King's Dragon (Crown of Stars 1)

She stoked up the fire and simply stood before it, shuddering and coughing. After a while she bent to ladle warm water into her mouth. The water slid down her throat, warming her. She looked around, although certainly there was no one else here, then plunged her hands into the kettle of water and just stood there, letting her hands thaw. The fire snapped and burned so close her face felt seared, but she did not care. She heard something, a voice, a footstep, and she jerked her hands guiltily from the kettle and bent to scoop out rye flour for flatcakes.

Hugh appeared in the doorway. “It’s cold. It’s damned cold and I hate cold. I hate this frozen wasteland, and I damned well don’t want to winter here. We should have ridden south last month when I got the news, but it’s too late now.” He strode across the room and gripped her chin, wrenching her face around so she had to look up at him. “You look like hell. You look like a damned land girl burned brown from doing a man’s work in the fields all day long, with a chapped face and a running nose. Go make my chamber warm. Make me breakfast. Then get out of here. I can’t stand to look at you.”

He cuffed her on the cheek. It stung the worse because her skin was still chilled. She shrank away, trying not to cry. In his cell it was warmer even than in the kitchen. She heaped glowing coals into the brazier and crouched next to it, soaking in the heat. On the table rested a single neatly-trimmed piece of parchment with fresh writing in a graceful hand damp across the top. She craned her neck to read the words.

“Out! Out!” Hugh came up behind her and slapped her casually on the back of the head. “You’re filthy. Get out!”

She fled back to the kitchen. She dawdled as long as possible, making porridge and flatcakes and then serving them to him. But she could only draw out the work for so long; soon he emerged from his cell and drove her outdoors. She tucked her hands into her armpits and set off briskly for the inn. She had to fetch meat, after all, from Mistress Birta. It was excuse enough. But she had scarcely gotten there, had only two heartbeats lingering in front of the hearth, surreptitiously watching a lone traveler eat his solitary meal at a table a few paces from her, when Hugh burst in through the front door.

He did not even have to say anything. She would have died rather than cause a scene. Mistress Birta emerged from the kitchen with the meat, dressed and wrapped since it was the frater’s portion. She greeted Hugh but he replied with a monosyllable. Hanna appeared from the back room and watched as Liath took the meat from Birta and then retreated toward the door. Hugh walked two paces behind her, as if he was driving her. The traveler looked up. He was a grizzled, weather-beaten man wearing a fur-lined riding coat. He studied the scene with interest. Liath felt his gaze on her back as she left.

Outside, Hugh hit her. At least he was wearing gloves, so the blow did not sting quite so badly. “Did I give you leave to come down here?”

“I had to fetch the meat—”

He slapped her again. Unable to help herself, she covered her cheek with a hand. Lady, it hurt. From the shadowed eaves of the inn came a movement, stifled; someone was watching them.

“You will ask my permission. Any time you go anywhere. Wait here.” Hugh went back inside. Liath waited.

Hanna crept out from the side of the inn: “Liath—”

The door opened and Hugh came out, Mistress Birta following behind him as if she were his bonded servant. “Of course, Frater,” she was saying with her hands placed just so and her expression as fixed with good cheer as any image carved into wood, “I’ll have my boy Karl deliver everything from now on.” She cast a piercing glance toward Hanna, and Hanna retreated hastily back around the corner of the inn.

“Come, Liath.” Hugh grabbed her by the arm, his fingers as sharp as talons, and dragged her forward. She shook his arm off and kept up on her own. He said nothing more, the whole walk back. Nothing more the entire day, but he dogged her movements everywhere, and he hit her any time he thought she might be getting the least rest or respite from the cold.

She slept fitfully that night. The next day, and the day after, passed the same. And the next, and the next, until the days blended together into one seamless blur of cold misery and she lost track of time passing. The weather remained cold, but it was not yet bitterly cold. She settled her dirty heap of straw well in among the pigs. Trotter liked her best and allowed her to sleep huddled up against his rough back.

Once, brushing down the horses, she heard Hanna’s voice outside. She ran to the door. There stood Hugh surveying Hanna with coldest contempt.

“Your young brother is to deliver goods, no one else,” he said. “So I arranged it with your mother.”

“I beg you, Frater, if you would only let me speak with—”

“I told you to go.”

Hanna turned and saw Liath.

“Do you intend to challenge me, girl?” Hugh demanded.

There was nothing Hanna could do but leave.

“Get back to your work,” Hugh snapped to Liath.

She slunk back inside the stable, denied even the solace of watching Hanna walk away.

One early morning Ivar appeared on his mare. He was bundled in a bulky fur-lined cape, his face white with cold and distress.

She was chopping wood. She stopped, staring; she had not seen a familiar face for so long that at first she thought she was dreaming.

“Liath.” He spoke low and fast. “Come with me. I’ve got a plan. Gero will help to hide you, and then we’ll—” He flung up his head, listening. From inside, Hugh called out to her.

She ran to Ivar, clutched his hand, jumped to get her belly awkwardly on the horse’s back and swung her leg all the way over. Ivar turned the mare and kicked it forward. It was a sturdy creature, broad of beam, and it seemed able to carry both of them though it could not manage any gait except a jarring trot.

They made it most of the way to his father’s holding before Hugh caught up to them on his bay gelding. He rode past the struggling mare and pulled around in front before drawing his sword.

“Are you armed, boy, or are you smarter than I thought?”

Ivar was alarmed only with a dagger. He stopped.