Authors: Karyn Henley
That night they camped at Caldarius, where steam curled up into the cold air, rising from two pools formed by hot springs bubbling out of the ground. One pool lay on a ledge and cascaded into a second pool below. Melaia stood transfixed, watching the steaming waterfall.
Trevin stepped up beside her, rubbing his right hand where he was missing his small finger.
“Does your hand hurt?” asked Melaia.
“Just an old habit,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. “This place smells like gash.”
Melaia wrinkled her nose. She had to admit that the pools held a sharp, rather putrid smell. But she had heard traveler’s tales of Caldarius and had always wished she could see this place. Torches were lit around the pools so everyone could bathe. The prospect of being clean excited her. And in hot water, no less.
She was not disappointed. Women went first in the upper pool, and she
returned relaxed and wet haired to the spot Trevin had chosen by one of the campfires. He was waiting for her, keeping watch over their valuables.
He eyed her, his mouth in its winsome half smile. “How was it?”
“Like liquid sunshine.” She loosened her cloak now that she was near the fire. “I wish I could have stayed in longer, but I started to doze. One of the other women told me to get out before I drowned.”
“Wise.” Trevin rose. “I’ll have to remember to do the same.” He took his cloak and his dagger with him but left the rest of the packs for Melaia to watch.
She ran her fingers through her drying hair and gazed into the fire, wondering what Hanni and the girls would say when she told them she had not only seen this magical place but had also bathed in its hot waters. Her throat tightened. When would she see them again?
A gust of wind sent the flames undulating upward, and for a moment Melaia glimpsed the form of a woman in joyful dance, her arms over her head. She twirled, rising in the fire, and disappeared in sparks. Like the hawkman who had left the temple through flame and smoke.
She blinked at the deep orange blaze. The figure was either a product of her weary imagination or of her gift as a death-prophet. But dying spirits never danced with joy, nor did they rise. They sank into the earth in grim despair.
“I’m tired,” she murmured. “Tired and imagining.” The hot water had soaked her with drowsiness, body and mind.
But Trevin was counting on her to watch their packs until he returned. Perhaps chewing on dried figs would help her stay awake. She tugged her journey pack out of the pile. It snagged Trevin’s pack and tipped it sideways, spilling out a small scroll, two metal pegs, a finger-sized spiked tool, and a ring. As she quickly slid everything back into the pack, the ring caught the glint of the campfire.
It was a signet ring. Bearing the image of a hawk.
M
elaia rode beside Caepio again the next day and was regaled with tales and songs. His actors joined in. She even told a few stories herself, glad to occupy her mind with something besides raiders storming Navia and Trevin riding out to scout for danger. But between tales, she found herself worrying anyway, watching for Trevin to appear over a hill or in the road ahead.
At last Melaia decided it was just as well he kept his distance. She was full of questions for him, questions that would reveal she knew what he carried in his pack. She didn’t want him to think she was a snoop. But, then, what
did
she want him to think? And what should she think of him? The trees shifted in the wind.
Shhhould shhhee? Shhhould shhhee?
In the late afternoon the actors’ wagon slowed as the caravan headed up a hill. “We’re close enough to camp to smell it, gentlemen,” Caepio said to his troupe. “I smell supper. Maybe a bit of performing.” He turned to Melaia. “Keep your eyes sharp, priestess. At the top of the next rise, you’ll spy Redcliff.”
High above, two dark birds zagged across the road—west, east, west. Then they headed north and disappeared over the hill. Trevin was nowhere to be seen.
The matter of his signet ring had nibbled at her all day. Why the image of a hawk? Did it have anything to do with a hawkman? She had tried to see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing, but the question kept returning like an itch. She decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask Caepio if he knew what the image of a hawk signified.
“I’ve a question,” she said.
“Ask away.” Caepio sat tall and raised his chin in a scholarly fashion.
“As you know, I’m ignorant in a great many matters,” she said.
“Not ignorant, my priestess. What say you, gents?”
“Ill-informed, perhaps,” called one of the actors.
“Unenlightened,” suggested another.
“Empty-headed?” ventured a third.
“You’re the empty head,” Caepio shot back. “No, my priestess, the word for you is
innocent.
”
“And you’ve been enlightening her, I suppose?” asked Trevin.
Melaia jerked around to see him riding up beside them. Her cheeks burned at the thought of the question she had almost asked.
Trevin laughed. “At the rate we’ve all been educating you, you’ll be a wise old woman by the time we enter Redcliff.” He nudged his horse and cantered up the hill, where he stopped and dismounted.
“Now what was your question?” asked Caepio.
“Never mind,” said Melaia. “I’d best stay innocent.”
As they crested the hill, a cheer shot up from the actors. Redcliff Valley lay ahead, rippling with golden grasses. The highway before them stretched across the center of the valley, which was scattered with camps. At the far side the highway became a bridge that soared into a line of red clay cliffs. Atop the cliffs stood the mass of ruddy square towers that formed the city of Redcliff.
Melaia caught her breath at the sight of the magnificent red city. The lowering sun painted its western edge with a fiery glow. She tingled all the way to her toes, awed, excited, petrified.
Trevin signaled for the wagon to halt, calling, “The chantress will ride the rest of the way with me.”
Melaia kept her mouth shut but raised her eyebrows in question.
“There’s still some distance to cover,” he explained. “I want to reach the city gate before it closes for the night.”
He took Melaia’s journey bag and the harp and tied them onto his own packs while she said good-bye to the actors.
As Caepio headed over the hill, Melaia turned to Trevin’s horse and then shrank back. How did one mount such a large creature?
Trevin tugged the last knot, turned to her, and burst into warm laughter. “You should see yourself. You look appalled. Shall I guess you’ve never ridden?”
“Never,” she squeaked. “I suppose it’s too far to walk?”
“Unless you want to walk by the light of the moon and arrive in Redcliff for breakfast. I myself crave supper and my own bed.”
Melaia took a deep breath. With Trevin’s instructions and help, she mounted the horse after just two tries. She shifted her skirts and cloak to the least awkward feel as Trevin settled in behind her. At his direction she wove her fingers through the horse’s mane.
Then he nudged his mount into a walk. Melaia clenched the stiff horsehair and felt Trevin’s arm draw snug around her waist, his breath at her ear. She knew she would take pleasure in it if she were not terrified of tumbling off.
“Breathe,” said Trevin. “Relax. Ride with the movement, not against it.”
Melaia exhaled slowly. “You’d have more luck telling a stone to turn to water.”
Trevin laughed again and clucked to the horse. Their easy gait down the hill slowly gathered speed. The actors cheered when they passed, but Melaia didn’t respond, for she clung to the horse’s mane as if it were all that stood between her and death. Despite her fear she thrilled to the feel of the wind in her face and the scent of grasses as they swept across the valley.
Soon they slowed to join the last of the throng crossing the bridge and funneling through the city gate. Melaia at last felt steady enough to look back at the valley. To the east, lights winked like flickerflies.
“Is that where the caravan camps?” she asked.
“That’s an unwalled city of sorts,” said Trevin. “Made by people fleeing Dregmoorian raiders or the blight. Or both.”
Melaia wondered if Hanni and the girls were fleeing raiders. “Gil said raiders attack because the blight destroyed their crops and cattle.”
“That’s the common notion. Dregmoorians have plenty of gold and gems, but they can’t eat gold.”
“In that case why don’t they buy food from Camrithia? Why do they raid?”
“They did buy food for a while. But the blight creeps across our land too. We’ve little to spare, and we’re storing our excess for the time when our fields look like theirs.”
“But surely the king—”
“Chantress, remember what we talked about? This isn’t a time for questions, and these are not your concerns.”
Watch-drums sounded the closing of the gates, which creaked and scraped as portal-keepers began easing the huge ironclad doors closed. Trevin nudged his horse around a slow cart and pressed ahead of stragglers surging through the grand archway. Once they were within the city walls, he pointed out an inn with a savory smell of stew drifting out, the street of metalsmiths where the odor of smoke and hot metal lingered, the alley of carpenters scented with pungent wood shavings, and the lane of perfumers where sweet and spicy fragrances mingled. Melaia marveled at the maze of streets and wondered how long it would take to learn her way around.
At a second wall, a rough-hewn guard grinned at Trevin. “You’ve not got enough ladies? You’re bringing ’em back with you now?”
Melaia narrowed her eyes at the man.
“She’s a priestess,” said Trevin as the guard opened the gate for him.
“So you’re holy now, are you?” the guard laughed.
“Don’t mind him,” said Trevin. “He’s not mean, just slack mouthed.” He loosed the reins, and his eager horse carried them into the inner ward. Ahead stood the towering red-clay palace. Royal stables lined the east wall. The round-domed, earth red temple backed up to the wall on the west.
“I’m to stay at the temple,” said Melaia, easing her grip on the horse’s mane.
“Are you expected?” asked Trevin.
“No, but temples are open to wayfarers, and Hanni, high priestess of Navia, knows the priest here.”
Trevin dismounted and helped Melaia off the horse. She opened and closed her stiff fingers.
“You’ll be sore tomorrow, no doubt,” he said as he untied her pack.
“I’m sore tonight.” Melaia patted her rump, then took her pack from Trevin and shouldered it. “And the harp?” she asked.
“Perhaps I should keep it.” Trevin rubbed his left hand over his right. “As proof I didn’t return empty-handed.”
“But I was sent with the harp.” Melaia shifted, uneasy. As far as she was concerned, the harp still belonged to Benasin, and she was its protector. “I really should play it a bit before I face the king. I’d like to feel somewhat at home on its strings.” She frowned. “You know the harp is safe with me.”
Trevin hesitated. Then he untied the harp. “Are you sure you want to stay here?” he asked. “I can find you a room elsewhere.”
“The temple is fine. I’m a priestess, remember?”
Trevin handed her the harp, then dug into his waist pouch and pulled out his wagering stone. He pressed it into her free hand and closed her fingers around it. “I’ll be back on the morrow with instructions about the harp. But if you need me, bring this to the palace and ask for me.” He pointed out a tower on the east front of the building, which now looked blood red against the darkening sky. “I spend much of my time in that tower, in the aerie.”
Melaia nodded. “Tomorrow then.”
She fingered the
T
carved into the wagering stone as Trevin crossed the courtyard and handed off his horse to the stableboy. Then she tucked the stone into her waist sash and turned to the temple, which towered over her. It was at least twice the size of the Navian temple. She felt the impulse to call Trevin back, to accept his offer of finding her a room elsewhere. Then she thought of Hanni’s friend within and climbed the stone steps to the columned porch.
Taking a deep breath, Melaia ducked through the temple’s arched entrance. A low-ceilinged corridor curved both right and left. Straight ahead
through a wide doorway lay a lamp-lit altar room much like the sanctuary in Navia, except that it was larger and the lamps were made of brass cut in patterns like latticework. The light that escaped them mottled the haze of nose-tingling incense.
Melaia tapped a small gong with the mallet that hung from a cord beside it. From behind one of the columns encircling the sanctuary, a sallow-faced priest emerged. His long hair was tied back at the neck, as was the custom of male priests, and his hands were hidden deep in the folds of his blue and gold robe. His close-set eyes flitted across Melaia as if to evaluate her worthiness. In an oily voice, he asked, “What is your business here?”
“I’m a chantress sent from the overlord in Navia. You must be Jarrod.”
His eyebrows arched. “I’m Ordius.”
“Is Jarrod here? Do you know Hanamel, high priestess of Navia?”
“Jarrod is no longer here,” said Ordius. “And I know no one from Navia.”
Melaia’s shoulders sagged. “Could you provide me a room?”
“How long do you expect to stay?”
“I don’t know. I was sent to play for the king. I may be asked to stay elsewhere after tonight.”
Ordius gave one nod. With a hand decked with jeweled rings, he slipped a torch from its bracket and beckoned her to follow. They passed down the curved corridor and climbed a flight of stairs. Halfway down the hall, he ushered Melaia into a small stone-walled chamber, bare except for a stool and a table that held an unlit clay lamp. A latticed window was opposite the door, but only the dark of night showed through.
“Is there no mat?” she asked. “Where do I find water? And the privy?” From the way the priest scowled at her, she decided to leave asking for food until the morrow.
“Water and privy are in the courtyard out back. I’ll bring a mat.” The priest thrust the torch into a bracket in the corridor and was gone.