends have been waiting long enough.”

  * * *

  Wyat Edevane joined Christian in unloading the cart. Asherley and Assyria oversaw the exercise, peppering the men with their questions and demands as they eyed each addition to their cache. Aylen used the opportunity to pull Anabella aside.

  Aylen remembered Anabella from childhood. Anabella was a few years older than she was, but they had been occasional playmates as young girls, when Steward Weatherford would come to Witchwood Cross to trade his furs. But the woman standing before her was not that girl, and Aylen wondered how many transformations she’d endured before coming to this point.

  Anabella had been malnourished when Aylen came to her weeks earlier. She’d healed her to the best of her ability, but there were some things beyond her power.

  Aylen rested a hand on the woman’s arm. “How have you been since we last saw one another?” Anabella had put on some needed weight, and there was again color in her pale cheeks, but the light in her eyes remained dim.

  Anabella directed her gaze out of the cave, toward where Stefan played in a small grove of trees. They were at the timber line here; any higher and the caves would not have been the seclusion they needed. “I’m so grateful to be free, Aylen. I would never want anyone to think otherwise.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But there is somehow more pain in knowing Darrick lives, and is out there, somewhere, than believing he was dead all these years.” She hung her head. “I shouldn’t say such things. I know this.”

  Aylen moved closer, wrapping her arm through Anabella’s. “As women, we’re expected to keep our counsel far too often. You say what you feel with me. It stays between us.”

  Anabella’s smile was weary, but grateful. “I want him to know his son, as I have. He isn’t even aware Stefan exists.”

  “He does now. Our messenger to the Southerlands returned right as we departed to come to you. We have nothing in writing, as Lord Warwick felt there was too much danger in this falling into the wrong hands, but the message was delivered just the same.”

  Anabella closed her eyes. Exhaled. “He will understand why I can’t come to him, then. Of course he will.”

  “I read the scrolls. The ones you wrote at Duncarrow,” Aylen said. Anabella looked up. “I hope you don’t think that’s an intrusion of your thoughts. When Asherley passed them to us, Gretchen felt we should all commit them to memory, because we can’t know the lengths Eoghan will go to in order to protect this truth from the kingdom. I was entrusted with seeing them locked somewhere safe. For when the time comes for the kingdom to know the truth.”

  Anabella watched her in silence.

  “I never met Prince Darrick, but I know him through your eyes now. A little, anyway. And I know he wanted more than anything for you to be safe, especially once he knew his own safety was in peril. Now that he knows your son, his son, is out there, he would want this doubly so.” Aylen unlinked their arms and took her hand. “He survived these years on the memory of you. You gave him something to live for. Everything to live for. You mustn’t forget that, when your strength threatens to falter.”

  Tears rolled down Anabella’s cheeks. “Can I ask you something, Aylen?”

  “Anything.”

  “Do you trust these women?”

  “Lady Asherley and Princess Assyria?”

  Anabella nodded.

  Aylen breathed out. “If I’m truly honest with you, I don’t know them well enough to answer. Lady Asherley has a reputation for being ruthless but fair. She wants to see this kingdom restored to better days as much as anyone. I know nothing at all about Assyria. No one does beyond Duncarrow. But they have both surrendered their freedom and their lives to prot
ect you.”

  “I know.”

  “What troubles you?”

  Anabella cast an eye over her shoulder. “I know I should not expect their kindness. But they treat me as if I’m a child, like Stefan, and not an equal. They tell me nothing. When I ask, they dismiss me.”

  “Lady Gretchen tells me Lady Asherley is one of the few in this kingdom she would trust with her life.” Aylen waved at Stefan when he jumped up to show the Snowbeast he’d built. “Perhaps it would be helpful to remember that when faced with the decision to be caught or to leave Pieter and Ransom behind, she couldn’t leave without them. Even if it meant that the entire plot to extricate you and Stefan from Duncarrow could fail.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Anabella replied. She smiled at Stefan and wiped at her tears. “I swear to you, I was never this emotional during my years in captivity. You probably have trouble believing that.”

  “Not at all,” Aylen said. “I think you are very, very strong. A weaker woman would not have survived and endured what you did. And look at him. Your son. His color has returned. He’s added weight to his bones. To see him now, you would not know he’d ever gone without.”

  Anabella sniffled into her dress. “You’re right. I need to remember this, when I am lost to my emotion.”

  Aylen planted a kiss on her cheek. “No, Anabella. You need to do nothing at all except breathe in the crisp mountain air of your homeland and exult in watching your son finally explore the world of his imagination.”

  * * *

  “Nothing? Nothing at all?” Asherley asked. She’d made no threatening gestures; had not said the words with malice. And yet, Christian still had the instinctive urge to take several steps backward.

  “Not yet,” Christian replied. “We had hoped for more direction when our messenger returned, but Khallum felt it wasn’t safe. My mother expects he will send his own instead. She thinks it could be any day now.”

  “Your mother? Does your father still have his balls in his possession?” Assyria demanded, hands splayed against her hips.

  The princess was a stunning woman in her middle age, her red hair flaming against the clear icicles dangling from the top edges of the cave. He’d heard about the Rhiagains and their golden red manes, but he’d never seen it with his own eyes. This was not Pieter’s red, or Lisbet’s. This was a color from another world. It made him uncomfortable, for reasons he couldn’t identify.

  “Holden has his balls when Gretchen grants them to him,” Asherley replied, without looking at Assyria. Christian sensed there was something between them. Some burgeoning rift. “And what of the Westerlands? Any news of Byrne?”

  Christian forced himself not to look away. “Not yet, my lady.”

  “And my children?”

  Christian had brought with him to Wulfsgate the news of young Hollyn’s demise at the Sepulchre, but, as with Byrne’s tragic end, and Lord Quinlanden’s assumption of Westerland command, Gretchen felt it was best to keep this from Asherley for now. They couldn’t risk her flying into a grief-stricken rage and storming back to Quinlanden-occupied Longwood Rush. “I will let you know when we do.”

  “At least Emberley had the good sense to come to Wulfsgate,” she muttered. “You should bring her on your next visit.”

  “I don’t think that would be wise.”

  “Your mother does the thinking for the Derehams. Ask her.”

  Christian winced. “Do you have any other requests? For supplies, that is? We expect a return in another fortnight, if the weather holds.”

  “No,” Assyria answered for them both. “We have all the dried fruits and meats we can stomach. What we require is direction. A plan. We cannot hide here forever, Lord Dereham. You cannot be so naive as to believe your border lockdowns will last. And why should they? By their very nature they have drawn the king’s eye. He is not very wise, but if he has Aiden Quinlanden, that cunning dog’s cock, he will have made this connection. Why would one tighten their borders without reason? Without cause?” She leaned in closer. Her clear, soft skin smelled like ashes from a spent flame. “We did not rescue my brother and his son for them to hide in exile. The kingdom must know they exist. That they are alive.”

  “And why...” The words left Christian’s mouth before he could think better of them.

  “Why what, Lord Dereham?”

  “Why are you here? Why does this matter to you? You’re a Rhiagain. A Rhiagain still sits upon the throne.”

  “The wrong Rhiagain,” Assyria replied.

  “And yet you could have left this all to Lady Blackwood. To Edevane, and the others who aided you.”

  “Be mindful of your neck. She slit their throats. These others you speak of,” Asherley said, with a swift, subtle glare at the princess.

  “My reasons are my own,” Assyria countered. She was so close now her breath burned his lips. “And my plans will be my own if the lords of this kingdom cannot produce them first.”

  2

  The Ramblings of a Swindler

  Jesse hadn’t expected to lay eyes upon the decaying main road leading to the heart of Greystone Abbey again. Upon their last visit, he’d decided the earth would soon reclaim the wood and stone, resisting even the will of the steadfast James men; that the small village, hanging on by pure stubborn resilience, was already in the throes of its final exhale.

  Lady Blackwood was the only thing keeping the James men and their stretch of land from being relegated to a completed chapter in The Book of All Things. She had a soft spot for Easlan James—some might say, a blind spot. She rewarded his loyalty with unchallenged placement among the Great Families. Those who didn’t understand this seemingly unwise choice from a woman otherwise known for her great cunning had not known Easlan James. Many said that he had been blessed with great fortune to have the favor of Lady Blackwood. Jesse understood, as Asherley herself must also, that it was the other way around.

  The loyalty of all the Westerlands was being tested. Quinlanden men swarmed the larger towns and villages, ready to shut down anyone rising up in defense of the Blackwoods. This Jesse and the others had discovered upon their attempt to return young Brook to his home in Windwatch Grove, just across the River Rush from Longwood Rush.

  But their path had never strayed far from the Whitewood. It was in Parth, at the same Tavern at the Middle of the World where they’d sought refuge weeks before, that the news of the realm reached them.

  Lord Byrne Warwick, murdered by Quinlanden.

  Lady Asherley Blackwood, escaped from her captivity on Duncarrow, whereabouts unknown.

  Lord Quinlanden, in Duncarrow, plotting with the king.

  Every last Blackwood child, missing.

  The Westerlands under siege by Quinlanden.

  Esmerelda had paled at the news. If this had happened in the Westerlands, it could happen elsewhere.

  The Westerlands are not safe for us, Ravenna had said, but in her eyes Esmerelda showed she was thinking the same as Jesse. There is one place. She knew it, even though she’d fought him until she was breathless over leaving the Hinterlands. Ryan wouldn’t know where to find her. He’d have no warning of the inexplicable danger awaiting him when he encountered the Medvedev. What then, Jesse? We send him from one prison to another?

  Jesse didn’t have the answers she sought, but Ryan wouldn’t want his wife and child in peril, and so he did the only thing he could.

  They’d taken the unpredictable passage through the forests, careful to avoid even the outskirts of towns where the Quinlanden men might be scouting. And when they at last arrived back in Greystone Abbey, Easlan James greeted them without surprise.

  You’re only the first, Jesse. More are coming.

  What do you mean? Coming here? Why?

  I’ve received raven after raven from the stewards of the Westerlands, until ravens were no longer safe. You know the silent war between Easterlands and Westerlands has brewed, unchecked, for many years, and now this over-reach from Quinlanden is beyond bearing. They will no
t stand for it and will defend their Reach, and their lady, to the death, if it comes to it. Quinlanden has men, but there is more to winning a war than swords.

  And they’re coming here? To Greystone Abbey?

  Look around you. Remember why you came here. Did you see any of The Deceiver’s men on your ride in? No, and you won’t. They won’t come here. To them, we are forgotten, a relic of yesterday. A true Westerlander would not disregard us so. The stewards cannot leave their lands without drawing eyes upon us, but they are sending their trusted advisors and emissaries.

  Jesse, thinking of Esmerelda, of Ravenna, of how he could protect both their secrets when the swarms of men arrived, had begun to consider where else to take them when Easlan laid a hand upon his arm.

  Take them to Dungarde Keep. It isn’t what it once was, but it’s secluded, and safe. We don’t live there anymore. We’ve made the tavern our bed and hearth for years now, ever since the wife’s promise was spent, and Kaslan and I only return to feed and tack the horses. You’ll be protected there. I’ll house the others in the inn, and at the other properties abandoned when our people left for Newcarrow. None but Kaslan and I will ever know you have a refugee princess on one arm and a sorceress on the other.

  Thank you, Easlan. I am indebted to you beyond what I could repay.

  I don’t keep score on favors, Jesse. You’ll remember this, and do for another, when the time is right.

  What do we do about the boy? Can we get word to the Ashenhurts? That their son is safe?

  He will not be safe until The Deceiver and his men are driven from our lands. Until then, I’ve a need for an assistant to help keep up with the sweeping and stocking, and a palette in the back for when his day’s work is done.