by Sarah Remy
“Goddess,” Avani swore, heart in her throat. “By all that’s sacred, what—”
“Oh, aye.” Liam and Parsnip looked calmly over the top of their book. They had pushed two cots together and were cuddled close so Parsnip could turn the pages. “He does that now. The talking. I thought you knew.”
Avani threw off her blanket and rose her feet. “That’s impossible.” She arched her brows at the bird in sour disbelief. “Jacob doesn’t speak.”
“I knew a parrot once—”
“Cast him out!” Jacob clicked his beak rudely. “Bring the torches! Burn him!”
Avani’s heart dropped from her throat to her gut. Jacob shat on the dormitory floor as if to punctuate his point, then paced back and forth on the rafter, head bobbing, injured wing dragging. Parsnip clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle a snort. Avani sat down again. She let her head drop into her hands, then looked sideways at the idol resting peacefully in the sunlight.
For all the rudeness of her chosen messenger, Avani thought, the Goddess couldn’t have made Herself more clear.
The dormitory door slammed open. Avani lifted her head. Arthur burst across the threshold, wide-eyed. “The king!” he reported, through gasps of air. “The king’s coming! They’re on the main road; I cut through the forest. Riggins says straighten up, neat as a penny!” He made a dash for his cot, hastily scooping up strewn papers and empty honey pots from the floor and shoving the entire mess unceremoniously beneath the mattress.
Liam caught Avani’s eye across the room, a silent question.
“Ai, I imagine he knows I’m here,” she said. “What will he do, drag me back in chains?’
“Might try,” Parsnip said, struggling to push her cot back into place, “after he finishes whupping Liam for running wild with barrowmen.”
Liam grimaced. He pulled his coverlet up around his chin, concealing his bandages beneath. Avani rose to help Parsnip with the cot. Jacob ran back and forth across his rafter, screeching. Arthur stood by the windows, watching the courtyard beneath. Only Morgan seemed unconcerned, folding his rag and capping his jug of linseed oil without hurry.
By the time heavy treads shook the dormitory stairs they were well in order, the pages standing at attention in the middle of the room, Jacob’s shit scrubbed off the floorboard with Morgan’s rag. Liam sat stiffly beneath his blankets. Avani stood near the windows, hands folded placidly behind her back, braced for conflict.
She knew before Riggins entered the room that Mal was not with them. His attention was turned inward, his thoughts fragmented, consumed with bone dust and rust and old manuscripts and candle wax. Sometimes, when she blinked, she looked briefly out through his open eyes, fleeting impressions of his laboratory or his chambers. Sometimes he waved a hand over his head as he worked to shoo her away. Sometimes, when she woke hungry in the middle of the night, it was because he’d forgotten to eat.
She’d hurt him by running away to the barracks; he was doing his best to ignore her, and she her best not to draw his distracted attention. They were both, she thought, shamming freedom.
“Stand for His Majesty King Renault,” Riggins proclaimed. His pleased smile said that he was relieved to see his young soldiers already on their feet and tidy. His worried look Avani’s way said he hadn’t expected to find her in the dormitory.
Four Kingsmen entered first, two at a time, arranging themselves on either side of the door. The dormitory was a narrow room. Their bulk and ceremony seemed to suck much of the light air from the space. Avani moved closer to windows.
Renault entered next, Brother Orat two steps behind. Parsnip, Morgan, and Arthur immediately took the knee, heads bowed. Liam scooted upright against his pillow, trying for dignity. Orat was no more pleased to see Avani than Riggins had been. But Renault had expected to see her there; he inclined his head in her direction. She returned a half bow for his courtesy, but did not kneel. The simple silver circlet he wore on his brow caught sunshine. Above their heads Jacob chortled.
“There he is, the troublemaker.” Renault cocked an eye at the raven. “I hate to confess it, but I’ve missed his company. The throne room is less engaging without his mischief. I suppose you’ll be taking him with you.”
Avani blinked. “Your Majesty—the choice is Jacob’s. He’s recovering from injury, and of late he and I have suffered a—” to her horror she felt tears threaten “—a falling out.”
Renault rubbed a hand over his close-cropped beard. “The battlefield is no place for alienation,” he said gently. “Whether Jacob goes or stays, best repair your quarrel before riding out.”
“And when will that be, Majesty?”
“Three days, mayhap four. No more.” Renault took his hand from his face and she saw that his mouth was resigned. “Jacob is not the only patient in this room, I’m told. Liam, attend me.”
“Your Majesty—” Avani took a step forward in protest. The nearest Kingsmen put his hand on his sword in warning. Renault held up his hand.
“Well, lad, can you stand or no?”
“I can.” Liam pushed away his coverlet and sat up. Carefully, he swung his injured leg to one side of the mattress. The bandages around his knee and calf made his trousers bulky and walking awkward, but he limped to the center of the room without hesitation. “Your Majesty.”
Orat clicked his tongue and wagged his head in professional dismay.
“Well.” Renault sighed. “Can you ride, lad?”
“Aye.”
“Your Majesty,” Riggins interjected. “Aye, Your Majesty.”
Liam stared at his feet. Avani dug her fingernails into her palm to keep from speaking out. Mal’s curiosity stirred. She looked out the window and counted clouds in the sky until, distracted, he forgot her again. Jacob cackled.
“Liam,” said Renault, ignoring Riggins. “Are you still my man? Or do we, also, have a quarrel between us?”
“Your Majesty.” The crack in her lad’s voice did nothing to staunch Avani’s traitorous tears. “I burned down your woods.”
Renault coughed. The sound was a laugh smothered. “Not all of them, lad. Perhaps an acre, no more. The smoke has cleared; the skies are blue again. It happens, more often because of lightning strike than sidhe mischief. Orat.”
Brother Orat reached beneath his robes and pulled forth a heavy circlet of bronze accented in the middle with shining amber. The bronze had been cleaned of smoke and blood. Liam stifled a soft cry. Avani stopped trying to quash her tears.
Renault took the torque from his priest and presented it to Liam. “I didn’t know what to do with this, at first, when my soldiers laid it before my throne. ’Twas Malachi who suggested you might like to have it. The priests have made sure it is free of any sidhe taint. I cannot pretend I will mourn Faolan, but he risked much to bring me word of rising threat, and then again to rid my kingdom of a more immediate danger. He was more loyal than Brother Paul or my armswoman or Holder, whose grandfather knelt before mine own.”
“I don’t think it was for loyalty he did it, Majesty.” Liam’s mouth trembled as he regarded the torque. “I think it was for family.” He took Faolan’s collar in his hands and clutched it to his chest.
Renault nodded. “I fear you have to choose, lad. Are you my man, for loyalty? Or does your heart turn now to family and darker places? I will not blame you for your birthright, Liam, but I cannot keep you if it is sidhe trumpets thrilling in your ears.”
Liam bit his lip. His knuckles were white around Faolan’s torque. He was no longer the child Avani had first encountered in the Widow’s kitchen, dirty and starving, scrawny. And he was not the lad who had survived sidhe knives only to emerge forever disfigured. She’d thought him a man when he’d returned from Roue, but now she realized she’d been mistaken. He’d been growing, but not quite grown.
Liam heaved a sigh. Then he set the torque aside and sank gingerly to his good knee. And it was a man Avani witnessed kneeling before his king. The disastrous sidhe Hunt, and Faolan’s death, had at
last put an end to Liam’s childhood.
“Your Majesty,” he said. “I am yours.”
“Thank you.” Renault’s mouth softened. From his own breast he unpinned a narrow silver bar: a private’s insignia. “Rise,” he ordered, and when Liam did, Renault fastened the medal to Liam’s tunic before moving to one side to allow Orat room. The theist sketched a sigil over Liam’s head and murmured a simple blessing. Andrew’s ring, hung on its chain beneath Avani’s salwar, warmed in response. So, too, did the thumb-sized gem in Faolan’s torque. Jacob flapped awkwardly from the rafters to investigate, effectively shielding the waking sidhe gem from view before king or Orat took notice.
Renault beckoned again to Brother Orat. Together they walked down the line of pages, stopping before Parsnip and then Arthur to bestow on each a silver bar and the temple’s blessing. Parsnip’s grin was wide and proud. Arthur was somber and pale, his expression disbelieving.
“Wythe,” the king said, pausing at last in front of the young earl, “rise.”
Morgan rose nimbly to his feet. Of all the new-made Kingsmen he would be the smallest. Even Parsnip was taller, her body already becoming compact and muscular. Arthur had begun to fit his large feet and hands. But Morgan seemed caught in that strange youthful twilight between nursery and first beard.
No wonder, Avani thought, his mother was afraid. Even hidden away in the cavalry the young earl was at a disadvantage.
Renault pinned the silver bar to Morgan’s breast. The lad’s title trumped his new-made military rank, but by the way his fingers shook when he reached up to touch the bar, Avani knew without question which honor mattered more.
“I’m told Wythe brings one hundred good soldiers to the cavalry and infantry each,” said Renault. “Men and women who should by all reason instead be settling their land and livestock for winter’s sleep.”
“Yes, Majesty.” Morgan’s cheeks were pale as milk. “It’s an honor, Majesty.”
“Wilhaiim is grateful. Your mother says you will ride out ahead of her horsemen. As earl you will require attendants on the field. I daresay you will be pleased to hear that amongst those chosen Liam has agreed to ride at your side as squire and swords-bearer.”
Morgan swayed. Avani thought he might faint but Orat caught his shoulder before he could go down. Arthur caught at his other arm, holding him upright. But Morgan regained his own. He shook Arthur and the theist off, and lifted his chin.
“Thank you, Majesty,” he said. “Liam is my friend, and a brave companion. I am . . . grateful.”
“Good,” Renault said. He clapped his hands together. “Tonight you’ll be sleeping with the cavalry. Liam, are you up to the task of settling your new master at once in the north tower?”
“Aye, Your Majesty.”
“Majesty,” Arthur interjected before Renault could turn away. “For Parsnip and me? Is it the infantry?” His eagerness was in stark contrast to Morgan’s set face and Parsnip’s more wary countenance.
“Not quite yet,” replied the king. “Captain Riggins will be settling you and the lass in the palace, with my personal guard.”
Parsnip stiffened. Arthur’s excitement deflated. “You’re keeping us back.”
Riggins blanched. “Young man—” he placed a hand in warning on Arthur’s head “—remember to whom you are speaking. His Majesty has given you a great honor today. Do not—” his fingers flexed “—make me regret your training.”
Arthur’s face fell. Parsnip’s hands were fists at her sides. Renault hesitated.
“You are children yet,” the king said bluntly. “Children are always precious, but as of late more so. You are also not wrong; I am keeping you back. I prefer not to send children to war, whenever possible. Even blooded children. If you believe your friend has seized the better end of the stick, you are wrong. He sees the truth of it, if you do not.” Renault tipped his chin in Morgan’s direction. “Now, say your goodbyes and make them count.”
Riggins ushered his charges away from the king. Liam limped after. Morgan accepted their embraces with aplomb, although his smile faltered and threatened to slip.
“You have decided I am cruel,” said Renault, joining Avani by the windows. He waved Brother Orat away, irritable. “Nay, don’t deny it. You’ve run all the way to the barracks to hide yourself. Didn’t high yourself back to the empty Downs and tuck away amongst your sheep?”
“Liam was here.”
“Liam doesn’t need you anymore.”
Avani met his mild stare. “Aye,” she said. “I think you’re cruel. For what you ordered done to Desma, and to the barrowman in your dungeon. For sending that lad all unprepared into war. For using Mal as you do.”
“He is a willing tool. He would find your suggestion otherwise deeply offensive.” Renault peered out the dormitory windows. Avani didn’t think he was seeing the blue sky or the Mabon tree, or even the retinue of palace guards waiting patiently below. “I did not suppose he’d find a woman’s comfort again, not after Siobahn. I was glad for him, when we startled the two of you midembrace. Pink-cheeked as two children caught stealing from the larder, the both of you. I was pleased.” Renault turned his back on sunshine. “Now I am not so certain. You say I am cruel; I say the same to you.”
Fury turned the edges of the room white. Avani’s wards crackled into existence, sparking silver. She hadn’t meant to summon them into being. She was distantly dismayed.
Five blades hissed from their scabbards, five swords pointed in her direction. Riggins, despite his age, was almost as quick as the king’s guard. Any other time she might have been impressed.
“I’m not a threat.” Renault hadn’t moved. Silver netting sparkled a hairsbreadth from the toe of his boot. “I am your king.”
“You were never that,” denied Avani through gritted teeth. Jacob hopped across floorboards, stopping just beyond her wards. Orat, too, drifted close again. “Mayhap, you were my friend.”
“Do you plan to go to war under my banner,” asked Renault, “or have I misunderstood?”
“To tend the injured, at your own constable’s request.”
“Healing is the provenance of the temple,” Orat said. “There will be theists aplenty in amongst the troops to do so.”
“House Wythe asked for Lady Avani. In particular.”
Orat scowled at Morgan. Renault scrubbed his hand through his beard. Avani thought this time he was hiding a smile. She quenched her wards with an effort. Jacob, mercurial as ever, launched himself to her shoulder where he clung, sharp claws piercing the fabric of her salwar.
“My mother trusts Lady Avani,” continued Morgan. “A rare thing, as I’m sure Your Majesty is aware. She’s not wont to trust many, my mother. And, as I suspect Your Majesty is also aware, ofttimes it’s better to indulge a mother’s whims.”
Wythe is no friend to the throne, Mal reminded her.
Go away. This is my business.
When were you planning to tell me? You’re no more fit for warring than those children. Am I so abhorrent you prefer certain death to my company? His bitterness made her throat ache. She pushed at him and he retreated but not so far she didn’t feel him there, bearing witness.
“It would be a boon indeed, a magus riding with your house,” said the king. “There are only two left alive in my kingdom. Apart worth more than all the treasure in my vault, together priceless. Why would I grant Wythe that honor?”
“Your Majesty,” retorted Morgan, “it would seem that gift is not yours to give. Lady Avani?”
“I will go,” Avani told Renault. “As and when I like. Ai, unless you mean to clap me in manacles and lock me in the catacombs.”
“Don’t tempt me.” But he nodded and as one the Kingsmen sheathed their blades. “Imagine, if you will, what might happen should you fall into the hands of the desert lords. You say Mal is my agent. What prevents you from becoming a weapon against me, in the wrong hands?”
“I am not Mal,” Avani replied coldly. “I serve the Goddess first and mysel
f second and there is no room for a third.”
“You are dangerously naïve.” He unpinned a final silver bar from his breast and flicked it onto the nearest cot, where it bounced on the mattress. “Wear a uniform, at least, so you draw less attention. And the bar, there, or one of my soldiers may skewer you for a spy. I care not that you refuse to swear allegiance, but promise me you’ll think of your friend before you step rashly into battle.”
“My friend?”
“Aye,” Renault agreed sharply. “Me.” He cast her one last sour glance before making for the door, Orat and the Kingsmen hurrying after.
Well done, said Mal from a distant, dusty barn, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, fingers sooty. His sarcasm was equally black. You and I are not so different as you like to believe.
Chapter 14
The mystery of the coastal ponies was quickly solved: camels were terrified of the sidhe gate.
Their first day on white sands Everin and Drem passed without notice through the temporary city that was the desert army. Two sand snakes in a nest of thousands drew no undue attention. Their trickery held, although often Everin caught Drem scratching absently at the dried acacia gum concealing Desma’s tattoos. Each time he warned the sidhe off with a low whistle or an elbow in the ribs. Everin didn’t blame Drem; the dried solution itched worse than the dune fleas biting at their feet and ankles. At least the fleas let up during the hottest part of the day and the coldest hours of the night. The acacia prickled constantly.
In the beginning, they moved toward the gate, choosing those well-trod lanes between encampments that seemed most direct. The lanes were busy. Nomadic living meant whole families settled in one lodge and tribe members camped side by side. Dogs, livestock and children ran wild. Chickens roosted atop the tents or in the bundles of hay kept behind each lodge for the ponies. Tradespeople set up shop in the lanes, hawking everything from fresh cactus fruit and dried khaim jerky to warriors’ kilts and sandals to comfort of both the medicinal and sexual sort.
“Disgusting,” said Drem in its mother-tongue, low, muffled by the folds of its veil. It stepped over a pile of steaming manure. “Humans stink.”