The Other Lands (14 page)

Dariel took a half step to the side, not trusting the man’s self-assessment.

The councillor sputtered a moment before finding his voice again. “Who—who can explain another’s fears?”

“My sister can,” Dariel said wryly. “Or at least she knows how to exploit people’s fears.” He checked himself and said no more. Why had he even said that? Rialus was still Corinn’s trained weasel, likely making notes of any slight uttered about her, even by her brother.

Dariel excused himself. He drifted away without a precise notion of where to go. He knew there were many eyes on him. Ishtat Inspectorate officers stood at silent attention at regular intervals around the deck. Sailors glanced at him as they prepared the ship for departure. A small group of leaguemen stopped their conversation with a pilot and watched him with their expressionless faces. Some even looked down—archers who sat guard in baskets atop the masts.

Dariel would be watched every minute he was aboard. So he would try to get used to it, to ignore it. He could not help taking in the details of the ship, and nobody had yet told him not to. He ran his hand along the railing, feeling the strange yet graspable texture of the white coating. It slid beneath his fingers when he moved them, but with the slightest pressure the stuff gripped his skin. The surface was not entirely easy to walk on, and—noting that many of the crewmen went barefoot—he decided that helped them keep their footing better than shoes. He imagined that water, on the other hand, must slip along the ship’s hull without the slightest friction. This ship must be fast, indeed; and it must cut the water with such stealth that the waves might barely note its passing.

It took him a moment to notice the hush, but when he did, he looked up and around. The ship had gone quiet. The workers all paused. The group of leaguemen rushed forward on silent feet and lined the railing. Rialus still stood a way off, his eyes fixed on the docks. Following his gaze, Dariel picked out the only spot of motion among the suddenly stilled throng.

Sire Neen. He was perched in a small chair, an awkward-looking metal contraption in which he sat with his arms draped on the armrests, his chin raised and his eyes above the crowd. Two men bore his weight, one before and one behind him. They were slender but tightly muscled, with haughty looks on their faces. The crowd had parted to let them through. Most stood with their heads downturned. Strange, Dariel thought, but they were league employees. This whole section of the docks was a different world. In it, it seemed, sires were met with, well, with a good deal more deference than a prince!

Not for the first time, Dariel wondered if Corinn had truly ensured his safety. She must have, of course. He was no longer a brigand; the league was no longer allied to an enemy. What’s past is past, Corinn had said. In war, crimes are done that must be forgiven during peace. That was simply the way of war and peace. As he watched Sire Neen stand and slowly ascend the gangplank, Dariel hoped the leagueman subscribed to the same doctrine.

C
orinn had been having the dream for weeks now, long enough that she had begun to fear it would torment her forever. It was always the same. It always trapped her in the same manner, with roughly the same progression of events, the same dreadful realizations.

It began pleasantly enough. Aliver had returned! The palace buzzed with the news of it. He had appeared alive and unscathed. He was ready to help Corinn rule the empire. Her waking mind would have balked at this for many reasons, but her dream self embraced it. Nothing seemed more wonderful than to have Aliver home and let him take burdens from her. She knew that he would forgive her for some things and praise her for others. Together, they would have the power to achieve a truly magnificent rule for everyone.

She thought all these things as she dashed through the halls and across the plazas and up the flights of stairs to reach him. Along the way she diverged into other stories, conversations, travails. She changed her cream dress for her red, or her green for one of purple velvet. These varied from dream to dream, but eventually she walked the final length of hallway, wearing a simple wrap that left one of her breasts bare in the Bethuni manner. She stepped into the room and saw a figure sitting with his back to her. She called his name without speaking, and the man rose and … it was not Aliver! The figure that stood and turned toward her was a lean man, golden haired, dressed in a black thalba and snug-fitting trousers. His eyes were an incredible gray, glinting like molten silver, no eyes of a human being and yet they were his. Hanish Mein’s.

She realized that his lips had been sewn shut on her orders. And she knew that before the needle and thread pulled them tight she had ordered that a ball of twisted fishhooks be placed in his mouth, a rusty mess of a thing. She had wanted him to struggle not to swallow it, knowing that he would eventually have to and that it would rip a bloody path through his insides when he did. She had wanted him to suffer. The idea seemed horrific now. How could she ever have wanted that? At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to throw herself into his arms and forgive him everything.

Though Hanish’s face was tranquil as he gazed at her, she ran toward him, thinking to cut the thread, pry his mouth open, and lift out the barbed metal. Her feet would not move her forward. She ran, but the space between them did not lessen. And then she realized the final, dreadful thing. The person was not Hanish either. It was Aaden, and he was clutching his throat as the barbs pierced through and blood gushed. The sight of it, the horror of it, was too much to bear.

She awoke thrashing, alone and tangled in the sheets of her massive bed. For a few seconds she struggled to escape the horror that clung to her, afraid that this time it would not let her go. It always did, though, and then she curled on her side, pulled her legs tight to her chest, and cried. It was a nightly torture she faced alone. She took no one to bed with her—had not done so since the night she awoke beside Hanish Mein and heard him speaking with his long-dead ancestors, promising them her life for their sakes. It was a wonder that she managed to sleep at all.

She made sure all signs of the dream and those raw memories were gone by the time she called her maidens and began her day. Indeed, she hardened herself against whatever hidden import the dream suggested and showed the world a face of utter certainty. That’s what a queen was supposed to do. What a mother was supposed to do. She told herself that she was stronger for it. Perhaps she was.

T
he longbow is a royal weapon,” Corinn said. She nocked an arrow and pinned the shaft to the bow with the crook of her finger. Aaden stood besider her, the two of them behind a marker set out to measure the distance to a target the servants had set up in the grassy area of one of the upper terraces. It was mid-morning on a clear day, the breeze intermittent and gentle, the dream tucked away for the time being.

“I know you like your sword craft, and that’s fine. A king, though, rarely fights among the throng. He must know how to take a wider view, to see the entire horizon and all the players. Understand? In the thick of a battlefield you can’t see beyond the ranks of soldiers surrounding you. Like that you are vulnerable, as was my brother.” She pointed the weapon high into the air, straightened her bow arm, and brought it down to sight, drawing the bowstring back to her cheek as she did so. “You, Aaden, will never be vulnerable in that way.”

She opened her fingers. The bow thrummed and the arrow vanished. It was in her hand one moment; then it was gone, only to announce itself the next instant. It stuck fast in the yellow central circle of the wooden target, two finger’s breadths away from the ruby heart that marked the exact center.

“You never miss!” Aaden cried. He danced about. “I’d like to see you miss just once. Can you? Just miss once for me. See if you can do it!”

Corinn spoke through a smile. “Don’t be foolish. Why would I ever miss what I can hit?”

“To make me feel better.”

“That would be a reason, if it worked. But it wouldn’t make you feel better, would it? What would, would be if you hit still closer to the jewel. Try now.”

Aaden did as instructed, though he took his time about it. He selected an arrow with deliberation, holding it up before him to gauge its straightness and balance. He ran his fingertips over the fletching, touched the arrow’s shaft to his yew bow, and fit the bowstring to the nock. Corinn heard one of the watching servants whisper something to another. Likely, they were commenting on the prince’s fastidiousness. She had trained it into him from the start, enough so that he did not seem to conceive of archery without each step of slow preparation. When he finally bent the bow, he strained to hold it still against the draw weight.

“Limit the world,” Corinn said. “See the heart. Feel the connection between you and it. Find that. You are not aiming at a distant target. You are laying the arrow on the path already created for it.”

His arrow flew, but Corinn knew from the first instant that it was off course. It hit the lower corner of the target at an angle. It twisted and hung limply.

The boy twirled away in childish, smiling exasperation. “What happened? I was looking right at it!”

“You found the wrong path, Aaden.” She let that sit for a moment, and then added, “You weren’t still when you released. Your arm was swaying. Here, let me show you again.”

She fell into instruction, happy with the way Aaden listened, the way he tried to understand her notion of paths. He was earnest in this, even though he did not seem particularly talented as an archer. Watching his form and posture, she tried to remember how skilled she had been at his age, but could not. As far as she could recall she had always known how to see the path to her targets. It had always been there, and, as long as she waited until she found it, she did not miss. When she found it and released, she was as sure of her aim as if the arrow were zipping through a pipe suspended in the air. But when had that begun? She had reached for memories from her childhood, but she never really went further back than the afternoon she first shot targets with Hanish Mein at Calfa Ven. She must have learned her skills before that, though. She was a young lady by then, not a child. She already had many pains behind her and—

Aaden interrupted her thoughts. “Next time can Devlyn and others shoot with us?”

“Devlyn?”

“He is a good shot, best in his grouping.”

“Devlyn.” She had heard the name on Aaden’s lips several times now. Devlyn. He was from a new Agnate family, she believed. Mainlanders. She would have to look into his ancestry. He might barely be of the upper class at all, considering how many new links the recorders had found to allow previously common families into the aristocracy. Such was the unfortunate necessity since the two wars and Hanish’s purges had all but destroyed the old families. It was not the boy’s credentials that interested her, though. Rather, it was the tone of admiration in Aaden’s voice whenever he mentioned him. She would need to determine whether or not this was a good thing.

“We could have an archery day with them,” he continued, “like a small tourney, but just my friends and me. Somebody else might win, but I don’t care. It’s just for fun. Can we?”

“We’ll see,” Corinn said. “You know, Aaden, that you are not the same as your friends. You will one day have this empire to rule.”

“I know. That is why I should have friends. Companions! Devlyn could be my chancellor. He already said he would be if I asked him.”

As the boy was busy setting another arrow, Corinn let her face betray a moment of displeasure. It was gone before he looked up again. “I’ll have to meet this Devlyn. It would be a fine thing for you to have companions, but the truth is that when I’m gone you’ll have nobody but yourself to rely on. Nobody else—certainly not Devlyn—will have to carry the burden of rule as you do. Understand that?”

“There’s Mena and Dariel,” he said, before bending his bow.

“Yes, of course.”

But you may not always have them to rely on, she thought. They may fail us. They may oppose us one day. It felt cold to think this, and at first she thought she would say nothing about it. But seeing the concentration wrinkling his brow as he shot, and watching his gray eyes study the results, she felt inclined to push him a little further. His arrow had struck at the edge of the center circle. “That was a fine shot. Let’s leave it there for now. Come sit with me.”

Aaden reluctantly obliged. The two sat side by side on a stone bench at the edge of the terrace. The balustrade was low, allowing a view out over the sea to the island’s west. The nearer waters were dotted with rocky islands that seemed to sink farther and farther as the sea deepened from turquoise to a darker hue. Aaden set his hands in his lap, his knees bouncing with the balls of his feet. He waited, and Corinn, remembering the chattering cacophony that so many children make, was proud again of the son she was raising. A servant brought them two glasses of the berry drink Aaden liked, and then retreated out of earshot.

“I know you are still a boy,” Corinn began, “but I have to prepare you for what your future holds. Better you know it now than learn it later. Nobody, not even my siblings, are as important to this nation as you are. You may love them dearly, as do I, but they both have flaws in their characters that you must never let weaken you. Mena is gifted and fierce, but she’s afraid of her nature. Her true self is as savage and focused as an eagle. To her enemies she falls like a bolt from the sky, yes? You’ve heard the tales they tell of her. Her foes can’t touch her. She pins them to the ground and rips out their hearts. As she should.” She took a sip of the juice. Its tartness puckered her lips. “If that was all there was to Mena’s nature, she would be an even better weapon than she already is. She should be all and only an eagle, but there is a dove within her as well. While her beak is carving through her victim’s flesh, she starts to cry because of what she’s doing. That’s a mistake. I would never allow you to be so conflicted. So don’t be.”