A Magic of Dawn (44 page)
Authors: S. L. Farrell
“Let me talk to this ci’Santiago,” Erik continued. He pushed off from the wall, coming toward her with his arms opened. She allowed his embrace but did not return it. His voice was a low growl in her ear, his Magyarian accent more pronounced than usual. “Or give me command of the Garde Kralji in his place. I have experience commanding an army, my love. I can tell them how to take down this Morel. Let me help you, Allesandra, as you have helped me.”
I have seen your vatarh command his army, and I have watched him go down to defeat . . .
She did not say that. Instead, she allowed herself to relax in his arms. “Talk to him if you’d like,” she told him. “Tell him that I’ve asked you to consult for me. But do nothing without telling me first.”
She did not say that. Instead, she allowed herself to relax in his arms. “Talk to him if you’d like,” she told him. “Tell him that I’ve asked you to consult for me. But do nothing without telling me first.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I will do that. Immediately.” He kissed her again and released her, striding quickly toward the bedroom. He paused there a moment, looking back at her. “We make good allies, you and I,” he said. “Perhaps even of the more permanent variety, eh? We don’t
need
the damned Firenzcians.”
need
the damned Firenzcians.”
It did not seem to occur to him that she herself was Firenzcian. He left the room. She could hear him dressing, humming some Magyarian folk tune.
He was right, she knew. She had to act, and forcefully. But the prospect did not please her.
Nor, at the moment, she was afraid, did Erik.
T
HE ENCAMPMENT WAS LOUD, dirty, and malodorous. It stank of horses, mud, men, and fires; it boomed with orders, curses, laughter, and a seemingly eternal hammering of smithies. The tents of the Firenzcian army covered a rolling field not far from the Nessantican border town of Ville Colhelm. The field might once have been lush and beautiful, dappled with grass and wildflowers. Now it was a muddy, torn mess rutted with makeshift lanes between the canvas ramparts of a portable city. It was impossible to stay clean here. Just walking to the kitchen tents caked Rochelle’s legs halfway to the knee. A midden had been set up downwind of the encampment, but on still days, one could catch the odor of rot and filth.
HE ENCAMPMENT WAS LOUD, dirty, and malodorous. It stank of horses, mud, men, and fires; it boomed with orders, curses, laughter, and a seemingly eternal hammering of smithies. The tents of the Firenzcian army covered a rolling field not far from the Nessantican border town of Ville Colhelm. The field might once have been lush and beautiful, dappled with grass and wildflowers. Now it was a muddy, torn mess rutted with makeshift lanes between the canvas ramparts of a portable city. It was impossible to stay clean here. Just walking to the kitchen tents caked Rochelle’s legs halfway to the knee. A midden had been set up downwind of the encampment, but on still days, one could catch the odor of rot and filth.
The soldiers themselves grumbled about the inaction, fretting over their wait while the offiziers endeavored to keep them busy with maneuvers, with drills and meetings, and with keeping their equipment in order.
But there was tension in the air. They knew that they might be going to war at any moment, and that made everyone here nervous and short-tempered. There was no escaping the foul mood of the soldiers, the chevarittai, or the royal family.
The Hïrzg and Hïrzgin’s quarters were commodious and luxurious, comparatively. There, the muddy ground was covered by rugs, the furniture had been carted from Stag Fall, and paintings were hung on the walls of the several tents which, together, made a traveling “palais” for them. There was a pretense that the royal couple were simply at yet another of their estates—at least for the moment—and the usual routine should be followed despite the circumstances. The small personal staff, under Paulus’ relentless and tedious direction, brought in meals and refreshments, made certain that the tables and chairs were stable despite the rather uneven ground underneath, and that the worst of the mess stayed outside the tents.
The staff was nearly as unhappy as the soldiers. Keeping up the pretense was far harder work than actually being at the palais.
Rochelle grumbled with the rest of them because she knew it was expected, but her efforts were half-hearted. True, she could not avoid Hïrzgin Brie and her suspicious glances, but here the Hïrzgin could hardly fault Rochelle for being around Jan. Her vatarh, for his part, seemed to take a renewed interest in her. He would nod to her if she passed him among the tents, and she often caught him glancing her way as she served the two and their guests—usually Starkkapitän ca’Damont and others of the high-ranking offiziers, as well as the occasional adviser from Brezno.
She hated that. She hated that Hïrzgin Brie invariably noticed, and that it obviously bothered her.
As within the palais, though, she tried to avoid being alone with him. Part of that was the memory of what had happened at Brezno Palais, part of that was to avoid Brie hearing of it and sending Rochelle away. The conflict tore at her. Rochelle wanted to be with Jan, wanted contact with the man who had given her life, yet she was certain that if he knew the truth, if somehow she blurted it out to him, he would deny it. He would be angry. He would want nothing to do with her.
She knew that her matarh’s advice had been right, that she should never have sought him out, yet, knowing that she should leave, she still stayed.
They had been there nearly four days already when Paulus handed Rochelle a sealed letter that had just arrived by fast-rider. “Take this to the Hïrzg,” he told her. “I have to deal with a crisis in the kitchens.”
“But you’re the chief aide. Aide ci’Lawli would have taken it himself . . .” Rochelle started to protest. But Paulus cut her off.
“I don’t care what you think, girl,” he snapped. “Just do it.”
Rochelle bowed as required, and hurried to the Hïrzg’s tents.
The servant stationed at the door to the series of royal tents, set somewhat apart from the others, told her that Hïrzg Jan was in his “private office,” a tent set in the middle of the complex. “And the Hïrzgin?” Rochelle asked.
The man shrugged. “Starkkapitän ca’Damnot invited her to oversee today’s maneuvers down near the river. Said that the men would perform better if they knew she was watching.”
Rochelle nodded and hurried past him. The hubbub of the rest of the encampment was muffled and distantsounding here. She moved through the “rooms” of the palais, seeing no one else about. Rochelle tapped at the board hung by the flap, then went in at Jan’s muttered “Enter.”
He was alone. She noted that immediately. The “office” tent was small, with room for only two or three people. He was seated behind a traveling desk that took up much of the available space, the front painted with ornate battle scenes. Papers and maps were scattered over it, and Jan was poring over them with one hand cupping his forehead. Rochelle thought that he looked worried. “A message from a fast-rider, my Hïrzg,” she said, curtsying and handing him the sealed parchment as he stood up. Jan glanced at it. He gave her a smile.
“Kraljica Allesandra’s seal,” he said. “Wonder what she has to say, eh?” He let the missive fall to the desk as he came around the side. “The rider gave this to you rather than Paulus?”
Rochelle shook her head. He was an arm’s length from her. She could smell the cologne Paulus had put on Jan’s bashta this morning. She lowered her eyes, staring at the tapestry that covered the grass. There were mud tracks from Jan’s boots, smearing across a mountain meadow in which a unicorn pranced—a rug she might well have to clean this evening. The beast’s crown seemed to spear a clump of the mud. Rochelle found herself wondering—strangely—if the mud would come out of the tapestry or if the fibers were to be eternally stained. “Paulus gave the message to me to deliver. He said there was a problem in the kitchens that demanded his attention.”
She could hear the frown in Jan’s voice, though she didn’t look up. “The kitchens are more important than a communication from the Ambassador?” She heard his sigh. “Paulus is no Rance, I’m afraid. I need someone more competent to be my aide. Could that be you, Rhianna?”
Unexpectedly, Rochelle felt his right hand touch her arm, and she gasped, her head coming up. His fingers were gentle around her, but they also did not release her as she started. “So muscular,” Jan said, as if that were what he expected. “Somehow I’m not surprised by that, Rhianna.”
She could feel herself tensing. He was so very close, his face bending above hers, but she didn’t pull her arm away. “I don’t know what you mean, my Hïrzg.”
His hand moved, sliding up her arm past the elbow. His fingers grazed the outside of her breast. “You remind me so much of her,” he said. His hand was at her shoulder now. Then, before she could respond: “I know that the Hïrzgin treats you suspiciously, and I’m sorry for that. But I can handle Brie, if it comes to that. She knows when to . . .” He smiled down at her; his eyes were those of a hawk. “. . . look the other way if she must.”
“My Hïrzg,” she breathed. “I love Emerin . . .”
“Ah, him.” Another smile. “I can guarantee his advancement in the Garde. Maybe even set him on the path to be a chevaritt. He would like that, wouldn’t he?”
She knew then that he would accept no answer but yes, and she could not.
“I’m your daughter,”
she wanted to scream at him, but he would ignore that as well, thinking she was saying it only to stop him. There was an eagerness in his face that she had seen before in men, and it was not a pleasant sight. She tried to pull away from him; his fingers tightened around her arm and started to pull her toward him.
“I’m your daughter,”
she wanted to scream at him, but he would ignore that as well, thinking she was saying it only to stop him. There was an eagerness in his face that she had seen before in men, and it was not a pleasant sight. She tried to pull away from him; his fingers tightened around her arm and started to pull her toward him.
She had no choice. No choice.
She surprised him by letting herself fall into his pull. He laughed, thinking that she was submitting, but her hands had gone to the scabbard at his waist and the ancient leather scabbard there, holding the dagger with the bejeweled pommel. She slipped the weapon from its sheath and brought it up quickly, pressing the double-edged blade against the side of his neck hard enough that he could feel it, that a thin line of blood trickled down from under the dark Firenzcian steel. “Back away,” she told him. “Back away, or I’ll kill you here and now.”
She wondered whether that was at all true, if she would have the resolve to follow through on her threat. It was not what she wanted. She felt tears starting in her eyes, and she blinked hard to clear them, sniffing.
His hands loosened around her. Holding his hands up as if in surrender, he took a step back, but his eyes were laughing and there was a smirk on his lips. She moved with him, keeping the dagger near his throat. “Not a sound either,” she told him. “If you shout or call out, I swear you’ll have a second mouth a moment later.”
“Rhianna . . .” He said her false name quietly. She was neither Rhianna nor Rochelle now; she was the White Stone. The tears had dried up, and her hand was steady on the knife’s hilt. It felt good in her hand, solid and wellbalanced, a piece as deadly as it was beautiful, the ebony handle ancient and much-handled. She glared at him as he stared at her, his hands still up in mocking surrender. She could see him considering whether to snatch at her knife hand; she wondered if he dared that—he was a soldier as well as the Hïrzg, and he had fought many times. Her matarh had told her how brave he was in battle, how good with weapons, how skilled.
If he tried to prove his bravery now, could she kill him? She had attacked the Hïrzg; Rochelle knew neither of them could ignore that, going forward. Her decision had changed everything, irrevocably. She wasn’t certain just how, yet.
“I only want to leave,” she told him, hoping that might make him reconsider his options. “I don’t intend to hurt you.”
He nodded, very slowly. The line of blood touched the collar of his bashta, the fabric blooming red. “Rhianna, I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s too late now,” she told him. “It’s your fault. You’ve made everything impossible.” Suddenly, she lifted the knife from his neck. “I’m your daughter,” she told him. The words rushed out, and she could not stop them. “I’m Elissa’s daughter. The White Stone’s daughter.”
She knew the words would stun him, that it would take him a few breaths to process what she’d told him. She ran, still clutching the dagger. “Wait!” she heard him call after her, but she didn’t wait. She ran through the palais tents that she knew well, knew far better than Jan himself. She slipped into the space between two of the tents, a wellmasked passage she’d found a few days before. She heard Jan call after her—“Rhianna!”—and his footsteps pursuing her, but she was already gone, already slipping out at the rear of the encampment near the line of trees, already slipping into the cover of the trees with his dagger, Jan’s dagger, in the belt of her tashta.
She was the White Stone, and the White Stone knew better than any how to hide, how to escape pursuit, how to change appearance and name at need, how to blend in.
They would not find her. Not if she wished to remain hidden.
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