Mistress of Dragons (30 page)

“Don’t
say that, Commander,” whispered Nzangia fiercely, helping her to her feet. “Never
say that.”

Lucretta
straightened herself in the saddle, gazed down at them imperiously. “You are
hereby relieved of your command, Bellona. Nzangia, I name you commander. Place
this woman under arrest. Tie her up. She will be taken back for trial.”

“Mistress—”
Nzangia started to protest.

“Obey
me!” Lucretta said coldly. “Or I will find someone who will.”

“I’m
sorry, Commander,” Nzangia said softly, binding Bellona’s wrists and arms with
bowstrings.

“It’s
not your fault,” Bellona said quietly.

“This
is just temporary. The Mistress will have second thoughts. I’ll talk to her . .
.”

“Don’t
bother,” said Bellona. “She hates me, as she hated Melisande. It’s better this
way. Truly it is.”

Lucretta
was trying to dismount and not making a very good job of it. In swinging her
long, bony leg over the saddle pommel, she got tangled in her robes. The horse
rolled its eyes and swiveled its head around, seemed likely to nip, at which
point several of the women ran to assist. Bellona wiggled her hands to test the
tightness of her bindings.

Lucretta
wisely allowed the women to help her out of the saddle. Once on the ground, she
staggered a little, then managed to stand upright.

“Order
your warriors to their beds, Commander. We will be up and riding before the
dawn. I want to be back at the monastery by first light.”

“The
monastery?” Nzangia stared. “Begging your pardon, Mistress, but aren’t we going
to keep after the fugitives?”

“We
return to Seth tomorrow,” Lucretta reiterated, her voice grating. “As for the
whore, her guilty conscience will be her punishment, since she has escaped
ours.”

Bellona
could not believe what she was hearing and neither could Nzangia, who ventured
one more protest. “Mistress, at least allow me to take a patrol downriver—”

Lucretta’s
eyes flared. “Listen to me, all of you. Our late Mistress was a good woman.
None better. But she was old and frail and, due to her frailty, she let certain
things slip. When I give a command, I expect obedience, not arguments. Is that
understood? Commander?”

The
warriors were silent, grave. One and all, they had loved the late Mistress,
loved and respected her. Yet, perhaps this new Mistress was right. Perhaps
discipline had lapsed. Certainly, it must have, if their High Priestess could
have smuggled her lover into the Sanctuary, as was being rumored. Perhaps it
was time for a change. None of them liked Lucretta, but they were starting to
regard her with respect.

“Yes,
Mistress. Forgive me, Mistress,” said Nzangia.

“Good,”
said Lucretta, her complacency returned. “As for the morrow, we are needed in
Seth. His Majesty will be making the public announcement of the Mistress’s
death and that means that, by custom, the funeral must be held within the week.
Thousands will be coming to the monastery to pay their respects. Your warriors
will be needed to control the crowds, for the work of our priestesses must be
disrupted as little as possible. We dare not relax our vigilance against the
dragons, who might seize upon what they perceive to be a time of weakness to
attack us.”

Nzangia
bowed her obedience.

“That
is settled then.” Lucretta glanced around. “One of you—prepare me a bed.”

The
warriors looked at each other in some dismay. They were accustomed, when on
patrol, to wrapping themselves in horse blankets and sleeping on the wet and
muddy riverbank. This would never do for the Mistress of Dragons, however.

“Suggest
that she sleep in the wagon,” said Bellona in a harsh whisper.

“Mistress,”
said Nzangia, relieved, “we found a wagon hidden in the trees. We can make you
a bed—”

“What
did you say?” Lucretta demanded sharply.

“A
wagon, Mistress,” said Nzangia. Thinking to help her commander, she added, “It
was Bellona’s idea. She suggested that since the ground is wet, you could sleep
in the wagon. You would find it more—”

“I
will hear no more of Bellona’s ‘suggestions,’“ cried Lucretta shrilly. “Gag her
mouth and bind her to that tree. I will sleep on the ground with the rest of
you.”

Turning
her back, the Mistress stalked off toward the fire, where she stood stiffly
upright, warming her hands at the glimmering coals.

The
warriors made their preparations for sleep. They banked the fire and cobbled
together a makeshift bed for the Mistress, carefully choosing the driest
ground, going over it assiduously to remove any stones or sticks, then laying
down blankets for her repose.

The
warriors kept food ready for those returning from guard duty. They ate quickly
and silently, glancing askance at the Mistress, who lay in state upon the
blankets, her body stretched out flat on her back, her hands folded over her
stomach. Awed, none of the warriors dared to make their beds near her.

Nzangia
crouched beside Bellona, a strip of cloth in her hands.

“Strange
about the wagon, don’t you think?” Bellona asked in a soft voice, her gaze
fixed on the Mistress. “She would have been far more comfortable in it.”

“It
all seems strange, as if I were in a dream,” said Nzangia. “Though I do think
the Mistress is right. We have been letting some things slide.”

She
lifted the gag to tie it around Bellona’s mouth.

Bellona
raised her bound hands, halted her. “Bring me a blanket.”

“Yes,
of course—”

“—with
a knife wrapped inside.”

Nzangia
flinched, almost dropped the gag.

“You’re
not thinking straight, Commander—”

“Nzangia,
I’m not going to slit my wrists,” Bellona interrupted impatiently. “I’m going
after Melisande. I’m going to bring her back to stand trial, to answer for her
crimes.”

Nzangia
stared, then glanced askance at the Mistress. “I don’t know, Bellona—”

“Lucretta
impugned my honor, Nzangia. And yours. And theirs.” Bellona gestured to the
warriors, who had gone to their beds in silence, without any of the usual gibes
and light-hearted banter. “I will carry that shame to my grave.”

Nzangia
hesitated.

“You
will not get into trouble,” Bellona persisted. “I will make it look as if I
drowned myself in the river. I have to do this, Nzangia. I have to! You love
Drusilla,” she added, her voice faltering. “You understand.”

Nzangia
tied the gag around Bellona’s mouth with sharp efficiency, then stood up. She
gazed down at her former commander, then, turning on her heel, she walked away.
Bellona kept her in sight for as long as possible, lost sight of her when she
entered the forest. Nzangia would be making the rounds, checking on the guards,
making certain they were at their posts, none of them fallen asleep.

Bellona
could do nothing more. She leaned back wearily against the tree. She had no
idea whether Nzangia would do as she wanted or not. Hopefully what she had said
had made an impression, but Bellona did not know. Nzangia had been startled at
first by her sudden rise to power, but she had always been ambitious and she
was quickly adapting, fitting into her new role with ease. She and Lucretta
would get along well. Nzangia would see to that.

“If
nothing else, Nzangia will be glad to be rid of me,” Bellona said to herself. “And
so might Lucretta. She was so odd about the wagon. Not the least curious about
it. She should be. It’s close to the borders of the kingdom. Too close. Not
that it matters. Nothing matters, except Melisande. I will bring her back to
face her crimes. I will prove to Nzangia, prove to Lucretta that I am bound by
honor and my oath, that I did not let Melisande deliberately escape me.

“I
will prove it to them all,” she vowed, but she knew in her heart that she was
proving it to only one—herself.

The
night was clear and cool. The river caught the light of the stars, carried the
silvery gleam upon its smooth surface.

Bellona
wiggled her wrists again. Her warriors had done their job well, as she would
have expected them to do. The bowstrings were tied tight, bit into her flesh.
She shifted position. After all, Nzangia had forgotten to bind her to the tree.
Bellona leaned back against the trunk, closed her eyes against the
silver-gilded dark ripples gliding downstream. Melisande was there, gliding on
top of them, silver-gilded, and Bellona was beneath, in the cold darkness,
swept under, swept away . . .

“Bellona!”
Nzangia whispered in her ear. A hand shook her shoulder.

Bellona
woke with a start, never having meant to fall asleep.

Nzangia
held a folded blanket in her hands. Carefully, she unwrapped it, spread it
around Bellona’s shoulders, draped it over her bound hands and feet.

A
hunting knife fell into Bellona’s lap. She grasped the hilt gratefully.

“Thank
you,” she said gruffly.

“Good
luck,” Nzangia said and walked back into the darkness.

Bellona
held the knife fast, finding comfort in the feel of the cold, sharp iron. She
settled down to wait until the dead of night, when all were drowned deep in
slumber.

“Commander!”
Drusilla cried, coming to shake Nzangia awake. “Come quickly.”

“What
is it?” Nzangia demanded, rising up on the instant.

Drusilla
led her to river’s edge, pointed at Bellona’s armor, which lay stacked neatly
on the bank. She showed her the footprints that led into the water.

“She
has drowned herself,” said Drusilla.

The
women stood gathered together on the bank. Their faces expressed both their
sorrow and their approval. One of the women hastily gathered up the severed
bowstrings, flung them into the water.

“I
will tell the Mistress,” said Nzangia.

Lucretta
heard the news without emotion, without reaction of any sort. She threw off her
blanket. Stiff and sore from yesterday’s ride and from sleeping all night on
the hard ground, she grimaced as she tried to stand, held out her hand for
Nzangia to aid her.

“I
will see this for myself,” said Lucretta.

“Mistress,”
said Nzangja, her gaze fixed on the shifting shadows beneath the trees, “you
wanted to make an early start. We have much to do back at the monastery and
there is nothing more we can do here. What’s done is done, and for the best, I
think.”

Lucretta
cast Nzangia a shrewd glance.

Nzangia
met her glance and held it.

An
understanding passed between them.

“A
good suggestion, Commander,” said Lucretta with unaccustomed mildness. “We will
start at once.”

“As
you command, Mistress,” said Nzangia humbly.

THE
FUGITIVES WERE ALSO UP WITH THE DAWN. A SOFT fog covered the river, but the
mists soon burned off with the rising of the sun. The water sparkled, the
poplar leaves shimmered. Melisande returned from her morning ablutions smelling
of mint, which she had crushed beneath her feet.

Their
sleep had done them good. Everyone seemed in better spirits and Melisande was
able to eat some of the last of the dried venison, which Edward had saved for
her.

Her
spirits dimmed a little, as she climbed into the boat. Looking downstream, she
had a clear view of the mountain peak on which the monastery was built. Her
eyes grew shadowed, her face drawn and troubled.

The
river’s swift, sun-dappled water bore them rapidly downstream. The three were
silent at the beginning of the journey. Two of them were thinking thoughts of
the other, wondering secretly if the other was thinking thoughts of them.

Draconas’s
thoughts, on the other hand, left the boat, ranged far down the river.

He
found boats much preferable to horses. The current carried them along at a
rapid pace. He did not have much work at the oars, beyond correcting their
direction now and again, and he followed in his mind the journey of those
babies that had been spirited away from the kingdom of Seth. He guessed that
those same mad monks, driven insane by mistreatment and the dragon magic that
burned in their blood like plague’s fever, had begun life in the very same way.
Male babies, smuggled out of Seth, given to Maristara’s dragon partner. And
this had been going on for hundreds of years.

Edward’s
hazel eyes were fixed on Melisande, wrapped in the blanket, staring into the
water that slid away beneath her. His thoughts were mostly of her, but
sometimes Ermintrude intruded and then he would shift his eyes away from
Melisande, stubbornly fix them on the tree-lined bank.

Melisande
had nothing to do but think. Her life had altered so suddenly, so abruptly,
that she stared at herself in confused dismay, as she had once stared at a
mosaic in the making, trying to see in the random pieces of sharp-edged tiles a
picture, a pattern. Just as she felt she might be starting to understand, she
shoved the tiles away from her, left them in a jumble, and turned her thoughts
to Edward.

She
had mistaken him. He was not like other men she had known. She looked at him,
whenever he was not looking at her, letting her eyes linger on his countenance,
finding some solace in her pain by tracing the lines of his face or watching
his hands.

Then
came the tense moment when he looked suddenly at her and she could not look
away. Their eyes met. She shifted her gaze swiftly to the willow trees. Edward
decided that it was time for conversation.

“Draconas—you
said when we made camp last night that the warriors wouldn’t come after us.”

“And
I was right, wasn’t I?” Draconas leaned on the oars.

“Yes,
but how did you know?”

“We’re
traveling the same route as the boats carrying the smugglers,” Draconas
replied. “If the warriors came after us, there is the possibility they might
stumble across the babies. They would recognize the children and start asking
questions. The dragon can’t risk that.”