Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4) (71 page)

Her hand pressed against his shoulder. “I’ll go tell Lord Peysimun you’ve woken,” she said unemotionally. “It’s her place, I think, to explain what happened.”

He watched multicolored patterns flare behind his eyelids, inhaled the calming scent of ravann, and held back panic as best he could. Alyea arrived in what felt like a short time.

“Eredion,” she said as she sat on the edge of the bed. “Kalei says you don’t remember?”

“Sitting down to eat dinner with you, nothing more.”

She exhaled slowly, then said, “Deiq—got upset. You stepped in his way to protect me.”

He shivered all over, panic threading through every muscle. “Gods, and I’m
alive?”

“He snapped you over his knee like a twig,” she said. “Broke your spine.”

Bile rose in his throat, scorching; he swallowed it down, breathing hard.

“You’ve been asleep for nearly two tendays. Healing. This is the first time you’ve even opened your eyes.”

“Fimre,” he said immediately, and drew his elbows under him to sit up. Sharp agony flared up his back and out his arms; he hissed and abandoned the attempt.

She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Doing just fine. He learned some lessons of his own recently. Quite the change in him.”

“Must have been some hellacious lessons,” Eredion said sourly. “I didn’t think anything besides a brick to the head and groin all at once would impact that boy.” The pain subsided, leaving a vast weariness in its wake. He yawned hard enough for his ears to pop.

She laughed. “Not far off,” she said. “Deiq didn’t use a brick, though, as far as I know.”

“Oh. Oh,
shit.”

“He survived,” she said, more soberly. “And learned from it.”

“Good.” He lay quietly for a few moments, thoughts slowing, then asked, “What happened—where’s Deiq now?”

“I don’t know. He left not long after...your fight. I haven’t seen him since.”

He listened to the tension arc in her voice and said, “You’re relieved.”

“Sometimes. Other times I wish he’d stayed. It’s been...an adjustment, without him around.”

He found her wrist with his hand and pressed gently. “He does tend to grow on you.”

“Nobody knows we’re married,” she said in a low voice. “It’s better that way.”

Eredion squeezed his eyes more tightly shut, sorting through angles. “Yes,” he said finally. “You’re right. It’s much better.” He paused. “Any chance of keeping how I was injured quiet as well?”

“You tripped and fell wrong against a table,” she said. “Officially.”

He grinned sourly. “Nobody will believe it.”

“But challenging it means calling me a liar.”

“Yes....” He rested in the flaring not-darkness behind his eyelids.

“One question I do have for you, while I have you alone,” she said. “Hama finally decided to tell everything she knew to the king, and there were quite a few people Oruen wanted to get his hands on afterwards. Unfortunately, most of them seem to have disappeared. Do you happen to know anything about that?”

She paused. “Just between us,” she added. “I won’t tell Oruen if you need it quiet; but I’d really like to know for myself.”

“No,” he said. “And I’d tell you. No idea at all on that.”

She sighed. “Probably something to do with Deiq, then,” she murmured.

“Probably.” Weariness dragged through him as though he hadn’t slept for days.

After a few more moments, she gave a faint
hmph,
then said, “That aside, everything’s fine for the moment. Go back to sleep. Kalei says that next time you wake you’ll have your sight back.”

“Gods, it’s nice not to be needed,” Eredion said, and fell asleep to the sound of her laughing.

Brittle leaves rattled along the ground with every gust of wind; skeletal bushes and trees stood stark contrast against a scattering of evergreens. Sun poured through the leafless branches, warming the sunroom far more than the chilly day outside.

Eredion sighed and tugged the heavy blanket more firmly around him. Just the sight of the weather outside was enough to make him feel cold down to his bones. There would be fires lit tonight, with the first of the stores of long-burning eastern peat and northern coal; a few precious logs might be added on here and there. The air would turn thick and rank in short order, and within the next few tendays the entire city would begin to stink of peculiarly earthy smoke. The smell wouldn’t go away until the weather warmed and windows opened to ocean-sent breezes.

No telling when that would be. This cold had already descended much more fiercely than ever before in Eredion’s memory, and the winds gusted more ferociously. More than one F’Heing ship had lately been driven back to its port or onto reefs by unexpected storms. The eastern side of the Horn, by contrast, remained remarkably calm, and ships from Stass, Agyaer, Terhe, and Sand had found much less trouble than usual in their routes.

Deiq had, to all appearances, disappeared. Eredion had made no effort to track him down, and if Alyea knew anything about his whereabouts, she wasn’t saying.

Tanavin and Dasin had been through the city twice since Eredion’s injury. He’d made no effort to contact them, but his watchers reported that the merchant seemed to be doing very well for himself, and Tanavin remained at his friend’s back, a brooding, looming shadow whose presence warned off even the most determined thieves.

Eredion had already quietly pressured aside a few attempts to hook the boys into various political schemes; those had come only from their association with Yuer, nothing to do with Tanavin’s background. As far as most of the relevant people knew, Tanavin Aerthraim had died in his attempt to save Bright Bay; Tank the mercenary had no connection beyond a superficial resemblance.

A light knock on the doorframe brought Eredion’s attention out of brooding; he looked up and said, “Fimre. Come in.”

The young Sessin lord limped into the room, leaning heavily on a cane, and eased into a well-padded seat beside Eredion.

“Damn cold out there,” he remarked as he leaned the cane against the arm of the chair and settled back. His voice reminded Eredion of Nem’s, but in Fimre’s case the rough slurring wasn’t an act: his tongue was still healing from having been nearly bitten in two.

His hip wouldn’t heal. Fimre didn’t remember the moment, but Deiq must have hit him with real force at some point during their fight. He’d carry the limp for life, and his heavily silver-streaked hair had nothing to do with fashion.

Fimre ducked his head under Eredion’s gaze, a faint wave of color rising to his face. He tugged the blanket from the back of the chair and wrapped it round himself, grimacing.

“You did warn me about the weather,” he said. “F’Heing’s spitting mad over the loss of their ships.”

“What’s the count up to?”

“Three. The
Hawk,
the
Eagle,
and the
Claw.”
He pronounced each one with slow care, grimacing at the still-mangled result, then paused. “Only the
Claw
actually went down,” he added. “The other two were driven back into port with significant damage. But the
Claw
had the F’Heing liaison on board.”

Eredion exhaled. “Hard to see that as coincidence.”

“Mm. Prove otherwise.”

“Huh.” Eredion shifted in his chair slightly, wincing.

Fimre’s gaze sharpened. “Still hurts?”

“I broke my damn spine, Fimre. It’s going to take months to entirely stop hurting, and the cold weather doesn’t help much.”

Fimre grinned. “You’re starting to sound like a cranky old man, you know.”

Eredion snorted. “How’s the hip?” he said blackly.

Fimre’s grin faded. “Hurts,” he said more quietly. “Sorry, Eredion. Didn’t mean to mock.”

Eredion looked at lines on Fimre’s face that hadn’t been there on his arrival in Bright Bay, and sighed. “No, you’re right. I’m in a foul mood more often than not these days. Comes of not being able to move around as well as I’m used to doing. So distract me: tell me what’s happening in court. Tell me how you’re settling into my old suite of rooms in the palace. Make me feel useful by asking my advice.”

“It’s not humoring you to ask your advice,” Fimre said wryly. “Not these days. I’m well aware I’d be tripping over myself without you steering me.”

“Refreshing humility,” Alyea said from behind them. “No, Lord Fimre, don’t stand. You look comfortable.”

Fimre leaned back in his chair, grimacing. “Thank you, Lord Alyea.”

“You’re welcome.”

She came around to face the two men; studied them, unsmiling. Her hair, braided back southern-style, had been caught up in a northern peasant net. Her clothes, in shades of blue and red, showed the same mixture of styles, and she was barefoot as usual.

“I’ve been advised that Darden is sending a liaison overland, through the Horn. Oruen is drafting a fairly strong request that the arrival be significantly simpler than your own, Lord Fimre. Is that going to cause problems?”

“Oh, hells yes,” Eredion and Fimre said together; glanced at each other and burst out laughing. “We’ll handle it, Alyea,” Eredion added, still grinning. “Thank you for telling us.”

She nodded, the stern lines of her face adding years to her age. “I’ll send in tea and a scribe,” she said, then left the room as quietly as she’d arrived.

Fimre’s chuckles turned into a pained sigh. He put a hand to his hip and rubbed gently. “Damn,” he muttered. Then, “Turning into a proper hawk, she is. Wouldn’t want to get in her way these days. Have you taken her to bed yet?”

“Not yet,” Eredion said without offense. The question had been matter-of-fact, not salacious. “I’ve been happy just to manage filling the chamber-pot without blood being involved.”

Fimre laughed. The scribe, a thin young man with light brown hair and soft eyes that reminded Eredion of a deer, came in, carrying the tea tray. He went about setting that up, then retreated to sit on the floor and sorted out his own tools.

Eredion poured the tea, handed Fimre a cup, then settled back in his chair and said, “Do we send the first letter to Oruen, Lord F’Heing, or Lord Sessin?”

Fimre’s eyes gleamed. “Lord Sessin won’t respond in any kind of due time,” he said. “Best to ask for an audience with Oruen and send a letter to Lord F’Heing—no,” he corrected himself. “To Lord F’Heing’s daimaina. Right?”

Eredion grinned. “You’re learning,” he said. “Now, here’s how you get Oruen’s attention quickly without setting him into a panic....”

Much later, when the evening chill had firmly settled, Eredion retreated to his rooms—the guest suite of Peysimun Mansion, formerly Alyea’s suite—and sat in a well-upholstered armchair, blankets wrapped round him, feet to a brazier. He brooded over the day’s work for a while, nodding to himself. Fimre was developing some solid sense, now that he’d been shaken out of his preconceptions and arrogance into stark awareness of just what the stakes he was playing with involved. In another few months, he wouldn’t even need Eredion’s help; at which point, if not sooner, the question of Eredion returning to Sessin Fortress would come to the front again.

Eredion rubbed a knuckle against his chin and stared up at the ceiling, sorting out possibilities. A light knock on the door distracted him; Alyea stepped into the room.

“You’re brooding again,” she said as she shut the door behind her. “It’s giving me a headache.”

He grimaced and slid a shield over his thoughts. “Sorry. I’m getting lazy.”

“I think you’re just relaxing,” she said, smiling.

“Same thing. You’re starting to scare Fimre, by the way. Might try softening a bit around him.”

“He needs to be scared of me yet.” She stood still, studying him for a long moment, then said, “Travel, Eredion. You wouldn’t be happy if you swore over to Peysimun Family. Not yet.”

He blinked and tightened his shield. “I was being loud.”

“A bit. But I’ve been listening, as well.” She came a few steps forward, pulling a chair around to sit close beside him. “You’re doing well enough that in another tenday you’ll be ready for the road. Fimre will be fine, and I’ll send the boy who was your scribe today along with you. He comes from the north—from Felarr—and he’ll be happy to go back to his family for a visit, but he’s never going to live there again. His mother’s a conservative sort, and he’s seen too much to ever be happy north of the Forest. He’s working here to repay a minor debt he owes me; then he’s a free agent again.”