Fire - Kristin Cashore [48]
The scene was suddenly quiet. Fire became conscious of her own gasping breath and forced herself calm. Horrible man, she thought into Small’s mane. Horrible, horrible man. Oh, Small. That man was horrible.
Small made a snorting noise and deposited some very comforting drool on her shoulder.
‘I’m so sorry, Lady,’ Musa said behind her. ‘He took us in completely. From now on we’ll let no one near us who wasn’t sent by the commander.’
Fire wiped her face with the handkerchief and turned sideways toward the captain of her guard. She couldn’t quite look at the pile of tinder on the ground. ‘I don’t blame you for it.’
‘The commander will,’ Musa said. ‘As he should.’
Fire took a steadying breath. ‘I should have known playing it would be provoking.’
‘Lady, I forbid you to blame yourself. Truly, I won’t allow it.’
At this Fire smiled, and held the handkerchief out to Musa. ‘Thank you.’
‘It’s not mine, Lady. It’s Neel’s.’
Fire recognised the name of one of her male guards. ‘Neel’s?’
‘The commander took it from Neel and gave it to me to give to you, Lady. Keep it. Neel won’t miss it, he has a thousand. Was it a very expensive fiddle, Lady?’
Yes, of course, it had been. But Fire had never valued it for that. She had valued it because of a rare and strange kindness that was gone now.
She studied Neel’s handkerchief. ‘It’s no matter,’ she said, measuring her words. ‘The commander didn’t hit that man. I asked him not to in his mind, and he didn’t.’
Musa accepted the apparent change of subject. ‘I wondered at that. He doesn’t strike his own soldiers, as a rule, you know. But this time I thought we might see the exception. His face was murder.’
And he had taken the trouble to secure another man’s handkerchief. And he had shared her concern for her horse. Three kindnesses.
Fire understood then that she had been afraid of Brigan, of her heart being injured by the hatred of a person she couldn’t help but like; and shy, as well, of his roughness, and his impenetrability. And she was still shy. But she was no longer afraid.
THEY RODE HARD the rest of the day. As night closed in they made camp on a flat mass of rock. Tents and fires cropped up all around her, seeming to stretch on forever. It occurred to Fire that she had never been this far from home. Archer would be missing her, that she knew, and knowing it soothed her own loneliness a bit. His fury if he heard about her fiddle would be a terrible thing. Normally his furies were an aggravation to her, but she would welcome it now; if he were here, she could draw strength from his fire.
Before too long the eyes of the soldiers nearest her drove her into her tent. She could not stop thinking of the words of the man who’d destroyed the fiddle. Why did hatred so often make men think of rape? And there was the flaw in her monster power. As often as the power of her beauty made one man easy to control, it made another man uncontrollable and mad.
A monster drew out all that was vile, especially a female monster, because of the desire, and the endless perverted channels for the expression of malice. With all weak men, the sight of her was a drug to their minds. What man could use hate or love well when he was drugged?
The consciousnesses of five thousand men pressed in on her.
Mila and Margo had followed her into the tent, of course, and sat nearby, hands on swords. Silent, alert, and bored. Fire was sorry for being such a boring charge. She wished she could go out to Small without being seen. She wished she could bring Small into the tent.
Musa looked in through the flap. ‘Pardon me, Lady. A soldier has come from the scout units to lend you his fiddle. The commander vouches for him, but says we’re to ask your impressions before