The Stone of Farewell (107 page)

“Watched what? Oh, never mind. I am not in the mood for one of your roundabout lectures.” She shivered with anger, but could not summon the sense of righteousness she sought. Cadrach had grown more remote over the last few days, observing her from what seemed a disapproving distance. This irritated her, but the continuing flirtation between herself and the earl made even Miriamele somewhat uncomfortable. It was hard to feel truly justified in her irritation, but it was harder still to have Cadrach's gray eyes staring at her as though she were a child or a misbehaving animal. “Why don't you go and complain to some of the sailors?” she said at last. “See how well
they'll
listen to you.”

The monk folded his arms. He spoke patiently, but did not meet her eyes. “Will you not listen to me, Lady? This last time? My advice is not half so bad as you make out and you know it. How long will you listen to the honeyed words of this... this court beauty? You are like his little bird that he takes from the cage to play with, then puts back. He does not care for you. ”

“You are a strange person to talk of that, Brother Cadrach. The earl has given us the captain's cabin, fed us at his own table, and treated me with complete respect.” Her heart sped a little as she remembered Aspitis' mouth at her ear, his firm, gentle touch. “You, on the other hand, have lied to me, taken money for my freedom, and struck me senseless. Only a madman could put himself forward as the better friend after all that.”

Now Cadrach did lift his eyes, holding her gaze for a long moment. He seemed to be looking for something, and his probing inspection brought warmth to her cheeks. She made a mocking face and turned away.

“Very well, Lady,” he said. From the corner of his eye she saw him shrug and walk off down the deck. “It seems they teach little of kindness or forgiving in Usires' church these days,” he said over his shoulder.

Miriamele blinked back angry tears. “You are the religious man, Cadrach, not me. If that is true, you are the best example!” She did not receive much pleasure from her own harsh rejoinder.

When she had tired of watching the dockyard crowds, Miriamele went down to her cabin. The monk was sitting there, staring resolutely at nothing. Miriamele did not want to speak to him, so she turned and made her way above deck once more, then paced restlessly back and forth along the length of the
Eadne Cloud.
Those of the ship's crew who had remained on board were refitting her for the outgoing voyage, some clambering in the rigging checking the state of the sails, others effecting various small repairs here and there about the deck. This was to be their only night on Vinitta, so the crewmen fairly flew through their tasks in a hurry to get ashore.

Soon Miriamele found herself at the rail by the top of the gangplank, staring down once more at the eddying citizenry of the island. As the cool, moist wind ruffled her hair, she found herself thinking about what Cadrach had said. Could he be right? She knew that Aspitis had a flattering tongue, but could it be possible he did not care for her at all? Miriamele remembered their first night on deck, and the other sweet and secret kisses he had stolen from her since, and knew that the monk was wrong. She did not pretend that Aspitis loved her with all his soul—she doubted that her face tormented him at sleeping time, as his did to her—but she also knew beyond question that he was fond of her, and that was more than could be said of the other men she knew. Her father had wanted her to marry that horrible, drunken braggart Fengbald, and her uncle Josua had just wanted her to sit quietly and not cause him any trouble.

But there was Simon ...
she thought, and felt a flicker of warmth cut through the gray morning. He had been sweet in his foolish way, yet brave as any of the noblemen she had seen. But he was a scullion and she a king's daughter... and what did it matter anyway? They were on opposite sides of the world. They would never meet again.

Something touched her arm, startling her. She whirled to find the wrinkled face of Gan Itai gazing up into hers. The Niskie's usual look of wily good humor was absent.

“Girl, I need to speak to you,” the old one said.

“Wh—what?” Something in the Niskie's expression was alarming.

“I had a dream. A dream about you—and about bad times. ” Gan Itai ducked her head, then turned and looked out to sea before turning back. “The dream said you were in danger, Miri ...”

The Niskie broke off, looking past Miriamele's shoulder. The princess leaned forward. Had she misheard, or had Gan Itai been about to call her by her true name? But that could not be: no one beside Cadrach knew who she was, and she doubted that the monk would have told anyone on the ship—what such news might bring was too unpredictable, and Cadrach was trapped out on the ocean just as she was. No, it must have been only the Niskie's odd way of speaking.

“Ho! Lovely lady!” A cheerful voice rang up from dockside. “It is a wet morning, but perhaps you would like to see Vinitta?”

Miriamele whirled. Aspitis stood at the base of the gangplank with his men-at-arms. The earl wore a beautiful blue cloak and shiny boots. His hair danced in the wind.

“Oh, yes!” she said, pleased and excited. How wonderful it would be to get off this ship! “I'll be right down!”

When she turned, Gan Itai had vanished. Miriamele frowned slightly, puzzled. She suddenly thought of the monk sitting stone-faced in the cabin they shared and felt a twinge of pity for him.

“Shall I bring Brother Cadrach?” she called down.

Aspitis laughed. “Certainly! We may find use in having a holy man with us who can talk us out of temptations! That way we may come back with a few cintis-pieces left in our purses!”

Miriamele ran downstairs to tell Cadrach. He looked at her oddly, but drew on his boots, then carefully chose just the right heavy cloak before following her back up the ladder.

 

The wind rose and the rainshowers became heavier. Although at first it was enough merely to walk along the busy waterfront with the handsome, sociable earl beside her, soon Miriamele's excitement at being off the ship began to wear away. Despite the pushing crowd, Vinitta's narrow streets seemed sad and gray. When Aspitis bought her a chain of bluebells from a flower seller and tenderly hung them around her neck, she found it all she could do to smile for him.

She thought of her father sitting alone in his room, of the chilly, distant face he sometimes wore like a mask—a mask that he had come to wear more and more frequently in her last months in the Hayholt.
Cold bones and cold hearts,
she sang quietly to herself as the Earl of Eadne led his party down Vinitta's rain-slicked byways.

Just before noon Aspitis took them into an eating hall, where Miriamele immediately felt her flagging spirits begin to revive. The hall had a high ceiling, but the three large fire pits kept it warm and cheery while at the same time filling the air with smoke and the smell of roasting meat. Many others had decided the hall might be a nice place to be on this bitter morning: the rafters echoed with the tumult of diners and drinkers. The master of the hall and his several assistants were being worked to the utmost, thumping jugs of beer and bowls of wine onto the wooden tables, then snatching the proffered coins in a single continuous movement.

A crude stage had been set up at the hall's far end. At the moment a boy was juggling between acts of a puppet play, doing his best to keep several sticks in the air while suffering the drunken jests of spectators, using his feet—his only available extremities—to stop the occasional coin that came bouncing up onto the stage.

“Will you have something to eat, fair lady?” Aspitis asked. When Miriamele nodded shyly, he dispatched two of his men-at-arms. His other guardsmen unceremoniously removed a large family from one of the pitted tables. Soon the original pair of soldiers returned with a crackling haunch of lamb, bread, onions, and a generous supply of wine.

A bowlful soon drove away much of Miriamele's chill, and she found that the morning's walk had given her a considerable appetite. The noon bell had scarcely rung before her food was gone. She readjusted her position on the seat, trying to avoid an unladylike belch.

“Look,” she said, “they're starting the puppet play. Can we watch?”

“Certainly,” Aspitis said, waving his hand generously. “Certainly. You will forgive me if I do not come with you. I have not finished my meal. Besides, it looks like a Usires play. You will not think me disrespectful if I say that, living in the lap of Mother Church, I see them frequently enough—in all varieties, from the grandest to the meanest.” He turned and signaled one of his men to accompany her. “It is not a good idea for a well-dressed gentle lady like yourself to go unprotected among the milling crowd.”

“I am done eating,” Cadrach said, standing. “I will come too, Lady Marya.” The monk fell in beside the earl's guardsman.

The play was in full swing. The spectators, especially the children, shrieked with delight as the puppets capered and smacked each other with their slapping-sticks. Miriamele, too, laughed as Usires tricked Crexis into bending over, then delivered a kick in the seat to the evil Imperator, but her smile soon faded. Instead of his usual horns, Crexis wore what looked like a crown of antlers. For some reason this filled her with unease. There was also something panicky and desperate in Usires' high-pitched voice, and the puppet's painted, upturned eyes seemed unutterably sad. She turned to find Cadrach looking at her somberly.

“So we labor to build our little dams,” the monk said, barely audible above the shouting throng, “while the waters rise all around us.” He made the sign of the Tree above his gray vestments.

Before she could ask him what he meant, a rising howl from the crowd drew her attention back to the puppet stage. Usires had been caught and hung wrongside-up on the Execution Tree, wooden head dangling. As Crexis the Goat prodded the helpless savior, another puppet appeared, rising from the darkness. This one was clothed all in orange and red tatters of cloth; as it swayed from side to side in an eerie dance, the rags swirled, as though the puppet were covered with licking flames. Its head was a black, faceless knob, and it carried a small wooden sword the color of mud.

“Here comes the Fire Dancer to throw you down into the dark earth!”
Crexis squealed. The Imperator did a little dance of joy.

“I do not live by the sword,”
the puppet Usires said.
“A sword cannot harm that which is God within me, that which is silence and peace.”
Miriamele almost believed she could see its motionless lips mouthing the words.

“You can be silent forever, then—and worship your God in pieces!”
the Imperator shouted triumphantly as the faceless Fire Dancer began to hack with its sword. The laughing, screaming crowd grew louder, a sound like hounds at the kill. Miriamele felt dizzy, taken as though with a sudden fever. Fear growing within her, she turned away from the stage.

Cadrach no longer stood beside her.

Miriamele turned to the guardsman on the other side. The soldier, seeing her questioning look, whirled in search of the monk. Cadrach was nowhere to be seen.

 

A search of the eating hall by Aspitis and his men turned up no trace of the Hernystirman. The earl marched his party back to the
Eadne Cloud
through the windswept streets, his furious mood mirroring the angry skies. He was silent all the long walk back to the ship.