Breath of Angel (6 page)

Melaia, her face hot, looked back longingly toward Navia. But Navia was gone, and when she turned around, so was the kingsman.

The north road wound through rocky fields and stone outcroppings. “Goat country,” Gil called it. Melaia spotted herders in the distance now and then, and once they had to stop while the bleating animals trotted across the road. The kingsman often galloped out to talk to the herders, “fishing for news and scouting for danger,” as Gil put it.

Gil turned out to be quite talkative. Melaia learned he was a wheelwright from a stead near a town called Stillwater. His wife, Gerda, was also a dwarf. He missed her home cooking terribly. Patting his paunchy stomach, he said, “See how thin I’m growing? Gerda will worry over me for sure when I get home. I guess she’ll have to fatten me up, eh?”

Melaia laughed at his rotund figure and wondered if he might answer her nagging questions. “Are draks really made of human souls?” she asked. “Are they spy-birds?”

“I know only what the kingsman told you,” he said. “I’m doing nothing wrong, and I’ve no reason to think anyone’s hunting me, so I pay them no
mind. But your kingsman friend, being from Redcliff, may not be so fortunate.”

Melaia eyed the kingsman on a hill to the west, silhouetted against the setting sun, releasing a drak from his hand. How could he work with such creatures?

As dusk fell, Gil turned the wagon toward a stand of trees an arrow’s flight east of the road. “Drover’s Well,” he said. “Named for nomads who wandered these parts in times past.”

Another small band of travelers had already settled near the well: two men with black braids and two women, one wrinkled and gray, the other dark with long, loose hair and darting eyes. The younger woman tended a pot that hung over the common firepit. All four of them stared warily at the newcomers. But when Gil hailed them, the old woman gave a toothless grin, and the taller man, who had a furrowed face, spoke an obvious greeting, although Melaia couldn’t understand the language. The other man never looked up but rocked back and forth as he huddled near the fire, staring with glazed eyes.

“Dregmoorians,” said Gil.

Melaia tried to look pleasant, but she wasn’t sure she should encourage their acquaintance. “Are they raiders?” she asked.

Gil chuckled. “Raiders make themselves scarce until they’re on the attack. These are most likely refugees from the Dregmoors. You’ve heard of the blight?”

“Failing crops, rivers drying up,” she said.

“It’s hit the Dregmoors hard,” said Gil. “That’s why they raid. They’ve lost their own crops and cattle.”

As Gil helped Melaia out of the wagon, the kingsman trotted up. He dismounted, led his horse straight to the Dregmoorians, and began conversing with them as he rubbed down his mount.

“I’ll be baked!” said Gil. “The kingsman speaks Dreg.” He began rummaging through the packs in the bed of his wagon.

Melaia took her pack and drew out a cloth-wrapped loaf Hanni had given her.

“Save your bread,” said Gil. “You’ve a longer journey than I. You may need it. Besides, my Gerda always packs more’n I can eat. You’re in for a treat. Salt-meats, dried fruits, crisp bread. Most like, I’ll have enough for the Dreggies as well.” He handed Melaia a bundle. “Take this to the fire and lay it out. Food makes friends, my Gerda says.”

Melaia felt the intense gaze of the family as she lugged the bundle, along with her harp and journey bag, to a spot near the firepit. As she unwrapped the food, she motioned to the family that they were welcome to some. By the time Gil and the kingsman finished tending to their horses and returned to the fire, everyone was dipping Gil’s crisp bread into the common pot of thin lentil soup. Everyone except the glaze-eyed man. The old woman fed him.

Gil paced the perimeter of the camp, munching on his wife’s provisions and eying the deepening twilight. The kingsman stretched out beside Melaia and took a handful of raisins.

“The overlord called you Chantress,” he said. “Is that the name you go by?”

She laughed. “My name is Melaia.”

“Ah, then, Melaia. I don’t suppose you have a dagger? Nor that you’d know how to use one?” He popped the whole handful of raisins into his mouth.

She looked sideways at him. “Priestesses are peaceful.”

“Brigands are not.”

“You don’t trust the Dregmoorian family?”

“They may not be the only ones around tonight. Gil’s keeping watch right now. I’ll take over in a while. As for our fellow campmates, it’s best not to trust them.”

“But you trust Gil.”

“Do I?”

“Gil trusts you,” Melaia pointed out.

“Does he?”

“But it’s important to have people you can trust,” said Melaia. “Don’t you want me to trust you?”

“Ah, Chantress. Melaia. You strike directly at the heart of a matter, don’t you?” The firelight danced in the kingsman’s dark eyes as he searched hers.

Melaia had never known someone’s gaze to be so disconcerting. She had to look away. For a moment they ate in silence except for the crackle of the flames and the chomping of the horses. She thought of Hanni and the three young priestesses in Navia, who would be preparing for sleep. On a hot night they sometimes slept under the stars on the flat roof by the dome of the temple, but none of them had ever slept in a camp in the wild. Such freedom made her tingle with excitement edged with fear. She was not at all certain she would be able to sleep here with Dregmoorians and Gil and …

She turned to the kingsman. “What name do
you
go by?”

“Scoundrel. Rogue. Ruffian. My brother calls me Slow-Wit.”

“That, you’re not.” Melaia laughed softly. “What do you want me to call you?”

“At this very moment?” He eyed her and leaned close, murmuring, “It’s a word more properly used by a mistress than a priestess.” He snapped a round of crisp bread in two and handed her half.

Melaia narrowed her eyes at him as she took it.

“Forgive me.” He leaned back with a roguish half smile. “The priestess in you brings out my honesty.”

“Your name, sir kingsman.” She pointed her crisp bread at him. “I’m requesting your name.”

“Trevin.” His smile seemed true and honest. Worthy of trust.

“Trevin, then. Where did you learn to speak Dreg?” She crunched the point off her bread.

“At Redcliff. It’s required of an envoy.”

Over the wood-lapping flames, the tall man called to Trevin and pointed at Melaia. Trevin rose to a squat, and she watched as the conversation went back and forth between the two.

Then Trevin turned to her. “When the old woman asked about you earlier,
I told her you’re a priestess. She wants you to pray for the one who sits as still as a stump.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s gash-drunk.”

“Gash?”

“A thick, earthy drink with a putrid smell.”

Melaia wrinkled her nose. “Why would anyone want to drink it?”

Gil paused nearby in his pacing. “There’s a merchant, name of Baize, who’s been traveling the roads trying to peddle gash. Nasty stuff. He claims it restores life, renews youth. He was drummed out of town by the folk at Stillwater.”

“The merchant’s selling a half truth,” said Trevin. “Gash does restore youth. For a time, anyway. See how young the drunk looks? In truth, he’s the other man’s father. Husband to the old woman.”

Melaia stared at the drunk. He appeared sculpted, young and perfect as a statue. His skin was so smooth, he looked as if he were modeled of dun-colored clay.

“That’s the bane of the drink, eh?” said Gil. “You grow young looking even as you waste away.”

“That’s what the old woman said.” Trevin nodded toward where she sat watching them intently, wringing her hands. “Her husband developed a fierce craving for gash, couldn’t do without it. Now listen to him.”

The man’s labored breathing rasped loudly over the snap of the flames.

“In the end, I hear, gash hardens a person from the inside out.” Gil took up his pacing again.

“I’d say he’s dying,” said Trevin.

“He’s not. Not yet.” Melaia saw no sign of the drunk’s spirit leaving him. “I should play some music. It might revive him.” She reached for the harp.

But Trevin placed his hand on hers. “No harp. The only valuables we display are our daggers.”

“Which I don’t have.”

“Because you’re armed with your prayers. Go pray for the man. I’ll stand by with my dagger.”

Melaia skirted the fire and knelt before the unseeing clay man. Angels, draks, gash—the world was not as she had imagined it. Not at all.

M
elaia roused herself from a doze in the back of Gil’s wagon. The slant of the warm sun told her it was nearing midafternoon. She wondered if the Dregmoorian family had journeyed to Navia as she had suggested, hoping Hanni might have herbs that could help the gash-drunk father.

She peered around Gil’s squat, cloaked form. The road ahead curved into woodlands. Throughout the day they had slowly passed from rocky hills to fields of yellowed grass and into a scattering of gold brown trees, while Trevin ranged to and fro around them. His dappled horse seemed as eager to run as Gil’s was to plod. Apparently impatient with the slowness of their travel, Trevin had galloped down the road ahead of them.

“Gil?” Melaia scooted to the side of the wagon where she could better see his bush-bearded face. “Have you ever been to Redcliff?”

“That I have. Me and my family.” His slow nod matched the gait of his horse. “Back when times were good, the king held a yearly harvest festival in Redcliff Valley. This very time of year, it was. Common people swarmed in like ants to a banquet. They’d buy and sell and barter. There was music, dancing, gaming, and good drink, strong or otherwise. My Gerda and I often took our boys. Gerda sold cakes and breads, I mended wagon wheels, and our boys spent every coin we made.”

“But there’s no harvest festival now?”

“Redcliff is much changed.” Gil smiled at her, but his close-set eyes looked sad. “As you’re headed there, you should know that the whole city is stewing in a pot of misfortune. Latest news is that Lord Beker, the king’s trusted advisor,
disappeared a fortnight ago. Presumed dead, so the rumor goes. Murdered by someone in the king’s own court.”

“So the king has no advisor?”

“The king’s physician stepped into that position, I hear.”

“What ails the king?”

“Melancholy. Queen Tahn died in a fire some months ago. She was with child, the king’s only heir, and he grieves himself to death about it. And I wager the queen’s death was no accident. What I’m saying is that the kingsman is right. At Redcliff, you’d best keep your wondering to yourself.”

In spite of the warm sun, Melaia pulled her cloak tight. An advisor murdered. Maybe the queen and her unborn child too. How would the unexpected arrival of a chantress be received? At least she might have a friend in the priest Hanni knew. Jarrod. And Trevin. Could she count him as a friend?

“Omen Crossing’s around the next bend,” Gil announced. “That’s where I’m to leave you. The town of Treolli’s a short walk east.”

“Where’s Trevin?”

“He’ll likely show up any minute now,” said Gil. “But don’t worry. I’ll not leave you on your own. If worse turns to worst, you’re welcome to come to my stead.”

“If he’s gone off and left me, I’ll return home to Navia.” She was surprised that the thought disappointed her, although taking the harp back to Benasin would be a relief. Redcliff quickened her pulse; Navia rested her soul. She would be hard-pressed to make a choice between them.

“Keep a sharp eye,” said Gil. “We’re coming to Omen Crossing. It’s said that whatever you spy first at the crossing is the omen for your journey.”

As the wagon rounded the curve, the crossing signpost came into view. Trevin leaned against it, watching his horse crop the grass nearby.

“Is that a good omen?” asked Melaia.

“Depends on who’s interpreting it,” said Gil. “Seeing as how there’s none of those blasted spy-birds about, I’d say it tends toward the good.”

“I’d be happy never to see another drak.”

“Could be that’s part of Trevin’s training to be a comain. That’s the highest rank of kingsman, you know. Each comain leads a group of men-at-arms. A worthy profession it would be, eh? Main Trevin. Has a nice tone to it. Sure as sure, the king could use some good men these days.”

“So Trevin is a good man?” Melaia studied the kingsman, who had seen them coming and was coaxing his horse back to work.

“Hard to say.” Gil scratched his bushy beard. “I’ve not known him any longer than you. If Gerda were here, she’d advise you to trust no one. That’s a valuable piece of advice, given you free.” He patted his chest with three fingers and winked.

She eyed him quizzically. “Are you an angel?”

“You know the sign?”

“I heard about it once.”

“Angels make it. Or friends of angels. If you’re a friend, you make the sign back to me.” Gil reined his horse to a stop beside the post that pointed west to Stillwater, east to Treolli.

Melaia wondered if she should make the sign of the Tree. She could hear Hanni advising her to avoid those who use it. Yet Melaia had enjoyed Gil’s company. She felt safe in his presence. He had truly been what he had said: a friend. But to make the sign of the Tree herself? Should she?