Oh, shit.
Really, she needed to increase her range of expletives. Thinking oh, shit over and over again just wasn’t an adequate way to express herself.
Eventually, she and Geraden went back to bed.
The summons of the guard came much too early.
When Geraden stumbled into the sitting room to answer the door, the guard handed him a breakfast tray and said, “The Tor wants you in an hour. In the King’s rooms.”
Outside, the sky was still dark, too full of night to give any hint of dawn.
Today, the march would begin.
The air was unconscionably cold.
Blearily, Terisa asked, “Is there any chance we can get some bathwater?”
“Use all the water you want, my lady.” She didn’t recognize the guard’s voice: he must have come during the night to relieve Ribuld. “No rationing this morning. But you’ll have to heat it yourself. Nobody has time to do it for you.”
“Thanks,” muttered Geraden.
After he had closed the door and put down the tray, he came into the bedroom. “I’ll put a bucket on the hearth,” he offered. “We don’t have time to let it get hot, but at least we won’t freeze to death.”
Pulling a blanket around her, she forced her tired limbs out of bed. Off the rugs, the floorstones were still warmer than the air. On her way to help put more wood on the fires, she asked, “What’s happened to the weather?”
Geraden’s tone conveyed a shrug. “We had an early thaw. Now it looks like we’re having a late freeze.”
Good. Perfect. I love being cold.
When she had put three more logs on the coals in the bedroom fireplace, she nearly climbed into the hearth in an effort to absorb some of the new heat.
Once the logs had begun to burn warmly, however, she went to look for some clothes.
Apparently undaunted by the cold – or maybe simply saving as much warmer water for her as he could – Geraden splashed around in the bathroom for a while; he came out toweling himself urgently. Still wrapped in her blanket, with a pile of the clothes Mindlin had made for her nearby, she set out the breakfast and began to gulp down hot tea, warm porridge. Then, when she and Geraden were done eating, she took the bucket from the hearth and retreated into the bathroom.
She didn’t notice until she had given herself the best sponge bath she could manage, and had started to get dressed, that all her clothes carried a faint smell of blood.
Every garment she had – everything she could possibly wear on horseback, on a march – was stained with a few drops or a small smear of Havelock’s blood.
For a moment, she wanted to break down and cry. The night seemed to have taken the courage out of her, cost her her immunity to panic. But the Adept’s visit meant something. He wanted to be trusted. Or he had promised that he could be trusted. And King Joyse had known all along that Elega and Prince Kragen would become lovers.
Roughly, Terisa washed the fear off her face with the coldest water available. Then she put on a sturdy twill riding habit over some of Myste’s silk undergarments.
Havelock’s vehemence had left a crescent smear on the fabric over the curve of her left breast; but there wasn’t anything she could do about that. As soon as she stopped thinking about it, the smell of blood receded.
Geraden grinned as she emerged from the bathroom. He had found her sheepskin coat and boots.
“What’re you going to wear?” she asked.
He wasn’t worried. “I’ll get something from the guards.”
Sooner than she was expecting, someone knocked on the door again. This time, it was Ribuld. He brought with him a mail shirt and a longsword in a shoulder scabbard for Geraden, in addition to a winter cloak. Something about the way he avoided looking at Terisa made her wonder why he hadn’t brought any protection or weapons for her; but he started talking about the march, and she forgot her question.
“Six thousand men,” he said as he pulled the mail over Geraden’s head. “Two thousand horse. Four thousand foot. Castellan says we can make it to Esmerel in three days. Only sixty miles across the Broadwine, and the terrain isn’t bad. But we couldn’t do it carting supplies. If this translation business works, it’s going to be the biggest thing in warfare since crossbows. Traveling light and fast.”
“Is the guard ready?” asked Geraden.
Ribuld nodded. “But that isn’t the hard part. Armies march on food. If we had to wait for it, we wouldn’t get out of here for two or three more days. That’s another way we save time, having our supplies translated. Orison can keep cooking for us long after we’re gone.”
Getting as much information as he could, Geraden inquired, “How’s the Tor?”
“His physician says he should stay in bed. But he’s got more guts than the rest of us put together.” Ribuld chuckled. “He’s up yelling at everybody.”
A sudden thought alarmed Terisa. “He’s staying here, isn’t he? Somebody has to defend Orison. And he’s in no condition to ride a horse.”
Deliberately, Ribuld continued not meeting her gaze. “You tell him that, my lady. Ever since Lebbick took my hide off for saving you from Gart without orders, I’ve given up arguing with lords and Castellans.”
Geraden’s features seemed to grow sharper. “Who’s he going to leave in command?”
Ribuld shrugged. “Better ask him yourself. That way, he’ll end up yelling at you instead of me.”
Geraden looked at Terisa hard. “I don’t think I like the way this is starting to sound.”
“Come on.” She moved toward the door. “Let’s go see him.”
Geraden followed her with his sword dangling against his hip as if he had no idea what it was for.
Ribuld brought up the rear, brandishing his scar cheerfully.
Outside the peacock rooms, four more guards joined them, an escort to protect them from Master Eremis’ unpredictable resources – creatures of Imagery, the High King’s Monomach, flat mirrors. Terisa found, however, that she wasn’t particularly concerned about a surprise attack here. If that was what Eremis wanted, he could have done it at any time. She felt sure that his real intentions were considerably nastier.
And she was worried about the Tor—
When she and Geraden reached the King’s formal apartment, she noticed the fire blazing in the hearth. Apparently, the lord of Tor felt the cold as badly as she did.
There were four men already in the room: the Tor himself, Castellan Norge, Master Barsonage, and Artagel. Norge stood with his back to one wall, casually at attention: he looked like a man who never needed sleep because he was always napping. In contrast, Master Barsonage seemed to be actually wringing his hands; he faced the Tor and Artagel alternately with a discomfited expression, as if he wanted to intervene but didn’t know what to say.
The Tor and Artagel confronted each other like combatants. The old lord thrust his belly forward assertively; his cheeks were red with wine or exertion. Artagel stood in a fighter’s balanced stance, his hands ready to go for either his longsword or his dagger.
As Terisa and Geraden entered the room, Artagel turned toward them. His grin twisted her stomach. He looked primed for battle, as fatal as his weapons – and yet in some way lost, like a man who needed help he wasn’t going to get against impossible odds.
“Just in time,” he said, denying the Tor the bare courtesy of a chance to speak first. “My lord Tor is a bit confused this morning. He doesn’t realize I’m your bodyguard. You better tell him. I’m your personal bodyguard.”
Master Barsonage cast an unhappy look at Terisa and Geraden, then retreated to give them room in front of the Tor and Artagel.
“Artagel,” the Tor rumbled to them as if he were on the verge of an outburst, “refuses a direct command. He refuses to obey me.”
Terisa looked at Geraden, baffled by the hostility in the room and the knot in her stomach. Geraden’s gaze shifted to Artagel, then back to the Tor. “Don’t tell me, my lord Tor,” he said with a bitterness of his own. “Let me guess. You want him to stay here.”