A House Divided by Nicole Ciacchella (the giving tree read aloud txt) 📕

blow, and he hadn't been able to countenance it. He knew what it was to feel alone in the world.

"You didn't come before I had to go, but I did leave a message for you."

"I never got it," she said, the pain in her voice as fresh as if the parting had happened the day before rather than almost a decade ago.

"I'm sorry for that, I truly am."

"No, you needn't apologize," she said, turning to gaze out the window, hiding her face from him. She seemed about to say more, but then she abruptly changed the topic.

"I need to talk to you about what happened to Toran Stowley," she said.

"What happened to Toran Stowley?" he asked, finding her choice of words odd. She made it sound as though something had been done to him rather than his death having been self-inflicted. "Do you have information to share?"

He wasn't certain how to play this. She appeared to be seeking his assistance, but he had no idea where she fit into the bigger picture of the political situation in her House. All indications were that she and Captain Stowley were quite close, and yet here she was, skulking to Kila's lodgings under cover of night, seeking a covert conversation with him. What was her angle?

"No," she said, then she shook her head and amended her statement. "I don't know."

"You're not giving me much to go on. I can't be of assistance without understanding the nature of your concern."

With a frustrated sigh, she turned back to him. "I don't know how to feel about this."

"About what?"

"This trust I seem determined to place in you," she said, surprising him with her forthrightness. "I was a child when you knew me last, and so many years have passed since then, yet… When I saw you at the assembly, I felt like I had finally found someone in whom I could confide."

He watched her struggle with her emotions. Her words should have put him on his guard all the more, and yet her confusion seemed so sincere. Utilizing only the subtlest of physical clues, a scrap of paper here, a vase put back two inches from where it should have been, a blade that had been cleaned with just a bit too much care, he could determine how a crime had been committed. Putting together human cues and signals was not his area of expertise, and he had long ago learned to rely on what he saw, not what he felt. Feelings were for Intentionists. Cold, hard facts and evidence were for Enforcers. Yet here he was, wanting to place stock in feelings.

"You can confide in me," he said, and even as he spoke the words he felt as though he were being pulled into a vortex. Whatever this was he was doing, it seemed he was determined to do it by leaping in with both feet.

 

 

Chapter 11

 

 

 

Kila's words lifted the weight of the enormous burden Cianne had been carrying for the past several years, and she sagged with relief. She was no fool, and she trusted that her instincts were decent, but knowing this and trying to square it with her emotions was something different. Despite that she had long felt like an outsider, ostracized by those who looked down on her because she wasn't an Adept, Staerleigh was still her House. The loyalty that had been ingrained in her since birth tugged at her, crept into her thoughts when she least expected it, made her question everything she observed and heard. She had written her worries off for years, telling herself that her House was simply doing what it had always done: working to secure its position. But things felt different of late, and she couldn't shake the impression that she was on the cusp of uncovering something monumental, that what she had learned about House Staerleigh thus far was but a small portion of what lay hidden beneath the surface.

Before Kila's return, she had lacked an ally with whom she could discuss her suspicions. Before Kila's return, she had lacked a great many things about which she had tried and failed to train herself not to think. She knew she ought to be cautious, but she was so very tired of feeling alone, and with him she had never felt alone.

"It's a long story," she told him, rubbing her weary eyes. Sapped of her tension, it would seem she had also been sapped of her strength, and she felt so tired she longed to curl up and sleep and sleep. She wasn't certain she had truly felt the impact of her new reality yet. Toran Stowley was gone, forever.

"Please, sit. I'll make us some tea."

A faint smile lifted her lips. "I always was fond of your tea."

He smiled in response. "But not my attempts at cooking."

Laughter burst from her, taking her by surprise. "Not that, no," she agreed.

She watched him move about his kitchen, eyes drinking in his graceful motions. As a child she had spent hours marveling over his fluidity, wondering if she would ever learn to move as he did. It was as if he were preternaturally aware of everything in his surroundings, which she supposed was the case, given his Enforcer abilities. Even so, she'd never thought Burl particularly graceful. Canny, deliberate, and exceedingly difficult to deceive, yes. Graceful, no.

The years appeared to have been kind to him, if not mentally at least physically. He had been tall when she had known him before, his body lean and solid. He had filled out more in the intervening years; though he wasn't as bulky with muscle as a Battle Master, his power was evident in his taut arms, his controlled movements. He wore his sable hair longer than he had in the past, but he still tied the wavy strands back in the familiar, neat queue, which now hung between his shoulders rather than brushing over them. His eyes were even darker than his hair, a deep black that could be soft and warm or penetrating at turns. Tawny-skinned, he had high, strong cheekbones, an aquiline nose, a nicely formed mouth, a somewhat prominent brow, and a square chin. She had contemplated these features many times as a twelve and then thirteen-year-old, her initial girlish admiration for him blossoming into something that had confused her.

His face was the same and yet different. Age had improved his features, leaving them more chiseled than they had been when he was eighteen, as if he hadn't been fully formed then. She supposed she hadn't been either.

That face had filled her dreams and many of her waking moments for the last nine years, though the inexorable passage of time had eroded away the details until she'd been left with no more than an impression. She'd had no likeness of him as an adult other than what she had carried in her head, and her eyes were eager, hungry to fill in the blanks left by time.

"You've continued practicing the deshya," he said as he came to sit across from her, setting down a tray bearing his teapot and two cups. He'd added a plate of grapes, a few slices of cheese, and some olive-studded rolls. Her stomach growled, making her aware that she was famished.

"I have," she said. Unable to stop herself, she reached out and ran her fingers over his teapot. He'd told her once it had belonged to his mother. The cobalt glaze was smooth to the touch, pebbled by the stoneware underneath it.

"I've managed to keep it in one piece all these years," he said, noticing her gesture.

"It's strange, seeing you again," she said, the words slipping out.

He nodded and looked self-conscious. "I'm sorry I didn't recognize you."

With a soft smile, she said, "I'm not, not entirely. There's a reason why I never gave you my true name. I didn't want you to know who I was. And it's understandable that you didn't recognize me. I wasn't much more than a child the last time you saw me. I've changed."

"Yes, you have," he said, the words unreadable. "Why didn't you want me to know who you were?"

"For once I wanted to be someone other than Cianne Wyland of House Staerleigh. I wanted to just be me. I was tired of my role in the House defining me."

He seemed uncertain what to do with her blunt words. She was taking a leap of faith with him, trusting that what she said wouldn't get back to the Elders. It might be foolish of her, but if she was going to talk to anyone, he seemed the best candidate.

"Why did you come to me?" he asked. He poured the tea but kept an eye on her as he did so.

Accepting the cup he handed her, she wrapped her hands around it, warming them. "You're an outsider. You've been away from Cearova and the trade Houses' influence for some time, and even when you were last here, you weren't subject to their influence."

"How do you know?" he asked, seizing his turn to be blunt.

She would give him the truth, all of it, even if it didn't paint much of a flattering portrait of her. "I followed you. I listened. I went places I wasn't supposed to go."

"And still do, I'd wager." He lifted his brows.

"Yes, I still do," she admitted. "And that's why I'm here. I don't have any evidence to lay at your feet, but something is off. Something has been off since before Toran's death." Her voice cracked as she said his name, and she swallowed. Sipping her tea, she tried to collect herself. The scent of it, the fondly remembered spice and vanilla flavor, helped soothe her.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't believe Toran would have done this to himself. He showed no signs of any such inclination. Things were going well for him. The Elders put great stock in his advice. He made it his business to learn everything there was to know about trade conditions. He developed advantageous connections within House Mallay and House Rolland, gathering all the data he could find. His recommendations as to which goods our ships ought to carry earned Staerleigh—and, by extension, the other Houses—a great deal of money."

"Professional success doesn't equate with happiness," Kila said. He wasn't questioning her, but he was challenging her to consider all the angles and to offer proof to back her argument, making it clear she had his full attention.

"No, it doesn't, but I mean to illustrate that he had no reason to be despondent on that point. All indications were that his star would continue to rise."

"Very well. But what about his personal affairs?"

"Again, I can think of no reason why he might have been depressed. He was almost universally loved in the House, and not just because of his business acumen. He was one of the kindest people I knew, and he was blessed with the type of disposition that prompted him to find the bright side of every situation, and the good in everyone. Moreover, Lach had just returned from a long voyage."

"He was close with his son?"

"Yes, very. Lach's return was a surprise. He wasn't due back for a couple of weeks, but he said conditions were favorable and he had a very profitable journey. Toran would have wanted to celebrate that fact with him. He was delighted to see his son and thrilled about Lach's success, which he cared more about than his own."

"He had aspirations for his son?"

"Everyone does," Cianne said, her voice tightening. "Lach is House Staerleigh's golden son."

"I was under the impression you were friends with him," Kila said,