There, three people awaited her. Skyve, standing tall, poised and proper, black eyes scrutinizing everything, just like the previous day. An intimidating man of even darker, more intent features than Skyve’s, whose passive frown became more of a scowl when he saw her. And a small woman, with a blank stare. She was wearing cosmetics, something Talea had only seen on the Vissler ladies, but the dark powder on her eyelids was smudged, adding to her flagging appearance.
Skyve’s parents. Mr. Lagat with his stern, permanent glare, Mrs. Lagat with the far-off, glassy look. Talea wished she could melt into the floor. She’d prefer to be in a cramped, dim haliop with dirt floors, among people of her own sort, than in these grand surroundings with people that looked at her as if she were a foreigner.
It was Mr. Lagat that finally spoke, hardly in a way that eased the tension. “You didn’t say she was a laborer.”
Talea’s cheeks flushed.
Skyve, to his credit, smoothed matters as best he could. “Father, please, you mustn’t be so rude. Talea was born among the lower class, and may be dressing the part now, but she is not a laborer. In Calcaria, she is one of the highest ranking among the San Quawr.” He shot her a look that said she’d better fill the exaggerated picture he’d just painted of her.
If the frigid formality was a result of their class, Talea decided she was happy to miss out on all the luxuries. Middle class, perhaps, was the best of both worlds. Not starving but not so…uppity. Taking a deep breath, she thought of the way Grrake spoke, with his refinement and courtesy common to the Sanonyans, and did her best to imitate it. “I am sorry to be interrupting you in these circumstances, I know it’s all rather peculiar.”
The man’s cynical air lessened, even if none of his general hardness did. “I see. Where are these Wardens, then?”
Oh, curse her laborer’s dress, soaked hair, and simple looks. She knew it would take an elegant gown like Mrs. Lagat wore and flawlessly styled hair to truly convince them she was anything more than a peasant. Not that I am anything more. “They are waiting in the forest half a mile outside the city. We can go there, if you wish.”
Mr. Lagat’s frown deepened. “Walk out to the woods to meet them as if we were criminals exchanging stolen goods? Why do they not come here? They would be welcome,” he added, with the slightest of nods to Talea. Probably the extent of the kindness she would receive from him.
“In this weather?” was Mrs. Lagat’s only reply. Her face was that of a woman aged beyond her years, tired, lined with worry, her eyes still holding that dazed quality.
Skyve’s own black eyes sparked with irritation and impatience, but his voice remained as cool as ever. “As San Quawr and rebels toward Kaydor’s imposed rule, coming into public is dangerous for them. It would be better to meet out of sight of prying eyes.”
“Very well.” Mr. Lagat fetched a coat for himself and a cloak for his wife. “We’ll take the carriage to the outskirts of the city, and walk from there.”
The carriage ride wasn’t much better than the celith ride with the Wardens had been. At least there was some conversation—Mr. Lagat sporadically interrogated Talea, though he already knew a great deal about the situation, since Skyve had told them of his abilities years ago and since then of his various speculations, and then had conveyed to them everything she had told him.
There was also the matter of the weather. The rain had turned to snow, which perhaps would have been better, except she was already soaked. Even in the carriage she couldn’t keep from shivering. When they got out to walk the rest of the way, her teeth were chattering, fingers and toes quickly growing numb.
By the time they reached the Wardens, she didn’t have any more interaction in her. Leaving Resh to greet the Lagats, she went straight to Lenjeya, slipping her aching hands between the saddle blanket and the mare’s warm hide. Her whole body shook with another chill, a slight breeze biting at the exposed skin of her face and neck.
Yhkon had left the group and was approaching her. Hesitantly, stopping every few paces, but still approaching. Dealing with him sounded about as pleasant as an ice bath.
She made eye contact, held it for just a moment, then purposely moved to Lenjeya’s other side, putting the celith between them.
He took the hint. Retreating back to the Lagats and Wardens, he said something to Grrake, then reentered the discussion, while Grrake joined her instead.
“Your clothes are damp.” He pinched her sleeve, giving her a sympathetic frown. “No wonder you’re cold. Here,” he dug around in his saddlebags, pulling out a cloak and draping it around her shoulders. It was far too big for her, considering Grrake’s size compared to hers, but it was warm. “Can I see your hands?”
Talea reluctantly removed them from under the saddle blanket. Grrake took them in his own hands and rubbed them back and forth briskly, the friction easing some of the chill. “There you go, now put them back under.” When she had thanked him and done so, he turned partially to look at the Lagats, Yhkon, and Resh. “How did it go?”
“Alright, I guess.” She let her eyes drift shut, for just a moment, a sudden tiredness weighting every muscle in her body. If only she could be home, sitting on grass that sparkled with dew, enjoying the sunshine on a summer morning, listening to birds sing. Or curled up on the old sofa in their haliop, reading a book, talking with her mother. Even rushing about the tiny kitchen preparing a meager meal, to be eaten with her family all at the table. Together.
She cleared her throat. “They’re not the most friendly people, especially to lower class.”
Grrake’s condoling frown returned. “I think they are kinder than they appear, but it’s difficult to look past their arrogance and disdain for those they consider to be beneath them. I’m sorry you had to see it.”
Oh, what of it? She could deal with haughty upper class turning their noses up at her much easier than contempt and cruelty from someone that was supposed to be her friend and mentor. So what if Skyve’s parents thought her no better than a stray dog. It was Yhkon’s enmity she couldn’t stand.
And as far as she could tell, unless something drastically changed, she would have to stand it for some time to come.
14
Arrows
A sigh escaped Kaydor’s lips as he drummed his fingers against his temple. “I think I must be missing something here. You had the man, tied and guarded. You were in the middle of torturing him for information. And he just…got away?”
Dejer’s discomfort was tangible, even if he had more pride than the average soldier and kept his fear in check. “It was hardly that simple, but…yes. He’s remarkably skilled, even if he is just an arrogant boy, and I can’t exactly say that about most of the men in that lance.”
Arrogant boy. No, unfortunately, there was nothing about him that was boyish or brazen, even if he was young. It was difficult to even blame Dejer for his escape, when Kaydor knew from personal experience how hard to beat the kid was. “Well. Did you get anything from him, for your efforts?”
“Only his name: Yhkon Tavker.”
So that was the name of the boy, now a man, that in a way had haunted Kaydor for fifteen years. “Yhkon Tavker. I would demote you for such a failure, except I know for myself that the man is cunning.” He rose slowly, hand lingering on the arm of his throne for a moment. “Instead I intend to give you all the resources you need to bring him and his companions before me in shackles. But if you fail me this time, I will hardly be so forgiving.”