The Broken Realm

2. The Ramblings of a Swindler-1

2

The Ramblings of a Swindler

Jesse hadn’t expected to lay eyes upon the decaying main road leading to the heart of Greystone Abbey again. Upon their last visit, he’d decided the earth would soon reclaim the wood and stone, resisting even the will of the steadfast James men; that the small village, hanging on by pure stubborn resilience, was already in the throes of its final exhale.

Lady Blackwood was the only thing keeping the James men and their stretch of land from being relegated to a completed chapter in The Book of All Things. She had a soft spot for Easlan James—some might say, a blind spot. She rewarded his loyalty with unchallenged placement among the Great Families. Those who didn’t understand this seemingly unwise choice from a woman otherwise known for her great cunning hadn't known Easlan James. Many said that he'd been blessed with great fortune to have the favor of Lady Blackwood. Jesse understood, as Asherley herself must also, that it was the other way around.

The loyalty of all the Westerlands was being tested. Quinlanden men swarmed the larger towns and villages, ready to shut down anyone rising in defense of the Blackwoods. This Jesse and the others had discovered upon their attempt to return young Brook to his home in Windwatch Grove, just across the River Rush from Longwood Rush.

But their path had never strayed far from the Whitewood. It was in Parth, at the same Tavern at the Middle of the World where they’d sought refuge weeks before, that the news of the realm reached them.

Lord Byrne Warwick, murdered by Quinlanden.

Lady Asherley Blackwood, escaped from her captivity on Duncarrow, whereabouts unknown.

Lord Quinlanden, in Duncarrow, plotting with the king.

Every Blackwood child, missing.

The Westerlands under siege by Quinlanden.

Esmerelda had paled at the news. If this had happened in the Westerlands, it could happen elsewhere.

The Westerlands are not safe for us, Ravenna had said, but in her eyes Esmerelda showed she was thinking the same as Jesse. There is one place. She knew it, even though she’d fought him until she was breathless over leaving the Hinterlands. Ryan wouldn’t know where to find her. He’d have no warning of the inexplicable danger awaiting him when he encountered the Medvedev. What then, Jesse? We send him from one prison to another?

Jesse didn’t have the answers she sought, but Ryan wouldn’t want his wife and child in peril, and so he did the only thing he could.

They’d taken the unpredictable passage through the forests, careful to avoid even the outskirts of towns where the Quinlanden men might be scouting. And when they at last arrived back in Greystone Abbey, Easlan James greeted them without surprise.

You’re only the first, Jesse. More are coming.

What do you mean? Coming here? Why?

I’ve received raven after raven from the stewards of the Westerlands, until ravens were no longer safe. You know the silent war between Easterlands and Westerlands has brewed, unchecked, for many years, and now this over-reach from Quinlanden is beyond bearing. They will not stand for it and will defend their Reach, and their lady, to the death, if it comes to it. Quinlanden has men, but there’s more to winning a war than swords.

And they’re coming here? To Greystone Abbey?

Look around you. Remember why you came here. Did you see any of The Deceiver’s men on your ride in? No, and you won’t. They won’t come here. To them, we are forgotten, a relic of yesterday. A true Westerlander would not disregard us so. The stewards cannot leave their lands without drawing eyes upon us, but they're sending their trusted advisors and emissaries.

Jesse, thinking of Esmerelda, of Ravenna, of how he could protect both their secrets when the swarms of men arrived, had considered where else to take them when Easlan laid a hand upon his arm.

Take them to Dungarde Keep. It isn’t what it once was, but it’s secluded and safe. We don’t live there anymore. We’ve made the tavern our bed and hearth for years now, ever since the wife’s promise was spent, and Kaslan and I only return to feed and tack the horses. You’ll be protected there. I’ll house the others in the inn, and at the other properties abandoned when our people left for Newcarrow. None but Kaslan and I will ever know you have a refugee princess on one arm and a sorceress on the other.

Thank you, Easlan. I am indebted to you beyond what I could repay.

I don’t keep score on favors, Jesse. You’ll remember this, and do for another, when the time is right.

What do we do about the boy? Can we get word to the Ashenhurts? That their son is safe?

He will not be safe until we drive The Deceiver and his men from our lands. Until then, I’ve a need for an assistant to help keep up with the sweeping and stocking, and a palette in the back for when his day’s work is done.

A howling wind ripped across the insufficient plain that Dungarde Keep sat upon. The trees on all sides of the exposed land compressed the foul air, whipping it into a tempest that sent anything not tethered flying. The horses sang their discontent from the stables. Everyone talked about the storms that passed through the Northerlands in midwinter, but Jesse recalled Easlan James telling Jesse’s father, Hamish, that one didn’t need snow to sunder the land and tear roofs from foundations.

He pulled his cloak tight as he dismounted, stabling his own horse with the others, who were still kicking up their protests. “Shh,” he said gently. “Easy now, lasses. These stables are stone. Your home isnae going anywhere today.”

The storm had darkened the skies. He started toward the keep, but then paused and turned back toward the far edge of the forest.

Jesse found Esmerelda at the waterfall. It spilled into a pool of freshwater that she’d been using both to replenish their waterskins and wash their clothing. No one had suggested she be the one to do these things. She’d decided this on her own, daily retreating to the water’s edge. She told him she couldn’t abide stillness in herself, but there was more she wouldn’t say, and to press her would open doors better left closed.

He’d just returned from an exhausting afternoon at The Long-Trodden Mule. More men from across the Westerlands had arrived, the trusted commanders and aides of the stewards. His job was to show them around, introduce them to the resource cache and where they’d stay while in Greystone. There’d be another meeting that night to discuss the findings of their network of spies.

Jesse hadn’t planned to be pulled into the resistance against the king. As a Southerlander, he was bred to loathe the crown, but his life and work were affected little by who sat upon the throne in Duncarrow. As long as he could provide and be useful, he had no qualms worth following through on.

But he had no other repayment for Steward James’ kindness. For allowing the women to remain hidden in the small keep in the clearing of pines, safe.

Jesse knelt next to Esmerelda. Her obsidian hair was pulled back off her face, tied poorly with a ribbon. Rogue hairs annoyed her, and she spent her free hand batting them away, peeling them back off the sweat matting her forehead.

“Can I help?”

“You have more important matters, I’m sure,” she said, breathless, as she dunked one of his shirts once, twice, and again, wringing between each cycle.

“I’m done in town, for now. I came to check on you.”

“That was unnecessary.”

He reached his hand over and steadied hers. Her mouth trembled—in anger, in sadness; he could never distinguish between the two with her these days—as she eyed the audacity of his touch.

“There’s a gathering tonight. Some emissaries have returned. There may even be some coming from the Southerlands.”

“Spies, you mean.” She returned to her animated dunking, wringing.

“I’ve no care what they call them. There could be news from home.”

“I have no home.”

“We may have news of Ryan. Of...” He hesitated. Esmerelda didn’t know Ryan had gone to prison, not on a false charge, but a rescue mission. So many times he’d almost told her, but each time, something within him bid him to pause. It wasn’t his secret to tell.

“If he has escaped, then he'll be on a fool’s errand now.”

It was painful to watch the way she assaulted the linens. He reached down to help. “Ryan will find you, whether you’re in the Hinterlands, or upon a ship in the White Sea. He would find you anywhere.”

“He’s a freebooter, not a Magi,” she hissed, taking the linen back.

“Esmerelda, it wasnae safe there. You heard what Brook said, about his friends.”

“Brook doesn't have Medvedev blood! You do.” She touched her belly. “And I do, within me.”

Jesse dropped his head. “You were there. You witnessed how they responded to my claim. They didnae believe me, or care. Something is wrong there. Something that isnae ours to fix. Ravenna was right when she said we can help the others better if we aren't in danger ourselves. We cannae help them at all, or ourselves, if we’re taken captive as well.”

“Ravenna.” Esmerelda sneered at the word.

Jesse didn’t understand Esmerelda’s enmity toward the sorceress. He’d been just as adamant about leaving the Hinterlands behind. “The Medvedev took her own love away. She suffers too. She’d never have left if she didnae think she was better served to aid him from elsewhere.”

Esmerelda looked up. “Suffers? She seems quite adjusted to life at your side. Her Dereham lad is a distant memory.”

Jesse opened his mouth to respond to this claim, but then closed it again. He didn’t know where this was coming from, but it was better to leave it rest. “My only charge is to protect you and your child, Esme. There is nothing else. Do you understand? Do you believe that?”

Esmerelda pressed her lips tight in her anger. She nodded.

“Aye, ye should. For I’d rather be enjoying an honest ale at my own hearth in Sandycove than choking down the piss water that passes for it here. Do ye know how much effort I spend feigning my love for it, so as not to harm poor Easlan’s tender heart?”

Esmerelda tried hard not to smile, but one tickled the corner of her mouth.

Jesse tucked a stray hair back from her face. “Your child changes everything. I'd have faced down the entire Medvedev guard if not for your bairn. You’re both safe here. We’ll stay until I know there's a better, safer place for you both. It’s what Ryan would want, and when we know he’s safely returned from the Wastelands, we’ll find a way to send him word.”

Tears beaded in her eyes. She returned to her laborious scrubbing.

“You’ll see him again,” Jesse said. He pushed himself up off the damp grass. “I promise.”

Ravenna ran her hands over the bow mounted above the hearth. The wood, smoothed once by the hands who crafted it, and many times by the ones wielding it, felt like raw power. She’d never had occasion or need to hold one, to pull back upon the string and feel the command in the resistance before releasing it, delivering, if her aim was true, a clean death.

They didn’t eat meat at The Rookery. The sorcerers of Midnight Crest consumed the greens, fruits, legumes, and grains from the covered gardens behind the kitchens. It had been an adjustment for her when she’d dined with the Derehams in Wulfsgate, tables filled with crisp boar and glistening venison. She’d once snuck a taste of the venison and it turned her belly. But weeks on the road with Drystan and the girls had left her with no choice but to consume what was available, or dwindle away. Now, she rather enjoyed the earthy richness of a freshly taken elk-kind. Even rabbit, though too lean to be filling, made her mouth water now.

Another sign she was moving further away from herself.

“You fancy a hunt?” Jesse asked.

Ravenna’s face flushed in tandem with the surge in her chest. She withdrew her hand. “I don’t think I could take a life.” She remembered the acrid scene of the burning flesh of the brigands. Their animalistic screams that started hopeful and ended otherwise. “I was only curious.”