The Fall of Lostport Page 8

  Once inside, Katrien latched the doors securely and slumped against their frame. “I cannot believe this. I cannot! When have I become a threat to Whitland?”

  “You said it yourself, m’lady,” the footman said. “‘Whitland is far weaker and more vulnerable than it would let on.’”

  Katrien nodded. She could smell sweat on her two servants; though their faces did not betray it, they must have been terrified. “We must be careful. Very careful. No one under my protection will suffer for this.”

  She wished she had never left dear Faolan. She had known from the moment she arrived back at her old home in Whitland that leaving him had been a terrible mistake, but never had she been more convinced of it. Something like this would not happen in Lostport. No one lived in fear of offending the religious authorities, or of getting on the wrong side of the High King. There were no hordes of military recruits thronging the streets and causing trouble for civilians, no constant talk of war.

  “Please join me for breakfast in an hour,” Katrien said, straightening and adjusting her stiff cuffs. “I would like everyone to hear the news together, so we may decide as a household what measures to take.”

  With the two stablemen bowing behind her, Katrien swept upstairs once more. The sun was rising at last, and a stripe of light fell across her bedroom floor.

  “Ready yourself, Amadi, and round up the rest of the staff. We have received unfortunate news.”

  As soon as her lady-in-waiting had departed, Katrien sank onto her bed, breathing in the comforting lavender aroma of her bedchamber. She retrieved Faolan’s latest letter from her bedside table and read it for the twentieth time. He had hinted once again at distressing news regarding their son, but had infuriatingly neglected to provide any details. Did he think it kind to spare her the worry? Her fear was infinitely greater now that she was left guessing at a mystery.

  She could not possibly send a letter to Faolan with the consent of the Whitland guard, but she could not keep silent. She would have to find some other way.

  Fetching her own parchment and her finest swan’s-feather quill, Katrien perched at the end of her bed and began composing a reply.

  My dear Faolan,

  It brings me great joy to hear of your progress with this new Port Emerald. I know this has always been a dream of yours, and I am glad to know you are finally poised to achieve it. I have news of my own to share, but none so momentous as yours. Truly, you cannot continue to torture me by withholding news of our son. Though I cannot claim to have been there for him as a proper mother ought, he is still dear in my heart. I think of our children each night before I go to sleep, and try to imagine those innocent, beautiful faces now grown up.

  Life grows tiresome here in Whitland. Perhaps it is time for me to take a small holiday. When your city is complete, I might just travel south and join in the celebrations. Please tell me if this is an inconvenience; I would hate to impose my presence on you after treating you so unfairly.

  I wish you great success. But please, do not send another letter until you can bring yourself to share news of our son. It breaks my heart to know that something is dreadfully amiss.

  With great affection,

  Katrien

  Katrien set the parchment aside. She had written the letter so quickly that her usually immaculate penmanship was untidy, yet she had no time to copy a second draft. No one had heard word of her house arrest yet. If she could sneak the letter past her guard before news spread, it could be well on its way to Lostport before anyone thought to detain it.

  She was already tardy for her breakfast assembly. Waving the parchment before her to dry the ink, she rose, tucked a stray lock of hair back into place, and headed downstairs.

  Her entire household was already assembled. She had been unable to tolerate living with her parents after returning from Lostport, so her father had set her up with her own manor and full staff, but she often found herself lonely and devoid of intelligent company. Her household consisted entirely of subordinates—servants and hired help. There were three cooks, four stablemen, two general maids, and her lady-in-waiting. It almost seemed silly, having three cooks. After all, they were only cooking for one lady and a crew of servants.

  Still, Katrien could not deny that she had grown fond of them all.

  “Good morning,” she began gently. The stable-hand and the footman were conversing together in concerned whispers, while everyone else looked variously tired or confused. “Some of you may have noticed a commotion in the courtyard this morning. We have just been informed that our entire household is now restricted to the grounds. Lostport is aiming for independence, and High King Luistan suspects me of some involvement with my husband’s schemes.”

  Amadi gasped. She was sixteen, nearly a woman grown, and she had always been dramatic. “What about my family? Am I never to see them again?”

  “Of course not,” Katrien said. “First of all, these measures are not permanent. And second, visitors will be permitted. If your parents hear of your circumstances, I have no doubt they will come inquiring about your situation before long.”

  “If,” Amadi said. “If? What if they don’t hear? What if they think I’m dead?”

  “Peace,” Katrien said. She returned her attention to the rest of the household. “If any of you need anything whatsoever, let me know, and I will request the Whitland guards to fetch it for us. We will be careful to present a very civil, proper household, with nothing amiss. We must not attract undue attention.”

  “What is that you’re holding, my lady?” the senior chef asked shrewdly. His smock was already streaked with flour from his morning baking.

  Katrien had completely forgotten about her letter. Lifting it onto the table, she creased it into a neat square. “I mean to send this to King Faolan. Amadi, can I entrust you with this task?”

  The girl gulped but eventually nodded.

  “You know the back entrance. Go now—slip out without anyone watching, if you can, and take this letter directly to the courier. If you cannot return unseen by the back entrance, take the front door, and pretend you spent the past night with your family.”

  “May I visit them while I’m out?” Amadi asked innocently.

  “Of course.” With some concern, Katrien passed the letter to Amadi and watched her lady-in-waiting slip from the dining room. Amadi was young and thirsty for attention, but she was a sweet, honest girl nonetheless. She just hoped Amadi would not be too frightened to return from her parents’ home once the job was done.

  Chapter 7

  L aina was the first to wake the following morning. She needed to relieve herself, but did not wish to rouse anyone. Someone was snoring softly in the far corner—she hoped it was Prince Ronnick—and she was surrounded by the hush of gentle breathing. The sharp odor of fire-smoke had dwindled, replaced by the ever-present damp, earthy smell of the forest. It was very soothing.

  Trying to gauge the time from the shade of light against the tent canvas, Laina sat up and wrapped her blankets closer about her shoulders. Since no one was awake to watch, she dug her comb from her small traveling bag and began working her knotted hair back into order.

  Before long she realized that a pair of eyes had opened and come to rest on her. They belonged to Swick.

  Laina put her comb aside. “Swick?” she whispered.

  When she rose, Swick followed her from the tent.

  “Is Jairus going to leave?” she asked when they reached a cluster of trees.

  “Whatever do you mean, my lady?” Swick leaned his shoulder against a tree and frowned at Laina.

  She shrugged. “After my father offended him, I thought maybe he would—I don’t know, return to his people and warn them. The Varrilans could attack our coast and prevent us from ever building Port Emerald.”

  Swick shook his head. “I assure you, Jairus intends nothing of the sort. He is honorable to a fault. If he is to do anything, he will stay here and use his powers of intellect to attempt to sway the king.”
>
  “It’s his friend who needs swaying,” Laina said. “Harrow is my father’s closest friend and advisor, and the sort of persuasion he’d listen to would come to him half-naked and charm him into bed.”

  “Shame,” Swick said. “Jairus will be so disappointed.”

  For once, Laina did not think he spoke in jest. “I will do what I can,” she said. “I will speak to my father, and see why he has made such a rash decision. I cannot support him on this. I will not give him an heir if his legacy will be the destruction of Varrival.”

  * * *

  Faolan had been slightly alarmed to find his daughter absent when he woke in the unfamiliar, drafty tent, but she had reappeared before long, and their party was on its way before he expected. The great royal tent and all its outfittings had been left behind at the midway camp; his party continued toward Port Emerald with no more than a few water skins and a simple packed lunch. He hoped they were close, as his back was beginning to ache again, and every so often a stabbing pain would send spasms along his spine. He should have forced Laina to stay at home. That way he could have ridden the blasted horse without offending anyone and saved himself such discomfort.

  Since he was putting most of his energy toward disregarding the ache in his back, hands clenched in his pockets so he was not tempted to rub the sore spot and give away his weakness, Faolan had no time for conversation with his fellows. Harrow was walking far ahead of the group, scouting for the first signs of construction, but Prince Ronnick kept attempting to engage Faolan in conversation. Faolan had to admit the prince was rather knowledgeable about construction and city design, but he had been rather short with the young man. He wanted to walk alone.

  When something warm and moist touched the back of his neck, Faolan gave a start and nearly collided with a tree.

  “Nine bloody plagues! What was that?”

  It was that infernal horse. With an expression of wary innocence, Laina drew her horse up alongside Faolan. This time he could not resist digging a fist into his throbbing lower back.

  “I assume you wish to talk to me,” he said grumpily. “Unless you have lost control of that beast.”

  Laina scowled. “Is something wrong, Father? You don’t look very happy.”

  “No, everything is just fine.” He frowned at her. “Continue on. No need to hold this party up on my account.” He began walking again, and heard a shuffling chorus of footsteps resume behind him. “I think we are nearly to the port,” he told Laina. He was not sure of that, but he desperately hoped it was true. “What was it you wished to ask me?”

  Laina was silent for a long moment. Faolan looked up and tried to read her expression; she was biting her lip, but her eyes were distant.

  “Is it true, what Jairus said?” she asked at last.

  Faolan’s shoulders immediately tensed. Jairus had been the impudent lad who had challenged him the night before. If Faolan had been a true king, he could have executed the interfering foreigner before the night was out.

  “You want to buy our independence from Whitland?”

  Faolan straightened his chin. “Yes. We have languished under their rule for long enough.”

  “But why now?” Laina asked. “Jairus tells me Whitland is seeking funds to raise an army and crush Varrival. Are you just being opportunistic, or are you really that cruel? I want nothing to do with such a kingdom. I’ll write to Mother and ask her to take me away from this place.”

  Faolan opened his mouth, attempting to formulate a reply, but at that moment a shout came from Harrow at the front of the group.

  “Port Emerald!” he hollered. “We’ve arrived! Sweet seducer, it’s a beauty.”

  Before them, the forest ended. The road gave way to a sheer overlook, beyond which lay a deep fjord walled in by mountains. Port Emerald. Faolan stopped abruptly and took hold of the horse’s reins, allowing the rest of the party to hurry ahead.

  “I mean to find Doran a cure,” he snapped under his breath. “A magical cure. In Itrea, I hear there are healers who can perform miracles. But we can never seek them unless our trade has been released from Whitland’s stone fist. The High King would imprison anyone seeking magic. This is our only way.”

  Laina drew back and grabbed her reins from Faolan. “If I were the one injured, I would rather remain crippled forever than see Varrival fall on my account.”

  “You have no marriage prospects apart from Price Ronnick, who you seem to loathe. I will not cede Lostport to Whitland. This is the only way.”

  “If it ends this madness, I’ll marry Prince Ronnick tomorrow,” Laina hissed.

  When Faolan opened his mouth to reply, Laina slapped her horse forward. Faolan was left standing alone beneath the trees. He paused there, listening to the excitement of his party upon setting eyes on Port Emerald, and soon curiosity won out over distress. He limped forward to join the others.

  Standing on the rocky outcropping, Faolan could see the entirety of Port Emerald stretched below, like a split geode that had revealed a brilliant emerald core. The vista was breathtaking. Never had he seen such rich colors—the water was a jeweled turquoise, deep and clear, and the hills so verdant they could have sprouted up of their own accord.

  “And where does the city go?” he muttered to no one in particular. He could not see where buildings could perch around a harbor of such sharp inclines and bottomless depths.

  “In the trees, my friend,” Harrow said, elbowing his way in beside Faolan. “Isn’t she an empress of a port?”

  “You plan to clear the trees? How?”

  Harrow put an arm around Faolan’s shoulders and brought him closer to the edge of the outcropping. “See there?” He made a sweeping gesture to the left. “The foundations have already begun.”

  When he peered around a dense layer of leaves, Faolan could see that patches of trees dotting the slopes had indeed been removed, and one had already been replaced by a series of steep terraces and what looked like the foundation of a building.

  “I certainly hope you have a brilliant architect,” Faolan said dubiously. “If this city succeeds, it could go down as the bravest feat of engineering in the Kinship Thrones.”

  “You can decide for yourself,” Harrow said. “If you don’t mind a bit of a steep downhill jog, we could pay a visit to the current building squad.”

  “The head architect is a good friend of mine,” Prince Ronnick interjected from behind. “He is a man of great repute. Whitland-born. He designed the New Cathedral of Varos the Defender, just outside the walls of Corona.”

  “Lead the way,” Faolan told Harrow, who was smirking at the prince. His back twinged in anticipation, but he could not possibly have traveled so far to turn back at the final stretch.

  The path cut sharply left, and thereafter proceeded to zigzag its way down the hillside. The formerly smooth, wide road was now narrow and riddled with roots; Faolan kept a close eye on Laina, afraid her horse would catch its hoof and send her tumbling over the edge. Unlike the switchback trail leading between Lostport and his own manor, this one was so thickly shrouded in trees that the elevation change was deceptive. Before he expected it, the ground leveled off and their tramping party broke from the trees into a wide meadow.

  Saddled between two hunched green peaks, the meadow was home to a tumbling river that evidently flowed from a glacier hanging off the craggy mountain at the head of the valley. The grass down here was a fresh shade of green that stood out like a jewel against the dark forest on either side. Dotted amongst the green tufts were flowers, tiny bursts of yellow and lavender and cream.

  Just beneath the trees on the opposite bank of the river, Faolan spotted a cluster of practical tents, two pyramids of logs, and a huddle of men deep in conversation.

  “The architects,” Harrow said, confirming what Faolan had already guessed.

  Faolan led his party across a pair of narrow boards spanning the river; they were greeted on the opposite bank by a pair of men who had to be Ruunic.

  “This is the
true head architect,” Harrow said in a loud whisper. “Not some buffoon from Whitland.”

  Faolan was not surprised to learn where the men were from. Ruunas was a kingdom of hills, so its builders were far more likely to be familiar with vertical architecture than anyone from the grassy fields of Whitland.

  “Greetings,” the head architect said, extending a hand to Faolan, who recognized the gesture and clasped the man’s hand in both of his own. “It is my privilege to welcome you to the beginnings of Port Emerald, jewel of all the lands.” The man’s black hair was swept self-consciously off his face, and his skin, darker than most, was darkened further from the sun.

  “A kind welcome indeed,” Faolan said. “How goes the project?”

  The head architect beckoned Faolan and his company forward. While one of the architects held the tent door aloft, Faolan and his party filed into what looked like an enormous portable office. The tent was dominated by a heavy wood table strewn with papers, and the remaining space was littered with chairs of all sorts. Faolan seated himself in the largest of the chairs, letting out a breath as his aching back unbent.

  “We have just begun laying out the foundations,” the head architect said. He fetched a rolled parchment and began flattening it before Faolan. “This is the master design that our architects have been following. If the pool of laborers continues to increase at the rate it has shown thus far, our project should reach completion a span before winter settles in.”

  The parchment now lay flat before Faolan. He could immediately recognize the shape of the port from the conceptual sketch. Two hunched mountain peaks dominated the harbor, while a third shorter rise kept watch over the nearest shore. In this sketch, a soaring cluster of towers adorned the top of that shorter rise—a castle of sorts, or perhaps a richly outfitted manor. From there, the city spread around the port in terraced levels, with arches and stairways connecting the rows of lofty spires. The city was a work of art, the buildings like gemstones rising from the heart of a geode.