“But if I don’t, they can still accuse your people of kidnapping me or some such foolery and the next thing it’ll be all-out war.”
All-out war. There, she had said it, the worry that had been grating on her mind since she had heard of Holters coming this way, of the Grey Holt banner they bore. She had once expected to marry Vertigern of Grey Holt, though he was but a cousin of the Scion of Tyr. That had been her duty. And even though her brother had dissolved the engagement, Grey Holt could still feel a responsibility towards her. If River Holt would not come to her aid, poor captured Jeren, lost in the wilds with the wild things, then Grey Holt would. It was exactly the sort of reckless adventure a young minor lordling like Vertigern—so minor a relative of the Scion as to be removed from the duties and responsibilities of the court in Grey Holt—would jump at. Just the kind of melodramatic mission the Scions of Tyr would celebrate in song and verse. She recalled Gilliad’s disdain when her father first mentioned him.
“He’s True Blood, but only just, his blood is so watered down. And the Scions of Tyr have ever been witless wonders, good only for tournaments in peacetime and to man the front line in war.”
Tyr had been the warrior among the original True Blood. And his descendents carried on that tradition above all others. Every single one of them. War.
She might even see it now. Just as the Fell Enchassa had said. Blood in Sheninglas. Spilled at her behest.
No, there was no other way.
“I’m ready. We’ll hold this parlay, let them see I am safe and happy, and then send them on their way home.”
Indarin just nodded and turned away. What he thought of her show of strength she couldn’t say, but she hoped that somewhere he finally felt she was not a complete lackwit.
Of course, if Shan had not brought her here, the Holters would never have followed.
A cluster of pavilions squatted in the valley below, pale spots of colour amid the brilliant green of the grass dotted with jewel-coloured flowers. The central one, all grey and silver, was twice the size of the others and the Feyna warriors stood outside, facing a surly bunch of Holt guards. The uniform the guards wore boasted the silver epaulettes of Grey Holt. As Jeren approached, they stiffened, eyeing her curiously—a bizarre cross between Feyna, wilder and who knew what, she must have appeared to them—but when she stopped before them, glaring in her haughtiest manner, they bowed low.
Beside her for just a moment, she thought Indarin smirked. She only saw it from the corner of her eye, but she was sure.
From inside she heard a voice. “I don’t like it, that’s all. No sign of their Sect Mother, nor of their queen. Nothing but warriors and those things in the mountains—”
Indarin pulled back the gap in the canvas with undue noise and the voice stopped suddenly. Jeren nodded to him and he stepped inside like a bodyguard. She followed, head held high, the Lady of River Holt.
Vertigern surged to his feet, almost knocking over the low table before him in his haste. “Lady Jeren!”
Maps and papers spilled over the rugs laid on the pavilion’s floor and his servants scurried to catch them, but Vertigern paid no attention at all. He was taller than she remembered, broader in the shoulders too, a man who had grown from the skinny boy she had only met a handful of times. His black hair hung to his shoulders, framing a strong and handsome face.
A woman hovered nearby, clad in mail, with plain features that seemed to exaggerate his beauty. She kept her head bowed, her blonde hair falling over her face.
“You look…” Vertigern began, stepping forward with his arms wide. When she didn’t move into his embrace he stopped, somewhat awkwardly, and let his arms fall to his side. “You look well.” Too late she recalled that she should have. He was to have been her husband. In fact, as far as he was concerned, he still expected to be.
“So do you. What brings you to Sheninglas?” she asked as politely as she could. She knew the answer, of course, but preferred to hear it from his lips.
“You do, of course.” He laughed, or at least began to. Nerves quickly stifled the sound. “But I see that our fears were unfounded. Gilliad claimed you were taken and brought here against your will.”
“Rescued might be a more accurate word.”
He almost flinched and his gaze slid to Indarin, standing to her right. “Is this…?”
“No. Indarin is Shan’s brother. Shan is on a mission with the Sect Mother at the moment. Indarin is teaching me the ways of the Shistra-Phail. I suppose Gilliad has spread some wild tales.”
“Some, indeed. Will you sit and talk?” He gestured towards the two chairs. “I came to help you, but it seems I am to bring news instead. River Holt needs you, Jeren. If I am not mistaken, all the Holts do. Elayne, will you fetch the papers? And perhaps request some refreshments for our guests.”
The armoured woman nodded and moved away, surprisingly graceful for her frame and attire. But Jeren caught a hostile glare directed right at her before the woman vanished.
When she had left the pavilion Jeren was surprised to see Vertigern smile.
“Most people find her…somewhat unusual,” he said at last. “But I think she envies you your place with the Feyna.”
She did? Jeren was pretty sure she wouldn’t if she knew the reality of it. And the hostility had seemed sharper, far more personal. “Who is she?”
“Elayne of Erendos. She’s my finest bodyguard.”
Jeren raised her eyebrows. “Don’t your peers have anything to say about you being protected by a mere woman?”
Vertigern laughed, a deep-throated and pleasant sound which reminded her too sharply of Shan. His laugh, when it came, made her heart tremble with unexpected familiarity.
“Not twice, anyway.”
And suddenly she found herself laughing too, as if some shell of tension which had built up around her cracked and fell to pieces.
Before she could say another word, however, noise of a scuffle outside had their heads turning towards the door. A man pushed his way inside, another warrior born, bred and trained, his eyes blazing emerald in the dim light, deftly avoiding those guards who tried to stop him.
Jeren surged to her feet, reaching to her waist for a knife, but Indarin was already there. Fluid as a shadow, he stepped between her and this attacker, his sect knife gleaming in his hands.
The tent erupted in chaos—Vertigern yelling orders, the guards rushing forward, the Feyna warriors armed and silent in her defence. But it was Lara who barrelled into the intruder, bringing him down in a tangle. She rose above him, swift and deadly, one hand pinning his to the ground, the other pinched on his throat. He choked out a cry. No knife, no weapon at all. Other than Lara herself.
“Jeren, it’s me. Please.”
She knew the voice at once.
Torvin? Torvin Roh? How was this possible?
“Let him go,” she gasped, pushing past Indarin’s guard. Lara looked up suspiciously, but released him. She stood slowly, never taking her eyes off him as he rose, brushing down his clothes and trying to regain some semblance of dignity.
Jeren stared, her mouth hanging open. Torvin Roh, Mina’s nephew, the closest thing Jeren had to a childhood friend. They’d spent summers together—Jeren, Gilliad and Torvin—under Mina’s watchful eye.
In a second she didn’t care about decorum or appearances, she didn’t give a damn what anyone thought—not the Holters nor the Shistra-Phail. She threw herself into Torvin’s arms and he held her close.
“What are you doing here? What on earth are you doing here?” she babbled.