Fire - Kristin Cashore [77]
Of course, everyone in the palace noticed every time they were together, and thoughtless talk was easy. It was a solid spoke in the rumour wheel that the monster would eventually marry the king.
Brigan was away most of July. He came and went constantly, and now Fire understood where he was always going. Aside from the considerable time he spent with the army, he met with people: lords, ladies, businessmen of the black market, friends, enemies, talking this one or that one into an alliance, testing the loyalty of another. In some cases, spying was the only word for what he was doing. And sometimes fighting himself out of traps he wittingly or unwittingly walked into, coming back with bandages on his hand, black eyes, a cracked rib one time that would have stopped any sane person from riding. It was horrendous, Fire thought, some of the situations Brigan bounded off to throw himself into. Surely someone else should handle negotiations with a weapons dealer who was known to perform favours for Mydogg on occasion. Surely someone else should go to the well-guarded and isolated manor of Gentian’s son, Gunner, in the southern peaks, to make clear the consequences if Gunner remained loyal to his father.
‘He’s too good at it,’ Clara told her, when Fire questioned the wisdom of these meetings. ‘He has this way of convincing people they want what he wants. And where he can’t persuade with his words he often can with his sword.’
Fire remembered the two soldiers who’d brawled at the sight of her on the day she’d joined the First Branch. She remembered how their viciousness had turned to shame and regret after Brigan had spoken to them for only a few moments.
Not all people who inspired devotion were monsters.
And apparently he was renowned for his skill with a blade. Hanna, of course, talked as if he were unbeatable. ‘I get my fighting skill from Papa,’ she said, and clearly she had it from somewhere. It seemed to Fire that most five-year-olds in a skirmish against a mob of children would have emerged with more than a broken nose, if they’d emerged at all.
On the last day of July, Hanna came to her with a bright fistful of wildflowers, collected, Fire guessed, from the grasses of the cliff above Cellar Harbour, at the back of the green house. ‘Grandmother said in a letter she thought your birthday was in July. Did I miss it? Why does no one know your birthday? Uncle Garan said ladies like flowers.’ She scrunched her nose doubtfully at this last, and stuck the flowers in Fire’s face, as if she thought flowers were for eating and expected Fire to lean in and munch, like Small would have done.
With Archer’s and Brocker’s, they were her favourite flowers in all of her rooms.
ONE TROUBLING DAY at the end of August, Fire was in the stables, brushing Small to clear her head. Her guard receded as Brigan ambled over, a collection of bridles slung on his shoulder. He leaned on the stall door and scratched Small’s nose. ‘Lady, well met.’
He had only just returned that morning from his latest excursion. ‘Prince Brigan. And where’s your lady?’
‘In her history lesson. She went without complaint and I’ve been trying to prepare myself for what it might mean. Either she’s planning to bribe me about something or she’s ill.’
Fire had a question to ask Brigan, and the question was awkward. There was nothing to do but imitate dignity and fling it at him. She lifted her chin. ‘Hanna’s asked me several times now why the monsters go crazy for me every month, and why I can’t step outside for four or five days at a time unless I bring extra guards. I’d like to explain it to her. I’d like your permission.’
It was impressive, his reaction - the command he had over his expression, emotionless as he stood on the other side of the door. He