raiders go elsewhere.”
“You have that kind of authority?”
“I’m an envoy of someone who does. I sent them south.”
“South?” She gaped at him.
“That’s better than north.” Trevin slipped on his cloak, gray side out. “Pack up, and let’s get downstairs. The caravan master will want to leave as soon as he judges it’s safe.”
“And you’ll tell him it’s safe to journey north, because you sent the raiders
south
. Toward Navia.”
Trevin whirled, his finger to his lips. “I’ll not tell him, and you’ll not tell him.” His voice was low and stern. “No one is to know what you’ve seen and heard. If you let it slip, I’ll be forced to deny it and say that you and I … kept each other warm last night.
All
night.” He grabbed his pack. “I’ll meet you at the bottom of the stairs.”
Melaia glared after him, then turned and took her time gathering her belongings. Let him wait.
Amid clanking and jangling, neighing and lowing, the caravan assembled outside the caravansary walls.
Melaia perched on the front seat of the actors’ wagon beside the troupe’s stout leader, Caepio, whose eyes still held the dark puffiness of interrupted sleep. His actors, covered in cloaks, lay snoring in the back. Everyone in the caravan wore a similar groggy gaze, thanks to a short, worrisome night. Melaia suspected her eyes looked the same.
Trevin, leading his horse, walked up to her and held out a dried apricot. “This cost me dear,” he said, “but I mean it to be a guilt offering from a ruffian.”
Melaia took the golden leathered fruit. “For what?”
He lowered his voice. “For being rude to you last night—and this morning.”
“Your apology is accepted,” she said. “I absolve you of wrongdoing.”
“That sounds official.” He half smiled.
“It’s one advantage of having a priestess nearby.”
“I sent a messenger to Navia to warn them of raiders,” he said. “It’s the best I can do.”
Melaia hoped it would be enough. As she took a rich, sweet bite of apricot, a shout went up from the caravan master. Trevin mounted, and when the procession began snaking north toward Redcliff, he trotted ahead. Two draks glided high above. Melaia took some comfort in the fact that the birds didn’t look her way.
The innkeep, watching from the archway with her spear, held three fingers to her heart as the actors’ wagon passed. Caepio nodded to her and held up three fingers himself.
Melaia studied his drowsy face with its spot of dark beard in the center of his chin. “Are you an angel?” she asked. “Is the innkeep?”
He blinked at her sleepily. “Are you?”
Melaia laughed. “No, but I’ve met two. Maybe three.”
“Ah. Well, I was raised by an angel, though I can’t claim such a role myself. As for the innkeep, she’s a true angel and worthy. Which is why her inn is tolerably safe. The malevolents sense her light—an emanation of color, I’m told. At any rate the malevolents usually keep their distance.”
Melaia recalled Hanni mentioning a malevolent. “Who are malevolents?”
Caepio squinted at her. “Do my ears trick me, priestess? You know two angels but have no knowledge of malevolents?”
Melaia stared at her hands clasped in her lap atop the wrapped harp. “A fortnight ago I thought that after the fall of the Wisdom Tree, angels no longer lived in this world.”
“You’ve not heard a true and honest actor tell the tale then.” Caepio straightened and held up his forefinger. “Ah!” he began. Then he slumped. “Methinks it too early in the day to tell tales. Even true ones.”
“I’m a chantress myself. I’ve told the tale a score of times. But I think I learned the ending wrong. Does it have to do with malevolents?”
“Aye, it does, Chantress. You see, when the Wisdom Tree came to its despicable end, and the stairway to heaven with it, many angels were stranded in this world. Trapped, as it were. Some swore allegiance to the Second son. Or
“You have that kind of authority?”
“I’m an envoy of someone who does. I sent them south.”
“South?” She gaped at him.
“That’s better than north.” Trevin slipped on his cloak, gray side out. “Pack up, and let’s get downstairs. The caravan master will want to leave as soon as he judges it’s safe.”
“And you’ll tell him it’s safe to journey north, because you sent the raiders
south
. Toward Navia.”
Trevin whirled, his finger to his lips. “I’ll not tell him, and you’ll not tell him.” His voice was low and stern. “No one is to know what you’ve seen and heard. If you let it slip, I’ll be forced to deny it and say that you and I … kept each other warm last night.
All
night.” He grabbed his pack. “I’ll meet you at the bottom of the stairs.”
Melaia glared after him, then turned and took her time gathering her belongings. Let him wait.
Amid clanking and jangling, neighing and lowing, the caravan assembled outside the caravansary walls.
Melaia perched on the front seat of the actors’ wagon beside the troupe’s stout leader, Caepio, whose eyes still held the dark puffiness of interrupted sleep. His actors, covered in cloaks, lay snoring in the back. Everyone in the caravan wore a similar groggy gaze, thanks to a short, worrisome night. Melaia suspected her eyes looked the same.
Trevin, leading his horse, walked up to her and held out a dried apricot. “This cost me dear,” he said, “but I mean it to be a guilt offering from a ruffian.”
Melaia took the golden leathered fruit. “For what?”
He lowered his voice. “For being rude to you last night—and this morning.”
“Your apology is accepted,” she said. “I absolve you of wrongdoing.”
“That sounds official.” He half smiled.
“It’s one advantage of having a priestess nearby.”
“I sent a messenger to Navia to warn them of raiders,” he said. “It’s the best I can do.”
Melaia hoped it would be enough. As she took a rich, sweet bite of apricot, a shout went up from the caravan master. Trevin mounted, and when the procession began snaking north toward Redcliff, he trotted ahead. Two draks glided high above. Melaia took some comfort in the fact that the birds didn’t look her way.
The innkeep, watching from the archway with her spear, held three fingers to her heart as the actors’ wagon passed. Caepio nodded to her and held up three fingers himself.
Melaia studied his drowsy face with its spot of dark beard in the center of his chin. “Are you an angel?” she asked. “Is the innkeep?”
He blinked at her sleepily. “Are you?”
Melaia laughed. “No, but I’ve met two. Maybe three.”
“Ah. Well, I was raised by an angel, though I can’t claim such a role myself. As for the innkeep, she’s a true angel and worthy. Which is why her inn is tolerably safe. The malevolents sense her light—an emanation of color, I’m told. At any rate the malevolents usually keep their distance.”
Melaia recalled Hanni mentioning a malevolent. “Who are malevolents?”
Caepio squinted at her. “Do my ears trick me, priestess? You know two angels but have no knowledge of malevolents?”
Melaia stared at her hands clasped in her lap atop the wrapped harp. “A fortnight ago I thought that after the fall of the Wisdom Tree, angels no longer lived in this world.”
“You’ve not heard a true and honest actor tell the tale then.” Caepio straightened and held up his forefinger. “Ah!” he began. Then he slumped. “Methinks it too early in the day to tell tales. Even true ones.”
“I’m a chantress myself. I’ve told the tale a score of times. But I think I learned the ending wrong. Does it have to do with malevolents?”
“Aye, it does, Chantress. You see, when the Wisdom Tree came to its despicable end, and the stairway to heaven with it, many angels were stranded in this world. Trapped, as it were. Some swore allegiance to the Second son. Or
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