The Tears of the Rose (15 page)

“Well done, Princess,” he said. “Very well done. I shall check upon our traveling companions.”

I glanced at the coach. The White Monk should have been too far away to hear anything. How had he known?

Our small party waited in an abandoned barn while Erich's caravan pulled out again, bound for Avonlidgh. Marin, of course, knitted, having long since made sure my stomach had settled. I was learning not to confuse her solicitude for my health with actual caring for me. Her anger brewed, chilly and implacable. If I addressed her on any topic other than my pregnancy, she acted as if she didn't hear.

The White Monk sat meditating, apart from Erich's soldiers from Castle Avonlidgh. Wearing full armor and Avonlidgh's colors, they played some sort of game of chance that involved carved tokens of animals. They laughed and talked quietly among themselves, their lieutenant alternately watching them and me.

A hard-skinned, stone-eyed man, Lieutenant Graves seemed entirely without humor or joy. He seemed to expect any of us to attack him, keeping his hand around the hilt of his sword, more attached to it than even Ursula was to hers.

I hadn't talked with Erich again—just as well. His seneschal introduced me to Lieutenant Graves, who treated me with militarily precise etiquette and not a glimmer of flirtation. He vowed that he and his men would protect me and deliver me safely to Avonlidgh. “In and out, Your Highness. A quick reconnaissance where no one gets hurt and we'll be on the road home in a seven-day.” Then he returned to the circle of his men and his constant vigilance.

Finally, the scout—a young redheaded man scarcely older than myself, who they all called Skunk, for no apparent reason—returned with the all clear.

“The caravan is well under way and all of Uorsin's spies have stayed with it.” He winced when Graves knocked him on the side of the head.

“Mind your manners around Her Highness,” Graves told him.

Skunk bowed and then bowed again, face flushing brighter than his hair. “My apologies, Your Grace—Graciousness. I mean, your Great Highness, um . . .”

Graves sighed heavily and told Skunk to eat and rest. “We'll head out in an hour. Your Highness; you'll want to change your clothes shortly.”

“My clothes?” I looked down at my skirts, but all was fine. My aim had been excellent, with none of my sick on my hem.

“Did you plan on riding the back way through the mountains and the Wild Lands dressed like the Fairy Princess of Avonlidgh?” The White Monk smirked at me. The soldiers shuffled their feet and looked uncomfortable at his attitude.

“Perhaps you should take another vow of silence,” I suggested. “I feel sure that's what Glorianna wants most from you.”

“You, too, priest, should show appropriate respect for Her Highness, the future Queen of Avonlidgh.” Graves frowned at the White Monk and I sent a sweet smile from behind Graves's back.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” the White Monk replied agreeably with a bow to Graves's authority. “Though we are all equal in Glorianna's eyes.”

“Sadly, we live in the real world, not the bower of Glorianna's arms,” Graves rebuked him. “But I'm given to understand you offer your physical protection for Her Highness, to supplement that of my men.”

“Yes, I do.”

Graves surveyed the man's white robes with barely contained contempt. “Forgive me if I think we won't plan to rely on you, Priest.”

“You might be surprised,” the White Monk replied in a mild tone.

“Oh, yes?” Graves set his sword aside, stripped off his chest plate. “We have some time to kill. Let's see what you can do.”

The men had already scrambled to create a clear space, anticipating what Graves planned.

“Hand to hand?” The White Monk stood, obliquely glancing in my direction.

“If there's a man under those robes, yes.” Graves, now bare chested, flexed his arms, his pecs bulging. He had to outweigh the White Monk by at least half again. “Unless you'd prefer to take on someone more your size—Skunk, perhaps?”

The men grinned at one another and Skunk swallowed the soup he'd been drinking, wiping off his mouth and nodding with a grin. The other soldiers surreptitiously exchanged a few of the tokens they'd been gambling with, a couple of them casting snickering glances in the priest's direction.

The White Monk looked tense, his shoulders a creased line under the robe. He seemed to be debating, the quiet current of his deliberations like the scent of rosemary. He glanced my way again, then came to a visible decision, pushing back the cowl from his scarred face. The lieutenant's granite face showed little reaction, beyond the scrutiny in his stone-dead eyes. The White Monk pointed at him.

“I'll fight you.”

14

I
nearly protested. Then stopped myself, wondering why in the Twelve Kingdoms I cared what happened to the White Monk. It was his business what he chose to do. Should he be injured fighting the much larger man, it mattered not to me. It hadn't been my idea for the White Monk to come along anyway.

Still, sourceless worry curled through my gut.

The White Monk worked the ties of his robe, undoing the fastening at his neck, then releasing the frogs down the front. His green eyes flashed toward me and I averted my gaze, not sure why I'd been staring. Curiosity, most likely. I would soon see if his body showed the same scars as his face.

The other soldiers had gathered into a murmuring knot, trading tokens and arguing quietly, a pack of dogs growling at one another. Graves ignored them, taking the match seriously, despite his earlier mocking. It had taken him slightly aback, that the White Monk agreed to fight him. He watched the priest remove his robes, his gaze assessing in the way fighters did. Measuring their opponents before engaging. The play of interest and speculation on his remote face finally tipped me over the edge, and I had to look again.

As I'd suspected, the White Monk did not boast the brawny physique Graves did, nor did he have the smooth, golden muscularity Hugh had. No, the White Monk's body looked as lean and sharp as the line of a whip. He wore only tight-fitting black pants, his torso and feet bare. Sparse dark hairs dusted his arms and lower calves, curling and wiry. The tight muscles of his chest were partially obscured by thicker hair that formed a triangle, arrowing down his midline and disappearing beneath the waist of his pants.

More though, layers of scars, striped and jagged, showed pale through the hair, distorting the spare lines of his body. He bared his teeth at me, that glitter of hatred in his eyes, and pivoted slowly, as if for my inspection. His back was worse—a corruption of scars, layers of pain, ugliness, and horror.

“I hadn't realized Glorianna's temple exacted such a price,” Graves commented, a new measure of respect in his voice.

The White Monk looked away from me—in relief or reluctance? —and acknowledged Graves with a nod, then shrugged elaborately, treating the horrific scarring as trivial. “The follies and deserts of a misspent youth. Hand to hand—no weapons?”

Graves agreed, though it seemed he was more interested in the test now, no longer sneering at the man he'd treated as a worthless burden. In a blur of movement, the White Monk darted in and out again. It seemed he'd only been testing Graves's speed, but the lieutenant thoughtfully rubbed his lower back. “Nice hit, White Monk, but do try to spare some of my organs for this trip. I do have a duty to perform.”

The White Monk tossed off a two-fingered salute. “I'll try, but you know I don't dare let this become a contest of strength.”

Ursula's adage, out of his mouth. It seemed Glorianna must be telling me something, speaking through these others.

The men had reengaged. Graves attempted to lock the White Monk in his massive grip, to use that strength. But the White Monk slipped away easily. Just as those muscular military arms seemed sure to trap him, he danced free with uncanny speed, folding and feinting, lithe as a weasel and equally difficult to lay hands on. Graves grunted and wheezed out laughing gasps of pain at blows I never saw land. Finally he called a halt, bending to rest his hands on his knees while he caught his breath, great chest billowing as he drew in air.

The White Monk stood nearby, sheened with sweat but otherwise seeming unharmed. He accepted the congratulations of the other soldiers with grace. If a thread of irony ran beneath his easy smile, they didn't seem to notice. Skunk, it appeared, had been the only one to bet on the White Monk, a broad grin splitting his face as he pocketed the double handful of animal tokens.

The White Monk caught me watching and raised his eyebrows, cynical, and swept a hand at his scarred body, as if inviting me to be disgusted.

“Few men could survive that sort of whipping,” Marin said quietly.

I started, surprised as much that she voluntarily spoke to me as that she stood so near. “Is that what caused his scars—even on his face?”

The White Monk was donning his robe and boots again, the soldiers easily joking with him.

Marin shook her head. “Not all of them, Princess.” The way she said my title made it sound like not a compliment. As if I were a silly frivolous thing who didn't understand what causes which kinds of scars. Which, in truth, I didn't. My own skin was flawless. Even Hugh had only a few minor scars, from various nicks, he'd said, as thin as the sharp blades that had caused them. “No, those scars come from lashings and beatings over days and weeks. Wounds on top of wounds.”

“And the ones that look kind of . . . melted?”

“Burns,” Marin replied, short and to the point. “Bad ones. Fatal ones, to my humble eye.”

“Yet they weren't, because here he stands.”

“Indeed he does. The mystery is not that he does, but how he managed it.” She snorted, eyeing me with an unfriendly look. “It was a risk that he let you see so much. That he let any of them see. Do you mean to betray him, too?”

My stomach clutched a little and I couldn't meet her gaze. “I didn't mean to. It was a careless mistake.”

She hmm'd to herself. “That's almost worse, Princess. That you hurt the people around you because you don't give a thought to them.”

Miserably, I nodded. She really shouldn't talk to me this way, but I deserved the rebuke.

“You can't be doing that, Amelia,” she said, not unkindly. “You're still young and more naïve than most, but you can't be careless with the power you wield.”

“I don't have any power,” I protested. “I'm like one of those animal tokens the soldiers gamble with, traded from person to person.”

Pursing her lips thoughtfully, she acknowledged the point. “But they gamble with those tokens because they represent something more—they have a certain unique value they hope will bring them wealth and power. Unlike those wooden pieces, you have a heart and a mind and a goddess-blessed soul. You have agency of your own. You can decide not to be traded. To possess your own power.”

“I don't know what it is.” I felt queasy.

“Then find out.” She handed me a mint. “You're not a stupid girl, just careless and foolish. Unfortunately you're also the daughter of the High King in turbulent times. That makes you dangerous. As for yon priest”—she jerked her chin at the White Monk, who watched us curiously, though Skunk seemed to be telling him some long story—“a man only gets those sorts of scars for two reasons: battle and prison. He's too young to have fought in the Great War, and those scars are too old for the recent conflicts. That leaves only one possibility. I'll get your riding clothes so you can change. It must be nigh time to leave.” She bustled off, leaving me to my unsettled thoughts.

The White Monk was a criminal.

I don't know where they found the “riding clothes” for me, but they certainly hadn't been tailored for me. Really, I never wore pants. On the rare occasions when I'd ridden with Andi, I'd donned split skirts, which looked much prettier. Now the coarse material chafed my inner thighs, rubbing between my skin and the saddle. I fretted about the unsightly rash I'd get, though I wasn't going to complain to anyone. It bothered me, this insight that Hugh had seen me as someone to coddle. We'd loved each other so much—surely he, at least, had seen me as more than a pretty face?

A test of your strength and determination.
I would pass this test and show them all what I was made of. I could be my father's daughter as much as Ursula.

We rode through the woods, looping around through the hills behind Ordnung, the long way, staying off the main trails, which made for slow going. Midday had passed while we hid in the barn, and now the afternoon lengthened into long shadows. The soft layer of snow muffled the horses' steps, and we moved more or less silently, as Graves had insisted—looking most pointedly at me.

I hoped we'd stop at twilight, but Glorianna's sun went beyond the overcast horizon without a prayer of acknowledgment. I whispered one to myself, making a discreet circle in the air, and caught the cynical green of the White Monk watching me. Some priest of Glorianna he was. If he was truly any priest at all.

More likely, with his criminal mind, he'd scammed his way into being Kir's assistant, using the cover of the sect he'd supposedly come from. When we returned, I should report him to at least the High Priest, if not Uorsin, despite Marin's warning. It was only right, and what loyalty did I owe this monk? There was no release from prison under Uorsin's rule. He did not believe that those sorts of people changed. From time to time, various groups had come to plea for clemency for some prisoner or other, citing good behavior or unfair imprisonment. The High King had never conceded once, and Glorianna's temple concurred.

If there was to be forgiveness, Glorianna would be the one to give it. Anything less than death was clemency to Uorsin, and he made no bones about it.

Marin had to have known I'd put together that much. I might be naïve, but I knew this basic truth of life in the Twelve Kingdoms, even if I'd never known a real criminal before. Our lasting peace rested on this foundation. Justice was swift, sure, and irreversible. No one was released from prison.

The White Monk, therefore, had escaped.

What puzzled me most was that Graves and the other soldiers had to know this. It explained the speculation on Graves's face as he watched the priest divest himself of his robes. Nothing, however, accounted for the risk the White Monk had taken by revealing himself that way—or why the soldiers had done nothing about it. More, why they now treated him with a certain respect that bordered on reverence, as if he were some sort of hero.

I was missing something—which wasn't unusual, especially lately—but it niggled at me, distracting enough that I could mostly ignore the growing ache in my hips and the burning pain of the once-perfect skin of my inner thighs. Perhaps it was fair turnabout, that my skin should suffer, too.

Night fell, heavy clouds obscuring the sky so no moonlight or starlight lit our way. We climbed the foothills in a single file, my steed in the center of the lineup with its nose in the tail of the horse Marin rode. The White Monk followed directly behind me, soldiers sandwiching us between. Below in the valley, the lights of Ordnung shone through the darkness, a beacon of civilization. Despite the warm cloak I'd been given, I shivered with the longing to be tucked inside my suite of rooms there.

So many things had been decided for me, like the cloak and what clothes I'd wear. I supposed they normally were, as my ladies and maids took care of me and packed for excursions. But they knew to include what I liked and would probably want. If I'd realized I'd be bundled along, I would have found a way to bring the doll pieces too. Instead they were in one of my trunks, bound for Windroven without me. Stupid oversight. How was I to find the missing head without the matching body?

I fretted over the error. This wasn't the mission I'd had in mind at all. Somehow it had become entirely what Erich wanted and nothing of mine. Still, I wouldn't fail.

Unless I fell out of the saddle first.

Hopefully we'd camp soon. Maybe after we climbed this trail. We topped the hill, but my hopes were dashed when we re-formed into a loose knot, the soldiers making a circle around us. The disappointment brought all my discomforts crashing in. I was cold and tired and I thought my legs might fall off. I might have whimpered a little, because the White Monk, who never strayed far from me, on the pretense that he planned to defend me, rode close enough that our knees bumped.

“Problem, Princess?” he asked. Always with that mocking tone in his voice, though he kept his voice low, as we'd been instructed.

“I'm fine,” I replied tightly, clenching my jaw so my teeth wouldn't chatter.
I would not complain. I would not complain.

“You'll likely have to tell Graves that you need to rest. He's used to this kind of thing and to being with other soldiers who are, too. Not pampered royalty who never ride except for pleasure.”

“I'm not complaining.”

“No, you aren't.” He sounded reflective, maybe even puzzled. “You're not being stubborn, are you?”

I laughed, trying to make it sound lighthearted and merry, which is hard to do quietly, much less when you're ready to scream from pain. “While being stubborn might be counted among my many character flaws, I believe no one has ever accused me of being stubborn for the right reasons.”