Free Taming Fire by Aaron Pogue

me patiently. I glanced around the room and spotted the neatly-folded pile of clothes, checked that there was enough water in the basin, and turned back to him. "That will do nicely," I said. "Thank you."
    He nodded once, mute, and left me there alone.
    I stripped out of my filthy clothes. I washed my face first, then soaked one of the towels to scrub quickly at my body, and used the other to dry. I did it swiftly, but by the time I was done I felt clean and fresh and ready to face anything. And then I turned to the pile of new clothes.
    A moment later a finely woven red cotton shirt hung almost to my knees over a pair of doeskin pants that fit almost as though tailored to me. I also found a pair of plain leather boots much like mine, but these were new and fresh as mine had never been. I considered the already bulging pack I'd slung carelessly into a chair and rejected any thought of adding my filthy clothes to it. Instead I left them there, piled neatly on the floor beside the empty pitcher and my mud-stained boots.
    Then I turned to the last of my new finery, a dark blue cloak, thick and luxurious. I slung the cloak around my shoulders and stepped to the door. It was heavier on my shoulders than any of the tattered cloaks I'd worn before, and that weight seemed to strengthen me. I grabbed the strap of my pack in one hand, straightened my back, and left the room.
    Across the hall I found the door Claighan had pointed out standing closed. I tried the handle, but it was locked. I heard voices within, low and furious, but I could not make out any words. I raised a hand to knock, and then a soft voice stopped me.
    "Probably not your wisest course of action." It came from behind me. A woman's voice.
    I jumped. I spun around. I fell back against the door with a thump and heard a curious exclamation from within the room.
    She grinned, one corner of her mouth doing all the work, and I felt a flush rise into my cheeks. She raised an eyebrow. "It's not any better when you knock with your shoulder blades."
    I stepped away from the door, cast a glance back at it, then moved out into the middle of the corridor. It was a young woman who'd startled me, maybe a year older than me. She sat up very straight on a low bench set against the wall opposite Claighan's door.
    She had chestnut hair long and loose, charcoal eyes with just a hint of blue to them, and sun-dark skin that was out of place—but still quite alluring—on a nobleman's daughter. She had to be that. She wore a white silk blouse that was deliciously tight-fitting, and loose gray riding skirts that showed toned calves and pretty little feet accustomed to fine carpets.
    Without thought, without embarrassment, I studied her from head to toe. I saw her smile quirk, saw her eyes sparkle, but she didn't object. Perhaps she even twisted a bit here and there as my eyes roamed, showing herself to full advantage.
    Then she uncurled from her place on the bench and moved toward me like a breath of wind. She smelled like a summer sunset. She came too close and raised a hand to toy idly with the collar of my too-fine shirt.
    "You've got the costume," she said, distant and thoughtful. "But you certainly don't play the part too well."
    I found a breath, and then I stammered, "What part?"
    "Of a prince," she said. She looked up through her lashes at me.
    I chuckled and she frowned. I shook my head. "I am not a prince."
    She took a slow step back, and shrugged. "Of course not," she said. She waved a hand toward me. "Not even a little. But you've got me curious. Wizards and kings rarely have time for visits from a..."
    I held her gaze. "A shepherd."
    "A shepherd?" Her voice rose a little at that. Then she breathed a little laugh and shook her head. "Of course. You almost look like a beggar from Chantire."
    I smiled. "I have been a beggar from Chantire."
    She nodded. "I thought so. That's the part you looked when you came in." I felt the surprise show on my face a heartbeat before she answered it