Rakaia turned her irresistible charms on the seneschal, and smiled at him. “Thank you, Kratys,” she said in her faultless Hythrun. “You are too kind.”
The old man seemed a little taken aback. “There is no need to thank me, your highness. It is my job to see my lord’s guests are taken care of.”
“Your status as a slave shouldn’t deny you common courtesy,” she told him. “I am grateful for your assistance, Kratys, and I don’t mind thanking you for it.”
The seneschal studied Rakaia for a moment, as if gauging her sincerity, and then he bowed. “Ask for anything you need, your highness, and I shall make it happen.”
“Thank you, Kratys. Could we start with some water and something to eat for Broos?” She turned to Kiam and held out her hand. “Shall we meet in an hour, Master Miar? For my etiquette lesson?”
He took her hand and kissed her palm, holding on to it a fraction longer than was polite. The calluses were almost gone, her skin smooth, her hands more like those of a princess now than a serving wench’s, as they had been the first time he kissed her hand. Then he let her go and bowed just as deeply as the now-thoroughly ensorcelled seneschal. “Your wish is my command, your highness.”
For some inexplicable reason, his comment made her blush, and then she was gone, closing the bedroom door behind her, leaving Kiam with Lord Rahan’s seneschal and some very confused feelings about Her Serene Highness, Rakaia of Fardohnya.
As he fell in behind Kratys, he glanced over his shoulder to ensure Broos was still with him, but the hall was empty. The traitor had followed Rakaia into her room.
Kiam shook his head in resignation. Even his dog, apparently, had fallen under her spell.
Chapter
24
“HE KEEPS LOOKING at you.”
“Who?
“The minstrel. He can’t take his eyes off you.” Rakaia chuckled softly, thinking how surreal it was to be sitting in this smoky tavern, joking around with the demon child. “I think he’s in love.”
The tavern was located across the street from the Testra inn where the demon child had brought Rakaia after rescuing her from the Widowmaker Pass. How she’d managed to land a dragon in the center of the town and get her unconscious passenger upstairs remained a mystery. R’shiel was not offering any explanation. Although she eschewed her title of the demon child, she didn’t seem to mind the inevitable air of mystery that went with it. Outside it was pouring rain as a thunderstorm broke over the city. The tavern was warm, though, and filled with happy, mildly intoxicated patrons.
“I think you’ve had too much wine, my girl, and you’re imagining things,” R’shiel remarked as she tucked into the roast shank of lamb she’d ordered for both of them for dinner. The meal looked heavy and unappetizing to Rakaia, used to food prepared in a palace—food that had vegetables other than potatoes in it, and spices other than salt. Nothing so unrefined, overcooked, or so drowned in lumpy gravy was ever served in the Talabar Palace.
They’d come here for dinner on the recommendation of the innkeeper. There was a traveling troupe of performers playing, and by all accounts they were quite entertaining.
They’d want to be, Rakaia decided, to make up for the food.
The juggler had been adequate—in that he didn’t drop anything—and the dancing girls were really just thinly disguised whores working the crowd to find clients for after the show, but the young Karien minstrel had a voice as sweet as warm honey and he seemed to be singing directly to R’shiel.
“Anyway, even if I were in the mood for some horizontal entertainment—which I’m not—he’s far too young for me,” the demon child said. “He’s barely twenty, by the look of him.”
Rakaia smiled. “So you have been looking at him.” It surprised her how easy the demon child was to get along with. She was quite unpretentious, really, once you got past the fact there was no more powerful sorcerer alive. The demon child was—so the rumor had it—even more powerful than the Halfbreed. She’d killed a god.
And the Halfbreed, too, if the other rumors were true.
“He’s rather hard to miss. And he can sing. I’ll grant the lad that.”
“You’re not that much older than him, though.”
“I’m older than I look.”
“You look younger than me.”
“How old are you, anyway?”
“Nearly twenty-two.”
The demon child laughed. “You see, that’s how I know I’m older than you. You’re nearly twenty-two. You can’t wait to be a year older. I, on the other hand, have already turned thirty. Notice how I’m not saying nearly thirty-two?”
Rakaia glanced around the crowded tavern to see if anyone was listening in before asking, “Will you always be so . . . young?”
“I get older every day, Rakaia. Just like you do.”
“But you’re . . . immortal, aren’t you?”
That seemed to amuse her. “Sure . . . right up until somebody looking to make a name for himself succeeds in killing me.”
“But I thought all the Harshini were immortal. They can heal themselves, can’t they, so no wound is ever fatal?”
“They’re long lived, Rakaia. Very, very longed lived. But they still die from fatal wounds like anybody else. And sometimes they just give up. A long life can be a curse as much as a blessing.”
“But you’re only just past thirty.”
“I have it on good authority. Are you going to eat that?”
She looked down at the lamb shanks and frowned. She was hungry, but . . . Rakaia picked up her spoon and braced herself. Her days of fine food in the palace were behind her. She’d better get used to eating what the common folk ate or resign herself to starving to death.
R’shiel watched her eat with a curious expression. “You’re not used to slumming it with the peasants, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you claim you’re a servant but you speak like you’ve been educated, you have the table manners of a noblewoman, and I’m going to take a punt here and suggest this is your first time in a tavern. Besides, you’re grimacing like you’ve been served something from the sewers at a meal most commoners would consider a feast.”
When Rakaia couldn’t think up an excuse quickly enough, R’shiel unknowingly provided it for her. “So how did a nobleman’s daughter wind up a slave in the Widowmaker Pass? What was it? Sold to cover your father’s debts?”
Rakaia shrugged. That wasn’t even far from the truth. “It would be fair to say it was my father’s business dealings that caused my . . . change in circumstances.”
“So now what?”
“Excuse me?”
“What are you going to do now? You’re no longer a slave, Rakaia. I’ve freed you from that, so you’ve no need to return to Fardohnya. What will you do?”
Rakaia really hadn’t thought about it yet. “I . . . I have no idea.”
Her mother’s plan had been for her to take refuge with her uncle in Lanipoor, but she was half a continent away from there now, thanks to the demon child. She had no money and no skills to earn a living to make the money required to buy passage back to Fardohnya. In fact, Rakaia had no skills other than those required to be a good nobleman’s wife. She spoke several languages, played a lyre passably well, and had been court’esa trained to please her husband in bed, but that was a harsh way to make a living in the outside world, she thought, glancing at the two dancing girls working their way around the room.
“Well, you’d better think of something soon. The room at the inn is paid up until the end of the week, but after that, you’re on your own, I’m afraid.”
“Are you leaving?”
“As I said earlier, Testra happened to be in the general direction I was heading.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Tonight.”
“Where are you going?”
“That’s really none of your business.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know . . . it’s jus
t . . .”
“You’re afraid?”
Rakaia nodded. “How did you know?”
The demon child smiled. “Because I’ve been where you are, Rakaia. It’s scary. But also fun, if you decide to look upon it as an adventure rather than the end of the world. I mean . . . you’re young, you’re pretty, and you’re not lying raped and murdered on the side of the road in the Widowmaker Pass. All these are things you should be celebrating.”
“I have no money, no job, no family . . .”
“And now you’re wallowing in self-pity.” The demon child finished her meal and tossed a few coins on the table to pay for their meal. She rose to her feet as the tavern keep approached with two cups on a tray.
“A gift from Mica,” he said, placing the tray on the table.
“Who?” R’shiel asked.
“The minstrel,” the tavern keeper said. “He seems to think you ladies are the most beautiful creatures he’s ever laid eyes on.” He repeated the compliment with the disinterest of a man who had heard it all, many times before.
Rakaia glanced over to the corner of the room where Mica was perched on a high stool, singing a haunting ballad about a woman pining for her lost love. He was watching them intently as he sang—or rather he was watching R’shiel.
Does he know who she is?
“Then he’s not been out much lately.” R’shiel either didn’t notice the young man’s intense scrutiny, or she didn’t care. “I have to go, but I’m sure my friend could do with a couple of stiff drinks.”
Or maybe she did notice. Maybe that was the reason she was leaving Testra tonight, despite seeming to have no fixed timetable up until they’d stepped into this tavern for dinner earlier this evening.
R’shiel reached into her pocket and then tossed a small coin purse on the table. “I’ll not need any coin where I’m going,” she said. “That’s all I can help you with, I’m afraid. It should see you through the next few days, until you figure out what you want to do.”
“Thank you,” Rakaia said, more grateful than she could find the words to express. “You’ve done more for me than anybody ever has in my life. And I don’t even know you.”
“Nobody ever really knows anybody, Rakaia. Trust me on that.”
“Will I ever see you again?”
The demon child shrugged. “Who knows? It’s a strange world we live in. Take care. And good luck.”
With that, the demon child turned, headed for the door, and pulled up the hood of her cape before stepping out into the rain. Rakaia glanced at the minstrel, whose eyes never left the demon child for a moment.
Mica must have realized she was watching him. As soon as the door closed on R’shiel he turned his attention back to his audience and changed his song to a bright ditty about a farmer trying to count his chickens who kept escaping out of a hole in the wall of the chicken house and coming around to be counted for a second, third, and fourth time.
Rakaia smiled at the song as the rest of the patrons joined in, enjoying this brief moment of calm in the storm that was now her life. A clap of thunder broke over the town, reminding her that soon she would have to walk out of here, back to the inn where she had a warm bed and a roof over her head for only a few more days. She needed to figure out how she was going to survive, given her entire life now comprised the clothes on her back and the small coin purse the demon child had just left with her.
The jewels Rakaia had so carefully squirreled away to fund her trip through Fardohnya were tucked under the seat of the wagon she’d been traveling in, back in the Widowmaker Pass. The thieves who’d robbed the caravan had them by now.
She wondered what Charisee was doing at this moment.
Is she happy? Is she having fun being a princess?
Has Hablet discovered the truth by now about her paternity and ordered her killed?
A wave of guilt washed over Rakaia. However unknown or unknowable, she was alive and had a future. Charisee, on the other hand, would pay the price of Sophany’s deceit in her half-sister’s place, and never know the reason why.
She had no right to be wallowing in self-pity.
Rakaia picked up her spoon again, determined to finish her lamb shanks with their overcooked potatoes and lumpy, congealing gravy. Who knew how long it would be before she could afford a meal like this again?
She was a pauper now, but she was alive and that meant she could do something about it. She owed it to Charisee—and the demon child—to make the best of things.
“If you close your eyes and can’t see the lumps, it tastes much better.”
Rakaia started a little and looked up to find the minstrel, Mica, had finished his set and was standing beside her table. On closer inspection, he was a quite handsome young man with light brown hair and fair skin that looked as if he’d not spent a lot of time in the sun.
“Ah . . . yes . . . that’s good advice.”
Without asking, Mica sat down in the seat opposite, so recently vacated by the demon child. “What happened to your friend?”
“She had to leave.”
“Will she be back?”
Rakaia shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“My name is Mica,” he said, studying her intently. “You’re very pretty. Are you Fardohnyan?”
She nodded, a little bemused by his blunt manner. “Thank you . . . and yes.”
“I knew another Fardohnyan lady once. She was very pretty, too.” Mica smiled. “Had the treasonous black heart of a soul-eating viper, but she was pretty.”
Rakaia had no idea how she was meant to respond to that. But apparently she wasn’t required to. “Do you live here in Testra?” he asked, almost without taking a breath. “Or are you just passing through?”
“Just passing through.”
“Where are you headed?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
Mica’s face lit up. “Excellent! You can come with us! We are heading to Bordertown next and then Krakandar. Have you been to Krakandar?”
“What?”
“Do you play an instrument? Sing? Dance?”
“I play the lyre,” she told him, feeling more than a little overwhelmed. “But not that well.”
“I can take care of that,” he laughed, as if it was the best stroke of luck she had agreed to join them, even though she hadn’t. He reached across the table, offering her his hand. “Welcome to Mica’s Marvelous Minstrels!”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“I mean . . . you don’t know me . . .”
Still holding her by the hand, he leaned closer, until their heads were almost touching, and whispered, “Any friend of the demon child’s is a friend of mine.”
She pulled back in surprise. “You know R’shiel?”
He glanced around to ensure they weren’t overheard, before adding in a low voice, “We’re old friends.”
“Why didn’t you say something when she was here?”
“I doubt she’d remember me,” he said with a shrug. “I was just a child the last time we met. I really didn’t want to bother her. But truly, if the demon child found you worthy, then I do, too. Say you’ll join us. We’ll have so much fun on the road together.”
Somewhat bemused—which seemed to be her normal state these past few days—Rakaia nodded. After all, what else did she have?
“I . . . I don’t want to be a dancing girl,” she said, noticing one of them leading a man by the hand toward the back alley out of the corner of her eye.
He smiled. “Nobody in Mica’s Marvelous Minstrels does anything they don’t want to do. I promise. What’s your name?”
“Aja,” she said on impulse. Rakaia was dead—a princess left behind at Winternest. She was Aja now. This was her new life. It deserved a new name.
And in truth, the real Aja had saved her life. She deserved to be honored. “Welcome, Aja,” Mica said. “I see great things ahead for us. Great things.”
Before she could comment on that, or even object, Mica orde
red another round of drinks and called the juggler and the other dancing girl over to join them, introducing her as Aja the Amazing, his new accompanist.
Nobody questioned her sudden inclusion in their troupe of players, or seemed anything other than welcoming. As the rain pelted down outside, they drank and sang and chatted long into the night, Rakaia’s fears overwhelmed by their camaraderie. And she never thought to question that, either.
Chapter
25
CHARISEE WAS REQUIRED to attend dinner and couldn’t think up a quick enough excuse to get out of it. She still hadn’t mastered the I’m-a-princess-so-I-don’t-need-a-reason attitude her sister was so easy with. Charisee was raised a servant, and one of the hardest adjustments to her new life was the expectation that others were meant to please her and not the other way around.
As it was a warm day followed by an equally pleasant evening, dinner was to be served outside on the paved checkerboard terrace overlooking the vast gardens at the back of the house. Charisee—used to the enclosed and manicured gardens of the harem, where even the bridle paths were always in sight of a wall—was quite overawed by their splendor. The gardens here—a riot of barely contained spring color—seemed to go on forever.
Lady Saneyah did not join them for dinner, and when Charisee arrived on the terrace, a step behind the silent slave sent by the seneschal to show her the way, the only guest in attendance was Lord Erlon. He proved to be much younger than Charisee was expecting—a smooth, well-dressed charmer with the jaded air of the excessively rich.
He introduced himself with a gallant bow, kissed her palm in the traditional Fardohnyan manner, and then offered to show her around the gardens while they waited for Lord Rahan and Kiam. Charisee wished now that Kiam really had been giving her etiquette lessons this afternoon, rather than just chatting to her like an old friend while they played with Broos. She was unsure if walking the vast Warrinhaven gardens with a single male to whom she was not related, unaccompanied by a chaperone, was something nobody in Hythrun society cared about or something that might ruin her forever.
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