“She was her mother's only daughter,” he said. “When we were children, she wanted to run away from the Viere to a farm in the south.”
The absurdity of the thought surprised a laugh out of Ariadel, and he smiled. “A farm?” she repeated, incredulous. “Ruby?”
“She had a fascination with growing vegetables and animals,” he said. “When you live a life on ship, they do seem rather magical.” Her childhood laughter flooded his mind in a memory, and his smile turned rueful. “I'm not sure she ever told anyone else about that. We are all called by our destinies.”
“That's all very well,” she said crossly. “But if Ruby isn't it, things don't look so good for me.” Bravery gave her words their sharp lightness, but Vidarian could hear the fear beneath, even while truth swept him like an ocean wind.
“It was the Quest,” he whispered, dread and grief and certainty seeping through him again at the thought of the ship, now a pile of ash and ruin in the harbor. “My fine lady.” The tide that swept him carried despair with it, a kind he had never known in his life. There was no doubt in his mind what the prophesy meant, nor that it was true-as disgusted as he was by the concept of prophesy in general.
Ariadel snorted wetly, but she wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly for a long moment that said she understood. Vidarian leaned into her strength, just for that moment. “A ship,” she whispered back finally, then ran her fingers through his hair before bringing a hand down to gently trace his cheek. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
The next morning, Endera hosted them at a breakfast in the city. A sumptuous spread of delicacies prepared by one of the finest chefs in Val Harlon lay between them, but no one moved to touch the food.
“I wish for peace between us,” Endera began, when it became clear that no pretense would be tolerated. “And you cannot deny your need for assistance, even now. Would you turn away an ally?”
Vidarian stiffened at the echo of his own words to An'du, wondering, for a scant moment, how far Endera's reach truly was. But there was no knowing sharpness in her eyes; it was coincidence only. “I have allies.”
“Incomplete ones, as you well know,” Endera replied relentlessly. “I am no weak meddler, Vidarian, to pull your strings, but you must understand your importance. And you must understand what I will do to protect the world that I know.”
“Do you truly think you know this world, Endera?”
“Never in its totality. But more than most.” At this she reached for an arrangement of artfully sliced fruit, but she only moved it to a plate. She leaned forward slightly. “You have no quarrel with me. I set you on this path, but it unlocked a potential that was not only latent but inevitable in you.”
“You destroyed my ship.” He kept a tight rein on his temper, but the words threatened to pull fire from his veins.
“You know my sorrow for that is great,” Endera said, and Vidarian was surprised by the genuine weariness in her voice. “As well as for Ruby's injury. I know that neither of these are reconcilable. Yet you also know that they were unintended.”
“How is it not intent, when you lure me repeatedly into the hands of madwomen?”
“They are what you have always been told,” she said, and his blood boiled anew. “Wielders of a new and dangerous form of magic, a hybrid of energies not seen for thousands of years.”
“And you thought you could control them.”
“Not control,” she corrected. “Open channels to. Understand, perhaps. But all this is now quite thoroughly moot. I knew them, once. But the women you killed were none that I knew.”
Vidarian could not quite suppress a shiver as his memory of the blonde priestess's death shadowed his mind.
“And speaking of moot,” she continued, a sharpness creeping back into her voice. “So too is your pretense for rejecting my offer. I have something you need.” She reached into the pouch at her side, and released onto the table two stones identical to the sun emeralds save for their vivid red hue. They glowed even more than the emeralds had, shining like tiny suns beside the silver platters of pastry and fruit.
“Horses,” Ariadel said, and Vidarian looked up in surprise. “The priestesshood has them, and it's the least you can do to ease our journey.”
Endera bridled at Ariadel's tone, but she only stared at her younger colleague for a long moment; sensing, Vidarian knew, as he did, the completeness of the bridge burned between them, and Ariadel's still raw sense of betrayal. “Horses,” she agreed. “Two.”
“Three,” Ariadel corrected. “Mountain breeds. And three verali. All awaiting us at the Invesh Pass.”
“For peace,” Endera said, extending her hand across the table. “And what advice-I will not say guidance-the fire priestesshood may provide you.”
Vidarian watched her for a long moment, then turned to Ariadel, who inclined her head. He took Endera's hand, and she exhaled as they touched, a vulnerable relief in her eyes. In that moment she seemed aged far beyond her already long years. When she released her grip, she set his hand down atop the sun rubies, which flared with warmth to his touch.
The thrum in the pouch at his side was the response of the storm sapphires, and his mental grip tightened around them. They subsided only after several moments of resistance.
“Do you know, Vidarian, which path you will take, at the gate?” Endera asked. The look Ariadel gave her at these words was another blend of anger and surprise.
“With respect, and peace,” Vidarian said carefully, looking up from the stones only when he was sure of his control over them, “I can't take your advice on that any longer. My counsel is my own.”
O n their fifth day in Val Harlon, Vidarian and Ariadel woke in good spirits. Ruby was at last showing signs of mending, and of a return to her old self. Being in one place for more than two days straight had settled Vidarian's mind, which over the last several weeks had grown nervous and brittle. Anise, whether summoned by Marwen or her own intuition, visited him often at Ruby's bedside. The mind, she said, could not be healed as could the flesh, but it could be shaped in one direction or another.
They stepped into the morning sunlight under a clear sky that gave credence to their enlivened spirits. Ariadel insisted that they detour through the west end market before making their way to the hospital-Ruby should be feeling well enough for a more substantial breakfast than the nutritious but flavorless fare insisted upon by the healers.
Val Harlon's famous west end market was a riot of colors, sounds, and aromas. Fruit vendors plied passersby with sliced delicacies in an impossible array of colors, while bakers and tenders of traveling carts of meat pies needed to rely only on the wafting rich scents of freshly baked bread and savory sauces that drew custom straight to them.
One particularly busy purveyor of mushroom and venison pastries tempted them, but they resisted, gathering up a modest basket of cinnamon buns, white melon, royal tangerines, and fresh kava sealed hot in a porcelain jar. Vidarian, who had sampled kava from the far southern continent alongside the strange kava-strength teas of the Qui Empire, had to admit that Val Harlon's distinct variety of the peppery and potent kava bark was among the best in the world, smooth and palatable to even the most finicky of connoisseurs.
While they were haggling over a tiny burlap sack of cinnamon sugar, an ornate carriage pulled by a huge black gelding rattled over the cobbles alongside them. The horse caught Vidarian's attention first: he was huge, and had a faint iridescence to his coat and a canniness of eye that brought to mind the winged steeds of the Alorean Sky Knights, protectors of the emperor. Surely no mere merchant, however wealthy, could boast an animal descended from that rare and coveted lineage, but the likeness was striking.
An elaborately coiffed head appeared from the window of the carriage, and as soon as Ariadel had handed over a pair of coins for the sugar, a slim white hand followed it and beckoned them closer. “Sir, madam, if I may have a moment?”
Vidarian and Ariadel approached the carriage cautiously. Carts and wheelbarrows flowed around it, their operators grumbling under their breath but none daring to challenge the vehicle that blocked their way. Val Harloners were rarely so given to politeness, and it prickled the back of Vidarian's neck to see it.
The woman inside the carriage, her grey eyes hawk-sharp, was dressed to match both carriage and coiffure, in expensive black brocade with silver piping. Her precise smile conveyed her relief at speaking equal-to-equal in the market's morass of banality. “Lord Tesseract,” she began, and was on to the next before Vidarian could correct her, “I am Oneira Ehrenfar. I represent the Fourth Mercantile, and speak also on behalf of the greater Alorean Greater Import Company. The senior partner in Val Harlon wishes to extend an invitation to you both,” she nodded to Ariadel, and Vidarian didn't like the superior way she assumed Vidarian's prominence between the two of them.
Fourth Mercantile. Alorean Greater Imports. Vidarian flexed his diplomatic muscles, attempting to hide his distaste. “Certainly the desires of such a friend to the empire are of great interest to us,” he said, pitching his tone carefully flat to convey his own superiority, even as he hated doing so, “and we would be glad to arrange a meeting at the partner's convenient time.”
“Now, actually, is quite his convenience.” Her eyes lost no sharpness, making no concession for the abruptness of the request-which should have been embarrassing. Dangerous territory.
Vidarian worked again to stifle his irritation. “We are just now en route to visit a good friend in hospital. Surely the Company's business is not so desperately urgent?”
“All business is urgent,” Oneira replied, “the Company's more so, for those who make real decisions, as I'm sure you understand, Lord Tesseract. Your friend, ‘Queen’ Roana,” her mild disgust at Ruby's title danced a careful edge of offense, “surely requires her rest. I can arrange to deliver your gifts, and perhaps you could call on her this afternoon, after our conversation? The senior partner is a busy man.”
Even without his ship-as the Company surely knew-Vidarian had too many friends and allies at the mercy of the Company's controls over ports and harbors to risk their ire unnecessarily.
“We will be glad to take you up on your kind offer, then.” He sighed.
“Excellent,” Oneira said, and rapped on the roof of the carriage. When a footman scrambled down the polished brass ladder at the aft side of the vehicle, she waved him to take the basket from Vidarian and gave instructions on where to take it, including the building and room where Ruby was housed, without prompting. She smiled, looking down into the basket, adding, “and do pick up a few delicacies on our behalf. Salted morels, marmalade, and olive tapenade from Bertram's.” Vidarian calculated as the footman bowed and took his leave; the quality and price of the additions were both a show of power (as well a reprimand of Vidarian's taste in gifts, if he wanted one) and a bribe. He fumed behind the bared teeth of a gracious smile, and they mounted up at her invitation into the carriage.
The inside of the carriage was as ornate as its exterior, gleaming with oiled leather and polished brass. Another rap on the roof from their erstwhile hostess, and they were on their way. Being beholden to wheels, their conveyance was no smooth sail, but some mechanism involving oiled springs made it the gentlest carriage ride Vidarian had ever experienced.
He was unsurprised when they turned toward Val Harlon's wealthiest Point Ista district, but he did lift an eyebrow when they turned up a long drive flanked by mounted guards. Three more checkpoints were between them and their destination, as it turned out; any escape would be with their host's cooperation, it would seem.
They stepped down from the carriage onto tightly fitted paving stones that marked a circle around exquisitely manicured gardens of perfectly clipped green and blue grass. The manor itself was, for its splendor, certainly over a century old, of the antique colonnaded type, but upgraded with modern brass lanterns and window-fittings. When they were shown into the foyer, Vidarian took a deep breath, expecting a long wait, but their abductor led them directly up an imposing grand staircase of white marble.
At the end of a long carpeted hallway at the top of the stairs was a heavily carved pair of mahogany doors attended by precisely uniformed guards in red wool and glittering brass buttons. The polish hid a functional edge-a familiar wear on chain-wrapped sword hilts, coats cut for movement as well as aesthetic, precise-fit vambraces. The guards recognized Oneira and opened the door for her immediately; Vidarian moved her status upward in his loose estimate.
The senior partner sat behind a massive desk flanked by ceiling-high windows and velvet curtains all intended to cast both light and awe upon whomever entered through the mahogany doors. Bright eastern sunlight cast the partner as a silhouette, but as their eyes adjusted, he revealed himself to be eerily identical to the few other Alorean Import partners Vidarian had ever met. Cosmetic differences aside-he had black hair and blue eyes, unlike the others-all of the so-called merchant princes of the Company had the same uncanny features, flawless and vibrant youth with none of its innocence, purchased duly from those healers who cared more for coin than mending. There was no telling how old this particular company man was, though to achieve the rank of senior partner his years numbered almost certainly over three hundred.
And whatever their status, they didn't rate the partner standing up to greet them. Oneira waved them to a pair of brocade-cushioned chairs worked with gold leaf where they weren't covered with imported silk. And possibly, Vidarian thought sourly, beneath where they were. He walked Ariadel to her seat and bowed over her hand when she was seated, brushing his lips across her fingers with just enough impropriety to tease a disapproving frown out of their host. Be damned if he wasn't going to get some satisfaction out of this.