The Hero's Lot (31 page)

Martin glanced at the sun. He'd missed his morning prayers. People milled around the docks, paying him little attention. He pulled the emblem of his faith from inside his tunic and knelt in the bottom of the boat, facing as close to east as he could approximate. As soon as his knees touched wood, the liturgy sprang to his lips.

Once he completed his daily office, he ran down the list he kept in his head of each intercession that needed to be made. It kept growing. So lost he became that he didn't note the sound of footsteps until they were upon him.

“Well now, what have we got here?”

Martin jerked at the nearness of the voice. Beside him, two men, rough and dirty, stood at the edge of the pier. They smelled sour, wearing the sweat of men drinking early or perhaps still drinking from the previous day.

He nodded toward the two. “Good morning.”

“What's good about it, eh?” the first man asked.

“There's always something to be thankful for,” Martin answered without thinking.

The hiss of daggers leaving sheaths raised Martin's hackles.

The first man gestured toward Martin with the point of his dagger. “Hulbert, I think this one's a priest.” He caught Martin's eye. “I don't like priests.”

“Nope, Orace, you don't,” Hulbert said. “No reason for you to either, after that priest 'ad you excommunicated for messing with the mayor's twelve-year-old daughter. Nope, no reason you should like priests 'tall.”

Martin looked left and right. The pier that had seemed so crowded only moments ago now appeared almost deserted. With an evil gap-toothed grin, Orace advanced toward the boat.

Before he could put foot in the boat, the blade of a sword appeared at his neck. “You know the rules,” Shal said. “Any man who takes a life in Refuge forfeits his own.”

Orace tried in vain to see the sword blade at the side of his neck without moving. Slowly, he replaced his dagger and lifted his hands. Hulbert copied the move. Shal stepped back but didn't sheathe his weapon. “I have your names. I think it would be best if I didn't see you anymore.” At their blank looks, he ground his teeth. “Get out of my sight.”

Orace gave Martin a flat stare. “If I ever get out of Refuge, I might just look you up, priest.”

“What were you doing?” Shal asked after they departed.

“Morning prayers.”

The lieutenant gave a deep sigh. “Can you do it without looking like a priest?”

Martin nodded. “Is there something about Refuge that you neglected to tell me?”

Shal gave a brief shake of his head. “You're an outsider. Whatever the council deems necessary to tell you about Haven, they will tell you. Until then, draw no attention to yourself.”

Shal loaded a pack he'd dropped into the boat and followed
it. He cupped a handful of red berries and popped them into his mouth.

“Do you have any more?” Martin asked. The groaning of his stomach made him less courteous than usual.

The lieutenant laughed. “Yes, but I don't think you want any. These are chara berries. We use them to help fight off sleep—effective, but bitter.” He pointed to the pack. There's cheese, bread, and water in the pack. It should last us the three days to the capital city.”

After Martin ate, a process that took a considerable time, the boat's gentle movements lulled him back to sleep. One day, he hoped to sleep in a bed again.

 30 
Blood Rose

L
IGHTS FESTOONED
the rolling hills of Count Rula's estate. In honor of his daughter's wedding, the count produced barrels of the finest wines his vineyards produced, and a steady stream of the area's nobles rolled onto the estate by carriage. Men in tight-fitting hose and doublets with boots polished to a high sheen accompanied radiant women in the traditional dress of the region. Each man wore his sword, the thin dueling type, strapped to his waist. Every woman wore a chain of coins around her neck, a white blouse surmounted by a heavily embroidered vest, and a skirt belted with another chain of gold coins. Though each woman's dress strongly resembled the rest, disparities remained that allowed Errol to perceive differences in wealth or status.

Rokha and her father emerged from their self-imposed exile to attend. Errol breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed Naaman Ru kept his distance from the count. Rale stepped beside him, resplendent in an all-black outfit Rula provided for the occasion. Each member of the watch in Errol's company was similarly attired.

Except for Errol. Rula's chamberlain had taken charge of Errol's appearance, showing an attention to detail that Oliver Turing would have admired. Errol strove to keep himself from fidgeting in the finery; he was Rula's guest, after all. As his host introduced him to each new arrival, he bowed politely. Men squinted at him, tomcats eyeing a rival, while women gave him speculative glances as they smiled and checked his hands.

A raven-haired beauty with large brown eyes and olive skin, the daughter of a minor noble, gave him a smoldering look that made his ears burn. Errol stammered his greeting, then found himself being pulled aside by Rale.

“How much do you know about Basquon weddings?” Rale asked.

Errol shook his head.

The captain winced. “Take care, lad. These people are as hot-tempered as they are hot-blooded. A wrong word and you'll find yourself dueling or betrothed.”

Errol swallowed with difficulty. “Did I do anything bad just now?”

Rale laughed. “No, but be careful. Basquon weddings often flow red with more than just wine.”

Errol gulped and kept his greetings perfunctory after that. His hands hung at his sides, empty, and for the first time in his life he wished he owned a sword. At least then he could rest one hand on the pommel as the other men did. Not for the first time, he reflected that the world would be a better place if more men used a staff. His two spans of ash would have been totally out of place at a wedding—even he realized that—but he missed it all the same.

“Honored guests,” Rula said from atop a balcony overlooking the courtyard, “be welcome to the wedding of the flower of my life, my daughter, Elaia. Once you have refreshed yourself, we will begin our celebration in earnest.”

Errol looked around trying to determine what he should do next, but Rale was nowhere to be found. He spotted Rokha surrounded by a cluster of women who all seemed intent on
getting to know her. Of course. She would be a long-lost cousin to many of them.

With a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and headed her way. She turned as he neared, warned by the glances her companions sent his way. Rokha dropped a perfect curtsy, her skirt flaring. “Earl Stone, how may I serve you?” The rest of the ladies mimicked Ru's daughter. For a moment Errol felt sure they were making sport of him.

“Uh, I was hoping you might spare a moment to advise me.” He stopped, unsure of how to address her. “Lady Ru.”

Rokha's full lips pursed in amusement as she rose, taking his arm. “Certainly, Earl Stone. Shall we walk?” Without waiting for an answer, she led Errol away.

“I'm surprised you sought me out, Errol,” Rokha said once they were beyond earshot of the other guests. “I'm sure your princess looks ravishing tonight. That golden hair of hers will make her stand out like a peacock among ravens.”

Errol scratched his head. “I can't tell from one moment to the next what she's thinking. Ever since we left Erinon, it's like she's a different person.”

Rokha nodded. “She's the same person, Errol, but she's in a completely different environment. I have to admit, I was surprised she wanted to learn the sword.” She gave him a sidelong glance and a smirk. “I think you're going to have your hands full with her. Are you sure she's the one for you?”

“Can we talk about something else?”

Rokha's deep-throated laugh brought a touch of heat to his cheeks. She lifted a wine glass from a passing tray, took a deep pull. For a moment Errol wished he could join her, but his stomach roiled at the thought.

“If you didn't want to talk about the princess, why did you seek me out?” Rokha asked.

Errol swung his arm in an arc. “This. I don't know what to do. I thought you might be able to tell me.”

She smiled. “Just enjoy yourself, Errol. It's a wedding, not a fight.” She paused. “Although Basquon celebrations include those
on occasion. We're a passionate people.” She patted his arm. “Just watch what the other men do and do the same.”

Errol nodded, but the constant attention he received as the highest-ranking noble present and his unwanted fame made him very ill at ease. He wanted nothing more than to find a secluded place and work with his staff or the twin swords.

A plump woman—the count's cousin, he thought—approached and linked her arm through his. He groped for her name.
Lady Pelela.
“Come, Earl Stone. The bride is about to dance the desposorios.”

Helpless, Errol accompanied the woman to a large tent where Rula's daughter and several striking young women about his age formed a line on a wooden floor that had been installed for the occasion. Errol joined the throng at the edge as a drummer began a slow, rhythmic beat. An instant later a stringed instrument joined in, its high, clear notes enforcing and accentuating the strike of the drum.

The women on the floor linked their hands in a weave pattern, swaying side to side with the music. Rula's daughter, similarly dressed but adorned with a crown of white roses, stood in the center. Then, as the pace of the music increased, the line of girls advanced in a challenging swagger, their eyes flashing.

A girl close to the end locked gazes with Errol as she came forward. He felt his face redden. As the line came to the end of the platform, the girls stomped in unison and retreated back to the far end, where they resumed their rhythmic sway.

A line of men stepped forward onto the platform, their hands joined as the girls had, and began stepping toward the line of women. The heels of their boots tapped a counterpoint to the music as they approached the women, almost stalking them. Step. Step. Step-step-step.

The women danced forward, their feet pounding the floor, and the men retreated. Once again the girls stomped and returned to their starting place, except for the girls on the end, who took the hands of the men opposite and departed the floor. The process repeated, the crowd clapping in time to the music.

“Have you ever seen the desposorios, Lord Stone?” Lady Pelela asked.

Errol shook his head. “It's beautiful.”

The countess laughed. “Oh, that was only the prelude. Now you will see why the women of Basquon are counted the most beautiful in the world.”

All of the girls danced their way off the stage accompanied by men, until only the prospective bride remained. Four young men, nobles who appeared to range in age from twenty to forty, stood at the corners of the floor. Each held a rose of a different color. Elaia, raven-haired and dark-eyed, moved forward from the center of the floor, her feet pounding a staccato challenge in time to the music.

“She dances well,” the count's cousin said. “But in my day I was accounted the best in Basquon.”

The idea that this plump, simpering woman on his arm could have made men's faces heat the way Rula's daughter did startled him. “Truly?”

Her eyes flashed beneath lowered brows. “Believe it, Earl Stone. I could have turned your knees to water.” She turned back to the dance. “Elaia will dance with each man, taking his rose at the end. Then she will present all four to the man of her choice. If he accepts them, the priest will bless them and they will be married.”

Errol looked at the four men on the floor. Each looked upon Rula's daughter with single-minded intensity. “Who will she choose?” Errol asked.

Lady Pelela sighed. “Back in my mother's day, or even in mine, you wouldn't know until the end, but too many duels spoiled the tradition. We've become much like the northern provinces.” She shrugged her ample shoulders. “The dance is mostly for show. Elaia is betrothed to Count Maren.” She pointed. “That's him in the red shirt.”

Errol had to admit Elaia's choice looked impressive. Maren stood a good four inches taller than the other men, and his face filled with adoration when he looked upon Rula's daughter. Errol wondered if he looked like that when Adora was near.

The count's daughter danced with each man, her steps fluid and her skirt accenting her flirtation. One by one she collected each of the roses. Spinning in time to the music, she curtsied low at Maren's feet, holding the roses in offering.

Maren knelt on both knees to accept them.

“That was unexpected,” the count's cousin said.

“What?”

A tinge of pink decorated the woman's cheeks, and she wiped away a tear. “A bridegroom usually kneels on one knee to show that he will honor his wife and his duty equally. Maren's gesture says he will place his wife above all.” She sniffled. “Forgive me. I'm a sentimental old woman.”

“Oh,” Errol said. He didn't quite keep the note of disappointment from his voice. From the lady's reaction, he'd expected something more.

“We are a passionate people, Earl Stone. Once done, such a gesture cannot be undone. For the rest of his life, Maren will be judged by how he lives his vow.”

A priest, robed in gleaming white, came forward to perform the rite of marriage. A few sentences later, it was done.

Errol turned to leave, but Lady Pelela restrained him. “Oh, you can't leave yet, Earl Stone. The maidens will expect you to dance the eskaintza.”

Something in her manner warned him. Perhaps it was the hint of a smile he feared was at his expense or the way her eyes fluttered, but his first instinct was to get as far away as possible.

“I don't know how to dance, my lady. I'm afraid I would dishonor the count's hospitality by my clumsiness.”

“Nonsense, my lord. The count would only be dishonored if you refused. Just do what seems right to you.” She clenched his arm and guided him toward the floor. Errol floundered, helpless to escape. He either allowed himself to be herded or risked making a scene by fending off the count's cousin in front of Rula's guests.

Lady Pelela deposited him on the dance floor and returned to her place on the perimeter. At the far end of the floor a group
of young women jabbered excitedly. They each rushed to a table next to the musicians to grab a pink rose and then formed a line.

As the music played they came forward. The laughter of the crowd, raucous and focused on him, reminded him too much of his days as the drunken buffoon. He looked about, panicked, searching for an escape. The first woman came forward, lithe, athletic.

Rokha.

With a saucy glance she spun around him, brushing his shoulders with hers, holding the rose out for him to accept. Without thinking, he reached for it. She spun, keeping the bloom beyond his grasp, and then leaned in.

“Whatever you do, don't take the rose,” she said through her smile.

He rubbed his nose. “Why not?”

“It's a betrothal dance, you idiot. You're an unmarried earl at a wedding filled with mothers who are trying to set up an advantageous marriage for their daughters.”

He stared.

Rokha brushed his cheek with the petal of the rose. He cringed as if it were the sharpest steel. “You're the biggest prize here, Earl Stone.”