The Book of Fire (20 page)

“I don’t know, my lord. I had . . . dreams . . . several dreams, in which I saw you as clearly as I do now, in your camp on the battlefield, with my father, with Captain Wender and then with the . . .”

Köthen hissed, rose, and paced away. “Curse the day I made that unholy alliance. Greedy, too greedy, Adolphus!”

“Fra Guill has deep powers of his own, my lord. See how easily he cozened my father . . .”

“Your father is a drunken sot!” At the edge of the shadows, he stared up into the darkness of the stairwell. “Have you any notion what your witchery cost me, girl?”

“My lord, I am a baron’s daughter, and the granddaugter of a baroness. I think I know something of the ambitions of the courtier. And I never intended . . .”

“Courtier?”
Köthen was appalled. He whirled on her, his fist raised and clenched. “I had a kingdom within my grasp!”

Erde stared at the red jewel in her hands so that her eyes would not stray to the litter of wine cups and empty jugs between them on the table. She did not see how she alone could be responsible for his loss. At some point he must have realized that the hell-priest would never have crowned him king. He was far too strong and able, not the hell-priest’s creature like her father. In truth, she understood little of courts and the lust for power. She had merely tried on some of N’Doch’s bravado. It did not fit very well, she decided.

Köthen took a breath, planted both palms on the table, and loomed over her. “Well, isn’t he? A drunken sot?”

Silently, she nodded. But her meek agreement seemed only to enrage him further. He snatched up all the wine cups on the table and hurled them into the fireplace. “I am not a drunk!”

The smash of crockery so close to his ear brought Captain Wender bolt upright out of his deep sleep. “What? My lord? Are we under attack?”

Köthen waved him back irritably. “No, Wender. Merely an accident. Go back to sleep. You’re better off.”

Wender shook the drowse from his head to survey the unfamiliar, darkened room. His eyes found Erde, and he cocked a scarred brow in inquiry. She nodded reassurance, then made the little hand sign that her father’s house guards always used to warn each other when the baron had been drinking. Which was, of course, most of the time. Wender’s lips twitched: a faint, complicit, admiring grin was born and died before it could give both of them away. He nodded and lay back in his nest of blankets and seemed to be instantly asleep again. But Erde was sure he would not be so caught by surprise again that night.

Köthen observed the end of this exchange, and it was not lost on him. But he also saw that she did not betray him to his man-at-arms by revealing the purloined dagger. He threw himself back into his chair, dropped his face into his hands, then dragged them roughly across his cheeks and beard with a ragged sigh. “Heinrich says I am past all reason. Do you agree?”

After a moment of consideration, she replied recklessly, “Yes, my lord.”

Köthen laughed, a short, bitter sound, more of a bark than an expression of mirth. Then he folded his arms to lean forward on them and stare at her closely. “You are an earnest and well-brought-up child, I can see that much, despite your fool of a father . . .”

“I beg you, my lord . . .”

“A thousand pardons, my lady, for my intemperance. I meant . . . your honored parent, Josef von Alte.”

“I am grateful, my lord.” Let him be as ironical as he pleased. She had his attention at last and perhaps, as her father often did, he would talk himself to sleep, and then there would be no more threats of a blade to the wrists, at least, not this night.

“And for these virtues I credit your noble grandmother, may she rest in peace.”

To hear him speak of her beloved grandmother nearly broke her resolve to remain tearless. “Did you know her, my lord?”

“Aye. As loyal a subject of the King as ever there was.” He paused, then grinned sourly. “Plotted against her many times.”

Erde glanced up at him, alarmed. For a moment, his dark eyes softened inexplicably. So sad, she thought, almost tender.
But not for me.
For his gentled gaze was directed somewhere inside his own head, at some memory, perhaps, some personal musing. Yet he seemed to be looking at her when he said quietly, “I believe that you did mean me well, for I see that you are incapable of meaning ill. How enviable.”

She sensed the direction of his thoughts, turned against himself as keenly as the dagger’s blade. It would do no good to protest that she had mean thoughts every day, about her fellow dragon guide, for instance, and certainly about the evil priest.

“And therefore,” Köthen continued, one hand fitfully massaging his brow. “You will think it most immodest of me, most unbecoming in a good Christian man, when you hear me say that the kingdom has need of me.” He regarded her speculatively, as if trying to decide if he could talk to her as an aware adult. “My lady Erde. Ours is a land in crisis. The peerage is slothful and corrupt. Their
people have lost all faith in the structures meant to protect them. Why else do you think the priest has won so many converts? He has nothing real to offer them. But this is a time of fear, not of faith. A strong, enlightened leader is needed, and I am the man for it. I could heal this sickness, if they’d let me. I know it, and Heinrich knows it, but he lets his infernal principles get in the way. Like you do, my lady. No wonder you’re such great friends.”

“A rightful monarchy is ordained by God, my lord.”

“Wrong!” Köthen slammed a fist against the table, causing Wender to mutter and turn over in his quilts. “That is a convenient fiction invented not too many generations ago to legitimize the current reigning family . . . Otto’s grandfather, who took the throne by force from some other sorry ‘rightful’ sot! As I hoped to do! When the weak rule, the strong must offer remedy! It’s traditional! Did the baroness not teach you
history
, child?”

“I am not a child, my lord.” But in her heart, she marveled at his magnificence, chin up, back straight, his eyes bright with the fire of conviction and righteous wrath. Here was the man she remembered from the barn in Erfurt. But it was a fleeting image.

“Not a witch, not a child . . . what are you, then? Oh, yes, I remember . . . a girl. You did tell me that, forgive me.”

Erde took two deep breaths and forced her shoulders away from their stranglehold about her neck. “I believe you wish me to think ill of you, my lord.”

“That’ll do for a start. Then maybe you’ll stop trying to save my life!”

“But it hasn’t been by choice, don’t you see?” Carefully, to hide her desperation, she balanced Wender’s knife between her bandaged hands. Only the absolute truth would do. “Except for just now, of course. After all, I hardly know you. My dreams were . . . I was called into them. I had no say in the matter.”

“Were you aware in the dreams?”

“Of course, but . . .”

“Then you could have dreamed some other outcome?”

“My lord, I don’t think so.” Even now, a plan was forming itself in her head. Erde felt she owed him at least a hint. “I suspect some larger purpose to all of this, my lord, in which we must both take part.”

The tension ran out of him like water. “Purpose? You’ve been listening to those dragons again. I have no purpose, remember?”

“Not so, my lord.”

“Ever so, my lady.” He reached for the wine jug nearest him, which turned out to be not yet empty. He upended it in a long, thirsty tavern swallow. Then he set it down, cradled between his palms, and eyed Erde with owlish challenge. “I am not a drunk, but I do wish to be drunk. Unless you have some better idea of what a useless man should do with his time.”

In fact, she did. And her plan was clearer now. Oh, it was reckless, so reckless. She couldn’t believe she was thinking of such a thing. But because she loved him—for whatever inexplicable reason, and now that she understood this—she had to try to help him. She had helped the dragon, after all, so lost and ignorant when she first found him. A dragon now magnificent with purpose, even if he was not always sure exactly what it was. As this man had been magnificent, and would be again.

But she said nothing of this to Köthen. She lowered her eyes and said, “Not I, my lord baron.”

Köthen shrugged, theatrical in his regret. “Then I guess it’s the jug for me. It’s a longer way to do one’s self in, but in the end, just as effective.”

Erde slid the dagger to the edge of the table and swept it into the folds of her shirt. She judged that the crisis had passed for the night, for this night at least. “In that case, my lord, I will leave you to your own devices.”

When she rose from the table, he seemed surprised that she did not intend to stay and joust with him for what remained of the night. She could see that, despite himself, and witch-girl or no, he found her interesting. Perhaps he’d even enjoyed her company. And that, to Erde, was one very large step forward.

One that left her trembling inwardly, as if she’d charged blindly out onto a precipice with no thought for how she might ever make her way back to solid ground. Walking back to the stairs and up them with composure and grace may have been the hardest thing she’d ever done.

N
or did she tell Hal or the women of Deep Moor about her plan, not even Rose. She claimed she had broken a bowl, and cut her palms on the shards. She avoided Baron Köthen, which was not difficult, as he mostly stayed in the room Rose had given him and sulked, while Captain Wender lounged patiently outside his door. Hal labored in the winter farmstead alongside the others, insisting he must do the work of three.

But, with trepidation, Erde did tell the dragons. To her surprise, they approved, as Earth worked his healing magic with her hands. The next day, N’Doch and Water spent hours together working up the details of the image that had gripped him just as he returned to consciousness from his dragon-made resurrection. Details of the burning land he just
knew
was where they were meant to go next. That N’Doch had volunteered this vision, he who hated any implication that he was tied to a dragon guide’s destiny, this very act convinced Erde of the vision’s truth. The dragons required no convincing. They were impatient to be off.

Quietly, the four prepared for their departure, soliciting from Margit a strong, stout knife for N’Doch to complement the slim dagger Erde had carried since fleeing Tor Alte. From the weavers, they gathered several thin linen tunics and leggings, advised by N’Doch as the best clothing for the hot climate he’d be taking them to. Lily made them footwear, laughing at the absurdity of sandals in deep winter. Doritt found them sturdy packs and equipped them with flint and tinder, and wax-stoppered water jugs and bread and cheese. N’Doch grumbled about the weight of all these things. He suggested that they should pay a stop
off visit to, as he put it, his “home time,” to exchange the heavy crockery for a lighter container he called “plastic.” Erde recalled the milky, flexible jug he’d carried water in, and thought it might be a good idea. But the dragons said no. She thought they seemed nervous about letting N’Doch go home, though they said it was only because they were in so much of a hurry. Besides, they were unsure how many of these provisions would make it through the veil anyway. Objects seemed to translate well enough if Earth specifically pictured them along with the person carrying them, but if it could not be easily carried, there was no point in trying to take it with them.

Erde warned N’Doch to keep his pack nearby at all times, or at least to know exactly where it was. They made no farewells, only tacit ones. The women knew they were leaving some time soon, and knew as well that they might—at any future moment—return without warning. Erde had given no notice at all when she and Earth had left on the journey that had led them to Water and N’Doch. She’d simply disappeared.

Therefore, it was just as well, when she heard shouting from the horse barn, men’s voices raised in anger, and saw Doritt and Margit grab up the nearest heavy tool and head that way. It was just as well that the four were ready.

Instinct warned her. Breaking into a run, Erde turned her senses inward to locate the other three. Earth was outside the cow shed with Linden, helping to heal a sick calf. N’Doch and Water-as-Sedou were hard at work in the farmhouse library, the only quiet place. Erde made it to the barn just after Doritt and Margit. Flinging herself through the open doorway, she nearly crashed into Doritt, bending beside Captain Wender, who was sprawled facedown in the scatter of manure and straw.

She slowed. “Is he . . .?”

“Out cold,” said Doritt. “But coming around.”

Wender groaned. Erde stopped worrying and moved on. Farther down, past the line of stalls, Margit had pulled up behind Raven and Rose. The three women watched breathlessly while in the open space at the end of the barn, Köthen and Hal circled each other, snarling. Hal had his sword at the ready, Köthen gripped a long-handled scythe used for harvesting grain. Already, both men were bruised and straw-dusted,
as if this altercation had begun with mere fists and arms, and escalated toward full-scale weaponry. Hal bled from a long shallow slice on his thigh. The shouting Erde had heard halfway across the farmstead had been replaced by silence, and the shuffling of straw and heavy breathing. Gone well beyond words, the two men glared at each other like maddened dogs, glared and circled, glared and circled.