Stone of Inheritance

by Melissa McShane

  That was too absurd to take seriously. It woke Sienne up. This man simply wanted a few minutes’ harmless flirtation, and that was nothing to feel flustered over. She laughed. “I’m still a beginner. Most of my training is in confusions.”

  “Interesting. I wish I could see some of them. Many of the performers in the troupe to which I am attached are wizards who specialize in confusions—they are most entertaining. Will you show me one?”

  “Ah… not in the middle of this crowd.”

  He took yet another step closer, putting him close enough that his hand brushed hers. “Then somewhere more private? I have a room to myself.”

  And just like that, the casual flirtation disappeared, leaving Sienne in no doubt as to what he wanted. Torn between feeling flattered and wanting to slap him, she said, “I don’t think so,” as politely as she could manage.

  “Very well,” Aneirin said, stepping back. His smile never faltered. “It was a pleasure to speak with you, Sienne. Perhaps we will meet again someday.”

  “Good luck in your performance tomorrow,” Sienne said. She gulped down the last of her wine more quickly than she’d intended. When she put her glass down, Aneirin was gone. She felt unexpectedly disappointed. True, she had no intention of having casual sex with a total stranger, but his attention had been flattering.

  “More wine, miss?” the man behind the bar asked. She shook her head and stepped away from the bar. Sleep, that would be nice.

  There was a second door opposite the one leading to the stable yard. Beyond it, Sienne found a dimly-lit room with a desk facing a much larger door and stairs leading up. The inn’s front entrance, no doubt. A man sat behind the desk with his feet up, napping.

  She was halfway up the first flight before she remembered she didn’t know what room Alaric had gotten for them. Tiptoeing back down out of consideration for the sleeping man, she had her hand on the door when it opened in her face. “Hey!” she said, skipping backward.

  The napping man sat up with a snort. His feet hit the floor with a sharp crack. “Guests only,” he said in a dull, sleep-fogged voice.

  “We’re guests,” Alaric said. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were there,” he said to Sienne.

  The door had cracked her on the toe, not hard enough to hurt through her boot. “It’s all right. Are you going to bed?”

  “I saw you leave and realized you didn’t know where to go,” Alaric said. “Unless you were planning to sleep elsewhere.”

  She sucked in a breath. Why would he—what kind of conclusion was that to draw? Had he been watching her? “If that’s what you thought, why did you follow me?” she asked, irritation sharpening her tongue.

  Alaric’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t got the sense of a newborn lamb. Don’t you know better than to drink something a stranger gives you? How do you know he wasn’t trying to drug you?”

  So he had been watching. It made her angry, because, as he said it, she knew he was right—Aneirin might have intended anything. Embarrassed at her stupidity, she said, “That’s suspicious even for you, don’t you think? I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to be concerned about my companions’ well-being.”

  “Is that what this is? Concern?” How had this conversation turned into a fight? She didn’t even know what she’d meant by that.

  Alaric’s jaw tightened. “Forget it,” he said. “Our rooms are the second and third on the right after you turn right from the stairs. Third floor. You’ll see your bags.”

  He turned, pulling open the door. Sienne opened her mouth to apologize—but what did she have to apologize for? He was the one who’d been presumptuous. She made herself breathe slowly and willed away the angry heat in her cheeks as the door closed behind him.

  “Don’t worry,” the man behind the desk said.

  “Excuse me?” Sienne had forgotten he was there, and now her cheeks went red again at the thought someone had witnessed that.

  “He’ll be back,” the man said. “A little kiss and a cuddle and your fight will be forgotten.”

  “He’s not—” Sienne shut her mouth. She felt ready to burst into embarrassed flame. In silence, she trod up the stairs to the third floor.

  She found her room without any mistakes. Kindling the lamp, she sat on one of the three beds and stared at the window, which was small and square and not made to open. The walls were painted a soft blue, and there was an oval rug in front of the door. Alaric must have paid extra to guarantee she and Dianthe wouldn’t share the room with a stranger.

  Thinking of him made her angry all over again. Why would he think she might have agreed to sleep with a total stranger? That said terrible things about his estimation of her character. Or was he… he’d been watching long enough to see Aneirin hand her the wine glass; maybe he was jealous. No, that was ridiculous.

  Sienne flung herself backward on the bed and groaned. This… whatever it was… between them couldn’t go on. A romance between companions could destroy a team, but so could unresolved tension, and she was feeling incredibly tense. She ought to say something, but the idea made her cringe. Where she came from, it was the man’s job to speak first, and a woman who made advances was unfeminine. It was stupid, she knew, but it was a conditioning she couldn’t break. Even if all she had to do was get him alone and kiss him breathless. Even if she was pretty sure he wouldn’t rebuff her.

  Alaric had draped her saddlebags over the end of the bed. She undressed and put on her nightdress. Once they were out in the wilderness, she’d sleep in her clothes, but there was no point doing that while they were still in civilized country. Then she stood at the window and looked out over the commons the inn fronted on. Lights gleamed there too, specks of lanterns and the larger glows of campfires. In Sienne’s home dukedom of Beneddo, they had fairgrounds like these, where twice a year festivals were held. She’d loved them as a child, and then she’d been sent to the dukedom of Stravanus for fostering, and when she came back, nothing was the same. Or maybe it was just that she’d changed. She shook her head and turned away.

  She turned out the lamp and lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and tried not to think about the fight. She shouldn’t have let him provoke her. She should have remained calm. But he’d as much as suggested she had loose morals… or maybe that was the sort of thing women who weren’t noble born did, and no one judged them for it. It didn’t matter. He’d interfered—all right, so he had good intentions, but for all she was a babe in arms when it came to scrapping, she was twenty-four years old, damn it, and had been in charge of her own life for years. And she didn’t need a six-foot-seven Sassaven scrapper watching out for her. Even if the idea made her tremble with excitement.

  She heard the door open and rolled on her side before whoever it was entered. “Sienne?” Dianthe whispered. The door shut, and Sienne heard Dianthe moving around, shuffling into her nightdress and slipping between the covers. There was silence. Sienne rolled onto her back again. She was just relaxing into sleep when Dianthe said, “He doesn’t want any of us to be hurt.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Sienne said.

  “I know. He knows. It’s just who he is.”

  “Then who he is needs to be less of a jackass.” That was too harsh. Sienne sighed. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “I know.” More silence, as if Dianthe were trying to marshal the right words. Finally, she said, “Good night.”

  “Good night,” Sienne said. She lay awake for an hour, replaying the argument with Alaric and wishing she’d said anything but what she had.

  5

  Sienne went down for breakfast the next morning before Dianthe woke. She’d had a restless night and now she wanted to eat and be on the road and away from this inn and all its unpleasant associations. The taproom was half-full of patrons eating sausages and fried eggs, apparently all that was on offer. Sienne sat at the bar rather than at a table, reasoning that people were less likely to want to conve
rse with her if she didn’t have empty seats on both sides. The sausage was greasy, the eggs overcooked, and the meal weighed heavily on her stomach, but she ate with determination, not much caring if it was good food so long as it filled her.

  “Coffee,” Perrin said to the man behind the bar, slipping in to stand next to her. “This is far too early for anyone to be awake, let alone alert, and I do not see how you manage to stomach such greasy fare.”

  “It’s just food,” Sienne said. She didn’t want her bad mood to afflict Perrin, who hadn’t done anything wrong. She edged her stool to the side to make room for him. “Why are you up so early?”

  “Kalanath is ill,” Perrin said, accepting a hot mug of coffee and waving away the cream pitcher, “and I chose not to disturb him with my presence.”

  “Ill? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing more than a cough and an ague, I think. I intend to wake fully and pray to Averran to see if there is anything he might do for our companion.”

  Sienne pushed her plate away. “I’ll go up. I take it we’re not traveling today?”

  “No, I think not. Alaric said we should take turns sitting with him, so you might inquire as to his treatment.”

  Sienne felt a brief annoyance that she quashed. She was used to Alaric taking charge, welcomed it even, so why did it bother her now? The remnants of their argument, no doubt. “I’ll tell Dianthe. She’ll want her coffee, too.”

  She knocked quietly at the door next to hers. It opened after a moment. “Did Perrin find you?” Alaric said. He looked as if he’d slept well, which irritated her further.

  “He said Kalanath is ill,” she said.

  “Just a cough and a fever, but I don’t think he should ride. Better to have a day of rest.” Alaric held the door wider so she could enter.

  Kalanath slept, but restlessly. He was flushed, and his dark red hair was damp with sweat. His breathing was a little too heavy, which worried Sienne, though she knew nothing about illness or whether this was serious. Her irritation with Alaric fled in the face of his calmness. She’d never been so grateful to have him around.

  Alaric walked across to stand by Kalanath’s side. “We can take turns sitting with him, so he’s not alone, but… you could go to the festival, if you want, when you’re not up here.” He had his attention on the sleeping Kalanath, but his voice sounded too casual, as if what he was saying was at odds with what he meant.

  “All right,” she heard herself say, “but maybe we shouldn’t go alone. You should go, too.”

  She focused on Kalanath’s face so she didn’t have to see what Alaric thought of her suggestion. “Maybe,” he finally said. “Sienne—”

  The door opened. “Is Kalanath ill?” Dianthe said. “What a start to this expedition! Alaric, go have breakfast. I’ll take care of things here. Sienne, do you have any experience with nursing?”

  “None,” Sienne said, suppressing an irrational feeling of irritation at Dianthe’s interruption.

  “Well, it’s not hard, I’ll show you what to do. Alaric, go.” Dianthe laid a hand on Kalanath’s forehead. “It’s not much of a fever, but he needs rest. Sienne, would you ask the kitchen for a pitcher and fill it with water? And if you could cool it, that would be good.”

  “All right. I’m glad you know what you’re doing.”

  Sienne followed Alaric out of the room and down the stairs. “It’s a good idea,” Alaric said, confusing Sienne. “Not going to the festival alone. Take Perrin.”

  “Or you,” Sienne said.

  Alaric took a seat at the bar and waved to the barkeep. “Or me,” he finally said, but he didn’t sound enthusiastic. Sienne asked for a pitcher of water and fled with it upstairs. She worked the magic that cooled water as she trod the steps, wishing she knew what Alaric was thinking. Or, failing that, her own heart.

  In the end, she went to the festival with Dianthe. They spent the morning watching Kalanath, bathing his forehead and giving him sips of water when he woke. Mid-morning, Perrin returned to invoke a healing blessing, and by noon, Kalanath was awake and lucid. Alaric commanded the women to get out of the sickroom and give themselves a rest. Sienne didn’t need the urging.

  They strolled across the road along the well-trodden path made by hundreds of other festival-goers. Colorful tents rose up on all sides, with brightly dressed men and women calling out to passersby to stop and sample their wares or view their performances. The air was filled with a million delicious aromas and the sound of laughter and music, and the fresh air blew away the funk of the sickroom and left Sienne feeling invigorated.

  She told herself she wasn’t looking for Aneirin when she glanced into every performer’s tent, but when she heard the sound of his violin, she wandered toward it as if drawn by an invisible string. There was a crowd around his tent, and she felt unexpectedly awkward about pushing through to the front, so she stayed at the back and just listened. The music tugged at her heart, making her long to be on the road and headed for adventure. She didn’t know the song, but it sounded so familiar she almost felt she could put words to it.

  “He’s very good,” Dianthe said. “Why didn’t you sleep with him?”

  “Dianthe!”

  “I’m serious. It was obvious he wanted to.”

  “That is not something I’m comfortable with! He’s a total stranger, and I don’t—I want more than just casual sex.”

  “That makes sense.”

  Dianthe’s pragmatism made Sienne’s head spin. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to have that kind of attitude about sex, as if it was just something you did, like buying roasted chestnuts at a stall in the market or choosing a blue shirt over a red one.

  “I wouldn’t have either,” Dianthe said, startling Sienne again. “I mean, if I didn’t have Denys, I still wouldn’t have. But most scrappers…the lives we lead, a lot of scrappers take intimacy where they can find it. Nobody would think less of you for taking that player up on his offer.”

  “I would,” Sienne said.

  The music came to an end. “Yes, you would,” Dianthe said. “Let’s go look at the crafters. Sometimes you can find the most unusual things at these fairs.”

  They wandered the crafters’ booths, where Dianthe considered, but didn’t buy, a bracelet, and ended up at another set of tents, these quieter. Sienne realized why when she passed the first and saw a woman seated cross-legged on a cushion, speaking in a low but intense voice. Traveling storytellers. Her steps slowed. She loved storytelling, no matter the story. It was almost better than reading.

  “Here, this one’s just starting,” Dianthe said, tugging on Sienne’s arm. The tent was big enough to fit fifty people, but was only half full. A woman wearing a bright pink dress with a lemon-yellow cloak over it stood at the door to the tent, holding a hat with a scattering of coins at the bottom. As Sienne dropped her coins into the hat, the sunlight dimmed, and she glanced up to see clouds moving in to cover the sun. Rain would spoil so many of the displays. She entered the tent and found a seat on one of the benches. Dianthe followed her.

  “—not for the faint of heart,” the storyteller was saying. She was dressed all in white, from the baggy cap with a white plume to the stack-heeled boots that laced up the side. In the dimness, she seemed to glow as if lit from within. “Those who’ve seen the carvers and lived to tell about it are rare indeed, for the carvers take prisoners and never let them go. Let my words be a caution to you, travelers.” Her gaze rested on Sienne and seemed to look through her, identify her as a scrapper, and demand her attention. Sienne leaned forward. True stories were the best kind.

  “There was once a man,” the storyteller said, “who claimed to fear no one and nothing. From his youth, his daring deeds were legendary. This man, who the stories say was named Isidorus, traveled the land, fighting evil wherever he found it. It was Isidorus who challenged the were-lord of Bramantus and forced that creature and all his kin to abandon their foothold in Rafellin. It was Isidorus who guided the men of Tagliaveno in building t
he sea-wall that protected that dukedom from a wave of water fifty feet tall. And it was Isidorus who brought the rains to Seravano and broke the three year drought. These are only the least of the deeds of Isidorus.

  “Great Isidorus had a beautiful wife named Laurea, who lived with their children, two boys and a girl, in a village near Beneddo. They should have been content, but Laurea was dissatisfied. ‘My lord husband,’ she said, ‘you are never home, and when you are home, your heart is out on the road. Your children and I deserve better. Take us with you on your journeys.’”

  The storyteller took a sip from a metal cup near her elbow. “Isidorus refused. He knew well how dangerous his journeys were, and he could not bear the thought of taking his beloved wife and children into that danger. But Laurea would not be mollified. Every time Isidorus returned home, she repeated her plea, and every time, he denied her.

  “Laurea’s sorrow at being repeatedly abandoned by her husband soon caused her to waste away, until one day Isidorus returned home and was shocked to see his beautiful wife a shell of her former self. Confronted by the reality that she might die from his rejection, Isidorus agreed that she and their children should journey with him.”

  Dianthe snorted. “Manipulative wench,” she whispered. Sienne shushed her.

  “Isidorus hoped that a single journey, during which they would necessarily suffer great privations from traveling rough, would convince Laurea that she and the children were better off at home. But Laurea made no word of complaint, and after three journeys, Isidorus had to admit that she was happier with him, even in the wilderness, than at home.”

  The storyteller paused and swept the audience with her gaze. “If this satisfies you, I urge you to let this be the end of the story, and leave now, before tragedy strikes. For this is not a tale with a happy ending.”

  No one moved. The storyteller shrugged. “Then on your own heads be it. The fourth journey Isidorus took with his family sent them north of Beneddo. Isidorus had heard tell of a pack of carricks plaguing a new settlement in the Empty Lands. The man who told Isidorus about it urged him not to go. Settling in the Empty Lands is dangerous and foolhardy, and carricks were likely the least of that settlement’s troubles. But Isidorus laughed, and said that the Empty Lands were no more dangerous than anywhere else. And he and his family set off for this settlement.