asked Melaia.
“Raiders. Three of the men regularly patrol this stretch of road. The other two are scouts. One of the scouts ran into a Dregmoorian outrider and was nearly cut down before his comrade reached him and joined the fight. He felled the outrider but was too late to help his friend.”
“
I
could have helped him.” Melaia rubbed her arm, feeling completely useless. What good did it do to keep a lifesaving gift hidden? Or to have an angel’s harp and keep it shrouded as if it were dead? It went against her upbringing, her training, her instincts.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” said Trevin, “but that harp does not belong to you. For that matter, as a gift of Lord Silas, you may not even belong to yourself.”
Melaia narrowed her eyes. “I’m not a slave.”
“As chantress serving at Redcliff, you may find little difference.” He poured himself a cup of wine. “But I have a thought. You might keep that harp if you know where I could find another like it.”
Melaia sighed. “I don’t.” She wondered if Benasin did.
“It’s made of kyparis wood,” said Trevin. “Quite rare. You might expect to see something like it in a palace, but at Navia?” He laughed softly. “I’d wager this harp is the only piece of kyparis you’ve ever seen.”
“You think Navia is a backward village, don’t you?” said Melaia. “But it’s not. I’ve seen a cup made of kyparis and a book covered in it as well.”
“Then you’re ahead of me. Not backward at all.” He saluted her with his wine. “I’ll be on the porch. I want to see what’s happening in the yard. That should give you time to ready yourself for sleep. When I come back in, I’ll lie here beside the door. With my dagger.” He slipped out with the cup and wineskin.
Melaia sank to one of the straw pallets, which was thin and moldering. She blanketed herself in her cloak and used her pack as a pillow. The sounds and smells here were frightfully different from those in the peaceful temple at Navia, and she sorely missed the comforting presence of Hanni and the girls.
As she listened to the tide of voices rise and fall in the courtyard, she thought of her training. She knew what to do in cases of grief, illness, birthing, and temple rites, but she had no idea what to do in cases of attractive kingsmen. And she was sorely bothered by something Trevin had said. He had voiced a thought of her own, one she had never let out of its cage.
Slave and priestess, both were bound. Neither was free.
Melaia drew the harp close, slipped her hand beneath the overwrap, and touched the wood. Warm and thrumming, it soothed her soul. But she didn’t allow herself sleep until Trevin returned and she was certain he meant to settle himself at the door.
She awoke shivering with cold. The night was dim, only soft charcoal moonlight drifting through the latticework. She tucked her cloak tighter around her feet and drew the harp closer. Animal sounds and smells permeated the night air, and scratching sounded at the outside wall.
It stopped, started again, stopped again. Rats? She curled her toes. No, bigger. Foxes? Wolves? Draks?
She sat up and murmured, “Trevin?”
A thin line showed under the door where he should have been blocking the light. For a moment all was silent. Then the scratching began again.
“Trevin?”
She listened for his breathing. Nothing. She eased out of her almost-warm mat and crept around the cold, drafty room, squinting into the shadows, drawing away at the touch and smell of the chamber pot, feeling for him, afraid she would find him, afraid she wouldn’t.
When she was certain Trevin wasn’t in the room, she tiptoed to the door and eased it open. It squeaked. A sandy-haired young man about Nuri’s age straightened and blinked sleepily at her from where he had been leaning against the doorframe.
“Who are you?” asked Melaia.
“I’m yer guard, miss,” he croaked. “The kingsman paid for extra protection tonight, and my
“Raiders. Three of the men regularly patrol this stretch of road. The other two are scouts. One of the scouts ran into a Dregmoorian outrider and was nearly cut down before his comrade reached him and joined the fight. He felled the outrider but was too late to help his friend.”
“
I
could have helped him.” Melaia rubbed her arm, feeling completely useless. What good did it do to keep a lifesaving gift hidden? Or to have an angel’s harp and keep it shrouded as if it were dead? It went against her upbringing, her training, her instincts.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” said Trevin, “but that harp does not belong to you. For that matter, as a gift of Lord Silas, you may not even belong to yourself.”
Melaia narrowed her eyes. “I’m not a slave.”
“As chantress serving at Redcliff, you may find little difference.” He poured himself a cup of wine. “But I have a thought. You might keep that harp if you know where I could find another like it.”
Melaia sighed. “I don’t.” She wondered if Benasin did.
“It’s made of kyparis wood,” said Trevin. “Quite rare. You might expect to see something like it in a palace, but at Navia?” He laughed softly. “I’d wager this harp is the only piece of kyparis you’ve ever seen.”
“You think Navia is a backward village, don’t you?” said Melaia. “But it’s not. I’ve seen a cup made of kyparis and a book covered in it as well.”
“Then you’re ahead of me. Not backward at all.” He saluted her with his wine. “I’ll be on the porch. I want to see what’s happening in the yard. That should give you time to ready yourself for sleep. When I come back in, I’ll lie here beside the door. With my dagger.” He slipped out with the cup and wineskin.
Melaia sank to one of the straw pallets, which was thin and moldering. She blanketed herself in her cloak and used her pack as a pillow. The sounds and smells here were frightfully different from those in the peaceful temple at Navia, and she sorely missed the comforting presence of Hanni and the girls.
As she listened to the tide of voices rise and fall in the courtyard, she thought of her training. She knew what to do in cases of grief, illness, birthing, and temple rites, but she had no idea what to do in cases of attractive kingsmen. And she was sorely bothered by something Trevin had said. He had voiced a thought of her own, one she had never let out of its cage.
Slave and priestess, both were bound. Neither was free.
Melaia drew the harp close, slipped her hand beneath the overwrap, and touched the wood. Warm and thrumming, it soothed her soul. But she didn’t allow herself sleep until Trevin returned and she was certain he meant to settle himself at the door.
She awoke shivering with cold. The night was dim, only soft charcoal moonlight drifting through the latticework. She tucked her cloak tighter around her feet and drew the harp closer. Animal sounds and smells permeated the night air, and scratching sounded at the outside wall.
It stopped, started again, stopped again. Rats? She curled her toes. No, bigger. Foxes? Wolves? Draks?
She sat up and murmured, “Trevin?”
A thin line showed under the door where he should have been blocking the light. For a moment all was silent. Then the scratching began again.
“Trevin?”
She listened for his breathing. Nothing. She eased out of her almost-warm mat and crept around the cold, drafty room, squinting into the shadows, drawing away at the touch and smell of the chamber pot, feeling for him, afraid she would find him, afraid she wouldn’t.
When she was certain Trevin wasn’t in the room, she tiptoed to the door and eased it open. It squeaked. A sandy-haired young man about Nuri’s age straightened and blinked sleepily at her from where he had been leaning against the doorframe.
“Who are you?” asked Melaia.
“I’m yer guard, miss,” he croaked. “The kingsman paid for extra protection tonight, and my
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