Prince of Fire and Ashes: Book 3 of the Tielmaran Chronicles (16 page)

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Authors: Katya Reimann

BOOK: Prince of Fire and Ashes: Book 3 of the Tielmaran Chronicles
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“Don’t complain,” Gaultry chided. “You’re the luckiest of any of us. You didn’t even have to face the wet.”
After that they had to go back to reload the wagon.
“Is it my imagination, or has the rain picked up again?” Gaultry flicked back damp-curled ringlets of hair from her face and stooped to grab one side of the first fish-barrel. “I wish Saucir would come round and help.” Saucir was hiding on his seat at the front of the wagon, doing his best not to mind their business.
“It’s picked up.” Martin said, anxious to get going. “Let’s just get this finished.”
They heaved the barrels up, and then the first of the tubs. The second tub was slimy with fish scales. Reluctant to get that on her hands, Gaultry rushed and hefted her end a little before Martin was ready.
A wave of odiferous tub-water slopped over him. “Allegrios Rex,” he swore, disgusted. “Watch what you’re doing! Gods in me, it’s vile!”
“Is it very bad?” She swallowed a nervous laugh, the strain of the day cracking her reserve. “I didn’t do it on purpose. Oh Elianté, I can smell you from here!”
They shoved the tub deep onto the wagon bed and pulled its cover straight. Martin put up the bar. “Saucir will love my company now,” he grumbled, wiping his front with his hands. “He’s been complaining about the stench all day.”
Gaultry reached to brush off his tunic. “It’s certainly pungent,” she admitted. “I am sorry.”
He trapped her hand in his before she could pull away. “Your fingers are cold.” His grey eyes looked almost black in the falling light. Rather than annoying him, her laughter had released another emotion. “All that ice. We should have changed over during the ride.”
“I’m not cold now.”
“Neither I.” Pulling her to him, he cradled her hand against his mouth.
The sudden open heat between them filled her with joy. She cupped his jaw, feeling its strength, the warmth of his flesh. Traveling with the Sharif and Tullier had kept them so distant and formal.
“Haven’t you done there yet?” Saucir called from the front of the cart, impatient. “Didn’t I hear the wagon bar fall?”
“Everything’s loaded,” Martin called back. “We’re just saying our good-byes.”
“In the rain?” Saucir sounded disbelieving. “Hurry up.”
In the shadow of the wagon, Martin drew Gaultry against his body.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she told him.
“Saving our own skins has had to take some precedence.”
She shook her head. “It’s been more than that. You’ve been angry.”
“Not with you,” he said warmly. “Never with you. More with this tangle of powers that seems set on pushing us apart.” He hesitated, then, drawing himself up, continued. “You know, everything changed, the day I broke my father’s sword.” That had been the day the Emperor’s Sha Muira envoys had taken Martin prisoner and forcibly transported him to Bissanty. “And now there’s this business with Tullier—that foolish boy wants you, and it seems like the only way to keep his skin whole is for you to share yourself with him—magically, if not otherwise. Don’t imagine that’s pleasant for me.”
Gaultry sucked in a long breath. “I couldn’t have let him die.”
“I know.” Martin smoothed her hair. “It’s not you I doubt; it’s him. Right now he doesn’t know what he is, and you are his only stability. That’s a huge responsibility, considering who he is.”
“We have many responsibilities,” Gaultry said softly. “They shouldn’t hold us apart in those few moments we manage to find together.”
Martin nodded. “I know. We share a love-bond that will never lessen. What remains to be determined is whether we will be granted the space and time to derive any joy from it. Or whether the life to which I have been formed since my brother’s death—since I earned my father’s sword—will wither it.” He looked Gaultry deeply in the eyes. “I meant what I said about everything changing when I broke my father’s sword. Something happened in my body when Dinevar was shattered—something involving sorcery. Dinevar had me under a spell, and I still don’t know why. It’s important that I speak with Grandmère as soon as possible—on top of all this business with Tullier and the Prince.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, alarmed.
“Trust me,” he said. “I need to talk to Grandmère first.”
“I see.” She grimaced, then stroked his face. “Martin, I am sure we both have secrets. We can’t let them keep us apart.”
He lowered his mouth to hers. Their shared touch was anxious, and despite the fragrance of fish that surrounded them, very sweet, the heat
and the saturating rain drawing them together, making the moment more private, more intense.
“Go on,” she said, finally pulling away. She felt happy enough to concede him anything. “Go wake Melaudiere and tell her we’ve brought her a hostage instead of an assassin.”
“I’ll return soon,” Martin answered. He glanced, with an expression of distaste, into the back of the wagon. “If only it doesn’t take too long to unload all these damn fish.”
S
he woke cuddled under a white dustcloth on a heavily brocaded divan. It was already morning. Shafts of bright light filtered in through the shuttered windows of the pleasantly appointed salon where they had set up a temporary camp. From her comfortable bed, she stared around, taking stock. Tullier was asleep on his cot, close enough that she could hear his soft breath. The Sharif, snoring, was a little farther away, stretched flat on her back on the coarse bearskin rug in front of the grate. Gaultry sat up, and wrinkled her nose. Something in the room still smelled strongly of fish. She hoped it was not her.
Yawning, she sat up taller on the divan and discovered that they were not alone in the room. She almost bit her tongue clicking her jaw shut.
In an overstuffed chair beside the door, a thin girl, tidily dressed in Melaudiere’s green and grey livery, had folded her legs and curled into a ball. She too was dozing.
Gaultry hurried over and shook her ungently awake.
“When did you come in?” she demanded. “Where’s Martin?”
“Oh!” The girl jumped, and fell out of the chair. “Please excuse me!” She scrambled up and bowed, a little clumsily, but only because she was stiff from sleep. A court upbringing was stamped on her bearing, along with the rudiments of a swordswoman’s grace. Gaultry looked her over, assessing. Her equipage was very fine: a handsome tunic with full sleeves, leggings with finely sewn leather inners, and an empty swordbelt. Her rough, curling brown hair, somewhat in need of combing after her unsettled night, was tied back from her round face in a single thick braid that reached almost to her hips. Tullier’s age, or perhaps a year younger. “Lady Blas! I’ve brought a message from the Stalkerman.”
“Why didn’t you wake me when you came in?” Gaultry said angrily, though furious with herself rather than with the youngster. She should
have woken. Someone should have woken. If the girl had been sent to harm Tullier—
“He told me to let you sleep.” The girl, probably accustomed to Melaudiere and her progeny’s bossy manners, ignored Gaultry’s tone. “Of course, if you had been awake when I arrived …”
“Do you have a message for me or not?” Gaultry said. “I want to see it.”
The girl pulled a wax-sealed scrip out of her wallet. “It’s here,” she said, “and there’s a purse for you as well.”
“Please sit,” Gaultry took the letter and gestured the girl back into her chair. “I may have some questions.”
The writing was rushed, almost illegible. The ink had not been properly blotted before the page had been closed and sealed.
Gaultry—
I send this letter with my sister’s squire Melaney. She is a good girl, and discreet. She will tend to your immediate needs in my absence.
The fighting in Haute-Tielmark is worse even than the Duke told us. I may be called west sooner than I had hoped.
Gaultry looked up from the letter. “What has happened in Haute-Tielmark?” she asked.
“Duke Ranault’s war-leader was killed,” Melaney said gravely. “We got news of that just yesterday. Also two of Basse-Demaine’s sons. Lots of others too. It’s horrible. They say that the tribesmen took their heads for prizes instead of their swords.”
“Nice news for a Midsummer day,” Gaultry said. She turned back to the letter.
Grandmère is dangerously fatigued. She has cast spells too precipitately for a woman of her years and health. My appearance excited her overmuch—still more, our news. She fell ill as we spoke. It is not possible for me to leave her tonight to rejoin you.
Benet is aship, with half the summer court. His timing could not be worse. The best of the court’s physicians sail with him, your sister included. The ship will return at noon tomorrow; we will not be able to speak with him before then.
Rest, and prepare for that meeting. Melaney informs me that Julie of Basse-Demaine—Dame Julie, the youngest of the original
Brood coven—will perform for the court tonight. Meet me by the Prince’s stair before the concert. We will go up and submit ourselves together to Benet’s mercy.
Melaney carries a long purse. Apply to her for anything you require.
Martin
Gaultry gave the girl a sharp look. “How long has Melaudiere been unwell? Is her condition dangerous?”
Melaney answered haltingly, as though loathe to betray her mistress’s secrets. “Her Grace had been well—but the battle news took her poorly. It became serious when the news of the Lanai in Haute-Tielmark turned bad. Before the Ides of Rios. The tribesmen raided the Valle de Brai and burnt the manor where her Grace was fostered, so many years back. The news hit her hard—all the family who once sheltered her are dead, down through the great-grandchildren.” The young squire blinked, a little too young to cover her feelings. “It cuts her Grace sorely to see her juniors go to the grave before her.”
The Sharif, awakened by their talk, rose from her place on the bearskin. Her condition seemed greatly improved by the night’s sleep. Standing, she stretched up to her full height and gently rotated her long arms. The way she moved, so controlled and certain, even these simple gestures looked like trained martial forms. Watching her, Melaney’s eyes widened.
“Who’s that?” she asked softly.
Gaultry, engrossed as she reread the letter, did not answer.
Crossing to the nearest of the room’s long windows, the desert woman threw open the shutters. The flash of bright sunlight brought Gaultry’s head up, and lightened all the room. “Andion Vesa,” the Sharif intoned, stepping into that morning brightness. “Andion Vesa y Iryas!” She stiffly raised her palms, her hard horsewoman’s fingers reaching upward to catch the rays. As Gaultry and the young girl watched, her body seemed to draw in the light, her height to swell.
“What’s she saying?” Melaney asked. “Is she praying?”
“She’s an Ardanae war-leader,” Gaultry explained. “Come with me from Bissanty. The Ardanae worship Andion, the Sun King—so, yes, she’s praying.” Gaultry was more interested in the serious news in Martin’s letter—and in the questions it did not answer—than in the Sharif’s morning devotions. “Martin writes that you are his sister’s squire. Where is your master?” Mariette was a good ally.
“My Lady is in Haute-Tielmark, marshaling Melaudiere’s troops. She’s serving as Melaudiere’s war-leader. Goddess-Twins bless me that I were there with her.” Melaney swung her legs over the edge of the chair. “My mother begged Lady Mariette to wait another year before she took me into battle.” She wrinkled her face, obviously disgusted by her parent’s interference. “So I’ve had to stay home with all the sour summer court, running errands for old Melaudiere.”
“Sour?”
“Her Grace says everyone who loves Tielmark has either ridden west to fight or they’re at home tending their own land,” Melaney answered. “Why summer in Princeport when there’s so much work to be done elsewhere in Tielmark?”
“The Duchess herself is still in Princeport.” Gaultry smiled.
“Melaudiere had to stay,” the girl said. “The Prince ordered all the Common Brood to court.”
The illogic of old Melaudiere staying in Princeport while her Brood-blood granddaughter went off to the front had evidently not occurred to the girl.
Gaultry sat down, trying to sort her thoughts. If Melaudiere was too ill to back her, who would help her find her way at court? Even if she had not always agreed with the dictatorial old woman, Gaultry had always been able to trust her for support—if not for partially disinterested guidance.
Who is this?
The Sharif, finished with her prayers, came to tower over young Melaney.
Martin sent her.
Gaultry explained Melaudiere’s sudden illness and the Prince’s brief absence from court on his ill-timed Midsummer voyage. Why the prince would go pleasure cruising when he had an army to prepare and a court to rule was an unpleasant, unanswerable riddle.
She’s pledged to serve Martin’s sister. Her parents must have the funds to train her for a knight, but not a lady.
The Sharif nodded, her desert eyes narrowing speculatively. Then she grinned, her teeth very white against her dark skin, and lightly brushed her hand against Melaney’s hair.
A pretty girl, freshly blooming, born to privilege. Your grey wolf must have sent her to keep Tullier busy. Men! They are less subtle than they like to think.

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