“My son, mine and Shek’s,” she whispered, “heir to the domain and my future.”
The smoke may have been dulling my wits but I’ve bred enough dogs to make me confident that Kaeska and the Warlord wouldn’t produce a child with a face from the Bremilayne hill country if she netted the old ram’s horns every other night and bore a child each Summer Solstice on the strength of it. I can’t say why but I was suddenly convinced that, whatever I was seeing, Kaeska was looking at something quite different.
“And you will bear him in due season. Your rights as First Wife will therefore be restored and you will rise high above the women of the other domains as your trade with my people brings you metals and timber to build Shek Kul’s power still further. You will not need to deal with the thieves and savages of the mainland at all, but with an island people like your own, who understand the value of beauty and honor in trade. You will bring your husband a powerful alliance, place him first among the Warlords as the Islands find friends to defend them against the depredations of mainland pirates and swindlers.”
The Elietimm leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Kaeska. “And your son will inherit all of this. He will grow and thrive while your rival’s child sickens and dies, just as long as the Queen receives her due and you obey her priest without question.”
Meaning him, no doubt. I shook my head slowly, keeping my eyes on Kaeska as the apparition dissolved into smudges of smoke carried off on the night breeze. The eager light faded from her eyes and she clawed at the last wisps with despairing fingers, a sob strangling in her throat.
“Show some dignity.” The Elietimm spat a curt command and the candle guttered, the last tendril of smoke coiling to vanish in the darkness. He climbed to his feet and sneered down at Kaeska as she sprawled across the table, shoulders shaking in silent anguish. He stalked off toward a far door and as soon as he had left the room, I made my way back to my pallet at Laio’s door as fast as I could. I found I had to actively concentrate on walking quietly; my co-ordination was definitely affected by the smoke I had been unable to avoid. Glad to lay my head on the cool, soft cotton, I closed my eyes as the floor seemed to dip and sway beneath me, the scent of the drugs still tantalizing me.
The Kel Ar’Ayen settlement,
Autumn Equinox,
Year One of the Colony
Temar strode purposefully through the crowded marketplace, his optimistic mood buoyed with simple pride at the raw yellow of new stonework gleaming here and there in the deepening dusk. It was deeply satisfying to see such tangible proof of his success in locating those quarry sites. Elsewhere the gloom was being held back by the light of flambeaux and braziers set around the dancing floor where determined revellers were already forming lines for round-dances. Temar noted with some surprise that some of the craftsmen and traders who had marked out these first lines of their new settlement had still found the time to plant up odd-sized half-barrels and battered kettles. Bright with flowers, the improvised gardens masked the worst deficiencies of the wooden houses and halls that had sheltered the colony through that first summer, giving the place a suitably festive air.
It might be a primitive celebration by D’Alsennin standards, Temar decided, but judging from the noise already echoing around the broad estuary, the colonists were intending to make this a holiday to remember, regardless of what they might be lacking. He nodded as people passed him, waving at half-remembered faces from the voyage and hoping a warm smile would suffice instead of the coin he was used to distributing on the streets at such times of year. The wealth he was carrying tonight was intended for only one recipient.
Temar took a deep breath and paused at the gateway of Messire Den Rannion’s steading, checking that no wisps of hair had escaped their clasp and brushing at the worn patch on his jerkin in a futile gesture. He lifted his chin and set his jaw; it wasn’t as if he was going to be the only one wearing last year’s finery, was it?
“Temar!” A hefty slap on the back caught him completely unawares and nearly sent him sprawling on the beaten earth of the roadway. “Hold on, I’ve got you!”
“Vahil, you idiot!” Temar shook off the hand that had saved him from the fall, tugged at his belt and straightened his shirt, checking the pocket with a hasty pat.
“Come on in.” Vahil’s good humor was undiminished as he hammered on the pale wood of the gate with the hilt of his belt knife. “Everyone’s longing to see you.”
The gate-ward opened to them and Vahil breezed past him with a cheery greeting that surprised Temar. “Drianon’s favor to you,” he muttered a little awkwardly to the man as he passed him.
“And to you, Esquire!” The gate-ward raised his tankard to Temar in an affable salute.
Temar moved to one side of the entrance and looked curiously at the changes made in the season and a half that he had been away. The steading was still surrounded by a fence rather than a decent stone wall, but the gardens were starting to take shape. Lanterns glowed among spindly fruit trees planted in a sparse avenue and vines were endeavouring to soften the rough-cut wood of the palings. The formal patterns of a herb garden were waiting for the plants to start spreading themselves in their new beds, but faint scent was already rising from the little clumps of bee-balm, meadowsweet and moth-bane. Temar wondered in passing where the shingle that crunched underfoot had come from to make the paths, and then he remembered the heap of ballast down by the wharf.
“Your steward’s been busy!” he noted with approval.
Vahil shook his head. “This is all Mother’s work. Come on, let’s find a drink!” He strode purposefully in the direction of the wine standing on a trestle table under a rather scrawny arbor of climbing plants with startling scarlet flowers. “Well, Mother and Jaes, the porter.” He waved an arm in the direction of the gate.
“Since when have you been on first-name terms with the outdoor servants?” Temar helped himself to a modest goblet of golden wine since there didn’t appear to be any servitors doing the usual duties.
Vahil paused and then shrugged as he found himself a flagon of red. “I don’t know really. It just seemed a bit silly to keep everything so formal. Things are a bit different here, somehow, don’t you find?”
Temar nodded as he sipped his drink, blinking a little at its unrefined newness. “I suppose so. It was certainly like that up river, all of us getting on with the tasks to be done. You caught me a bit by surprise, that’s all.”
“We’ve been too busy breaking and planting enough land and getting the harvests in to worry about making sure the right people sit below the salt.” Vahil’s expression turned fleetingly somber. “After losing those ships at sea, we’ve needed to set every pair of hands to work.”
“We?” Temar raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“That’s right.” Vahil met the challenge in Temar’s expression with a direct gaze and unmistakable emphasis on his words. “We have a great deal to be proud of and we can look forward to a secure winter.”
“So what exactly have you”—Temar stressed the question lightly—“been doing?”