***
When they had successfully surmounted the winding stairs and entered the cozy study, Cala was not surprised to see that Ronen was not only awake, but had added more wine and spices to the mulling jug and moved it closer to the flames. Indeed, he was still on his knees on the hearthrug when they entered.
"Ronen, my dear fellow, I see you're heard we have a visitor," Cala called from the doorway. "Ronen Greenstone, our guest Malen Drakkar."
"And come on a nasty wet night, too," rumbled Ronen as he lumbered to his feet and turned to greet them both with a nod. "Still, a glass of the best will put anything to rights, as I have always maintained. Come here and get warm, both of you."
Cala realized for the first time that she was chilled to the bone. She bustled towards the fire, rubbing her hands together.
"I have forbidden our guest to speak until she's warm and dry, with a mug or three of your special concoction inside her," Cala told Ronen, with a raised eyebrow that spoke pages in the secret tongue they had developed through long years together. "So mind you don't chatter to her."
Malen Drakkar approached the fire with a hesitant air, as if unsure still of her welcome. Cala had seen her quick eyes open wide to scan the room, flicker across all the nooks and recesses to realize that only Ronen was present, then hood themselves like a hawk's, all in the space of an instant.
"Sit here," said Ronen, motioning towards a stool close to the fire, "and you'd best give me that great sword of yours. You shan't need it here, you know."
Malen unbuckled her belt slowly, as though to demonstrate her disagreement with Ronen's statement, but gave him her sword and settled herself on the stool as near to the fire as she could safely get. She shook out her drenched hair and held out her hands to the blaze as another irresistible shudder shook her entire frame.
Ronen wrapped the belt about the scabbard and laid the bundle atop the wide mantle, then settled himself back in his cushioned chair with a grunt. For a moment there was silence in the study, broken only by the crackle and hiss of the leaping flames.
"So what's that young fool Vayel done to get you here through this storm, hey?" asked Ronen, a seraphic smile splitting in twain his grizzled beard.
"Ronen, what did I tell you not three seconds ago?" scolded Cala, her hands on her ample hips as she gazed down at her mate.
"Quite right, m'dear, quite right. She's too cold and I'm too thirsty to talk just now. So pour us all a bit of that wine, will you? And I'll describe how Vayel came roaring in here like the north wind, slamming doors and waking his elders and betters."
"I'm not surprised," said Cala as she seized the jug and poured steaming wine for each of them. "He stayed at the front door just long enough to insult our guest here, then disappeared back up the stairway as if a horde of demons were riding on his shoulder. And if," she continued as she handed Malen a goblet, her voice rising perceptibly, "he's listening on the other side of his bedroom door there, he'd best come back in here and explain his rudeness. A rude prince is the worst of all creatures, as I've always maintained."
Her voice, a tad strident at the best of times, had risen to a near shout as she plumped herself down in her chair. Another grin split Ronen's beard and even their guest gave a small sort of a smile—quite uncomfortably like those that had been gracing Vayel's face in the week he'd been there, Cala thought.
A rattle of door latch and Vayel entered the room, head held high. His face had that empty, blank expression that Cala and Ronen both recognized of old—the expression that meant his thoughts and most especially his feelings were stored far away somewhere, not to be touched or gotten at by any means. They had seen often seen him look so when he was an undersized lad, long before he had blossomed into the tall and broad-shouldered man he had become.
Neither of them had ever thought to see that look again.
Malen kept her eyes trained on her goblet, her own shoulders hunched almost as if expecting a blow.
"Ah, there you are," said Ronen with an innocent wave of his unencumbered hand. "Wine?"
Val seated himself in his old chair and placed his hands with exact care on its arms—then clenched them into fists so tight that the bone showed white through his bronzed skin.
"I thank you, no, sir," he said and his voice came near to freezing the very air about them.
Cala saw Malen wince at the sound. She felt like it herself, and not because of the coldness of his tone.
Vayel had not called Ronen 'sir' in years.
Silence reigned. Cala counted her own heartbeats. When a dozen's dozen had passed, she opened her mouth, found she had nothing to say, then shut it again.
Damn the lad! Well, not so much a lad any longer, Cala thought as she calculated on mental fingers. Why, Vayel must be nearing thirty—no, he was older than that by two or three years at the least! How time did run away, to be sure. Still, he's got a good forty more years left in him, if a day….
Malen cleared her throat.
"Might I have a bit more wine?" she asked of Cala, a small smile on her lean face. "I believe I have never tasted anything to compare with it, in all my travels."
"Traveled much, have you?" asked Ronen in an envious tone as Cala took care of their guest's needs. "I've always wanted to see more of the great world. I rambled a bit before I met Cala here and we started our school, but there's more, far more that I'd love to have visited."
Malen nodded, sipped her wine.
"I have been to a great many places, sir. A soldier must go where she is sent, like it or no."
"A soldier?" asked Cala in surprise. "Surely not? I took you, with your manner and appearance, for some great lady of the court. A member of the king's council or an ambassador to a foreign ruler perhaps. But there," she said ruefully, "I have a taste for tales of the great world, at least as strong as Ronen's love of travel."
Vayel recited as though reading from a manuscript, his voice distant, his eyes focused on nothing, "Captain Drakkar is special liaison between General Malaakar, commander of my father's army, and the High Council. She is a member of an ancient noble family and is, therefore, a lady of the court and a soldier, highly trusted by my father and Malaakar. She is also a writer of some note, as well as an expert with sword and most other weapons."
"Then what's she doing here, and come through the icy pits to get here too, hey?" rumbled Ronen.
Cala hid a grin. Trust Ronen to go straight to the point and pin Vayel to the wall with a direct question. His methods made her more subtle ones seem woefully inadequate at times.
"I cannot imagine." Vayel bit off his words as though they'd done him an injustice. "It cannot be to see me, that I know. I have told her that I wished never to see her again. If she is the woman of honor that she is reported to be, I cannot think she would ignore such a request."
"Request? Your pardon, my lord prince, I did not hear a request but a command," Malen murmured, her eyes fixed on the flames before her.
Would these two never look at each other?
"All the more reason to expect obedience, from a soldier such as yourself," snapped Vayel.
"And why, young Vayel my boy, did you request—or command—not to see her again?" asked Ronen.
"She broke our betrothal contract, with no explanation," said Vayel, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. "When I asked for one, she refused it me. So I sought out an explanation for myself. And found the truth."
"You found an explanation that you leaped to accept," Malen spat. "Truth was not an issue, I believe."
Malen drained her wine and set the empty mug down with precise care upon the hearth, then knotted her fingers together as though to keep them from Vayel's neck.
Cala observed the deep calming breaths that Malen took and noted for future reference that the woman had been trained by a master adept. There were no signs of Malen being a practitioner of the Great Art herself, but this meant nothing, Cala knew.
Masters did not reveal themselves lightly.
/> Interesting. An adept-trained soldier and courtier would doubtless be an impressive and convincing liar. But Cala felt an intrinsic truthfulness emanating from this still-damp visitor of hers. And she was distracted by her own pain, this Malen Drakkar, as Cala could sense full well.
"Are we to be told the explanation?" asked Ronen plaintively. "Or are we to guess? I confess I have a weakness for riddles, but not so late at night."
Vayel looked at Ronen, dragged unwilling eyes to Cala's inquiring face. Finally he sent one short glance to the huddled figure of Malen Drakkar.
As if feeling the ice in his glance, a shudder ran through her.
"Ask her," Vayel shrugged, his tone frigid. "Ask her how she convinced me that she . . . cared for me. Then ask her exactly what she was paid, and by whom, to convince me so."
Vayel jerked to his feet, his eyes stormy, his mouth drawn down in a rictus of pain and distaste.
"Ask her," he repeated. "See if she can dupe you as well as she did—"
Malen uncurled from her huddled position on the low stool like some brown-scaled snake, to stand and face Val.
"Duped indeed, my lord prince, but not by me. Never by me, damn you."
Malen Drakkar whispered, but in the silent room her words were as clear as the recent thunder. She took one step forward and stood face to face with Val.
Cala noted with absentminded but delighted surprise that the woman stood almost as tall as the lanky prince, even as clever brown fingers seized Vayel about the upper arms and gave him a gentle shake.
"You have been lied to, my lord," Malen began, a pleading note entering her voice for the first time.
"As well I know," agreed Vayel as he shrugged her hands from his arms. "It is a talent of which you have full measure, I have heard from—others," he finished lamely.
Malen's head went back, her eyes narrowed.
"Others? Who are these others, my lord, that you believe ere you will believe me?"
Now it was Vayel who seized Malen's arms, his face contorted into an ugly mask. As his fingers closed about the rich fabric of her jacket, Cala could see a fleeting expression cross his ravaged face, gone before it fully appeared.
Pleasure. He was glad, nay, joyful merely to be touching Malen, to be close to her again.
No wonder the lad has been so sorrowful, Cala thought with a brief pang of pity. He still loves the woman, still wants her so much that a brief touch, even in anger, could call up delighted and surprised pleasure instead.
"Captain Drakkar. Let us stop this wrangling," Vayel said, his tone empty and exhausted as though his hands on her had drained all his energy from him. "It was a good plan but you were found out. Let it go, by the gods, let it go. What can you say to change—"
"If I were paid to seduce you into a betrothal, then why did I call it off?" Malen asked, her voice maddeningly reasonable though her eyes were still half-closed as if in pain. "Should not I have completed the bargain, followed through with my plan instead? What riches could equal the position I would obtain as your consort? If I was paid to lie to you, where are these vast rewards that must now be mine? Tell me that, my lord prince, and I will go."
Cala watched fascinated as Vayel's hands tightened on her arms, sank into the flesh with what must have caused excruciating torment as his eyes blazed into hers. But Malen showed no sign that she was aware of any physical pain. The only torment that showed in her eyes was her longing for Vayel's belief and trust.
"Stop it, Vayel!"
Ronen was standing beside the two, though Cala, enrapt in the drama that was taking place in her quiet study, had not seen him rise. He laid one hand on each of their shoulders and dragged them apart.
"What's wrong with you, Vayel?" Ronen continued in a softer tone. "Will you tear the truth from her like a dog tearing at a bone? Give her a chance to explain before you—"
Vayel turned on Ronen, his eyes maddened, his hands curved as if he held Malen's arms still within their crushing grasp.
"I have given her a thousand chances," Vayel ranted as his hands reached for Ronen's arms and closed about them like a vise. "Would you have me forget who I am and beg her? I have done that as well, and on my knees. What else, Ronen, what else must I do?"
Val shook Ronen as each question spewed from him. Cala saw her partner's burly body being shaken like some angry child's toy. She reached out to stop Vayel.
But Captain Drakkar was there before her.
Malen seized Vayel by the shoulders and spun him around to face her. Ronen, released from Vayel's unthinking grip, fell back against Cala, who threw her arms around him in frightened protection.
"Damn you, will you listen to me for an—" Malen began.
Vayel hit her.
The ringing backhand slap whipped Malen's head around and propelled her entire body backwards.
Backwards towards the high, wide hearth…the hearth where blazed a raging fire.
Arms flailing, Malen tripped over the stool and sat down hard on the stone hearth. One hand fell safe in a pile of dead ashes.
The other was not so lucky.
It landed squarely on top of a burning log.
With a hiss of pain and a wrenching twist of her body, Malen rolled free of the flames and sat sprawled on the hearth; she huddled her blistered hand against her as she crouched over it.
"May all the gods of all the Seven Lands damn you to their deepest pits, Prince Vayel of Carleone!" shouted Cala, raging with anger at what Vayel had done to both Ronen and Malen.
A crack of thunder shook the tower as though in agreement with Cala's wrath.
"I rue the day I took you into my house," Cala yelled at Val, "and I vow that—"
"Magistra," came a whisper from the floor.
Cala looked down at her wounded guest, gave an angry shake of her head, saw that she still held Ronen's burly arm and released him with a pat. Kneeling down with no sign of her former stiffness, Cala seized Malen's damaged left hand and spread it out to examine.
"Vayel," Cala ordered, no trace of anger in her voice—it was still there, as Ronen for one knew well, but Cala was trained as healer and the healer was in charge now. "Fetch me my burn ointment. There, on the shelf to the right of the door, in the black marble container."
Vayel, his face stricken, his eyes wide, moved like a man trying to escape from some hideous nightmare. Running to the indicated shelf, he seized a tiny round black pot in a fumbling grip that sent other nearby pots flying asunder, and grabbed a handful of the clean rags stacked beside it, knocking the remainder to the floor.
By the time Vayel returned with the ointment, Ronen and Cala had helped Malen to the chair where the prince had been seated. Cala seized the pot from Vayel without a word and eased the stopper out. Thrusting a long finger into the pungent contents and scooping up a portion, she spread the greasy yellow substance in a thick layer over Malen's blistered palm. Then she took a clean rag from Val's limp hand and laid a bandage across the damaged flesh, tying it in a loose knot.
While Cala worked with focused attention, Ronen busied himself with righting the overturned stool and preparing another jug of wine, tossing pinches of various herbs into it.
Both of them ignored Vayel. He stood beside the chair where Cala ministered to Malen, his hands hanging at his sides, one forgotten rag looped around a finger.
"There," said Cala at last as she rocked back on her heels and eyed her handiwork with a satisfied nod, "that should do it. No fear of losing the use of it, thank the gods, the burns are not deep enough for that. It will be painful for a while, I fear."
"I thank you indeed, Madam Grayraven," said Malen. Her voice sounded strained and tired.
"And this will be good for the pain and the shock," Ronen said as he offered her a mug of wine. "Drink it all down, there's a good child."
Malen took the mug in her good hand but did no more than taste it before she set it down on the floor beside her.
"No, no, drink it all down," insisted Ronen, "it will help yo
u to sleep."
"Ah, yes, sleep," said Cala as she rose stiffly to her feet with the assistance of Ronen's ready arm. "I could use a year of sleep, I vow."
Then, without a glance at the silent figure of Vayel, she continued to her patient, "I think we'll put you in the prince's room, where I can hear you if you need me in the night. Vayel," she said, still not looking at him, "you may sleep in the kitchen or the stables or the cellar…or where you will. Kindly leave our guest alone, however. And if I ever see you raise a hand to Ronen again, or indeed to anyone else in my presence, you will no longer be welcome in my house."
"Magistra," began Malen.
"Do not think to defend him," Cala interrupted, her voice angry once again. "He has had far too many people defend him in his life and I won't allow you to become another. It has made him complacent and arrogant and unfeeling of the pain of others. Oh, I am one of them, I admit it," she raged, flinging her hands to the side. "All he has had to do is smile at me, those blue eyes sparkling, cast me one of his admiring looks and I've been unfired clay in his hands. But no longer, do you hear me, my lord prince? No longer."
Vayel held out a trembling hand, amazed at such anger from the gentle healer he had known most of his life.
Cala struck it down and turned her back to him.
"Ma-magistra," Vayel stuttered, "Cala. Ronen, please."
But Ronen had no comfort to offer his former student.
"But you don't understand," Vayel shouted. "She lied to me, tricked me into agreeing to wed her, then when I discovered her perfidy, she refused me."
"Yes, yes, we heard all that. Which one bothers you, Vayel? That she tricked you or that she refused you? One seems to exclude the other, to me."
Once again Ronen had seen to the heart of the matter, thought Cala. She was still most astonishing angry and was determined to enjoy it to the hilt, anger not being a common emotion with her.
"Yes, Prince Vayel," she snapped, "pray tell us if you can. Which of the two bothered you most?"
Vayel looked into the enraged face of one of his oldest friends, the woman who had been near a mother to him.
"She's hoodwinked you too, hasn't she?" he snarled. "She's good at that, you know. She can make you believe every word that leaks between her lips, and all the while she's laughing at your weakness, at your stupidity, at your…."
"Damn you, that's enough!" Malen leaped to her feet. The mug at her feet overturned, the wine hissing as it struck the flames. "You may say what you wish to me, Vayel, but these kind folk have naught to do with our dilemma. Leave them out of it!"
"Oh, you'd like that, would you not?" Vayel sneered. "Let them believe you to be the injured one, while in fact I have been…."
"Vayel!" Ronen's voice shook the room. "Aye, and you as well, Malen! Stop this, now!"
Both of them tore their eyes from each other and gazed in amazement at the burly Ronen.
"Good," said Ronen, "at least you're listening to me. Now, here is what I wish you to do. Drink a glass of my special brandy, each of you, then we'll all get some sleep and finish this wrangling in the morning, when we're not all dropping with exhaustion. Agreed?"
Vayel gave a nod, followed an instant later by Malen's.
"Excellent," Ronen gave his own nod, "and Cala and I will join you. My dear?"
Cala walked over to the battered worktable where her aging mate spent most of his time these days. She picked up four small glasses and set them on a small tray, then filled them from the stout jug that contained Ronen's supply of Ligullan brandy. She picked up the tray. Her heart was beating hard and fast in her ample breast as she turned. Memories and images danced across her mind as she handed round the glasses and drank with the others.
She wondered, as her sight grew dim from the heady mixture—will it be worth it?
Keep Friends Close...But Enemies Closer Page 4
