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  Maryn focused on Siwell’s face. It was easier to think when she wasn’t looking at the devastation. “I don’t know. We didn’t have much that wouldn’t have burned. Everything we had went into Edrich’s tapestry, and I know that…” She couldn’t finish. Instead she went over to the pile where the other soldier had found the fragment of cloth, and began to shove aside chunks of debris.

  Siwell came to help her. Together they uncovered the remains of Edrich’s loom and tapestry. The fire hadn’t burned it completely before the magically summoned rain had drenched it, but large sections had been reduced to ash, and the rest was ruined, barely recognizable as the masterpiece it had been. The biggest remaining fragment tore beneath Maryn’s hands as she attempted to spread it out. She straightened and rubbed her smarting eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s useless. There’s nothing here worth salvaging.” She kicked at the sodden mess.

  Siwell sighed. “No.”

  Maryn turned her back on the ruined tapestry and destroyed loom. “My wheel was over here. I’m sure the fire got it, too.”

  It had, but there were a few metal fittings that she carefully picked free of the splinters of charred wood. A wheelwright would be able to make use of them. She could sell them, or save them for a time she might be able to afford to have a new wheel made.

  Creaking and rumbling drew Maryn’s attention to the door. Outside, an ox cart rolled to a stop. The driver swung down, along with several other workers. They crowded into the building, ignoring the women. One bore a roll of canvas, the others shovels. “Found them yet?” the driver called to Tior.

  Tior was standing, hands clenched into fists at his sides, face turned away from the cleared space at his feet. He parted his pinched lips and took a shallow breath. “Over here—”

  His voice cracked, and he stumbled a few steps to a corner, where he doubled over and retched. Maryn’s stomach lurched in response, and she had to fight to suppress the nausea. She couldn’t see what Tior had found. She didn’t want to see, yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the spot.

  The driver laughed. “Come on, Tior, you’ve been at this all day. Are you going to puke every time?”

  Tior rose. His face was nearly white, but he forced a composed expression. “I’m all right. Over here; there’s two of them.”

  Maryn backed away. She bumped into Siwell, and didn’t protest when the midwife’s arms went around her. They stood together, pressed against the farthest wall.

  The workers were fast and efficient. They spread out a length of canvas and went to work with their tools. Maryn watched until she caught a glimpse of the blackened form they uncovered. Then she twisted around and buried her face in Siwell’s shoulder. But she couldn’t escape the sickening smell that wafted stronger as they disturbed the corpses, like the rancid ashes of a cooking fire where fat had dripped.

  After she heard the men pass on their way to the door, she dared a peek. Several of them carried a long, canvas wrapped bundle out the door toward the cart. Once they were gone she raised her head and swallowed, trying to settle her stomach.

  Another worker brushed by her. Without thinking, Maryn looked. In his arms he bore a second, much smaller bundle.

  Maryn’s head swam, and her guts churned. Dropping to her knees, she vomited, heaving until her stomach had no more contents to empty.

  Siwell knelt beside her and murmured soothing words into her ear, though her voice shook. Tior came to stand beside them. He waited until she finished and sat back on her heels, struggling to catch her breath.

  He extended a water skin to her. “I’ve lost count of how many times it’s happened to me today. Here, rinse out your mouth; it will help a little. Just be careful how much you swallow.”

  The watered ale was warm and flat, but it served to clear most of the foul taste from Maryn’s mouth. She struggled to her feet and handed the skin back to Tior.

  One of the men from the ox-cart came back in. He was dressed in the brown robes of a lay employee of the church. “Miss, would you come out here a moment? I have a few questions for you.”

  Maryn pulled free of Siwell’s supporting hands and followed him. He took out a quill and bottle of ink, uncorked the bottle, and balanced it on the seat of the wagon. Maryn very carefully did not look into the open bed. The man opened a small bound book and turned to a blank page. “Their names and ages?”

  Maryn drew a deep breath. Her voice was not too shaky. “Edrich Loesella. Um, his birthday was just after the thaw, so that would make him twenty;-;four. And Frilan Loesella. He was born six weeks ago.” She forced herself to focus only on the cold facts the man wanted.

  “Do you have the exact dates?”

  She had to wrack her brain to remember Edrich’s, but she thought she got it right. And of course the date of Frilan’s birth was engraved in her mind.

  “Are you going to be able to pay for individual graves for them, and markers? Or should I put them down for burial in the mass grave? Priest Vinhor said to assure you it’s all holy ground, and their souls will rest safe no matter which. But it does show a great deal more respect to the memory of your loved ones to give them their own space.”

  “I…How much?”

  He named a price; it was far more than Maryn could possibly scrape together, even if she managed to salvage all the coins she knew had been in the coffer. She gulped, her stomach threatening to rebel again, as she thought of Edrich and Frilan tossed in among a jumble of other bodies, nothing to mark the place where they rested but a single stark stone. There was one in the north corner of the churchyard, engraved simply, “The Victims of the Great Plague.”

  Siwell, her face white with anger, dug into her belt pouch and slapped a handful of coins into the man’s palm. “There. That should cover graves and markers for both of them, even at your ridiculous price.”

  “Siwell, no, I can’t accept—”

  “Just because Priest Vinhor is trying to make a profit from what should be every citizen’s by right doesn’t mean you should have to see your dear ones’ bodies dumped in a pit.” She tossed another two coins at the man; he caught them deftly. “And there’s the payment for prayers at the next Sabbath service, for the repose of their souls.”

  The man’s eyes brightened as he tucked the coins away. “For only a little more you could have candles, and the amount for prayers every week for a year is quite reasonable…”

  “Take your money and go. And if I hear of you treating these two with anything but the utmost respect, I will take the complaint all the way to the Prelate.”

  The man narrowed his eyes as he snapped the book closed. “The king granted Prelate Kiellan his office, and he can take it away, if another rises higher in his favor.”

  “Are you suggesting he would consider Priest Vinhor? Not unless he were the only servant of the Holy One left in the kingdom!”

  The vehemence of Siwell’s words surprised Maryn. Why was she so upset? The amount was high, but it must be a fair price if the Church said so. She had seen Priest Vinhor leading the Sabbath services. He was tall, elegant, dignified—everything a priest should be.

  The man shook the excess ink from his quill. Some of the drops landed on the hem of Siwell’s skirt. “Don’t think you’re immune to his enmity, just because you know a few healing spells. Priest Vinhor will be very interested when I tell him about your opinion of him.”

  “I’m not afraid of your master. Tell him what you wish.” Siwell stepped back, and the driver yelled for the clerk to climb aboard. He scowled as he did. The wagon rumbled off toward the church.

  “What was that about?” Tior asked in a low voice. “If you think you might need protection, I can speak to my captain. He has no love for Priest Vinhor.”

  “No, it’s not a problem. That clerk is all bluster with nothing to back it up.” She shook herself. “Now that the back is clear, maybe you can help us search there. Maryn’s looking for a small coffer with some coins in it; she says it was under their mattress.”

>   “If you’re sure you don’t—” Tior shrugged. “I found the place where the bed fell, when the loft collapsed. We can look there.”

  “Good.”

  Tior went back into the building. Maryn longed to turn and run, far away from the mutilated remnants of the place that had been so dear to her. But she set her mouth into a grim line and started to follow him.

  Siwell put a hand on her arm. “Wait.”

  Maryn had never seen the midwife look so uncertain. She stopped. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know if I should tell you.” Siwell stepped closer and lowered her voice. “But Priest Vinhor might succeed in making it to the capital someday, and if he should learn I recommended you…He has a long memory for a grudge. Stay away from him, Maryn. He’s dangerous.”

  “But he’s a priest. Surely he wouldn’t do anything to harm me?”

  “I hope not. But he might, if he thought he could strike at me through you.” She considered for a moment longer, then spoke low and rapidly. “Listen. The rain that stopped the fire…that was Vinhor’s doing. I went to the church, as soon as I heard that’s where they were taking the victims, to offer what healing skills I have. Priest Vinhor was there, consulting with the chief healers. The first few they brought in died before they got to us, or soon after. Vinhor took the bodies and began collecting their blood. But most of them were burned so badly little was left he could use.

  “Then they brought in a woman who was still alive. She was screaming. Her burns were severe, but I’m nearly certain we would have been able to heal her. But Vinhor took one look at her and declared that she was beyond aid, and that he would grant her the Holy One’s mercy. I spoke up against him, but why should he listen to a mere midwife?”

  Siwell’s voice faltered. “He cut her throat, and caught her blood. That gave him enough. He went outside and used the blood to call up the storm.”

  Maryn remembered the towering cloud wreathed in blue lightning. “You must have been mistaken about her. Surely a servant of the Holy One would never…And the fire could have destroyed the whole town, without the rain.”

  “I hope you’re right. But I fear Vinhor’s ambition. When the king hears how his sorcery stopped the fire, he’s bound to be impressed. And he’s rumored to be displeased with Prelate Kiellan.” Siwell shook her head. “I should have kept my mouth shut with that clerk.”

  Maryn frowned at Siwell. The midwife’s story seemed incredible. But Siwell would never lie to her, so she must believe it was the truth.

  Tior called from within, “Can you come in here? I think I found it. But there’s a beam I’m going to need help moving.”

  Siwell stepped between Maryn and the door. “I’ll get it. You don’t have to—”

  But Maryn pushed by her and went inside. She was sick of this place. All she wanted was to find what she had come for and get away. She stomped over to the pile of rubble, grabbed a random beam, and began to heave.

  Tior hurried to direct her to the appropriate spot. With Tior, Siwell, and Maryn all working together, they managed to lift the beam and throw it aside.

  Maryn spotted the corner of the coffer. She dropped to her hands and knees and scrabbled in the ashes, unearthing it. The iron;-;banded wood was deeply scorched, but intact.

  “Edrich always kept the key. I suppose it would have been in his belt pouch. He usually left it hanging with his clothes, over there…” She twisted around, trying to orient herself.

  “We’ll never find it. Here, let me.” Tior drew a knife, slid the point into the crack where the lid met the body of the box, and levered. With only a little pressure, the hinges broke away from the charred wood and the coffer popped open.

  Maryn picked it up and dumped the contents into her lap. The coins were dark with soot, but appeared undamaged. She picked one up and rubbed it with a fold of her skirt. Copper gleamed at her.

  “There you go.” Tior jumped to his feet. “I’ll go get a few pots I saw that looked worth keeping, and we can leave.”

  “Thank you.” Maryn scooped the pile from her skirt into her pouch. “You’ve been so kind, helping us.”

  Tior shrugged. “It’s no more than my duty.”

  The three of them gathered up Maryn’s salvaged belongings and headed out of the building. Maryn looked back once as they made their way down the street. The life she and Edrich had shared there, that she had thought would be hers forever, had vanished into the flames. Siwell had offered her the chance for another life, and Maryn had agreed to take it. She couldn’t help but feel, though, that anything that happened to her from this point on was artificial, unreal. Her life should have ended back there, with her husband and child, and she should lie beside them now in their graves.

  Four

  The grand front entrance of the palace rose before Maryn, tall and splendid. She clutched her precious letter of introduction and stared through the iron bars of the gate. Beyond a stretch of lush green lawn and gardens bright with flowers, white stone gleamed in the morning sun. Carvings of beasts and birds and twining vines lavishly decorated the arches and turrets, bright with gilding. Troops of soldiers stood at rigid attention. A banner bearing a stylized gold stag and red splash of blood floated above the highest tower. She had thought the church in Ralo rich and beautiful, but compared to the splendor of the palace it seemed little more than a country chapel. The idea that she was about to ask admittance within those imposing walls seemed even more ridiculously presumptuous than it had when Siwell first proposed it.

  She almost surrendered to the impulse to flee back to the inn where she had spent the night. She could leave for Ralo in the morning. Even retracing all those weary miles of walking seemed preferable to completing the last few steps of her journey.

  But she couldn’t turn back now. Hadn’t she been just as afraid yesterday, when the caravan arrived in Loempno and all the other travelers went their various ways, leaving her lost and alone in the huge city? She had dealt with her fear then, and made her way through the bustling streets. She had forced herself to remain calm and asked directions until she found the King’s Inn. The Royal Stewardess couldn’t be worse than all those brusque strangers. At least she knew Maryn was coming, assuming Siwell’s message had arrived safely.

  Maryn turned away from the front gate, and walked through the city streets, around the palace wall. It was a long way, for the wings of the palace sprawled over many acres. Finally she came to the servant’s entrance, where Siwell had instructed her to present herself.

  The high wall blocked the view of all but the tallest peaks of the palace. A heavy iron gate stood open. Servants in formal blue livery hurried in and out.

  Guards flanked the entrance. She approached one, her pulse pounding so loud in her ears she almost couldn’t hear herself speak. “Excuse me? I’m here to see the Royal Stewardess; she’s expecting me. My name is Maryn Loesella. Here’s my letter of introduction.” She was proud that she neither stammered nor rushed. Her voice sounded calm and professional, at odds with the shaky, terrified uncertainty she felt. Her hand didn’t even tremble as she extended the folded document.

  The guard took the letter and examined the seal. “Wait here.” He stepped into a small guardhouse beside the gate. After a few minutes he returned. “Stand aside, please, Miss. Madam Coewyn will send word when she’s ready.”

  Maryn obediently moved away from the gate and pressed herself against the wall. Traffic flowed in and out the gate: servants, tradesmen in wagons piled high with goods, and once a troop of men;-;at;-;arms. The guards stared straight ahead when they weren’t dealing with others seeking entrance. Maryn waited as the sun crept higher in the sky. She longed to go to one of the vendor’s stalls she had passed and buy a mug of ale to moisten her dry tongue, but she didn’t dare venture away from the gate lest she miss her summons. How long would she have to wait? What if something had gone wrong, and the Royal Stewardess never sent for her? Or worse, told her to go away? Maybe the position was already filled. Or maybe, des
pite Siwell’s reassurances, she would consider Maryn unworthy of consideration.

  Finally, well after the bells had rung the fourth hour, a boy of perhaps thirteen years, in a bright blue uniform with a plumed velvet hat crooked on his head, ran up from within the palace grounds. He jerked to attention before the guard. “Madame Coewyn says to send her in, sir.”

  “Very good.” The guard turned. “Miss—Oh, there you are.” He frowned at Maryn, and she fell back a step from where she had crowded eagerly close. “This page will escort you to the Royal Stewardess.”

  “Thank you,” Maryn managed to get out, almost faint with relief. The page saluted and dashed off at nearly as rapid a pace as he had come. The guard cleared his throat, and the page halted, sheepishly waiting for Maryn to catch up before setting out again, slow enough for her to keep up this time.

  They passed through a busy courtyard and entered a wing of the palace. The page led her through long corridors until they reached a door that opened to a spacious office. Shelves lined one wall all the way up to the ceiling; they were stuffed full of bound volumes and loose sheaves of paper. Wide windows in another wall admitted generous light. In front of them stood a large, imposing desk, its surface covered with neat stacks of documents. Behind it, a woman dipped a quill in a pot of ink, blotted it, and made a few precise strokes. She was perhaps fifty years old, with steel gray hair fixed in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, all her movements sure and controlled.

  Maryn’s guide said, “Madame Coewyn? Here she is.”

  “Ah, good.” The Royal Stewardess set down her pen and regarded Maryn. “Come in; sit down. Boy, go find the Royal Sorcerer and ask him to attend me.”

  The page nodded and left, banging the door shut behind him. Maryn perched on the edge of one of the chairs that faced the desk. Madame Coewyn picked up and unfolded a sheet of paper Maryn recognized as her letter of introduction.

  “Midwife Siwell Narila has recommended you for the position of wet nurse to Princess Voerell’s child. I’ve read over your history. You do have several qualities in your favor. I am impressed that you seem to be entirely free of entanglements. All of the other women I am considering have impediments of some sort. We can deal with milk-ties if we have no other choice, but it is much preferable if that is not necessary.” She held Siwell’s letter up to catch the light, adjusted its distance from her eyes, and squinted. “She says your baby died in a fire?”