A man sang in my dreams, and the plucking of harp strings opened a path between this world and the other side, a shimmering ribbon of pure sound that ran as a river of silver fire. Rory was chuckling, or purring, and then a scattering of shouts and a clattering of weapons pulled me from the depths and into the night-bound tent. It was dreadfully cold but for a ghost of warmth drifting up from the last banked coals. The red gleam gave me just enough light to see that the other cot had no one in it.
Had I only dreamed Rory’s return?
As if my thought were a call, he came into the tent. He was chuckling softly in that purring way he had, and he was sneaking, clearly unaware I was awake and perfectly attentive to his prowling. Where had that cursed fool gone this late at night? I meant to rise and speak, but try as I might, I could not rouse my limbs or move my lips to ask what was going on.
“Sleep, little sister,” he said as he stretched out on the other cot, back among the blankets. “The magister and his troops made an attempt to attack over the ramparts, but they were sent scuttling with tails between their legs.”
I woke suddenly into dawn’s gloom, eyes open and legs twitching, and inhaled a lungful of exceedingly cold air. Rory slumbered on the other cot. Shuddering with cold, I slid out from under the blankets, pulled on my boots and gloves, and hurried outside as under my breath I cursed soldiers who had no need to carry chamber pots for their morning relief. In a company of men, they could just pee wherever they wanted. Last night’s wine pressed against my bladder.
Outside, I paused to get my bearings. Sentries ringed the ramparts. Lamps ringed the tent behind mine, and I heard men talking in low, intense voices. I scanned the scatter of buildings huddled within the ramparts. The temple stood at the height, where its pillars could catch the first rays of sun, not that there would be any sun today, given the glowering drape of clouds. The outdoor hearth under its roof, a fire still burning; the kitchen shed shuttered tight; the priests’ cottage with a thread of smoke rising from its chimney; the military tents. Feeling awkward in a camp where I was the only female, I dug down for the glamor and slunk unnoticed to the privy. After I had done my business, I emerged into the lingering gloom of an overcast winter dawn.
“Cursed cold mage! Him and his thrice-cursed cold steel!” Lord Marius strode into view in an exceedingly Celtic fury, like a storm cloud in full spate. “I’ll have them in court. I’ll be sending a solicitor to Four Moons House, I tell you, to demand blood price. One cut. One cursed cut. His spirit cut from him. How I hate them!”
He passed by without seeing me. A trooper led up two horses, one burdened with a figure wrapped in a blanket and tied onto the saddle: a dead man.
“Marius, is this wise?” called Amadou, jogging up. A stain marred his jacket sleeve and his back was covered with flecks of grass, as if he had been pushed onto the ground. “You’ll be riding alone. An easy target.”
“They’ll not attack the cousin of the Prince of Tarrant in broad daylight, knowing that if I turn up as a corpse, Four Moons House must accept full blame. That ass-biting turd of a cold mage took a fool’s reckless chance. I can’t imagine what possessed him to think he could crawl into my camp with his soldiers and kidnap a person to which I—I!—had given my protection. I’ll ride to the manor and send reinforcements. They’ll see what they’ve woken by offending one of the Tarrant kinsmen!”
Without any indication he had seen me, he mounted and, with the other horse on a lead behind his own, rode off alone through the ramparts.
“Break down the camp,” said Amadou in a voice accustomed to command.
The men obeyed with alacrity. At the academy, I had thought him charmingly modest. If I had called him the vainest youth I had ever met, I had only done so to twit Bee for her infatuation. Certainly compared to a man like, say, Andevai, he had no vanity to speak of.
He walked over to the tent I had slept in just as Rory emerged. They spoke briefly. Amadou swung around and surveyed the camp, his gaze passing over me before he turned back to my brother with a puzzled shrug. Rory did not point me out, although he obviously knew right where I was even if no one else could see me. I had forgotten my glamor.
I sat by the hearth and brushed off my skirts, shaking off my concealment.
“There she is,” said Roderic.
Legate Amadou Barry walked over. “I hope your rest was a peaceful one, maestressa.”
“What happened to that soldier?”
“Blooded by cold steel. We had a few minor injuries, but he alas is dead. We’ll leave immediately after the camp comes down. You’ll ride at the center of the formation lest their crossbowmen decided to take a shot at you. However, it seems we’ve driven them off, for they are nowhere to be seen this morning.”
A man had died on account of me.
Blessed Tanit, make his passing gentle and his journey an easy one. Give peace to his family.
The low-hanging clouds made gray of the world. Our mood as we set out had the harsh tone of untuned, jangling strings. Later, it began to rain.
The next day in the late afternoon, without further incident, we reached Adurnam.
28
No one had warned Bee. A servant opened a door, and I entered the sitting room behind Amadou. At first, his body shielded me from her view. I beheld a spacious chamber lit by many lamps against the encroaching dusk. The walls were painted with chevrons and angled stripes in red, black, and yellow. An oak mantel carved with lizards capped a brick fireplace inset with a circulating stove; the fire within radiated so much heat that I began to sweat, and to think about how filthy I was. I could not catch my breath.
On one of the Roman-style couches sat a proud-looking woman no older than Aunt Tilly, wearing embroidered damask robes whose vivid orange and green shone. Her elaborate coiffure of braids was complemented by gold earrings shaped like hoops that dangled to her shoulder. She was an elegant, graceful, beautiful woman of Afric ancestry; Amadou resembled her. The twin sisters were seated on stools on opposite sides of a table, stringing beads and coins and other small objects onto a chain. Both set down their work and glanced up with bright smiles.
“Amadou!” they cried, and then they glimpsed Roderic, behind me, and looked away.
As Amadou walked forward to greet his aunt, I saw Bee seated on the other couch holding a sketchbook on her lap and a pencil in her left hand. Her thunderous frown, directed at the open page, made me giggle, in some part with delight but also because after all this time I was so desperately relieved to see her alive and well. Yet what was she so angry about?
She heard my chortle. She looked up. With a deafening shriek, she flung sketchbook and pencil halfway across the room as she leaped up. Her expression entirely transformed, she charged across the space between us and threw herself into my arms. I would have wept, but Bee’s embrace was so crushing I could barely get air into my lungs much less find breath for sobs.
o;Cursed cold mage! Him and his thrice-cursed cold steel!” Lord Marius strode into view in an exceedingly Celtic fury, like a storm cloud in full spate. “I’ll have them in court. I’ll be sending a solicitor to Four Moons House, I tell you, to demand blood price. One cut. One cursed cut. His spirit cut from him. How I hate them!”