He hadn’t moved his hand, so I reached down and tried reluctantly to pry loose one of his fingers. His hand jerked in resisting—which was his undoing. A spasm of pain tightened his features. His hand went slack and his eyes closed.
Gone off in a faint, I thought, triumphant. See how you like it.
I put his hand on his middle, flicked his hair out of the way, and pressed the lace over the long gash, wondering how to keep it there. His chest was bare where his shirt had ripped, and in the blood smears on his flesh lay a long silver chain. My eyes followed it, saw whatever was on its end was caught in his armpit.
As I tugged, it came free, but the object on the end was red and sticky. I dropped it, turned away and gagged dryly for a short but thoroughly nasty time.
When that passed off, I leaned back against the rock and fought to get my breathing under control. Since Jason was still in a faint, I pulled up an edge of his shirt and poked the thing on the chain down his other side.
Then I resumed my search for something to bind the lace over the wound, but he stirred, and his left hand came up again and pressed against his side, prisoning the lace there.
I moved away to watch the rain until the waves of nausea passed. When I turned, Jason said, “Ambush.”
And he’d been taken by surprise, I thought, remembering the battle gear he’d worn the day of the abduction. He’d been ready for trouble that day. The chain mail and battle tunic were probably burning back there with the carriage and the rest of his luggage. “Where are we?” I asked.
“Border between Drath and Ralanor Veleth.”
Almost to his homeland.
“Who did it? Garian’s people? Or yours?” I added snidely.
“Enterprising independents, I believe,” he whispered. “Of the sort my brother runs.”
“Who were they after? Me—or you?”
“Not sure. You were hidden by baggage.” He gave a brief, pained half-smile.
“So if they come back, what?”
“Won’t come back. Dead. All of ’em.”
“But if they have friends who come seeking them?”
“You tell ’em. Who you are. You’ll be. Safe enough.”
“Another ransom? Is that going to frame the rest of my life?” I asked the rocky ceiling. Seeing no answer, I faced Jason. “The fire?”
“Campfire. Most likely. Wind was coming up when they attacked. I used a stick from the fire. When my sword wouldn’t come free of one of ’em.”
“Ugh.”
“Sent Markham for backup,” he went on. “Didn’t know about the fire.”
“Markham?”
“Liegeman.”
“How long have we been on the road?”
Another brief half-smile. “Couple days. Had quite a run. Your brother. Was commendably fast this time.”
“But not fast enough, obviously. Well, at least when I get home Spaquel will be discredited for good.”
“Talk himself out of it.”
I sighed and braced myself to look at the lace again. There was white in it. So the bleeding was slowing. Time to go away.
I got to my feet, paused when I saw the gleam of a jewel not far from Jason. I bent. My fingers closed around the hilt of a long bladed knife. I said to Jason, “You lost my gems. This is a fair trade.”
“Didn’t lose ’em. Sold ’em. Get over the border faster.”
Belatedly I realized he meant bribes. To my own people. Anger surged through me.
I glared at him, the knife gripped in my fingers.
The smile was obvious now. “Go ahead. This is the only chance you’ll ever get.”
Why was he taunting me? He couldn’t possibly defend himself—even against me. I looked down at his blood-streaked flesh, the derisive blue eyes, and nausea clawed at me.
“You’re squeamish,” he whispered, and for the first time I saw him angry—really angry. “If I get through this one alive you’ll regret the outcome.”
Did he want me to stab him? I couldn’t possibly figure out what he meant, but one thing was for certain: “Maybe I’ll regret it, but I’m not going to do you any favors. Goodbye and good riddance.”
I turned my back on him and stalked out into the rain.
Chapter Eleven
I figured that at least the hard rain would wash off the mud. But not ten steps away from the rocky overhang, the rain abated abruptly, typical of mountain storms. I walked a short way in the light drizzle, then sat down on a rock to let the pounding in my head subside.
Next time I made it to a trickling stream. I got a good drink, which made me feel somewhat better.
One step, another. Concentrate. It took all my thought, and all my effort.
I didn’t go far or for long before I heard the sounds of a military horn echoing through the trees, followed not long after by the thud of horse hooves and jingling harnesses.
Thieves?
I looked about for a hiding place, tripped over something and fell into a mossy patch.
Horse hooves neared, someone dismounted and pulled me to my feet. Someone carried me and I was set down—not on a horse, but on a cushioned bench.
I was in an ancient traveling carriage smelling strongly of mildew. Jason lay on the opposite bench, that horrible wound wrapped with a hasty bandage.
As the forgotten knife was twisted from my fingers, he said, “I told you. Ought to have used it.”
“I took it to ward thieves.”
“Effective.”
“You’re stupid,” I said, with as much strength as I could muster. “And ignorant. Mistaking scruples for cowardice.”
He did not answer. Only gave me that faint, incredulous smile.
I made a sour face. “The ransom. You’ll address it to my brother, I trust?”
“Of course… No use applying to your father… No worth in making him drop dead… But your brother doesn’t know that…”
“You’ll threaten to tell Papa?”
“Don’t need to… Your brother jumps at shadows…”
I sighed in disgust, too sick to be angry. “It turns my stomach. Ransom me to raise an army to march on my own kingdom.”
“Wrong.”
“What? You’re not after Lygiera?”
“No interest. No. Would be interesting. No intention.”
He was in a fever. Would he ramble on about his plans? I studied him. His black hair hung down in his face, which was pale except for telltale red along the defined cheekbones that were so much like his siblings’.
“So whose is the fortunate kingdom?”
He did not answer.
I tried to think of something suitably scathing to say, but the carriage hit some kind of deep hole or root, jerked quite violently, and Jason shut his eyes, closing out the world, whether advertently or not.
I looked at the window. A pine-covered crag towered overhead. My skull and body ached. One of my more heroic ancestors might have been capable of leaping forth and making good her escape, but I did not know how to begin—or how to carry on if I did manage to get out of the carriage and past the escort whose gear and harnesses I could hear jingling at either side.
So I drew my knees up, tucked my sodden skirts around my ankles, put my head on my knees and went to sleep.
I roused when we stopped. Torchlight flared in the old-fashioned carriage windows. The door opened, and chill air puffed in, pure, cold, pine scented, and very damp. I discovered I was shivering.
A dark head and broad shoulders appeared in the doorway, outlined by the torches held high. A large male hand extended toward me. It was an offer—palm up—not a peremptory point, so I laid my own hand in it.
The silent liegeman guided me to the door then lifted me effortlessly out of the carriage, carried me a few steps, and set me down in what appeared in the leaping torchlight to be an abandoned woodcutter’s cottage.
Mold and damp wood were the chief smells inside the small single room. Someone had spread an old blanket on the stone floor near a fireplace on wh
ich someone else was in the process of setting up a fire. I lay down gratefully and was vaguely surprised when someone cast another blanket over me. It smelled of storage herbs and moldy wood, but I did not care. I crooked my elbow under my aching head, content to watch the four or five dark figures moving in purposeful silence about the little room.
Voices murmured just beyond the open door. One of them was Jason’s. Mumble-mumble-mumble, then a grunt of pain, followed by cursing.
Another voice: “Cut through the muscle, bone nicked. But the main blood vessel appears to be safe.”
“What I figured.” Jason’s response was hoarse. “Or I’d have been dead by now.”
Silence. I winced, trying not to think of what had to be happening in that old carriage.
The fire threw orange light on old plank walls, little shelves, and a moldy-green wooden trunk. An iron pot in a corner. Someone knelt at the fire; from the sounds outside others were rigging a shelter for the horses. Rain whispered in the high fir trees surrounding the cottage.
Cold puffs of rainy air blew in, making me shiver. My blanket did not hold heat, because of my sodden gown.
Two figures laid a heavy woolen cloak on the floor, covered it with two more. Jason came in, supported by that tall armsman from before. I noted with mild interest his dark, shoulder-length hair.
Jason lay down on the pile of cloaks, his breathing loud in the quiet cottage.
No one spoke. The tall man stooped to lay another cloak over Jason, who had been bandaged with ripped lengths from a cotton shirt. The tall man straightened up. I caught an appraising glance from dark eyes, then he vanished through the door.
More voices outside. Consultation, it sounded like. Someone came back in; I heard the muted clink of chain mail as he knelt at the fire. A creak, the door closed.
Warmth from the fire reached me, bringing lassitude. I had almost drifted into sleep when the door opened. Cold air rushed in, followed by footsteps.
A voice said, low, “Water?”
“Steaming,” responded another in the same accent that Jaim and Jewel used.
“Good enough for now. Let’s get the healer’s brew into them.”
Brew? My eyes closed. Very soon I smelled the wonderful, healing, summery aroma of steeped listerblossom.
“Here. Drink.”
That long, bony face, the dark eyes and hair, firelit from the side—they were vaguely familiar. I remembered previous half-wakings when that same voice had issued that same command.
“No sleepweed,” I protested.
A brief smile. “No.”
An arm supported me, and a metal cup pressed against my lower lip. I drank the brew without pausing for breath. Then the arm withdrew and I lay down again.
“What happened?” I whispered. “Jason said it was thieves.”
“An ambush,” was the quiet reply. “Twelve against two seemed appropriate odds. An understandable error.”
The man moved away, and I closed my eyes.
Woke when I couldn’t breathe. I was shivering in spite of the warm air. The fire leaped and glowed. I moved toward it, felt its scorch on my face. The heat helped my shivering abate, so I crouched into a ball as close to the fire as I could, but soon I was much too hot, and so I moved away—and collided with that tall, dark-haired man.
“Lie down. Sleep,” he said, moving aside.
“I’m hot.”
“You’ve a slight fever. Too much sleepweed, too little food, and a chill. Lie down. I’ll steep more healer leaf. You should shake it off by morning.”
I looked at the scrunched blanket with its damp spots, and shuddered. The man had set the water pot on the hot stones near the fire. He then reached over my head. Fabric had been festooned above us to dry.
The man pulled it down—another of those heavy wool army cloaks.
“Here. This one is dry. Remove that gown and wrap up in the cloak. You will only stay chilled in those wet clothes.”
I flushed as I looked Jason’s way. He was utterly oblivious, his breathing slow and deep.
The man said in a quiet voice that didn’t quite mask his amusement, “He won’t waken and I’ll go outside. Make it quick.”
He opened the door and vanished. I wrestled my way out of what had once been a beautiful walking gown. Jason never moved—I watched him the entire time—as I wrapped myself in the woolen cloak, which was warm from the fire. It smelled absurdly of singed wool.
I spread my gown on the hearth, aghast at the mud and moss making it clot in wads. I scraped at the worst spots, knowing that I could never put it on again so dirty, and then stared down in horror as the fabric, so delicate, ripped like spider webs before a broom.
The door creaked open. I retreated to my spot. The dark-haired man came in and knelt before the fire. He checked the water pot and cast leaves into it. Again the wonderful smell of listerblossoms filled the air. I lay there looking up at the raindrops glistening on his hair and on his dark green long tunic. Firelight gleamed along the complicated pattern of his blackweave riding boots, and on the hilt of a knife at his belt. Who was he? His manner, some of his gestures, betrayed the sort of control that aristocrats get trained into them from birth. But he was dressed as an armsman.
“The steeped leaf is ready.” His voice was a low rumble.
When I handed the cup back, there was movement beyond his arm. Jason sat up, his eyes bright with fever.
The man turned his way and wordlessly held out another cup. Jason took it one-handed, drank it, and lay down again.
I did as well.
My slumbers were uneasy, full of strange dreams of fire, and knives, and Garian’s cruel laughter.
I woke to whispers. “…didn’t eat for the two days previous. She has a mild fever, not nearly as bad as yours. Nothing that a couple good meals won’t set to rights. But you—”
“I’ll live.”
“You won’t if you try to ride. You lost too much blood.”
“We’ll see.” That was Jason, sounding impatient. “I know I can’t defend myself. We’ll wait on Brissot.”
“Good.”
The next time I woke, people moved around me. The fever had turned into a head cold, otherwise I felt fine. Weak light filtered in from small windows in the four walls, the shutters wide. There was no glass in them; cool, pine-scented air drifted down in a slow breeze.
The voices ceased, footsteps clunked and clattered on the warped floorboards. The door creaked.
I smelled food.
Pulling the cloak close, I sat up to find Jason sitting across from me, leaning against the wooden chest. He still wore his muddy trousers and boots, but had someone else’s shirt on. It was much too large for him; at the unlaced neck I glimpsed that long chain, now cleaned of bloodstains, and fresh bandages. His hair hung tangled in his face and down onto his breast.
Why did I laugh at his sorry, bedraggled appearance? Because ridiculousness made a repellent situation more bearable.
With his good hand he lifted a beat-up metal cup in a mocking salute. “At least I’m not blue,” he observed, then coughed.
I looked down at my cloak and long, waving mud-streaked tangles of honey-colored hair. Blue? I poked one hand out. Oh. It was mottled and blotched with blue dye—from my gown, which had been intended only for civilized wear, after which careful hands would have put it through a cleaning frame.
“Were there a mirror we’d crack it.” My voice was hoarse.
Jason turned his head toward the fire. He lifted his chin in the direction of the metal pot from the night before. Next to it was my ruined gown. “Markham is bringing extra gear.”
I reached down, wadded up the gown and pitched it into the fire. Whoosh! A smell of scorched fabric, and it was soon gone.
I tucked the cloak more securely about me, and poured out steeped leaf. Then turned my attention to a pair of covered stoneware pots.
“Soup in one. Bread in the other.”
I helped myself to the soup once I’d drunk the stee
ped leaf, since I saw no other dishes. The bread had a portion missing. It was still warm, having been baked in the ceramic pot. I helped myself.
“Can I get you something?” I asked, seeing Jason just sitting there.
“Ate.” He coughed again.
“Then I will finish the steeped leaf. It’s lukewarm anyway.”
He gave a brief nod.
I sat back on my blanket, curling my legs under me, and sipped slowly. The taste, the warmth, faint as it was, felt wonderful.
When I was done I opened my eyes and set aside the cup.
Jason was watching me. “Markham corroborates that you did in fact pull me from the fire.”
I shivered as the memory flooded back.
He seemed to be waiting for an answer. “And so? More helpful hints about my cowardice?”
He said nothing.
“I take your accusation of squeamishness as a compliment. I see no disgrace in finding oneself unable to hack apart one’s fellow being. Nor in finding disgusting and reprehensible the kind of life wherein that is an everyday activity.”
“Including self-defense?”
I remembered my short, intense (and totally ineffectual) wishes that I had had the skills of one of my adventurous ancestors. “No. I was shortsighted there.” And, lest he think I was admitting defeat, I added, “Had I had the remotest idea that my life would be enlivened by all this violent effort to get hold of my inheritance, I would have forgone my studies of music in favor of all the sword-swinging and knife-throwing I could cram into a day.”
“Music. You mentioned that before. That’s what you do?”
“Is that so astonishing?”
Slight lift of his good shoulder. I read dismissal in that gesture, as though music was a foreign concept to be defined some day in the far future.
“Trying to pick apart from Garian’s discourse what was truth and what was lies.” He looked at the fire again.
“Garian,” I repeated.
“I can’t decide whether he’s two steps ahead of me or two behind.”
“What does that mean?”
The diffuse blue gaze returned to me, but he did not answer.
The Trouble With Kings Page 10