Breath of Angel (11 page)

She stood tall. “As chantress, sent by the overlord of Navia, I’m responsible for this harp. If you’ll lead the way—”

“Dwin!” Trevin loped across the courtyard. “Scoundrel!” He grabbed the youth by one arm. “What are you doing?”

“The very thing
you
should—”

“Begone.” Trevin shoved him toward the stables. “Go curry a horse.”

The youth shot a teasing look at Trevin. “I just wanted to see her while I had the chance. If you need any help—”

“I don’t,” said Trevin.

The youth sauntered away.

“My brother, Dwin.” Trevin watched him until he disappeared into the palace rather than the stables. Then he turned to Melaia. “I suppose you were surprised to see him.”

“I was surprised to see anyone this early.” She noted the way Trevin’s right eyebrow lifted slightly when he smiled.

“A misunderstanding. But since it’s early yet, let me show you the palace.” Trevin reached for the harp. “May I?”

Melaia handed it to him, and they strolled across the flagstones. She wondered if Livia was watching.

“Do you have brothers and sisters?” asked Trevin.

“I have novice priestesses. They serve quite well as sisters.”

“You’re lucky to have no brother. Dwin can be a thorn in the foot.”

“Tree-vun!” A leather-faced, bulky man rode up on a sleek black horse. “Ye’ll see the birds in this even?”

“I’ll be there,” said Trevin.

“Ye make sure he is, missy.” The leather-faced man leered at Melaia before he reined his horse away and galloped out of the courtyard.

Melaia shuddered. “Who was that?”

“Vort. One of our two talonmasters,” said Trevin. “They’re like falconers. You’ve met one of their birds.”

“Draks.” Melaia wrinkled her nose.

As they walked, Trevin seemed lost in thought.

“I had a wonderful dried apricot for breakfast this morning,” she said. “Another guilt offering?”

“I thought perhaps I should pay in advance.” Trevin’s face was inscrutably pleasant as he gazed at the palace entrance. “A friendly reminder,” he said. “No more questions.”

“I’m sorry. It’s my nature.” She eyed the great bronze doors. “Maybe I should apologize in advance in case I forget.”

“Don’t forget.”

She clamped her mouth shut, fighting a pang of homesickness as they
climbed the steps to the palace. Thus far, Redcliff was a disappointment. Even Trevin was obviously distracted, his mind on his duties. Or on someone watching them. Or on the young ladies falling all over themselves for his affection.

She made up her mind. After Benasin arrived, she would let him sort out the business with the harp, and she would return to Navia.

A porter ushered them into a columned entryway. Directly ahead stood a pair of tall, gilded doors. Trevin edged one open, and Melaia peeked into the cavernous great hall adorned with ornately painted walls and a colorful mosaic floor.

“This is where the king would normally take his supper if he were not ill,” said Trevin.

“So I’ll not be playing here.” Melaia raised her eyebrows to make it a question.

Trevin’s mouth turned up slightly. “You’ll not play here tonight, no.”

He closed the doors and led her down the west corridor, where polished red marble columns lined both sides like sentries. Up a staircase, down another corridor they strolled, passing servants intent on their tasks. Melaia tried to think of how to ask where they were going without making it a question.

A woman’s angry yell echoed down the hall. Servants scattered, and Trevin tugged Melaia into an alcove.

“Zastra,” he whispered. Melaia started to ask who Zastra was, but he placed a finger over her mouth. “Queen mother,” he whispered.

“How dare you touch my scrying jar!” screamed Zastra.

“Just to clean, Great One,” squeaked another voice.

“You spoiled the image!” Zastra yelled. “I’m watching for Dreia. I leave for one moment, and I come back to nothing! Out!” A slap echoed down the corridor along with a whimper and running feet. A red-cloaked woman swept past them, muttering, one hand choking the neck of a large, clear jar containing a colored liquid.

When her footsteps had trailed off into silence, Melaia whispered, “Dreia! Here!”

“What do you know of Dreia?” asked Trevin. Then he held up his hand. “Don’t answer. You’ve obviously told the tales. Dreia is not here.”

“But Zastra said—”

“Zastra is crazed. Believe me, Dreia is not here.” Trevin led her out of the alcove and down the corridor in the opposite direction from the way Zastra had gone. He was tense, his eyes not meeting hers.

Melaia sighed. “Maybe you could show me to a room where I can practice and rest.”

“We’re almost to the king’s tower,” he said. “You’ll like the view.”

Melaia trailed Trevin up one flight of stairs after another, then onto a roof like a small courtyard, its walls waist high. The king’s white-lion flag flapped in the wind from a pole in the center. Trevin nodded to a guard, who then retreated into the stairwell.

Melaia gaped at the landscape that spread out around her. “You’re right,” she said. “The view is no less than astonishing.” She turned in a slow circle. Forest to the west. Mountains to the north. Plains to the east. The highway they had traveled just the day before was now a ribbon crossing the valley and hill to the south. “You must love it up here. It’s a bird’s perch.”

“The highest of Redcliff’s towers.” Trevin strode to the east wall and looked toward the aerie.

Melaia stepped to the south side of the parapet. Looking down on the grasshopper-sized people in the courtyard below proved dizzying. She held to the edge of the half wall and lifted her gaze to the horizon. Navia was out there, somewhere past the ruddy rows of houses, the city wall, the golden valley, and the dusky hills beyond.

Trevin’s hands slipped around her waist. Her heart lurched, and she twisted around to face him.

“I’m not ready,” she gasped.

He backed away, his hands raised. “I … I’m sorry.”

“You startled me, that’s all.” The reason for the apricot, she thought. In case she rebuffed him.

Trevin strode back to the east wall of the parapet and stood there, rubbing his right hand. A drak sailed past, then glided up to join another.

Melaia watched Trevin’s jaw clench and unclench. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said. “I just wasn’t ready.”

“Nor was I.” He didn’t look her in the eye, just took her arm and walked her back to the stairway. The guard climbed back to his post.

They descended the stairs in silence, Melaia apprehensive at the swelling wave of unease she sensed in Trevin. She missed his quick, disarming smile. Now it felt as if he wore a mask.

As they wove their way back through the corridors, she said, “Before I play for the king, I need to know if my presence is unwelcome. I intend to bring greetings from Lord Silas, but I don’t want to offend anyone.”

“Don’t worry about the king.” Trevin kept his eyes on the corridor ahead. “Ask no questions. Do as you’re told.”

“See nothing, hear nothing, say nothing.”

“Pawns,” he muttered. “We’re all pawns.” He pointed ahead. “I’ll show you the aerie.” He sounded less than eager.

Melaia wondered if he was concerned about what she would think of the aerie since she had shrunk from the drak on their first day out of Navia. She wasn’t eager to see the birds again, but she determined to abide the sight for his sake.

They climbed a steep stairway. Then Trevin placed his hand on her back and ushered her into the aerie, which was sharp scented even with the south window standing open. At the far side of the room, Dwin rose from a bench in front of three large cages, two of which were empty. In the third sat two draks, their human hands clamped over a branch, their gray eyes staring at Melaia.

“Welcome, Chantress.”

The smooth, deep voice sent chills slithering down Melaia’s spine. She turned to see a gaunt man emerge from a shadowed alcove. Sharp nosed. Beardless. A cloak of feathers, brown, black, and iridescent blue.

“Meet the king’s physician,” said Dwin. “Lord Rejius.”

H
olding his hands as if in prayer, Lord Rejius tapped his taloned forefingers together and studied Melaia with his round gold eyes. “A little chantress far from home?”

She felt the blood drain from her face. Firstborn. Angel murderer. She glanced at Trevin, recalled him urging the Navian overlord to support Lord Rejius. She clenched her jaw, fighting an angry shame. Oh, yes, she
had
been empty-headed. Yet she still had a task to do, and here stood the king’s physician.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and said, “I’ve been sent—”

“I know why you were sent,” said Lord Rejius. “But all I requested was a harp. Unwrap it, Trevin. Make certain she hasn’t deceived us.”

“It’s not I who deceived,” she hissed, glaring at Trevin.

Stone faced, he strode to the bench, unwrapped the harp, and shoved it into Dwin’s hands. Then he plopped onto the bench, his back to Melaia, while Dwin carried the harp to Lord Rejius.

Melaia plucked Trevin’s wagering stone out of her sash and fingered the
T
on it. His warnings about her questions now made a great deal of sense. As did the hawk on his signet ring. No doubt the insignia on the red side of his cloak was also a hawk. She threw the stone at Trevin as hard as she could. It missed, clanked off a cage latch, and spun at his feet. The hawkman chuckled. Trevin didn’t move.

Lord Rejius examined the harp and crowed. “This is the one! Well done, Trevin. Except for the fact that I have no need of a chantress, and you didn’t have the mettle to push her off and watch her fly.”

Sweat broke out on Melaia’s forehead. The dizzying view from the highest
tower. Trevin’s hands on her waist. It all washed back, leaving her with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. He had paid for absolution in advance, fully aware that he meant to murder her.

“How do you propose to get rid of her now,
son
?” Lord Rejius drew Dwin close.

“Son?” Melaia muttered.

Trevin glowered at the hawkman. “I’ll return her to Navia.”

“You have no more imagination than that?” Lord Rejius grinned coldly.

“She can tell the overlord she played for the king and was dismissed,” said Trevin.

“But that ending is too dull, is it not, Chantress?” The hawkman cocked his head. “Surely she deserves more, Trevin, as do you. A happy ending, perhaps one in which she spends the rest of her life with you. Wouldn’t you like a drak of your own? One with the hands of a harper?”

Trevin rose so fast his bench toppled, but Lord Rejius curved his taloned hand around Dwin’s neck. Dwin held still, his eyes fixed on Trevin, who froze, glaring at Lord Rejius, his fists clenched.

The hawkman released Dwin and stepped toward Melaia, his gold eyes gleaming. “Which cage do you want, Chantress?”

She edged back, aware of the stairwell behind her. Her mind screamed for her to run, but the hawkman’s eyes held her. She couldn’t even look toward the swift footsteps echoing up the stairwell. It was only when she heard a familiar voice call her name that she turned.

Benasin swept through the door, and she darted into his arms, feeling like the small girl in Navia who had greeted him at the temple, bumped into him at the market, taken messages to him from Hanni. He appeared weary, sweaty and huffing, but he had the same wild, hunting eyes she had seen the night he paced the Navian temple searching for the intruder. This time he pegged his prey.

“Dandreij.” Benasin leaned on his walking stick. “I’d heard the king’s physician was Lord Rejius, but I didn’t suspect it was you.”

“I would have provided a more fitting welcome, brother, but I didn’t sense your coming.” A menacing smile spread across Lord Rejius’s face.

Melaia glanced back and forth between the two, as did Trevin and Dwin. Firstborn, Second son—the legend alive before her eyes. The aerie filled with animosity as thick as the air of a gathering storm.

“I suggest we meet in private,” said Benasin.

“No witnesses?” Lord Rejius laughed. “We’ve nothing to hide, have we? Hear this, one and all. I hold two harps and a certain angel you love, Benasin. I’m sure you heard of her recent tragic death.”

“I did.” Benasin raised his chin defiantly, and Melaia felt him tense.

“One by one I’ve taken everything you’ve ever desired.” Lord Rejius casually examined his talon nails. “I believe Hanamel is next on my list.”

“Hanni?” Melaia whispered.

The hawkman’s eyes flicked to her. “Though I must say, this chantress becomes more interesting by the moment. I like the way she clings to you, Benasin.” He motioned to Trevin. “Open one of the empty cages.”

As Trevin took a ring of keys from a peg, Melaia felt Benasin firmly grip her arm. She let him draw her behind him. “Hanamel is only a friend, Dandreij,” he said.

Trevin shifted uneasily, keys in hand, intent on the conversation.

“Only a friend?” said Lord Rejius. “You underplay your attachments. But I believe I befriended her first.”

Benasin snorted. “I think not.”

Melaia wrung her hands. She couldn’t tell what was truth. She knew Hanni relied on Benasin, yet how close they were, she didn’t know. She certainly couldn’t remember Hanni mentioning Lord Rejius. Or Dandreij, for that matter.

“I assume you have some purpose in posing as King Laetham’s physician.” Benasin’s voice was low and calm. “Could it be that his melancholy is your doing?”

Lord Rejius raised his eyebrows. “I’m crushed you would even think such a thing. The king fell into melancholy on his own. I only had to answer the call
for the most skillful physician that could be found. Though Queen Tahn never did quite trust me.”

“And now she’s dead.” Benasin’s words echoed Melaia’s thoughts. She saw Dwin snatch the keys from Trevin and unlock the cage himself. Trevin stood like a tensed wildcat.

“As you would assume,” said the Firstborn, “melancholy again struck the king after Tahn’s death. Woeful, isn’t it? But convenient. I simply bring him the peace he so richly deserves. It’s cruel to allow someone to linger too long, don’t you think? The greater mercy is to bring such affliction to an end. After all, he is mortal. His future is finite here. He’ll die sooner or later.”