Prince of Fire and Ashes: Book 3 of the Tielmaran Chronicles (58 page)

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Authors: Katya Reimann

BOOK: Prince of Fire and Ashes: Book 3 of the Tielmaran Chronicles
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Gaultry rolled her eyes where the boy could not see her and pulled her fingers free of Martin’s hand. “Elianté keep you safe,” she said. “I hope at least we can sup together this evening.”
“Gods and the Prince willing.” He signaled a waiting soldier to bring his horse, and left them.
“Will he be fighting again today?” she asked Lebrantine, watching Martin ride out of sight between the clustered tents.
The young ensign shook his head. “He put in his hours this morning.” He grinned. “That Yveir of yours didn’t make it through without a fight.”
Martin had mentioned nothing of that.
“Can you show us the camp?” she asked. “I’d prefer to do that before we get ourselves settled. Plenty of time to stake tents later tonight.”
It was not an easy thing, concealing her disappointment that Martin had not asked her to join him in his quarters.
G
aultry and Tullier spent the last days before the Full Moon quietly, safe in the heart of the camp. They barely got to see Martin, which bothered Gaultry more than she had anticipated, but which obviously pleased Tullier. From what Gaultry observed, Martin, following his grandmother’s last wish, had declined to accept the title of Prince’s Champion. But despite this, every soldier she met in camp made it covertly clear to her that even without the title, everyone recognized that such was his stature. The big soldier was called constantly to the rear lines to run down yet another company of Lanai. It was obvious that the Prince had come to depend on him, particularly since his duel with the Ratté.
She saw Victor Haute-Tielmark once, from a distance. Victor was employed on the front lines, facing the bulk of the Lanai. Watching the men array themselves, her picture of the war was very much changed. The Tielmaran camp lay between the crests of two small hills, with a good water source and a view of the glorious lake, Llara’s Kettle, and the immense mountain cascade which fed it. It was a surprisingly pleasant place, with permanent camp kitchens built into the turf, and many fine tents as well as the foot-soldiers’ more spartan quarters. On a year when
the Lanai aggression was light, she could imagine the battles and the smaller sorties were more like an extended, extra-dangerous tourney than a field of war. This year, of course, things were more serious than that—but still, the confines of the innermost camp remained comfortably civilized.
Between the Tielmaran camp, the lake, and the valley that ascended from behind Ittanier Peak up into the mountains, was a great gently rolling bowl of ground—the perfect field to stage a battle. Beyond, the Lanai camp was naturally well defended, on a little plateau partway up the Ittanier valley—invulnerable to heavy assault unless with dire cost to the attacker. Instead, both sides spent most of their time lining up their soldiers to attack, sallying forward to great effect—and then slipping away from each other before a true clash of the men, avoiding confrontation. It was clear to Gaultry after the first day that the Lanai had no intention of engaging the Tielmarans whatsoever, though they feinted forward with a great appearance of boldness and clashing of arms. The Tielmarans did their best to cut off these bravos’ retreat back up into the valley, with mixed success. By the second day it was clear to Gaultry that the Tielmaran soldiers knew they had superiority of strength, but were reluctant to engage, save where they could annihilate their opponent utterly.
When she considered that every soldier ranked below sergeant was eagerly anticipating his fast-approaching return to the family farm once the Lanai aggression had faded, she hardly blamed them their lack of eagerness for the kill. There were crops to be brought in and a harvest to be attended. The Lanai had been successfully pent up in the field at Llara’s Kettle—what more service could the Prince require of them?
Victor Haute-Tielmark’s troops were the notable exception to this detachment. With the great golden bear of a Duke charging along his own lines, mounted on an equivalently enormously fat and muscular horse, that was quite understandable. Even from a distance, it was easy to be infected by the Duke’s enthusiasm, and this land, after all, was his soldiers’ home. But the Duke of Ranault’s men, who hailed from the midlands, were noticeably less eager, as were the Arleon men—some of whom spoke with the familiar accents of Gaultry’s home forest—who were serving under a professional war-leader. She found herself wondering about the army of Melaudiere, led by Martin’s sister Mariette, and still away to the North. Melaudiere’s army had got stuck with tidying up after the ugliness of the Long Raid, where the majority of the stock had been seized and farms unexpectedly ravaged. But if the ducal armies took their
character from their war-leader, she suspected that Mariette’s men would also keen. Gaultry herself had always found Mariette’s bold yet insouciant character an inspiration.
As she learned the different characters of the respective ducal armies, she picked up some interesting gossip. Before the Prince’s arrival in the West, quarreling between the Ducal war-leaders had cost Tielmark victory in two important battles. It was rumored that the Ratté’s men had been able to run wild so long because the war-leaders of Longesse and Basse-Demaine were quarreling.
But mostly Gaultry worried. Tullier was avoiding her. She took supper with Martin in the evenings, at which time the boy would always disappear. She was grateful for the privacy this afforded her with Martin, but also concerned about the boy’s feelings.
“He has been a part of me so many days,” Gaultry told Martin, the evening before the day of the Full Moon. They were alone—a rarity. Martin’s mess-man usually hovered over them. “And I will have to watch him like a hawk tomorrow. With Richielle still free … Even if we have stripped her of the Kingmaker blade, she is still strong enough to make me worry.”
“You are right to be cautious,” Martin said. “But the Prince knows your fears. He has posted extra guards tonight. No one is making light of the significance of this month’s closing, Benet least of all. He promised you that the boy will be kept safe, and he’ll keep that promise.”
Having finished his meal, he had been lingering over his last glass of wine. Now he pushed it restlessly away. “I have bad news. Tomorrow Benet means to celebrate Andion’s Full Moon by announcing Lily’s pregnancy. Normally, that should be left to the High Priestess, but Dervla is not here, Lily has already announced it in Princeport, and already there are many who have heard the rumor of that news. There will be a push against the Lanai in the afternoon. Benet intends to dedicate the charge to his unborn child, and to lead it.”
Gaultry felt her heart run cold. “You will ride with him?”
Martin nodded. “When a Prince ‘leads’ a charge, he is never really quite at its head. That would not be such a glorious sight. The realities of war would cut such a one down far too quickly. Someone must be there by him—or a little ahead—to clear his path.”
That, of course, was how Martin’s brother had died. And his father, and his uncle. Staining the Prince’s path with the red of their blood. This
sortie was fair begging for the Brood-curse to rise up and take him. Gaultry shook her head. “Tell Benet someone else must go.”
“I have a reputation among the Lanaya,” Martin said unhappily, unconsciously using the tribesmen’s own term for themselves. “If we want to get Benet through this foolhardiness alive, I see no other way. It will not be so dangerous as it sounds.” He reached, coming closer to her than he had done for days, and brushed her cheek. With that gesture, she realized at last that he was speaking more to reassure himself than her.
“The Lanaya will see us preparing all morning. They’ll know what’s coming. They won’t be so eager to get in our way. Benet has promised me he will press to their first outposts, no farther. We won’t go near the Widow-maker.”
The Widow-maker, Gaultry had learned on one of her camp tours, was a ledgelike bridge of rock from which Lanai defenders could easily destroy anyone who rode beyond a certain point up into Ittanier valley. In her fear for him, she barely heard the rest of Martin’s words.
“It’s doubtful we’ll even have to push to the first of the trenches.” Clearly, Martin was playing through the most obvious variants of the attack, even as he was speaking. “Benet should get exactly what he wants. A bold show to remind the Lanai that they can’t hope to accomplish anything more this year, and that it’s time for them to go home, even if it means leaving the Ratté’s men to a harsh fate.”
“Will it work?” Her voice cracked.
Martin shrugged. “Maybe. The Ratté is greatly respected, but few among the tribal Lanaya really admire the man. He makes them work too hard. Besides, they know he came to help them out of an honor-bond, not of free choice, and they resent him for that.”
He abruptly put aside his wine and stood up, pacing away from her. “I have asked Benet about Helena,” he said curtly, abruptly changing the subject in a confused rush of feeling. “I wanted to tell you before now, but somehow …” his voice trailed away.
“What did he say?” Gaultry wondered if this explained Benet’s more formal manners toward her.
“He said that he’d already discussed it with Dervla,” Martin said bluntly, “and that she was adverse. I cannot have my divorce.”
In her conflicted surprise, Gaultry did not know how to answer him. It was impossible not to react, angrily, to what could only be Dervla’s vindictive pettiness, in this contemptible bid to deny them their desire,
but the risks he would be facing tomorrow—surely that was the important thing here! She looked at the strong length of Martin’s body, and pictured it riddled with arrows—or crossbow quarrels like the one thrown from the weapon that had threatened Tullier, back on the limestone plain. “Martin,” she said helplessly, and made the mistake of touching him, of brushing her hand across his. No more than that, but already it was too much.
The physical compulsion that swept over her was unbearable. This was the impulse, the rational part of her mind screamed, that drove so many men and women together on the night before any battle. She did not have to fall to it. But—would these indeed be their last hours together, this side of the Great Goddess’s table? Knowing that he must feel this passion in return, could she allow them to part this night without satisfying this impulse?
She glanced around the tent. Was it an ugly place, stark and bare, evidence of his busy killing days, nothing more than a place to sleep and eat? Or was it a place of beauty, the place where she and Martin might finally lie together as something like husband and wife?
She looked at him, lovingly, remembering all the dangers they had shared, the trust and steady respect that underlay their bickering, their love. Looking into Martin’s eyes, her resolve hardened.
She was not willing to cede victory to Dervla’s attempts to keep them apart.
Mervion had been wise. She had acknowledged Coyal as her lover early, and never allowed herself to become entangled in meaningless court questions of honor and place. Gaultry thought back to the simple warm comforts of the quarters her sister shared with Coyal in Princeport. Nothing in their love was a test. They merely were together, and took their happiness in that. By comparison, she and Martin had meekly played at the game that court expected of them, avoiding public acknowledgment of their feelings.
All that had got them was this awkward moment in this dirty tent, with both of them knowing what the other was feeling, both of them wanting the same thing, yet half-believing any indulgence of those feelings tempted the gods to punish them for stealing even a moment from duty.
“You are afraid for me,” Martin said. His voice was husky. His body almost quivered as he restrained himself from reaching for her.
“I am afraid of everything.” She turned and met his eyes, challenging.
“Except for Derlva High Priestess. I am not afraid of her. If she thinks she can keep us apart—that’s pettiness, nothing more. It should not concern you.”
“Let me hold you,” he said. His eyes were intense on her face, but he did not reach for her—not yet. “I will drive away your other fears.”
Gaultry opened her arms, and he came to her.
For a time, for them both, that was the only thing that mattered.
G
aultry lay on her back, listening to the sounds of the camp, the grey fabric of the tent ceiling above her. The spot where Martin had lain at her side was still warm. It was not quite dawn, but already there was movement. The experienced soldiers, like Martin, were already up and readying themselves for the day’s push.
Her body felt utterly relaxed. With Martin gone, the fear was returning, but only gradually. The gods were kind. The love she had shared with Martin—it would never be enough to fill her, but at least the Great Twelve had allowed her a taste.
She had cried at first when Martin had rolled away from her. He had been distressed until he realized that her tears were for worry, for fear of what lay ahead—not for what they had just shared: the peace she felt with him, the rightness. “I am very afraid of what the Bissanty plan for Tielmark next,” she had told him. “Yet every road that leads to Kingship is painted with ugly death. Must there be such a brutal compromise? One death to save many lives of pain?”
In the darkness, Martin had reached out and pulled her against him. “The gods admire more than death-mongering, though sometimes that is hard to see. Take heart. Tamsanne and Dame Julie may have discovered something in Princeport. Perhaps today, as Benet and I ride across that great field to the Lanai side, the skies will open, and we will see Andion riding on his chariot, acknowledging our Prince’s ascendance to the King’s rank.” She’d felt him smile against the crown of her head. “Wouldn’t that be a sight to behold?”

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