Flametouched Page 3

  When his body decided it had rested enough and wanted food, it forced his mind to comply. Two sensations came to him with his nascent consciousness: a bright light waited behind his closed lids, and a hand, soft and warm, gripped his. He worked his eyes open, everything a blur in the brilliant sunshine flooding through his bedroom window.

  As he stirred, the hand released. He tried to roll to his side, his wife’s name upon his lips, but the dark hair and statuesque figure beside him evidenced that the woman watching over him was not Emile, but her Lady’s Maid, Orianna Moreshire. She was a pretty, sweet girl, but at eighteen still a girl in Davon’s eyes. Emile liked and took advantage of her obliging, affectionate personality.

  “I’m sorry, Lord Carver,” she said, discerning his disappointment. “The Lady Carver is busy preparing the household for the trip to Tahbor. She asked me to look after you during your convalescence. How do you feel this morning?”

  Dead. Exhausted. Resolved. He took stock of his body. He felt groggy, weak, and sweat soaked. The wounds on his chest itched and burned and he went to rub at them, but Orianna grabbed his hand and prevented him.

  “Saunders was very severe with his instructions. You are not to worry at the wounds. You’ll rip the stitching. It’s an awful thing, my Lord, as painful an injury as I ever saw. We all passed prayers into the fire for you.”

  Davon exhaled and let his hand go limp as his side. “Thank you. How long?”

  “You slept the night before last, throughout the day yesterday, and all through the night. You had a bit of a fever last night, but a few cold compresses put you right. Saunders says you should be up and about soon.”

  Asleep for a day and a half! He struggled to sit up against the pillows, Orianna arranging them for him. Eyes clearing, he saw his kind ministrant’s face clearly for the first time: drawn and tired. She noticed him regarding her and looked away, pulling a stray strand of hair behind her ears. He grabbed her hand and kissed it hastily.

  “Thank you. Please have Ian send up a meal, and then get some rest. I am sorry you were so inconvenienced by my stupidity. You are very kind.”

  She stood and curtseyed. “We’re all happy to serve you however we can, Lord Carver, stupidity notwithstanding. I will inform Saunders and Lady Carver that you are awake.”

  She left and Davon opened his shirt to inspect the wounds. The three lines of stitches were less angry and painful than he expected. Saunders did good work. He slung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, testing his head and limbs to see if they would be equal to the task of getting out of bed. A slight dizziness washed over him and he focused on the brightly lit grounds outside his window to steady himself. Nothing a little food can’t remedy.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall outside and he ran his fingers through his hair and buttoned his shirt. The light, purposeful stride would be Emile on some errand.

  “You are awake then, Lord Carver?” she asked as she entered the room.

  A blue-gray dress today. The invitation to the ball had inspired the faintest trace of color in her outfit. “I am awake.”

  “I trust that Orianna saw you through your ordeal satisfactorily?”

  “Yes.” It should have been you.

  “Good.” She fully entered the room, fanning herself. She was working up the courage to ask him something she feared he wouldn’t like, and he turned back to the window. He knew this routine so well that but for the specific request in question he could predict exactly what she would say. She would start by using his first name, something she only did as a device.

  “So, Davon,” she began, “as you may recall from two nights ago, we were invited to Duke Tahbor’s for the ball. It begins in ten days.”

  “I was informed you were starting preparations today. Why so soon?” Davon asked.

  “The Duchess has invited us to come early. She would like us to arrive a week before the opening ball, which, given the two days carriage ride, means we would need to leave tomorrow or the day after at the very latest.”

  “I see,” Davon replied. He knew what the dreaded request would be now.

  “Since we will be staying an additional week, we will need to hire a wagon to come behind the carriage and carry our additional equipage. Might I have Saunders arrange it?”

  Her tone indicated she was ready for a rejection. Davon usually fought these extra expenditures; with a little clever packing and a few personal sacrifices, the luggage racks on the carriage would suffice. But he hardly cared now.

  “That will be fine,” he agreed. Her fan stopped in mid-wave. It took her several moments to coax it back into rhythm.

  “Will you be quite recovered enough to go tomorrow?” she probed, still pacing.

  Davon thought for a moment. With another day’s rest he could certainly survive a carriage ride, though the rough road wouldn’t do his wounds any favors. But his indisposition actually played to the advantage of his new plan.

  “I’m afraid I will have to follow a few days behind you on Ceril. I doubt Saunders will let me be moved before then.”

  “A pity,” she stated without emotion. “I’m sure the Tahbors will understand when I explain the circumstances to them, so you needn’t worry about causing offense.”

  “Do convey my regrets. I will meet up with you all as soon as I can.”

  “I shall.” She angled toward the door. “What would you have me tell them? That you took a fall?”

  Davon wondered if Saunders had told her about his encounter with the sabercat. Did she think the truth too embarrassing to relate, or was she guessing at his injury based on his previous misadventures?

  “A hunting accident.”

  “Very well. I’ll send Ori to check on you throughout the day.”

  “Let the girl be. The poor thing looked ready to collapse this morning. I’ll have Saunders around. Thank you for coming to look in on me.”

  She frowned, perhaps sensing an accusation. “Get some rest, Lord Carver. Forgive this little intrusion.”

  She left quickly and Davon lay back down and ran over his plan in his head. His wife’s departure would lend him plenty of time to get his affairs in order, and the lonely road between Frostbourne and Tahbor manor provided the dangerous wilderness he needed. The longhorned bison would be in mid migration toward the south, herds like giant dark clouds against the paling fields of autumn. Their destructive movements pockmarked the road for miles, accounting for most of the uncomfortable jolting of the carriage on the way to Duke Tahbor’s manor house. Add to this the predators circling the herd awaiting the weak and weary, and a perfect recipe for an unfortunate accident was mixed.

  Saunders and Orianna entered a short while later. Saunders appraised the wounds and congratulated himself on his own good work. Orianna sat on the bed next to Davon, holding a plate with biscuits, boiled carrots, and ham. Davon realized she intended to feed it to him and took the plate from her. “I can feed myself, Orianna. I think I ordered you to bed.”

  “Just let the girl feed you,” Saunders advised. “You need to move your arms as little as possible to keep from putting stress on the wounds. Go on, my Lord. Give her the plate. And eat slowly or you’ll upset your stomach.”

  Orianna grinned and pried the plate out of his hands. “Just sit back, Lord Carver.”

  Davon complied. “This is ridiculous.”

  Saunders threw him a mischievous look and left while Orianna hummed a pretty tune and forked bits of ham into his mouth.

  “I suppose you’re excited to go with Emile to the Tahbors tomorrow?” Davon asked between bites.

  “Of course…but aren’t you coming?” she asked, face suddenly stricken.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to delay a couple of days to convalesce. Emile will go on ahead.”

  Orianna furrowed her brow. “Surely Lady Carver will delay a couple of days to let you mend! I shall let her know that you are unable to travel tomorrow, and I’m sure she’ll change her mind.”

  “She knows,” Davon informe
d her, and Orianna’s face turned angry. “Don’t blame her, Orianna,” Davon soothed. “She loves these trips to the Tahbors more than shopping, sunshine, and all the feast days put together.”

  Orianna shot to her feet, face a dark cloud, and thrust the plate back into Davon’s hands. “What she should love is you!” she grumped, face on the verge of tears, and then stormed out of the room. Davon was accustomed to Saunders’s bitter commentaries about Emile, but Orianna’s fury took him off guard. The sooner I get out of Emile’s life, the better it will be for everyone.

  Davon retrieved the fork from where it had fallen on the bed sheets and set to work on boiled carrots. Saunders wandered in a few minutes later.

  “What’d you go upsetting Ori about?” he accused. “I’m sure she didn’t deserve it.”

  “She was just upset that I would not be leaving with the party tomorrow. That is all.”

  Saunders shut the door. “You know, Ori is quite a lovely young woman—”

  “Don’t,” Davon admonished, tone sharp, though a mouthful of carrots dulled some of the edge of his ire. Now that Saunders was here, he could take care of one item on his list of things to do before he disappeared. “Have you heard anything about our northern counterparts that we should report to the Queen? Anything the servants have said?”

  Saunders sighed. “Not much to be had,” he reported. “If the northern lords are thinking of upending her royal highness, they are doing a good job of not letting it leak out. Besides an odd increase of traveling between each other’s houses and the regular round of griping about the Queen, there isn’t much to say. Are you sure you’re hunting a real conspiracy and not some shadow in the political forest?”

  Davon was sure of it. The Queen had asked him to keep an ear to the ground two years back for any unusual activities that might threaten her rule. Of course, spying wasn’t in his nature, but once he was aware of the Queen’s concerns, he began noticing little things when he went to the balls and assemblies, activities he detested. Nobles always griped about monarchs, but the tone had turned as bitter as the winter and as malicious as a starving sabercat. It was the kind of talk that led to furtive looks and secret meetings.

  “If there isn’t anything now, there will be,” Davon concluded. “If anything alarming comes up during my absence, let the Queen know.” His plan would mean the Queen wouldn’t have his reports. Hopefully she had others she could trust to keep an eye on her grumbling northern aristocrats.

  “If you’re going to the Tahbor’s, you’ll have a good chance to discover something,” Saunders offered. “All the northern lords will be there—if you can stand to talk to them.”

  Davon grunted. He really couldn’t. “Anything else I should be aware of?”

  Saunders pinched his bearded chin and then smirked. “Well, I did read in the papers that the Aid Society had sent the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company to deliver another load of goods to the ‘poor and needy of Frostbourne.’”

  “Did they?” Davon asked.

  “Of course not,” Saunders answered. “This is the third time we’ve been mentioned as recipients of their charity and the third time no wagon has come. Not sure if they’re lazy or just liars. Should we mention it to the Queen? She endorsed the Aid Society, after all.”

  “Not yet,” Davon answered. “Probably just indolent wagoners not wanting to come this far north. Now help me up. I need to get moving.”

  The next morning, Davon pulled on his black coat—the nicest one he owned—careful not to aggravate the wounds on his chest. His stomach and head still swam every now and again, but the time for Emile to depart had nearly come. His wife was leaving. He would leave, too.

  Above the fire on the mantel he kept a small wooden box with thin strips of parchment and an ink bottle and quill, both emblazoned with the symbol of the Eternal Flame. He pulled a slip of paper from the box and took the ink and quill, moving to his modest desk and sitting. One last prayer for the flame.

  Bless Emile with a safe journey, he wrote. Bless my plan with success so our pain can find an end. Keep Frostbourne safe and prosperous.

  He stared at it for a moment. It was really all he wanted. Reverently, he approached the fireplace and slipped the parchment into the flames. While not the Eternal Flame itself, every flame was a child of that greater one, and as his paper blackened, curled, and disappeared into smoke, he closed his eyes and poured his hopes into the last prayer he would ever pass into the fire at Frostbourne.

  He wasn’t a crying man and was surprised to find his eyes wet when he opened them again. This would be hard. With his handkerchief he dried his cheeks and steeled himself. He must appear as if everything was normal to avoid suspicion.

  A soft knock at the door startled him.

  “They’re nearly packed,” Saunders reported. “Better get out here.”

  Davon found Emile and a frowning Orianna on Frostbourne’s front landing watching the coachmen and footmen wrestle the luggage onto the wagon and secure it. The coach and four was black, commodious, and richly styled. Davon knew his wife wanted to appear the equal of the Tahbors, not as a fawning, low class guest. The dresses she had purchased for herself and her Lady’s Maid were stylish and resplendent, and Davon couldn’t help but feel a pang for the days when Emile dressed like that for him.

  The four members of the Wagon Guard groomed their horses and stowed their more modest belongings in saddle bags. The sun slanted down onto the drive, but a dark head of clouds rumbled to the north. Davon took stock of the wind. Long experience told him the storm would not invade any more southward than it already had—the travelers would have good weather, after all.

  He and Saunders came to stand near the two women while the servants scrambled. Emile barely spared him a glance. Orianna, however, smiled and curtseyed.

  “Good morning, Lord Carver,” she said.

  “Good morning, Miss Orianna,” he returned.

  “Lord Carver looks quite well today, Lady Carver,” Orianna commented. “Perhaps if we delay until tomorrow, he could travel with us.”

  “And have the servants unpack everything? I think not,” Emile stated. “Besides, Saunders said Lord Carver would need at least another two days.”

  “Yes, that is what I said,” Saunders concurred. “Perhaps Orianna should stay behind to tend to Lord Carver as I have my hands full trying to cover all the expense this trip is incurring upon the estate.”

  Orianna’s face brightened momentarily before Emile could darken it again. “I couldn’t possibly travel without my Lady’s Maid. It would be ridiculous. Lord Carver looks well enough to manage by himself.”

  “My wife knows me well,” Lord Carver said. Saunders covered a derisive laugh with a handkerchief and a fake sneeze. Orianna rolled her eyes and looked away.

  “Not to fear, Orianna,” Saunders said as he walked back toward the house. “I’ll try to keep the sabercats away from him until you can see him again.”

  “Sabercats?” Emile asked, expression troubled. “Is that what happened to you, Lord Carver? You were attacked by a sabercat?”

  Saunders’s chuckling at Emile’s comment was cut off as the door shut behind him. Davon cleared his throat. “Yes. The gun misfired and the cat gave me a little scratch. That’s all.”

  “Little scratch!” Orianna exclaimed. “It was a fearsome wound, Lady Carver.”

  “Well,” Emile responded lightly, “I think it best that he rest for a few more days, then.”

  How can there be no compassion? This question he had asked himself many times before. He shoved the thought out of his head; it didn’t matter anymore. After today, their marriage would be finished. After today, they could both start again.

  The mounting of the Wagon Guard signaled the end of packing and stowing. It suddenly struck Davon that this would be the last time he saw his wife, and for the first time since its hatching, he considered abandoning his plan or taking more time to consider it. He had formulated it so quickly that it hadn’t had the benefit of s
easoning, and if he failed it would certainly turn both their lives to misery.

  There had to be some way for him to get through to the woman, to make her respect him at the very least. But then again, hadn’t he tried? He had never been good enough for her, and he didn’t know how or even if he could be what she wanted. She minced toward the carriage without sparing him a backwards glance.

  “Safe journey, Emile. May the Eternal Flame smile upon you,” he called out to her, surprised that he could actually mean it.

  She screwed her face up into one of her practiced smiles. “Thank you.”

  He shook his head. Her mind and her eyes were already at Tahbor manor, Frostbourne and him miles behind even though the carriage hadn’t moved an inch.

  Orianna regarded him wistfully for a moment. “Come quickly, Lord Carver. Take care of yourself.”

  “You too, Orianna. Thank you for you care.”

  “Let’s go, Orianna!” Emile shouted after mounting the carriage. “We’ve got to make Chopsworth by dark or we’ll be sleeping on the road!”

  Orianna hastened inside the carriage, and with the crack of a whip the caravan was underway. Davon watched the horsemen and carriages pull noisily away, his wife not bothering to look back at him or wave.

  That empty, dead feeling crushed him again. He had to go. His plan, however rash, couldn’t wait. He could no longer bear her misery or his own.

  Chapter 4

  Ambassador Horace Clout of Creetis relished early mornings. He liked streets of pristine snow, empty forests and fields, and whispering winds unburdened by the concerns and follies of human voices. He liked being alone, a strange trait for one whose business was manipulating the affairs of thousands of people. Mornings let him think. They let him prepare. Today he would stand in front of Queen Filippa of Bittermarch and accuse her of a crime against his nation that she didn’t commit. His mission relied on his ability to convince her—and her people—of his fabrications.