The beholden, p.10
The Beholden, page 10
Celestia walked down to the village center. Faces appeared in the doorways as she passed, and whispers followed her through the village. She kept her head high, although inside she began to quake with anxiety. She hated to tell them that Lindon was gone. Perhaps she should work in the forests, alongside the workers, as Lindon had. But she had no knowledge of forest agriculture, no sense of when to prune back vines or where to plant amaranth to avoid overcrowding. Even when she and Izara had lived on the estate after their parents had died, stretching out the little remaining money as best they could, she had not been able to make the forest thrive the way Lindon had. She and Izara had eaten what they could find, harvesting from the outer edge of the forest, which at the time had spilled over onto the abandoned workers’ village. It had been unrecognizable then.
Gregori was waiting for her at the dais at the village square. He waved when he saw her, and called out, “So you made it after all, my lady.”
“Of course I did.” Celestia stopped at the foot of the dais and smiled up at him. Lindon might be a shrewd businessman, but he still needed a man like Gregori, who possessed knowledge of the law and a keen financial sense. Gregori would keep the acreage running in Lindon’s absence, although Celestia wanted to be at least partially involved. Not enough to affect the baby, of course, but enough that she would be aware of what was happening at Cross Winds.
The forest rustled around them, and Celestia could hear the monkeys shrieking in the distance and the birds calling out to one another. The sun poured down through the clearing. Already Celestia was starting to sweat.
Gregori checked his watch. “The morning bells will be ringing soon. Are you sure you’d like to make the announcement yourself?”
“Quite certain, thank you.” Celestia stepped up onto the dais and turned to look at the square. It was covered with a thick, soft grass, as green as the forest. The path meandering through it was paved with white river stones. Lovely work, really.
Gregori flipped through the portfolio he’d carried out here with him, peering at it over the top of his glasses. It was too narrow to be a ledger.
“What are you reading?” Celestia asked.
Gregori glanced at her, then laughed. “Oh, nothing you need to worry about, my lady.”
“Does it pertain to the acreage?”
Gregori blinked. A bead of sweat dripped down his temple. “Well, yes, of course—”
“Then it is something I need to worry about.”
Gregori sighed, and Celestia prickled with annoyance that Gregori was so old-fashioned.
“I trust Lindon told you that I am to have final say on all business decisions in his absence?”
“Well, yes, of course.” Gregori smiled thinly at her. “But surely, as lady of the house, you aren’t interested in river rights—”
“Let me see the documents.” Celestia held out one hand. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Gregori, only that she took her duties quite seriously. If she let him keep this matter of river rights from her, he might find it beneficial to keep other matters from her as well, which was the sort of thing Celestia wanted to avoid. After all, Cross Winds was her ancestral home, not Lindon’s. For the past four years, Celestia had tracked the progress of Cross Winds by cajoling Lindon to speak of its prospects as they lay in bed together, or when they dined at breakfast. But those methods weren’t available to her anymore. She needed to be more forthright, even if it perturbed Gregori.
“Of course, my lady.” Gregori gave a little bow and handed the portfolio over. Celestia glanced over it. He was correct in that it was a minor issue, a few notes on the passage of small-time merchants on the stretch of river in front of the acreage.
The bells clanged. Celestia gave a little jolt, nearly dropping the portfolio. At the house, the bells were musical, charming—but this close they were riotous and wild, with no music or melody at all. Gregori grinned. “Surprise you, my lady?”
“I’ve heard them before.” Celestia handed back the portfolio and checked the hem of her blouse. It was still tucked neatly into the waistband of her skirt. “Thank you for allowing me to look over the river rights.”
“Was everything in order, my lady?”
“Yes, thank you.” The forest-workers were peeling away from their houses, moving in ones or two. Many of them were still eating breakfast, beans and bites of roasted goat wrapped up in flat bread, or fresh fish, charred over a fire and still stuck to its cooking stick. They spoke with each other in low voices, eyes darting up toward Celestia. Every now and then a group would erupt into laughter.
The square did not take long to fill. Soon that vivid green grass was hidden by the steps of hundreds of muddy boots. Gregori stepped forward, lifted one hand in the air. Voices died away to a faint murmur.
“There’s been a change,” Gregori said, his voice booming out over the square. “Lord De Malena has been called away.”
Celestia scowled at him. He glanced over his shoulder at her, gave a weak smile, and then turned back to the crowd. They were still eating, watching with a vague curiosity. “Lady De Malena is here to speak to you in his stead.”
The voices rose a little at that. Celestia took a deep breath. She smiled out at the crowd. They did not smile back, only bit at their breakfast and watched her with guarded, dark eyes.
“Master Gregori is right,” she said. “I’m afraid my husband has been called away by the Empire.”
Now that got people’s attention. The workers turned to each to her, voices swelling again.
“Is it permanent?” someone shouted, from the back.
“Oh, no.” Celestia shook her head. “No, not at all. I’m afraid I can’t say much more than that, but rest assured, Lord De Malena is doing important work for the good of the Empire. In the interim, however, the estate has been placed under my control.” And here Celestia touched a hand to her chest and lowered her eyes. “With Master Gregori overseeing the particulars. I’m afraid I’m not qualified to work alongside you, as my husband did—”
Laughter at that, loud and a bit mocking, but Celestia swallowed back her irritation and smiled pleasantly, as if she were not aware she was being made into a joke. “However, I appreciate your work as much as my husband, and I hope this season is one of our most prosperous yet. With your help, it can be.”
The crowd applauded politely around their breakfasts. Celestia stepped back and nodded at Gregori, who began listing off the day’s focus: taro bushes, to fill in the empty spaces, the clearing of the overgrown pumpkin vines. Celestia hardly registered what he said. Her heart thudded in her chest. She wasn’t a woman of the people, the way her husband was. But she had spoken to the workers, she had promised them prosperity. All workers at Cross Winds took home a percentage of the forest’s yield along with their wages, so prosperity was not simply a reward for Celestia, sitting up in the house while others toiled over her forest.
The sun was yellow. The air was damp. Cross Winds grew wild and controlled around her.
It would still be here, as successful as ever, when her husband returned.
The candles guttered, throwing scatters of light across the pages of A Martial History of the Seraphine and Surrounding Principalities. The paper was so thin that Celestia had torn a few narrow rips in it already, lines cracking across the history of her homeland. She wasn’t sure when the book had last been opened—when she had pulled it off the shelf, a cloud of dust had exploded out with it, coating Celestia’s dress with a faint layer of grime and setting her to coughing.
She flipped the page and skimmed through the dense text. She understood perhaps half of what was written—the history had been published nearly two hundred years ago by an Akuranian scholar and then later translated into Sera. Still, she was able to glean a general sense of things. Although the history went more in depth than her own cursory understanding of the Last War (a term the author found quaint), the author seemed far more fascinated by military maneuvers and tactical strategies than he was Lord Kjari as a person. The closest he came was an aside about Lord Kjari’s practice of meeting with the widows of the officers he killed in battle. It is unclear why he requested these meetings, if one could call them that—the wives were typically dragged to Kjari’s palace by a troop of kajani and kept there against their will until he could speak with them. The commonly held belief among the Eirenese upper command at the time was that these meetings were a method of intimidation, a threat of what would happen to the living commanders’ wives when they died.
And that was all he said of it. Not even a mention of what happened to those wives, what stories they told when the left Kjari’s palace. If they were even allowed to leave.
Celestia sighed and dropped her head back, the book hanging open in her lap. A hot, balmy wind blew in through the open window, curtains billowing out like ghosts. She could smell the forest and the distant scent of smoke from the workers’ village. She wondered how far along the river Lindon was now, if he even was on the river anymore, given the fineness of that Imperial boat. Perhaps they had already arrived at the base of the Emperor’s Mountain.
Celestia flipped another page, although she was still looking over at the billowing curtains. The air had the heaviness she associated with impending rain. She looked back to the book. Blinked in surprise.
There was a picture.
A woodcut portrait, really, depicting a harsh-looking man with long hair worn loose around his shoulders. Celestia’s heart fluttered. She picked up the book and peered at the caption.
Artist’s representation of Lord Kjari on the Eve of the Battle of the Os’un.
The candlelight moved over the walls. Celestia’s face felt hot. Her heart thudded more heavily in her chest. She stared at the portrait. The ink was pale and faded, but the image was still clear. Lord Kjari looked like a man. A cold man, perhaps, a hard man—the lines of his face were sharp and cruel, and even in this faded image of a woodcutting, his eyes seemed to glitter. But a man who could live for five hundred years? Even the greatest wizards in the world couldn’t manage that sort of longevity, nor could they raise themselves from the dead. And Lord Kjari had died. That was how Eiren had won the Last War.
Celestia glanced at the text surrounding the portrait, but it was concerned with the Battle of the Os’un. Of course. Celestia looked over to the portrait again. Lord Kjari glowered up at her.
Not Lord Kjari, she thought. Just an artist’s idea of him. She wondered if the portrait had been carved on the actual night of the battle, by an artist in Lord Kjari’s presence, or if it was merely an Akuranian version of him, created three hundred years after the fact. Celestia suspected the latter. Although the fierceness of those eyes did give her a shiver of doubt.
The wind gusted, and the curtains flew out over the floor. A soft misting of rain scattered across Celestia’s bed. She sighed and slid the book aside and then walked over to the window. The night was hazy, and the forest rustled, the rain just starting to fall. She reached up and tugged on the window latch.
Somewhere in the darkness, a voice said, Stop.
Celestia yelped and dropped her hand. The wind howled around her. Lord Kjari, she thought stupidly, come to drag me off to his castle. She felt enough like a widow, certainly.
The wind blew through the forest. Celestia stood very still next to the window frame, listening for the voice again. She grew less certain she had heard something—maybe it was just her imagination running wild. Maybe that dull old text had more of an impact than she’d thought.
The rain fell harder, a soft patter against the side of the walls. Water blew into her room. She sighed and reached up for the latch again.
This time, the voice was clearer.
Daughter of the Seraphine. It is time.
Celestia froze, her arm extended. Daughter of the Seraphine. She had not heard that phrase in years.
“Y-yes?” she called out, her voice soft and weak. She peered out the window, rain sprinkling over her face.
May I come in?
Celestia trembled. She had known this day would come eventually. She had asked for a service, and offered payment on credit. But she hadn’t thought it would come when she was finally pregnant, when Lindon was out adventuring on behalf of the Emperor.
“No,” she whispered, and she felt a revulsion in the pit of her belly. She could not say no to the Airiana. She lifted her voice out to the night. “You may come in.” The rain was like a sheen of silver over the estate. Water puddled at her feet. “Please, I know I owe a debt.”
No answer but the wind and rain. Celestia pulled away from the window and wrapped her arms around her waist. The baby. What if the Lady had come for her baby? She stumbled away from the window, over to her bed. The picture of Lord Kjari stared up at her from the open book, and she reached down and flipped it shut.
What would she tell Lindon, if he returned, and their baby belonged to the Lady of the Seraphine?
A rain puddle gleaming by the still-open window began to move, inching over her floor, leaving a trail of wetness like a snail’s.
“My Lady,” Celestia whispered, pressing her hand against her stomach.
The water bubbled and then stretched, sliding up in a shining silver tower that slowly melted into the shape of a woman. It had been five years, but Celestia would never forget her face, nor the way her eyes burned when she looked too long upon it.
“Hello, Daughter of the Seraphine,” the Lady said.
Celestia curtsied, dipping her head low. Her legs trembled.
“You owe me a favor,” the Lady said. “I’ve already collected your sister.”
Celestia jerked her gaze, meeting the Lady in the eye. It was haughty, impolite, but Celestia heard in the Lady’s words a promise that her baby was safe, at least for the moment.
“I beg your pardon?” she whispered.
“I’ve collected your sister. She makes her way down my river now.” The Lady smiled. She didn’t stream water as she had that night on the tributary, but her skin was reflective like the river’s surface, and Celestia could catch flashes of her own face: an eye, a corner of her mouth, a spray of black hair.
Celestia’s eyes watered with pain, and she looked away.
“My sister was studying at the Academy,” said Celestia, suddenly breathless. “She’s not allowed to leave.”
“But leave she must. She owes me a debt.”
“No.” Celestia shook her head. “No, that’s not fair. It was my favor, and I should pay the cost.” Just me, she added silently. Not Izara, not my baby.
“The three who stood before,” the Lady said, “shall return my boon with a favor. I have need of a favor now.”
“But did you have to—” Celestia threw up her hands in frustration. Izara’s education at the Academy was one half of the reason they had defaulted to asking the Lady for aid at all. Celestia’s dream was to see Cross Winds restored to glory; Izara’s was to study with the scholars in the mountains. With a wealthy husband, they could do both.
Celestia’s face burned. Tears formed on the edges of her eyes. “That’s not fair,” she said. “You can’t simply take her away from the Academy!”
The Lady tilted her head. “Do you deny my call?”
“Of course not!” cried Celestia. “I always fulfill my bargains.” Her hand went to her belly, but she quickly dropped it at her side and squeezed it into a fist. “But the price you ask of Izara is too much.”
“I gave you want you wanted,” the Lady said. “And you promised payment. I’m extracting my payment. It is exactly what the favor was worth.”
Celestia closed her eyes. The day Izara left it had been raining, the sky dark with clouds, and they had embraced under the veranda before Izara darted out to the riverboat waiting at the end of the dock. She had been smiling so brightly that her smile cut through the rain clouds. Celestia had never seen her look so happy.
But it was true: that moment had never been paid for.
“What is the favor to be?” Celestia asked, breathless.
“The same one I asked of your sister.” The Lady smiled and the water of her form glowed murkily in the candlelight. “You will need to travel by boat to the Port of Istai-Seraphine, where I can speak freely. There, I will explain your debt in full, when you meet with the others.”
A tightness caught in Celestia’s throat. “Travel?” she said. “But I can’t—my husband just left for Imperial business, and I have to stay to run the acreage.” She put her hand on her belly. “And—”
“And you’re with child, yes.” The Lady tilted her head. “You will have my protection on the water, Daughter of the Seraphine. As for your acreage—” She lifted one hand. Water slid down her forearm and dripped against the floor. “That is the business of the land. Not my concern.”
Celestia took a deep breath. At least she had Gregori. Lindon trusted him, so she supposed she did as well. It wasn’t as if she had much choice. The Lady required a debt to be paid; Celestia would pay it. It would be like visiting Jaila-Seraphine for a season, she told herself. Gregori could manage the day-to-days. If anything, he’d prefer not to have her at home, demanding to be let in on the particulars.
“Prepare your boat,” the Lady said. “You must leave at once.”
Celestia nodded. She was trembling. A journey upriver, to meet the others. The others—Izara, of course. And the third. She didn’t even remember his name, only that he had been from Akuran and the captain’s first mate.
“Don’t delay,” the Lady said. “The northern men are coming.”
The phrase snagged on Celestia’s thoughts. “The northern men?” she said. “What do you—”
But the Lady splashed back into her puddle before Celestia could finish the question. Lindon was with northern men. It was too much of a coincidence, wasn’t it, for him to be called away and then her only a few days later? An uneasiness grew in Celestia’s belly. These were the sort of coincidences that came with magic. Izara had explained it to her once.
