Agent of Prophecy Page 8

  She thought she saw a flicker of sadness on Tabor’s stern face. But he merely said, “If you say so, Princess. I must be mistaken.”

  That evening as Arabelle readied for bed, she was still thinking about Tabor’s remark. The truth was, he was right. She had changed—much more than she’d realized.

  She pulled up her skirts to examine her legs. They were lean now, with sinewy muscles that hadn’t been there before. When she flexed them, she could see every fiber move and ripple. The same transformation had occurred in her arms. She could see the muscles, feel the inner strength there. It was a good feeling, a powerful one.

  But, as much as she hated to admit it, she was now thinner than most. Far thinner than she’d ever been before. Was it visible in her face, too? Was she gaunt and sickly looking? She could have called for Maggie to bring a mirror, but she already knew the truth. Although she was stronger than she’d ever been in her life, she was also losing too much weight, and in order to stay healthy, she needed to do something about that.

  She reached for the basket of fruit on her nightstand, and a realization dawned on her. Maggie had only started leaving fruit for her… maybe a week or two ago. Could that be the handmaiden’s subtle way of suggesting her lady eat more?

  She grabbed a cluster of red grapes and popped them in her mouth one by one until she’d eaten them all. Certain her stomach couldn’t hold another bite, she tucked herself into bed, instructing her brain, as always, to awake in two hours.

  She wondered if her sleep would be dream-filled. She’d noticed that her improvements in observation in the waking world had also transferred to her dream world, and oftentimes memories of their details would stick with her for days afterward.

  That, too, might be useful. The Imazighen believed that dreams could be used to tell one’s future. Arabelle was dubious—she was fairly confident that her most recent dream, about eating dirt, had no special meaning—but was open to the possibility.

  She closed her eyes, and she did in fact fall quickly into a dream.

  She walks through a field of flowers, their scents floating on a warm breeze. Suddenly the field blinks from existence and is replaced with a lake.

  A rumbling approaches. A large metal box on black wheels travels, without horses, toward the lake. It stops at the water’s edge, and a door on the giant box opens. Four people emerge, talking and laughing. Their clothes are strange. They pull some rods from another door in the box, line up along the shore, and begin fishing.

  Two are teenagers—both boys—and the others seem to be their parents. The smaller brother catches a fish and holds it up for everyone to see. The mother then pulls a small black box from a bag and places it against her forehead. Everyone smiles, and the box emits a flash of brilliant white light.

  Soon the larger brother catches a fish as well, a much larger one, and the strange ritual with the small black box is repeated.

  As the larger boy turns, Arabelle sees his face, and his brilliant smile, and she finds herself blushing. She feels a kinship with him, and his blue eyes possess a kindness that draws her in. She steps forward to talk to him.

  And the dream fades away.

  Arabelle woke from the dream soaked with sweat. As she replayed the dream in her mind, it made no sense—like most dreams. But that boy…

  Arabelle gasped. When she thought of the boy, her inner sight awoke, pointing her in the boy’s direction. Was this a real person? Had she dreamt about a stranger she had never met?

  And that wasn’t the strangest part of it all. Thus far, her inner sight had always been correct. Sometimes it didn’t activate at all, but when it did, it never failed to point her in the right direction. But now…

  She looked in the direction where her senses had pointed her.

  She was staring straight up at the ceiling of her tent.

  Arabelle devoured the spiced lamb resting on a bed of Madam Mizmer’s special rice dotted with dried fruit, then tore into a piece of flatbread.

  Across from her, Father laughed. “My heart, I’m so glad to see your appetite has grown. I knew you would come around.”

  “Come around?” she asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Tabor is worried for you, is all. First he claimed you were hiding an injury, then that you were too thin! I told him his skills lie in assessing soldiers, and horses, and to leave the health of my daughter to me.” He stopped himself. “But don’t let Tabor’s comments bother you. You’re a growing girl, and your body is changing. It’s natural to gain or lose weight. And I know you would tell me if you were unwell or injured.”

  Arabelle felt a prick of guilt. “Father,” she asked, “am I too thin now?”

  He looked at her appraisingly, then pressed his finger to her forehead. “My dove, the beauty of a princess lies within. Just eat when you’re hungry and let nature take care of the rest. If you listen to your body’s needs, you will not be led astray.”

  His kindness and understanding only made Arabelle feel more guilt over the lie she was about to tell. But she was determined to do it—to clear a path for her to take the actions she felt were necessary for her growth.

  “Father,” she said hesitantly, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”

  “Anything, my heart.”

  “Well, I’ve been having frightening dreams lately. The same ones over and over again.”

  Father set his food aside, and his expression was serious. “Dreams are not to be ignored. Come, tell me everything. Together we’ll determine what is best.”

  When Arabelle had completed her lie, her father twirled his mustache around one of his thick fingers.

  “These dreams are concerning,” he said thoughtfully. “Always the same dream of being attacked, with no escort to protect you. This could be an ordinary nightmare, fears of the day creeping into the night. But for you to keep having the same dream… yes, it suggests a vision. And the other detail, about you defending yourself with a dagger… it’s most interesting. Perhaps this is the heart of the message your vision is trying to convey. A warning, and an instruction. Telling you what skill you will need to possess.”

  Arabelle nodded silently. Her father was interpreting her made-up dream precisely as she’d intended, but that only made her feel more guilt for lying.

  He stood. “Wait here, my dear. It’s time you receive something.”

  He walked across the tent and rummaged through a chest. It took him some time to find what he was looking for, as it was buried at the bottom. Finally he let out a grumbled, “Aha!”

  He stood holding two items: a supple leather sash with loops in it, and a small wooden box. He sat down with Arabelle again.

  “My daughter, these belonged to your mother. And now they belong to you.”

  He handed Arabelle the box first. It was polished to perfect smoothness and embossed with colored stones. Inside were two daggers, their blades a shiny black, their handles wrapped in gray leather.

  Her father nodded toward the box. “The handles are bound with the skin of a man-eating fish. That skin won’t get slippery even when coated with blood.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a fish.”

  “Nor should you have. These daggers are from a time before the demon wars, before the barrier. If those fish still exist, they live in the vast oceans that we no longer have access to.”

  Arabelle had no words for how beautiful the daggers were. She touched them gingerly. “Mother carried these?”

  Father chuckled. “As a matter of fact, when I first encountered her in the market, she almost skewered me with one of them. Your mother was always full of surprises.”

  “Like what?” Lately, Arabelle had been feeling increasingly hungry for knowledge about the mother she’d never known.

  Father twirled the end of his mustache again, looking pensive. “Well… did I ever tell you that your mother wasn’t the first woman I was betrothed to?”

  Arabelle’s eyes widened with shock. “No! How can that be?”
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  Father reclined against some pillows. “My parents had me betrothed at birth to a daughter of a very close friend of theirs. I grew up with her, played with her as a child. We became close. And then one day, there was a riding accident. She fell from her horse and died. I was in mourning for a long time. I remember thinking that I would never recover from such sadness. But then I met your mother.”

  “And that was when she tried to stab you.”

  He laughed. “Precisely. I was walking in the marketplace on the outskirts of Cammoria when I saw the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on. I completely forgot myself, boldly approached, and asked her name.” He pointed at the daggers in Arabelle’s lap. “She pulled her weapon on me.”

  “That seems a bit extreme.”

  Her father rubbed at one of the thick rings on his fingers, the one that had been a wedding gift from Arabelle’s mother. “I… may have approached more assertively than I intended. And it nearly started a riot. Her father was a wealthy merchant, so she had many escorts, and when she pulled her weapon, they all drew their weapons as well. I, too, had an escort of course, and when they saw all the blades arrayed against me, they too showed their arms. It was a tense moment. But I held up my empty hands, and your mother stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. Then she gave me the greatest gift I have ever received: her brilliant smile. I was hers forever after.”

  “So you chose who you married?”

  He scratched at his chin. “Yes and no. Your mother swore that she’d seen me in her dreams even before we met, and she knew that we were destined to marry. So it’s more true to say that your mother chose me. Or fate did. But it’s also true to say that I very much begged my father to make arrangements with her parents.”

  Arabelle smiled. She wondered why she hadn’t asked more about her mother before now. Truly her parents had been in love.

  Father pointed again at the daggers in Arabelle’s lap. “In any case, I think she would be proud for you to wield her daggers. But… you must make me a promise.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  “I want you to train with Tabor. I trust him to be careful with you.”

  Arabelle felt the warmth of victory spread through her. She set aside the box, leaned forward, and wrapped her father in a hug. “I would be honored to train with Tabor, and wield Mother’s daggers. Father, thank you so much. I’ll be very careful.”

  He hugged her tightly, then held her at arm’s length. “I know you will. But I ask one more thing. Keep this training secret. You will have an advantage if people underestimate you.”

  She smiled. “Nobody expects a princess with claws, eh?”

  Father slapped his knee and laughed. “Exactly right. Now go get Tabor. Let’s break the news to him together.”

  Tabor threw a kick at Arabelle’s ankle, and she dove at his legs, attempting to touch him with her finger. Instead she merely flopped unceremoniously into the spot he had just vacated.

  She glared up at her escort, now her trainer. Tabor was really old—even older than her father, and he was nearly forty. Yet the man moved like a snake, and no matter what she tried, she wasn’t able to tag him.

  She rose to her feet and stalked him as if he were her prey, waiting for him to grow inattentive or weary. But somehow, Tabor never got distracted. Not even for a moment.

  Wiping a sweat-soaked strand of hair from her face, she crouched in an attack stance, feinted to his left, and dove for his right. Again she landed in the dirt, and this time Tabor poked her in the back of the head with a thick finger.

  “Princess, I’m afraid you just received a mortal wound.” He chuckled merrily. The old man was enjoying this.

  Arabelle got up and wiped the dust from her clothes. “Fine, I’m dead now. But you’re supposed to be helping me get better. What am I doing wrong?”

  “Honestly, you’re doing more right than you know. But it’s unreasonable to expect that you’ll catch me unaware, or be faster than me, after only a few weeks of work. I’ve been training at hand-to-hand combat for more than thirty years, and without being overly modest, I’m one of the best there is. You won’t beat me, Princess. But in trying to do so, you’re learning.”

  She sighed. He was right, of course. “So what am I doing right?”

  Tabor’s face brightened. “Now that is the right question to ask. You’re learning to observe your opponent. You’ve been watching my feet instead of my hands—”

  She dove at him suddenly, leading with her extended finger, but he simply stepped backwards and tapped her on the top of her head.

  Tabor actually roared with laughter, and he had to wipe tears of amusement from his eyes. Yes, the old man was enjoying this far too much.

  Arabelle dusted herself off and continued the conversation as if her last failed attack had never happened. “Well of course, Tabor. You can’t exactly stab someone without moving your feet or adjusting your stance. You’ve fooled me once or twice by moving your upper body while your feet were planted in another direction. That always turned into a feint.”

  Tabor’s look of amusement melted into one of appraisal. “If only my soldiers had half your intelligence, Princess. You’re correct. Watch a man’s feet. They don’t lie.” He shook his head. “You know, when your father first told me he wanted me to train you, I felt sorry for you. But now?” He broke into a broad grin. “I feel sorry for your future husband. You’re very smart and very tough, for a princess.”

  She smiled despite herself, trying to ignore the for a princess qualifier.

  Tabor rubbed his chin. “In fact… I’ve never had a woman soldier in my employ, but if I had watched you sparring in this way, and you weren’t the princess, I wouldn’t dismiss the idea as impossible.”

  Now that was a solid compliment, and Arabelle beamed.

  She stretched her arms and legs. “Ready for another round?”

  Tabor pointed both of his index fingers at her and smiled. “Be careful, I’m armed with two fingers now.”

  Arabelle now spent her days working out with Tabor and her nights working out to Castien’s prescribed exercises. The dagger work was excellent for developing her observation skills and reaction times, whereas Castien’s workouts helped her build inner strength and muscle control. One thing both workouts had in common: they always left her physically exhausted.

  But she was also cognizant of Castien’s other lessons, and was determined to become more knowledgeable about the uses of plants. She had already read the volume he’d given her, but thought there must be more knowledge to be had.

  She started, perhaps foolishly, by asking Maggie if she knew of any plants with medicinal uses, such as those that might help someone with bad dreams. Naturally Maggie took this to mean that Arabelle herself was having bad dreams, and she immediately kicked into full-on mothering mode. But once Arabelle convinced her that she was merely curious about the subject, Maggie pointed her to Madam Mizmer. Evidently the cook had once apprenticed to an herb-woman.

  As Arabelle approached Madam Mizmer’s cooking stalls, her mouth watered at the delicious scents that wafted her way. The roasted meats and pungent spices filled this portion of the merchant’s quarter.

  Madam Mizner, a portly woman with hair always tied up in a cloth headdress, was busy yelling orders at her harried staff when Arabelle arrived.

  “Hurry up, Alexandra! We need those vegetables chopped for the soldier’s stew, and make sure they’re chopped evenly this time! I’ll not be hearing that some of my vegetables aren’t cooked properly.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Poor Alexandra looked up meekly from her vegetables and gave Arabelle a wan smile.

  Madam Mizmer didn’t reserve her shouting for her own daughter. As she stirred a pot, she shouted at several other helpers. “Stop dawdling! You girls have only two hours until the merchants come for their midday meals! And Keena, watch the spicing this time. Not everyone enjoys the burn as much as you do.”

  Only then did the head cook notice Arabelle. She g
reeted her with a look of concern. “Princess? Is there something wrong? Was your morning meal improperly prepared?” she shot an accusing look at poor Alexandra.

  Arabelle shook her head. “No, nothing like that, Madam Mizmer. Your meals are always delightful. I came to ask about something else. I was told you once apprenticed with an herb-woman?”

  Madam Mizmer fanned herself. “Oh my, that was ages and ages ago, my dear. Most of my herb knowledge is now applied to the cooking arts, not the healing ones. Does something ail you, Princess?”

  Arabelle wondered how to approach this. She’d learned with Maggie that she couldn’t just blurt out what she was after. No one would believe that a princess merely wanted to learn; they would all assume something was wrong, and try to help.

  But as she gazed over at Alexandra, madly chopping away at a seemingly endless pile of root vegetables, she was inspired.

  “Madam Mizmer, in truth, I was hoping to learn how to cook from you. I know it’s something that a mother normally teaches her daughter, but…”

  The woman raised a hand. “Say no more, dear.” She waddled from behind the stall and put her arm around the princess’s shoulder. “I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you. My own mother died almost ten years ago, and it still seems like only yesterday. Things must have been very hard for you never knowing your mum, never having her around to teach you the things of mothers and daughters. Rest assured, I will gladly teach you anything you want to know.”

  “Well, I was thinking, could you just teach me some of the basics? Maybe start with something simple that I could serve my father. Maybe… tea? Eventually I could move up to a stew or bread. Do you think I could learn all that?”

  Madam Mizmer smiled. “A smart girl like you can learn anything you set your mind to. Come.”

  She shuffled toward an adjoining tent and led Arabelle into its dark recesses. Apparently this was where she kept many of her dried goods, as a huge variety of plants hung from the ceiling to dry.