Breath of Angel (26 page)

Melaia smoothed Gerda’s menthia ointment on Trevin’s belly as he lay outstretched by the hearth in the common room. She told herself she was simply a healer at the moment.

He winced. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“After it stops burning.”

Trevin caught her hand. “And when will it stop burning, lady?” His dark eyes searched hers. “Have you ever felt something so cold it burns? That’s what I feel from you. I’m sorry I deceived you. I said I would make it up to you, and I will.”

“I think you have.”

“Not until I get your harp back.”

Melaia withdrew her hand. She wanted to warm to him, but she was galled by the ease with which he had spoken to the talonmasters. Still, they had given him reason not to rejoin Lord Rejius. She smoothed more ointment on his bruise. “The harp isn’t truly mine, but I’ll not stand in the way if you want to support the Angelaeon.”

“I vowed my allegiance to them in the dungeon.”

“Then Livia told you who I am, our mission … everything?”

“As far as I know.” One eyebrow rose as he smiled. “You know, you were right. It stopped burning.” He eyed her. “Melaia, I vowed myself to the Angelaeon because for the first time I saw another way. I felt hope. I felt it the moment I first saw you.”

“At the overlord’s villa?”

“You played the harp, and something stirred in me—a strange yearning for something pure and right and good. It seems you carry it within you, for I’ve felt it each time you’re near. I promise, lady, I’ll never deceive you again.”

Melaia’s face went hot red, and she looked away, cleaning ointment from her fingers. She wanted to believe him, to be able to speak freely and easily with him, to look into his eyes without suspicion. Yet the fact that she wanted it so much made her wary. It was her own self she mistrusted, her own judgment.

Bram barked in the yard, and Melaia grabbed a fire poker. Livia stepped into the room with a pry bar. Gerda snatched a kitchen knife. Melaia handed Trevin Gil’s dagger, which Vort had tossed aside as he and Fein rode away that afternoon. Had they returned?

“Jarrod?” Gerda called.

Jarrod was outside, standing guard with an ax. He cracked the door and leaned in. “Gil and Pym are back.”

Gil tromped inside, and Pym popped in behind him. Gil’s bushy eyebrows met in a frown. “Brandishing weapons, are you now?”

Gerda ran to Gil, and soon they all sat around the table, even Trevin, who claimed he felt much better. As they shared food and drink, the day’s story was told on both sides. Gerda led in the report of the unwelcome visitors. Gil told how he and Pym had found Caepio and the actors camped between Stillwater and Navia.

“Caepio’s glad to lend his aid,” said Gil. “He says he has a score to settle with the malevolents.”

“It’s on account of his brother,” said Pym. “Vardamis. One of the comains that’s disappeared. I met him when I was serving with Main Undrian. Vardamis was a good man, he was.”

“All the high-ranking kingsmen were worthy.” Jarrod nodded at Pym. “Their men-at-arms too.”

Gerda refilled the mugs. Livia bound Trevin’s ribs again in spite of his protests. Talk lulled as the hearth fire burned low. The order of night watch was set, and everyone trundled off to sleep.

Except for Trevin, under Gerda’s orders to lie still by the fire, and Melaia, who had spent the last few days in bed. She didn’t think she could sleep. Not just yet.

She didn’t want Trevin to think she was so cold she burned. Besides, sitting by the fire with him reminded her of their camps at Drover’s Well and Caldarius, when she was excited about the world. And Trevin. She wanted to sit with that feeling a bit longer.

She eyed Trevin, who stared into the fire. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Another question.” He grinned. “I missed your questions in the dungeon.”

“Truly?”

“See. There’s another one.”

“Do you have any answers for me tonight?”

“Who am I?” Trevin took her hand. “The plain truth is I don’t know anymore.”

Melaia folded her hand around the spot where his small finger had once been. He was telling the truth. She heard it in his voice.

A
yellow-pink dawn spread across the sky the next morning as Melaia and her friends said good-bye to Gil, Gerda, and Bram and rumbled south in a borrowed wagon. Both Melaia and Trevin were well hidden by the hoods of their cloaks as a precaution against spy-birds.

Pym glanced over his shoulder from his place in the driver’s seat. “Jarrod, tell your strange news from Qanreef.”

“Does it involve Lord Rejius?” asked Trevin.

“Some say it does,” said Jarrod. “There’s no wind. Not a breeze. Not a breath.”

“How do the ships sail?” Trevin eyed the sky.

“They don’t,” said Jarrod. “The only boats that go out are those that can be rowed.”

“Windweaver is keeping his distance,” mused Livia. “Would you know why?”

Jarrod shrugged. “The Archae are inscrutable, Livia. You know that.”

Melaia hugged her journey pack. No wind. No Windweaver. It seemed a bad omen for anyone headed toward the hawk’s nest.

Midafternoon, Melaia spotted Caepio waving from the roadside ahead. He directed their wagon to turn. Swaying and creaking, they bumped off the main highway onto a path that led into the woods. Caepio guided them to a clearing where his wagon stood. As Melaia and her friends disembarked, the actors called out greetings.

After a flurry of introductions, Caepio directed them to a circle of boxes and bundles that served as seats around the coals of the campfire. When everyone was arranged, except Jarrod, who paced the perimeter of the clearing, Caepio clapped his hands, and they all fell silent.

“Lords and ladies, news of our coming goes before us to Qanreef,” he said. “Even now, the townspeople eagerly anticipate our arrival, for we sent news of ourselves ahead with several of the court.”

“In that case my plan may not work,” said Melaia. “I hoped to slip into the city with your actors unannounced.”

“She’s right,” Jarrod said as he strode around them. “We’d be on display as soon as we reached the gates.”

Caepio stepped onto a stump. “We’re aware of the dire situation. But herein lies the genius of our plan: your company, Chantress, will trade places with our troupe. As we near Qanreef, you will all don masks and ride in our wagon, which I will drive. My fellow players will follow in your old rig as worthy rustics.” He motioned toward the troupe, who posed in a pitiful mimicry of peasants. “Or unworthy rustics, as the case may be.”

“That may get us through the city gates,” said Melaia, “but how do we enter the palace?”

Caepio spread his arms wide. “Envision the scene we shall play. We enter the city announcing the coming entertainment. But before we bring the full pageant to the common folk, it will be our privilege to give a private performance for the court, who so greatly enjoyed our show at Redcliff. When the time comes, it will be you who enter the palace masked.”

“We perform?” Jarrod stopped in his tracks. “That seems unwise.”

“Extremely unwise. And unnecessary.” Caepio tapped the spot of beard in the center of his chin. “You see, we require a crew to help us set a stage. Thus my worthy rustics. Once we’re all inside the palace, my troupe will again take their position as performers. What you do at that point is up to you. Our job, as I understand it, is simply to get you within the walls.”

“When do we make the journey?” asked Melaia.

“First thing in the morn,” said Caepio. “If all goes well, we’ll reach Qanreef by early afternoon on our second day of travel and announce our arrival with a grand procession through the city.”

“You mean to invite people to watch us tramp through the city?” asked Jarrod.

“Clever, isn’t it?” said Caepio. “Guards expect subversives to sneak in on the sly. You will prance in, attracting all kinds of attention, yet remain undetected.”

“Clever if it’s successful,” said Jarrod. “A fool’s wager if it’s not.”

As afternoon turned to evening, Melaia sat by the campfire and munched on a tart apple, watching Pym and Caepio in swordplay. Practice, Pym called it. Rehearsal, insisted Caepio.

“You mean to tell me
all
the comains have gone missing?” Pym asked Caepio. “Solivius and Brevian too?”

“Disappeared about the same time as my brother, Vardamis.” Caepio drew his sword, returned it to its sheath, drew it again. “My fellows and I have traveled the kingdom hither and yon, and all I know is that the comains’ shields were collected and hung in the great hall at Qanreef to honor their memory.”

Pym ran a callous hand through his hair. “A sorry state of affairs, it is. A sorry state.”

Trevin sat down by Melaia, holding a cup of cider in one hand and two stems of dreamweed in the other. “Livia thinks I should have something to help me sleep tonight. How much should I take?”

Melaia took the stems from him and plucked the orange berries.

Trevin raised one eyebrow. “Not as much as you gave Zastra.”

“You don’t want to sleep through tomorrow?” Even as Melaia teased, she saw the wisdom in holding back a few berries in case she decided to ensure that Trevin was not awake to betray them when the time came. It was the fact that Lord Rejius still held Dwin that bothered her. She had seen the worry in Trevin’s eyes when the talonmaster mentioned Dwin. Since she knew she would
do anything to free Hanni and the girls, she had to assume Trevin felt the same about his brother. She put all the berries but one into her waist pouch, then squeezed a single drop into Trevin’s cup.

He saluted her with his cider before downing it in one long draft. “How long will it take to put me to sleep?”

Melaia remembered the night Jarrod had put dreamweed in her pealmelon. “Not long.”

“Time enough for you to smear some of Gerda’s ointment on me? She sent a jar of it with explicit directions that you administer the healing.”

“She said that?”

“Mmm,” said Trevin. “I’ll get the jar. Then I’d better lie down before I fall down.”

Melaia put her hands on her hips and watched Trevin trudge toward his journey pack. She shook her head and followed. She’d have to have a word with Gerda one of these days.