“So? Now you want me to play bodyguard, manservant, advisor, healer, and instructor?”
“Aye. And I will pay you twenty coins less,” she smiled, “because the stronger I become, the easier it will be to ‘guard the body.’ You said that yourself, the first day we met in Shipmates tavern.”
“No, never would I such foolishness say,” he responded, laughing.
And thereafter, every morning—sometimes in her cabin, sometimes in a narrow passageway, sometimes in a more spacious hold, leaping around the sacks and bushels of cargo—he would show her exactly how to place her feet, hold her wrist, and carry through with the whole strength of her body. He taunted and teased her, goading her to improve her reflexes.
Their practices got her blood high and made sweat pour into her eyes. She often found herself grinning at Ciellō’s skill or crowing with triumph when she made a good thrust. Although they discovered that her left hand would always be weaker and less coordinated than her right, under Ciellō’s tutelage, drawing and striking out with her dagger became as fluid as a catamount’s swipe.
In the Bread and Balm she had crawled back from being a broken invalid. On Misty Traveler, bit by bit she recovered the muscle, balance, and vitality she had known before she set out from Wyndton two years ago. And this recovery was as much emotional as physical, because to be delivered from hunger and pain—not to mention solitude and fear—allowed her to lay aside the tense watchfulness she had adopted. She recognized that she was safe for the duration of this voyage, protected by Lautan, a fierce bodyguard, and a loving dog.
As, after a long winter, a half-grown tree stretches in the spring warmth and puts out new shoots, so the young woman knew herself to be flourishing in the sea air and sunshine. She started to share her father’s love of seafaring.
With her regained health, she began to take more pains over her dress and hair. She played with Whaki on deck, frolicking about, aware that the two of them formed a fetching picture.
The moons waxed and waned, and the waves rolled on unceasingly. In the main, Misty Traveler encountered fair seas and brisk winds.
Her manservant intrigued her. His idiosyncratic speech patterns came and went: eventually Cerúlia concluded that they were an affectation he put on to stress his Zellish heritage. His respectful, protective demeanor always carried a whiff of independence, if not conceit. For reasons known only to himself, at times he would be chatty and tell her stories about his past or travels; other times he would fend off her polite inquiry. She found him mysterious, and—if she was honest with herself—desirable. Or desirable because he cloaked himself in mystery.
The ship stopped in Pilagos to pick up more provisions and new passengers. When she went on shore, Ciellō insisted that she carry her parasol open and allow him to speak for her in all the shops and eateries. She bought a new book, more hair tonic, and a bottle of lilac perfume. In an herbary she wanted a packet of tisane leaves that smelled of cloves like Stahlia’s had, but her shadow hissed at her that he would buy it for her later, after she had returned to the ship, when he went out to restock their provisions.
His caution brought back to mind the number of spies that frequented the Green Isles. Even after they set sail again, with no untoward encounters, Cerúlia’s anxiety returned. She was halfway to her destination, and unfathomable challenges awaited her.
Nightmares beset her again—not the dreams of a red-eyed pursuer that had tormented her when she was burned, but dreams of desperately trying to get back to the Wyndton cottage and getting lost in Anders Wood. She was in the midst of tossing and mumbling during one such bad night when she dimly became aware that Whaki whimpered at her. Ciellō’s opening the cabin door jerked her back into the waking world.
“Damselle?” he inquired.
“Just a bad dream,” she muttered groggily. I’m fine, Whaki; go back to your corner.
Although she wanted to make light of the experience, the distress of the nightmare still clung to her, and her pulse beat quickly.
Ciellō sheathed his dagger, lit a candle, and poured some water on a towel. He sat on the edge of her bunk and wiped her face, neck, forearms, and hands with the compress. The touch felt cooling and comforting.
Her bodyguard, who slept in a hammock strung across her doorway, was barefoot; he wore his trousers, but his shirt was untucked and unlaced down his chest. When he made the slightest movement she became conscious of his musculature. “Better now?” he asked.
On impulse, Cerúlia leaned forward to bury her face in the warm hollow of his bare neck. Then aghast, she sprang back and put her hands over her mouth.
“I’m sorry, sorry! I shouldn’t have. I didn’t hire you to, to—I mean, this isn’t part of your job, and I don’t want you to think—”
Ciellō laughed his low and wicked laugh. In one motion he pulled off his shirt while simultaneously his belt and dagger sheath hit the floorboards with a soft thud. “You really believe, damselle, that if I had so wished, I could not have dodged away?” His voice had taken on a husky timbre.
“Of course, but—” Cerúlia felt her cheeks burning.
“Slide back, against the wall,” he said. “You are too much tense, damselle. Every adult knows that the remedy for such tension is to dance”—here he whispered—“lips against lips, skin against skin.”
* * *
As she had fantasized, Ciellō was a masterful lover. Abandoning herself to his lead, Cerúlia luxuriated in the sensations of this new “dance.” And her tutor—as much as she could tell from his controlled inhalations or read his face in the dark—enjoyed himself immensely.
A few hours before dawn, with Ciellō’s strong arm around her, she fell into a dreamless sleep.
Come morning she felt his movement and opened her eyes. Sitting again on the edge of her bed, he had begun to dress with his typical grace. She reached out to trace the muscles down his back. He twitched, shying away from her touch.
“Ciellō! Have I done something wrong?”
“No, damselle.” He kept his back to her. “But the Zellish have a saying: ‘Darkness may obscure, but in the light of morning, one more clearly sees.’” She heard his belt being adjusted. He stood up, his back still turned to her.
“To share your bed was not honorable for me. I succumbed to the temptation, but I will be on my guard and will so not again.
“You might enjoy another partner. If you like my assistance to choose amongst the sailors…”
Cerúlia felt as if she had been slapped. She bolted upright. “Honorable? Honorable in what way? Honorable for whom?”
Was he talking about being her employee? But she had hardly coerced him. Could he be referring to her rank? How much did Ciellō know or guess about her? She knew that royalty was discreet about love affairs. But how had they been indiscreet? Besides, she was still—publicly at least—Damselle Phénix from Wyeland, and they were one hundred leagues from Weirandale; no scandal could attach to the throne.
Was he pledged to another woman? He never talked about such personal matters, and of course she could not pry.
“Ciellō! You must tell me—you must explain.”
He refused to look at her or justify his rejection; only his stilted language revealed a level of emotion. “Mine is the error. I faltered.
“Now, damselle, I will take out the dog and give you the little time to compose yourself. With your fastbreak in a few minutes I will return.”
When he left her in privacy, she washed and dressed with jerky motions, her shock turning to mortification and anger. She recalled her Green Isles friend, Zillie, and the way she enjoyed bedding men; Cerúlia couldn’t understand why—having just been introduced to this new realm of experience—she should not only be deprived but so summarily dumped. Her pride burned.
Maybe he was disgusted by her burn scars and couldn’t look at her in the light of day.
The rest of the day, exchanges between them remained awkward, and she could not meet his eyes. During dagger practice, Cerúlia struck at
him wildly, on the cusp of actually wanting to hurt him.
Ciellō grabbed her wrist in his iron grasp. “Enough for today.”
Cerúlia stomped away and went to sit with Whaki on the prow of the ship. The dog nosed her neck.
What be the matter, Your Majesty?
Human emotions are difficult to explain, Whaki.
So one has gathered. Thou mated with the male, but this has made thee unhappy.
Well, first it made me very happy, but now I am unhappy because he rejected me.
Is he the only male who can mate?
No, and he’s not even the one I truly want. The one I want is far away or maybe even dead. Or maybe never wanted me.
Whaki scratched his ear with his hind leg.
Cerúlia chewed on a fingernail. Whaki, why don’t men tell you what is in their hearts? Why do they leave you so confused? Do they think that speaking openly would make them vulnerable?
One doesn’t know the term “vulnerable.”
It means, “to show their bellies.”
Whaki yawned so widely that his throat made a soft explosive noise. Many alpha dogs—male or female—would rather die than show their bellies.
Whaki twitched his nose. Dost thou smell the seawater, Your Majesty? The sunshine on the wood? The pig fat heating in the food place? The gull dung on the sails?
Not as well as you do.
Dost thou smell this one? His black nose nuzzled her neck again. One smells thee. The wood be warm, and air cools one’s fur. We be not locked in a cage. Soon we will eat again.
He flopped down, rolled over, and showed his belly. Cerúlia rubbed him, unable to suppress a grin at Whaki’s wiggly pleasure.
Thy hurt will heal if thou dost not gnaw at it. All be well.
* * *
Though the princella often recalled the night with flushes and longing, she refused to regret it or feel embarrassed.
In the days that followed, she worked hard to bring her relationship with Ciellō back to a more formal and controlled footing. She concluded that some distance between them really was for the best; now was not the time when she should be distracted.
Gradually, their interchanges returned, at least to any observer, to the pattern of bossy, trusted servant and sheltered mistress. And in the meantime, Misty Traveler, sails billowing, sliced through the waves of the Gray Ocean.
35
Wyndton
One late afternoon in the winter, as Tilim and Percia headed home from the Wyndton dance academy, two strange men lingered in front of the Wyndton Arms. Sitting in front of Percia, gazing back every now and then, Tilim saw them mount up and casually ride a ways behind Barley.
As they progressed through the village, Tilim expected the riders to turn off any moment toward a house or a throughway. But they didn’t. They followed Barley, even as the gelding turned onto the less-traveled footpath through the scattered wood and meadows. The strangers both looked big and rough, but they made no effort to close the distance. Tilim didn’t want to scare Percia, and the men weren’t actually causing trouble, so he kept an eye on them but said nothing.
When Barley turned into their own lane and quickened his pace, eager to reach his stable and feed, the strangers continued straight on. This road didn’t lead anywhere special—it just continued to two farms farther on and petered out after an abandoned orchard—so Tilim puzzled over whether these outsiders could possibly have some business with their near neighbors.
The distraction of company for dinner drove the occurrence out of his mind.
As soon as he entered the cottage, Lemle shouted, “TIL-im!” jabbing him with fake punches, as if he hadn’t seen him for years, when they’d met only last Waterday. Sometimes Lemle and Rooks embarrassed him in front of his pals, but Tilim could relax with them here at home. He snuck under Lem’s longer reach to tap him a good one in the belly.
“Ouch!” Lem pretended.
“Stop that nonsense and wash up quick,” said Mama. “I’ve got rabbit pie, and it’s bubbly hot.”
Percia came in from stabling Barley, and they gathered around the table.
“Mighty good eats,” Rooks complimented the cook. Everybody watched to check that the old man ate with appetite tonight. His hands shook nowadays and his body had shrunken. Tilim knew that Lemle worried about his uncle’s health.
“I baked a second pie—that one’s just got onions and carrots—for you two to have cold tomorrow,” Mama said. “After supper, Tilim, I want you to fill the woodbox.”
“He doesn’t need to do that, missus,” said Lemle. “I can manage.”
“No, he does. It’s awful nice of you two to stay here to take care of the chickens and horses while we’re away. Least we can do is leave the cottage in good shape.”
“When’s the duke’s carriage coming?” asked Rooks.
“The note said midmorning,” Percia answered, passing their guest more of Mama’s bread. “Why do you think they invited us to stay at the manor house for a week? Lordling Marcot won’t be there. And it’s not as if we’re actually friends.”
“Oh, Percia!” scolded Lemle. “Don’t act innocent. Now that you’re engaged, Duke Naven and his wife want to get in good with you. You’re gonna outrank him, I wager.”
“Yes,” said Mama, with a bit of an impish grin. “A lady outranks a duke.”
“So strange,” muttered Percie, shaking her head to indicate that the changes her upcoming marriage would bring had yet to really sink in.
They had a jolly time at dinner exclaiming over the village gossip that Lemle spread. Mama liked to know everyone’s business, though often she protested they shouldn’t talk about their neighbors. Percia had once explained to Tilim that speaking behind their backs was Lemle’s way of getting a measure of revenge for the way the townsfolk treated him.
Then Mama served a special custard that wobbled on its plate, and Lemle compared it Goody Gintie’s hindquarters, which made Tilim sputter with laughter and spray his milk across the table. Mama pretended to be cross, but he knew she was having more fun than she would at the manor house.
Suddenly, Percia interrupted the merriment. “Do you hear anything? I hear horses, riding fast.”
Tilim dashed out into the yard—but all was still. Maybe there was a bit of extra dust hanging in the air.
“What did you hear, Percie?” Tilim asked when he came inside. “There’s nothing doing outside.”
“Really? I guess my ears must have deceived me.”
That set Rooks and Mama to discussing the ways they couldn’t hear as well as they could when they were young, with Rooks morosely confessing that he could no longer hear the chirps of baby birds. Tilim almost told everybody about the men from Wyndton, but feared he would sound like a ninny.
After dinner Tilim laid out a pallet in the front room, because he’d given Rooks and Lemle the room under the eave, while Percie had moved into Mama’s bed. But instead of lying down right off, he stared into the fire, pondering the upcoming move to Cascada. Although he knew he would miss his friends, he was excited at the prospect of living in the capital, rather than in a remote hamlet. Would he see real soldiers? A real circus? Travelers from other countries?
Baki stiffened and emitted a low growl. Tilim stared at him in shock: this was the first time he had heard the dog actually growl. For all their assumptions about Baki being a fierce guardian, the old black mutt had been lethargic all these years. He ignored fox barks and coyote howls. A caller to the cottage might merit a cursory sniff or two before the dog resettled himself. Generally, the dog didn’t even bother to stand up for visiting children, and once when Dewva’s toddler tripped over his own feet and fell right on top of him, Baki had just wagged his stumpy tail twice and gone back to dozing.
But now Baki leapt to his feet, fully alert, hackles raised and lips pulled back. Whatever bothered him had not passed by.
Tilim rushed to the back door and lowered its crossbeam, then did the same with the front door. His own small-sized
sword hung in his bedroom. He raced up the stairs and grabbed it from its scabbard on the wall.
“What is it?” said Rooks. His voice sounded wide-awake. Either old men don’t sleep well, or he had paid more attention to Percia’s report of fast horses than he had appeared to.
“Baki scents danger,” said Tilim.
“Lem, wake up! Wake the others,” called Rooks. “Go, boy,” he said to Tilim.
Tilim ran back down the stairs, sword in hand. Now he could hear the crunch of boots in the yard. He saw the front door’s latch raise and the intruder discover the beam-barred entry. He heard a muttered oath in the darkness.
Smash!
Someone was trying to break into the cottage’s front door!
Smash! Crash! It sounded as if an ogre were throwing his shoulder against it.
The door wobbled. Tilim had no idea how old or sturdy the beam might be; his father had been the one to see to such things. Heart pounding, Tilim placed himself just to the right of the doorframe, where he could stab the intruder when the man walked in. Baki crouched low, every nerve intent on timing his spring.
Smash! Crash!
The door broke off its hinges, and three large men rushed in, their shapes and weapons catching the gleam of the firelight. Mama and Percia, hearing the noise, had rushed out on the upstairs landing, Percia screaming, “What is this? What’s happening?”
Baki took the first villain, springing into the air, latching on to his throat, and bringing him down by his own weight and the force of his attack. Tilim struck out at the second with all his strength, skewering him in his lower back with the good steel that Marcot had gifted him. The third tripped over his fellows sprawled on the ground, then regained his feet and rushed to the staircase.
On the landing, dressed in only his night shift and bare feet, Rooks had pushed in front of the two women. He held a dagger, and though his left hand trembled noticeably, that which gripped the blade remained steady. Tilim could see a small smile playing on his mouth.
Baki’s man lay motionless. Tilim’s target, merely injured, grabbed for and caught Tilim’s ankle, seeking to pull him off his feet and down to the floor. With effort, Tilim yanked away from his attacker’s grasp, pivoted around, and stuck him again in the shoulder.
A Broken Queen Page 28
