Mistress of Dragons Page 22

  “You should be,” said Melisande, drawing her back, drawing her close, pulling her down beside her, crushing the sweet and fragrant grass. “For making me wait so long. I have always, always loved you ...”

  “Commander! I see them!” one of the women cried, jolting Bellona out of her honey-stung memories.

  Upbraiding herself for her inattentiveness, Bellona looked again upon the searing reality of day.

  She saw Melisande running down a hillside, waving her arms.

  “Bellona!” she cried and the note of love in her voice tore Bellona’s heart and drained it of blood, drained it of life.

  It’s all a mistake! The Mistress misunderstood. Melisande will explain.

  The words were on Bellona’s lips for the warriors to hold their fire, when she heard another voice, a man’s voice. Looking up to the top of the cliff, she saw him, the lover.

  Bellona gave the command to fire, but she was glad, in her blood-drained heart, that her highly skilled archers were unusually inept this day.

  The warriors rode after the fugitives, Bellona urging them on. None of them had never been on the southern slope of the mountain before now. Few had ever left the valley. The warriors were expert trackers, however, and the three they were chasing could not help but leave the marks of their passing. They never managed to catch up to them, however.

  Bellona was acid-tongued and merciless in pushing her troops, who held their own tongues and kept silent, for all of them knew the reason why.

  They followed the tracks of the three horses to the river and, at first, Bellona’s heart leapt, for she was certain that here she must catch them, for there was no longer anywhere they could run. They found the three horses and their saddles and bridles, but no sign of the fugitives. Footprints—belonging to two pairs of boots and one pair of sandals—led into the water and did not come back. On the shore were two boats, both with their hulls staved in.

  Bellona stared downstream, tried to estimate how far ahead they were, how much distance they might have covered. Her lack of knowledge of the geography of this part of the country hampered her thinking. She turned over plans in her mind, then she issued orders.

  “I need the swiftest rider to go to the monastery. Bring back a map of this area, one that has the major cities marked on it.” For that’s where he will take her, she added silently. “A city, where they can lose themselves in the multitudes.”

  “The rest of you,” she continued aloud, “start making repairs to that boat. I saw a wagon in the trees. Use some of the planking from it to patch those holes.”

  The women exchanged glances, then all of them looked to Nzangia.

  “Commander,” she began hesitantly.

  “I gave an order,” Bellona said sharply. “Why are you standing about?”

  “Commander, the horses are spent. They will have to rest. As for repairing the boat, I, for one, know nothing about boats or how they are put together.”

  “It would take a Boatwright to fix it, Commander,” said another.

  “Then bring me a Boatwright,” shouted Bellona. Her hands clenched to fists. “Bring me somebody who can do something beyond standing there gawking at me like a bunch of sorry peasants!”

  The women were silent, uncomfortable.

  “You, Drusilla,” said Nzangia at last, “you are the best rider. Do as the commander orders.”

  Drusilla cast Nzangia a questioning glance.

  Nzangia gave a small shrug, rolled her eyes in the direction of Bellona.

  Drusilla nodded. Jumping on her horse, she galloped off, heading back toward the mountain.

  Bellona turned her back on them. She stared at the boat, squatted down beside it, pretended to examine it. She had no more idea how to fix it than did her warriors, but looking at it meant she didn’t have to look at them. She was acutely aware of their eyes on her.

  “We’re going to be here awhile, so we might as well make camp,” said Nzangia abruptly. “Unsaddle the horses, rub them down, and let them graze.”

  She continued to issue orders, posting guards, sending out hunters. The women dispersed, glad to have something to do. The tension eased. Nzangia hung about, eyeing Bellona, evidently wanting to talk.

  Bellona avoided her.

  If the boat can’t be repaired, she thought, we’ll have to proceed downstream on foot.

  That brought to mind the wagon. Strange, to find a wagon here, so far from anywhere.

  She rose from the boat, walked over to look at the wagon, glad for another excuse for evading Nzangia. Bellona was mildly surprised to see that the wagon had been recently used. The wooden wheels were caked with mud and wet grass, still damp from last night’s rain.

  She had it settled in her mind that the wagon had been abandoned by some farmer, but she found on examination that the wagon had been built to carry people, not turnips. Two bench seats ran the length of the wagon bed on either side. A wicker frame had been added to protect the passengers, keep them from tumbling out. Looking into the wagon bed, she found caked mud from wet boots smeared over the floorboards.

  She stared at the wagon, frowning. Something was not right with this vehicle . . . and then she had it.

  There was no seat for the driver.

  No driver because there was no horse.

  The wagon was pulled by people.

  She looked back at the river. Easy enough to transport people by boat. Transporting dray horses would be far more difficult. What were these people doing here so near Seth? What cargo were they hauling?

  It would be different if there were any cities or towns or villages about but there were none. She’d had a clear view of the surrounding countryside as they rode down the mountain and there was no sign of civilization for miles and miles, from here to the horizon.

  This must have something to do with Melisande, for the lover had brought her here. His boat had carried her away. What had the wagon to do with it?

  Bellona climbed inside the wagon bed, poked about. She peered under the bench. A scrap of soiled, damp cloth lay crumpled on the floorboards. Bellona picked it up, shook it out. She stared at the narrow cotton band, thinking it looked familiar, but she could not immediately place it.

  The stench hit her. She wrinkled her nose, then sniffed again, and she knew what this was—a baby’s swaddling band.

  Bellona was completely baffled. She could make nothing of this mystery. She started to toss away the scrap of cloth then, on impulse, she thrust it into her belt. She would ask the Mistress.

  Asking the Mistress meant asking Lucretta. Bellona looked forward to a lifetime of asking Lucretta, of being ordered about by Lucretta, of the monastery being run by that embittered, dour female. A lifetime of praying to Lucretta.

  Bellona could feel Nzangia’s eyes boring holes through her armor, and she half-turned, glanced over her shoulder at her second.

  “I’m going to scout upstream,” Bellona said. “You wait here.”

  She turned her back, walked rapidly away. She walked until she was out of sight of her troops, out of earshot.

  “A lifetime of going to an empty bed at night,” Bellona whispered. “A lifetime of waking to empty hours by day.”

  Alone, she gave way to the pain. She curled in on herself, hands clutching at an unseen wound, her nails tearing her flesh. A shudder wrenched her body and she sank to her knees, rocking back and forth in agony.

  She grew calmer at last. The frenzy of grief subsided and it was then that she saw another boat. Swallowing her tears, she sat back on her heels. The boat was a small one, hidden deep in the bracken some distance apart from the two that the lover had wrecked.

  She very nearly thanked the Mistress for this miracle, then, remembered that she would be thanking Lucretta, Bellona kept her mouth shut.

  The warriors returned from their hunt with a deer. As night fell, the smell of roasting meat filled the air. On another occasion, the women would have enjoyed themselves, for this was a rare adventure. The nature of their mission and
the dark demeanor of their commander cast a pall over them.

  Bellona returned to camp, determined to act as if all were normal. She joined her troops in the meal and made an attempt to eat, but her stomach roiled at the first taste of the meat, and she handed her share to Nzangia. Bellona tried to discuss the day’s events, as she would have under other circumstances, but no one knew what to say.

  She engaged in a desperate conversation with Nzangia about how the women needed more training in fighting on horseback. Eventually the subject was exhausted and Bellona did not start another. She lapsed into silence. Sitting on the ground, her knees hunched, she stared into the flames.

  The rest of the evening passed in silence. The women lounged around the fire, chewing on the deer meat, which was burnt black on the outside and raw on the inside, and tried to avoid looking at Bellona’s pain-ravaged face.

  “Commander!” One of the scouts came into camp on the run. “Riders coming. This way.”

  Bellona leaped to her feet, glad to have something to do. The warriors grabbed their weapons and flaming brands, arraying themselves in battle formation.

  Drusilla rode into camp. Her face was taut, her expression strained. She said nothing, but her look said everything. Sliding off her horse, she stood at attention and called out, “One comes, Commander. The Mistress of Dragons.”

  Lucretta rode into camp.

  The warriors sank to their knees. Bellona bent her knee, then went to meet the Mistress, who gestured for the others to rise. Holding the flaming brands high, the warriors gathered around the Mistress, forming a circle of smoky fire.

  Lucretta did not like riding. She did not like horses, and the horse knew it, for the animal was restless and skittery. Bellona glanced for some clue to Drusilla.

  “I never reached the monastery. She was on her way down here,” she reported in a low voice. “I don’t know how she knew where to find us . . .”

  “Mistress!” Bellona said, troubled. “Why have you come? There was no need—”

  “What is this nonsense about a boat?” the Mistress demanded.

  “We followed the three fugitives here, Mistress,” said Bellona. “They took to the water.” She made a vague gesture. “There is a wagon over there and some boats. I’m not sure why or what the boats were used for, but they—”

  “I am not interested in boats or wagons. Your warriors fired arrows at Melisande and missed,” said Lucretta. “Many times.”

  “That is true, Mistress,” Bellona replied. “We had bad luck this day.”

  “Bad luck, is it? I wonder if you were really trying to hit your target?” Her gaze swept over the assembled troops. “It seems strange to me that such talented marksmen—as I have seen them exhibit their skill on the archery range—should bungle this simple task so badly.”

  “I can assure the Mistress that every warrior did her duty,” Bellona returned with rising anger. “To intimate otherwise is to question our honor—”

  “It is not their honor I question,” said Lucretta, leaning over the pommel. “After all, they were just obeying orders. It is your honor I question, Bellona. You loved the little whore and you could not bear to see her die—”

  Her fists clenched, Bellona sprang at Lucretta.

  “Bellona!” Nzangia cried in low, urgent tones. Her strong fingers dug into Bellona’s muscular arms, dragged her back, “This is insane. Think what you’re doing! She is the Mistress!”

  “She cannot speak to me like that!” Bellona raved, fighting to free herself.

  Two more warriors joined Nzangia and between them they managed to wrestle Bellona to the ground. Only when she was flat on her belly, her face in the mud and Nzangia’s knee in her back, did Bellona cease to struggle. Her straining muscles relaxed. Her body went limp. She closed her eyes.

  The change was so sudden and unexpected that Nzangia fearfully put her hand to Bellona’s neck to feel her pulse.

  “I’m still alive,” muttered Bellona, spitting mud. “Sadly.”

  “Don’t say that, Commander,” whispered Nzangia fiercely, helping her to her feet. “Never say that.”

  Lucretta straightened herself in the saddle, gazed down at them imperiously. “You are hereby relieved of your command, Bellona. Nzangia, I name you commander. Place this woman under arrest. Tie her up. She will be taken back for trial.”

  “Mistress—” Nzangia started to protest.

  “Obey me!” Lucretta said coldly. “Or I will find someone who will.”

  “I’m sorry, Commander,” Nzangia said softly, binding Bellona’s wrists and arms with bowstrings.

  “It’s not your fault,” Bellona said quietly.

  “This is just temporary. The Mistress will have second thoughts. I’ll talk to her . . .”

  “Don’t bother,” said Bellona. “She hates me, as she hated Melisande. It’s better this way. Truly it is.”

  Lucretta was trying to dismount and not making a very good job of it. In swinging her long, bony leg over the saddle pommel, she got tangled in her robes. The horse rolled its eyes and swiveled its head around, seemed likely to nip, at which point several of the women ran to assist. Bellona wiggled her hands to test the tightness of her bindings.

  Lucretta wisely allowed the women to help her out of the saddle. Once on the ground, she staggered a little, then managed to stand upright.

  “Order your warriors to their beds, Commander. We will be up and riding before the dawn. I want to be back at the monastery by first light.”

  “The monastery?” Nzangia stared. “Begging your pardon, Mistress, but aren’t we going to keep after the fugitives?”

  “We return to Seth tomorrow,” Lucretta reiterated, her voice grating. “As for the whore, her guilty conscience will be her punishment, since she has escaped ours.”

  Bellona could not believe what she was hearing and neither could Nzangia, who ventured one more protest. “Mistress, at least allow me to take a patrol downriver—”

  Lucretta’s eyes flared. “Listen to me, all of you. Our late Mistress was a good woman. None better. But she was old and frail and, due to her frailty, she let certain things slip. When I give a command, I expect obedience, not arguments. Is that understood? Commander?”

  The warriors were silent, grave. One and all, they had loved the late Mistress, loved and respected her. Yet, perhaps this new Mistress was right. Perhaps discipline had lapsed. Certainly, it must have, if their High Priestess could have smuggled her lover into the Sanctuary, as was being rumored. Perhaps it was time for a change. None of them liked Lucretta, but they were starting to regard her with respect.

  “Yes, Mistress. Forgive me, Mistress,” said Nzangia.

  “Good,” said Lucretta, her complacency returned. “As for the morrow, we are needed in Seth. His Majesty will be making the public announcement of the Mistress’s death and that means that, by custom, the funeral must be held within the week. Thousands will be coming to the monastery to pay their respects. Your warriors will be needed to control the crowds, for the work of our priestesses must be disrupted as little as possible. We dare not relax our vigilance against the dragons, who might seize upon what they perceive to be a time of weakness to attack us.”

  Nzangia bowed her obedience.

  “That is settled then.” Lucretta glanced around. “One of you—prepare me a bed.”

  The warriors looked at each other in some dismay. They were accustomed, when on patrol, to wrapping themselves in horse blankets and sleeping on the wet and muddy riverbank. This would never do for the Mistress of Dragons, however.

  “Suggest that she sleep in the wagon,” said Bellona in a harsh whisper.

  “Mistress,” said Nzangia, relieved, “we found a wagon hidden in the trees. We can make you a bed—”

  “What did you say?” Lucretta demanded sharply.

  “A wagon, Mistress,” said Nzangia. Thinking to help her commander, she added, “It was Bellona’s idea. She suggested that since the ground is wet, you could sleep in the wagon.
You would find it more—”

  “I will hear no more of Bellona’s ‘suggestions,’“ cried Lucretta shrilly. “Gag her mouth and bind her to that tree. I will sleep on the ground with the rest of you.”

  Turning her back, the Mistress stalked off toward the fire, where she stood stiffly upright, warming her hands at the glimmering coals.

  The warriors made their preparations for sleep. They banked the fire and cobbled together a makeshift bed for the Mistress, carefully choosing the driest ground, going over it assiduously to remove any stones or sticks, then laying down blankets for her repose.

  The warriors kept food ready for those returning from guard duty. They ate quickly and silently, glancing askance at the Mistress, who lay in state upon the blankets, her body stretched out flat on her back, her hands folded over her stomach. Awed, none of the warriors dared to make their beds near her.

  Nzangia crouched beside Bellona, a strip of cloth in her hands.

  “Strange about the wagon, don’t you think?” Bellona asked in a soft voice, her gaze fixed on the Mistress. “She would have been far more comfortable in it.”

  “It all seems strange, as if I were in a dream,” said Nzangia. “Though I do think the Mistress is right. We have been letting some things slide.”

  She lifted the gag to tie it around Bellona’s mouth.

  Bellona raised her bound hands, halted her. “Bring me a blanket.”

  “Yes, of course—”

  “—with a knife wrapped inside.”

  Nzangia flinched, almost dropped the gag.

  “You’re not thinking straight, Commander—”

  “Nzangia, I’m not going to slit my wrists,” Bellona interrupted impatiently. “I’m going after Melisande. I’m going to bring her back to stand trial, to answer for her crimes.”

  Nzangia stared, then glanced askance at the Mistress. “I don’t know, Bellona—”

  “Lucretta impugned my honor, Nzangia. And yours. And theirs.” Bellona gestured to the warriors, who had gone to their beds in silence, without any of the usual gibes and light-hearted banter. “I will carry that shame to my grave.”

  Nzangia hesitated.

  “You will not get into trouble,” Bellona persisted. “I will make it look as if I drowned myself in the river. I have to do this, Nzangia. I have to! You love Drusilla,” she added, her voice faltering. “You understand.”