Angelaeon Circle 2 - Eye of the Sword (27 page)

He rode up beside Jarrod. “Do we stay at the temple tonight?”

“The Full Sail will be safer,” said Jarrod, “until we determine the mood at court.”

“Lead on,” said Trevin.

Jarrod headed toward the wharves. Trevin wanted to ride straight to Alta-Qan, but the Full Sail would be more hidden and would afford the protection of the angel Paullus. And Cilla, Paullus’s new wife, would know the latest news from the palace, which Trevin was eager to hear.

The heights of the mountainous sea clouds caught the last rays of the sun as the travelers dismounted in front of the Full Sail. Pym and Catellus led the horses to the stable while Trevin, shouldering the pack that held the harp, trudged behind Ollena, Jarrod, and Livia into the tavern. They seated themselves at an empty table, and Trevin set the pack at his feet.

Cilla bustled in from the back room, a buxom woman with a head of brown curls and the aura of angelic yellow. She was laden with mugs, which she served to sailors across the room. Trevin could tell Cilla sensed her angel guests, for she glanced their way as the rowdy sailors teased her.

When she had plopped down the last mug, she turned to Trevin’s table, asking, “Drinks, dinner, or both?”

“Both, Cilla.” Trevin grinned. “And rooms for the night if you have any.”

Cilla’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Trevin! Jarrod! And Livia! I took you for vagabond angels!”

“Most likely we look the part,” said Jarrod.

“Tired and hungry.” Cilla wiped her hands on her apron. “Just you rest. I’ll fetch out a feast.” She hurried through the back door, calling, “Paullus! Paullus!”

Trevin sensed the angel’s presence stirring. A moment later burly Paullus burst from the back room and strode across the tavern. “Welcome!” he boomed. His shirt lay open halfway to his waist, making it hard to tell where his beard left off and his dark, curly chest hair began. Trevin and Jarrod stood to meet him and were engulfed in his arms, a greeting Trevin ranked alongside being hugged by a bear.

Paullus bowed to Livia, then drew back and eyed Ollena. “You’re Angelaeon too.”

By the time Trevin introduced Ollena, Cilla was back with full mugs of ale. As soon as Pym and Catellus joined them, the first serving of a peppered fish stew and brown bread appeared.

“The bard Caepio is at the palace tonight,” said Cilla, setting out honey for the bread. “He’s there most nights now, furnishing music for the king’s parties.”

“An excellent performer,” said Paullus. “Deserving of a royal audience.”

“Parties,” Trevin grumbled, picturing Melaia dancing with Varic. He squeezed his bread so tight a chunk crumbled into his stew.

“The king’s dancing now, is he?” asked Pym.

“I hear his music is either to celebrate his joys or soothe his woes, depending on his mood,” said Cilla.

Trevin dipped the rest of his bread into the thick, dark honey, the color of Melaia’s hair. “And what is his mood today?”

“A bit woeful now that Lady Jayde is off visiting her homeland,” said Cilla. “I imagine when she returns, he’ll feel like celebrating again.”

“The king can choose any woman he wants,” said Trevin. “Why Lady Jayde?”

Cilla tapped her chin thoughtfully. “She’s youthful. A raven-haired beauty. Full of energy. Flirtsome. I suspect she knows how to keep the king’s mind off his worries.”

“Do you hear talk of a wedding?” asked Trevin.

“Oh, there’s talk aplenty,” said Cilla. “Qanreef’s rolling in rumors.”

“Some say there’ll be a double wedding,” said Paullus, scratching his hairy chest.

“So Melaia’s wedding hasn’t happened yet?” asked Trevin.

“Not unless they’ve done it on the sly, which I doubt,” said Cilla. “If I know the king, he’ll make a grand time of it. The whole town will be decked
out. But I doubt the princess will wed until Lady Jayde returns from her trip.” She turned to Pym. “Are you still looking for comains?”

“Have you heard news of them?” asked Pym.

“Could be a dead-end tale,” said Cilla, “but I overheard a bunch of wharf hands trying to outbrag each other about the most famous person they’d ever seen. One claimed he’d seen all the comains and their armsmen traveling toward Alta-Qan, one at a time over the span of a fortnight.” She headed to the back room.

Trevin turned to Catellus. “That would match your story.”

“Maybe we’ve found the shaft of the mine,” said Catellus.

“We should examine shipping records,” said Pym. “Comains and armsmen would fetch a fair price as slaves in the south islands.”

Catellus’s brow furrowed as he turned back to his stew.

Cilla set out a dish of dried fruit—dates, plums, and apricots. Trevin mopped the last of his peppered fish with another piece of bread, popped it into his mouth, and washed it down with ale. Then he snatched up an apricot.

“I’m going for some fresh air,” he said. “Would you watch my pack, Ollena?”

She drew the pack next to her. “Stay close, hmm?”

Trevin palmed the apricot and wove his way out of the tavern. He crossed the torchlit street to a tethering post where he could get a better view of Alta-Qan. Atop the chalk bluff to the east, the palace rose like a dark hulk out of a sea speckled with moonlight.

Trevin had heard what he wanted to hear. Melaia hadn’t married Varic. There was still time. But how much? Turning the apricot over and over in his hand, he paced one street nearer the palace, his eyes on the towers. Her room would be in the rear, impossible to see from this vantage point. Up another street he strolled, then another and another until he found himself across from the main gate to Alta-Qan, which stood open.

Well-dressed couples ambled out of the gate into the balmy night. Arm in arm they meandered down the hill toward the sea walk along the coast.

Trevin sensed a silver light. Melaia. And Serai, apple green.

Out of the gates strode a circle of guards surrounding Melaia’s eunuchs, Serai, and Melaia arm in arm with Varic. The snake smiled, laughed, leaned over and whispered in her ear. She returned his smile with hers.

Trevin shrank back into the shadows, squeezing the apricot in his fist, barely aware of the sticky flesh oozing through his fingers.

Then Melaia glanced his direction, her eyes scanning the street, but her group turned and followed the other couples down the hill.

Trevin knew she had sensed him. He told himself to leave. Now. It would be torture to follow.

But he couldn’t pull away. From where he stood, he could see the first couples heading for a dock where a high-prowed boat waited. Caepio and his musicians stood at one end of the boat, playing their music into the night air.

Trevin retraced his steps to a side street and sprinted toward the coast, taking to the shadows again when he neared the dock. Couples boarded the boat, settling into place along the sides of the vessel. He crept around the dock house and crouched among the rushes, near enough to pick the pouch of the man who loitered there, murmuring to his lady.

Melaia’s group halted a stone’s throw from the dock, waiting for everyone else to board. Then they stepped up to the dock as well.

“Ow!” cried Melaia. She darted away from Varic and for a moment knelt outside the perimeter of guards. “A stone in my sandal,” she said, looking in Trevin’s direction.

Then her guards were around her. When she rose, she tossed the stone toward Trevin, and her group made their way to the boat. Trevin strained to see Melaia, but she was gone.

As the oars drew the vessel into the bay, Serai appeared at the side of the boat and scanned the shore. Trevin stepped into the moonlight long enough to give her a chance to see him.

Then he crouched, wiped his sticky hand across a patch of grass, and began his search for the stone at the side of the road. After a moment he saw a glint of moonlight among the pebbles. At first he thought it might be a coin, but when he picked it up, he saw a small ruby heart.

He looked out to sea. The oars had stopped, and the boat bobbed on the gentle waves, the music floating toward shore. He would give anything to be with Melaia in the moonlight on the waves tonight. But he held hope in his hand. She would wait. And he would make sure she didn’t have to wait long.

On Trevin’s return to the Full Sail, he found Paullus out front, a pipe of pence-leaf between his teeth.

Paullus exhaled a wisp of sweet-scented smoke. “It’s good to be away from the heat and noise of the tavern.”

“Did Ollena send you out to wait for me?” asked Trevin.

“She followed you.” Paullus nodded toward Alta-Qan.

Trevin hissed. He hadn’t sensed her, no doubt because his attention had been focused elsewhere. But now he felt her approach. He crossed the street and leaned casually against the tethering post.

“Nice night for a stroll, hmm?” said Ollena as she passed. “Love this sea air.” She nodded to Paullus and stepped into the tavern.

Paullus ambled over to Trevin and gazed into the sky. “It’s my habit to come outdoors this time of evening and watch the stars. I try to remember how it felt to cross the stairway. My body’s so earthbound now, I wonder if walking the lightbridge will feel like trying to get my sea legs.”

“Or your sky legs,” said Trevin.

Paullus coughed a deep laugh. “Aye, sky legs. That’s what I’ll need.”

Trevin fingered the ruby heart he had slipped into his waist sash. “Do you know the coastline?”

“That I do. Sailed it for many a year before I opened the tavern.”

“How long does it take to reach the Dregmoors by horse?”

Paullus eyed him. “Two days along the coast to Tigerre, the fortress at the mouth of the Davernon.”

“And to cross into the Dregmoors?”

Paullus raised his eyebrows. “With your company? You’d never get in. Malevolents guard the border. They’d sense your angel friends crossing the river and run them through before they could set foot on the ground.”

“No angels. Just me.”

“You might get in, but it’ll be a gamble getting out alive.”

“My wager.”

Paullus looked out to sea. “In that case you have choices. North of Tigerre there’s a ferryman who can take you across the Davernon. That’s one way. Another way is by boat, but any sailor worth trusting will take warning from the fire caves and stay away from the treacherous shoreline. It takes another day sailing east to find good harbor.”

“Fire caves. That’s a strange name.”

“At night the Dregmoorians keep fires burning in the mouths of the caves to warn seamen of rocks and shoals.” Paullus puffed on his pipe. “Superstition of late says there’s another warning as well, a sound they call the Song of the Dead. It’s said shipwrecked souls play the tune to keep others from the same fate.”

Trevin’s heartbeat quickened. “What kind of music?”

“I’ve never heard it myself, but one sailor described it as a lonesome, moan-some lyre.”

Or harp
, thought Trevin. Two days to Tigerre, one to cross the Davernon and reach the fire caves. If the Song of the Dead came from the third harp, with quick, careful work he might return within a week. He looked east and smiled. Dwin wasn’t the only one who could steal into the Dregmoors.

But first, Arelin’s son, seed of wind and heir of fire, would depose a prince and clear his own name.

The next morning from his second-floor window at the inn, Trevin watched Livia and Jarrod eagerly walk their horses toward Alta-Qan while he turned the ruby heart over and over in his palm. He hated letting Jarrod and Livia go without him, but he couldn’t risk running into Varic. Nor could Catellus, whose testimony about the forged scrolls was crucial. His son’s life would be forfeit if Varic or Fornian spied him.

Trevin needed a private meeting with King Laetham, and Livia was going to arrange it. She had promised to let him know when and where it would take place. According to their plan, Jarrod would then bring two priests’ robes with hoods to Catellus and Trevin, and all three would walk through the palace gates together.

Trevin slipped the heart back into his waist sash, paced his room, sharpened his sword, then went down the hall to play dice with Catellus and Pym in their room.

Near midday, running footsteps echoed in the hallway. Trevin felt Livia’s clear blue presence and met her at the doorway.