Brock took a firm hold of Eryk’s arm. “We’ll check on them.”
After Brock and Randolf started up the road with the reluctant Eryk between them, Jared turned to Thayne. “It’s your turn on one of the saddle horses, isn’t it?”
Thayne glanced at the wagon and swallowed hard. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll keep Blaed company for a bit.”
Meaning even the saddle horses were too close to Thera’s temper.
Nodding his permission, Jared moved far enough away from them to discourage conversation. He took a moment to add a little more power to the Craft shields on his clothing. They did a fairly good job of waterproofing the fabric and keeping the mud and water from seeping into the boots. A little warming spell helped, too. But even with spells and shields, it was impossible not to feel the damp after a while, and if anyone knew a shield-spell that would have kept the rain off their heads, no one had mentioned it.
Jared took a deep breath, wishing it would settle his churning stomach. Sweet Darkness, don’t let her be hurt badly. Pointless to hope that her arms wouldn’t have bruises the shape of his hands.
Hurting her made him ache. It shouldn’t have. Hadn’t he crossed that line when he’d killed the last Queen who had owned him?
It shouldn’t have made him ache. But it did.
When the rain started yesterday afternoon, the Lady was the one who had told them to use whatever Craft was necessary to stay as dry as possible. She was the one who had put the Craft shields on Tomas’s clothes and had kept an eye on those among them who might not have the power to hold the shields. Even Garth. She was the one who had put some kind of shield-spell on the wagon’s wheels and the horses’ hooves so they wouldn’t sink in the mud.
And she was the one who had come up with the rotation.
The rotation was fair. More than fair. Hell’s fire, there were thirteen of them, including the Gray Lady, and four of them were children. She could have let the children ride on the outer seat or inside and let the adults stumble along. She could have let the other females stay in the wagon with her—and slave or not, no Blood male would have argued about it. But she’d worked out this rotation that included everyone so that they all alternated between walking and riding, and everyone had a chance to get out of the rain and eat and rest within the confines of the wagon.
Telling himself that he just wanted to check on Tomas and see if they could start moving again, Jared walked to the back of the wagon.
Tomas wasn’t in sight. Jared sighed and raked his wet hair away from his face. He didn’t relish stumbling around in the trees and bushes on either side of the road in order to find the boy. Well, the Lady’s controlling ring would be able to locate Tomas quickly enough.
After giving the roan mare and bay gelding friendly pats, Jared stood on the bottom step and knocked once on the wagon’s door.
Thera opened the door, shifting her body slightly to block his view of the inside. But he heard Tomas sternly tell someone to drink up the brew ‘cause it wasn’t doing any good while it was still in the cup.
Thera looked at Jared and shrugged.
Relieved to see humor instead of temper in her eyes, Jared shrugged in reply, as if to say, “He’s male. What can you expect?”
“How is she?” Jared asked quietly.
“She wrenched her knee,” Thera replied just as quietly. Then she added thoughtfully, as if she were trying to work out a puzzle that still had too many pieces missing, “I knew she had healing supplies in that private box of hers—I saw them when she took care of you. But when I suggested that she open it so that I could see if there was anything that might help her, she refused to let Polli or me touch it. Then Tomas stuck his head in to see what was going on and heard us ... discussing things. He just stomped in and started scolding.” Thera smiled. “He’s a good scolder.”
“I know,” Jared said dryly. “So you got the healing supplies.”
“I got the supplies,” Thera replied.
But Jared was no longer listening to her. His thoughts were on the small chest the Gray Lady had brought with her. With the spell-lock on it, he’d assumed, along with everyone else, that it held gold and silver marks and other things she wouldn’t want slaves to have access to.
Except he’d realized the first time he’d seen it that the chest had a Green-strength spell-lock. Which wouldn’t have meant anything if there wasn’t one slave who wore a Red Jewel and who could have easily broken that lock, if that same slave hadn’t been singled out from the very beginning as being different from the others.
He wasn’t sure if there was something Thera suspected about the chest that she wasn’t going to mention.
Why hadn’t the Gray Lady used a Gray lock on that chest?
“Anything else?” Thera said.
Did she sound a little defensive?
“Can we get moving?” Jared asked. “We should use what daylight is left and start looking for a place to camp.”
“Sure. We’ll keep her comfortable enough.” Thera paused. “Are you coming in now? It’s your rest period.”
“In a few minutes.” When Thera started to close the door, Jared put his hand against it and asked the question he really wanted to ask. “Is her knee the only place she’s hurt?”
Thera didn’t pretend not to understand. “There are a couple of bruises. Nothing that won’t easily heal.”
No anger. No criticism. Somehow that made it worse.
Thera opened the door a fraction wider, a silent invitation.
Jared stepped down and back.
“Shriveled balls won’t be tolerated,” Thera said tartly. “I may need you to sit on her if Tomas and I can’t convince Lady Grumpy to stay put and let that knee heal.”
“Not a good patient?” Jared asked blandly.
Thera snorted and shut the door.
Feeling a little better, Jared walked around the wagon and gave Blaed the nod to move out. It couldn’t be a serious injury if she was already snarling and snipping. Painful, yes, but not something they’d need to find a Healer to deal with.
Brock was waiting for him. “How is she?”
Jared noted that the Purple Dusk-Jeweled Warlord automatically swung to Jared’s left, an acknowledgment of subordinate rank.
“Already bored with the sickbed,” Jared answered. He felt Brock relax. “Do you know any outrageous stories?”
Brock looked startled, then wary. “Depends on what you mean. Campfire talk? Things like that?”
Jared felt a shiver of apprehension. He knew the dangers of telling tales. In one of the courts he’d been in, a male guest, wanting to entertain one of the Ladies enough to receive an invitation to her bed, had repeated a funny but extremely unflattering story about an aristo witch. He’d named no names, recounting it as he’d heard it, but the story had been rich in detail—and the Lady, who was also a guest, recognized herself. He might have survived if several other guests hadn’t also recognized her by those details.
Jared had wondered afterward if the man was the only one who didn’t know why he’d had his tongue cut out before he was gutted.
“Well, spicy enough to distract an elderly Queen who’s convalescing,” Jared said, pushing aside the darker memories. Brock was about his age, old enough to understand walking the knife edge.
Brock understood very well, if his muttering was anything to go by.
“Look,” Jared said testily, “Thera is as subtle as an avalanche and doesn’t use a grain of caution about what she says or who she says it to. It hasn’t been an hour yet and she’s already calling the Gray Lady ‘Lady Grumpy.’ If we don’t do something, those two are either going to end up in a spitting fight, which could end up with Thera being very dead, or she’s going to try to brain the rest of us out of frustration.”
Brock ran a hand over his short, light-brown hair. “For a broken witch, that one’s scary. Hell’s fire, there’s not much to choose from, is there?” He gave Jared a quick, assessing, hopeful look. “You’re trained for personal service. Couldn’t you handle it?”
Jared clenched his teeth. He might not be able to stop himself from feeling ashamed because he was a pleasure slave, but he didn’t have to let anyone see it.
Brock didn’t miss much, though. “I meant no insult, Lord Jared,” he said quietly. “Any man with working brains knows a consort—and a pleasure slave is nothing less than an unwilling consort—is trained to do more than warm a bed. He dances on temper’s edge, and a good consort makes it easier for the rest of us. I just thought—well—” Brock sighed, resigned. “What kind of stories?”
A consort danced on temper’s edge, but seldom felt the cut. Not like a pleasure slave did. And that tiny question that kept flickering on the edges of Jared’s mind flashed to the front. Howwould the Gray Lady treat a consort . . . or a pleasure slave?
That thought stirred a memory.
“When I was fourteen,” Jared said, “the Province Queen came to our village. Can’t remember why now, or why she wasn’t accompanied by the District Queen.” He frowned, trying to remember. “Maybe that was the year the former Queen stepped down and the new one wanted to see everything in her territory. Anyway, all the boys old enough to have begun formal training but still too young to be allowed to stand with the men had decided to wait on the main street, just in case we could be of service.”
Brock grinned at him in perfect understanding.
“My father is the Warlord of Ranon’s Wood, so he was the Lady’s escort while she was there. He had gone to the official landing place outside of Ranon’s Wood to meet her Coach and wasn’t home when I came downstairs, dressed in my best clothes. I casually told my mother I was going to meet a couple of friends—which was true since we were all going to be on the main street. She never said a word about my clothes, never asked where I was going. She just smoothed my collar and said, equally casual, that my younger brothers would be staying home with her that day.
