Breath of Angel (7 page)

A breeze shivered through the golden trees, stirring their leaves into a restless
Shhhould shhhee? Shhhould shhhee?
Melaia stared at the woods, amazed to hear her own thoughts in the shush of the leaves. She shook her head, attributing the sound to her wild imagination.

Trevin strode to the wagon. Melaia gave him the harp, and Gil handed down her pack.

“Are we in the Durenwoods?” she asked, peering between the trunks into dimmer, deeper woods.

“That’s northwest of us,” said Trevin. “You’ll see the edge of it from Redcliff.”

As Melaia climbed down, Gil said, “Remember Gil and Gerda. Our stead’s north of Stillwater a ways. Always open to friends.” He tapped the seat with three fingers.

Melaia did the same. “Friends,” she said.

For a time she watched Gil’s wagon roll away west. Hanni would be grateful he was leaving, but she felt sad to see him go.

“Ready, Chantress?” Trevin finished securing the harp to the packs on his horse. “The caravansary isn’t far. I’ll walk my mount from here.” He took the reins of his horse, and they headed down the dirt road. “I’ve already ridden ahead and procured us a room.”

“Us? Just you and me?”

“I’m afraid they won’t allow the horse upstairs even if we could get him there.”

Melaia smiled.

“Your priestly cloak will be of some protection to you, as is the king’s insignia on my own,” he said. “But a lady traveling alone, rooming alone, is not safe. The comain in charge of protecting these roads disappeared months ago, likely murdered. Since then, all routes, especially the eastern ones, have become much more dangerous. We’ll travel with a caravan the rest of the way.” He pointed ahead.

Melaia could see where their road widened and ended at the caravan route. A string of laden donkeys plodded south, but at this distance they appeared to be a small carving come to life. A spark of anticipation danced within her. If she could forget she had been treated like chattel, she might dare to call it a feeling of freedom.

She studied Trevin out of the corner of her eye. As an envoy he no doubt felt such freedom every time he journeyed. Except perhaps now.

“You didn’t intend to return to Redcliff with a chantress, did you?” she asked.

His mouth eased into an amused smile. “My orders did not include a chantress.”

“So I’m now a burden to you.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You were the gift of the overlord. I’m simply the envoy. It’s not my place to refuse a gift. So
burden
, I think, is not the proper term.” He grinned. “Perhaps
challenge.”

Melaia smiled at his direct, steady gaze. “It’s a challenge for me as well.”

Together they stepped into the flurry of travelers coursing the broad highway south to Qanreef and north to Redcliff.

Voices clamored, horses clopped, harnesses jangled, and donkeys brayed. Melaia and Trevin joined carts, goat herders, and fieldworkers headed toward Treolli, a walled city on a distant hill warmed by the late afternoon sun. At the foot of the hill stood a stone fortress with latticed windows high in the walls and a double-arched entrance, where a buxom woman with flowing sandy hair held a long spear as if it were a staff.

“That’s our caravansary with the innkeep at the gate,” Trevin called over the din. “Stay close.”

Melaia wove through the crowd with Trevin and his horse. The innkeep studied the travelers entering her domain as if to make sure they were acceptable guests. She nodded at Trevin and smiled at Melaia, who hoped the woman was pleased to shelter a priestess.

They passed through the arches into a square yard open to the sky, surrounded on the upper floor by a walkway and the enclosed rooms of the inn. On the ground level, open stalls lined the walls. These were already overrun with horses, donkeys, and goats as well as travelers. A man was lighting torches on brackets. In the center of the yard, a fire blazed in a shallow pit. Travelers were warming themselves and cooking their evening meals, and the aroma of roasting meat mingled with sweat, smoke, barley beer, and animals.

Trevin handed a coin and the reins of his horse to a youth. Then Melaia followed him upstairs to a small, dark room furnished with two straw pallets and a chamber pot. On the east wall the window’s latticed shutter stood open. While Trevin went to fetch an oil lamp, Melaia closed the lattice, trying to trick her mind into believing it would diminish the chill. Then she dug bread
and cheese out of her pack. Trevin returned carrying not only a lamp but also a skin of wine and two cups. As Melaia handed him some bread and cheese, a cheer went up from the courtyard below.

“We’re in for a noisy night,” said Trevin. “A troupe of actors is staying here. They’ve already begun entertaining in the yard.” He poured wine into the cups.

Another cheer sounded. Melaia took her supper out to the rail overlooking the yard, and Trevin joined her. As they ate, they watched the actors, who juggled and sang and then slipped on masks to pantomime a tale.

In the middle of the tale, there was a commotion at the archways. The innkeep led in four unkempt swordsmen who bore a wounded man on a litter. The audience turned its attention to the newcomers, and the performance trailed to a close as the swordsmen began their own tale. Melaia couldn’t hear the talk, but she could feel the tension in the air. Travelers checked their swords and daggers. Some stationed themselves at the entrance while the litter was laid near the fire. Others stood around and gawked as first one person and then another bent over the wounded man.

Trevin set aside his cup and headed downstairs. Melaia fetched the harp and unwrapped it, thinking he would call for the chantress, but instead he strode to the archway and fell into a discussion with the watchmen.

She carried the harp to the courtyard anyway and elbowed through the onlookers until she reached the wounded man. She could see his spirit edging his body.

Just as she started to offer her aid as chantress, a hand grabbed her upper arm so hard she gasped in pain.

Trevin tugged her back and muttered into her ear, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Melaia pulled her arm free. “The man needs healing music. He might revive.”

Trevin grabbed her again and hurried her toward the stairs. She tried to slip from his grasp, but he held tight. “Don’t call attention to yourself,” he muttered
between his teeth. Not until they were in their room with the door closed did he release her. “Do you value your life at all?” he said. “To thieves, a harp like that is worth slitting your throat in the middle of the night, priestess or no.”

Melaia’s face was hot with anger and shame, and she was glad of the dim light. She jerked the cover around the harp. “I happen to be a death-prophet,” she said, “and I know that man is dying. I can see his spirit departing. I might be of some help.”

“Not this night.” Trevin paced in front of the door, eying her. “You can see spirits?”

“Of the dying.”

“If they’re dying, then playing your harp does no good.”

“Sometimes the dying recover with the music, and their spirits settle back into their bodies. But even if they die, music can ease their passing.”

“A noble thought,” said Trevin, “but one best set aside for tonight.”

“How was the man wounded?” asked Melaia.

“Raiders. Three of the men regularly patrol this stretch of road. The other two are scouts. One of the scouts ran into a Dregmoorian outrider and was nearly cut down before his comrade reached him and joined the fight. He felled the outrider but was too late to help his friend.”

“
I
could have helped him.” Melaia rubbed her arm, feeling completely useless. What good did it do to keep a lifesaving gift hidden? Or to have an angel’s harp and keep it shrouded as if it were dead? It went against her upbringing, her training, her instincts.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” said Trevin, “but that harp does not belong to you. For that matter, as a gift of Lord Silas, you may not even belong to yourself.”

Melaia narrowed her eyes. “I’m not a slave.”

“As chantress serving at Redcliff, you may find little difference.” He poured himself a cup of wine. “But I have a thought. You might keep that harp if you know where I could find another like it.”

Melaia sighed. “I don’t.” She wondered if Benasin did.

“It’s made of kyparis wood,” said Trevin. “Quite rare. You might expect to see something like it in a palace, but at Navia?” He laughed softly. “I’d wager this harp is the only piece of kyparis you’ve ever seen.”

“You think Navia is a backward village, don’t you?” said Melaia. “But it’s not. I’ve seen a cup made of kyparis and a book covered in it as well.”

“Then you’re ahead of me. Not backward at all.” He saluted her with his wine. “I’ll be on the porch. I want to see what’s happening in the yard. That should give you time to ready yourself for sleep. When I come back in, I’ll lie here beside the door. With my dagger.” He slipped out with the cup and wineskin.

Melaia sank to one of the straw pallets, which was thin and moldering. She blanketed herself in her cloak and used her pack as a pillow. The sounds and smells here were frightfully different from those in the peaceful temple at Navia, and she sorely missed the comforting presence of Hanni and the girls.

As she listened to the tide of voices rise and fall in the courtyard, she thought of her training. She knew what to do in cases of grief, illness, birthing, and temple rites, but she had no idea what to do in cases of attractive kingsmen. And she was sorely bothered by something Trevin had said. He had voiced a thought of her own, one she had never let out of its cage.

Slave and priestess, both were bound. Neither was free.

Melaia drew the harp close, slipped her hand beneath the overwrap, and touched the wood. Warm and thrumming, it soothed her soul. But she didn’t allow herself sleep until Trevin returned and she was certain he meant to settle himself at the door.

She awoke shivering with cold. The night was dim, only soft charcoal moonlight drifting through the latticework. She tucked her cloak tighter around her feet and drew the harp closer. Animal sounds and smells permeated the night air, and scratching sounded at the outside wall.

It stopped, started again, stopped again. Rats? She curled her toes. No, bigger. Foxes? Wolves? Draks?

She sat up and murmured, “Trevin?”

A thin line showed under the door where he should have been blocking the light. For a moment all was silent. Then the scratching began again.

“Trevin?”

She listened for his breathing. Nothing. She eased out of her almost-warm mat and crept around the cold, drafty room, squinting into the shadows, drawing away at the touch and smell of the chamber pot, feeling for him, afraid she would find him, afraid she wouldn’t.

When she was certain Trevin wasn’t in the room, she tiptoed to the door and eased it open. It squeaked. A sandy-haired young man about Nuri’s age straightened and blinked sleepily at her from where he had been leaning against the doorframe.

“Who are you?” asked Melaia.

“I’m yer guard, miss,” he croaked. “The kingsman paid for extra protection tonight, and my mam put me to the task.”

“Who’s your mam?”

“Why, the innkeep, miss. She says I’m to let no one in or out of this room until the kingsman says, and if there’s trouble, I’m to call for her.”

“So no one’s been in or out?”

“No one, miss. I’m trusty.”

“Yes, I can tell.” Melaia closed the door and leaned back against it. If no one had been in or out, where was Trevin?

The scratch came at the window. Then a sharp click, and the lattice silently swung open to reveal a thick silhouette against the airy darkness of the night.

“Trevin?” she asked.

The silhouette jerked upright. “Rogue, scoundrel, and ruffian, remember?” He stretched and rubbed his arms.

“Which is it tonight?” She paced back to her pallet, folded her arms, and faced him. Whatever he was stuffing into his pack clinked. “Where did you go?”

“To the privy.”

“Out the window?”

“Can you see in the dark?” he asked.

“Of course not.”

All she could see was his angular face dusted by a trickle of pale moonlight. But she could tell that he jerked something off a finger and stuffed it into his pouch. Then he slipped off his cloak and shook it.

She huffed. “You climbed out the window to go to the privy? There’s a chamber pot in the corner.”

“Great ghouls, lady. Can’t you be somewhat discreet?” He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m accustomed to court life, where those who want to keep their positions choose to feign a blind eye, a deaf ear, and a
mute tongue.
”

“You mean they pretend not to know anything.”

“Exactly. So you’d best learn the lesson now, or you’ll have more trouble than your priestly vow of integrity is worth.”

She set her jaw and glared at him, wishing she could see in the dark. It was impossible to read his face. “Trust no one,” Gil had said, but if she couldn’t trust
anyone
, she might as well return to Navia on the morrow. She was certain the kingsman would have no complaints as long as she left the harp with him. But deserting her mission would mean snubbing the overlord, clearly disobeying Hanni, and most important, giving up on the possibility that she might truly help the king.