The Hero's Lot (32 page)

He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, afraid to move or even breathe.

Rokha put on a show of being chagrined and twirled away. Moans of disappointment and cheers came to him on the edge of his consciousness. The next dancer came forward—a slender, willowy girl whose direct glance and pout made Errol sweat. He wanted nothing more than to run away. He caught Rula's eye on the edge of the floor, clapping and cheering him on.

The girl swayed and bent like a sapling in a gale, her long hair flying. Fingers caressed his cheek, his brow, his neck. The crowd roared its approval. Sweat ran from Errol's palms. At last she moved on, only to be replaced by another.

Errol retreated into his mind. One by one, he recalled every attack on him since he left Callowford. He reveled in the fear
and the pain, seeing through the dancer of the moment to each stroke, blow, and injury. By increments, his breathing slowed and his pulse returned to normal. The noise of the crowd faded and the blood left his face.

Then the last dancer stepped forward, her feet light, barely touching the floor as she glided toward him. His protective shell crumbled when her eyes flashed with challenge, with passion. He swallowed, his throat tight.

She swept toward him, the rose in her hand less an ornament than a partner in her dance. Her blond hair, thick and lustrous, caught the light, amplified it and reflected it. His breathing stopped.

Adora.

His hands unclenched as she brought the rose forward to caress his lips with the petals. The music swelled to a crescendo, and the crowd, as if sensing his state, hushed, waiting. Unshed tears filled Adora's eyes as she spun and then came face-to-face with him, extending the rose for his acceptance.

Or his denial.

Errol went to both knees, reached for the bloom.

Adora pulled it away, out of his reach.

The crowd gasped.

A hole, black and bottomless, opened in his chest where his heart had been.

Adora held the rose over her head for everyone to see and then closed her hands over the long stem, over the thorns. She held them there, squeezing tighter and tighter until Errol could see trickles of blood between her fingers. Adora lowered her arms, cupped the blossom in her hands, and let the blood from her palms run over the pink petals. Absolute silence fell across the courtyard as she knelt and presented the stained flower to him.

Powerless to refuse, Errol took it. Driven by instinct and drowning in the startling green of her eyes, he squeezed the bloody thorns into the center of his palms. Then he covered her blood with his own. Thundering applause cascaded over him in peal after peal, but nothing except Adora filled his vision.

 31 
Dextra and Sinistra

N
OT A CLOUD
marred the blue of the sky overhead when the next morning Errol rode out from Count Rula's estate accompanied by his own caravan and a score of Rula's men. The count insisted on sending the escort with Errol as far as the boundary of his territory, and no amount of arguing could dissuade him. The parting looks from Rula and his cousin Lady Pelela had been embarrassing. If his caravan didn't leave this land and its people with their infectious passions, there was no telling what trouble he might get himself into.

Adora rode close beside him. Errol shifted in his saddle. Despite the amount of time he'd spent riding, he couldn't seem to find a comfortable place to put his hands. As they rode, the princess's expression moved from shock to adoration to smoldering and back again. Several times she seemed on the verge of speaking, her mouth open to draw breath, but each time she simply wet her lips and continued her mute regard.

A hawk cried, fierce and defiant, overhead. Errol shielded his eyes against the yellow glare. Red bands marked the wings and
a suspicion sprouted in Errol's chest. He turned to Adora to beg her leave to talk to Rale, but the passion in her gaze seared him.

The air seemed too thick. He fought for breath. “Would you pardon me, Princess? I need to speak to Captain Elar for a moment.”

She regarded him beneath lowered lashes. “Certainly, my Earl Stone.” The stress she placed on the word
my
combined with the heat of her glance made it even more difficult to breathe. He nodded and kicked Midnight forward to the front of the caravan.

Rale—the kingdom's second-best tactician—rode at the vanguard, his eyes sweeping the landscape ahead for threats. He acknowledged Errol's presence with a nod, his manner stiff, almost formal. Errol sensed an undercurrent of disapproval in the captain's manner.

Not knowing how to broach the subject, he pointed overhead, but the hawk no longer floated above them. “It's gone.”

Rale caught his gesture. “You mean the hawk?”

Errol nodded. “It has red bands on the wings. I've seen it or one just like it since Gascony. How common are they?”

The former watchman nodded. “Hawks as a rule are fairly prevalent, but the large ones, like the red-banded one you've noticed, are rare. It's surprising to see one so often.”

“Are we being followed?”

The captain grimaced. “It's likely.”

Rale gave no indication of speaking further. “That's it? Shouldn't we send scouts back to see who it is?”

His mentor gave him an inscrutable look. “I have. I noticed the hawk a couple of days before you were poisoned. The scouts couldn't find anything. Whoever is following us is too far back, which means they're too far away to attack us.” He pointed at the blue-liveried men Rula sent. “And I have no doubt the count's reinforcements will discourage them all the more.”

“What will we do when we get to the coast?” Errol asked.

Rale shrugged away the question. “We'll take a ship and hope that the Merakhi are fooled by our disguise.”

“Won't our pursuers follow us across the strait?”

“No. I've sent word ahead. The garrison at Monett is one of the largest in the kingdom. Nobody will be allowed to port after we do. As long as our friend with the hawk is content to follow at a distance, there's not much we can do to stop him, but once we reach the coast, we'll be beyond his reach.”

Rale's certainty comforted him.

In desperation, Errol blurted the question that burned inside him. “What did I do wrong?”

Rale sighed and shook his head. “Errol, you have a way of taking a game and raising the gamble to insane heights. The Basqus are going to be talking about your dance with the princess for generations.” He grunted. “Don't you ever ask for advice before you do something?”

Errol dropped his gaze. “Lady Pelela dragged me out to the floor. She said the count would be offended if I didn't dance. Rokha told me not to take any of the flowers offered to me.”

“By the three, man, why didn't you listen to her?” Exasperation laced Rale's voice.

“When Adora came and offered the rose to me, I couldn't think of anything I wanted more. Before I could take it, she pulled it away.” His shoulders hunched at the memory. “I thought she was saying she didn't want me anymore. She's been strange since we left Erinon. Then she squeezed the stem until her hands bled.”

“Don't remind me,” Rale said.

“I didn't know what else to do. Her blood was on every petal, and she was kneeling to me—the only princess in the entire kingdom was kneeling before me as if I really were an earl and not some peasant who used to sleep on tavern floors. What was I supposed to do?”

Rale squeezed his face with his hands. “You were supposed to show some sense even if the princess didn't. What do you think will happen back at Erinon when the king and Duke Weir hear of this?”

“I don't care,” Errol said. “You're the one who told me to fill that hole in my chest. Well, I love Adora, and she loves me.”

His mentor rolled his eyes. “I didn't tell you to fall in love with the princess, boy. She's royal. Adora doesn't get to choose who she marries.”

“Why not?”

“Because she belongs to the kingdom!” Rale's chest expanded as he took a deep breath. “Rodran needs her, boy. When Adora swore to die before marrying anyone but you and you returned the oath, you put the kingdom at risk. In terms of power and money, Weir is practically king. We can't win this war or any war without his men.”

“He's a murderous pig,” Errol spat.

Rale nodded. “Yes, and he's a necessary ally.”

Errol rode in silence, cursing the kingdom's need in his mind. He played through half a dozen schemes for running away with Adora to start a new life somewhere else, but he discarded each one. He could abandon his title and become a guard or a farmer with little trouble. His newfound fame would fade, and his ordinary face would allow him to resume a life of anonymity.

But Adora could never vanish. Even if she were not one of the great beauties of the kingdom, the princess represented power and access. They would never let her leave. Duke Weir would insist on the princess as the price for his support, both in money and men, for the upcoming war.

Errol traced the punctures and scratches on one palm with his fingers. He hadn't changed his mind. He would die before he married any other, but could the princess afford to keep her vow? Could the kingdom afford it? The question carried the answer.

“She'll have to renounce her gesture,” Errol said.

Rale nodded. “Probably.”

Errol sought his gaze. “But that doesn't mean I have to renounce mine.”

Rale's eyes were sympathetic above his broad nose. “No, lad, you don't.”

A cry overhead that echoed the longing and loneliness in
Errol's heart announced the hawk's return. His next course of action seemed obvious—convince the princess to reconsider the wild extravagance of her actions for the sake of the kingdom. He snorted. All very well for him to say. He didn't have to marry that useless peacock. Errol regretted not smacking him with his staff when he had the chance.

“How am I supposed to convince her?”

The captain opened his mouth, closed it, and then sighed. “I don't think you can, lad. She's not likely to see the sense of the political stakes.”

“Maybe I could find a way to drive her away?” Errol asked.

Rale shook his head. “It's courageous of you to think of it, my lad, but it won't work. The princess is smarter than you are and would see right through a tactic like that. You'd only end up binding her to you more tightly.”

“You're remarkably little help,” Errol said. “I thought you were supposed to be one of the finest tacticians in the kingdom.”

His mentor shook his head. “That's warfare, boy, which is simplicity itself compared to affairs of the heart.” He grunted. “Besides, women don't fight fair. They never have.”

Errol started in surprise. “That's kind of harsh.”

Rale laughed at him. “You think so? Take another look at your palms and tell me who pulled the strings and called the tune during that dance.”

They camped that first night in the Basquon countryside less than a fortnight's ride from Monett, where they would hire a ship to transport them and their phony caravan across the Forbidden Strait. Errol followed Rale as he moved among the guards. Gial Orth, his violent red hair braided behind him, joined them as they set the guard.

“Double the guard and the scouts,” Rale instructed the watchman. “Keep it that way until we board ship.”

“Do you expect trouble, Captain?”

“It's my job to expect trouble. Someone's been following us, Orth. If they weren't planning something, they wouldn't keep on. The closer we get to the coast, the more desperate they'll become.”

Orth smiled and fingered his dagger. “I could slip out of camp tonight and discourage them, Captain.”

Jared Achio, the head of Count Rula's detachment, approached, officious and deferential as always in Errol's presence. “Your pardon, Earl Stone,” Achio said with his customary bow.

Rula's man held his tongue until being acknowledged. Errol nodded, trying to ignore Rale's amused look. “Yes, Lord Achio, how may I help you?”

Achio repeated his bow, though not quite as low. “My count's orders were clear—to accompany you to the edge of his estate and then return. I expect we will reach the border tomorrow, midday. The neighboring lords would take offense at Count Rula's armed men entering their territory without permission.”

This last piqued Errol's interest. “Are they that threatened by a score of soldiers?”

Count Rula's man cleared his throat. “Ahem, well, you may have heard that Basqus are a touchy people. Skirmishes between nobles are not uncommon, and our long history encompasses quite a number of grudges. We've all been allies or enemies at some time in our past.”

“Count Rula seems to be quite mild-mannered,” Rale said.

Achio knuckled his thin mustache and darted furtive looks from side to side as if afraid of being overheard. “I can assure you it was not always so. My master had a reputation for impulsiveness in his youth.”

“Thank you, Lord Achio,” Errol said. “Please convey my thanks to Count Rula.”

Achio inclined his head. “On the contrary, Earl Stone, it is Count Rula who wishes to thank you.”

“Me?” He shook his head, bewildered. “I don't understand.”

Achio laughed and snapped his fingers twice. “My count wishes to express his gratitude by presenting you with gifts.”

Two of Rula's men came forward, each holding a long wooden case. The first man opened the lid of the simple wooden box he held and leaned forward to reveal its contents—a pair of practice swords, light but well made.

“The swords are fashioned from banbu wood, incredibly light but very strong.” Achio wore a sheepish grin. “The count's reputation as a master of arms will be greatly enhanced when word spreads that one of the heroes of the kingdom received instruction at his hands.”