Nightshade Page 2

  “For Serabee to be given over to his authority? There is a deeper play and Bharjah is at the heart of it, whether Joaquin knows it or not.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” Jessa said. “What does it matter?”

  “Perhaps what you will find within Arravan will not be what you expect.”

  “And perhaps a year from now I will be ripe with child and mocked by an entirely different country. A unique sort of distinction, to be an amusement to half the known world. I’m not sure that many women may claim such a pleasure.”

  “You are the Nightshade Lark and the Woman within the Shadows, Jessa,” Radha said with strength. “You are a mystery to Lyoness but you are here, make no mistake. No one laughs at you. You are the only child of the Blood that people do not fear or hate, and you are a great source of curiosity. You are the wish they do not know enough to make, for what need do a conquered people have for dreams that don’t come true? But you are on the edge of everything and they know it. The people do not speak of you within the same breath as the others. You are spoken of with clean air.”

  Jessa ignored the words as she considered her future. “An heir of Bharjah’s blood upon the throne of Arravan.”

  “Perhaps.” Radha could feel the challenge within the silence she was met with. “Do you think that is the deeper play, then? It is about as deep as the bowl I soak my feet in.”

  Jessa laughed. “Yes, I’m sorry. It was a poor effort.”

  “The world is wide, my child,” Radha said softly. “You have clawed at the door since you could reach it, searching for your chance. When the spring moon rises and we leave upon the road east, it shall be a road that you know nothing of and the world shall open to you. You will leave the Jade Palace behind. You shall move beyond the specter of your brothers and the stench of Bharjah’s presence.”

  Jessa studied her hands for a moment and then turned about, gazing once again upon an unknown distance. “Yes, I shall trade one cage for another and have Joaquin stepping on my shadow as always.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Yes, and if not that, then what?” Jessa said. “Whether I am a possible bride or one that has already been bartered and paid for, Bharjah’s wishes were quite clear and my choice must be yes. I’m not sure where that leaves my chance.”

  “You do not know everything,” Radha said. “We shall consult the Waters.”

  “No. I have no wish to see what they hold.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I am tired of my gods taunting me!” Jessa answered with unexpected anger. “I show them respect and I practice their arts, yet they give me nothing. Your spell is not what you think, old woman. It never has been.”

  “My spell is fine. It is you that cannot hold what they show within your head,” Radha said. “Or perhaps your heart.”

  “My head is quite capable, thank you,” Jessa replied. “And my heart has nothing to do with it.”

  “What is it you have seen that you’re so afraid of?” Radha asked, not for the first time.

  For years Jessa had been plagued by what the spell had shown her, sulking within her visions and her temper flaring easily at any mention of them. She held them tightly to her heart, claiming that she could not remember or that they were smoke within her thoughts. Whether or not Jessa was being honest Radha had no idea, but it was a mystery she had tried to solve for many years. She suspected that Jessa lied, though for what reason she could not decipher. Jessa did not seek the Waters as she once did.

  Jessa searched the stars of the warrior Attia’s spear and did not answer for Radha to hear, though she heard Jessa’s whisper on the rising breeze. “And my heart…my heart is very tired and of no use to anyone.”

  Chapter Two

  Spring 1032

  The Lowlands of Arravan

  Jessa stood in the long grass and stared down into the green lands of Arravan. Their caravan had traveled for nearly three weeks and had reached the well-guarded border at the Emmerin Gap, passing from Lyoness beneath the curious eyes of several thousand soldiers. First the Eastern Forces of her father bowed to their knees as they passed, and then the Western Army of Arravan gathered at the strongholds of the Gap, showing their might as they stood tall. Within the same week they had crossed the Taljah River and entered the Lowlands, traveling deeper into the country that might well become her home.

  The land had changed in subtle ways as they had moved east from Karballa, but once they had crossed the Taljah, Jessa’s knowledge of the world had swung like a pendulum from what was familiar to what was extraordinary and uncommon. The world had come alive. The weather was warm and the rains more frequent, the earth transforming into an exotic landscape of growth and vitality.

  Radha was right, I’ve never seen such color, Jessa thought as the breeze washed over her. The sun was setting as the sky grew dark, thin clouds drifting high up and pushed to the north by the wind.

  Their party consisted of one hundred of her father’s soldiers that answered to her brother Joaquin. The men rode sleek, beautiful horses. The steeds of Lyoness were famed throughout the world, the envy of all who saw them. Within the camp the broad canvas tents had been set quickly and the red flags of Lyoness had been raised, almost as if warning any who saw them. Jessa could smell the cooking fires and the meat roasting above the flames, though it did little to stir her appetite.

  Arravan soldiers had met them at the border between the stone citadels of the Gap, more than double their own number and led by the First Councilor to the King of Arravan, a man called Armistad Greyson. He was older, most likely in his fiftieth year or more, his hair streaked with gray. His crisp black uniform bore the insignia of the Kingsmen, the elite guard of Arravan that protected the High King himself.

  Lord Greyson had insisted Jessa leave her wagon and remove her headdress, so that he might look upon her face. Joaquin had agreed to his wishes and Jessa had obeyed, meeting the stranger’s eyes for but an instant before she bowed her head.

  He had been a kind man and thanked her in a quiet voice, then begged her forgiveness that such a formality was necessary.

  She had not expected to be treated with respect. The man had ignored Joaquin and spoken directly to her. She was uncertain of the reason for the ritual, though. She had never met a man of Arravan and so how should he recognize her? They might have sent a girl from the streets. When she had suggested this to Radha, she had laughed and kissed her cheek.

  In the growing darkness she could see the many campfires of the Arravan soldiers farther along the road and amongst the trees that were blooming to the south. And behind us as well, I should imagine, she mused, though no fires signaled their presence. Jessa knew they were allowed very little liberty, and once through the Gap their numbers had become insignificant. These were the Lowlands, and they were a most holy place to both countries. Arravan would protect them at all costs.

  It was said in Lyoness that the world had birthed the First Man within the soil of the Lowlands and that the god named Hamranesh did not like the damp and cold, and so walked west until he found the comforting heat of the desert. There he called forth his wives and servants from the fires of the sand, and thus gave blood to Lyoness. The land he was born of, however, was still sacred beyond all other places.

  The Lowlands were said to have also been the birthplace of the gods of Arravan. Firstborn and most powerful, the god Gamar was said to have roamed these hills and considered the servants he might create and what gifts to bestow upon them. While deep in this contemplation he failed to notice the subtle birth of his cunning sister Jezara or the screams of the earth when his dark brother Amar was born after her.

  That indifference had led to the rivalry between them all, and though Jezara and Amar would bow to Gamar if forced to, both of them were their own entities and decidedly powerful. Or so it was told and Jessa did not dispute the claim. Though Hamranesh was the main deity worshipped within Lyoness, Jessa followed the ways of the Vhaelin and her gods taught respect
for all faiths. The Vhaelin were champions of free will; to them nothing was more sacred than to be allowed the devotions of your choice.

  Jessa knelt and set her hand upon the damp earth, closing her eyes. She could feel the pulse and the life, and something deeper as well. Perhaps the blood of their southern gods, coursing through the rivers far beneath the earth. Perhaps the shudder that the land gave when the sun creased the world at the end of the day. Perhaps merely her own pulse. She would have to wait and see.

  It was a holy place, though, and she understood that now, standing upon its soil. The place was rich with life and it was said that those who tilled and worked the soil within the Lowlands tilled the flesh of gods. It was so in Arravan and it was the same in Lyoness.

  The Lowlands were the greatest source of dispute between their two lands, and Jessa realized it was here that the war would be waged for her hand. Arravan had seized the Lowlands several generations past, and in that victory over Lyoness they had endangered what her family held most precious: the assertion that the blood of the Bharjah line hailed directly from the veins of Hamranesh.

  Jessa knew it was a lie, but the claim was a potent one and had been made since the first of her blood had seized power.

  What is the truth of this place? Or did you give birth to all gods, even my own?

  The Vhaelin walked the Ibarris Plains, but where they had come from was a long-standing mystery. In the city of Karballa their followers were scattered and few, but Jessa had learned at Radha’s knee and had known from the start that the Vhaelin were hers to keep and pay homage to, no matter where she made her home. Perhaps it was here, in this most holy of places, that all gods were born and sent out into the world.

  She could not deny her excitement. She could not deny her joy at being freed from her prison of the Jade Palace. That she was quiet in this happiness and careful of her emotions seemed only prudent to her. Despite the fresh air she encountered each morning, air that held the remnants of a thousand dreams of freedom, she knew that they were a lovely illusion.

  Joaquin still dogged her steps, as did Lord Serabee El-Khan. And whether this would change if a son of Arravan wanted her for his bride, she had no idea. She was Joaquin’s advantage over his rivals and she could do nothing about it. She did not doubt he had played a significant role in brokering the contract for her hand. Now he would be closer on her heels than ever before. But what shall it gain you, my brother, if Arravan’s son finds me lacking? Or more to the point, what will that mean for me?

  If she returned in disgrace to the Jade Throne, Bharjah’s plans, whatever they might be, would be dashed to nothing because she was not beautiful enough. Or not enticing enough for a son of the Blood to get his sons upon. Not sweet enough, perhaps, in my temptations. How awful I shall feel, you old butcher, to disappoint you.

  She had no clue how to seduce a man. And she had no such desire. She still believed the words she had spoken to Radha, that she would be exchanging one cage for another. Though perhaps the cages of Arravan are prettier, and I might gain some small amount of liberty if I am the mother of his sons.

  Her annoyance was sudden and fierce. She was joining a game already in play, and she would be forced to move the pieces on the board with great care if she were to win some measure of contentment. Her only remaining task was to decide whom she would rather be a pawn to.

  She did not like the complete uncertainty of her position. She had never possessed even the smallest degree of power and had always been but a step away from someone’s blade. And now she was being sold, her body offered up as the vessel for a stranger’s seed. She felt ill and her head throbbed, but this was perhaps the only currency available to her, to open her legs to him and offer her spirit. With years of practice behind her, she changed the direction of her thoughts, her heart hardening to stone as she searched the far horizon.

  She needed more information about what to expect and more confidence in order to meet it with grace and dignity. Radha had unearthed some small scraps of information about the family that would greet her, and some of their history as well, though not as much as they liked. Lyoness was unkind to the legacies of any but those of Bharjah’s blood. Radha had promised more and Jessa hoped that she could deliver on that pledge.

  Jessa knew she was to visit a small family and that the High King, Owen Durand, had taken but one bride in his lifetime, to whom he was married still. This woman, Cecelia Lewellyn, had borne him five children, three sons and two daughters. Radha assured her that their knowledge would increase as they traveled farther into Arravan, but for now, Jessa understood only that the Durand reputation was far different from that of her own blood.

  She took a deep breath and cast a final glance across the landscape, with its richness and utter beauty. She rose and returned to camp, lifting her skirt above her boots when the grass grew tall and smiling at the novelty of such a simple thing. If she were to finally receive a clear answer from the Vhaelin as to her fate, it would be in a place such as this, upon sacred and holy ground.

  “Vhaelin essa ahbwalla,” she whispered in blessing as she walked.

  Beneath the first full moon of spring, Jessa would seek the Waters of Truth.

  *

  Radha spoke the words that would bring the truth. The changes that took place in Jessa’s face caused her to proceed with caution. The abundance of power Jessa possessed was vast but well-hidden, rushing blindly through Jessa’s soul and, for now, unattainable. It had been that way since Radha first held her. The mark of the Vhaelin surged so fiercely in Jessa’s tiny body that when she had cried, Radha caught her breath. Jessa’s mother had felt the power also, laughing that first time and weeping in her happiness at the singing of her gods.

  When Radha called upon the Waters of Truth she could sense Jessa’s buried potential struggle to free itself, even as she had in that first breath. Its staggering promise made the stars hang like ripe fruit, ready to tumble from the sky if Jessa could only seize her strength and call them down.

  Radha lifted her hands to the brass bowl that sat between them, the ancient metal vibrating against her skin. Jessa’s eyes were closed as she sat cross-legged before the low table, her hands within her lap.

  “Look, Jessa,” Radha said, “and see what the Vhaelin would show you.”

  Jessa took a deep breath and let it out slowly, opening her eyes.

  Jessa’s eyes were unfocused and blind in the majik, soaking up the light in a shocking fashion. No one Radha had ever known understood the power of the trance as Jessa did. You give yourself so completely, my love, that you lose your control. “Jessa, pull back.”

  Not responding to Radha’s order, Jessa became trapped in the waters of the bowl, the dark liquid swirling slowly toward the center in smooth ripples as the scent of sage and obee root wafted around them.

  She saw nothing but the words, the letters and runes floating before her and slipping into order as if written in blood in the air. She saw Radha as but a shadow, a figure of smoke beyond her comprehension. Their tent had receded into darkness, though she could still sense the things within: the pillows of her bed and the trunks for travel, the lamps that hissed and filled her head like the buzzing of summer bees.

  The water was the purest of light and her eyes reacted to it with pain. She grabbed the edge of the table even as her mind let go, her consciousness pulled within the shallow depths of the bowl as if they had no end. The breath that she took felt as if it might be her last.

  Jessa saw the midday sun high above the hard-packed earth of a courtyard and watched as her boots touched the steps of her carriage and carried her to the ground. A light dust rose from the contact and scattered as she felt someone firmly grip her hand. The touch was like the bitter cava root, for it lingered and tainted the things that followed it. It was Joaquin.

  The stones of the structure rose before her, black rock set within dark mortar, its massive presence oddly soft and warm as the sun spilled against its surface.

  “What
do you see?” Radha whispered. It was unwise to interrupt a vision or to prompt the seeker, but if Jessa were telling the truth about the loss of her visions, there would be questions.

  “Blackstone Keep,” Jessa said.

  Jessa saw him instantly within the greeting courtyard, dressed in some form of state regalia, his lips curling up under a dark beard and mustache that covered the skin about his mouth. He was handsome, his eyes blue and deep as they caught the sun beneath a shock of black hair. But the sun is at your back, Jessa thought, and was uncertain where or when she thought it. His expression was one of surprise and delight as he spoke to her. The gold medallion about his neck flared boldly against his white tunic and she reacted, wincing in pain.

  Jessa was trapped by the movement of water against the side of the bowl, caught within a rush of vertigo as a ribbon of brilliant blue pulled at her senses and coaxed her into the recesses of a much darker pool.

  She heard the sound of her own laughter and the tone was strange to her ears. This was not as she was used to laughing, hidden and covert so as to not draw attention to herself. This laughter was open and full, so full, in fact, that she could feel the joy in her chest as if she would drown if it were not released.

  Jessa’s face felt flushed. She blinked in surprise, the touch of something soft and familiar gliding against her skin and teasing her lips. It was hair, and she ran her fingers through it, laughing once more as she took the curls in her grasp. A hand wrapped about her wrist, then skated down the inner surface of her arm, the caress sending a shiver along Jessa’s spine.

  She felt the press of a body on top of her and her blood surged at the heat and the softness of the flesh, at the weight and the scent of it, at the intimate connection of her body against another. She lifted her legs with slow enjoyment, wrapping them in a possessive manner around slim hips. She smiled at the lips against her throat. They were full and moist in their warmth as they pulled at her skin, and the tongue was sweet as it tasted of her flesh, teeth nipping gently.