The Wayfarer King (12 page)

Calie was already moving before Daia was fully in the saddle, no doubt sensing her rider’s urgency. Daia heeled her mount and rode at a gallop to Saliria, not slowing until she reached the main street. She trotted when she could, walked when too many people made it necessary. The streets were busy for a city its size, though nothing like the streets of Tern or even Ambryce. Many gaped at her, pausing to watch the swordswoman go by.

“Lordover Saliria should follow in the Lordover Tern’s footsteps and make a law against women carrying weapons,” someone said. “Go back to the kitchen where you belong, young lady.”

“Shut up, you old coot,” a woman spat. “She might beat the pulp out o’you, and I’d pay her a handsome valour-gild for it too.”

A few people laughed.

Daia stopped. “Would you tell me where I can find the messenger service?”

People quieted and stared, no one answering.

“Please, this is an urgent matter,” she said.

“Two streets to the north,” said the woman who’d spoken earlier. “Sign in front shows an arrow with a scroll wound around its shaft.”

“I got a shaft you can wind around,” someone muttered. Nervous laughter broke out.

“My thanks.” Daia nudged Calie and continued on. By now she’d grown used to the rude comments, though she’d never found humor in them. An unwelcome touch, on the other hand, was an invitation for a bloody nose.

She located the messenger service building, a tiny shack with a creaking floor, but no one was inside. She went through the back door and found a heavyset man, shirtless and sweaty, tending to the hooves of a horse. “Pardon me,” she said. He jumped and startled the horse, making it neigh and sidestep. “I need an urgent message sent right away.”

He measured her with a glance then wiped his hands on a rag. “Come inside. I have a messenger available. It may be a while, though. He’s sleeping after a long ride.”

“I’d appreciate haste. This message is important.”

“Where’s it going?”

“To the Viragon Sisterhood compound in Sohan.”

“My penmanship is excellent. Would you like me to write it for you? No extra charge.”

Daia shook her head. Surely he offered the service for the illiterate customers who couldn’t pen their own messages. “I’ve already written it, though I could use some sealing wax.”

“Very well. Help yourself.” He produced a basket and excused himself to rouse the rider. Daia selected a ribbon with which to tie the rolled paper. She used the flame from a nearby lamp to drip wax on the seam, let it cool a few seconds then pressed her thumb onto the warm blob to seal the letter shut.

The dispatcher returned, breathing heavily. “He’s coming. Getting his boots on. Should be here in a moment. My son is saddling his horse now. We’ll have your message off in a hop-skip.”

“And what is the charge?”

“The normal rate is four kions, but urgent delivery is seven.”

Daia opened her satchel and dug into it for her coin pouch. She counted seven small silver coins into his palm. “Posthaste?”

“Absolutely. Thank you for placing your trust in Arrow Messaging Service.”

Daia left the musty shack and untied Calie’s reins. As she led the horse though the town’s streets, people stopped again to stare.

“You find your friend, Lady Sister?” a man asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Another Sister asked which way you went. I seen you go into the Arrow. She didn’t find you?”

Daia’s throat tightened. “What did this Sister look like?”

“Oh you know, typical Viragon Sister: ugly, board-chested wench with a sword.” He laughed at his own joke. When he saw Daia didn’t join him, he said, “Dark hair, full lips. She had a deep voice for a woman.”

The description sounded like Cirang, the woman who’d framed Daia for another Sister’s murder, the woman who’d given her loyalty to Brodas Ravenkind instead of to the rightful king. Daia returned to the Arrow. The dispatcher looked at her in surprise.

“Lady Sister?”

“Have you seen a Viragon Sister with dark hair? Speaks with a deep voice?”

“No, Lady. Only you.”

“Tell your messenger to watch out for her and do not under any circumstances give the message to anyone other than Lilalian Whisperblade in Sohan.”

“Ah, he’s already left, m’lady. You said it was urgent, so he mounted and rode off with it only a moment after you left here. Never fear, he’s a professional. He wouldn’t let your message fall into the wrong hands.”

“You’d better hope not.”

Chapter 17

After Feanna peeled the eggplants, she set them near the fire to cook. Her knees started to ache, and she pulled over a crate and sat on it. Rogan returned from the barn alone carrying Gavin’s sword, studying it as he walked. “It looks like a fine weapon,” she said.

“Yeh. I’ve never seen the like before. Makes me yearn to be ten years younger and twenty stones lighter.” Rogan patted his belly with a grin. He squatted beside her. “Listen, I know Liera’s been harpin’ on you to meet my brother,” he said in a low voice, “and she means well — for both o’you.” He cast a glance at his wife, perhaps to make sure she was occupied and outside of his hearing. “I thought she was bein’ meddlesome, but this time, she might be right. Don’t tell her I said so.”

Feanna felt a familiar warmth spread across her face. “Rogan, not you too!”

“I got a buzz in my ear sayin’ Gavin wants to court you. His life is complicated, though. Make sure he tells you everything afore you accept. Unless you ain’t interested. If that’s the case, let him down easy, eh? He may look big and tough, but he’s got a tender heart.” Rogan chuckled, patted Feanna’s shoulder and continued toward the house.

Watching Rogan walk away, Feanna considered his words. She’d always liked Rogan, perhaps once or twice wished her husband had been more like him. She’d known the Kinshields for all the seven years she’d lived in her home and thought them lovely people, good, hardworking, honest and caring. Their boys were well-mannered and obedient, and last spring helped sow her field. If Gavin was anything like his brother, she could do worse. Much worse. Still, she wondered how interested a warrant knight would be in taking vows and raising a family. Liera had told her about Gavin’s murdered wife and daughter. With those sorts of memories in his head, how could he forfeit a nomadic life free of responsibilities to start fresh?

Just as Daia returned on her horse, riding it directly into the barn, Gavin came out with his huge, gray warhorse in tow. The animal had been handsome dressed in its leather armor, but now, bareback with mane flowing free, he was magnificent. Leading the animal into the fenced pasture, Gavin called, “Jaesh,” and waved. His deep voice carried easily across the distance.

Jaesh, who’d been kneeling with Trevick and Asiawyth beside a tub while they scrubbed the pig skin, stood and waved back. “Can I, Papa?” Jaesh asked.

“Go on,” Rogan said. “You been waiting long enough for this.”

Jaesh wiped his hands, ducked between the wooden fence rails and ran to where his uncle stood waiting. In his hand, Gavin carried a pair of toy swords. They talked for a moment before he gave Jaesh a boost onto the gray’s back.

She watched them practicing in the pasture. Now and then, the warhorse tossed his head to loosen the reins and bent to nibble the grass. Gavin patiently took him by the bridle and lifted his head, but as soon as the horse quit chewing, down he would go for another mouthful.

Daia came over and sat beside her. There must have been something different about her that stimulated Feanna’s skill, for immediately, Feanna felt her emotions without touching her or
shifting
. Daia watched Gavin with a mixture of concern, affection and admiration. “Is there something I can help with?” she asked.

“Thank you for offering, but I think we have it in hand.” Feanna stole glances at the swordswoman, unable to get over how muscular she was. If not for her breasts and the sparsity of hair on her arms, she might have been taken for a man. Feanna wondered how Daia managed to ride for hours on a horse. Didn’t her breasts get awfully tender from all the bumping? With a bolder look, Feanna saw the outline of corset laces in the front of Daia’s tunic.

“Do you live nearby?” Daia asked her.

“Yes, just down the road.”

“Are you married?”

Feanna hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “No,” she said. She watched Gavin teach his nephew how to steer the warhorse by using body movements. He leaned one way, then the opposite, and Jaesh imitated him. The horse responded by turning or sidestepping.

“Never had the inclination?” Daia asked after a moment.

Feanna bowed her head. “I’m widowed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. How long ago did your husband pass?”

Why all the questions? “A year ago. He died last winter of the lung blight.”

Gavin handed one of the toy swords to Jaesh and held the other in his left hand.

“You have only the four children?”

Feanna thought Daia’s questions were more probing than conversational. Perhaps as a battler, she was more accustomed to bluntness than she was polite conversation. “They’re all orphans, but I think of them as my own.”

Daia looked at her, surprise plain on her face. “Why?”

“Someone needs to look after them. It gives me joy to do it.”

“Were you unable to conceive?”

The image of Henrik caught in an intimate embrace with a man came unbidden to her mind. “That’s a private question and certainly none of your business.“

“I’m sorry. You’re right. That was rude. Please forgive me.”

A minute passed in silence. Daia’s embarrassment hung like a cloud around her, and soon Feanna felt ashamed for having chastised her for a legitimate, if personal, question. “I didn’t mean to snap at you,” she said softly. “There’s no reason I wouldn’t be able to conceive.” Assuming, of course, she married a man inclined to have relations with his wife.

“I don’t mean to pry, but since you’ve caught his eye, I’d like to know you better.”

Was that jealousy she felt emanating from the swordswoman? “I wouldn’t want to come between you,” Feanna said.

“No,” Daia said quickly. “My intentions are pure. I want what’s best for him, and I’ve no interest in a husband for myself. I’m married to my sword.”

While Feanna sensed that was the truth, she also felt Daia was holding something back, perhaps some feelings for Gavin that he either didn’t return or that she kept closely guarded. “I see. Doesn’t that life get lonely?”

Daia studied her feet. “At times, but the decision is entirely my own, which is better than any life chosen for me.”

“Yes,” Feanna agreed. Not all her decisions had been wise, but they had been hers.

“Do you believe in fate?”

An hour ago, Feanna would have said no. Looking at Gavin Kinshield, she wasn’t so sure. “There’s a lot I don’t understand about the world. I’d like to think we have free choice in all things, but I don’t honestly know.”

Daia smiled, evidently pleased with the answer. She exuded approval, acceptance and eagerness as she turned her gaze back to Gavin and Jaesh. “What do you think?”

Feanna looked at her with a quizzical expression. “Of fate?”

Daia tossed her head in Gavin’s direction. “Of Gavin.”

“He seems nice.”

Gavin backed twenty or so paces away from the horse and rider then beckoned them with a hand motion, holding his wooden sword at ready. The horse started forward.

“He’s an honorable, decent person,” Daia said, “and fond of children. That says something about a man, don’t you think?” The horse cantered toward Gavin. “I’m not trying to play matchmaker, but he’s seeking a wife. If you’ve an inclination to remarry—”

“Golam!” Gavin yelled. He started to sidestep, but Golam struck him hard with his shoulder and sent the big man tumbling. He lay still, face down in the grass.

“Gavin!” Daia cried as she shot to her feet and took a few steps toward him. Feanna found herself on her feet as well.

GJ, sitting on the wooden fence rail, leapt off. “Uncle Gavin!” Jaesh slid from Golam’s back and rushed to his uncle’s aid.

Instinctively, Feanna reached for him empathically, but he was too far away. Then something extraordinary happened; a rush of clarity enveloped her mind, enabling her to extend her range and touch Gavin with her skill. He was annoyed but uninjured. “He’s not hurt, just a bit nettled.” She looked at Daia, who gave her that knowing smile again as she returned to the log and sat. “Was that...? Did you...?”

“The Farthans call me a
vusar
— a mystical conduit. My special power is enhancing the abilities of others. I presume yours is some kind of communication?”

The two boys rolled Gavin onto his back then squealed as he suddenly grabbed both boys, pulling them down with him. Their laughter carried across the field.

Feanna laughed too, sharing Gavin’s moment of carefree joy. “No, it’s empathy.”

Chapter 18