by J. V. Jones
Sandor regarded Camron. After a moment he stroked his fingers across his close-trimmed beard. “You tell me nothing I do not know, Thorn. I received reports from the town bearing your name. I have read the catalog of Izgard’s sins. I know his men built a bonfire and threw women and children upon it.” Sandor paused. He no longer looked at the court; his blue eyes gazed solely at Camron. “That is why my forces are on the way to intercept him, and why tomorrow I go forth myself.”
Silence followed the Sire’s words. The court shifted uneasily, transferring their weight from foot to foot. Camron glanced around the Hall of Kings at Mir’Lor. Burnished candelabras as large and many branched as pear trees blazed against walls and ceilings of midnight blue. Stars, comets, moons, and winged creatures voyaged across the make-believe sky. The floor was a glittering patchwork of stone. Quartz, granite, marble, slate, mica, bluestone, onyx, shale, and more: samples of every kind of stone mined in Rhaize shone beneath Camron’s feet.
Camron suddenly felt tired. This was no place for him to be. There was nothing for him to do here. “Sire,” he said, knowing it was not his place to speak into his king’s silence, but helpless to stop himself, “I beg you, take precautions with your men. Do not fight at close range, use arrows and missiles, lances if you have to. But do not head into anything blindly. Know that the harras will fight until their legs are hacked from under them.”
A buzz erupted in the court. A woman near the back inhaled sharply. Someone coughed.
Sandor tapped his hand on his chin. “But you survived, Thorn.” His smile was faint but unmistakable. “As did the man behind you.”
“Sire—”
Sandor’s hand shot up from his chin, silencing Camron. “You hire and fight with mercenaries, do you not?”
Camron tugged his hair in frustration. “And if I do? That has no bearing on why I am here. I came to warn you, to help you prepare.” He was losing them; he could tell from the way they refused to look him in the eye. In his desperation, he motioned toward Broc. “Ask Broc of Lomis, ask any of my men—they will tell you what the harras are like. Rhaize knights will die if—”
“Enough.” Sandor cracked the word like a whip.
Camron pressed his lips together. He was dealing with this badly. Not so long ago he could have shaped words smooth enough to convince Sandor’s urbane and worldly court of the dangers, yet now he knew only how to speak plainly. Too much was at stake for anything less. Stepping forward, he spoke again. “Sire, I want to travel north with you. My men can help you with the harras, tell you what to expect.”
“Camron of Thorn,” Sandor said, addressing the court rather than the man he had named, “I am not a fool, and will turn down no one who offers me help in this hour. I have seen your men and I know they are worthy, and you yourself, despite a certain rashness of manner, seem young and strong and able. Indeed, just for your name alone I would bid you ride at my flank—your father’s victory at Mount Creed has not been forgotten.”
Sandor paused, better to pounce on his next sentence. “But you must remember that Rhaize knights have remained unbeaten in battle for the past fifty years. Fifty years. No small feat, I’m sure you’ll agree.” The court was favored with a deprecating smile. “So, while I note your concerns and those of your men, you must forgive me for remaining uncowed by your warnings. I am a leader and must lead my armies without fear.”
A second passed, then the court erupted; men stamped their feet and spear butts against the glittering floor. Silk rustled, palms were slapped against silver cups. “Aye!” was shouted loudly by many.
Camron’s heart sank. He tugged at his hair, cursed himself again. Sandor’s speech was faultless—putting Camron in his place in the most disarming of manners. There was nothing to speak up against now. Sandor had maneuvered himself onto the high ground of kings.
Locking gazes with Camron over the uproar, Sandor smiled. Camron didn’t know whether it was out of sympathy or satisfaction. He didn’t even know if he cared.
He had failed.
“Have your men report to Balanon tonight. You will find him camped on the east side of the hill.” Sandor. It was a dismissal.
Camron inclined his head. “As you wish, sire.”
The uproar had died down quickly, and all eyes were on Camron as he walked toward the double doors. Camron didn’t bother to hide his limp as he had upon entering. He was wounded—let them know it. Broc came forward to join him, lips stretching to a sympathetic curve. Camron was glad of a smile he knew was genuine. Despite the fact that great sections of his arms, legs, and lower abdomen were still bulked up by bandages, Broc had dressed with care. The brass on his belt and buckler shone like gold, and beneath his tunic he wore an undershirt of bright red silk. Broc had admitted earlier, a little gingerly, that his younger sister had made him wear it.
Sandor chose not to say anything as the two men left the room. Perhaps he knew the sight of the two men limping was more succinct a statement than any words he could think of just then.
Camron held out his arm to Broc, taking as much of his weight as he could while still allowing Broc the appearance of walking freely.
“I can’t believe the Sire didn’t listen,” Broc murmured as they passed under the shadow of the door.
Camron didn’t reply. Truth was, he had acted in just the same way with Ravis only two months earlier. Rhaize pride was hard to break—Sandor could hardly be blamed for that. Camron held his breath a long moment before letting it out. The fault was all his own: he should have handled things differently, spoken more eloquently, played the court at its own courtly games.
“My lord Thorn?” came a soft voice.
Camron swung around to see who had spoken. A young girl, dark haired and dressed in white, curtsied. Camron nodded. “I am he.”
The girl glanced around, curtsied again, then spoke in a whisper. “Sir, the lady Lianne requests that you visit her apartments tonight at dusk.”
Sandor’s mother. The countess of Mir’Lor. What could she want with him? Camron found himself glancing around the antechamber just as the girl had. The doors leading to the Hall of Kings banged shut as he spoke his reply. “Tell Her Highness I would be honored to attend upon her.”
The girl bobbed once more and then scurried off down a corridor, silken slippers pitter-pattering against stone.
Broc made a soft sound in his throat. “Some say the countess is the real power in Rhaize. You should try to get her on your side.”
“I’ll try, but I’m no ladies’ man.”
“Well, perhaps you could be a little less direct with the mother than you were with the son. Try not to mention hacking limbs in her presence.”
Camron managed a grim smile. “I made a mess of things, didn’t I?”
“No, you didn’t. You spoke honestly and bravely, and I think people will leave the hall thinking about what you said.”
Hearing sounds of strain in Broc’s voice, Camron resumed walking across the antechamber. It was a mistake to have brought Broc here. The knight should be resting in his bed, not walking around leagues of palace corridors on the chance that his support might be needed. Edging closer, Camron took more of Broc’s weight upon his arm.
“How can I get Sandor to understand, Broc?” he asked. “How can I make him see that the harras are—” Camron checked himself. Broc knew what they were just as well as he.
“Use the journey up north to talk to people. If you can get them to be cautious, that should be enough.”
Cautious. Camron flinched at the word. If he hadn’t been so caught up in his own problems the day they rode into the Valley of Broken Stones, they might never have encountered the harras. Men would be alive today. Caution could have saved them. Feeling a sickening pull in his stomach, Camron forced himself to speak. “I’ll do what I can.”
Broc nodded. “I know you will.”
They were both silent for a while after that.
“Canna give it yer gratty, lovey. Why, me wife would pollox me
on the spot.”
Tessa nodded wisely, though in truth she hardly knew what the stall holder was saying. She guessed his tactics, though. “Well, I’ll be off to look somewhere else. Thank you for your trouble.” She spun around, sending her skirts swishing after her, and began to walk away from the used-clothing stall.
The stall holder called after her. “I mebbe able to rub a little suet off the top.”
Tessa carried on walking as she cried, “I can’t give you any more than a silver for it. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”
“Come back, lovey. I’ll see what I can do.”
Tessa held her ground. “One silver.”
The stall holder sighed. “One silver it is.”
Resisting the urge to jump on the spot, Tessa returned to the stall. The cloak she had just negotiated for was made of dark blue velvet, and as she approached, the stall holder ran his fingers along the fabric, raising the weft.
“A bargain, lovey! A bargain!” He sighed again, shook his head. “Me wife will surely pollox me.”
Tessa handed him a silver coin. She really did want the cloak. “Where can I get some breakfast around here? And freshen myself up before my journey north?”
“Wicks Supper ’n’ Board will be the place ye’re after, lovey. All thems that head north start their journey at Wicks.”
Tessa nodded. While the stall holder was speaking, she had been pulling the cloak off his table, winding the fabric around her wrist. The marketplace she had stumbled upon seemed safe enough, and the stall holder looked as honest as any, but she felt better taking precautions. “Which way is Wicks?”
“Down th’ Aspeys and short right on Kings. Canna miss it. Big red shutters, lots o’ smoke.” As he spoke, the stall holder rolled his eyes to indicate the direction. “Going to Palmsey, are yer?”
“No, to Bellhaven. To the Anointed Isle.”
The stall holder sucked at the insides of his cheeks. He let go of the last corner of the cloak, allowing Tessa to pull it away. “Best be getting a move on, then. Y’ill be wanting th’ early start.”
Tessa took the cloak, threw it over her shoulders, thanked the stall holder, and walked away. She told herself it wasn’t fear she had heard in the man’s voice at the mention of the Anointed Isle, just surprise.
Rain began to drizzle softly as Tessa walked the length of the still-forming market. Merchants were busy setting up stalls, packing tables with wares, unloading mules, and throwing curses at the rain. The place had a different feel to it than Bay’Zell; it was drabber, more subdued except for the cursing, not a good place to linger now she wasn’t protected by mindless games. Tessa wished she weren’t here.
She couldn’t go back, though. She had to do what she was brought here for: to fight against the harras, send them back to wherever they belonged. Deveric had believed she could do it, and there was some small part of Tessa that believed she could too. She had felt many things that morning in Mother Emith’s kitchen when she’d picked up her brush and painted the pattern, yet looking back on it now, in the damp and dismal light of a Maribane dawn, Tessa realized the most potent thing she felt was power. For a few seconds she, Tessa McCamfrey, had held the harras back.
Tessa snuggled her shoulders against her new cloak. She didn’t feel any better, but she was clear about her job. She had to get to the Anointed Isle.
Wicks Supper ’n’ Board was easy to spot. Shutters as large as doors were flung open onto the street, and clouds of water vapor burst from them like steam from a geyser. Puzzled, Tessa looked up, squinted, then nodded. No chimney.
“Breakfast, board, or delivery?”
Tessa spun around to see a young boy tugging her cloak tail. The boy’s cheeks and forehead were flushed red, and a film of sweat gave a high gloss to his nose.
“Breakfast, board, or delivery?”
“Breakfast.”
As if she had uttered a magic word, the boy grabbed her elbow through the fabric of her cloak and led her through one of the open shutters into the dark, steamy interior of Wicks. “Don’t have no doors at Wicks,” the boy offered without prompting. “Missis Wicks won’t have ’em.”
Tessa blinked, trying to accustom her eyes to the darkness.
“Don’t have no candles, either.” The boy spoke in a matter-of-fact manner. “Missis Wicks says only God-given light is right and proper to eat by.”
Tessa wondered what Missis Wicks’ customers did at night. The smell of fresh-baked bread, fried onions, and smoked bacon soon put a stop to all conjecture. Yes, Tessa thought to herself, mouth watering despite everything, I’d sit here and eat in the dark.
The boy ushered her to a long bench beside a long table and bade her sit. The room was noisy and packed with people eating, drinking, and chatting. Tessa scooted along the bench so she could sit in the shadows of the wall. She didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention her way.
“ ’Ere you are, lady.” The boy returned with a jug of something hot and a loaf of bread with the middle scooped out and melting butter and honey spooned in its place. “I’ll be back with the rest soon’s it’s done.”
Tessa went to thank him, but he had already moved away. There was no cup—Missis Wicks probably didn’t believe in those, either—so she drank from the jug. It was some sort of tea, spiced and very sweet, and absolutely delicious. Tessa drained the jug—she hadn’t even realized she was thirsty. The bread was warm and filled with nuts and grains. As she ate, Tessa leaned back against the wall, put her feet on the base of the table, and rested her aching muscles. She wasn’t tired in a yawning, stretching sort of way—she had long since walked her way through that stage—she was just plain exhausted.
“ ’Ere you are, lady. Sausages and bacon, with a slice of ham thrown in gratty. Compliments of Missis Wicks.”
“Gratty?” It was time she learned what the people of this strange, drizzly island were talking about.
“Free, lady. Missis Wicks always gives new customers a free slice of ham.” The boy dabbed at his brow with his sleeve. “You’ll be needing a cloth for it, though. Cart leaves for Palmsey within the quarter.”
“I’m not heading to Palmsey.”
The boy took this piece of information and chewed on it. His jaw worked for a moment and then he spoke. “Where you be heading, then?”
“Bellhaven.”
Glancing into the banks of steaming clouds that obscured the fire and cooking range from view, the boy repeated the word as if it were an answer to some long-mulled-over puzzle. He spun on his heels and headed back into the steam. “I’ll be gone just a spit.”
Tessa let him go. She didn’t know what he was up to, but she didn’t sense any danger. As she went to pull the platter containing the bacon and sausages toward her, the pain in her shoulder flared. She tensed her jaw, counted to three, then relaxed. The pain was slow to recede. The muscle, which she had kept loose all night by walking, was beginning to stiffen up.
The fatty smell of the ham and bacon caught in her throat, making her feel sick. Against her will, her mind replayed what had happened last night at the inn. She heard Ravis warn Violante to step back and then watched as he launched himself toward the two armed men holding the innkeeper, shouting at everyone else to run. Tessa shoved the platter to one side. She had to believe he was all right.
“Are you the young woman heading to Bellhaven?”
Startled, Tessa looked up. A woman with fat red cheeks and high gray hair stood before her. Annoyed to find herself shaking, Tessa worked hard to regain her composure. “I am.”
“And do you intend to leave this morning?”
The pain in her shoulder made Tessa snap. “What’s it to you?”
The woman’s chin receded into the folds of her neck, and she blinked several times in quick succession. After a moment the chin came out again, looking blunter than before. “I’ve been meaning to make that journey for weeks now, but as a woman I refuse to take the road alone. Simply won’t do it.” The woman shook her head emphatically
. “No, by God’s good name I won’t.”
Something in the woman’s manner prompted Tessa to ask, “Missis Wicks?”
The woman nodded. “One and the same.”
“And you’re going to Bellhaven, too? This morning?”
“I am if there’s another woman by my side for decency’s sake.”
“No other women travel to Bellhaven?”
“None that are decent.”
Tessa thought a moment. “How long is the journey?”
“Day and a half. There’s a party of three leaving within the half hour.” The woman sniffed. “Though a word from me will slow them down soon enough.”
Tessa didn’t doubt it. “Is there anywhere I can freshen up before leaving?”
“This is Wicks Supper ’n’ Board. If a traveler has a God-given need, we attend to it. Follow me and I’ll show you to a room.”
Tessa followed. She walked in Missis Wicks’ considerable wake through billowing clouds of steam and ever-increasing darkness, too tired to be surprised at her own willingness to let someone else take charge for a while.
Camron tugged down his tunic, smoothed a hand through his hair, and knocked on the gold-and-white-striped door before him. Despite its delicate look, the door was made of solid oak and Camron’s knock sounded muffled and flat.
“Enter,” called a soft voice.
Camron pushed on the wood and took his first step into the room. Glancing at the edge of the door, he saw the wood was almost a fist thick. How had someone’s voice managed to penetrate its thickness while sounding so soft?
“Welcome, Camron of Thorn.”
Camron looked up to see a woman dressed in a shimmering gray dress, with hair perfectly white and eyes so blue that even from this distance, in the failing light of day and the flickering shadows cast by candles just lit, they drew one’s gaze as surely as jewels cast upon a jet black cloth. As if well aware of the worth of her eyes, the woman did not blink once as she crossed the space to the door.
“Your Highness.” Camron bowed to cover his surprise. He had not imagined he would meet the countess so soon upon entering her chambers. Where were her ladies, her attendants?
