Across the Long Sea (3 page)

“That'll be the magus in you.” The man studied the yellow gem on Mal's finger with undisguised interest. “Word o' advice, my lord?”

“Always appreciated.”

The front door blew open, Liam stumbling in on a gust of wind. The innkeep glanced up, regarded the lad for a long moment, then shook his head.

“Shed your leather before you travel on, my lord,” the man said. “And yon fancy livery. Whitcomb well loves Wilhaiim; it's the king's coin tends our vineyards. Not so the sea lords, who risk their lads and lasses to the depths while flatlanders grow rich off import and export.”

Mal cocked his brows. “It's said inland no man's as prosperous as a sea lord with two good ships.”

The innkeep dried a second tankard, and poured out wine. Liam accepted the drink eagerly.

“Many seaward might argue the gold's not worth the cost. And unless you want to address those arguments personally, best shed your uniforms. My lord.”

“Thank you,” Mal said, and meant it.

T
HEY
SLEPT
THE
night on mattresses of dried sea grass, beneath the inn's very eaves, close to the moaning winds. The sea grass smelled sweet and salty at the same time. Mal lay on his back and watched darkness fall between the cracks in the peaked roof. Liam curled on his side like a babe, hair in a tangle across his face.

“Do you remember, my lord?” he wondered. “What it was like to grow up by the sea?”

“Aye. I told you. Cold.”

“Did you swim?”

“When I was a babe, aye. But as I grew to youth—­the roll of the waves made me sick.” He'd forgotten that, until the innkeep's casual diagnosis:
it's the magus in you
. The sound of the water crashing against rock had soothed, but the sight of the foam and rush turned his gut sour. Siobahn had teased him mercilessly; she'd been quick as a fish beneath the waves.

“Are there finned monsters?” Liam wondered, hitting uncannily close against Mal's own musings. “Serpents and sting-­snails?”

Mal put his hands behind his head. Between the slats of the roof he caught the twinkle of faraway stars.

“Barrowmen and sea serpents, both in one day, Liam? You've a great imagination, lad.”

“Better cautious than a serpent's snack, my lord.”

“Indeed,” Mal said, dry. “You've more to fear of Lady Selkirk than serpents and snails. She doesn't much approve of loud and grubby lads.”

“That sort, is she?” Liam snorted. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but I'm beginning to pity the dull stripling you must ‘ave been. At least the Widow didn't worrit herself over the dirt behind my ears.”

“Worry,” Mal corrected automatically, smiling.

“Worry,” Liam repeated, then sighed. “Good night, my lord.”

T
HE
RISI
NG
SUN
through the slatted roof woke Mal. He groaned and stirred, rolling onto his face in his bedding. The perfume of sweet grass brought to mind spring harvest and calluses on palms and fingers. He'd been particularly adept at uprooting the long grass from sandy shore; he'd earned a silver coin from the Selkirk for every five bushels gathered.

“My lord,” Liam said. “I've breakfast set. And the innkeep's delivered togs along with the wine and cheese.”

Mal sat up. Breakfast was “set” on the floorboards, cheese and fragrant brown bread sliced neatly and arranged on a triangle of linen. Not blood-­red wine this morning, but a sparkling white. Mal grunted approval.

“The cheese is good, my lord,” Liam said, licking crumbs from his thumb. In the dim light the scars on his face and neck were almost invisible. “John says they make it farther north, past the vineyards, and that the curd sits for nigh on a year.”

The boy was dressed in dun linen: drawstring trousers and an open-­necked tunic. The innkeep had a good eye, the trousers hit directly at Liam's ankles, and the tunic bagged only a little around those skinny shoulders.

“There's sandals and a cord, as well, my lord.” Liam said. “For you, too.” He jerked his chin at a neat pile on the floor alongside the jug of wine.

“Cord's a belt,” Mal explained. He tucked into the bread and cheese. His gut growled in happy reaction. “Tie it around your waist and you'll less resemble a merchant's tent.”

Liam rolled his eyes, but said nothing, and when bread and cheese and wine were eaten and drunk, the lad obediently knotted the cord at his hips. Mal dressed quickly, washing first with a rough flannel and the tepid salt water provided by their host. He was secretly pleased to exchange leather and boots for the comfort of linen and sandals. He secured his uniform in his pack; the bag bulged with the weight of heavy Hennish.

Liam laughed, delighted.

“Why, my lord,” he said, “you look a different man. Only the ring on your finger marks your office.”

Mal shook his head and swung sword and pack over his shoulder.

“Off we go,” he said. “We've still a day of riding ahead.”

T
HE
WESTMOST
E
ND
of Whitcomb butted against the sea. The wind tossed tatters of sea foam into the air. Breakers crashed against the sand, disturbing forlorn seabirds. Mal inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of salt and wet. Liam stared, mouth agape.

“It's loud,” he shouted. “Louder e'en than the wind.”

“Can be,” Mal agreed. “The sea takes its own pleasures of the land.”

“Hurts my ears!” The boy brushed tangles of hair from his eyes. “Imagine, there's those that actually want to ride aloft o'
that.
”

“It's different on a sailing ship, on the deep sea. The waves are less cliff and more hill and dale.”

“I'll take your word for it, my lord.” Liam didn't sound convinced.

The King's Highway ended with the seashore, cobbles falling away into the waves. A narrow, packed-­sand road ran north, snaking among dunes. Its twin ran directly south. There were no signs to mark the way; the roads had existed even before Whitcomb, and they'd never required explanation.

“This way,” Mal said, riding south. His gelding danced between handfuls of windblown foam. Liam's chestnut flagged its tail in disapproval.

It was early enough in the day that the west road was still busy before the heat of the afternoon set in. Groups of travelers, most on foot, passed in eddies and clumps. They sang quiet working songs as they walked, or chatted amiably. Mal heard no talk of plague or war; just a single day's ride west and the ­people of the coast had little in common with their inland brothers and sisters.

The travelers paid no attention to Mal or Liam, although a few of the men turned a curious eye at the city horses, tall and leggy, where the sea lords preferred the stocky ponies that managed to thrive off scrub and sea grass.

“Did you see the badges?” Mal asked as the sun hit the roof of the sky, and traffic on the sandy road thinned. “Do you know them?”

Liam chewed a thumbnail. He'd grown less entranced with the pounding sea on their outside flank, and was wilting in the heat.

“I recognized the Crab and the Heron,” he said. “Tabby in the kitchens fosters from Bracken, and armswoman Lane is from Seacliff.”

“Good. The Three-­Masted Ship is Knotcreek, the Rose is Selkirk, and the Oar—­”

“—­is Black Abbey.” Liam snapped his fingers. “I remember that one, because that's where Avani came ashore, and she used to tell me of the great oared canoes and the stern theist priests in Abbey. They gave her goose pimples with their chanting and moaning, like.” The boy shuddered in sympathy. “But why the Rose, my lord?”

“You'll see soon enough,” Mal promised. “Lords and Ladies?”

“Selkirk: Lord Richard and his lady, Maria, my lord.” Liam's brow wrinkled over his nose as he struggled to remember. “Knotcreek is Lord Michaelmas and Lady Diana. Black Abbey is my lord Eric, while his mum still holds the title. And Bracken is held by the crown, my lord, for treason. I don't remember the intendant's name, my lord.”

“Kingsman Weatherford.”

“Aye, my lord.” The wrinkle above Liam's nose deepened. “I never heard the treason. Only about the beheading after.”

“It's a story for winter,” Mal replied. He pressed his horse forward along the empty road. “Watch, now, and tell me when you see them.”

“Which, my lord?” Liam kicked the chestnut after.

“The roses. The Selkirk roses.”

Selkirk's famous flowering vines rose out of the dunes in fingers and then ropes and finally low scrub, carpeting the sand from road to sea. Thorns longer than a man's thumb glistened in the sea spray. Pink spring buds, unfurled, bobbed heavily from twining branches. The low-­lying hedge thinned at the waterline, leaves and vine yellowed by the salt water, but a few young fingerlings rolled in the waves.

“There.” Mal pointed. “Do you see it? The keep.”

It rose out of the sand like another thorn, wrapped in green vine. The graystone battlements were similarly festooned.

“The oldest plantings bristle with thorns long and sharp as my sword.” Mal turned his gelding from the main rode and onto a path. The animal's hooves crunched on shell, the white oyster used to line Selkirk's byways and bailey and hold the sand down.

“Is it in the very sea?” Liam asked.

“On a peninsula. Come. We'll have been recognized by now. The bell will be ringing.” Mal clucked his mount into a gallop.

“Recognized, my lord?” Liam shouted, cantering after. “There's no one about.”

Bent low against the wind and salt, Mal hid a smile in his horse's flying mane.

“Use your eyes, lad!” he called back. “Observation is a fighting man's first line of defense.”

 

Chapter Two

L
IAM
WORKED
IT
out before they reached the outer gate.

“Sentries, my lord,” he panted, pulling the mount to a trot alongside Mal's gelding. “Hidden in the roses. Little shelters, man-­built caves, all grown over like, and hidden.”

“Good. How did you know?” Mal reined his horse to stop, and eyed the outer gate without expression. The wind blew the sound of Selkirk's bells over the wall, the waves thinned the carol to a vibration.

“Cheated a bit, my lord. You let on they was there.”

“
Were
there.”

“Were there. Aye, my lord. Thank you. Truth is, I smelled them before I saw them.”

Mal looked away from the gate. He studied his page, brows arched. “Smelled them?”

Liam nodded, pleased. “Man-­smell. Salt and iron and leather against the perfume of the flowers. You know, my lord, I know you do. I've seen you sniff about, scenting, like.”

Mal had scented the guardsmen—­three men and two women—­and noted the spoor of living human below floral tang of roses. But Mal's heightened senses were born of his magic, a magus's inheritance, part of the same prowess that allowed for visions and ghostly companions and the odd spark of green flame in his hand when temper flared or light faded. Liam was no vocent, nor likely ever to become a human mage.

“It's how I found you in the scarlet woods, my lord.” The boy sounded hesitant. “Remember?”

Mal reached across the gap between horses and slapped the lad lightly on his back, trying for a reassurance he wasn't certain he could claim himself.

“I remember. You were clever, and I was lucky to have you that day. Now”—­he dismissed Liam's concerned frown—­“watch the gate. My mam—­Lady Selkirk—­likes a show. Bit of a dramatist that way.”

The gate, one panel of stone and wood grown over with vine and flower, bronze hinges oiled against the sea air, swung outward, disgorging two sharp-­helmed men bearing the long pikes that served on the coast as both weapon and hunting tool. The guards wore leather jerkins badged with the Rose over linen trousers and tunic, and low waxed-­canvas boots instead of sandals.

They bowed as one, neat and precise, then thumped the ends of their pikes against oyster shell.

“Lord Vocent,” the taller of the two called against the wind and the depths of his helm. “Welcome home.”

Mal looked over the man's shoulder at the portcullis rising behind the gate, expecting the familiar gaggle of Lady Selkirk's attending maids, but the bailey was blessedly quiet.

“Thank you,” he said. “My mother?”

“In the temple,” the guardsman replied. Mal didn't miss the ring of disapproval in the man's voice. “Waiting upon you, my lord. Selkirk is yours now, my lord. Land and title both.”

Liam made a sound, surprise or sorrow. Mal felt neither.

“He's gone, then?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Mal could see the shine of the man's eyes past his elaborate, vine-­engraved nosepiece. Dislike was obvious in the defensive set to the guardsman's shoulders. Mal wondered if the man was long enough in ser­vice to remember the unwelcome blossom of a young magus, and the resulting fire in the tower.

“Step aside, then,” Liam said, sharp. “Let my lord home to pay his respects.”

The guardsman turned his head, regarded the boy for a long moment. Then he thumped his pike a second time, and stepped aside.

Mal had to duck his head against the half-­lifted portcullis. He was meant to dismount, he knew, and walk beneath the walls, exactly as he'd once left, a shamed and mistrusted lad sent away to foster.

He refused. The teeth of the gate whispered against his curls. Liam clattered after, swearing under his breath. The outer gate swung silently shut behind them.

The bailey was cool and still, wind blocked away by rose-­covered walls. The smithy was shrouded in black silk, and the small specials market closed and shuttered. Selkirk was in mourning.

“Pennant's still flying, my lord.” Liam pointed at the tower spire, at the Rose on blue and gold.

Mal swung out of the saddle, shells crunching beneath the soles of his sandals. He looped reins over the gelding's ears, handed them to the young lad who popped around the silk of the equally shrouded stables.

“My mam's stubborn,” Mal replied. “She'll lower the colors for naught but the king. Death is only a wrinkle in the very long history of Serranos in Selkirk, easily ironed out.”

“Yes, my lord,” Liam said doubtfully. He followed Mal up three graystone steps. The two guardsmen at the door stood proper attention as Mal approached. They bowed, then together let the door swing wide.

Mal took a deep breath of salt air. He straightened his spine, and stepped into the tower. He recognized the housecarl waiting just inside the small foyer, and summoned a smile.

“Shannon.” Mal held out a hand. “It's good to see you.”

Shannon Biaz bowed over Mal's fingers, curling his extraordinary height to Mal's slight stature, gaze lingering on yellow gem in true gold. His wide mouth curled.

“Lord Vocent,” he said. “Welcome home.” Biaz gestured, and two housemen materialized, relieving Mal and Liam of their packs. “Would you like to freshen up, my lord, or . . .?”

“Is she in the temple?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“How long?”

Biaz's brown face was wrinkled, his close-­cropped hair gray. He'd been very young for a carl when he'd been appointed to the position by Mal's father, but he'd always been very good at his job, a trusted friend and servant. It had been Biaz who'd first taught Mal the name of Selkirk's trading ships, the history of those lost and those still in ser­vice, and Biaz who'd bent a knee to his old lord and spoken quietly in Mal's defense after his older brother Rowan's death.

“Just this morning, my lord,” Biaz replied. He let go Mal's fingers. “It was quick, at the end, if unlucky. A hook-­jab gone putrid, my lord, and himself all unawares.”

Mal doubted his father had ever been unaware of anything under his roof, but he nodded. He turned to Liam, found the boy staring wide-­eyed at the tall bone candleholders clustered in artistic groupings along the wall. Flames danced in thick tallow candles, lighting flagstones and wall tapestries.

“Serpents,” Liam said, nodding at the bones. “Didn't I say, my lord?”

“Whale,” Mal corrected. “And sea cow. Biaz, this is my page. Liam, Biaz will show you to my room. Unpack and stay out of trouble. I'll find you later.”

“But, my lord,” Liam protested, scowling. “I don't think—­I mean, I'd best come along, my lord. You'll have need of me.”

“No,” Mal replied, then regretted the abrupt dismissal when Liam's face fell.

Biaz clapped Liam on the shoulder.

“Come with me, lad,” the housecarl said. “Your lord has need of comfortable rooms, a nice fire, and supper waiting when he returns. We can do that, canna we? And you'll show me how he likes his things hung and stowed.”

“Go, Liam,” Mal said, more gently. “I'll return once my duty's done.”

The wrinkle above Liam's nose smoothed. Biaz nodded, steering the boy toward the tower staircase, towing the housemen and their burdens in his wake. The housecarl glanced back once. He nodded to Mal, respectful or encouraging, then turned away.

T
HE SUN WAS
dropping again toward twilight when Mal stepped back into fresh air. Without the wind to shed the perfume, the scent of near-­blooming roses was overpowering and poignant. He'd grown up alongside the rose hedges, been pricked and bled by many a thorn. He'd helped his mother harvest the petals for rose oil, and in the fall he'd collected rosehips for the apothecary's healing teas as well as the poultice his father preferred for gout.

He stopped in to check on the horses, and was pleased and unsurprised to find the two geldings scrubbed down, put away, and happily picking through alfalfa. The bay nickered in welcome, while Liam's chestnut rolled an unfriendly eye. The boy left in charge of the horses was dozing on a straw bale, snugged tight under a horse blanket, snoring. Mal ruffled the bay's mane, then left the animals to their supper.

The bailey was little different than he remembered. The high walls stood straight and strong, braced by crawling roses. New oyster had been recently spread; the white shells were still more whole than crushed. Mal scooped a small valve from the ground, rubbing the shell between thumb and forefinger. He took the keepsake with him across the courtyard and around the tower, past the shuttered blacksmith and deserted market.

Selkirk's westmost wall broke form and reached outward toward the sea, like the stem of a harvest gourd, following the shape of the coast. The sound of wave against rock grew loud as Mal approached the west gate, and the creak and groan of tall ships anchored beyond.

Selkirk's temple clung like a mollusk against the southwest curve of the battlements, a narrow half spire of graystone bent drunkenly over the battlements, then rising yet again. The temple was cleared of vegetation, gray against green. Square, barred windows kept watch over bailey and coast.

A young priest sat on the threshold, robes pulled around bony knees. His yellow eyes widened at Mal's approach. He hopped to his feet, bowing at the waist.

“Lord Vocent,” he said. “You've come. Her ladyship's inside, my lord. In the highest chapel. You'll be well received, my lord. You've been missed.”

Mal nodded, sketched the expected sigil from breastbone to groin and shoulder to shoulder, then entered the temple. He had to stand for a heartbeat in the dim, smoky chill, waiting for his eyes to adjust to candlelight. Striped squares of twilight fell through the windows, illuminating the curving stairway that spiraled from floor to battlements. Sweet grass smoldered in a wide brazier bolted to the center of the graystone floor.

Mal conjured mage-­light. He followed the globe up the spiral stairway, purposefully scuffing his sandals against stone, knowing the light and the noise would provide his mother the warning she needed.

She stood waiting for him at the top of the spiral, framed in a single wide window. Beyond and below, Selkirk's pier crawled with seamen tending sleeping ships, stowing barrels and bundles before true dark.

“You're too late,” Lady Selkirk said. “He's gone.”

Mal gritted his teeth. The climb from bailey to high temple had never winded him as a child, but his lungs were not what they had been before the
agraine
, and he hated that he was near to panting. He hid his labored breathing behind a tight smile.

“If your priests couldn't save him, Mother, I'd be of little use. I'm sorry.”

She wasn't fooled by his sympathy, and she was quick enough to note the rise and fall of his chest, clever enough not to remark upon it, and unkind enough to let pity show on her face.

“He didn't mean to be saved,” she said. “He'd determined to die. But he wanted to see you before he passed; see the boy as a man. Recognize his lad in the king's most beloved.”

The last was said with a gentle sneer. If Mal was short and slight, Lady Selkirk was delicate as a lass; the crown of her head barely topped Mal's shoulder. She wore the seaman's uniform of trousers and tunic, and the Rose badge on her arm. A tightly knotted linen kerchief protected her dark curls from the wind; freckles and age spots on her hands and face spoke more of hard work than age.

“Mother,” Mal said, a caution. He knew very well what his family thought of his ser­vice to the flatland king; since Siobahn's death, his mother's dutiful letters were rife with pointed insinuation and disapproval. Siobahn had complained from the very beginning that Mal had given his heart to his king at the expense of his marriage bed. She'd been jealous of Renault's claim, driven to distraction by Mal's divided loyalties, and she'd filled her letters to Mal's parents with line after line of vitriol.

Still, it was much easier to feed letters to the fire, poison forgotten, than to face the same disapproval in person. He had to remind himself he was a man well grown, and not the same youth his mother had once put over her knee for nicking Cook's mince tart.

“Come and light the lantern, Malachi,” Lady Selkirk ordered, when his silence lingered. “Make yourself useful.”

She indicated the barrel-­sized glass lantern hung in front of the window. A web of thick chain held the suspended lantern immobile against wind and storm. The glass was thick as Mal's thumb, charmed generations earlier by a more knowledgeable magus, impervious to arrow, hammer, and blade.

There were six such lanterns set in temples along Renault's coastal holding. They'd been commissioned by the Virgin King's sea-­loving sire, to guard his navy against rocky shore. The magic and materials used to engender the glass marvels were long forgotten.

Lady Selkirk expected Mal to take the torch from its bracket on the wall, use the flame to light the oil already prepared by way of a hatch. Instead he tightened his smile, snapped thumb against ring finger, yellow gem sparking, and called fire to the oil. Flames leapt high behind the glass shield, loud and hungry, tinged green.

The green was a failing, evidence of his rattled emotion, but his mother didn't have to know that small secret.

“Drama,” Lady Selkirk said, sounding now more weary than angry. “Even as a lad, you never tolerated normalcy. I'd counted on your wife to soften those edges.”

“Without edges I'd be a useless weapon, Mother.” Mal folded his hands at his back, watched the planes and shadows shift across his mam's thin face. “You summoned me. I'm here. I expected to find Father laid out as proper.” He made a show of looking around the small space, cocking his brows at the stone bier, empty and cold between lantern and window. “You're vacillating, Mother.”