Mistress of Dragons (29 page)

Melisande
was sixteen, Bellona eighteen. Bellona was off-duty that night, a Coupling
Night. She and Melisande sat in the darkness beneath the trees, eavesdropping
on the warriors’ talk, exchanging jokes about the “cows” and the “bulls.”

Had
Bellona been with her warriors, she would have been the first to laugh. Sitting
with Melisande, Bellona wondered uneasily how much she understood. She suddenly
found the jokes crude and embarrassing, and she wished the warriors would shut
up. A young virgin priestess should not hear such things.

Bellona
was just about to suggest that they find someplace quieter, when Melisande gave
a little gasp of pain.

“A
bee stung me,” she said in shocked and aggrieved tones. “Look at that.” She
held her arm to the light of the fires burning on the walls.

Bellona
could see the reddening bump on the smooth, white skin. “I think the stinger’s
still inside.”

“It
might become infected,” said Melisande calmly. “You must suck it out. I would,
but I can’t reach it.”

Something
in her voice made Bellona look up with a quickening of her heartbeat.

“You
should go to the healer, Priestess—” Bellona said, feeling her blood pulse in
her veins.

“There’s
no time,” said Melisande. “The infection might be spreading. Quick, Bellona.
Save me.”

She
held out her arm, so white and soft and fragrant with night’s perfume.

Bellona
put her lips on the warm flesh, felt Melisande trembling. Bellona drew back.

“I’m
sorry!” she gasped, drawing away.

“You
should be,” said Melisande, drawing her back, drawing her close, pulling her
down beside her, crushing the sweet and fragrant grass. “For making me wait so
long. I have always, always loved you ...”

“Commander!
I see them!” one of the women cried, jolting Bellona out of her honey-stung
memories.

Upbraiding
herself for her inattentiveness, Bellona looked again upon the searing reality
of day.

She
saw Melisande running down a hillside, waving her arms.

“Bellona!”
she cried and the note of love in her voice tore Bellona’s heart and drained it
of blood, drained it of life.

It’s
all a mistake! The Mistress misunderstood. Melisande will explain.

The
words were on Bellona’s lips for the warriors to hold their fire, when she
heard another voice, a man’s voice. Looking up to the top of the cliff, she saw
him, the lover.

Bellona
gave the command to fire, but she was glad, in her blood-drained heart, that
her highly skilled archers were unusually inept this day.

The
warriors rode after the fugitives, Bellona urging them on. None of them had
never been on the southern slope of the mountain before now. Few had ever left
the valley. The warriors were expert trackers, however, and the three they were
chasing could not help but leave the marks of their passing. They never managed
to catch up to them, however.

Bellona
was acid-tongued and merciless in pushing her troops, who held their own
tongues and kept silent, for all of them knew the reason why.

They
followed the tracks of the three horses to the river and, at first, Bellona’s
heart leapt, for she was certain that here she must catch them, for there was
no longer anywhere they could run. They found the three horses and their
saddles and bridles, but no sign of the fugitives. Footprints—belonging to two
pairs of boots and one pair of sandals—led into the water and did not come
back. On the shore were two boats, both with their hulls staved in.

Bellona
stared downstream, tried to estimate how far ahead they were, how much distance
they might have covered. Her lack of knowledge of the geography of this part of
the country hampered her thinking. She turned over plans in her mind, then she
issued orders.

“I
need the swiftest rider to go to the monastery. Bring back a map of this area,
one that has the major cities marked on it.” For that’s where he will take her,
she added silently. “A city, where they can lose themselves in the multitudes.”

“The
rest of you,” she continued aloud, “start making repairs to that boat. I saw a
wagon in the trees. Use some of the planking from it to patch those holes.”

The
women exchanged glances, then all of them looked to Nzangia.

“Commander,”
she began hesitantly.

“I
gave an order,” Bellona said sharply. “Why are you standing about?”

“Commander,
the horses are spent. They will have to rest. As for repairing the boat, I, for
one, know nothing about boats or how they are put together.”

“It
would take a Boatwright to fix it, Commander,” said another.

“Then
bring me a Boatwright,” shouted Bellona. Her hands clenched to fists. “Bring me
somebody who can do something beyond standing there gawking at me like a bunch
of sorry peasants!”

The
women were silent, uncomfortable.

“You,
Drusilla,” said Nzangia at last, “you are the best rider. Do as the commander
orders.”

Drusilla
cast Nzangia a questioning glance.

Nzangia
gave a small shrug, rolled her eyes in the direction of Bellona.

Drusilla
nodded. Jumping on her horse, she galloped off, heading back toward the
mountain.

Bellona
turned her back on them. She stared at the boat, squatted down beside it,
pretended to examine it. She had no more idea how to fix it than did her
warriors, but looking at it meant she didn’t have to look at them. She was
acutely aware of their eyes on her.

“We’re
going to be here awhile, so we might as well make camp,” said Nzangia abruptly.
“Unsaddle the horses, rub them down, and let them graze.”

She
continued to issue orders, posting guards, sending out hunters. The women
dispersed, glad to have something to do. The tension eased. Nzangia hung about,
eyeing Bellona, evidently wanting to talk.

Bellona
avoided her.

If
the boat can’t be repaired, she thought, we’ll have to proceed downstream on
foot.

That
brought to mind the wagon. Strange, to find a wagon here, so far from anywhere.

She
rose from the boat, walked over to look at the wagon, glad for another excuse
for evading Nzangia. Bellona was mildly surprised to see that the wagon had
been recently used. The wooden wheels were caked with mud and wet grass, still
damp from last night’s rain.

She
had it settled in her mind that the wagon had been abandoned by some farmer,
but she found on examination that the wagon had been built to carry people, not
turnips. Two bench seats ran the length of the wagon bed on either side. A
wicker frame had been added to protect the passengers, keep them from tumbling
out. Looking into the wagon bed, she found caked mud from wet boots smeared
over the floorboards.

She
stared at the wagon, frowning. Something was not right with this vehicle . . .
and then she had it.

There
was no seat for the driver.

No
driver because there was no horse.

The
wagon was pulled by people.

She
looked back at the river. Easy enough to transport people by boat. Transporting
dray horses would be far more difficult. What were these people doing here so
near Seth? What cargo were they hauling?

It
would be different if there were any cities or towns or villages about but
there were none. She’d had a clear view of the surrounding countryside as they
rode down the mountain and there was no sign of civilization for miles and
miles, from here to the horizon.

This
must have something to do with Melisande, for the lover had brought her here.
His boat had carried her away. What had the wagon to do with it?

Bellona
climbed inside the wagon bed, poked about. She peered under the bench. A scrap
of soiled, damp cloth lay crumpled on the floorboards. Bellona picked it up,
shook it out. She stared at the narrow cotton band, thinking it looked
familiar, but she could not immediately place it.

The
stench hit her. She wrinkled her nose, then sniffed again, and she knew what
this was—a baby’s swaddling band.

Bellona
was completely baffled. She could make nothing of this mystery. She started to
toss away the scrap of cloth then, on impulse, she thrust it into her belt. She
would ask the Mistress.

Asking
the Mistress meant asking Lucretta. Bellona looked forward to a lifetime of
asking Lucretta, of being ordered about by Lucretta, of the monastery being run
by that embittered, dour female. A lifetime of praying to Lucretta.

Bellona
could feel Nzangia’s eyes boring holes through her armor, and she half-turned,
glanced over her shoulder at her second.

“I’m
going to scout upstream,” Bellona said. “You wait here.”

She
turned her back, walked rapidly away. She walked until she was out of sight of
her troops, out of earshot.

“A
lifetime of going to an empty bed at night,” Bellona whispered. “A lifetime of
waking to empty hours by day.”

Alone,
she gave way to the pain. She curled in on herself, hands clutching at an
unseen wound, her nails tearing her flesh. A shudder wrenched her body and she
sank to her knees, rocking back and forth in agony.

She
grew calmer at last. The frenzy of grief subsided and it was then that she saw
another boat. Swallowing her tears, she sat back on her heels. The boat was a
small one, hidden deep in the bracken some distance apart from the two that the
lover had wrecked.

She
very nearly thanked the Mistress for this miracle, then, remembered that she
would be thanking Lucretta, Bellona kept her mouth shut.

The
warriors returned from their hunt with a deer. As night fell, the smell of
roasting meat filled the air. On another occasion, the women would have enjoyed
themselves, for this was a rare adventure. The nature of their mission and the
dark demeanor of their commander cast a pall over them.

Bellona
returned to camp, determined to act as if all were normal. She joined her
troops in the meal and made an attempt to eat, but her stomach roiled at the
first taste of the meat, and she handed her share to Nzangia. Bellona tried to
discuss the day’s events, as she would have under other circumstances, but no
one knew what to say.

She
engaged in a desperate conversation with Nzangia about how the women needed
more training in fighting on horseback. Eventually the subject was exhausted
and Bellona did not start another. She lapsed into silence. Sitting on the
ground, her knees hunched, she stared into the flames.

The
rest of the evening passed in silence. The women lounged around the fire,
chewing on the deer meat, which was burnt black on the outside and raw on the
inside, and tried to avoid looking at Bellona’s pain-ravaged face.

“Commander!”
One of the scouts came into camp on the run. “Riders coming. This way.”

Bellona
leaped to her feet, glad to have something to do. The warriors grabbed their
weapons and flaming brands, arraying themselves in battle formation.

Drusilla
rode into camp. Her face was taut, her expression strained. She said nothing,
but her look said everything. Sliding off her horse, she stood at attention and
called out, “One comes, Commander. The Mistress of Dragons.”

Lucretta
rode into camp.

The
warriors sank to their knees. Bellona bent her knee, then went to meet the
Mistress, who gestured for the others to rise. Holding the flaming brands high,
the warriors gathered around the Mistress, forming a circle of smoky fire.

Lucretta
did not like riding. She did not like horses, and the horse knew it, for the
animal was restless and skittery. Bellona glanced for some clue to Drusilla.

“I
never reached the monastery. She was on her way down here,” she reported in a
low voice. “I don’t know how she knew where to find us . . .”

“Mistress!”
Bellona said, troubled. “Why have you come? There was no need—”

“What
is this nonsense about a boat?” the Mistress demanded.

“We
followed the three fugitives here, Mistress,” said Bellona. “They took to the
water.” She made a vague gesture. “There is a wagon over there and some boats.
I’m not sure why or what the boats were used for, but they—”

“I
am not interested in boats or wagons. Your warriors fired arrows at Melisande
and missed,” said Lucretta. “Many times.”

“That
is true, Mistress,” Bellona replied. “We had bad luck this day.”

“Bad
luck, is it? I wonder if you were really trying to hit your target?” Her gaze
swept over the assembled troops. “It seems strange to me that such talented
marksmen—as I have seen them exhibit their skill on the archery range—should
bungle this simple task so badly.”

“I
can assure the Mistress that every warrior did her duty,” Bellona returned with
rising anger. “To intimate otherwise is to question our honor—”

“It
is not
their
honor I question,” said Lucretta, leaning over the pommel. “After
all, they were just obeying orders. It is
your
honor I question,
Bellona. You loved the little whore and you could not bear to see her die—”

Her
fists clenched, Bellona sprang at Lucretta.

“Bellona!”
Nzangia cried in low, urgent tones. Her strong fingers dug into Bellona’s
muscular arms, dragged her back, “This is insane. Think what you’re doing! She
is the Mistress!”

“She
cannot speak to me like that!” Bellona raved, fighting to free herself.

Two
more warriors joined Nzangia and between them they managed to wrestle Bellona
to the ground. Only when she was flat on her belly, her face in the mud and
Nzangia’s knee in her back, did Bellona cease to struggle. Her straining
muscles relaxed. Her body went limp. She closed her eyes.

The
change was so sudden and unexpected that Nzangia fearfully put her hand to
Bellona’s neck to feel her pulse.

“I’m
still alive,” muttered Bellona, spitting mud. “Sadly.”