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Authors: Karyn Henley
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gash.”
Melaia wrinkled her nose. She had to admit that the pools held a sharp, rather putrid smell. But she had heard traveler’s tales of Caldarius and had always wished she could see this place. Torches were lit around the pools so everyone could bathe. The prospect of being clean excited her. And in hot water, no less.
She was not disappointed. Women went first in the upper pool, and shereturned relaxed and wet haired to the spot Trevin had chosen by one of the campfires. He was waiting for her, keeping watch over their valuables.
He eyed her, his mouth in its winsome half smile. “How was it?”
“Like liquid sunshine.” She loosened her cloak now that she was near the fire. “I wish I could have stayed in longer, but I started to doze. One of the other women told me to get out before I drowned.”
“Wise.” Trevin rose. “I’ll have to remember to do the same.” He took his cloak and his dagger with him but left the rest of the packs for Melaia to watch.
She ran her fingers through her drying hair and gazed into the fire, wondering what Hanni and the girls would say when she told them she had not only seen this magical place but had also bathed in its hot waters. Her throat tightened. When would she see them again?
A gust of wind sent the flames undulating upward, and for a moment Melaia glimpsed the form of a woman in joyful dance, her arms over her head. She twirled, rising in the fire, and disappeared in sparks. Like the hawkman who had left the temple through flame and smoke.
She blinked at the deep orange blaze. The figure was either a product of her weary imagination or of her gift as a death-prophet. But dying spirits never danced with joy, nor did they rise. They sank into the earth in grim despair.
“I’m tired,” she murmured. “Tired and imagining.” The hot water had soaked her with drowsiness, body and mind.
But Trevin was counting on her to watch their packs until he returned. Perhaps chewing on dried figs would help her stay awake. She tugged her journey pack out of the pile. It snagged Trevin’s pack and tipped it sideways, spilling out a small scroll, two metal pegs, a finger-sized spiked tool, and a ring. As she quickly slid everything back into the pack, the ring caught the glint of the campfire.
It was a signet ring. Bearing the image of a hawk.
CHAPTER 7
M elaia rode beside Caepio again the next day and was regaled with tales and songs. His actors joined in. She even told a few stories herself, glad to occupy her mind with something besides raiders storming Navia and Trevin riding out to scout for danger. But between tales, she found herself worrying anyway, watching for Trevin to appear over a hill or in the road ahead.
At last Melaia decided it was just as well he kept his distance. She was full of questions for him, questions that would reveal she knew what he carried in his pack. She didn’t want him to think she was a snoop. But, then, what
did
she want him to think? And what should she think of him? The trees shifted in the wind.
Shhhould shhhee? Shhhould shhhee?
In the late afternoon the actors’ wagon slowed as the caravan headed up a hill. “We’re close enough to camp to smell it, gentlemen,” Caepio said to his troupe. “I smell supper. Maybe a bit of performing.” He turned to Melaia. “Keep your eyes sharp, priestess. At the top of the next rise, you’ll spy Redcliff.”
High above, two dark birds zagged across the road—west, east, west. Then they headed north and disappeared over the hill. Trevin was nowhere to be seen.
The matter of his signet ring had nibbled at her all day. Why the image of a hawk? Did it have anything to do with a hawkman? She had tried to see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing, but the question kept returning like an itch. She decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask Caepio if he knew what the image of a hawk signified.
“I’ve a question,” she said.
“Ask away.” Caepio sat tall and raised his chin in a scholarly
Melaia wrinkled her nose. She had to admit that the pools held a sharp, rather putrid smell. But she had heard traveler’s tales of Caldarius and had always wished she could see this place. Torches were lit around the pools so everyone could bathe. The prospect of being clean excited her. And in hot water, no less.
She was not disappointed. Women went first in the upper pool, and shereturned relaxed and wet haired to the spot Trevin had chosen by one of the campfires. He was waiting for her, keeping watch over their valuables.
He eyed her, his mouth in its winsome half smile. “How was it?”
“Like liquid sunshine.” She loosened her cloak now that she was near the fire. “I wish I could have stayed in longer, but I started to doze. One of the other women told me to get out before I drowned.”
“Wise.” Trevin rose. “I’ll have to remember to do the same.” He took his cloak and his dagger with him but left the rest of the packs for Melaia to watch.
She ran her fingers through her drying hair and gazed into the fire, wondering what Hanni and the girls would say when she told them she had not only seen this magical place but had also bathed in its hot waters. Her throat tightened. When would she see them again?
A gust of wind sent the flames undulating upward, and for a moment Melaia glimpsed the form of a woman in joyful dance, her arms over her head. She twirled, rising in the fire, and disappeared in sparks. Like the hawkman who had left the temple through flame and smoke.
She blinked at the deep orange blaze. The figure was either a product of her weary imagination or of her gift as a death-prophet. But dying spirits never danced with joy, nor did they rise. They sank into the earth in grim despair.
“I’m tired,” she murmured. “Tired and imagining.” The hot water had soaked her with drowsiness, body and mind.
But Trevin was counting on her to watch their packs until he returned. Perhaps chewing on dried figs would help her stay awake. She tugged her journey pack out of the pile. It snagged Trevin’s pack and tipped it sideways, spilling out a small scroll, two metal pegs, a finger-sized spiked tool, and a ring. As she quickly slid everything back into the pack, the ring caught the glint of the campfire.
It was a signet ring. Bearing the image of a hawk.
CHAPTER 7
M elaia rode beside Caepio again the next day and was regaled with tales and songs. His actors joined in. She even told a few stories herself, glad to occupy her mind with something besides raiders storming Navia and Trevin riding out to scout for danger. But between tales, she found herself worrying anyway, watching for Trevin to appear over a hill or in the road ahead.
At last Melaia decided it was just as well he kept his distance. She was full of questions for him, questions that would reveal she knew what he carried in his pack. She didn’t want him to think she was a snoop. But, then, what
did
she want him to think? And what should she think of him? The trees shifted in the wind.
Shhhould shhhee? Shhhould shhhee?
In the late afternoon the actors’ wagon slowed as the caravan headed up a hill. “We’re close enough to camp to smell it, gentlemen,” Caepio said to his troupe. “I smell supper. Maybe a bit of performing.” He turned to Melaia. “Keep your eyes sharp, priestess. At the top of the next rise, you’ll spy Redcliff.”
High above, two dark birds zagged across the road—west, east, west. Then they headed north and disappeared over the hill. Trevin was nowhere to be seen.
The matter of his signet ring had nibbled at her all day. Why the image of a hawk? Did it have anything to do with a hawkman? She had tried to see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing, but the question kept returning like an itch. She decided it wouldn’t hurt to ask Caepio if he knew what the image of a hawk signified.
“I’ve a question,” she said.
“Ask away.” Caepio sat tall and raised his chin in a scholarly
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