“Someone’s supposed to come along with some food soon, something we can eat in the saddle,” Celine added. “The main food wagons will be trailing some way behind us. They stayed back so the steward could organize the loading of extra supplies.”
“Thank goodness it’s spring,” I muttered, and Celine nodded in agreement. We might never be besieged by snow every winter like two of her sisters in Northhelm, but it still got chilly at wintertime this far to the north of Lanover.
Our conversation was interrupted by a harassed looking rider with oat cakes, and we descended into silence as we munched.
Chapter 3
The smell of Medellan reached us long before the sight. The acrid odor of smoke mixed with smells so awful I didn’t even want to consider their source. I had to fight to keep the long-gone oat cakes inside my stomach. I already dreamed of bright flames many nights; I feared now that my nighttime visions would start to include a smell so terrible it would wake me screaming.
When the road turned a slight corner and the town spread out before us, all thought of myself fled my mind. Medellan’s sturdy wooden walls were largely gone, giving us a clear view into the wasteland inside. Piles of ash lay everywhere and floated fitfully through the air on the slight breeze. Here and there whole walls or chimneys still stood, streaked with soot, but I couldn’t see a single intact building.
I swallowed twice and gripped my reins until my knuckles turned white. Celine, still beside me, gasped and then drew a deep steadying breath. I forced myself to survey the town, refusing to turn my eyes away. Bearing witness was the least I could do after what these people had been through and what still lay before them.
Collapsed buildings and blackened debris forced the many people moving through the town to tread slowly and carefully. Here and there a small spot of orange drew the eye, but with no fuel left to burn, these spots were small and far between. Most of the people seemed to be picking through the remains of the structures, but a few carried motionless burdens that brought tears to my eyes.
A large group of people, mostly consisting of the young and the elderly, gathered in a clearing outside what must once have been the gates. A row of figures lay on the ground along the line of what had been the wall, their faces covered with handkerchiefs or jackets. There weren’t even any sheets left to cover their dead.
A cry went up from within the burned town and people converged around it. A man riding near the front of our columns spurred his horse forward until he reached the collapsed wall. Jumping down, he abandoned his mount to the youngsters there and sprinted into the ash.
“One of the royal doctors,” murmured Celine. “He is accompanying the Tour in case of accident or illness.”
By the time the main columns reached the edge of the town, he was overseeing several people who carefully carried a woman between them.
“She will live,” one of them called wearily, and a sigh of relief blew through the gathered townsfolk. They looked as if any more bad news might knock them down. And, once down, they might never rise again.
I shook off the dark thoughts. No. These people were stronger than that. They had been knocked down by life, but they would rise from the ashes. Literally. I surveyed the town again, and some of my attempted optimism died. But I reminded myself that it had come true for me. All those times I had used the same line on myself, and now here I was, riding with royalty. If I could do it, the citizens of Medellan could do it, too.
Most of the older nobles in the carriages remained in place, but the riders swung down and made their way through the stunned townsfolk. Three wagons pulled up, and servants and guards alike began to dispense blankets and skins of water. I saw some of the remaining oat cakes being passed around and hoped the wagons of food would arrive soon. These people needed something more substantial than trail fare.
I stayed in my saddle, sure I would only be in the way on the ground, and watched the three royals drift through the crowds: comforting, reassuring, and pledging the support of the crown. Everywhere they went, hands reached to grasp theirs, muted thanks spoken softly or conveyed with a look. Many gazes lingered on Frederic, as did mine. The air of command I had first noticed in my shop was even more palpable here. His naturally serious demeanor fit the occasion, and the solid conviction of his tone brought reassurance to the people that their monarchs had not forgotten them. They would remember it when he was crowned, I would wager.
A bitter tone—softly spoken but hard and out of place with the rest of the scene—caught my attention, and I swung my horse around to find the source. A sizable group of townsfolk stood slightly apart from the rest. Some had blankets draped around their shoulders, and others carried oat cakes, but I saw no palace folk among them. I edged my horse closer and focused my attention on the man who spoke.
“Kind words are all very well,” he said, his voice pitched just loud enough for this group to hear, “but where were the royals when our town burned? And where will they be tomorrow or in the months to come when winter returns? We pay our taxes, but for what?”
Some looked uncomfortable at his words, but many others nodded, the anger burning in their eyes. I knew that look. They were filled with grief and rage and despair, and they wanted somewhere more satisfying to direct it than the impartial, uncaring flames.
I looked back over my shoulder at the members of the Tour who still circulated among the other townsfolk, my eyes catching on Celine who held an infant in her arms, tears running down her cheeks. Without thinking it through, I pushed my mount forward into the middle of the angry group.
“Shame on you,” I said, meeting as many eyes as I could. “Whose blankets are around your shoulders? Who gave you the food in your hands and mouths?”
Some looked away, unwilling to meet my gaze, before slinking off to rejoin the main group. Others looked away but stayed in place, and still others looked back at me defiantly.
“And who might you be, Mistress, who take such a fine interest in our affairs?” asked the original speaker, measuring me with a mocking look.
I ignored his question and continued to focus my attention on his audience. “How could the royals have stopped the flames, do you think? And tell me, if you hadn’t paid those taxes, would that extra gold in your homes have held back the heat? Your houses have been gone mere hours, and already the royals are here in person to offer you help and promise you future support. If you are too grieved for gratitude, you can at least offer them your silence and cease this treasonous talk.”
I gazed down at them from the extra height my horse gave me, pleased to see that the only one who would now meet my eyes nodded to let me know he accepted the truth of my words before disappearing back toward the town. One by one, or in groups of two or three, the others followed him, until only the speaker remained. He watched me with narrowed eyes for an extra moment and then disappeared into the crowd himself.
I sighed. I could not blame these people, fresh in grief as they were. But I did wish I had heard the speaker’s name, at least. Celine had mentioned whispers of a new rebellion, and Cassian had believed them to be isolated to the south. Should I tell them what I had overheard? Or would they overreact and bring further grief to these people?