Children of Fire (8 page)

“Give the boy to me, let him be mine to raise and teach. In time, I will bring him back to see you, so that you can know him. Or refuse me, and lose your son forever when the Order comes and takes him away to the Monastery.”

Gerrit didn't reply but took half a step forward, keeping the heated end of the poker pointed directly at the hag. In response she turned and fled out the still-open door, her shriveled form moving more quickly than he would have thought possible.

“I will be back tomorrow night for your decision,” she called over her shoulder before being swallowed by the shadows of the night.

Heart pounding, Gerrit quickly closed and locked the door. He returned the poker to its place by the hearth, his hands shaking, his mind racing. He knew that much of what the hag had said was the truth. He had no doubt there was something different about Keegan; why else would the witch have come for him? And if she had sensed his power, others would as well.

But he would never give up his son. Not to the witch. Not to the Order. Not to anyone.

The next morning when Alia arrived at the house she found it deserted. Gerrit had taken his son and whatever valuables he could carry and vanished in the night.

“You call this clean?” Madam Wyndham demanded of the maid, holding up the dinner napkin with a fingernail-sized stain on the corner. “Are you trying to embarrass me before Lord and Lady Hollander? Do you want them to think me so lowborn that I throw a dinner party with befouled linens?”

“No, mistress,” the maid replied, setting down the knives she had been placing on the tables and scurrying over to take the dirty napkin from her mistress's grasp.

“Take this to the laundry and fetch a clean one. I've worked too hard preparing for this dinner to let it be ruined by your shoddy napkin!”

The maid disappeared, but Celia Wyndham took no notice. She had set about examining each of the fourteen settings in turn, searching for some imperfection. Technically it should have been the Steward of the Manse who oversaw the final preparations for the coming dinner. But Celia Wyndham did not share her husband's high opinion of Roland; the ex-soldier's standards were sorrowfully lacking when it came to matters of culture and refinement.

She clucked her tongue in disgust at finding a tiny crusted particle of food on the tines of one of the forks, then set it aside so she would remember to tell the maid to bring a clean one. She made a mental note to deliver a savage tongue-lashing to the scullery girl for her lackadaisical efforts … she'd just have to be careful not to let Roland find out. The Steward could be irrationally overprotective when it came to the household staff under his charge.

He's too soft on them. Is it any wonder I have soiled napkins and dirty forks on my table?

Fortunately, everything else seemed to be in order. She wished her husband, Conrad, were here, but he had insisted his manorial duties required him to be away at least until the late afternoon. There was little argument she could make against such a claim—after all, it had been her idea for Conrad to apply to the Provincial Council for the rank of Manor Lord two years ago.

Conrad had been reluctant at first. He was a successful businessman; his ventures gave him great economic and political clout in the village, despite his lack of official standing. He saw the position of Manor Lord as a demotion: a glorified innkeeper whose sole task was to maintain suitable lodgings for the use of any nobility passing through the region.

But Celia knew better. The Manor Lord was the closest a lowborn man like her husband could ever come to gaining a noble title, short of heroic acts in time of war. And her husband was no soldier. A noble would treat a Manor Lord as a virtual equal, at least within the confines of the manor. And it was not uncommon for the daughter of a Manor Lord to marry into true nobility.

Her husband made fun of her when she spoke of such things.

“Your social climbing is an amusing diversion, Celia,” he had said when she first suggested applying for the Manor Lord's position, “but I am nothing more than a merchant to these barons and earls. I pay my taxes and they are happy. They don't want to speak with me unless they need gold to raise an army.”

Celia knew better. Fortunes rose and fell quickly in the Southlands, and when those on top fell, those beneath rose. A dozen different cities had, at one time or another, been recognized among the Seven Capitals in the four centuries since the Southlands had been joined under the Treaty of Union. If cities could shift so easily in their station, surely so could families.

“You sell yourself short, Conrad,” she'd replied. “The nobility respects the talent of those who can amass great wealth, as you have.

“And what of our daughter?” she'd added. “Would you not like Cassandra to have the chance to marry into the nobility?”

The last argument had finally swayed him, as she'd known it would.

Conrad loved Cassandra. Loved her too much, Celia sometimes fretted. When the time came to choose a husband for her he might object to seeing his daughter betrothed to an old baron desperate for an heir, or to a philandering viscount seeking the appearance of respectability by taking a lawful wife.

Though she loved her daughter, Celia knew she would have no hesitation. Her own family had climbed the social strata of the Southlands quickly through such marriages, and now she had achieved the penultimate step by getting her husband appointed the Manor Lord.

Besides, marrying for status could often lead to love, as it had between her and Conrad. But Cassandra was only four, and such thoughts were best left for later. Tonight there was too much to do.

Celia circled the table again, searching for anything that might jeopardize this evening's dinner. When she had heard the news of Lord Hollander's visit, her heart had leapt. When she learned his retinue would include Lady Hollander and ten other guests of rank she had nearly wept with joy. This was the opportunity she had prayed to the Gods, both Old and New, to grant her. Everything had to be perfect.

“The venison is exquisite,” Lord Hollander proclaimed, and the other guests quickly added their agreement.

Celia blushed at the compliment. “Thank you, my lord.”

“It is a shame your husband could not be here to enjoy it,” Lady Hollander added. Celia wasn't sure if she detected sympathy or gloating in the lady's voice.

Before she could come up with a suitable response, Lord Hollander interjected on her behalf.

“Conrad is a busy man, as we all know. The revenues of the manor have nearly doubled since his appointment.” The gracious lord raised his glass. “To Conrad, in appreciation for the fortune he has brought to this Manor.”

The others followed suit, raising their glasses and drinking to her husband. Celia beamed with pride, though inside she was silently cursing Conrad for being so late. He knew how important this evening was! Tradition held that the Steward of the Manse should fill in when the Manor Lord was absent, but Celia was damned if she was going to seat someone as uncouth as Roland at the table with Lord and Lady Hollander.

Yet she couldn't leave the seat empty; Conrad's absence had left thirteen at the table—an unlucky number. Celia had averted that catastrophe by bringing Cassandra down to dine with them. The girl sat picking at her food, obviously not impressed with the proceedings. Still, she had been quiet and well behaved under the watchful eye of the nanny who lurked unobtrusively in the shadows.

Celia made a mental note to congratulate the young woman on preparing her daughter so well for the dinner on such short notice—she had expected far less from someone raised as a simple farm girl.

And perhaps Cassandra's presence had not been a bad thing. Lady Hollander was well known for her love of children, and Celia's daughter looked absolutely precious tonight. The girl's perfect, cream-colored skin and curly blond hair were not unheard of in the middle provinces, but they certainly weren't common—oddly, neither Celia nor her husband was fair-haired. Her daughter's rare looks, combined with the emerald dress Celia had chosen to perfectly complement Cassandra's gorgeous green eyes, turned the little girl into an adorable living doll.

“Cassandra, darling, you haven't eaten a thing.” Lady Hollander's words came unexpectedly, as if Celia's own thoughts had suddenly drawn attention to her daughter.

Celia tensed slightly in anticipation of the young girl's reply.

“I'm sorry, Lady Hollander,” she mumbled, and Celia felt the tension slipping from her shoulders. “I'm not hungry.”

“Cassandra has not been sleeping well,” Celia said by way of apology. “Isn't that right, Nan?”

The nanny took half a step forward from the shadows. “Yes, madam. The young mistress has nightmares.”

Celia frowned slightly. She hadn't wanted the dreams to come up, not tonight. She had foolishly opened the door herself, but the nanny should have known better than to mention Cassandra's vivid nightmares.

Lady Hollander, however, was suddenly filled with motherly compassion. “You poor child,” she cooed. “What is it you dream about? Monsters?”

The nanny answered again, and Celia had to bite her lip to keep from shushing the stupid woman and causing a spectacle in front of everybody.

“Yes, my lady. She often dreams of ogres who walk the land and eat whole villages, and sometimes she speaks of great winged beasts breathing fire down from the sky.”

There was a surprised chuckle from Lord Hollander. “Dragons, is it, my pretty child? I often dream of them myself, when I have too much wine at supper and heartburn plagues my sleep.”

A round of polite laughter from the table was cut off by Cassandra's sudden shout.

“No! Not monsters. Not now. Now it's the horse dream!”

Cassandra suddenly broke down in tears.

Celia froze, mortified by the turn of events. The nanny hesitated, uncertain if she should invade the space of the other diners to try to placate the sobbing child. It was Lady Hollander who made the first move, pushing back her chair and coming around the length of the table to wrap a pair of comforting arms around Cassandra.

“Hush, child. Hush. Dreams cannot hurt you. They are only dreams, just like pictures in a book.”

Cassandra's sobbing stopped, to Celia's relief. She was both grateful to Lady Hollander for easing her daughter's cries, and jealous that the noblewoman had usurped the mother's rightful role here at her own table.

“My dreams are different,” Cassandra said softly, defiantly. “They're not like pictures in books.”

“Tell me about your dreams,” Lady Hollander urged. “Sometimes talking about them makes them seem not so bad.”

“It's Gerald, the smith. He's got a horse. A gray one. He's doing something to its foot.”

“Shoeing it, perhaps?” Lord Hollander offered from the other end of the table.

Cassandra shrugged, not understanding. Celia had never allowed her daughter into the stables, or even the smithy for that matter. How she even knew the smith's name, she couldn't begin to guess.

“Then the horse gets mad. It jumps and kicks. It kicks Gerald in the head.” Cassandra traced a small circle on her own forehead. “Here. This part is all squished. Then Gerald is on the ground. There's blood on his head. Lots of blood.”

For a second nobody spoke, but then Lady Hollander broke the awkward silence with a light laugh. “That is a scary dream for a little girl,” she admitted, “but the horse can't hurt you. It isn't real.”

“It's real!” Cassandra insisted with the absolute urgency only young children can muster. “It's gray and it hurts Gerald!”

“Nan,” Celia said softly, “it's getting late. Perhaps Cassandra should go to bed now.”

“Of course, mistress,” the nanny replied.

Lady Hollander returned to her seat, and the nanny scooped Cassandra up in her arms and headed for the dining room's door. She was almost knocked over by Conrad rushing in, still fumbling with the buttons on the clothes Celia had laid out for him. The nanny stumbled but regained her balance and glared at Conrad in cross surprise.

“My apologies, Nan. And to you, Lord Hollander,” he added, suddenly aware all eyes had turned to him. “I went into the city yesterday to purchase some horses for breeding. I fully intended to be back in time to welcome you to our manor, Lord Hollander.”

The lord waved his hand to show he felt no slight. “Your wife has more than amply filled in during your absence, Conrad. I trust all went well in the city?”

“No, my lord,” Conrad replied, finally popping the final button of his collar into place. He still stood just inside the doorway, uncertain if it was polite to sit while being questioned by a nobleman. “We had some trouble with a skittish gray. I had taken our smith with me to examine the animals. I am sorry to say his skull was caved in by one of the animal's hooves. I had to see to his funeral arrangements. That is why I was late.”

There was silence in the room as all eyes shifted from Conrad to Cassandra, still held in the arms of the nanny standing just inside the door.

“The Sight,” Lady Hollander whispered.

At her words the nanny quickly set Cassandra on the floor and took a step back.

“The Order must know of this,” Lord Hollander said at last.

Conrad only looked in confusion at the guests. “What's going on?” he demanded. “What are you talking about?” At last his gaze fell on his wife. “Celia, what's going on?”

But Celia couldn't answer him. She could only stare at Cassandra in horror, thinking over and over to herself,
Not her eyes! They can't take her beautiful eyes.

At the sound of the horn Roland was instantly awake: a single, short blast that ended as if it was cut off prematurely. Not good. He grabbed his sword and rushed from the tent, not having time to don his armor as he raced toward the outskirts of their makeshift camp. The whole while he kept hoping to hear another signal—two blasts meant the odds were fairly even, three meant they were overmatched, four meant it was a false alarm. But there was nothing further, just the one blast. Which meant the sentries had been discovered and most likely killed.

The Rearing Lion mercenaries Roland had hired to protect Conrad Wyndham's only daughter during her flight were already gathering in battle formation, twelve soldiers armed with heavy broadswords. Those who had been on night-watch wore ringmail shirts. The rest, like Roland, were still in their sleeping clothes. But they were all here, except the two sentries on the perimeter and the two stationed outside Cassandra's tent.

Roland frowned. A dozen soldiers plus himself made thirteen—an unlucky number. But of course he hadn't yet counted Dalia and the five bowmen under her command. The archers added another six to their group, making a total of nineteen gathered in the clearing ready to face their enemy. Plus Bella.

Normally the Rearing Lions worked alone. They were elite soldiers for hire, specializing in protection for merchant caravans or important persons traveling along routes that were known for bandit activity. Ransoms and kidnappings were rare in the Southlands but occasionally a noble or wealthy merchant, or members of the family, would disappear before reaching their destination.