Firethorn (47 page)

Ardor had spared me and taken Consort Vulpeja and I was baffled by it. All that I'd done to save her life, all that Galan had done: useless. I'd been so sure, for a time, that I fulfilled Ardor's purpose. Now I wondered if I'd thwarted Ardor's will when I healed her, and she was always meant for dying. But if I'd displeased Ardor, surely Wildfire would have eaten me?

Or was it Hazard all along? Consort Vulpeja and Galan merely followed the path Fate ordained, and I, perforce, followed them.

And so on, round and round.

Sunup found me, and we huddled together. She bore the pain of her burns without complaint, but when she saw Consort Vulpeja she cried and called for her mother, and I was reminded she was a child. I comforted her and I was comforted, because she was alive. But my thoughts trudged in circles, mule yoked to a millstone, grinding small.

The Crux rode up at a gallop by way of the east—of—north road with his men behind him. Others followed, among them the king himself, come to see the cause of the smoke. They crowded so close around our camp that horses stumbled over the tent ropes and the tents began to wobble. Sunup and I pressed close to Sire Fanfarron's pavilion so we wouldn't be trampled, and we found ourselves facing a horse's hindquarters covered in a fine barding stamped with red diamonds. We could see little else.

King Thyrse had a voice like a brass horn when he needed it, and when he roared, he was heard. He sent the idle onlookers away, drudges and Blood alike, and we could see again. There were heads of other clans present. The king bade them come to his hall that evening, and they left, though it was clear that the First of Rift, at least, begrudged the dismissal. Three or four cataphracts of Prey remained with their men, for a king is always attended. But they didn't stay so close to the king's elbow as to imply distrust of the clan of Crux.

For the Blood of Crux were there, armed, as they had come from the tourney field. All save one—Galan. The Crux stood beside the king.

Though our tents were near his hall, I'd only seen King Thyrse so close once, when we came to the Marchfield, and his clothes had been plain and worn. Today he was attired more like a king. His surcoat was of mail so fine it was nearly as soft as cloth, patterned all over with godsigns worked in countless gold and silver links. An armorer could go blind making such a hauberk. It was for show: gold and silver will not stand up to blows. He wore a cowl of rare white fox fur and his undersleeves were pinned back to show a lining of red fox. His face, in this splendor, was merely a man's face—an angry face—with nothing about it to say:
here is a king.

The king didn't speak and no one else would speak before him. He gazed at the ruined tent. The flames were gone but smoke and stink rose from it. Galan's banners had been hacked down and stolen.

Cook came up dragging a corpse by the heels. He let it fall at his master's feet and he knelt beside it. Now I understood the bloodstains on Cook's tunic. The man's throat had been cut. It gaped wider than his open mouth. Blue and rose ribbons were sewn to the shoulders of his grubby leather jerkin: the ribbons, the jerkin, his face and hair were spattered with blood.

King Thyrse said, without surprise, “Ardor.”

The Crux spat on the carcass and wiped his mouth. His face was tight with disgust. “You did well,” he said to Cook.

Cook bowed low, his face nearly touching his knees, and crawled away backward, to put himself out of sight of the king and his master. There was no pride in the curve of his broad back; instead I saw shame and, perhaps, reproach. I suppose he'd done well to catch the man and butcher him like a pig—but better he'd stayed at the fire, where we needed him. Yet it should never have fallen to Cook and his kitchenboys to safeguard our camp.

No one, not even the priests—whose omens were clear now it was too late—had expected Ardor to come during the day when the fighting men were gone. It was as clever as it was craven. But why should this surprise the Crux, or any of us, after Sire Voltizo and his false weapon? The honor of Ardor was counterfeit.

Yet the feud had been over till they found Sire Bizco's mutilated corpse. That was Sire Rodela's doing. There were, in feuds as in tournaments, or even war itself, certain proprieties. Once those bounds were overstepped, one base act was answered by another, and where would it end?

All this blame to share, and my burden was not lessened one whit.

“They sent their jacks,” said the king.

“Their hands are still sullied, Sire,” the Crux said.

“Indeed,” the king said in a dry voice.

But Sire Rassis, the Crux's armiger, spoke up, saying, “He's no jack. I know him, King Thyrse. He's my wife's cousin's husband's brother—armiger to Sire Pisar.” He was careful not to say his name.

Cook rubbed the dead man's face with his sleeve, and sure enough, there was Ardor's godsign on his cheek.

“And who is she?” asked the king, inclining his head toward Consort Vulpeja, her face very white amidst the heap of blackened canvas.

“She's late of Ardor herself,” the Crux said.

“Is she the one?

“Indeed,” said the Crux, in a voice as dry as the king's.

The king stepped over the dead man and approached Consort Vulpeja. He was not three paces from us; Sunup and I never moved, for fear we'd be noticed and sent away. He lifted the cloak from the concubine and covered her up again, and I heard him sigh. When he straightened up he said, in a voice meant to carry, “Have you ever seen such a wonder? Wildfire took her gently—she isn't marred. Surely this is a sign the god Ardor has taken her back and counted her offense paid and her honor cleansed. But the clan Ardor, which killed her, what of their honor? May the god curse their hearths for loosing fire in the Marchfield.”

It might just as well be said that Ardor, the god, had not wanted her, for she was left untouched. But if the king said her death was the coin to redeem the reputation she'd pawned, that was the way the rumormongers would sing it. They'd sing of the curse too. Even the gods must heed a king's curse.

The king looked from the concubine to the crowd around him. “And which of these men of yours is the hotspur who made the wager? It's his tent, surely.”

The Crux answered, “He's not here, Sire. He goes on foot these days, and goes alone. But I've sent for him.”

“I would see the man behind so much mischief.”

“He has much to answer for,” said the Crux. “But not all of it.”

“Oh, Ardor will answer too, you both shall answer. This feud will not come with us to war. I'll have an end on it.”

A lesser man might have knelt before the look on the king's face, but the Crux merely bowed his head.

King Thyrse said, “Send your man to me when he comes. And, if you please, attend me tonight in council and we'll settle this matter.”

When the king was gone, the Crux said, “Not empty—handed. It will never be settled without steel.”

Not long after, Galan came running. He ran all the way from the hills where the Crux's jack, Tel, had found him. He ran while his men rode, and when he arrived he was at his last extremity of wind. He bent double, his hands on his knees, and fought for air with great tearing gasps. When he mastered himself he straightened up. He was helmetless. His cheeks were flushed but his brow was pale. He wiped the sweat from his face with his quilted sleeve and looked about him.

By then the Sun was westering over the sea, a flock of small clouds scattered about her. Her golden light dazzled and spared nothing. All that had been laid waste was made clear. When the shadow of a cloud passed over us, the dimming was a relief.

Galan's eyes sought me out where I stood by Sire Fanfarron's tent, and when he found me I know he found some ease, though his face was still grim. Then he looked down at Consort Vulpeja and his mouth twisted.

I didn't go to him. His fellows came, cataphracts and armigers alike; they offered him their voluble anger, which suited better than sympathy. Ardor had outraged them all. Someone brought Galan a horn cup and he tilted his head and drank quickly, and when he lowered the cup there was a trickle of red wine on his chin. He handed back the cup and nodded, courteous by rote. The cloud passed, the Sun came forth again, and his eyes were dark under the shadow of his brow, staring at Ardor's handiwork. Though the crowd pressed him close, he stood as if he were alone.

One man stayed away and that was Sire Rodela. He couldn't keep from grinning. He looked my way sometimes and I took care not to look back, but I saw just the same.

The Crux took Galan's arm and spoke in his ear. Galan inclined his head, for he was the taller by a palm's breadth, and they turned and went together to the Crux's tent, and all the while Galan's tongue was locked behind his teeth, and not one word, not one sound escaped.

Spiller was loud where Galan was silent; he cursed enough for three men, as if the clan of Ardor cared what he thought of them. It was Rowney who put us all to work—Galan's men, even his foot soldiers, and me—taking up the burned canvas to see what, if anything, might be salvaged under it. Soon we were all smeared crown to heel with soot and ash.

Spiller said, “No wonder Noggin isn't here, for he's always missing when there's work to be done,” and Rowney sent a boy to fetch him. By the time the boy came back, Noggin had been found.

He looked like a charred branch. The wall of the tent had fallen over him in tattered folds, and he lay under it with his knees drawn up to his chin. His skin was blackened and most of his hair had burned away. His lips were drawn back, showing a mouthful of teeth unsullied by the fire. They looked as big and yellow as horses'teeth in the ruins of his face. It had to be Noggin, it could be no other.

I hoped he'd slept through his death, that the smoke drowned him before the fire got to him. For certain, I'd not heard a sound from him, nor known he was there. But where else would he be but on his flea—ridden pallet behind the meal sacks? And what else would he be doing but sleeping?

Spiller said he was too lazy to live. Sunup began to sob. Hers were the only tears shed for Noggin, unless his mother wept when she heard the news. Daft Noggin, my shadow. There was little malice in him. He loved to laugh when others laughed, even when the wit buzzed high above his head, even when it stung him.

Rowney and I wrapped him in a piece of canvas and laid him beside Consort Vulpeja. Fuel was scarce, so they'd share a pyre. It would burn hot enough to consume everything but a few handfuls of bone and grit and ash, and the priests would grind those in a mortar until there was no remnant a shade could recognize of the body left behind.

Consort Vulpeja wouldn't have chosen Noggin as an attendant, but no She wouldn't be troubled with him long. There are no drudges to serve the dead, no companions on that road.

Mai came to bring Sunup home, came near as quick as rumor ran through the Marchfield. She gathered up her daughter in her ample arms and Sunup cried again, this time for her own pains, as if only her mother could console her.

We'd borrowed Sunup and I had no claim on her now that Consort Vulpeja was gone. Better she should go home, I knew, but I'd grown fond of her and her ways. It was in her nature to watch and wonder much and ask little, to see where she was needed and serve without stinting. Yet she could also be giddy as any child when she felt at ease. She'd never been so merry with us, in Galan's uneasy household.

Mai made soothing sounds, but her eyes, meeting mine above Sunup's head, were small and stony in the folds of her thick eyelids. I pointed to the bruises across my throat, to let her know I was mute. But she did not need me to tell her of the fire and who had set it; rumor was beforehand.

“They killed her after all,” she said. “May canker blister them and dry up their sacs, and may their wives go barren.” She made a gesture as if she were scattering seeds or ashes.

A curse from Mai might well be as potent as a king's. I made an avert sign to ward it off, for fear it would fall on us as well as the clan of Ardor.

Sunup hung around her mother's neck until Mai set her down, saying the girl had grown too heavy, we'd fed her too well. But when Sunup's feet touched the ground, she began to cry again. She sat down, saying it hurt to stand.

I knew how she suffered. I hadn't felt my burns as much when they first happened. Then came heat and pain, and now a cold fire that leached warmth from every part of me and left me shivering.

I knelt beside her. The soles of her feet were black with a crust of charred skin and ash. Under the blackness was an angry red. Her feet must have dragged through the fires on the floor when I carried her out of the tent. She had other lesser burns as well, on her cheek, her back, and her limbs. I knew better than to apply soothing ointments or heavy bandages—though I had none, they'd all burned—or even to wash her wounds with water, cold or hot. Such measures would only keep the fire trapped in her body. The Wildfire was still burning inside her, inside both of us, and must be put out.

In our village there'd been a woman who could draw fire from burns. When she was done small burns healed without scars, and even large ones healed smooth, almost like new skin, but shiny. People said she made no sort of fuss at all when she healed; it came easily to her, they said, because her father died before she was born. Fatherless people have that gift, whether or not they ever learn to use it.