When one of them greeted me in her language, I realized she thought I was Icori because of my clothes, which I hadn’t changed since we saw the Lorandians. Jago answered in Icori, and then the conversation shifted to Osfridian. They didn’t seem unwilling to admit a trader, even an Osfridian one, but were more apprehensive when he said we wanted to see Orla.
“Is she expecting you?” asked the guard who’d first greeted me.
“At this exact moment? No,” admitted Jago. “But she won’t be surprised that I—that we—are here.”
The Icori talked among themselves and sent for a trade manager, who kept track of merchants and peddlers, Jago told me. I wondered if this manager might in turn fetch Orla. Her group had been on a trade expedition with the Balanquans, so maybe there was some sort of guild or association. The man who came to us was dressed in the first Icori civilian attire I’d really seen, a heavy wool coat edged in that same blue tartan, with a belt of copper disks hanging over it.
His face filled with delight when he saw us. “Jago Robinson! Welcome. Do you have any cutlery to sell? Tin or silver, I’m not picky.”
“Does everyone know you?” I murmured.
Jago winked at me and shook the man’s hand. They traded small talk, and then the manager spoke with the guards in Icori. We were admitted, and one of the guards hurried off, down a narrow road. The manager climbed into the sleigh with us, chatting with Jago while I continued gawking at this hillside town. The roads had no cobblestone but were laid out as efficiently as any substantial village or city I’d seen, lined with those remarkable round buildings. Judging from the people coming and going, carting things around, at least some of the buildings were businesses, but I couldn’t read the Icori runes etched on their doors. We passed wagons and lone horses, travelers on foot carrying baskets and lumber. A few stared as we went by, but I think it was due more to the Balanquan sled. Most of the Icori I saw were bundled up for winter, but I did get some sense of the clothing underneath the layers of leather, fur, and wool. No one would mistake their fashion for Osfridian, but it was hardly the rags insinuated by our textbooks. The Icori wore variations of what you’d see among any other people—trousers and skirts, tunics and dresses. The cut and construction were different, some of the fabrics less refined, but nothing really took me aback.
The manager’s home wasn’t far away. It was one of the round houses and sat between some stables and a larger rectangular building that I took to be his business. He let Jago store the sleigh in the barn and reiterated a desire to do some deals. “And you’re welcome to come back for dinner and lodging,” the man added. “Though I’m sure you won’t want to.”
“I’ll come back for some of your ale for sure. And to make you a deal on that cornmeal.”
We told him goodbye, and I asked Jago, “You’re always making these deals, loaded up with things to sell . . . how are you not living in a pile of gold yet?”
“Because it’s uncomfortable to sleep on. That, and I’ve got debts bigger than this hill to pay off.” He squinted up. “We’ve gotta go up to get to Orla. Are you okay walking? I can get us a ride.”
“No, let’s walk.”
It felt good to stretch my legs after so much sitting, and the slope wasn’t very steep. We passed through various residential and commercial neighborhoods, and I kept waiting for Jago to turn in to one of them. Exactly how far up did Orla live? But we didn’t stop until we’d reached the hill’s summit and stood before the stone fortress. In front of it, a courtyard was busy with activity. People and animals moved back and forth on errands and jobs, just as they had below. Two Icori, less formally dressed than the guards at the wall, stood watch at the door, but their posture was more relaxed. One was telling the other a funny story, and they didn’t even glance at us.
I started to ask Jago why we were here when a voice said, “Well, Tamsin Wright, you found your way to us after all. And you found Jago Robinson too.”
I turned, my eyes widening as the speaker approached. A floor-length cloak of pure white fur covered most of her body, but when she shifted, I caught a glimpse of a night-blue dress, the sheen of its fabric reminding me of velvet. Part of her reddish gold hair had been coiled into braids pinned at the back of her head; the rest flowed freely down in shining waves. All of her jewelry was silver: rings, necklace, earrings, and a braided circlet atop her head.
“Hello, Orla,” said Jago.
Her lips twitched with laughter when she saw I hadn’t recognized her. Even after Jago named her, I questioned myself. This fine lady didn’t look much like the leather-clad adventurer I’d met who so badly needed to wash her face and hair.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear we’d exchanged wardrobes,” Orla added, looking me over. The sharpness in her eyes hadn’t changed. “But a lot can happen in a few weeks. Come inside out of the wind.”
The Icori at the door bowed their heads deferentially as she entered. We followed her through a long corridor constructed of stone blocks that had an ancient and venerable feel, further enhanced by torches in the walls. But the room we ended up in was more modern, like the sitting room of some noble’s country lodge. A wood floor had been built over the stone, and that in turn was almost entirely covered with thick wool rugs. An expansive river rock fireplace took up almost an entire wall. It provided most of the room’s light, but there was also an assortment of torches, candles, and a kerosene lamp. The furniture was similarly mixed. There were rustic, utilitarian chairs that looked decidedly uncomfortable but also flowered plush ones that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Blue Spring. Two small sofas with feet carved like bird claws drew my attention, and I ran a hand over the geometric pattern of the cushions.
“That’s Balanquan,” Orla said, coming up beside me. She’d removed her fur cloak, revealing the blue velvet gown’s full effect. Its high empire waist was stitched in silver, making the skirt look bigger and more dramatic—but not nearly as much as the voluminous bell sleeves, which extended past her hands. This was not a dress designed for function. “Bought it from Alisi last year. She got the better end of that deal, but there was nothing to be done. Faiva wanted it too much.”
“Who’s that?”
“One of my sisters. Excuse me a moment.” She went to the room’s doorway, where a young man in plain linen had just arrived and now waited patiently.
As they spoke in Icori, Jago told me, “They also have a third sister who co-rules with them.”
“What do you mean, co-rules with them? Is she . . .” I glanced over my shoulder, still in awe of Orla’s transformation. “Is she a queen?”
“Not exactly. Maybe sort of a princess? Eh, that seems too formal. The Micnimaras have been the ruling clan in Kerniall for decades. Technically, their mother’s the clan leader, but she’s been sick a number of years and turned the power over to them. You didn’t know?”
“How would I? I thought she was a hunter when I first saw her. Later, I thought maybe a roving trader like you instead. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“I thought it must have come up in traveling! You never asked about it.”
“Of course, how silly. Next time I’ll be sure to find out if a random person I meet is a bloody princess!”
“Are you guys arguing?” Orla asked. She returned to the fire and flounced onto the sofa in a very unprincesslike way, stretching her legs out on a low glass table that appeared to be Osfridian.
I sat down on the other sofa gingerly, hoping my traveling clothes weren’t too dirty. “No. Jago keeps forgetting to tell me things, that’s all.”
“Really? And here I thought Jago never had a problem talking. You can take your coat off, if you want. Just toss it over there.”
“No, thanks. I’m still warming up.”
“Tamsin’s never warm enough,” Jago explained from the other side of the room. He’d wandered over to examine some of its eclectic art co
llection. The stony walls displayed everything from an enormous aquatic-themed tapestry to a sheet of copper etched with rudimentary flowers to a Sirminican-style oil painting of a white-haired man and his dog.
“Well, then come over here and help her turn that couch toward the fire—it’s heavier than it looks. No, really. Move it wherever you like, I don’t care. If anyone complains, I’ll just tell them you’re uncouth Osfridians who don’t know any better.”
This Orla was starting to feel a little more like the mocking one I’d traveled with on the Quistimac. When she was satisfied with my sofa’s position, she urged us both to sit and tell her “everything that’s led to this point.” Between us, Jago and I managed to piece together a recap of what had befallen me since she’d left me in Constancy. Partway through our story, the servant returned and filled up the glass table with platters of what I learned the Icori called “conversation dinner”: sage crepes, venison sausage, dried currants, hazelnuts, and four kinds of cheese.
Our story concluded with the reveal of Alan’s coat, and Orla was quick to understand the implications—even if she wasn’t sure she believed them. “That was certainly no sanctioned group that robbed you, though there was talk of retaliation after the Ipaeron fields were burned.”
I looked to Jago for an explanation, and he said, “Upriver a bit, the Ipaeron clan have oat and wheat farms—huge ones. It’s a big revenue source. In the summer, lots of Icori live out there and work, but they abandon it in the winter. A few months ago, all the buildings—homes and storage—were burned to the ground.”
“No one was hurt, but they’ll lose a lot of their growing season rebuilding in the spring,” Orla added. “That’s lost money for them and lost food for us. They didn’t catch the men who did it, but witnesses saw them leaving the fields. They were Osfridians—all dressed in dark, plain clothes.”
I knew firsthand that the Heirs had no qualms about engaging the Icori, but I had a very hard time imagining them doing it in that sort of way. “Are you sure they were Osfridian? If Lorandians could dress up like Icori, couldn’t they just have easily dressed up like Heirs?” I asked.
“I would think so,” said Jago.
“I suppose so too, but why?” asked Orla. “Your people have trouble with the Lorandians, but we’ve always gotten along. We trade with Lo Canne all the time. And the Lorandians have even been in talks with the southern clans for land.”
That was news to me, startling for a number of reasons. But my mind was on the nature of these Icori and Osfridian skirmishes. When we first met, Orla had hinted at others having taken place over the winter, and Jago had later told me how they all were like the robbery and burning. Nothing large, no serious injuries. No leader claiming responsibility or making demands. The attacks weren’t insignificant, but they also weren’t on a grand enough scale to trigger definitive retaliation. Constancy’s desire to outlaw Icori from Grashond was the most serious reaction thus far.
“It’s just such a bizarre and convoluted tactic if the Lorandians are behind it.” Orla pushed back her billowing sleeves to top off her wine. “I’ll have to talk to Faiva and Stana. I don’t care what games Lorandy wants to play with Osfrid—sorry—but we aren’t going to be a casualty of it. I just hope I can convince others—I can already imagine the responses of some of my advisors. You’re lucky your leadership job was temporary, Tamsin. Who knows what they’d be badgering you about if you hadn’t escaped them?”
She meant it as a joke, as she did so many things, and her gaze was already turned inward, mulling over how to handle the Lorandian mystery. But guilt gnawed at my insides as I thought about the other girls still in Constancy, still under Dinah’s thumb and the town’s judgment for two more months. Had they had been punished for more minor infractions? What if my escape had made things worse for them? Stricter rules or punishment by association?
As I agonized over that, Orla gave her blessing for Jago to bring me south. She also confirmed I could stay in this mini-castle until then. Just over a week, and I’d be on my way back to the Glittering Court.
“Well, feel free to relax now,” she told us, standing up and smoothing the dress. “I need to see if Stana’s back for the night. I’ll have the servants make up . . .” She glanced between us uncertainly. “One room . . . two rooms . . . ?”
“Two,” Jago and I said at the same time, each of us pointedly looking away from the other.
Orla shrugged. “Okay, suit yourselves. If you’re always cold, it seems like it’d be warmer having someone else around.”
Orla bid us good night and issued orders to her servants. One of them, a young woman with hair even lighter than Jago’s, let us know the rooms were being made up and that she’d be waiting in the hall if we needed anything. She left us too, and then we were alone by the hearth, wrapped in an awkward silence that had fallen after Orla’s well-meaning suggestion about sharing a bed.
“You know, I really thought you knew,” he said at last. “About her. Or at least knew she was someone important.”
I surveyed the remnants of our dinner and picked up another crepe. “I figured she had influence, to be able to make those decisions about the river trip. But Icori princess never crossed my mind. I guess that explains why her Osfridian is so flawless.”
“Yup, tutors and such.”
“How did you get so friendly with her? It was before the medicine, right?”
“Right. I helped her procure some Evarian horses that would be pretty much impossible for the Icori to get otherwise. In exchange, she gave me some pretty favorable trade terms.”
I slumped back against the sofa, still dejected over Orla’s comment about escaping my friends. Jago, in that way of his, guessed my thoughts.
“You didn’t abandon the others. They’ll be okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know they’re competent. I know they’re smart. They wouldn’t have made it through the Glittering Court if they weren’t. But that’s not always enough in Constancy. Look what happened to Vanessa. Look what happened to me! I’m so worried there’ll be more of that or worse. But what I can do? I have to be in Cape Triumph in two months.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and rested my face in my hands. “That’s nonnegotiable.”
“Then that’s what you’ll do.” He drew me back and wrapped his arms around me. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Careful.” I started to pull away. “What will Orla think?”
“Orla already knows.”
“How?”
“Because she’s Orla. You don’t survive in her position without being observant.”
I leaned against him and sighed. Being next to him like this made me feel as though everything really would be okay. Not because he’d fix things for me, but because I was reminded of the good in my life and why I had to fight for it. I won’t admit defeat again.
Footsteps at the doorway made me jerk away, and I looked up, expecting to hear our rooms were ready. But it was Orla who returned, a handful of servants trailing her. All wore astonished looks.
“Word apparently travels fast,” Orla said drily. “You’ve been summoned by Shibail.”
Jago jumped to his feet. “I’ll go right away.”
“Not you.” Orla nodded at me. “Her. But you may go along.”
This drew speculative stares from the other Icori, and I hated being the only one who didn’t know what was going on. “Who’s Shi-Shibail?”
“Come on, and you’ll find out,” Jago said. “I swear, there’s never a dull moment with you.” He glanced at Orla. “Are you coming too?”
She crooked us a smile. “I’m not special enough. I wasn’t summoned. I’ll have someone escort you to the Well, though I’m sure you remember the way, Jago. Good luck.”
With those ominous words, she swept away, and the blonde Icori girl bowed deferentially to us. After donning our coats and cloaks
again, we followed her out of the keep and began the trek down the hill of Kerniall. It was evening now, and the wind had grown even more bitter.
“The Well is where you told the Lorandians I’d come from, right?” I asked. “It’s a holy place?”
“Yes. Have you ever heard of the Predecessors?”
“No.”
“Then you probably don’t know that the Balanquans weren’t the first people in Adoria?”
“What? No.”
“Yes.” He grinned at my shock, which was caused almost more from not knowing something about Adorian history than about the fact itself. “No one—not even the Balanquans—knows that much about them or where they went. All that’s left of them are relics and ruins, but even the fragments they left behind are pretty impressive. The Icori believe the Predecessors were gods who prepared this land for them, and they credit the artifacts with magical powers. The Balanquans will tell you—in a helpful but haughty way—that the Predecessors were simply more advanced and had techniques none of us had discovered.”
The information made me reel. “How have I never heard of this?”
“It isn’t widely known in the colonies, probably because most of the sites and relics are in Balanquan or Icori lands. And I think Osfridians who have seen them assume it was all made by the Balanquans since they confiscated nearly every known Predecessor object found. The Balanquans don’t do much with the ruins, though, which the Icori see as sacred places. So, the Balanquans let them set up shrines and maintain them.” He paused as we stepped aside for a passing wagon. “Anyway, the Well is one of those shrines. It’s pretty remarkable.”
When we reached the bottom, another Icori was waiting for us, with a much smaller sleigh than Jago’s. We climbed on and rode northwest of the city. I couldn’t make out much in the fading light, but the driver seemed sure and relaxed about the way. The land turned sharply upward, growing very steep very quickly. We continued on for about twenty more minutes and then reached a stony outcropping blocking our way. It stretched on, like a wall, as far as I could see to my left and right.