She had promised herself that she would not use anything she learned from her sons in the covert reports she wrote to Paerin Clark of the Medean bank. If the missives were intercepted, there could be nothing to lead back to Jorey, and so many of the things she was now positioned to discover were known only to a few. And yet because these things were little known, they were the most important to pass along.
Perhaps it was time to stop her campaign. They knew the dangers that Geder posed. They had acted against him already. And she herself had taken Ternigan from the board and sown distrust in the ranks with the unfortunate effect of putting Jorey in harm’s way. My dear friend, I fear the time has come for our correspondence to end, she could say. There was no one to insist that she continue. And now that she felt the danger so close at her side…
But there was an attack coming, and she knew it was coming to Birancour. The priests of the spider goddess could smell out deceit, and she could warn them of that. Perhaps no one else could. But at what cost? And if some detail that she put to paper was something that only Jorey could tell, how would she live with herself, knowing that she had engineered his death?
She had her nib above the inkwell, trapped by indecision, when a soft tap came at the door. Fear set her heart racing, but there was no call. She hadn’t written a stroke. She put the pen away and shifted to the divan near the window as the tapping came again.
“Hello?” she said. “Is anyone there?”
The door swung open and Jorey stepped in.
“I’m not interrupting, am I?” he asked.
“Never, dear. I was just looking at the back gardens. I’m afraid they won’t escape ruin at this rate.”
“What will?” he said, and it sounded only half a jest. He came to stand by her and put his hand on her shoulder. She touched his fingers with her own. For a moment, they stared together at the grey and the white and the damage that it wrought.
“It’s a shame Lord Skestinin couldn’t wait for better weather.”
“It is. And I hope it’s cleared by tomorrow, or Vicarian and I may freeze before we reach my command.”
“I’m sure that won’t happen, dear. The freezing, I mean. I can’t speak to the weather. I’ve never been good about that sort of thing.”
Jorey sighed, and for a moment she thought he might not speak at all. “I don’t want you to be afraid, Mother. I’ll see this through.”
“And had it occurred to you that might be what I was afraid of?” she asked tartly, and immediately wished she could take the words back.
Jorey sank to the divan at her side. The hail tapped angrily against the glass. “After Vanai, Father told me about his own experiences in the field. About war and what it was. What it is.”
“And did that help you?”
Jorey’s jaw went tight. It was answer enough. In truth, she’d been cruel to ask.
“War is an evil thing that we have to do,” he said. “It is what duty and honor demand. And it’s terrible.”
“And do you believe him?”
“Duty and honor are making demands of me,” Jorey said, chuckling despite the grimness all about them, “and it’s terrible, so I’d have to say I do.”
“Your father was always a man of honor. What precisely that meant was sometimes surprising, but he did not waver.”
“I can’t either.”
“Do you… Do you want to win?”
“I want the war ended,” Jorey said, “and I’m not permitted to surrender, so winning’s the only path I’ve got. And I want you and Sabiha safe. And Vicarian. Everyone, really.”
“You’re Lord Marshal of Antea in the teeth of a war that’s already spilled over three nations. It seems odd employment for someone seeking safety for everyone.”
“That’s why I didn’t ask for the position,” he said. “I will make this all work if I can, though. I have to try.”
Clara felt sorrow in her breast like a rising flood. But also pride. “We all have to, dear. In our own ways.”
“I won’t be here when my child’s born,” Jorey said. “Lady Skestinin and Sabiha… They don’t have the warmest relationship. Ever since her scandal.”
The scandal had happened before Jorey and Sabiha had met and fallen in love. It was now a boy old enough to be learning his letters, and being raised by a kind family in the lower quarters of Camnipol, and Sabiha loved the child. Little wonder that the girl and her mother would carry each other’s scars over it.
“I understand,” Clara said.
“Thank you, Mother.”
Clara rose to her feet and put her arms around her youngest boy. Little Jorey who’d wept after his first hunt, but not where Dawson could see him. Who had come back from the burning of Vanai with ghosts behind his eyes. He would lead an army for a man he feared in a war he hated because it was the right thing to do. Dawson would have been proud of him too, though for very different reasons.
“I will do what I can,” she whispered.
“So will I.”
When he left, she took up her pen again, and began her letter.
Pregnancy sat well on Sabiha Kalliam and sorrow poorly. Between the two, they complicated her. Clara found her in the nursery with three of the house servants—two Firstblood women and a Dartinae man—holding curtains to the high windows. In the grey light of the storm, Clara saw little to distinguish the different cloths. Sabiha leaned against the great carved-oak crib where before many more weeks had passed, the child would sleep and mewl and puke and coo and generally twist every heart in reach and exhaust every body in earshot. Clara found herself looking forward to it.
“Clara,” Sabiha said. “Have you come to dither about window dressings? Because that’s how I’m spending the day.”
“It’s an honorable pursuit. Painful but necessary. I’ve come to make sure you were well and see whether you needed anything from me in particular.”
“So Jorey sent you.”
“You didn’t expect him to do anything else, did you? The poor thing’s riding off to the service of his nation and leaving the one person he actually cares for behind. Well, two. One and a fraction.”
“Two and a fraction. He loves his mother as well. Did he warn you about mine?”
“Your mother? Yes, he did.”
Sabiha chuckled. “We nipped at each other once when she was tired and I was hungry. It was nothing.”
Clara didn’t believe that for a moment, but it was a lie she could respect. It occurred to her that Vicarian could have removed all doubt, and the thought left her feeling colder. The servants stood still, waiting for their betters to finish their conversation, as was their place. Sabiha turned to them. “Take them all down. Yes, that one too. All of them. The light’s too dim in this weather. I’ll look again tomorrow when the weather’s passed.”
The servants nodded, thanked her, and vanished with grace and speed. They gave no sign that they were being dismissed, and everyone present knew that they were. Good help was precious. Clara hoped Sabiha was aware of the fact. When they were alone, Sabiha lowered herself to the nursing chair with a grunt.
Sabiha pulled a face, and then laughed. “The truth is, he outpaced me,” she said. “I was going to come to you tonight and ask how we could conspire to care for him while he’s away.”
“Is he not well, then?” Clara asked, half certain she knew the answer.
“He doesn’t sleep,” Sabiha said. “And when he does, it isn’t restful. Honestly, he’s gone away some nights for fear of keeping me up. I’ve found him curled on a divan in the dressing room in the morning.”
“Is it the war,” Clara said, “or is there something more?”