“They’ll not be here for long. Wherever their mysterious duty takes them, it’s not likely to be Dunfarrie.” And I couldn’t run away. My search for reason and order in the universe had long succumbed to defeat, but I was coming to the conclusion that I had to do something about D’Natheil. When fate opens a chasm underneath your feet or shoves a lava-spewing mountain into your path, you cannot ignore it.
Jacopo laid his thick fingers on my knee. “I know better than to try to keep you out of their business if your mind is made up. And I’ll do your bidding in whatever way a disbelieving old man can do. But I’ll ask you one thing, Seri girl. You must tell Graeme about all this. He’s his own man first, not the king’s nor Lord Marchant’s. If those villains are as wicked as this Baglos says, then Graeme’s going to get himself killed or worse. You know he’ll not leave off.”
Rowan was definitely a puzzle. Did the sheriff even know that the priests were sorcerers, too? Was he corrupt, or merely stupid, or was he a wily villain, planning to lure the priests into the fire once they had led him to other sorcerers? Whichever one, we could afford no dealings with him.
“I can’t tell him anything, Jaco. His duty is to exterminate sorcerers. He lives by the law, no matter the consequence, and by the law, he must turn all of us over to the king. I won’t let him do that. Assuming Paulo wakes up by tomorrow, he’ll take Rowan’s horse back to Grenatte. By the time Rowan returns to Dunfarrie, D’Natheil and Baglos will be gone. Even if the sheriff is determined to be pigheaded, it’ll do him no good.”
“Ask for his help. He’ll listen to you.” Jacopo scratched his grizzled chin and grinned, “I love you dearly, little girl, but if there’s one of you that’s been pigheaded, it’s not Graeme.”
Jacopo’s grin raised my hackles, and I answered more sharply than I should have. “I don’t trust any sheriff. You shouldn’t either. Don’t you dare let him drag you and Paulo into this.”
Before we could argue any further, a bone-cracking slap and a sharp cry sounded from the direction of the cottage. I turned to see Baglos staggering backwards, his hands shielding his face. D’Natheil’s hand was raised for another strike.
“Bence, mie giro !” cried Baglos. “Ne stes damet —”
D’Natheil’s second blow knocked Baglos to the dirt. Blood dribbling from his brow, the Dulcé vainly tried to scramble out of harm’s way, but his master’s foot caught him in the backside and sent him sprawling.
“”Stop it!“ I cried, jumping to my feet and running toward the men. ”What are you doing?“
Another kick caught the fallen Dulcé in the side. “Mie giro, stes vyn —” Another, and Baglos could only grunt instead of finishing his plea.
I stepped between them, trying not to flinch as the back of D’Natheil’s hand flew toward my face. His fair complexion darkened to yet a deeper shade of purple. But the blow did not fall. Rather, he snarled, shoved me aside, and went after Baglos again. He did not continue the beating, but rolled Baglos to his back and yanked something from the Dulcé‘s belt—his own silver knife. Glaring darkly at his cowering servant, D’Natheil sheathed the weapon. His blood-streaked fingers twisted the Dulcé’s purple vest and pulled Baglos’s upper body from the ground until the small man’s face was only a handspan from his own.
“Don’t you dare hurt him again,” I yelled. “That’s enough!”
D’Natheil shifted his cold blue stare to me. Lip curling, nostrils flared, the young man gathered the wad of satin tighter. He needed no power of speech to tell me that he could break the Dulcé‘s neck without reservation, without remorse, almost without effort.
“You. Will. Not,” I said, biting each word and spitting it at him. It seemed to be the only language he truly understood. “You are his prince. You are responsible for him. Tell him, Baglos. Exactly as I said it.”
From his precarious position, the Dulcé closed his eyes and murmured hoarsely.
The moment expanded to fill the space between us. Then, with a hiss of disgust, the Prince slammed Baglos to the turf and walked over to the wide stump where lay the ax and his birch limb. I watched to make sure he planned to use the ax on the wood and not our heads. But he was soon lost in his work again, using the blade to hack long slivers from the chunk of birch. After each cut, he would explore the wood’s thinning shape with his fingers, examine each piece for who knew what, and then raise the ax again.
Baglos had rolled to his side and curled into a ball. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he mumbled. “Did I think he wouldn’t notice?”
“Are you all right?” I knelt beside him and laid a hand on his dark hair. He jerked at my touch and tried to sit up. “No, stay down for a moment, until we see how he’s hurt you,” I said. “Jaco, bring some water.” My friend was already on his way to the stream with a pail and a rag, and soon I was blotting the Dulcé‘s bruised and bloody cheek.
“What Dulcé was ever so stupid?” He waved off my hand, struggled to sitting, and took the rag, pressing it under his nose, which was bleeding profusely. But even the blood paled beside his skin color. Stars of night, he was embarrassed!
“You picked up his knife. He has no call to beat you for it.”
“He thought—” Baglos changed whatever he was going to say. “It is D’Arnath’s blade. I could not see it left in the grass. Dropped. It should not even be here… but in Avonar. D’Arnath’s weapons are—they bear immense—” He took a breath as if to quiet his stumbling. “It was a misunderstanding. He is young.”
“You’re more forgiving than he deserves. To serve a master so unworthy of his position, no matter how important his duties, requires a more generous spirit than mine. When your friend was wounded, you should have let someone else have the ‘honor” of being D’Natheil’s Guide.“ I regretted that D’Natheil could not understand me. I would have told him what I thought of people who beat their servants. ”You needn’t make excuses. I’ve known him for a brute since I first encountered him.“
Baglos shook his head. “It is not his fault he is this way. His life—” He glanced at the oblivious D’Natheil and quickly dropped his eyes to the ground. “My lord’s mother died when he was but a babe. Avonar was at war, and no one had time to see to a boy who was wild from his earliest days. No one worried about his poor training, because it was his oldest brother D’Joran that would be the Heir after his father, and then D’Seto next. Never had a third son been named Heir. But the war worsened and one after the other his father and brothers fell. Then all attention turned to D’Natheil, who had been left to play in the alleys, sleep with the dogs, and eat with the warriors on the walls.”
The Dulcé sighed and blotted his nose again. “He was only nine years old when he became the Heir, a full three years before coming of age. The Preceptor Exeget was named his mentor and guardian. D’Natheil was insolent and prideful and would forever run away. He had no desire to learn of his gifts, or the art of ruling, or the history of his people and their past glory. Master Exeget disciplined him harshly, until the other Preceptors begged him to go easier on the boy, but the master said only that the Zhid would not go easy on the Heir, and one could not disagree with that. And so, my lord progressed… only slowly… in anything but his fighting skills.”
And when the boy was only twelve, so Baglos had told us, his desperate people had sent him into a magical war for which he was unprepared. I rinsed the bloody rag in the pail of water, wrung it out, and gave it back to the Dulcé. “He has no right to hurt you, Baglos. Many people have terrible childhoods and impossible duties, but they live their lives with grace.” How could this callow hothead be kin to the J’Ettanne? “Is he even capable of what’s needed to save your people?”
Baglos was a long time answering, his face hidden in the rag. “He is, dear lady. Whether he wishes it or no.”