7 #2

Isolde called his name. The connection turned red for an instant. She felt wind, hunger, and the pain of a wing that had healed badly. She also received a raw emotion directed at her: anger at her absence, fear, and a determination that had spent months seeking its own routes.

The signal vanished before she could answer.

Isolde opened her eyes with tears on her face.

“He’s alive,” she said.

Kaoran rose from the blanket before the hearth.

“Did you see him?”

“I felt his wing. He’s far from Cendral.”

“Where?”

“There was salt wind.”

“The coast is south and west.”

“He’s moving.”

Isolde took the map. She marked the possible routes from mountain to sea. Rheskan might have followed hidden gorges or traveled at night. His wing allowed him to fly, though pain limited the distance. If Varek’s men were pursuing him with blue stones, every contact could expose him.

“I won’t call him again until he opens the bond,” she said.

Kaoran placed another piece of wood in the hearth.

“A good choice.”

“I want to look for him.”

“That can be a good choice too, once we know where to begin.”

The storm lasted four more days.

When the sky cleared, the world had lost its roads, walls, and distances. Isolde climbed onto the roof with a rope. This time, Kaoran stayed below to pass up the loose shingles. She cleared the snow, repaired a crack, and looked south.

She saw no Rheskan.

She left a black stone on the eaves, marked with a red claw.

The wind could erase it. The dragon could pass hundreds of leagues away.

She spent a moment looking at the mark. She had spent the morning working on the roof she had been unable to repair during the thaw.

Now she could get down on her own. The wing she had felt through the bond was still injured somewhere her map left blank.

* * *

In Caleryon, the regency’s second winter began with a celebration.

Darian ordered the river bridge lit and the granaries opened for an afternoon. The criers spoke of stability, victory, and reconstruction. Varek distributed bread among registered families. Each loaf bore a circular mark in its crust.

Aelyn watched the square from the Council balcony.

She had regained the right to move through three palace wings. The Guard followed two steps behind. Her letters were opened, her visits recorded, and every servant entering her rooms appeared on a list afterward. Varek considered that freedom a concession. Aelyn used it as a route.

Neral worked in the archives again under the supervision of two Rhyne scribes.

Orla managed bed linens in the south tower.

Lord Sevran remained confined to his house, though he received reports hidden in wine bills.

Ardan was still alive in the river tower.

The healers alternated his doses to let him wake on some nights.

The three-knot signal had left the palace.

A washerwoman tied threads to basket handles. Boatmen marked three lines beneath the landings. In the eastern districts, bakers left three small cuts in loaves meant for families erased from the census. Each group kept a task, an exit, and a contact.

Aelyn carried the names in her head.

Varek had found three cells during the year. Two scattered before the arrests. The third lost four people. Their names appeared in a transfer register without a destination. Aelyn repeated them every morning as she dressed.

“The regent is waiting for you,” the guard said.

“The regent has spent a year waiting for me to accept his invitations.”

“This time it’s a Council order.”

Aelyn left the square and entered the map room.

Darian was alone. He had dismissed the scribes and placed two cups on the table. He wore a simple jacket, like those he had worn before Cendral. The gesture sought to reclaim an intimacy that no longer had a place.

“Thank you for coming,” he said.

“I came with four guards.”

“I can ask them to leave.”

“They’ll still be behind the door.”

Darian poured tea. He pushed the thinner-rimmed cup toward her, its handle pointing right. Aelyn knew that care. She had watched him prepare a place for Isolde before a difficult conversation.

“Who chose this?” she asked.

He followed her gaze to the Vayren leaves, hard to obtain since the routes closed.

“I remembered you liked them.”

Aelyn turned the handle toward the center of the table.

“You can begin by telling me what you need.”

“The city wants to see you at the celebration. People trust you.”

“And you need them to see me beside you.”

“I want the Council to hear someone capable of arguing with me.”

“You already have Varek.”

“Varek turns every argument into the cost of refusing.”

Darian’s eyes were red-rimmed. Aelyn had read his orders halting some executions, lowering quotas in two districts, and dismissing a captain for torture.

She kept those dates beside the dates of permanent taxes and transfers without destinations.

The same signature ended both sets of pages.

She set her cup on its saucer without tasting the tea.

“You can give up the regency,” she said.

“And leave Varek with the Council, the Guard, and my father’s seal.”

“He has those things because you opened the door.”

Darian gripped his cup.

“I thought I could contain him.”

“Isolde thought she could trust you too.”

The name stayed between them. Darian looked at the map of Cendral.

“I’ve kept scouts in the gorges,” he said.

“You suspended the official search three days after your investiture.”

“Varek controlled the patrols. I sent my own men.”

“Did they find a body?”

“No.”

Aelyn had waited a year for that admission. She held her posture.

“Then the decree is still a lie.”

“The river reached the thermal chambers. No one could have survived.”

“You just said you looked for her.”

Darian walked to the window. The celebration’s lights reflected on the water.

“I needed to know.”

“To bury her or finish the work?”

He closed his eyes.

“You’ve made it clear what you think of me.”

“Good.”

“I hope you’ll help keep the kingdom alive.”

“Begin by giving the families the names of those you transfer. I can bring you a list tonight.”

Darian took out a folder. Inside were grain accounts, winter reports, and a proposal to create a civil council. Aelyn’s name appeared on the first line.

“Accept a seat,” he said. “You’ll have the route and provision records.”

Aelyn turned the pages. The oath of confidentiality was on the last.

“Three weeks as an observer. I want the minutes, the copies, and my vote recorded even when I object. Remove this.”

She pointed to the oath. Darian drew the folder closer.

“Varek will demand that military movements be excluded.”

“Worker transfers will fall under civil routes.”

He held the page for a few seconds before nodding. Aelyn added health and provisions under the same condition. Darian offered his hand when they finished; she took the paper.

“Have Neral draft it.”

She left the room with access that could cost names if she made a mistake.

The network would have to reduce contact while she attended the Council.

Orla would be the only liaison inside the palace.

Neral would pass information through authorized records, so any discovery would look like legitimate work.

In the corridor, a maid stumbled with a basket of coal.

Three pieces rolled to Aelyn’s feet.

The maid picked up two. She left the third facedown, a white line painted on its base. Aelyn stepped on the mark and kept walking. The message meant there was information in the laundry.

She found it sewn inside a towel.

It was a copy of Nydel’s accounts. It showed inflated debts, children included as exemptions, and workers assigned to a red-vein gallery. Someone had stolen the originals, distributed copies, and helped two siblings leave the village.

The Guard’s report blamed a woman named Iria Thennar.

Aelyn read the description: about twenty, dark or red hair beneath ash, a slight limp, two stiff fingers on the left hand, and the ability to kindle fire.

The collector claimed he had heard the heir mentioned at the mill.

The captain dismissed the statement because the man had suffered a blow to the head.

The towel slipped to the floor. Aelyn picked it up quickly, as though someone might enter and ask why she had dropped clean linen.

She read the two stiff fingers again. She thought of the hand Isolde used to push her lists aside and make her eat; the hand she had offered Darian on returning from the greenhouse.

That injury would have happened afterward.

Someone, somewhere, would have needed to hold her cup while she argued to do it herself.

Aelyn folded the sheet along its old creases. The description could fit many women. She tucked the report beneath her sleeve and still took a moment before rising. She wanted to find Iria before another reader reached the same questions.

That night, she visited Neral in the archives as part of her Council preparations. The guards stayed by the door. She opened a tax ledger and pointed to Nydel.

“I want the red stone movements,” she said aloud.

Neral found the corresponding volume. He placed a blank slip inside.

Aelyn wrote three words: track down Iria.

The archivist read them, moved the slip to another page, and continued explaining figures.

“Shipments from the mountains increased over the winter,” he said. “Some go to Arkhe. The restricted records mention Cendral.”

Aelyn underlined both routes.

“I need the worker lists.”

“Councilor Varek classifies them as a defense matter.”

“My agreement includes transfers.”

“It isn’t signed yet.”

“It will be tomorrow.”

Neral closed the book. The slip had disappeared.

The agreement was ready at dawn.

Neral had drafted every condition with a precision uncomfortable for Varek.

Aelyn would receive three weeks’ access, could keep copies of the documents she reviewed, and would have her vote entered in the minutes.

Worker transfers were listed under civil routes.

Darian signed first. Varek read the text so long that the sealing wax began to cool.