Fire had kept her eyes on Small’s shoulders, combing his mane with her fingers until a sense of remorse had trickled to her from the minds of both fighters. Then she’d allowed herself a surprised peek at their hanging heads, their doleful glances at Brigan, blood plopping from broken lips and noses onto the ground. They’d forgotten her. She’d sensed that clearly. In their shame before their commander, they’d forgotten all about her.
Unusual. Fire’s eyes had flicked curiously to Brigan. His expression had been cool, his mind unreadable. He’d spoken to the fighters quietly, hadn’t looked at her once.
Back onto their horses, and shortly thereafter word had come around from the command units that any soldier brawling over any matter relating to the Lady Fire would find himself out of the army and the army’s favor, disarmed, discharged, and sent home. Fire gathered from the low whistles and high eyebrows among her guard that it was a harsh punishment for brawling.
She didn’t know enough about armies to extrapolate. Did a harsh punishment make Brigan a harsh commander? Was harshness the same as cruelty? Was cruelty the source of Brigan’s power over his soldiers?
And where was the hardship in discharge from a fighting force in a time of impending war? To Fire it sounded more like a reprieve.
Fire pictured Archer riding through his fields at day’s end, stopping to talk with the farmers, laughing, cursing the stubborn rocky ground of the north, as he always did. Archer and Brocker sitting down to dinner without her.
When the army finally stopped for the night she insisted on currying her own horse. She leaned into Small and whispered to him, comforted herself with the feel of him, the only familiar heart in a sea of strangers.
They made camp in a gigantic underground cavern, halfway between Fire’s home and Roen’s fortress, the likes of which Fire had never seen. Nor could she particularly see it now, for it was dim, light glancing through cracks in the ceiling and seeping from side openings. As the sun set, the cavern turned positively dark, and the First Branch was a composition of moving shadows spread across the sloping floor of the chamber.
Sound in the cavern was thick, musical. When the commander had left the camp with a force of two hundred, two hundred had echoed like two thousand and the footfalls had chimed like bells all around her. He’d taken off just as soon as he’d seen everyone settled—his face as indecipherable as ever. A scout unit of fifty soldiers had not returned at the time and place it was meant to. He’d gone looking for it.
Fire was uneasy. The shifting shadows of her five thousand companions unsettled her. Her guard kept her apart from most of these soldiers, but she could not separate herself from the impressions she collected in her mind. It was exhausting, to keep track of so many. They were most of them aware of her on some level, even those farthest away. Too many of them wanted something from her. Some got too close.
“I like the taste of monster,” one with a twice-broken nose hissed at her.
“I love you. You’re beautiful,” another three or four breathed to her, seeking her out, pressing themselves against the barriers of her guard to reach her.
Brigan had given her guard strict orders before he’d ridden away. The lady was to be housed in a tent even though the army was under a cavern’s roof, and two of her female guard were to accompany her always inside the tent.
“Am I never to have privacy?” she’d put in, overhearing Brigan’s order to Musa.
Brigan had taken a leather gauntlet from a young man Fire supposed was his squire, and pulled it over his hand. “No,” he’d said. “Never.” And before she’d even been able to take a breath to protest he’d pulled on his other gauntlet and called for his horse. The hoofbeat music had swelled, and then dissipated.
IN HER TENT the smell of roasting monster meat came to her. She crossed her arms and tried not to glare at her two female guard companions, whose names she couldn’t remember. She tugged at her headscarf. Surely in the presence of these women she could have some relief from the tight wrapping around her hair. They didn’t want anything from her; the strongest emotion she could sense from both of them was boredom.
Of course, once she’d uncovered her hair their boredom lessened. They watched her with curious eyes. She looked back wearily. “I forget your names. I’m sorry.”
“Margo, Lady,” said the one with a broad, pleasant face.
“Mila, Lady,” said the other, delicate boned, light haired, and very young.
Musa, Margo, and Mila. Fire bit off a sigh. She recognized the feel of almost every one of her twenty guards at this point, but the names would take her some time.
She didn’t know what else to say, so she fingered the case of her fiddle. She opened the case and inhaled the warm smell of varnish. She plucked a string and the answering acoustics, like the reverberation of a bell struck underwater, focused her disorientation. The flap of the tent was open and the tent itself was set in a niche against the side of the cavern, a low, curving roof curling above it, not unlike the shell of an instrument. She tucked the fiddle under her chin and tuned it, and then, very quietly, she began to play.
A lullaby, soothing, to calm her own nerves. The army faded away.
SLEEP DIDN’T COME easily that night, but she knew it would be pointless to seek out the stars. Rain seeped through cracks in the ceiling and trickled down the walls to the floor; the sky tonight would be black. Perhaps a midnight storm would batter away her dreams. She threw back her blanket, found her boots, slipped past the sleeping forms of Margo and Mila, and pushed open the tent flap.
Outside she took care not to trip over the other sleeping guards, who were arranged around her tent like some kind of human moat. Four of the guards were awake: Musa and three men whose names she couldn’t remember. They played cards in the light of a candle. Candles flickered here and there all across the floor of the cavern. Fire supposed that most units kept some kind of watch throughout the night. She pitied the soldiers currently on guard outside this haven, in the rain. And Brigan’s search party, and the scouts for whom they searched, all of whom had yet to return.
The four guards seemed a bit dazed at the sight of her. She touched her hand to her hair, remembering that it was unbound.
Musa recollected herself. “Is anything wrong, Lady?”
“Is there an opening in this cavern to the sky?” Fire asked. “I want to see the rain.”
“There is,” Musa said.
“Will you show me the way?”
Musa set her cards down and began to wake the guards at the farthest edges of the human moat.
“What are you doing?” Fire whispered. “Musa, it’s not necessary. Please. Let them sleep,” she said, but Musa continued to shake shoulders until four of the men were awake. She ordered two of the card players to sit and keep watch. She motioned for the others to arm themselves.
Her fatigue compounded now with guilt, Fire ducked back into the tent for a headscarf and her own bow and quiver. She emerged and joined her six armed and sleepy companions. Musa lit candles and passed them around. Quietly, in procession, the line of seven skirted the edge of the cavern.
THE NARROW, SLOPING pathway they climbed some minutes later led to a perforation in the side of the mountain. Fire could see little beyond the opening, but instinct told her not to venture too far and not to loose her hold on the edges of rock that formed a kind of doorway to either side of her. She didn’t want to fall.
The night was gusty, damp, and cold. She knew it was senseless to get herself wet, but she soaked in the rain and the untamed feeling of the storm anyway, while her guard huddled just inside the opening and tried to protect the candles.
There was a shift in her consciousness: people nearing, riders. Many. Difficult to tell the difference between two hundred and two hundred fifty at this distance, and knowing so few of them personally. She concentrated, and decided that she was sensing well more than two hundred. And they were tired, but not in any unusual state of distress. The search party must have met with success
.
“The search party’s returning,” she called back to her guard. “They’re close. I believe the scout unit’s with them.”
At their silence she turned to glance at them, and found six pairs of eyes watching her in various states of unease. She stepped out of the rain, into the passageway. “I thought you’d like to know,” she said more quietly. “But I can keep my perceptions to myself, if they make you uncomfortable.”
“No,” Musa said. “It’s appropriate for you to tell us, Lady.”
“Is the commander well, Lady?” one of the men asked.
Fire had been trying to determine this for herself, finding the man irritatingly difficult to isolate. He was there, of this she was sure. She supposed the continued impenetrability of his mind must indicate some measure of strength. “I can’t quite tell, but I think so.”
And then the music of hoofbeats echoed through the corridor as somewhere, in some crevice of the mountain below them, the riders entered the tunnels that led to the sleeping cavern.
A short while later, plodding downward, Fire received an abrupt answer to her concern when she sensed the commander walking up the passageway toward them. She stopped in her tracks, causing the guard behind her to whisper something most ungentlemanly as he contorted himself to avoid lighting her headscarf with his flame.
“Is there any other route to the cavern from here?” she blurted out; then knew the answer, then shriveled in mortification at her own display of cowardice.
“No, Lady,” Musa said, hand to her sword. “Do you sense something ahead?”
“No,” Fire said miserably. “Only the commander.” Come to fetch the wandering monster, who’d proven herself wild and irresponsible. He’d keep her on a chain from now on.
He came into view a few minutes later, climbing with a candle in his hand. When he reached them he stopped, nodded at the soldiers’ formal greetings, spoke quietly to Musa. The scout unit had been recovered unharmed. They’d run into a nasty party of cave bandits twice their size, and after tearing up the bandits they’d gotten turned around in the dark. Their injuries were minor. In ten minutes’ time they would all be asleep.
“I hope you’ll get some sleep as well, sir,” Musa said. Suddenly Brigan smiled. He stepped aside to let them by and momentarily met Fire’s glance. His eyes were exhausted. He had a day-old beard and he was drenched.
And apparently he had not come to fetch her after all. Once she and her attendants had passed him he turned away, and continued up the sloping corridor.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHE WOKE THE next morning stiff and achy from yesterday’s riding. Margo handed her bread and cheese, and a basin of water to wash her face. After this, Fire reached for her fiddle and played a single reel, slowly and then with increasing speed, to wake herself up. The effort of it crystallized her mind.
“The commander didn’t mention this advantage of our guard duty,” Mila said, smiling shyly. Musa stuck her head through the flap of the tent.
“Lady,” Musa said, “the commander bade me tell you we’ll be passing near Queen Roen’s fortress around midday. He has business with the horsemaster. There’ll be time for you to take a short meal with the lady queen, if you like.”
“YOU’VE BEEN ON your horse since yesterday,” Roen said, taking her hands, “so I’m guessing you don’t feel as lovely as you look. There, that smile tells me I’m right.”
“I’m tight as a bowstring,” Fire admitted.
“Sit down, dear. Make yourself comfortable. Take off that scarf, I won’t let any gaping no-heads in here for the next half hour.”
Such a relief to release her hair. The weight of it was great, and after a morning of riding, the scarf was sticky and itchy. Fire sank gratefully into a chair, rubbed her scalp, and allowed Nax’s queen to shovel vegetables and casserole onto her plate. “Haven’t you ever considered cutting it short?” Roen asked.
Oh, cutting it short. Hacking it all off, throwing it once and for all on the fire. Dyeing it black, if only monster hair would take color. When she and Archer had been very young, they’d gone so far as to shave it off once as an experiment. It had shown again on her scalp within the hour. “It grows extremely fast,” Fire said wearily, “and I’ve found it’s easier to control if it’s long. Short pieces break loose and escape from my scarf.”
“I suppose they would,” Roen said. “Well. I’m glad to see you. How are Brocker and Archer?”
Fire told her that Brocker was splendid and Archer, as usual, was angry.
“Yes, I suppose it’s what he would be,” Roen said robustly, “but don’t mind him. It’s right for you to be doing this, going to King’s City to help Nash. I believe you can handle his court. You’re not a child anymore. How is your casserole?”
Fire took a bite, which was very nice, actually, and fought the disbelieving expression trying to rise to her face. Not a child anymore? Fire had not been a child for quite some time.
And then, of course, Brigan appeared in the doorway to say hello to his mother and to bring Fire back to her horse, and immediately Fire felt herself revert to a child. Some part of her brain went missing whenever this soldier came near. It froze from his coldness.
“Brigandell,” Roen said, rising from her chair to embrace him. “You’ve come to steal my guest from me.”
“In exchange for forty soldiers,” Brigan said. “Twelve injured, so I’ve also left you a healer.”
“We can manage without the healer, if you need him, Brigan.”
“His family’s in the Little Grays,” Brigan said, “and I promised him a stay here when I could. We’ll manage with our numbers until Fort Middle.”
“Well then,” Roen said briskly, “are you sleeping?”
“Yes.”
“Come now. A mother can tell when her son lies. Are you eating?”
“No,” Brigan said gravely. “I’ve not eaten in two months. It’s a hunger strike to protest the spring flooding in the south.”
“Gracious,” Roen said, reaching for the fruit bowl. “Have an apple, dear.”
FIRE AND BRIGAN didn’t speak as they exited the fortress together to continue the journey to King’s City. But Brigan ate an apple, and Fire wound up her hair, and found herself a little more comfortable beside him.
Somehow it helped to know he could make a joke.
And then, three kindnesses.
Fire’s guard waited with Small near the back of the column of troops. As Fire and Brigan moved toward the spot, Fire began to know that something was wrong. She tried to focus, which was difficult with so many people milling around. She waited for Brigan to stop speaking to a captain who’d appeared alongside them with a question about the day’s schedule.
“I think my guards are holding a man,” she told Brigan quietly, when the captain had gone.
His voice dropped. “Why? What man?”
She had only the basics, and the most important assurances. “I don’t know anything except that he hates me, and he hasn’t hurt my horse.”
He nodded. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll have to do something to stop people targeting your horse.”
They had picked up their pace at Fire’s warning. Now, finally, they came upon a nasty scene: Fire’s guards, two of them, holding back a soldier who shouted curses and spit out blood and teeth, while a third guard cracked him across the mouth again and again to shut him up. Horrified, Fire reached for the mind of the guard to stop his fist.
And then she absorbed the details that turned the scene into a story. Her fiddle case fallen open on the ground, smeared with mud. The remains of her fiddle beside it. The instrument was smashed, splintered almost beyond recognition, the bridge rammed into the belly as if by a cruel and hateful boot.
It was worse, somehow, than being hit by an arrow. Fire stumbled to Small and buried her face in his shoulder; she had no control over the tears running down her face, and she did not want Brigan to see them.
Behind her, Brigan swore sharply. Someone—M
usa—laid a handkerchief on Fire’s shoulder. The captive was still cursing, screaming now that he could see Fire, horrible things about her body, what he would do to her, intelligible even through his broken, swollen mouth. Brigan strode to him.
Don’t hit him again, Fire thought desperately, Brigan, please; for the sound of bone scraping bone was not aiding her attempts to stop crying. Brigan uttered another oath, then a sharp command, and Fire understood from the sudden form lessness of the soldier’s words that the man was being gagged. And then dragged away, back toward the fortress, Brigan and a number of Fire’s guard accompanying him.
The scene was suddenly quiet. Fire became conscious of her own gasping breath and forced herself calm. Horrible man, she thought into Small’s mane. Horrible, horrible man. Oh, Small. That man was horrible.
Small made a snorting noise and deposited some very comforting drool on her shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Lady,” Musa said behind her. “He took us in completely. From now on we’ll let no one near us who wasn’t sent by the commander.”
Fire wiped her face with the handkerchief and turned sideways toward the captain of her guard. She couldn’t quite look at the pile of tinder on the ground. “I don’t blame you for it.”
“The commander will,” Musa said. “As he should.”
Fire took a steadying breath. “I should have known playing it would be provoking.”
“Lady, I forbid you to blame yourself. Truly, I won’t allow it.”
At this Fire smiled, and held the handkerchief out to Musa. “Thank you.”
“It’s not mine, Lady. It’s Neel’s.”
Fire recognized the name of one of her male guards. “Neel’s?”
“The commander took it from Neel and gave it to me to give to you, Lady. Keep it. Neel won’t miss it, he has a thousand. Was it a very expensive fiddle, Lady?”
Fire Page 11