About A Memory of Summer

  A short novella in the world of the Wraith Kings

  * * *

  Spinsterhood has never bothered or embarrassed the independent Emerence Ipsan, and the winter festival of Delyalda keeps her far too busy managing her father’s shops to worry about matters as trivial as marriage.

  * * *

  Until the arrival of a young Quereci warrior with old eyes and an admiring gaze makes her question that notion.

  * * *

  A MEMORY OF SUMMER is a short novella that takes place in the world of the Wraith Kings series. For those who’ve read the first three books in the series (RADIANCE, EIDOLON, THE IPPOS KING), this storyline takes place after EIDOLON and before THE IPPOS KING. It runs concurrently with events in the novella IN THE DARKEST MIDNIGHT and reintroduces the Wraith king Gaeres.

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2020 by Denise Shaw (aka Grace Draven)

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or business establishments, organizations or locales is completely coincidental.

  Thank you for reading!

  Contents

  A Memory of Summer

  Also by Grace Draven

  About the Author

  * * *

  “I hear Yeoman Percivus is looking for a wife.” Glauca made the announcement as she refilled jars with dried herbs Emerence had sorted for her. “He's a wealthy farmer. He just bought his neighbor's holdings to increase his own.”

  Emerence sighed inwardly as she weighed rosehips on a scale. Her cousin was an unabashed matchmaker. A relentless one as well. “I wish him good fortune. His income will guarantee no lack of candidates interested in becoming the third Madam Percivus.

  Glauca clucked her disapproval at her companion's obvious disinterest. “I've met him. He's pleasant and his children well-behaved. Both of his wives seemed happy. A shame one died in childbirth and the other from lung fever. But that wasn't his fault.”

  Emerence paused in her task to stare at her with a raised eyebrow. “If I didn't already know you were happily married, I'd think you were considering throwing in your ribbon for a chance at becoming the newest Percivus bride.”

  This time Glauca sniffed, as if Emerence's teasing carried a bad scent. She stoppered the jar she'd filled and reached for another. “I would but as you say, I'm married. You, however, are not. Nor are you getting any younger. Yeoman Percivus would be perfect. He isn't in his dotage, already has several children, and has a purse fat enough to keep you comfortable for the rest of your life with no need to birth more children for him.”

  “Sounds glorious,” Emerence said dryly. She loved her cousin and knew Glauca loved her in return. It was why she remained so persistent in her quest to see Emerence married even after others had given up their matchmaking attempts years earlier. Still, there were times, like now, when Emerence found her efforts more annoying than endearing.

  “I'm perfectly content with my life as it is, cousin. I manage two shops, own my own home, and control my time as I see fit.” Emerence sometimes envied the companionship other women of her acquaintance shared with their spouses and offspring, but she'd seen a similar envy of her in the eyes of some of those wives and mothers shackled by the demands of marriage and parenthood. She wasn't afraid of such bonds; she just had no intention of rushing toward them for the sake of avoiding the stigma of spinsterhood.

  “But you're almost seven and thirty!” Glauca all but wailed, as if such a ripe old age heralded Emerence's impending doom.

  Emerence couldn't help herself. She laughed and kept laughing despite Glauca's glare. Once her spate of amusement subsided, she wiped the tears from her eyes. “You say that as if I'm at death's door. I assure you my life will not end at the arrival of seven and thirty.” She uttered the last in a voice pitched low as if another year in her lifespan would thunder past her instead of breeze by as it did every year: hardly marked, barely noticed.

  “Don't you want a husband?” Glauca smacked the cork down on the jar she held and yanked another empty one toward her. “You can't live with your father and Linnett forever.”

  Emerence shrugged, dividing her attention between Glauca's task and her own of pulverizing a batch of nightshade in a mortar with a pestle. “I don't live with them,” she said. “I live next door as you well know, and I never said I didn't want a husband, only that I won't settle for one.”

  “Same thing, Emerence.”

  “No it isn't.” She had no illusions regarding the existence of the perfect man. She just preferred to wait for one who was perfect for her. If he never appeared, well that was a risk worth taking in her opinion.

  The two women fell silent as they continued to work. These were the darkest days of winter, just before the Festival of Delyalda, and those citizens of Timsiora sick with coughs and other lung ailments were numerous. One of the shops Emerence's father owned was this apothecary, and this was its busiest season. Emerence and Glauca had worked long hours already restocking the shelves from the rapidly diminishing inventory of herbs and spices. In the front room where products were displayed and sold, a small army of clerks dealt with a steady stream of customers.

  “I just don't want you to be unhappy,” Glauca finally said, breaking the silence. She opened a pot of glue and fished a paintbrush from her apron pocket.

  Emerence slid her a stack of labels with the names of various concoctions and other herbal combinations written on them. “Do I look unhappy to you?” She was restless at times, more so each year while she lived and worked in the Beladine capital and never went more than a league beyond its walls, but she wasn't unhappy.

  Her question made Glauca frown. “No, but we all hide things from each other.” She lined the labels up in front of their matching jars, turning the first one to paint glue on its surface and affix a label. “I don't want you to be lonely either. All by yourself in your house at night with no one to talk to.”

  If Glauca only knew how much Emerence treasured those hours, she wouldn't worry so much. “I deal with people all day, every day, Glauca. Customers, suppliers, caravans, other merchants. By the time I can escape to my house, I'm desperate for the solitude. You worry for nothing.”

  She hadn't denied being lonely, but everyone experienced loneliness. It wasn't synonymous with solitude. Emerence dealt with her bouts of it by staying busy, so busy that exhaustion kept it at bay, even on those nights when she fell into bed and wondered what it might be like to share the space with a lover and wake to his presence at dawn.

  Thankfully, Glauca let the matter of Yeoman Percivus's bride search drop, and their conversation turned to the idle chatter and gossip that made the drudgery of inventory replenishment less wearisome. They were interrupted not long after by a harried clerk who burst into the stock room, eyes wide, face flushed. “Mae Ipsan,” he said on a gasp, using the informal title instead of the more formal “madam” to address Emerence. “Culkhen Goa is back making trouble out front, and there's a group of Quereci here asking for you.”

  Emerence growled under her breath. Her pity for Culkhen's drunkenness had evaporated when his snake-oil concoctions, sold from the back of his cart, had poisoned a half dozen people. She'd warned folks of the dangers in buying from him, not because he was a competitor but because he was incompetent and dishonest. He blamed Emerence for the loss of his business and had sworn revenge.

  “This is the second time in a week he's come calling,” Glauca said. Her eyes rounded as did the clerk's when Emerence snatched one of the grabber poles leaned against one wall. “What are you going to do with that?”

  “Get rid of a loiterer.” Emerence strode out of the stockroom with her clerk tight on her heels.

  The clerks and customers in the apothecary's storefront only glanced at her as she passed them with her weapon of choice. The apothecary boasted floor-to-ceiling shelves displaying a large selection of jars filled with herbs, unguents, and tinctures. Those who worked in the store often used a grabber pole to reach the items on the highest shelves. This was the first time Emerence had armed herself with one to do battle with a nuisance.

  “Go fetch Guzman,” she instructed the clerk who'd brought her the news of trouble and visitors. “Tell him I'll pay a day's wage for a half day's door duty if he comes now.”

  The boy nodded and shot past her out the door. Emerence followed, nodding and smiling to a few customers who greeted her. She didn't linger, and her hand clenched tighter on the pole as the sound of Culkhen's slurred haranguing reached her ears.

  He stood in the middle of the cobblestone walkway, between the apothecary and the drapery, also owned by Emerence's father. He had his back to the apothecary's doors while he bellowed his complaints to passersby and those who sought to enter the shops. “You'll not want to buy from these thieves,” he yelled into the street. “These Ipsans will take your hard-earned coin and sell you toad guts for a cough and moth-eaten blankets to keep you warm on a winter's day like today.” His glassy gaze returned to Emerence. “Isn't that right, Madam Ipsan?”

  She rolled her eyes. The Ipsan family's reputation as honest traders of quality goods was well-established. A drunkard's claims to the contrary wouldn't harm that reputation. Except for a few gawkers, most people ignored Culkhen and went about their business, but his vexing presence kept potential customers from their doors, and when he clutched the arm of one bolder, would-be visitor, she took action.

  Flipping the pole in her hand so that she held it like a washing bat, she swung, striking Culkhen's backside hard enough to throw him forward. Caught by surprise, he pinwheeled into the street and fell into the muck churned up by wagons, riders, and foot travelers. Those who witnessed Emerence's attack laughed. She did not. Instead, she glared at Culkhen when he flipped over to stare at her with a bewildered expression that swiftly turned ugly.

  “You bitch,” he snarled, rising unsteadily to his feet, his front caked in filth from neck to toes. He took a menacing step toward her.

  Instinct warned her she no longer faced a loud-mouthed albeit harmless drunk, but she gripped the pole tighter and held her ground. If she fled inside, backed away, or showed any hint of weakness or fear, he'd take it as a signal and only increase his harassment.

  “You get one warning, Culkhen,” she said. “Plant yourself here again to disturb the peace, and I'll see to it you take up residence at the Zela. Again.” She had no idea how she'd make such a thing happen, but Culkhen didn't need to know that.

  She must have sounded convincing if the quick flash of fear in his eyes was any indicator. Her triumph was short-lived. His lips peeled back in a feral baring of yellow teeth, and his hands clenched into fists. He staggered closer. Emerence gasped to find her view of her opponent partially blocked by a tall, broad-shouldered figure.

  “You heard Madam Ipsan,” her defender said in accented Beladine. “Be on your way and don't return.”

  Stepping to the side for a better view of both Culkhen and this man, Emerence watched as Culkhen swayed on his feet, blinked slowly and executed an unsteady pivot before lurching away. The show over, the small crowd that had gathered to watch the confrontation dispersed, a few going into the apothecary and the drapery just as Emerence had hoped.

  She released the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding until now and addressed her companion. “I thank you for the intervention, sir. Culkhen is troubled and troublesome.”

  He turned fully to face her. She stared, riveted.

  A Quereci nomad. A strikingly handsome one at that. Made swarthy by the mountain sun, with sharp features that reminded her of a raptor bird, he stood out among the pallid Beladine crowds like a memory of summer, beautiful and brief in these climes. She guessed him to be in his late twenties, though it was hard to tell. The sun had carved small fans into the skin at the corners of his black eyes. His gaze too seemed older, ancient even, as if he'd witnessed the passing of centuries or stared into a darkness that stared back and showed its fangs.

  Those eyes narrowed as his gaze took in her stance and the grabber pole in her grip. “Have you faced him alone before?”

  She liked his voice, soft around the edges, deep in the middle, as if he rarely spoke loudly, and if he did, others sat up and paid attention. “No. He hasn't been this bold until now. I suspect he learned my father and half our staff are working at the palace today. He must have assumed he'd only have me to deal with.”

  “More fool him then.” The Quereci tipped his chin toward the grabber pole. “You're good with that stick.”

  The hot waterfall of a blush descended from her scalp to paint her cheeks and stain her neck. She was a woman well past the age for awkward blushes and was horrified by her reaction to the compliment. The memory of her clerk's words when he first warned her about Culkhen saved her from a stumbling response. “I was told a group of Quereci were waiting to see me. I'll risk a guess and say that's you?”

  Her champion nodded. He gestured to where a trio of women waited outside the entrance to the drapery. Bundled for winter weather, they waved with gloved hands. Emerence recognized the one who held up a stack of packages to show her.

  “Dahran Omeya!” She strode to the women, leaning in to gently kiss the elderly woman's cheeks and have the same done to her.

  The Quereci woman perused Emerence from head to toe, finally declaring with a frown, “You shouldn't be fighting men in the streets in this weather dressed like that, Mae Ipsan. At least wear a shawl and cap.”

  Emerence laughed. In the many years her father had traded with the Quereci, she'd learned of and grown to admire the fiercely independent mountain nomad women. Dahran Omeya had been their principal contact, and Emerence was always glad to see her. The reminder she stood outside in a harsh winter wind with the threat of snow hanging in the air made her shiver.

  “Come inside,” she said, gesturing toward the drapery's entrance. “There's a fire going in the parlor, and if you've time, I'll serve tea so you can warm up and rest.”

  They followed her into the shop, past the customers inspecting bolts of cloth and tailors either cutting lengths to order or taking measurements, to the very back of the store. Emerence propped the grabber pole against one corner.

  Unlike the apothecary, the drapery was a two-story building with its stockroom upstairs. The back of the ground floor had been turned into a parlor where more genteel business negotiations were made over pots of tea or glasses of spirits Emerence's father, Tocqua, served to his clients.

  The drapery had preceded the apothecary. Tocqua Ipsan was a tailor by trade and expanded from working with cloth to importing and selling it, concentrating on high quality woolens as well as luxury silks and velvets. While the apothecary was redolent with the scents of herbs, spices, and infused oils, the drapery smelled of wool. It was also a warren of smaller rooms with the walls padded in bolts of cloth stacked atop each other to the ceiling.

  The parlor Emerence led her guests to was a comfortable space, kept warm by a fire burning brightly in the hearth, a thick rug on the floor and tapestries on the walls. Chairs had been placed about the room, along with a pair of tables. She invited her visitors to sit and took Dahran Omeya's packages to set them on one of the tables.

  The shop's all-maid darted inside before Emerence could call for her. Her glance swept the room, and she held up a hand in silent question. Five for tea? At Emerence's nod, she disappeared, closing the door behind her.

  “We'll have tea very soon,” Emerence said, growing increasingly uncomfortable under four intent gazes. She nodded to those women seated on either side of Omeya and to their fierce-looking escort with the golden voice who stood behind the elder's chair. “Dahran Omeya may have already spoken of me, but if not, I'm Emerence Ipsan, Tocqua Ipsan's daughter. I was the one who placed the order for a bolt of amaranthine-dyed wool.”

  The order hadn't been for her but for the future aristocratic bride of a high-ranking nobleman who wished to include the costly magenta fabric in his bridal gift to her. The Quereci were renowned for their weavers. Her father hadn't trusted anyone else to make good use of the expensive skeins of dyed wool he'd managed to get his hands on from a merchant who traded with the non-human Kai. He'd almost worried himself into an early grave wondering if he could deliver the promised gift on time. Fortunately, the Quereci had arrived, and if Tocqua's luck held, one of those packages Dahran Omeya had brought contained the prized cloth.

  The two women who'd accompanied Omeya smiled when she translated Emerence's introduction. “This is Dahran Sulti and Dahran Bulava,” she said. She pointed to Emerence's erstwhile defender. “And that is Gaeres, fifth son of the Kakilo clan's chieftain. Sulti is his aunt. He's being considered for the position of council sarsen.” A proud note entered her voice at that last tidbit. She looked as if she wanted to say more but Gaeres's warning glance stopped her.

  Emerence wondered at the interaction but didn't comment. It was neither her business nor her concern. She gave them all a swift bow. “You were very kind to intervene on my behalf earlier,” she told Gaeres. “I thank you.”

  His hair, revealed once he removed his fur-lined hat, was as black as his eyes and fell around his face in tousled waves, tamed at the temples by small braids woven with tiny coins. She'd heard the Quereci people valued their women so greatly it was difficult for a Quereci man to obtain a wife. Emerence doubted this one had any trouble at all and likely had more than one wife waiting for his return to the camps wintering on the plains.

 

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