Cold Fire (Spiritwalker #2)
Page 157Coin was not the offering she wanted.
I offered my voice. I gave her the truth.
“My sire is the Master of the Wild Hunt.”
In the isolation of the sanctuary, with only the stone to hear, his magic could not stop me.
Be heartened.
There will be a way.
29
The next morning I pretended to sleep late so I could explore the house without being seen. I found Bee sketching on the covered patio that faced the garden. The general lounged on a Turanian sofa next to her, reading aloud from a black book.
“That was the battle of Ariolica?” Bee asked, not looking up from her sketchbook.
He had written a record of his campaign in code. “Yes, although my soldiers called it ‘When we shoved that stick up between Tene ass-cheeks.’ One might think it easier to recognize places from a drawing than from within the obscure words of a half-blind woman’s poetic utterances, but both create a challenge. The words must be interpreted for potential meanings. The images must be recognized and then placed in a season or day. Look how long it took us to find Cat. Your dreams gave hints of where she was, only neither you nor I knew how to interpret them.”
“I’m not sure I want them interpreted, now that I see what came of it!”
“Beatrice, if I do not save the cold mage, he will be captured and sold to the Taino.”
“If the Taino can hold him!”
“You have met the cacica. Do you doubt her power?”
Her rosy lips pinched so hard they paled. “No, I suppose not.”
Bee’s gaze flew up, her pencil halting in midair. “She did?”
“There is an old custom among the Taino of a stranger king who marries into the royal lineage, but I am not to be that man. It would place me in a subservient position. Also, I promised Helene I would not marry again.”
She chewed at her lower lip, her gaze too intent on him. “Why would you promise that?”
He smiled with the expression of a man who means to gently let you know you have gone too far. With a blush darkening her cheek, she set pencil back to page. I sidled over behind her. She had brought life to the leaves, flowers, and branches of the garden so lovingly that a blank spot within the sketch stood out like a wound. I glanced up to identify the spot she’d not drawn in: A man dressed in a sober dash jacket and European trousers stood with his back to us, one foot up on a bench and a hand holding a stub like a little tube whose end glowed with heat. He had black hair in a braid down his broad back.
Bee cleared her throat. I looked down. She had written: I feel your breath on my neck. You are quite the noisiest breather. I wonder I never noticed before. I said you were feeling poorly.
The general rose as the Amazon appeared on the patio. “Ah, Captain Tira. Yes, I’m coming. Beatrice, you will join us for supper. Cat, too, if she is feeling better.”
“Of course.”
The man at the bench turned.
The shock of seeing Prince Caonabo made me almost lose hold of the threads that veiled me. He set the stub to his lips. Embers flared as he sucked in air. Even at this distance, the smoke made my eyes water and my nose sting. Bee took in a sharp breath, for the man was staring at her with an air of accusation, young men being annoying in that particular way, thinking you owed them something just because they admired you.
Prince Caonabo tossed the stub to the earth, ground it out with his heel, and with a shake of his shoulders walked toward us. He wore knives strapped across his chest, glimpsed where his dash jacket flashed open. Rising, Bee snapped shut her sketchbook. Still in shadow, I stepped back.
He halted. Bee’s shoulders squared in a way I knew presaged battle.
“Is it the truth, Bee?” he asked in heavily accented Latin. His voice was nothing like as courtly and measured as Prince Caonabo’s. His tone had all the subtlety of a fencer who attacks straight on without feinting. “You are betrothed to my brother? You will marry him?”