Breath of Angel (20 page)

Melaia hardly breathed.

“The book!” Lord Rejius pressed his staff into her throat.

Melaia again said, “What book?” But the words came out broken and hoarse.

Lord Rejius’s face twisted as he raised his staff. Melaia shut her eyes and shrank from the oncoming blow.

“Melaia!” yelled Trevin.

A dull whack sounded as the blow hit its mark. But it did not hit Melaia.

She opened her eyes to see Trevin doubled over on the flagstones. The staff hit him again. And again.

Melaia looked away, all her muscles tensed, holding back her impluse to throw herself at Lord Rejius. Then her gaze fell on the object at Dwin’s feet. The harp.

Like a loosed arrow, Melaia shot to the cart, scrambled in, and grabbed the harp. Dwin clamped both his hands around her wrists and wrenched her away. As the harp fell with a clang to the bed of the cart, Lord Rejius clutched Melaia’s tunic, dragged her out, and twisted her right arm behind her back. She winced and pressed her left arm over the book at her middle.

Trevin lay motionless, facedown, but Melaia knew he would be all right, for his spirit wasn’t leaving his body.

Lord Rejius jerked on her as he shouted, “Fein!”

The etched talonmaster stepped up and bowed.

“Take a contingent to the Durenwoods,” said Lord Rejius. “Search Wodehall. Burn them out if necessary. I want that book.
And
the priest.” His grip on Melaia tightened. “Though now that we’ve got the girl, he may come to us.”

Melaia bit her lip.
Would Jarrod come? Was now the time to bargain the book for the safety of Wodehall?

As she argued with herself, Fein swept away to his task, and the choice was made.

An angry scream sounded from the palace, and Zastra stormed out, her wiry gray hair in tangles around her wrinkled face, which was as red as her cloak. “My trunks have not yet been loaded,” she yelled. “I want porters
now
!”

“Zastra,” Lord Rejius crooned at Melaia’s ear. “Didn’t I tell you? You’re not coming to Qanreef.”

Zastra’s mouth dropped open. “I’m the queen mother,” she shrieked. “I procured your position for you. I paid dearly, Dandreij. You promised I would reign.”

“You’ll reign over Redcliff while I’m away,” Lord Rejius barked. “I’ll leave these three to keep you company, though you’ll have to visit them in their cells.
Make sure this one stays alive. My brother seemed to care a good deal for her. I want to show him that she’s mine now.”

He shoved Melaia down on top of Trevin, who was still doubled up, facedown. He yelped.

“Trevin?” Her voice shook with emotions she couldn’t identify. Priestess, chantress—she should know how to help. But she didn’t. There would be no help for any of them in the dungeon.

But she had one spark of hope. Lord Rejius intended to show her to Benasin, which meant he was alive. Perhaps he was even in Redcliff.

Lord Rejius climbed into the curtained cart with Dwin, slammed the door, and glared back at Zastra. “Expect my return from Qanreef within one cycle of the moon. See that Redcliff prepares me a royal welcome, for I shall be wearing the crown, and Queen Hanamel will be at my side.”

Melaia rose, trembling with anger.

“Queen?!” screeched Zastra. “I am to be queen.”

“Who says I can’t have two queens?” Lord Rejius grinned at Zastra. “After all, I now have three young concubines.” He jerked the curtains of the cart shut.

“Beast!” yelled Melaia. She snatched up Esper’s loaf bread from the dumped contents of her pack and hurled it at Lord Rejius’s window as the cart leaped forward. It hit the back wheel and broke into pieces. “You have no right!” she yelled, darting after the cart.

Two guards, solid as a wall, blocked her and dragged her back while the cart sped through the gate, trailed by loaded wagons. As the rattle of wagons faded and the inner gate scraped closed, Melaia drooped like a cloth doll in the grip of the guards. They dumped her at the queen mother’s feet.

Zastra’s wrinkled face had gained a stony composure. She shot commands at the guards, directing them to throw Pym and Trevin into the dungeon.

“Zastra.” Trevin turned on his side and hugged his ribs, wincing. His eyes went to Melaia as he panted, “Zastra. I beg your mercy. I can be of use to you.”

Melaia held his gaze, wondering if he meant his words for her.

“I doubt you will be of use to anyone ever again,” said Zastra. “Take them away.” She turned and studied Melaia while guards dragged Pym and Trevin down a side street. “Stand up,” she snapped.

Melaia rose, rubbing her right arm. It stung as if Lord Rejius had left a taloned imprint.

Zastra strutted around her, fondled her hair, looked her up and down. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Melaia drew back. “For me?”

“We women have our ways, don’t we?” crooned Zastra. “I see your wiles. Who would have thought you too were an immortal? But it stands to reason. The Wisdom Tree creates immortals.” She chuckled. “Clever, Dreia. Clever to come back as a thin peasant girl. But you made a deadly mistake. You should have changed your eyes. I shall savor the thought of handing you over to Lord Rejius.”

Melaia shook her head. “I’m not Dreia.”

Zastra stuck her nose in Melaia’s face and muttered, “Why did you return? Did you hear about the death of Queen Tahn? She was my daughter, you know. She may be dead, but there is still a queen.
I
am queen.”

“But I’m not Dreia.”

“And I’m not fool enough to fall for your tricks.”

She snatched Melaia’s arm and motioned for the guard. He accompanied them into the palace, through a maze of corridors, and up a staircase.

At the top floor, Zastra dragged Melaia into a large bedchamber. Across the room the embers of a dying hearth fire glowed. A regal chair and side table stood in front of the fireplace. The west wall held a tall window with open shutters. Along the east wall was the bed, its posts supporting a crimson canopy. Piles of clothing were strewn on the bed, and two trunks, packed to the top, lay open nearby.

Zastra dismissed the guard and locked the door with a key, which she slipped into her waist sash. Then she dug through the clothing on the bed, muttering, “My maidservant will not look like a goatherd.” She pulled out a
simple white gown and tossed it to Melaia, along with a red sash. “Wear this.” Then she bent over the trunks and rooted through them, mumbling and cursing.

While Zastra was occupied, Melaia slipped off her tunic and pulled on the gown, keeping the book hidden under the flaxen band around her middle. After tying the red sash at her waist, she smoothed the silky gown. Though it was a maidservant’s, it was nicer than anything she had ever worn. And it might serve to disguise her if she could break free and find a way to Qanreef and Hanni.

The person she hadn’t seen in the courtyard was Livia. She wondered if Livia had been in one of the carts or in a cell or …

Melaia went cold and shoved the thought aside. She wouldn’t think the worst.

Zastra rose from her crammed trunks, cradling a round-bellied glass jar. “My Eye,” she crowed, holding the glass high. She placed the jar on the side table and sat before it. “Bring water for my Eye,” she commanded.

Melaia dipped a ladle into the waist-high stone water jar and poured it into Zastra’s scrying glass. When it was half-full, Zastra snapped, “Enough!”

Melaia ventured a question. “How powerful is your Eye? Can it show Lord Rejius’s brother, Benasin?”

“Is that his name? Lord Rejius just called him traitor. I have no need of a traitor, especially one who’s dead and buried in the Dregmoors. I want a king.” She waved Melaia toward the trunks. “Put my wardrobe back in order, Dreia.”

“I’m not Dreia.”

Zastra hissed and swatted at her.

While Melaia folded gowns and shifts, she watched Zastra. The old crone pulled a vial from her pouch, poured a sweet-scented oil into the jar, and swirled it around. Then she studied the patterns it made.

Melaia eyed the door, wondering how she could get the key from Zastra. Maybe she wouldn’t need a key. If Zastra sent her on errands, maybe she could simply walk away.

But her first errand was only across the room to light the oil lamps. Then the cook brought supper, and Melaia served the queen mother before eating her own food. At Zastra’s directions she readied the leftovers for the jailer to take to Trevin and Pym in the dungeon. When the jailer had left and Zastra had locked the door again, the old crone barked, “Lay us a fire, Dreia.”

Melaia sighed and trudged to a stack of logs that rested under the open window. A thick, acrid smell wafted in on the breeze. She glanced out, then caught her breath.

On the western horizon, billows of smoke rose above the Durenwoods, lit by flickering orange flames that licked at the forest.

Melaia could hear the screams of the trees.

All Melaia could think about for the next few days was the fire in the Durenwoods and how it was her fault. She berated herself for not giving up the book. Wodehall. Noll and Esper. The sylvans and their All’s-Well signal. The tree at the head of her mother’s grave. Was anything left? Or was it all in ashes?

Losing the harp was nothing compared to losing the Durenwoods and her friends. The guilt of it weighed heavier than the trunks of clothing Zastra made her haul from one side of the room to the other. Escape became Melaia’s foremost thought.

But thinking about escape was much easier than accomplishing it. She couldn’t slip away by night when Zastra was asleep, because the old crone kept her chamber door locked and held the key in her waist sash, even while she slept. By day, Zastra kept Melaia in sight every moment, insisting that she constantly be slave to the tyrant queen’s needs. “Comb my hair, Dreia. Bring my sandals, Dreia. Make the bed, Dreia. Mend my gown, Dreia. Rub my feet, Dreia.”

The only people who visited Zastra’s chamber were the cook, who brought the meals, and the jailer, who picked up the dinner scraps. Zastra left her chamber only to hold court, receiving the ill-informed who had come from some
distance only to find themselves bowing to Zastra instead of King Laetham. On those occasions Zastra kept Melaia on a leash attached to a collar around her neck like some wild pet.

At the end of Melaia’s first week with the queen mother, the stooped steward brought a crop-haired man lugging a stool to Zastra’s chamber.

“My lady.” The steward bowed.

“Majesty to you!” snapped Zastra. “I’m your queen.”

“I beg your pardon, Majesty.” The steward bowed again. “We’re offered a dozen of these stools. I brought a sample for you to see. You might like one for your chamber.”

Zastra ran her hand across the carving on the stool.

“May I suggest taking it into the light of the window?” said the steward. “I want the craftsman to show you his exquisite work.”

“Any design you like, I can carve it,” said the craftsman. “M for Majesty. Z for Zastra. A crown for royalty.”

Zastra stood tall with a queenly smile and accompanied the craftsman to the window.

The steward turned to Melaia and placed his hand on his heart, three fingers up. “Help me stoke the fire,” he said.

Melaia had never been so glad to see the angel greeting, although she abhorred stoking the fire. All she could see in the flames were the Durenwoods and her sylvan friends.

She followed the steward to the hearth and handed him fresh firewood. He thunked it onto the half-burned logs in the fireplace and whispered, “Jarrod works to gain your release. Be ready.”

“It’s a trap,” said Melaia. “He can’t come.”

“Be ready,” said the steward.

“Is there news about the priestess and her girls? About the Durenwoods? Benasin?”

“I’m only a messenger. I’ve told you nothing today but how to better stoke the fire.”

She nodded, disappointed but hopeful. See nothing. Hear nothing. Say nothing. She understood now.

He handed her the poker and spoke in a normal tone. “Now you try. Leave space for air.”

As Melaia nudged the logs, Zastra called to the steward. “Order the dozen. Have you any news about the book Lord Rejius wanted? Was it found in the Durenwoods?”

“No, Majesty.” The steward bowed, and Zastra walked him to the door.

The craftsman set the stool beside the hearth. “The carvings are good, if I say so myself.” He winked at Melaia and followed the steward out.

She knelt by the stool. Its leaf design was formed by scores of three-branched signs of the Tree. She ran her hand over it and smiled. She wasn’t forgotten.

Zastra locked the door, then leaned against it, holding out the key. “You know where that book is. Lead me to the book, Dreia, and I’ll set you and your friends free.”

Before today, Melaia thought, she might have bargained with Zastra. But not now. Not with Jarrod somewhere near.

“I’m not Dreia,” she said. “And I know nothing about a book.”

She stirred the coals. As the sparks flared, she glimpsed the fleeting figure of Flametender. She thought of the first time she had seen Flametender at the campfire at Caldarius. She had felt so free in that time between Navia and Redcliff. Had Trevin felt the freedom of it too?