Drops of rain pattered onto her scarf and her shoulders.
"Your mother had red hair," Brigan said, lightly, as if they didn't both feel the presence of two dead men among these rocks. "Nothing like yours, of course. And she was musical, Lady, like you. I remember when you were born. And I remember that she cried when you were taken away."
"Did she?"
"Hasn't my mother told you anything about Jessa?"
Fire swallowed a lump in her throat. "Yes, Lord Prince, but I always like hearing it again."
Brigan wiped rain from his face. "Then I'm sorry I don't remember more. If we knew a person was going to die, we'd hold harder to the memories."
Fire corrected him, in a whisper. "The good memories." She stood. This conversation was a mix of too many sadnesses. And she didn't mind the rain, but it seemed unfair to inflict it upon her guard.
Chapter Thirteen
The morning of her final day of riding Fire woke to an aching back, aching breasts, knotted muscles in her neck and shoulders. There was never any predicting how the time before her monthly bleeding would manifest itself. Sometimes it passed with hardly a symptom. Other times she was an unhappy captive in her own body.
And at least she'd be under Nash's roofs by the time the bleeding began; she wouldn't have to embarrass herself with an explanation for the increase in monster attacks.
On Small's back she was bleary-minded, anxious, nervous. She wished for her own bed; she wished she hadn't come. She was in no mood for beauty, and when they passed a great rocky hill with wildflowers springing from every crack she had to give herself a talking to to keep the mist out of her eyes.
The land grew greener, and finally they came upon a gorge that stretched to left and right before them, teeming with trees that reached up from the bottom, and thundering with the waters of the Winged River. A road ran east to west above the river, and a grass track, clearly much travelled, ran parallel to the road. The army turned eastward and moved fast along the grass track. The road was full of people, carts, carriages, headed in both directions. Many stopped to watch the First Branch go by, and raised arms in greeting.
Fire decided to imagine that she was out for a gallop with her guard, and none of these other thousands existed. No river or road to her right, no King's City before her. To think this way was a comfort, and her body screamed for comfort.
When the first stopped for its midday meal, Fire had no appetite. She sat in the grass, elbows on knees, holding her throbbing head in place.
"Lady," the commander's voice said above her.
Fire assumed a placid expression and looked up. "Yes, Lord Prince?"
"Are you in need of a healer, Lady?"
"No, Lord Prince. I was only thinking about something."
He didn't believe her, she could see it in the sceptical set of his mouth; but he let it go. "I've received an urgent summons from the south," he said. "I'll be on my way as soon as we've reached the king's court. I wondered if there was anything you wanted, Lady, that I could provide before I go."
Fire tugged at a patch of grass and swallowed this disappointment. She could think of nothing she wanted, not that anyone could provide, except for the answer to a question. She asked it very quietly. "Why are you kind to me?"
He paused, watching her hands that pulled at the grass. He crouched down to her eye level. "Because I trust you."
The world went very still around her, and she stared hard at the grass. The green of it was radiant in the sun's light.
"Why should you trust me?"
He glanced at the soldiers around them and shook his head. "A conversation for another time."
"I've thought of a thing you can do for me," she said. "I've thought of it in this very moment."
"Go on."
"You can take a guard when you go wandering at night." And then, when his eyebrows shot up and she saw him formulating his refusaclass="underline" "Please, Lord Prince. There are people who'd like to kill you, and many others who'd die to prevent it. Show some respect to those who value your life so highly."
He turned his face away from her, frowning. His voice was not pleased. "Very well."
That point settled, and sorry now, most likely, that he'd ever started the conversation, Brigan went back to his horse.
In the saddle again, Fire mulled over the commander's trust, prodding and pushing it around, like a candy in her mouth, trying to decide whether she believed it. It wasn't that she thought him likely to lie. It was only that she thought him unlikely to trust – not completely, anyway, not the way Brocker or Donal did, or Archer, on the days Archer decided to trust her.
The problem with Brigan was that he was so closed. When had she ever had to judge a person by words alone? She had no formula for understanding a person like him, for he was the only one she'd ever met.
The winged river was so named because before its waters reached their journey's end, they took flight. At the place where the river leapt off a great green cliff and plunged into the Winter Sea, King's City had grown, starting on the north bank and spreading outward and south across the river. Joining the older city with the younger were bridges, the building of which had sent more than one unfortunate engineer over the falls to his death. A canal of steep locks on the northern side connected the city with Cellar Harbour far below.
Passing through the city's outer walls with her escort of five thousand, Fire felt herself a gawkish country girl. So many people in this city, smells and noises, buildings painted bright colours, steeply roofed, crammed together, red wooden houses with green trim, purple and yellow, blue and orange. Fire had never seen a building before that was not made of stone. It hadn't occurred to her that houses could be any colour but grey.
People hung out of windows to watch the First Branch pass. Women in the street flirted with the soldiers, and threw flowers, so many flowers Fire couldn't believe the extravagance. These people tossed more flowers over Fire's head than she had seen in a lifetime.
A flower splatted against the chest of one of Brigan's top sword-fighters, riding to Fire's right. When Fire laughed at him, he beamed, and handed the flower to her. On this journey through the city streets Fire was surrounded not just by her guard but by Brigan's most proficient fighters, Brigan himself on her left. The commander wore the grey of his troops, and he'd positioned the standard-bearer some distance behind. It was all in an attempt to reduce the attention Fire drew, and Fire knew she wasn't playing her part in the charade. She should have been sitting gravely, her face bent to her hands, catching no one's eye. Instead she was laughing – laughing, and smiling, and numb to her aches and pains, and sparkling with the strangeness and the bustle of this place.
And then before too long – she couldn't have said if she sensed it or heard it first, but there was a change in their audience. A whisper seemed to work its way in among the cheers, and then a strange silence; a lull. She felt it: wonder, and admiration. And Fire understood that even with her hair covered, and even in her drab, dirty riding clothes, and even though this town hadn't seen her, possibly hadn't thought of her in seventeen years, her face and her eyes and her body had told them who she was. And her headscarf had confirmed it, for why else would she cover her hair? She became mindful of her animation that was only making her glow more brightly. She erased her smile and dropped her eyes.
Brigan signalled to his standard-bearer to come forward and ride beside them.