King of Assassins: The Elven Ways: Book Three (51 page)

N
AILS RAKED THE SIDE OF HER HOOD, tearing at the fabric like daggers. Sunlight splintered in through flaws in the rough weave, but she did not have to see to know who clawed at her. Nutmeg held herself as still as she could in the saddle, unflinching, although every instinct reacted. To show fear would only make the moment last longer. She would not give Tressandre the joy she sought in tormenting her.

“You will miss me, little beast.” Tressandre gave a shallow, hissing laugh.

“As a stinkdog misses its slime?”

Tressandre slapped her, sharp and hard despite the baffling of the cloth hood covering her face. She recoiled with the blow, ears ringing. Nutmeg tasted blood at the corner of her mouth and curled her fingers tighter into her saddle leathers to keep her balance.

“I should have made you walk every step,” ild Fallyn hissed at her ear. “But your waddling makes me late to a triumph for which I’ve long fought. Don’t despair. You’ll still have company on this little journey, and they will see to it that your dungeon room is waiting for you. As dungeons go, it’s not much, but then you’re used to grubbing in dirt. It should be quite homey.”

The voice withdrew, and a horse jingled his bit. Tressandre said coldly, “If anything befalls this lump, make sure you cut the baby alive from her belly. I want that child!”

Horses nickered as hooves drummed and dust rose that penetrated even the rough cloth about her. When she could breathe evenly again, her mount jerked into movement. Though she had ridden quite a bit in her life, and it was better than walking, the discomfort made her bite her swollen lip. Every jar sent lightning up her spine and through her hips. Her horse stumbled a step and slowed.

A hand took her by the elbow after fumbling a bit, and Nutmeg recognized Dayne’s hold. The hood over her head rustled as he bent close enough to touch it and whisper, “We have fewer than half the guards we had before. And Tressandre and Alton are gone.”

“You heard what she said?”

“Yes.” His hand tightened on her. “And the blow. Are you hurt?”

“It only smarts a little. I should have kept my lips tight.”

“You? Refrain?”

She freed one hand from the saddle flap to put it over his. “My own fault, and I know it. My mouth is faster than my reason.”

“Rest as you much as you can.” He held her hand and squeezed it. “You’ll have need of your strength before this sun sets. Our weakness is our advantage.” Another squeeze as if pressing the meaning of his words into her before he let go as one of the guards grunted at them, and she could feel a horse being ridden in between them, separating them.

He planned something. He’d tried to tell her. These four left to escort them had not seen him fight, had no idea who they faced. And she could do for at least one, push come to shove. As for weakness, her biggest one was her condition. Cut lip or not, Nutmeg began to smile.

Her expression faded as the day wore on, and the pace of the horses quickened. She grew thirsty although not hungry, but they made no stop at the peak of the day. Her horse had begun an annoying wheeze emphasized whenever Nutmeg bounced in the saddle, which happened more frequently than she liked. She wished for one of the Eastern horses that Keldan had told her about, horses with a running walk gait that made the rider feel almost as if they sat a rocking chair instead of a mount. She’d doubted his tale then, but he’d sworn its veracity. Even a tashya did not have that smooth a movement. The insides of her calves and thighs began to sting and the small of her back kept cramping.

A bird’s sharp whistle pierced her growing discomfort, bouncing off the landscape that she could not see, but as near as she could tell, it came from behind. She jerked in her saddle. She knew that whistle and knew it well. It had called her home from the groves and orchards almost every day of her life when small. Her hands itched to rip the hood from her head so that she could look about. Nutmeg grabbed at her horse’s mane and found a rein to yank on sharply, bringing the beast to a stiff-legged halt.

“I need water to drink and after bouncin’ me all over the face of Kerith, I need to pee.” She put her shoulders back and stiffened defiantly. Before the sound of her voice faded, the bird whistled again, long and loud and keen. Close music to her ears.

Her hood came off roughly and she sat, fresh air flooding her nostrils and sunlight stinging her eyes. She blinked as Dayne had his hood removed and she waited for a hand down from her saddle and the glory of a spring day invaded her senses. Nutmeg took a deep, grateful breath. She saw the four still with them, hardened men, the leader a man with a scarred and leathern face that boded no good. He had dead eyes, she thought, and shivered. Dayne reached her first, his warm and steady hands on her waist, his expression solemn but a warmth deep in his eyes, and she slid off slowly into his care. In his ear, she said, “That’s no bird cry. That’s Tolby Farbranch and he’s on our heels.” She pretended to turn clumsily in his hands and went to one knee.

His hands stiffened. “Then now is the time,” he whispered as he bent over in concern, his body sheltering hers protectively. His voice raised. “Are you all right?”

She gave a tiny snort. “If I was a’right, would I still be on the ground? My butt hurts and my stomach—” she paused and doubled over a bit, stifling a groan. She rolled an eye up at Dayne.

“How can I help?”

She moaned again, barely audible as she muffled her mouth against her arm.

Would they think labor had begun? Dayne took an odd step away from her, centering himself.

“What’s wrong? Get her the water she wanted and find her a bush. I don’t want any trouble from you lot.”

The four milled about, two with eyes on them and two others with eyes to the country about them. She feared if they overplayed her indisposed moment, the troops might do just what Tressandre had ordered: cut the baby from her body and leave her for dead. She reached up to Dayne, hands going cold with the thought. His were warm and strong, but he firmly withdrew his sword hand and squeezed hers together with the other. He began to haul her upward, but he mouthed, “Fall.”

She didn’t think she could fall. At least not gracefully. If she went down now, she’d be like a newly picked apple falling out of its bushel and bouncing off the wagon to roll all over the ground, bruised and mashed. She winced at the thought even as she pulled her hands free from his and went tumbling on her backside, figuring sore as it was, it was better suited to land upon than any other part of her anatomy. Discomfort shot up her spine and she let out a yelp far louder than she’d intended. Dayne shouted, reaching down for her, and Tressandre’s men whirled their mounts about. She rolled to one knee and let out a gasp.

Her skirts bunched under her and she felt crushed grass and dirt grind into her knee. The leather sheath strapped to her thigh warmed her fingers as she slid her hand over it and tugged on the hilt protruding from its depths. The slim, lethal shape filled her grasp. Nutmeg smiled and then twisted her lips into a grimace as boots thundered toward her. The grizzled veteran hit the ground first and advanced on them. His second in command stared coldly at them, while the two on point at the front stayed back. One of them unslung a bow but did not fit an arrow to the string.

The one afoot shouldered Dayne aside, muttering, “What in the cold hells is going on?” and putting out a booted foot to shove her aside as he passed. Nutmeg let out a tiny growl, folding her arms to protect herself. He shoved his toe into her again. “I say we save the trouble and take the runt’s baby.”

“And what would you do to feed it while we rode?”

“Let it squall for its mother’s milk. Water is good enough for it. It’d live till we hit the fort.” He scowled down at Nutmeg. “They’re keeping us from ild Fallyn victory. We’ve been waiting decades upon decades to see Queen Lariel’s head spitted on our lady’s sword. Now that day is here, but we have to escort this turd.”

The trooper in second charge returned, “Doesn’t matter where we are. We still share in Tressandre’s glory.”

“You’re a stupid shit if you think hearing the others talk about seeing the last battle will make up for not being in it! I say we slice her open now. With only the frigging brat to mind, we can make twice the time. Maybe even get to the field in time. This lump of turds here isn’t worth saving.”

“They left orders—”

“They’re always leavin’ orders. We follow them, as we can.” The trooper glared down at Nutmeg, his eyes narrowed, and his hand started toward the sword hilt on his left hip. “I think I’m going to like doing this.” His sword made a noise as he pulled it clear and bent over. “Look in my eyes, mongrel.”

A ray of sun glinted off the steel edge into her eyes. Nutmeg rolled to her side, both hands on her dagger, and jammed it deep into the side of his throat before she tore it free. Hot blood splattered her face as her target made a deep, gargling noise and went for her, hands clawed. Dayne kneed him aside, grabbed the sword and sprang at the second guard, catching him in mid-dismount, the sword burying itself to the hilt with the man’s momentum.

That left two as the archer grabbed an arrow and nocked it, drawing his arm back. Nutmeg rolled under her horse’s legs, one arm curled over her head if it should kick, the animal whickering in distress at the smell of blood a-wash over her and pooling on the ground as ild Fallyn’s man kicked his way into death.

Verdayne, bowed by the weight of his victim, went to the ground fighting. Nutmeg saw the archer aim at him as he tussled, and sucked in her breath to cry an alarm, but couldn’t catch her breath as a spasm grabbed her torso.

It didn’t take that long to fire an arrow. It couldn’t. But she’d no way to stop time in its tracks as it seemed to have done. As she caught her breath, she saw the archer reel back in his saddle, falling as his horse danced away in alarm and then bolted as it dumped its rider altogether. The man rolled onto his back with a moan, clawing at the bolt buried deep in his flank. The horse stamping its hooves about her made a sideway hop, one hoof clipping her elbow as it did, and then tossed its head and tail up, galloping away. Pain lashed through her, and she grabbed at her arm.

Verdayne staggered to his feet as his wounded assailant latched onto his ankle and hauled him back. He slapped down with his bloody sword, and a scream cut the air.

The last remaining trooper curbed his horse in place, twisting in his saddle, looking for the unseen bowman who’d cut down his companion. As he reined his mount about and put a heel to it, fleeing, an arrow whizzed through the air, burying itself in his back. Dayne jumped up and caught him, dragging him out of his saddle and slitting his throat before he hit the ground.

Nutmeg finally got a smothered protest out. Dayne came to her, went to one knee, and picked her up in his arms. His warmth and strength surrounded her, and she buried her face against his shoulder. “No help for it,” he said, holding her close. “We cannot afford to leave anyone alive.” He ripped his sleeve off and cleaned her face.

Hoofbeats trotted up. “I’ve been wondering when you’d make your move.”

Verdayne grinned up at Tolby Farbranch sitting atop his sturdy Kernan mountain pony with a second on a lead. “I’m good,” he said, “but I could not take on both Tressandre and Alton by myself. Waiting seemed more prudent than fighting.”

“Right to be levelheaded about it,” Tolby agreed. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups and hit the ground lightly. “Meg, tell me you’re all right.”

“If I could breathe,” and Nutmeg fought for more air. “I would.” Her arm hurt like the time her old cart pony had stepped on her, but nothing could override the spasms. Dayne and Tolby grasped her arms and helped her to her feet but the next spasm brought her crouching down again.

“Rotten apples,” she managed. “I don’t want to be spoiling your rescue, but I think—” and she sucked down another gasp of air. “I think I’m having a baby.”

“A
RE YOU SURE, Meg?”

“Well, no,” she answered her father. “But it seems likely.”

Tolby looked rough, as if he had been riding hard after them all those days, heedless of dirt thrown in his face and branches whipping across his body, and he mopped his brow on the back of his sleeve. “Then you’ve got to get back on a horse, because we need to get to fresh water. Can you do it?”

“Water?” repeated Dayne. “Seems like we need a homestead with a midwife.”

“Don’t insult my dad. He birthed all of us.”

“Your mother did most of that work, child,” Tolby said gently. “I only helped a little, but I know what to do.” He changed his grip to steady her, and she cried out sharply. He pulled back his hand, filled with fresh blood. “I thought you said you were all right.” He tugged on the ragged slash in her sleeve. “This is a good cut here. I’ll bind it now, but we’ve got to clean it good and stitch it soon as we stop.” True to his words, he ripped off the bottom hem of his tucked-in shirt, the only clean part of his garment, and strapped her upper arm firmly. “Hurt?”

“Aye, but so does everything else.” Nutmeg gave a shaky laugh. They got her mounted with only a small squeak or two of discomfort, and then she looked down at her father. “What’s Dayne riding? This pony won’t carry all of us.”

“This, I can handle,” he said wryly, and clasped a hand on Tolby’s shoulder before letting out a piercing whistle.

Tolby got on his horse and gathered the reins. “Will you be following me?”

“Wait a moment.” Dayne walked among the bodies, gathering weapons and wiping them on the trampled grass and dirt. Before he’d finished and straightened, one of the fled horses came trotting back, ears pitched forward in curiosity.

Dayne spoke to it in a soothing voice as he put a firm hand on the bridle, gave a jump to get his foot in the stirrup, and swung the horse about.

Tolby nodded. “Good lad.”

“Was that Vaelinar magic?”

Dayne laughed at Nutmeg. “No, no. Just a lot of work mucking out the stalls and taking care of these beasts. Any horse worth his oats and in hearing distance knows that means a feed bucket. They know a stable lad when they hear one!”

Nutmeg sniffed. “Long as they take a bite out of you and not me when they’re not getting what you promised.”

Dayne let out an unexpected roar of a laugh. Tolby took point, saying his caravaner days gave him a fair idea where the water might flow. He tracked them deeper into the line of foothills and greenery, winding their mounts back and forth, letting the trees envelop them. Meg felt their coolness fall upon her gently, the wind murmuring softly through leafy branches, and she closed her eyes and tried to send soothing thoughts to her restless child. He did not answer her, but she could feel the rapid beating of his heart fluttering inside of her. She sent mothering thoughts, thoughts of warmth and protection and love. Whether they reached her anxious child, she did not know. She thought of all the times her mother and her father, and even her brothers, held her, giving comfort and hope, and sent those memories inward. She sent the feeling of finding Rivergrace, thin and with fresh scars from shackles and cuffs on her small limbs, of pulling her from the raging Silverwing River to safety and warming her with her own small body, and declaring that she’d found a sister. Of how she and Grace had embraced so tightly at this last leave-taking, of her sorrow and joy. Her fingers laced tightly to the swell of the saddle in front of her, to the fringes that had been stitched upon it for just such a hold. When the spasm came again after long moments of rest, it gripped her so tightly that she clenched and ground her teeth so that she would not scream and scare her father and Dayne.

It was then the warmth and love she’d been sending within returned. It rose up and wrapped about her, cocooning her, taking the pain if not the pressure away as if her son answered the only way he knew how. Long moments passed that she held to that answer, not hearing either her father’s or Dayne’s voices as they spoke, or the clop of the horses’ hooves on the ground, or the birdsong from the canopy above them as they passed through.

Sometime later, she became aware they’d halted.

Nutmeg opened her eyes. Tolby, on the ground, reached up and wrapped his hand about her boot toes. “Stay sitting a mite, while we build a bit of a cot for you, all right? And a fire. I’ll have water boiling in no time.”

“Dad,” she said.

“Aye, Meg?”

“I love you. And Mother and everyone.”

“Well enough, and we all know that. You’ve never been one not to show it.” He squeezed her foot. “Things will be all right.” He took his knife from his belt and began to systematically strip bushes of their long, fragrant limbs as Dayne hobbled their two horses in a small pasture next to a brook that bubbled cheerfully past them. Nutmeg watched it curling past. No Silverwing or even close to an Andredia, but the lush trees lining its bank spoke that it was a loyal and steady provider to the area.

Dayne dropped a considerable bundle of firewood in front of him. He had evidently been picking it up along the way and balancing it on the saddle in front of him as he rode, for both he and his mount were flecked with bits of bark and dried leaf. Nutmeg curbed her smile of amusement. The moment fled quickly enough as a hard, pressing spasm gripped her and shook her tightly. Dayne rushed to her. He took her hand in his.

“Bad?”

She nodded. He pressed her hand tightly between his. “Let me get that fire built, and then I’ll get you down.”

Another nod was all she could manage.

The moments knotted together, pain and release, pain and fear, pain and being helped down off her horse. Walking helped ease her stiffness, and Tolby sat her down on a weathered old tree stump he’d cleared free of leaves and brush. The leafy cot stretched next to it and she looked at it longingly. Flames leaped up and smoke tickled her nose as she perched there on the stump instead. He’d brought water from the creek in his rain slicker to fill the collapsible bucket he always packed in his saddlebags. She’d been on trips when it had boiled stews and soups, and occasionally even klah so potent you could stand a stick straight up in the drink, but never just plain water. When steam began wafting up, her father squatted next to her. “First, the arm,” he said.

“Dad—”

“I know what I’m doing,” he said firmly, as he began unwrapping the wound. “I want this cleaned and stitched up before I have to worry about any other problems.”

“But—”

He held up a finger. Nutmeg sealed her lips together tightly knowing that her stubbornness came from this man and she was not likely to best him in a contest of wills. Dayne clucked his tongue as he watched over Tolby’s shoulder.

“Close,” he commented. “But mainly a deep flesh wound.”

“Aye,” Tolby agreed. “Good luck on that one. Bring me some of that boiled water.”

Dayne searched the gear packed on his horse until he found a tin cup, as well as a fairly clean and folded blanket. He fired the cup before filling it with water and bringing it over. Tolby nodded in approval as he opened one of his own kits, a kit often used for fishing with a curved hook and fine, strong thread but today would be used to close her cut. He waited until the water cooled to bearable and then set about cleaning her cut.

It hurt. It hurt enough that it sliced clean across her other hurts, the pain of the labor, so that she scarcely noticed the major event. He stitched her cleanly and quickly, talking to her as he did. “This will leave a touch of a scar, but that will be fine, even with such a fair skin as you have. It’s a marking of life, a trophy of winning through the hardness of it, Meg, my child.”

“I don’t mind.”

“And well you shouldn’t. Few of us get through our years without an award or two. It adds to the beauty, not takes away.”

“Dad! As if I’d worry about such a thing.”

“Good.” He nodded. “That’s my girl.” He took another stitch. “Almost done here, and I think you’re about done, too.”

Her mouth opened. “I—” and then a mighty spasm took her, and as her father knotted off the last stitch, she surged to her feet.

“Squat,” he told her. “Like you were milking one of the goats but without a stool. It’ll help.”

She did, and it did. He gathered up her skirts as he ordered Dayne to bring the boiling pot over to him.

“I’m washing up,” he said to Dayne. “You, too, in case you have to help catch.”

Dayne’s face flushed for a moment. “She’s not a cow,” he responded softly, as he rolled his remaining sleeve to over his elbow and washed.

“Never, but catching a baby is not all that much different.”

And then Nutmeg heard words, but little made sense as her body seized her and did what it must to bring her child into the world. Moments passed. Long, awful, dread moments that left her gasping in between with relief, only to be seized up again, over and over. She felt it at last as the child passed and rocked back onto the branchy cot, on her elbow and her father cried out, “Well done, Meg. A beautiful baby girl.”

“Girl? It . . . It can’t be.”

Dayne mopped her forehead. “A wee, perfect little girl. She looks like you, in a very pinkish and somewhat . . . well, I can see you in her squeezed-up little face.”

Tolby took care of the rest, then wrapped up the baby in his slicker and held her up so that Nutmeg could see her tiny, perfect hands with fingers already trying to grip, and little feet with exquisite little toes, and a wispy brush of dark hair upon her head. She reached for the child in wonder. “So it’s you I’m meeting, finally,” she told her baby.

Baby eyes did not reveal her Vaelinar bloodlines, nor did her heart-shaped face with pudgy cheeks except for the tiny, tip-ended rosebud ears, but that no longer mattered. One look and she had Nutmeg’s soul. She held her close as the child wailed its first cries and then softened, chortling for her. She held her baby close.

But a girl. How could it be? Nutmeg ran her fingers over the downy soft bit of hair. A beautiful, wonderful girl.

And then another, hard spasm took her.

“Hold on,” said Dayne. “She’s crowning again. There’s another.”

Tolby took her girl from her, and put her gently on the leafy cot, tucking her in before turning to Nutmeg. “Are you sure?”

“A-course he’s sure!” Meg snapped, her body rigid. “This is not bobbing for apples and fun.” A growling groan escaped her, shutting away whatever else she might have said. She threw her arms up to Tolby and Dayne to grip her wrists and she held on for dear life. She lost all sense of time, all but blacking out and then she felt the pressure push the baby through, a relief through the pain.

She could hear the offended squall. Dayne gripped her firmly.

“A boy,” Tolby announced, “and as like to Jeredon as could be, with a touch of you.”

A boy. The boy.

Nutmeg gave a tired, wobbling smile before passing out.

She woke groggily with the late afternoon sun still slanting across her and knew she hadn’t been out long, woodsmoke stinging her nostrils. One of the babies gave a fitful cry.

Dayne and her father had been talking. They stopped and turned to her. “Better?”

“Always. They must be hungry. Give them here.”

“Are you up to it?”

“I had better be, hadn’t I, with two of them?” She held out her arms in welcome. “The boy is Evarton, and my girl is Merri.”

“You sound certain,” Dayne commented as he snuggled little Merri into the crook of her arm.

She felt no doubt. “I am. For Jeredon Eladar, and Merri for . . . us. Because that is a Dweller-sounding name.”

Dayne turned away as she began to suckle a child on each breast, the business of doing it harder and definitely more painful than she’d imagined, but she knew it would soon be routine. If she could handle two babies. She was ample enough, she supposed, but wet nurses had been around almost as long as mothers, and she might have to find one. Evarton fastened his eyes on her as he pulled, but Merri squinched hers shut tight as if concentrating all that she was on this drinking business. She put her chin to the top of his head. “All babies’ eyes are muddied a bit and change color, and I can imagine yours will be like his, green with streaks of amber.” Evarton made a noise of contentment. Merri fisted one tiny hand and waved it about.

Tolby cleared his throat. “We have been talking.”

“Imagine that.” Meg looked at him.

“I have a question for you, first.”

“And it would be. . . .”

“Did anyone ever suspect you were carrying two?”

Meg thought a moment before shaking her head sharply. “Never. Not even Mother.”

The two men nodded sagely. “Then we have a suggestion. Find a wet nurse and leave Evarton behind for a bit, in safety.”

She frowned. “And why would I leave my son behind?”

“Tressandre. She would probably feel far less threatened if you produce your daughter, so like us and so unlike the Vaelinar.”

The words fell like rocks upon a tight drum skin. Nutmeg waited a moment to take them in. They made no sense at first, and she swirled them around in her head until they did. Her eyes opened a bit wider.

“And if Tressandre doesn’t feel charitable? What if she decides that being Dweller is far more despicable and Merri becomes the target of all her venom? That sentiment would back her if she assassinated a mongrel? Use her for bait? How could you say such a thing?” She took a deep breath. Both babies stopped suckling a moment and Merri’s little face bunched up unhappily. “And how long would I leave Evarton ‘in safety’?”