Son of Avonar (30 page)

“Ask for his help. He'll listen to you.” Jacopo scratched his grizzled chin and grinned, “I love you dearly, little girl, but if there's one of you that's been pigheaded, it's not Graeme.”

Jacopo's grin raised my hackles, and I answered more sharply than I should have. “I don't trust any sheriff. You shouldn't either. Don't you dare let him drag you and Paulo into this.”

Before we could argue any further, a bone-cracking slap and a sharp cry sounded from the direction of the cottage. I turned to see Baglos staggering backwards, his hands shielding his face. D'Natheil's hand was raised for another strike.

“Bence, mie giro!”
cried Baglos.
“Ne stes damet—”

D'Natheil's second blow knocked Baglos to the dirt. Blood dribbling from his brow, the Dulcé vainly tried to scramble out of harm's way, but his master's foot caught him in the backside and sent him sprawling.

“Stop it!” I cried, jumping to my feet and running toward the men. “What are you doing?”

Another kick caught the fallen Dulcé in the side.
“Mie giro, stes vyn—”
Another, and Baglos could only grunt instead of finishing his plea.

I stepped between them, trying not to flinch as the back of D'Natheil's hand flew toward my face. His fair complexion darkened to yet a deeper shade of purple. But the blow did not fall. Rather, he snarled, shoved me aside, and went after Baglos again. He did not continue the beating, but rolled Baglos to his back and yanked something from the Dulcé's belt—his own silver knife. Glaring darkly at his cowering servant, D'Natheil sheathed the weapon. His blood-streaked fingers twisted the Dulcé's purple vest and pulled Baglos's upper body from the ground until the small man's face was only a handspan from his own.

“Don't you
dare
hurt him again,” I yelled. “That's enough!”

D'Natheil shifted his cold blue stare to me. Lip curling, nostrils flared, the young man gathered the wad of satin tighter. He needed no power of speech to tell me that he could break the Dulcé's neck without reservation, without remorse, almost without effort.

“You. Will.
Not,
” I said, biting each word and spitting it at him. It seemed to be the only language he truly understood. “You are his prince. You are responsible for him. Tell him, Baglos. Exactly as I said it.”

From his precarious position, the Dulcé closed his eyes and murmured hoarsely.

The moment expanded to fill the space between us. Then, with a hiss of disgust, the Prince slammed Baglos to the turf and walked over to the wide stump where lay the ax and his birch limb. I watched to make sure he planned to use the ax on the wood and not our heads. But he was soon lost in his work again, using the blade to hack long slivers from the chunk of birch. After each cut, he would explore the wood's thinning shape with his fingers, examine each piece for who knew what, and then raise the ax again.

Baglos had rolled to his side and curled into a ball. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he mumbled. “Did I think he wouldn't notice?”

“Are you all right?” I knelt beside him and laid a hand on his dark hair. He jerked at my touch and tried to sit up. “No, stay down for a moment, until we see how he's hurt you,” I said. “Jaco, bring some water.” My friend was already on his way to the stream with a pail and a rag, and soon I was blotting the Dulcé's bruised and bloody cheek.

“What Dulcé was ever so stupid?” He waved off my hand, struggled to sitting, and took the rag, pressing it under his nose, which was bleeding profusely. But even the blood paled beside his skin color. Stars of night, he was embarrassed!

“You picked up his knife. He has no call to beat you for it.”

“He thought—” Baglos changed whatever he was going to say. “It is D'Arnath's blade. I could not see it left in the grass. Dropped. It should not even be here . . . but in Avonar. D'Arnath's weapons are—they bear immense—” He took a breath as if to quiet his stumbling. “It was a misunderstanding. He is young.”

“You're more forgiving than he deserves. To serve a master so unworthy of his position, no matter how important his duties, requires a more generous spirit than mine. When your friend was wounded, you should have let someone else have the ‘honor' of being D'Natheil's Guide.” I regretted that D'Natheil could not understand me. I would have told him what I thought of people who beat their servants. “You needn't make excuses. I've known him for a brute since I first encountered him.”

Baglos shook his head. “It is not his fault he is this way. His life—” He glanced at the oblivious D'Natheil and quickly dropped his eyes to the ground. “My lord's mother died when he was but a babe. Avonar was at war, and no one had time to see to a boy who was wild from his earliest days. No one worried about his poor training, because it was his oldest brother D'Joran that would be the Heir after his father, and then D'Seto next. Never had a third son been named Heir. But the war worsened and one after the other his father and brothers fell. Then all attention turned to D'Natheil, who had been left to play in the alleys, sleep with the dogs, and eat with the warriors on the walls.”

The Dulcé sighed and blotted his nose again. “He was only nine years old when he became the Heir, a full three years before coming of age. The Preceptor Exeget was named his mentor and guardian. D'Natheil was insolent and prideful and would forever run away. He had no desire to learn of his gifts, or the art of ruling, or the history of his people and their past glory. Master Exeget disciplined him harshly, until the other Preceptors begged him to go easier on the boy, but the master said only that the Zhid would not go easy on the Heir, and one could not disagree with that. And so, my lord progressed . . . only slowly . . . in anything but his fighting skills.”

And when the boy was only twelve, so Baglos had told us, his desperate people had sent him into a magical war for which he was unprepared. I rinsed the bloody rag in the pail of water, wrung it out, and gave it back to the Dulcé. “He has no right to hurt you, Baglos. Many people have terrible childhoods and impossible duties, but they live their lives with grace.” How could this callow hothead be kin to the J'Ettanne? “Is he even capable of what's needed to save your people?”

Baglos was a long time answering, his face hidden in the rag. “He is, dear lady. Whether he wishes it or no.”

 

One might have thought the Dulcé's cuts and bruises magically vanished when I asked if he felt well enough to prepare a meal for us. While Baglos busied himself with my pots and poked about in the garden, the meadow, and the larder dug into the hillside, Jacopo and I hauled water to my neglected garden.

“Does Emil Gasso still have extra horses?” I asked as we splattered the contents of our pails onto the dry soil.

Jacopo had relaxed a bit, now he was busy with something not smacking of sorcery. “He does. Old buzzard figures he'd best get gold for 'em soon or the king'll have them for the war.”

“If we're to get these two out of here in good order, they're going to need another mount. Maybe two. I'm not sure if Baglos's horse is reliable.” I was not yet willing to tell Jaco that I was planning to accompany them. My plan was still too flimsy to expose to the daylight.

“Gasso's got at least three good mounts, so it shouldn't be a problem.”

“Would he lend them? It would take far more than I have to buy even one.”

“Not likely. Emil Gasso is as penny-pinching as a body can be, so he'll not let the beasts out of his sight without the coins in his purse.”

Baglos interrupted, asking for salt, so I went to show him, while Jacopo finished watering the garden. There wasn't room in the cottage for all of us to eat, so I had Jacopo help me move the table outside, and then sent him to drag Paulo from his nap in the woodpile while I fetched D'Natheil.

The Prince was no longer behind the cottage or anywhere that I could see, so I walked over to the copse where the horses were tethered. He was kneeling by the spring, frantically scrubbing at his hands. Curious at his odd frenzy, I held back and watched. After drying his hands on his breeches, he wrapped his arms about his face and head and bent over until his elbows almost touched his knees, releasing a quiet groan of such heart-tearing misery, such private and profound despair, it seemed to swallow the last light of the sun. Disdain and condemnation died on my tongue. Any man in such pain was suffering more than any reproach of mine could cause him. And so I retreated. Even if I had cared to ease him, I had no remedies for that kind of wounding.

Not long after I had returned to the cottage, D'Natheil came striding across the meadow, haughty and composed, displaying no remnant of the emotion I had glimpsed at the spring. I motioned him to the table, where Paulo leaned on his elbows yawning and a frowning Jacopo tapped his knife idly on his empty bowl. The sky had deepened to a rich blue, and I set out candles that flamed against the evening like two new stars. An odd company we made: a peasant sailor, a village urchin, a disgraced duchess, a diminutive cook, and a mute, half-mad prince. I sacrificed the flask of wine that I kept for emergencies, shared it out, and when Baglos set his fine-smelling dish on the table, I raised my cup to the company.
“J'edai en j'sameil.
To life and beauty everlasting!” I said the words first in the archaic language of the J'Ettanne and then in Leiran.

D'Natheil's eyebrows lifted slightly as he raised his cup and tipped his head in gracious acknowledgment. The season had changed yet again.

Baglos's mouth fell open, and he almost dropped his cup. “The Avonar feasting wish! Where have you learned those words, woman? And spoken in the most ancient tongue of the Dar'Nethi! Has D'Natheil—How could he have taught them to you?”

“He hasn't. It's my story, Baglos, and I'll tell you some of it, but right now we feast on your magic. What incredible thing have you done with my bits and pieces?”

Whatever the shortcomings of the little Dulcé, they did not include his cooking. Thin slices of ham were rolled up around a savory filling made of bread and nuts and onions. Tart monkberries from the hillside were sweetened with honey and made into a sauce to go over it. To top it all he brought out apples, baked in the coals with butter and honey. Hard to believe they were the hard early apples that were always so tasteless. None of us could get enough. From what conversation went on during the meal, one might think we were all as mute as D'Natheil. Paulo came near bursting with unbridled ecstasy when we gave him the last bites, as well as the pot to scrape.

Jacopo left for Dunfarrie soon after we were done. He bowed politely to Baglos, but granted D'Natheil only a disapproving stare, his terror of sorcery momentarily super-ceded by disgust at the Prince's unmanly behavior. The pleased Dulcé returned the formality. D'Natheil ignored him. Jacopo set out across the moonlit meadow, stopping to wave just before disappearing into the trees.

“That ranks among the finest meals I've ever eaten, Baglos,” I said as we cleaned up the mess, “including those at the tables of kings and nobles. Any great house in Leire would make your fortune were you to agree to manage its kitchen.”

“Please excuse me,” said Baglos, as he wiped the pots and stacked them neatly by the hearth, stood on a chair to hang the net bag of onions in the rafters and set the small tin of salt on my shelf. “But I have great curiosity. What woman who lives . . . excuse me . . . as you do, has ever dined with kings and nobles? And how is it possible that you know the ancient language of the Dar'Nethi?”

While the moon rose above the eastern horizon and a dry breeze nipped at the candle flames, I perched on the table and told the Dulcé and D'Natheil something of myself and something of the J'Ettanne and something of how I had come to live as I did. Not so very much. Only that the descendants of J'Ettanne knew nothing of these things Baglos had told us, that they had been exterminated, and that it was possible my own husband, a Healer, and my son, a newborn infant, had been the last of them.

Baglos was in shock at my story, exclaiming his horror even as he translated it for the Prince. “The Exiles all dead . . . and their gifts outlawed. Burned alive . . . slaughtered at birth . . . Vasrin guide our steps from this place. I think the Lords of Zhev'Na have already won!”

“You see why I believe you've been sent to me? It's possible there's no other soul in the Four Realms who even knows the name J'Ettanne.”

“That seems indisputable.”

“And you see why D'Natheil must do no magic where anyone can see? Make sure he understands that. Our law is absolute.”

“Much is now explained. Will you not tell us more, woman? About J'Ettanne's people, about their life in this land? Why did they no longer come to the Bridge?”

“I told you, they had no lore of a Bridge or of a kingdom such as yours. I've no answers that can help you. As for their life—it doesn't matter anymore.” The past was done. Karon and the J'Ettanne were dead. Dwelling on their stories would not repair that. I hated speaking of them.

When Baglos told D'Natheil all of this, the Prince indicated that he remembered my teaching. He displayed no fear, of course. Bullies never believe they'll experience the kind of wickedness they parcel out. He retrieved his birchwood—now a slender chip the size of his palm—sat himself in the light spilling from the cottage doorway, and began carving on it with the tip of his silver dagger. Once I felt the slightest stirring in the air, a faint sigh that was not the cooling breeze, and I looked over to see him running his fingers over the blade of his knife. I wondered if he was invoking some enchantment, but I wasn't about to ask.