Flamecaster (Shattered Realms #1)(63)
In one of those ironic twists of fate, the king of Arden had intervened to save the life of someone he’d marked for death.
Odd that nobody suggested that they search him for an amulet. That would have been the most undeniable proof. It was as if they all knew how to play this hypocritical game.
Montaigne turned to his cadre of guards. “Take this boy to the guest quarters. See that he has a bath and a change of clothes. I’ll want to see him in the morning.” That was said loudly, for the benefit of everyone. And then Montaigne turned and spoke softly to Karn.
Suspicion flared in Ash’s muddy mind. What did that mean, the “guest quarters”? Was it code for the dungeon? Had he been recognized after all?
The two guards who had hold of him made as if to escort him away, but Ash dug in his heels. “Am I to be taken prisoner for helping a man, Your Majesty?” he demanded. “Is the practice of the healing arts illegal in Ardenscourt?”
The king looked up, surprised. “No, my boy,” he said softly, making it clear his patience was being sorely tried. “Here in Ardenscourt we reward those with talent by washing the filth off them and finding them something useful to do.” He nodded to the two guards. “Proceed.” He turned with a swirl of his velvet cloak and strode across the courtyard, his courtiers following, like a comet with a long tail. Two blackbirds began sliding the baker onto a litter in order to carry him inside.
The guards had their hands on Ash’s arms and he could feel the tingle of magic in them and he knew there was nothing to do but submit. They led him in through the servants’ entrance he himself had breached earlier in the evening, slowing their steps to match his stumbling gait, half-supporting him when he faltered. They walked back through the palace, past the staircase where he’d met the Darian brother, and kept going.
Given how the day had gone so far, Ash half-expected the Darian brother to appear at any moment, condemning him by calling out his name. But he saw only the usual servants and scribes, who quickly moved out of the way, staring after them after they had passed. No doubt he looked like a prisoner, towering over his two guards. They were probably wondering what he was guilty of.
Finally, they entered a quiet part of the palace, tastefully appointed, lined with sumptuous suites and apartments. At least this didn’t seem to be the way to the dungeon. Windows along the hallway looked out to formal gardens, still blooming with cool weather flowers. They passed libraries and game rooms, all empty of people. At the far end were more modest quarters, maybe meant for ladies and attendants of residents of the guest suites, rows of plain wooden doors, all the same. Ash’s escorts stopped in front of one of them, pushed the door open, and stood aside so he could enter.
It was a small, plain room with a stone floor, and brightly woven We’enhaven rugs scattered here and there. There was a fireplace at one end with a small sitting area, and a bed at the other with a trunk at its foot. There was no window. No way out that he could see.
His two guards stepped outside and closed the door. Ash stood awkwardly in the center of the room, faint with fatigue, unable to put two thoughts together. There was a looking glass on the wall above a pedestal sink. His image in the glass was frightening. His face was reddened, as if sunburned, and his eyes a flaming red from the effects of the Darian stone. He supposed he looked like a demon, though the king must have assumed that it was the result of the smoke and the flames.
Ash lowered himself onto the raised stone hearth and nervously shoved his fingers through his filthy hair.
A brisk knock at the door aroused him. Two chambermaids pushed it open without waiting for a response, dragged in a large metal tub, placed it close to the hearth, then left again. They returned moments later with a trolley loaded with buckets of steaming water. These were big, muscular, sturdy girls who lifted the buckets of water easily and poured them into the tub. Then one of them laid a fire in the fireplace, which she lit with a coal from a tin box.
While Ash watched from his seat on the hearth, the servants came and went twice more, bringing more water, and soap and scrub brushes and towels. Then they stood on either side of the tub, as if awaiting further orders.
The hot water in the tub looked wonderful. Ash decided that if he were going to be arrested or knifed to death, it might as well be after a bath. He creaked to his feet, his body remembering every bad thing that had happened to it. “Thank you,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take my bath now.”
They moved forward in tandem, like well-matched carriage horses. One of them began untying the cord at the neck of his tunic, and the other fumbled with his trousers.
“Stop that!” Ash stepped back hastily, nearly stumbling over the edge of the hearth, clutching the top of his breeches, which were in danger of falling down. “I can manage on my own,” he said firmly. “Although I may not look like it now, I’ve taken a bath before.”
Though Ash had been brought up in a palace, staff at Fellsmarch had more important things to do than bathe him, once he’d left the nursery. That prepared him for his years at Oden’s Ford, where students were expected to clean their own rooms, change their own linens, and walk across the commons to the bathhouse. Though it came as quite a shock to some, the school was known as “the great equalizer,” humbling the proud and raising up the less fortunate.
After some protest, and with many backward looks, the servants left.