Firethorn (11 page)

“I want nothing from Sire Pava, and I'd sooner see him dead than ask anything of him. But I'll see my cousin whenever I please. And if I look to eat rabbit tonight while you feast on venison and fat pork, I can't see how it does
you
harm. Unless you like me better skin and bones.” I jerked my arm from his grip and held it up before his eyes. I pinched the flesh over my wristbone. “I'm not lean enough already to please you?”

He said nothing more, only glared, and we parted company. At first I was pleased that he was a jealous man, for if he guarded me close, it must mean he counted me worth guarding. But that afternoon he did not look back at me once, and as the Sun rolled down and shone her light in our eyes I had a long time to be sorry that I'd governed my tongue so poorly, and to become afraid.

I'd looked to Sire Galan for a shelter, a refuge, but there I was least defended, for he and I rubbed each other raw and laid bare the quick. But I should never have expected safety. The world is perilous; only a fool feels safe. I must rather arm myself, with wit if I could find no keener point, and armor myself with a tougher skin. I'd not be one of those meek straw men soldiers used for practice, poking full of holes till the stuffing is let out; I meant to get in my blows.

Near a hundred men ahorse, another hundred or so afoot, and all like and unlike as river stones: some polished, others rough, some adamant, others no more durable than sun-dried clay. After a few days on the road, I'd begun to sort them.

A drudge who doesn't eavesdrop is deaf indeed, and riding in the troop I overheard plenty. It was loud as a rookery with varlets cawing boasts, jests, and rumors. I learned of the various houses of the clan Crux, and how they were commonly judged, of the rivalries between houses and within them. Crux came to earth once, arrayed as the Sun in a woman's form, ravishingly bright, scorching the ground under her feet. She bore a passel of sons, begotten by various foolhardy mudmen who flamed to ash as she mated with them. Each house of the clan sprang from one of her sons; each sent its headman to the clan councils-nevertheless the houses were not equal in quality or fortune.

I began to know the cataphracts and armigers by the repute their men gave them: who among the Blood had a hasty temper and heavy hand, who was easy prey for a drudge's little frauds, who had earned the fewest complaints. I could tell a man's master from the house crest embroidered on the clan banner he bore, but often as not it could also be read in his manner, for soldiers have a way of aping their betters. If a cataphract was touchy about his honor, his varlets were apt to pick quarrels, seeing insults where none were intended.

Sire Galan had an assurance, which, had it not been warrantable, would have seemed arrogance. As for Sire Rodela, he didn't wear his pride so lightly; it chafed, and made him overbearing with us drudges, and overly familiar with his master. He was always making spiteful jabs—disguised as japes—which Sire Galan countered with ease. When Sire Galan dallied too long with me under his blanket of a morning, Sir Rodela called him Sire Layabout, and said it was time to be riding his horse, not his woman. Sire Galan looked at him hard, saying maybe Sire Roustabout had to mount mares because no woman would have him. They sparred back and forth, and Sire Galan seemed to take it for a companionable jousting. But I thought Sire Rodela's effrontery was a hairbreadth short of offense. He stayed close to Sire Galan, when he was not favoring us with his company.

As for Sire Galan's mudmen, they vaunted him about the camp in little wagers and spats with other varlets over whose master had the best horse or the best seat or the deadliest way with a sword. He was lax with them. I don't believe he noticed that Noggin sometimes laundered his shirts in muddy water, or that Spiller pilfered wine and a few coins now and then. It irked me to see things badly done, but I wouldn't stand between Sire Galan and his men.

Spiller relished gossip as much as any village alewife, and I was his best audience. He told me of Sire Galan's two elder brothers, one dead three campaigns ago, the other of such a light mind a feather outweighed him. Sire Galan stood closer to his father than I had supposed, for Spiller had it that this featherbrained brother might be passed over when it came time to inherit the holdings.

The Crux had only one brother—Sire Galan's father—and only one son, after losing three sons in the usual ways: war, sickness, accident. This son was forced to wait out the campaign safe at home. But if Spiller could make the reckoning, you can be sure others did: Sire Galan stood just four lives away from First of the clan.

I began to see what it meant that Sire Galan and the Crux had the same crest embroidered on their banners—the gyrfalcon emblem of the house of Falco—and why Sire Galan got his way more often than not, more often than he should, perhaps.

The Falco traced their lineage to the eldest son of Crux. Those few times a man from another house had won the title of First by wisdom or boldness or cunning, the Falco had taken it back by the next generation. They never allowed an infant or young boy to become First, as some did, opening the door to rivalry and ruin in house and clan.

They were mountain people, like all the clan of Crux, but their land was rich. Their stronghold, a long way south of the manor where I grew up, was high on a rocky spur driven like a talon into the fat earth of the plain. From this height they surveyed leagues of their own lands, and were less than a day's ride from the capital, Ramus. Sire Galan lived half the year in his father's keep and half in the Crux's palace at court, and Spiller said he was much imitated by the younger cataphracts. When he began to shave his cheeks, others gave up the beards they had but lately grown.

Na would have said I'd done well for myself, and surely it was better than I'd guessed when I chose to lie with a man in a field because he was handsome. A favored son of a favored house of a favored clan. Sire Pava was nothing to compare, and I hoped he was discomfited to see, as everyone did, that next to his cousin he looked a bumpkin.

If I stitched myself to Sire Galan's surcoat and followed him to war and back, what might I gain from it? Perhaps a room of my very own, where I could wait on his pleasure and bear bastards to brawl with his other bastards—of which he had many, Spiller assured me.

Sire Galan had not spoken of his household to me. We had so little time together that we did not spend much in conversation. He'd told me some few small things, such as how much he missed his falcons and the cliffs near his home. He said that when he was a boy he fell one morning while climbing those cliffs to steal eggs, and hurt his leg and lay on a bed of scree until he was found late in the afternoon. There was the scar, see? As he lay there he saw a strange sight: a crow turned on a hawk and chased it all over the sky. I closed my eyes and followed his voice to catch a glimpse of him as a boy, in the morning of his life. It was endearing, I thought, that he should tell me such things in the middle of the night; but it was less endearing to think of his wife and other subjects he never saw fit to mention.

One evening I sat by the cook fire watching the sparks swarm, their lives briefer than a mayfly's. The Kingswood was all around, leagues of it on every side. The fires of the camp kept it at bay, as if each group of men sheltered in a little cave of light. I wrapped myself in silence while Sire Galan's men jabbered. The horse soldiers snubbed the foot soldiers, the foot soldiers, who were naught but shepherds and plowboys, after all, diced for pinecones. The fire burned lower and leaves of flame grew from the logs. In those bright shapes I made out other things: ranks of pennants moving among the coals, a horse galloping, riderless. The images came and went so swiftly I was unsure I'd seen them. But when I closed my eyes, the silhouette of the horse turned black, as if it were seared on my eyelids.

I glanced up to see Sire Galan standing on the other side of the fire, looking at me. His face was bright as a lantern in the firelight, and he smiled. Gods, it was like lighting a torch; I was tinder to his spark, flaring in an instant.

He sat beside me and we leaned shoulder to shoulder.

“It's been long since I saw you last,” he said in a low voice.

“I kept you in sight before me,” I said.

Sire Rodela came out of the shadows and took a place between Spiller and Flykiller. He demanded food from Spiller, who told him we'd eaten our supper quick as goats loose in a granary, and there was nothing left but roasted chestnuts.

“Peel them for me,” Sire Rodela told Spiller. Then he tossed a chestnut at Sire Galan, saying, “Look who's left the First's table early and cheated me of my supper!”

“I don't require your attendance. Go and sup-but you'd best hurry, or you'll be squabbling over scraps with the drudges.”

The armiger seemed disinclined to go. He sat staring at us from the other side of the fire. His gaze looked insolent to me, and he wore the lopsided grin he put on when he was up to some mischief. Sire Galan ignored him; he picked up the chestnut and began to peel it. His fingers were deft.

Sire Rodela asked, “Won't you be missed, Sire? It isn't the custom to leave before the sweetmeats are served.”

I put my hand on Sire Galan's knee, warmed to think he'd chosen my company. “Let them miss me,” he said. “Let them envy me.”

“Envy, Cousin? Do you think so? I think they wonder at you, you behave so strangely.”

Sire Rodela was forward for a cousin, especially one sired by a bastard. He chided more like an elder brother.

Sire Galan took it lightly enough. “They covet my luck, and Pava most of all. He's feverish because I winkled it out from under his nose. Can I help it he was blind to his chance?” He smiled at me and tossed the pieces of the chestnut hull back at Sire Rodela, one by one. I smiled back. He'd have them think it was all about luck, a warrior's superstition that the god Hazard, in the avatar of Chance, slips her blindfold and winks at those with red hair. Fighting men may worship Rift Warrior, but they hold Hazard Chance close to their hearts, close enough for blame as well as praise.

I was not so vain as to believe I was the object of envy, but I knew Sire Galan was. He shone with fortune like a new-struck coin, and hardly needed me for polish. But I was vain enough to think that if he came back too soon from supper it was not for a bit of luck.

“It's an ill thing to breed envy in camp,” Sire Rodela said. He still spoke as if in jest, but like all his jests it had more malice than humor. “Envy begets strife. Perhaps you should give a thought to the good luck of your clan, not just your own. Then we'd all be better pleased, all your cousins.”

Under my hand I felt the muscles in Sire Galan's leg tighten. He became still. In that stillness his men grew quiet and raised their heads. In a mild voice, he said, “How so?”

Sire Rodela was so taken with his own wit that he went on heedless into the quiet. “Why, share her favors with us,” he said, pointing at me, “and maybe a little good fortune will rub off. A woman's quim is a magic purse; the more you dip in, the more—”

He never finished. In two heartbeats Sire Galan was up and on him, with a forearm leaning on his throat and a knee on his chest. Spiller and Flykiller sprawled out of the way.

“Bastard's spawn,” Sire Galan said as Sire Rodela thrashed under him. “Shall I toast your brains or put fire to the soles of your feet? Which would you prefer?”

Sire Rodela's eyes rolled and his tongue hung out. Sounds escaped him, but nothing like a word. By this time I was up and had my hand on Sire Galan's shoulder, shouting in his ear to let go. I did this before I thought, and afterward wondered why. But Sire Galan had a terrible joy in his face, brighter than the fire, and couldn't hear me.

“I think I'll just singe you for now,” he said, and he shoved Sire Rodela across the dirt with the arm under his chin until his head was close to the coals. With the other hand he took hold of Sire Rodela's mane and put the ends in the fire. The burning hair smelled foul. “But if you soil her with your dirty tongue again, I'll gladly cut it out.”

Then Sire Galan took up a branch with a smoldering tip and burned the hair until it was no more than a finger length all over, methodically, turning Sire Rodela's head this way and that while the armiger tried to scream but could not. When Sire Galan got up, Sire Rodela lay there helplessly, breath wheezing through his windpipe, his head next to the fire. Sire Galan took hold of his feet and dragged him out of danger. His men gawked and never stirred to help or hinder. Spiller smiled broadly.

Sire Galan looked at me, but not as if he saw me. His face was in shadow except for an edge of light around his hair and along his cheek. His brows were drawn down and under them his eyes were dark as water at the bottom of a well. He scowled more now than when he had Sire Rodela by the throat.

I came up close and took his hand. “Let's go away from here,” I said. “Let's sleep in the woods tonight.”

Now he saw me.

“Are you not afraid?” he asked.

“Not of the woods, no.”

I led him into the trees to the breast of a hill, and if Sire Galan marked how surely I found my way in the dark, he never said so. We lay under the branches, under a blanket of night. And I lay under Sire Galan, and watched his face, my own moon rising over, while he looked down upon me. Perhaps my face reflected his light, and he could see more than a pale shape in the darkness, for he kept his eyes open as he rode me; he took his sweet time. When he told me, “You' re mine,” I didn't deny it.