Free Breath of Angel by Karyn Henley

fashion.
    “As you know, I’m ignorant in a great many matters,” she said.
    “Not ignorant, my priestess. What say you, gents?”
    “Ill-informed, perhaps,” called one of the actors.
    “Unenlightened,” suggested another.
    “Empty-headed?” ventured a third.
    “You’re the empty head,” Caepio shot back. “No, my priestess, the word for you is
innocent.
”
    “And you’ve been enlightening her, I suppose?” asked Trevin.
    Melaia jerked around to see him riding up beside them. Her cheeks burned at the thought of the question she had almost asked.
    Trevin laughed. “At the rate we’ve all been educating you, you’ll be a wise old woman by the time we enter Redcliff.” He nudged his horse and cantered up the hill, where he stopped and dismounted.
    “Now what was your question?” asked Caepio.
    “Never mind,” said Melaia. “I’d best stay innocent.”
    As they crested the hill, a cheer shot up from the actors. Redcliff Valley lay ahead, rippling with golden grasses. The highway before them stretched across the center of the valley, which was scattered with camps. At the far side the highway became a bridge that soared into a line of red clay cliffs. Atop the cliffs stood the mass of ruddy square towers that formed the city of Redcliff.
    Melaia caught her breath at the sight of the magnificent red city. The lowering sun painted its western edge with a fiery glow. She tingled all the way to her toes, awed, excited, petrified.
    Trevin signaled for the wagon to halt, calling, “The chantress will ride the rest of the way with me.”
    Melaia kept her mouth shut but raised her eyebrows in question.
    “There’s still some distance to cover,” he explained. “I want to reach the city gate before it closes for the night.”
    He took Melaia’s journey bag and the harp and tied them onto his own packs while she said good-bye to the actors.
    As Caepio headed over the hill, Melaia turned to Trevin’s horse and then shrank back. How did one mount such a large creature?
    Trevin tugged the last knot, turned to her, and burst into warm laughter. “You should see yourself. You look appalled. Shall I guess you’ve never ridden?”
    “Never,” she squeaked. “I suppose it’s too far to walk?”
    “Unless you want to walk by the light of the moon and arrive in Redcliff for breakfast. I myself crave supper and my own bed.”
    Melaia took a deep breath. With Trevin’s instructions and help, she mounted the horse after just two tries. She shifted her skirts and cloak to the least awkward feel as Trevin settled in behind her. At his direction she wove her fingers through the horse’s mane.
    Then he nudged his mount into a walk. Melaia clenched the stiff horsehair and felt Trevin’s arm draw snug around her waist, his breath at her ear. She knew she would take pleasure in it if she were not terrified of tumbling off.
    “Breathe,” said Trevin. “Relax. Ride with the movement, not against it.”
    Melaia exhaled slowly. “You’d have more luck telling a stone to turn to water.”
    Trevin laughed again and clucked to the horse. Their easy gait down the hill slowly gathered speed. The actors cheered when they passed, but Melaia didn’t respond, for she clung to the horse’s mane as if it were all that stood between her and death. Despite her fear she thrilled to the feel of the wind in her face and the scent of grasses as they swept across the valley.
    Soon they slowed to join the last of the throng crossing the bridge and funneling through the city gate. Melaia at last felt steady enough to look back at the valley. To the east, lights winked like flickerflies.
    “Is that where the caravan camps?” she asked.
    “That’s an unwalled city of sorts,” said Trevin. “Made by people fleeing Dregmoorian raiders or the blight. Or both.”
    Melaia wondered if Hanni and the girls were fleeing raiders. “Gil said raiders attack because the blight destroyed their crops and cattle.”
    “That’s the common