Breath of Angel (23 page)

“You may sleep easily, then,” said Livia. “You’ve sensed Jarrod keeping watch.”

Dawn’s light splotched high boughs and trickled down tree trunks in the early morning chill. Melaia could no longer sense Jarrod’s presence as she, Livia, Trevin, and Pym trekked south through the woods.

What she did sense was the sibilant tree sound.
Save us. Save us
. She frowned. This was no echo of her thoughts. Could the trees be expressing their own thoughts?
Save us. Save us
. Could a death-prophet sense the dying of nature? She halted, gazing up at the autumn-bare, interlaced branches. Was nature waiting for Dreia’s daughter to take her mother’s place as Archon?

“Melaia?” Livia called from the top of a hill. “I can see Gil’s stead from here.”

Melaia stroked a gnarled tree trunk, then ran to catch up. Pym and Trevin waited just over the rise. Together they all walked a cow path downhill toward a road that skirted a pond.

As they neared the road, a rig rattled around the bend, driven by a big-eared, bush-bearded dwarf. The rig clattered to a stop in front of them, and Gil grinned, holding three fingers to his chest. “Climb in, friends, and I’ll carry you to
my
palace! Jarrod said you’d be coming. Said there’d been trouble.”

Melaia glanced at Trevin, clamped her jaw, and climbed in. His eyes met hers, and he looked sheepish as he eased into the bed of the wagon.

“We’ve seen a great deal of trouble.” Livia gracefully settled herself beside Melaia. “We’ll tell you about it as soon as we’re safe.”

“You’re in no danger here,” said Gil as Pym took a seat beside him. “Leastways, nothing has periled us yet.”

“I may
bring
you trouble,” said Melaia. “It seems to follow me these days.”

“Better to face trouble with friends than without, eh?” Gil circled the wagon around and headed back down the road.

Melaia looked away. Facing trouble with friends was one thing.
Bringing
trouble to friends was another matter altogether.

Gil and Pym talked, low and friendly, as they rambled down the road past stubbled fields and low stone fences. Livia gazed behind them, deep in thought. Trevin rubbed his right hand, tensely silent, now and then glancing at the sky. For draks, Melaia thought. Did he want draks to show up or not?

“Eyes sharp now,” Gil said, “and you’ll see my stead.”

Off the road ahead lay a long, low shed. Two cart wheels and a wagon tongue leaned against the wall, and an upturned wagon lay nearby. As Gil drove around the far side of the shed, a whitewashed house with windows made of wagon wheels came into view. Its domed roof reminded Melaia of the temple in Navia, but it was much smaller. A white dog with brown patches bounded over a stone fence and raced to greet them.

“Behold Bram, master of the family.” Gil laughed. Bram trotted alongside them, his tongue lolling out in a dog grin, all the way to the front of the house.

“Is this Stillwater?” asked Melaia.

“Thinking of the signpost at Omen Crossing?” Gil helped her down from the wagon. “Stillwater’s a bit south of here.” He angled his bushy head
toward Trevin. “But I see your omen came true.” He chuckled and headed to unharness his horse.

Melaia glanced at Trevin, climbing down from the wagon with Pym’s help.
Whatever you spy first at the crossing is the omen for your journey
. She wondered when her journey would be over. She wondered if she wanted it to be.

The smell of fresh wheat cakes drifted from Gil’s door and drew them all inside to a table laid with a bowl of blackberries, a jar of cream, and a dish of butter. At the end of the table sat Jarrod, popping berries into his mouth.

“Welcome,” he said. “I trust you had safe passage from Redcliff.” He flipped his horse tail of hair over his shoulder.

“We did.” Livia chose a stool. As everyone settled around the table, Gil’s aproned wife, Gerda, marched in with hot wheat cakes, her fair, red-cheeked face broadening in a smile.

Jarrod shot a stern look at Melaia. “I told you not to go to Redcliff, didn’t I? I told you it was unwise.”

Melaia scowled at him. “Good morning to you too.” She took some berries. “I happen to have discovered where Hanni and the girls are. And I rescued Livia.
You
didn’t do that.” She bit into one of the tart, seedy fruits.

“Because
you
didn’t wait for me.”

“
You
never came,” said Melaia. “We all could have withered away and died in Redcliff.”

Jarrod snorted. “I did come. As it happens, I fought fire and its aftermath in the Durenwoods, then—”

“Wodehall.” Melaia sat alert. “Did it burn?”

“The trunk’s blackened,” said Jarrod. “The odor of smoke is suffocating. Otherwise the tree is whole, and the woods will recover. Esper and Noll were more distressed for you than for Wodehall.”

“Thank the Most High.” Melaia took the wheat cake Gerda passed to her.

“Back to my tale,” said Jarrod. “I learned that the harp was on its way to Qanreef—perhaps both harps. And, yes, the priestesses too. So when I found out you were all right—”

“All right?” Melaia gaped at him. “It’s all right that I was hounded day and night by Zastra, that crazy crone, not knowing whether I would ever be free again?”

Jarrod calmly buttered a wheat cake. “I discovered from acquaintances in Redcliff that you were all right. So I went to Qanreef to take advantage of the fact that the harp was being moved. Thinking it might not be as carefully watched, I hoped to find a chance to get it back.”

“What about Hanni?” asked Melaia.

“I was looking for harps,” said Jarrod. “But I imagine the priestesses are all right.”

“Harps are more important to you than priestesses?” asked Melaia.

Jarrod glanced up at her and took a bite of wheat cake.

“Did you get the harp, then?” Livia asked him.

Melaia stared at Livia. Were the harps more important to her as well? Didn’t these angels realize the trouble Hanni and the girls were in? Didn’t they have hearts?

“Couldn’t get near the harp,” said Jarrod. “Lord Rejius swept it into the palace under a double guard of malevolents and hid it under some kind of enchantment. But he’s not hiding the fact that he has the harps. ‘Mage-harps,’ he calls them. That rumor has traveled far and wide.”

“To excite people, no doubt,” said Pym. “Awe them so they don’t whine when he takes the throne.”

“Needless to say, I’m not awed.” Jarrod dabbed a cloth to his mouth. “When I realized I was of no use in Qanreef, I journeyed north, fought a malevolent to get into Redcliff, and worked my way to the tower room. Only to find the queen mother snoring in her chair.”

“You must have arrived shortly after we left,” said Livia.

“Must have,” said Jarrod. “I ranged wide of Redcliff and finally sensed you heading south.”

Livia laughed. “You must admit Melaia is quite resourceful, getting us out on her own.”

A hint of a smile played around Jarrod’s eyes. “It was a clean piece of work, lady. Well done. You still have the book?”

“I do.” Melaia glanced at Trevin, who was helping himself to wheat cakes at the other end of the table. She suspected the spy in him noted every word they said.

Jarrod studied him. “Have I seen you before, sir?”

“I told you about Trevin as we left Aubendahl,” said Melaia.

“I remember. You also said he taught you to use a knife.” Jarrod raised an eyebrow at Melaia.

She reddened and looked away from Trevin’s roguish smile, the same smile he had given her on the road to Redcliff.

Gil, finished with his horse, pulled up a stool and took a stack of wheat cakes.

Jarrod wagged a finger at Trevin. “I remember you now. I was priest at Redcliff before Lord Rejius banished me. You were his lackey. You and your brother.”

Everyone stopped eating. All was quiet, as though they had come to a long rest in a song. Gil’s bushy eyebrows met in a frown, and Gerda paused, her pitcher poised over his empty cup. Livia shot a look of caution at Jarrod. Pym stopped chewing and eyed Trevin. Melaia glanced back and forth between priest and kingsman.

Trevin sat straight and noble as if he were blameless. “I’ve fallen out of Lord Rejius’s favor.”

“Gil,” said Jarrod, “didn’t you say you had some planks to plane?”

“Out in the wagon shed.” Gil dusted crumbs from his beard.

“Good.” Jarrod nodded at Trevin. “Let’s you and I put our hands to good use for our host.”

“Trevin has a wounded side,” said Livia.

“Then maybe he’ll tell me how he was wounded.” Jarrod ushered Trevin outdoors.

The whole room seemed to let out its breath slowly. Gerda refilled their cups.

“Jarrod’s a wise one, eh?” said Gil. “He’ll sort out the pegs from the pebbles.”

“It’s time someone sorted it out,” said Melaia. “Trevin is a betrayer.” She took her last bite of wheat cake. It was thick and dry and had a bitter edge.

Livia took a sip of cider. “In the dungeon Pym and I learned that Trevin’s father died of an illness when Trevin was nine and Dwin was four. Their mother was with child at the time, but both she and the baby died in the birthing, leaving Trevin to find food and shelter for himself and his younger brother.”

“Which they found,” said Melaia, “when Lord Rejius took on the role of father.”

“That, I don’t believe,” said Livia. “Hear the full story before you pass judgment, Chantress.”

“Trevin was caught stealing food,” said Pym. “I’ve helped Main Undrian bring thieves to justice, I have, and I can tell you, thieves are always hanged. Even young ones.”

Melaia cringed at the thought of a child being hanged.

“As it happened,” said Livia, “Lord Rejius caught Trevin. He gave him a choice: be hanged or come to the palace as a spy and thief in the hawkman’s service.”

“Not much of a choice, eh?” Gil shook his head.

“We think either his mother or father was Angelaeon,” said Livia.

“That makes his tale true?” Melaia asked. “I happen to know he’s quite a good liar.”

Livia raised her eyebrows. “He had no reason to lie to us. Besides, I heard truth in his voice.”

“He’ll betray us,” said Melaia, irked that Livia could discern truth in Trevin’s voice when she herself was so gullible she couldn’t tell his truth from his lies. “He’s probably spying for Lord Rejius even now.”

“How did Trevin end up in the dungeon?” asked Pym, running his fingers through his hair. “Tell me that.”

Melaia shrugged. “Lord Rejius was angry at him. But don’t you see? Trevin
could easily get back into the hawkman’s good graces by bringing him a certain book. Or an entire company of Angelaeon, including Dreia’s daughter.”

Livia held her cup of cider in both hands, swirled it around, and stared into the steam that drifted from its surface. “The way Trevin tells it, he didn’t want to involve you. Or to purchase a harp, for that matter.”

“Then why did he?” Melaia crushed a blackberry under her thumb in her wooden bowl, then tried to mop up the juice with wheat cake before it stained.

“Lord Rejius makes it terribly hard to refuse orders,” said Livia. “What would you do if he threatened to turn your younger brother into a drak if you didn’t do his bidding?”

Melaia folded her arms and scowled at the blackberries as if it were their thorns that pricked her. She knew Livia was right. She was ready to give up Dreia’s book to save Hanni and the girls.

Pym dumped berries into his bowl and poured on cream. “If I saw it right,” he said, “Trevin was trying to save
you
when Lord Rejius raised his staff to strike. Trevin took your blows.”

“I don’t deny that,” said Melaia, “but don’t you see? It’s just as Livia said. Lord Rejius still holds Trevin’s brother, Dwin. So where do you think Trevin’s loyalty lies? You may be able accept him, but I can’t. The risk is too great.”

Livia’s eyebrows arched. “What risk? The risk that you may realize Trevin cares for you … and you care for him?”

“I don’t …” Melaia gaped at Livia. “I
can’t
!” She stood, her hands in fists, her voice rising. “You don’t understand. I
saw
Trevin in the service of Lord Rejius, bearing his signet ring, wearing the red cloak. Trevin used me, almost killed me, almost had me turned into a drak.” Her anger boiled over at these angels who didn’t see the real tragedy unfolding in Qanreef: helpless priestesses in the vindictive hands of the Firstborn. “Hanni was right,” she said, gruffer than she intended, but she barreled on. “Angels can take care of themselves and their own affairs. You have no hearts.”

But you are one of them
, a voice in her head whispered.

She swatted it away and stormed out of the house.

M
elaia stomped down the road toward Stillwater, trying to walk off her anger. She intended to go only a short distance, just to a place where she could think without the presence of angels to sway her.

With every footfall she was free, free, free. Except she wasn’t. She was still Dreia’s breath of angel, blood of man. Hanni and the girls were still captives. And Trevin. What to do about Trevin? Melaia’s feelings built up within her like thunderheads on a stormy day.