Prince of Fire and Ashes: Book 3 of the Tielmaran Chronicles by Katya Reimann Page A
Book: Prince of Fire and Ashes: Book 3 of the Tielmaran Chronicles by Katya Reimann
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Authors: Katya Reimann
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anything—” Martin said, suddenly intense.
“I try not to ask for impossible things.” She patted her horse’s neck, at once apologizing to it and comforting herself. “We have a bridge to cross. That’s clear enough.” Ignoring Tullier’s look of glee—though clearly he did not have the least idea what they were arguing about, or what they were trying not to argue about—she swung away, looking for the Sharif, and female comfort.
The Ardanae war-leader had dropped to the back of the party. Her eyes met Gaultry’s. The woman shrugged. Arguing again? she asked. They’re proud men. They both want your first loyalty. Despite brutal fatigue that made her slump in the saddle, the Sharif’s mind-voice pierced Gaultry through, clear as ever. The woman had suffered tremendous hardships: as a casualty of war, as a slave chained to an oar, and then in her flight with Gaultry across half of Southern Bissanty. Gaultry wished she had served the woman better—but there had never been adequate time to rest and recoup their strength.
The Sharif could share the voice of her mind—a voice that was deeper than language—only with those she trusted. Sometimes it amazed Gaultry that the woman could still communicate with her so, after all they had endured, after all her bad choices as the little party’s nominal leader.
Tell Aneitha she must find a place to cross the river. The bridge is too crowded.
The Sharif sat up in her saddle and straightened her shoulders, the desert yellow of her eyes focusing inward. For a moment, she looked strong and handsome, in command of her body and her mount. Then a deep shudder wracked her chest, as even what should have been for her the
simple effort of reaching out exhausted her. It’s done . The proud shoulders slumped and she rolled tiredly in her saddle.
Even so, when Gaultry shot the woman an anxious glance, she answered with a good-humored smile. Far better Aneitha to make such a crossing than me. The desert-woman could not swim, and her adventures with Gaultry had not made her love water any better. At least this time I get a bridge.
Never fear! Gaultry said, hoping to be cheering. There’s a bridge for every crossing from here all the way to Princeport. We’re a civilized people, in Tielmark.
I believe what I see with my own eyes, Gautri . The Sharif smiled, and rubbed the base of her neck. The thick black hair she had lost to the lice of the slaver’s hold grew longest there, and she had gotten into a habit of tugging at those short strands.
We’ll show you we’re civiLized, Gaultry assured her.
I believe what I see , the Sharif answered, a little more seriously. More now than ever.
chapter 2
The crossing bridged the narrowest point between hard granite banks. As they neared, the reason for the gathered crowd became obvious. The bridge was narrow and much-repaired, so overgrown with vines that it was difficult even to see the age-whitened boards from which it had been constructed. The center of its three short spans sagged dangerously. The bridgekeeper, a stout, dark-haired man with an enormous belly, collected two-penny tolls and directed the marketgoers into ragged lines on both the banks, ensuring that the bridge never bore the weight of more than a handful of travelers and their livestock, or the mass of a single cart or wagon.
From a distance, Gaultry conceived a fanciful impression that the entire structure was held together only by the unusual wealth of ivy that swarmed up over its sides and supports. Coming closer, she was appalled to discover imagined whimsy was actual fact. A spindly, vine-covered arch had been erected on the bridge where it went onto the first piling. As she approached, she saw that it was marked with the hex-signature of an Emiera Priestess who had grafted the vines to the bridge to keep it from collapsing. From the hex-signature, she read that the work was dated for new attention—as of three years prior.
“This is Tielmark’s High
“I try not to ask for impossible things.” She patted her horse’s neck, at once apologizing to it and comforting herself. “We have a bridge to cross. That’s clear enough.” Ignoring Tullier’s look of glee—though clearly he did not have the least idea what they were arguing about, or what they were trying not to argue about—she swung away, looking for the Sharif, and female comfort.
The Ardanae war-leader had dropped to the back of the party. Her eyes met Gaultry’s. The woman shrugged. Arguing again? she asked. They’re proud men. They both want your first loyalty. Despite brutal fatigue that made her slump in the saddle, the Sharif’s mind-voice pierced Gaultry through, clear as ever. The woman had suffered tremendous hardships: as a casualty of war, as a slave chained to an oar, and then in her flight with Gaultry across half of Southern Bissanty. Gaultry wished she had served the woman better—but there had never been adequate time to rest and recoup their strength.
The Sharif could share the voice of her mind—a voice that was deeper than language—only with those she trusted. Sometimes it amazed Gaultry that the woman could still communicate with her so, after all they had endured, after all her bad choices as the little party’s nominal leader.
Tell Aneitha she must find a place to cross the river. The bridge is too crowded.
The Sharif sat up in her saddle and straightened her shoulders, the desert yellow of her eyes focusing inward. For a moment, she looked strong and handsome, in command of her body and her mount. Then a deep shudder wracked her chest, as even what should have been for her the
simple effort of reaching out exhausted her. It’s done . The proud shoulders slumped and she rolled tiredly in her saddle.
Even so, when Gaultry shot the woman an anxious glance, she answered with a good-humored smile. Far better Aneitha to make such a crossing than me. The desert-woman could not swim, and her adventures with Gaultry had not made her love water any better. At least this time I get a bridge.
Never fear! Gaultry said, hoping to be cheering. There’s a bridge for every crossing from here all the way to Princeport. We’re a civilized people, in Tielmark.
I believe what I see with my own eyes, Gautri . The Sharif smiled, and rubbed the base of her neck. The thick black hair she had lost to the lice of the slaver’s hold grew longest there, and she had gotten into a habit of tugging at those short strands.
We’ll show you we’re civiLized, Gaultry assured her.
I believe what I see , the Sharif answered, a little more seriously. More now than ever.
chapter 2
The crossing bridged the narrowest point between hard granite banks. As they neared, the reason for the gathered crowd became obvious. The bridge was narrow and much-repaired, so overgrown with vines that it was difficult even to see the age-whitened boards from which it had been constructed. The center of its three short spans sagged dangerously. The bridgekeeper, a stout, dark-haired man with an enormous belly, collected two-penny tolls and directed the marketgoers into ragged lines on both the banks, ensuring that the bridge never bore the weight of more than a handful of travelers and their livestock, or the mass of a single cart or wagon.
From a distance, Gaultry conceived a fanciful impression that the entire structure was held together only by the unusual wealth of ivy that swarmed up over its sides and supports. Coming closer, she was appalled to discover imagined whimsy was actual fact. A spindly, vine-covered arch had been erected on the bridge where it went onto the first piling. As she approached, she saw that it was marked with the hex-signature of an Emiera Priestess who had grafted the vines to the bridge to keep it from collapsing. From the hex-signature, she read that the work was dated for new attention—as of three years prior.
“This is Tielmark’s High
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