Breath of Angel (34 page)

King Laetham rose from his gilded throne to receive her. He wore a purple robe with a necklace of linked golden medallions, each inset with an amethyst. A gold crown graced his dark, gray-tipped hair. The warm, natural color had returned to his face, and although he was still thin, his movements were strong and steady, as was his gaze.

Melaia took her place beside her father. The crowd grew silent, and he addressed them. “As you know, my daughter found me and brought me back to life. She is to be an advisor to me now and will inherit the throne when the time comes.”

Melaia’s insides twisted, but she told herself that “when the time came,” she would worry about the throne.

“I hereby give her all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities of her position,” said the king. “And you will give her the allegiance, respect, and service she deserves.”

Lord Beker stepped onto the platform holding a velvet bag from which the king withdrew a circlet of gold. He motioned for Melaia to sit. As he placed the crown on her head, the cheering began anew.

From the steps of the palace, Caepio struck up a lively song on his lute. He had lost two of his actors to a talonmaster in the great hall but had already found two others to take their places.

Pym approached, carrying a bowl brimming with apricots. “I’m to tell you it’s a gift.”

“Our thanks,” said the king.

Melaia reached for one, but the king drew back her hand. “Patience,” he said.

A pinch-faced man, the king’s taster, took an apricot and nibbled on it.

Melaia spotted Trevin sitting on the steps to the palace, his shoulder bandaged. During the fight in the great hall, a large drak had chased a small one, swift on her tail. Trevin had stepped between the draks to protect Peron and had taken the talons of the large drak in his shoulder. The wound would heal, but it would take some time.

“Safe,” said the taster, holding the bowl out to Melaia.

She picked a plump fruit and bit into it. When she looked back at Trevin, he smiled. She saluted him with the apricot. Absolved forevermore.

She wondered if the gap between the ranks of kingsman and princess was an impassable gulf. Did having royal blood mean that some dreams were destined to remain unfulfilled forever? Would she truly be free only in her heart?

The king cleared his throat. “Did Trevin tell you I asked him to train as a comain?”

Melaia blushed. Were her thoughts about Trevin that obvious? “Did he agree?”

“On one condition. He wants Pym to be his armsman.” The king laughed. “When Undrian returns, they’ll have to fight over who gets Pym’s services. By then maybe Trevin will be a match for Undrian.” He clasped her hand. “You’ve inherited your mother’s giftings. I can tell. Now that you’re at my side, I’m confident the blight will lift.”

Melaia smiled as best she could. Now was not the time to tell him that in order to defeat the blight, she had to restore the Tree. She wondered if he would allow her to leave to search for the harps. Perhaps not now. Maybe in time. But how much time did she have? How long would it be before Lord Rejius found the third harp himself?

Yet it did seem as if the blight had been dispelled, if only for a day. People milled around, ate, laughed, danced. Paullus, with Cilla’s help, filled mugs of foaming ale from enormous kegs. Gil and Gerda served honeyed cakes. Hanni, Iona, and Jarrod conversed as they strolled toward the tables of food, and Dwin tried to teach Nuri a new dance. Melaia purposed to keep an eye on Dwin. Trevin said his brother had renounced Lord Rejius, but Dwin would have to prove himself, just as his brother had.

A young woman approached the platform, the fresh breeze tossing her golden red hair and rippling the light cloak she wore around her broad shoulders. She looked familiar, but Melaia couldn’t place her.

The young woman inclined her head. “I’m Serai,” she said. “My mother asked me to give this to you.” She held out a white feather.

Melaia took the feather and stared at the young woman whose green-flecked eyes held a direct gaze. “Livia?”

“My mother.”

“Then you’re Sergai’s twin.”

“I am,” said Serai. “I wanted to serve the lady my brother gave his life for.”

Melaia’s throat tightened.

“Mother said to tell you she would be honored if you would allow it.” Serai’s eyebrows arched expectantly.

Melaia held the feather to her heart. “I’m the one who would be honored.”

Serai grinned, made her way onto the platform, and gracefully knelt beside Melaia.

The wind gusted and shook the dry, bare branches of the ramble-rose vines that webbed the courtyard walls. The presence of angels was strong, but somewhere beyond the Angelaeon coiled the taint of malevolents.

Melaia fingered the white feather and turned her face to the wind. High above, riding the currents, was a lone small drak.

A
s Trevin stepped into the seedy tavern at Drywell, his hand instinctively slid toward his dagger. Not that he was daft enough to challenge the three well-muscled strangers who had cornered his younger brother. Nor did Dwin look as if he wanted to be rescued. He laughed like a madman, his dark curls matted to his forehead, his hands around a mug. One of the three men pushed another mug his way.

A stringy-haired tavern maid sidled up to Trevin. He shook his head and watched her swish away. Maybe he was the mad one, tracking Dwin to Drywell when he should be at Redcliff preparing for the banquet being given in his honor. He fought the urge to throttle his little brother.

Melaia’s name blurted from Dwin’s mouth. His shoulders bounced as he chuckled.

“Dwin!” barked Trevin, striding to the table. His brother spewed barley beer, guffawing as if “Dwin” were the funniest name he had ever heard.

The three strangers eyed Trevin with expressions ranging from amusement to disdain. They appeared to be his age, maybe a few years older. One had a crooked nose. Another was wiry with a scar across his temple. The third wore a close-cut beard, dark as charred wood. A crimson band spanned his forehead and disappeared beneath wavy locks.

At first Trevin thought they might be malevolent angels, but he sensed no aura, pure or impure. By their appearance they were Dregmoorian. Raiders and refugees entered Camrithia from the Dregmoors these days, but the men sitting with Dwin fit neither description. They were too richly dressed. Merchants? Or spies passing themselves off as merchants?

Dwin saluted Trevin with his mug. “My eshteemed brother,” he slurred.

Trevin deliberately moved his hand away from his dagger. “Let’s go, Dwin.”

“I was just getting shhtarted.” Dwin grinned.

“It’s time you finished,” said Trevin.

“I believe the young man wishes to stay,” said the Dregmoorian with wavy hair. His eyes were as black as stag beetles. “Join us.” He signaled to the tavern maid. “More beer!”

Trevin was tempted. The midsummer day was warm, he was sweaty, and the stone-walled tavern was cool. Drink was at hand. But he didn’t want to drink with Dregmoorians. Besides, he hoped to get to the great hall early and perhaps spend some time with Melaia before the banquet started. He relished the thought of seeing her dressed in her royal best. Even in her priestess’s garb, she was beautiful, but seeing her in a gown stole his breath and rushed his pulse.

Trevin started for the door. “Let’s go, Dwin.”

Dwin stood, wobbling. The three Dregmoorians smugly rose to let him out. If they were spies, Trevin could only guess what information they had floated out of Dwin, who would tell anything to keep the drink coming and the air jovial.

Dwin swayed toward Trevin. “I musht show you the gash pits. Gash spits. Pits spits.” He doubled over in laughter. “Gashpitspits.”

“Show me, then.” Trevin offered a hand to his brother, who shook it off and weaved toward the door. Benches scraped back up to the table behind him.

“Gash pits. Spits,” murmured Dwin, stepping outside. He squinted in the bright afternoon light, then pointed to a path leading through the woods. “That way.”

“Show me the pits another time,” said Trevin. “Where’s your mount?” He eyed the tethered horses that stood beside his borrowed roan. The three finely groomed and blanketed mounts no doubt belonged to the Dregmoorians.

“Follow me.” Dwin wobbled down the path.

“Your mount?”

“At the gash pits. They stink. You’ll see.” He giggled. “No, you’ll smell.” He pinched his nose and weaved ahead.

Trevin followed to a clearing, barren except for Dwin’s gray donkey, Persephone, and the dry well from which the village took its name. He frowned at the well. Steam writhed out of it, along with a burbling sound.

“Obviously no longer dry,” he muttered.

“You think the town’ll change its name?” asked Dwin. “Mistwell. Fogwell. Hellwell.” He chortled.

Trevin peered over the crumbling rim of rock. At the bottom of the shaft, a dun-colored muck belched bubbles of hot vapor, its stench not unlike eggs gone to rot.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “It’s gash.” The stuff was touted as a drink to restore youth, but it was dangerous. He had seen gash-drunks, youthful but foggy eyed and dull minded, dying from their addiction.

“Over here.” Dwin crouched beyond the well. Muck oozed from a rift, and steam curled into the air.

“Looks like the Under-Realm is vomiting its own bile,” said Trevin.

Already a greenish hue, Dwin turned away and lost his stomachful of beer.

Trevin shook his head in disgust and knelt to examine the rift, which was about as wide as his thumb. Its length he couldn’t judge, for it snaked into the woods east of the clearing.

“It’s a landgash, Dwin. Lord Beker sent a dispatch about them, but I thought landgashes were closer to the Dregmoors. The blight must be growing worse.” Killing crops and parching rivers, the blight that had started in the Dregmoors was slowly creeping across Camrithia. Stinking rifts would not help matters.

Hoofbeats sounded behind them. Trevin rose. Dwin turned, lost his balance, and sat hard on his rump.

The three Dregmoorians reined their mounts to a halt four paces away, followed by a tan wolf-dog with one black leg and gray eyes.

At the edge of the clearing, Dwin’s donkey backed into the shadows, pulling her tethering rope taut, her ears laid back.

The man with wavy hair and the crimson band across his forehead, clearly their leader, nodded at Dwin. “You said you’re a friend of the court and can get us into Redcliff. Or was that a child’s boast?”

“It doesn’t always pay to listen to my brother,” said Trevin.

“It could pay today.” The man rattled a coin purse at his belt. “We’re looking for a forerunner. Someone to ease the way.”

“You’re best advised to go back to where you came from,” said Trevin.

The man with the crooked nose studied the tip of his dagger. “I fancy your tongue as a souvenir, comely boy.” He turned to their leader. “What do you think, Varic? We could add
that
to our gifts for Redcliff.”

“Not today, Hesel.” Varic laughed. “I wish to impress the princess, and I hear Camrithian ladies turn their heads at the sight of blood.”

Trevin clenched his jaw. Why did this reptile wish to impress Melaia?

“Let’s try again.” Varic eyed Dwin and fingered the free end of his waist sash, a fine silver mesh. “You promised to introduce us to Redcliff. Do you mean to go back on your word?”

Dwin rose, pale.

Trevin folded his arms. “What’s your business at Redcliff?”

“Are you the gatekeeper?” asked Varic. “The constable?”

“He’s a dung digger.” The wiry one wrinkled his nose. “Can’t you smell him?”

“Ah, Fornian, always a good judge of character.” Varic grinned at Trevin. “Ever tried gash?” He tossed a gourd ladle at Trevin’s feet. “Drink some. It’s free.”

Gash merchants
, Trevin thought as he picked up the gourd. No doubt they had an eye on the profit to be made from newfound rifts and a tavern
nearby. He turned the gourd around in his hands, admiring the delicate black designs etched into it. “If you and your friends drink gash, you’ve less wit than your dog.”

Varic narrowed his eyes and pointed to the ladle. “Drink up.”

“We always let guests go first.” Trevin tossed the gourd back to Varic.

Obviously startled by the gourd’s return, Varic was slow to the catch. It struck his knuckles with a loud crack. “Scum,” he snarled.

The wolf-dog bared his teeth. Hesel and Fornian dismounted and drew their daggers.

Trevin tensed. He had expected Varic to catch the ladle and respond to the sarcasm with a few choice words of his own. He shot Dwin a glare, warning him to keep quiet. Dwin’s tongue could be sharper than his own. As long as the daggers were not aimed his direction or Dwin’s, the threats were self-puffery. Let the bullies strut and swagger, and then they’d be on their way.

Trevin drew his own blade but kept the tip up, unmenacing, warily watching the Dregmoorians’ movements.