Prince of Fire and Ashes: Book 3 of the Tielmaran Chronicles by Katya Reimann

its body against Tullier’s legs. “Who did this?” she asked angrily. “Who set those men on us?”
    “I don’t know,” Martin said. “But every man of them was Bissanty born.”
    “The spell on the bridge was Tielmaran magic,” Gaultry told him. “Why Bissanty men if it was Tielmaran magic?”
    “I don’t know,” Martin said. “But the Bissanties at least were waiting for us. It wasn’t chance that launched that attack—they knew you and me both. That from a man before I had to kill him.”
    “Eliante in me!” Gaultry invoked the Huntress and made her sign, peevish and frightened together. “I thought we were supposed to be safe now we were home in Tielmark.” She was crying now, delayed reaction from all the danger. “You don’t know what I had to do to keep Tullier alive. They almost killed him. I had to raise my Glamour, and he the Goddess-blood!”
    Martin, disconcerted, yanked Gaultry up and away from the boy’s unconscious form. “This can’t go on,” he said angrily, shielding her for a moment against the warmth of his body. “You must stop sharing your power with him. You’re forgetting what he is, and who you are. His fate lies in Bissanty—yours is here in Tielmark.”
    Gaultry struggled free of him, feeling obscurely guilty. “Don’t you think I know that? What would you have me do? He would have died without me.”
    “A habit he seems unwilling to break,” Martin replied hotly. “For all it brings you close to him.”
    “He’s just a boy!”
    Martin raised his hand to the smooth curve of her cheek. “With this magic, he has trespassed too far inside you. Gaultry—consider what you have shared with him already.”
    She thrust his hand away. “Don’t touch me. Not right now.”
    The expression on Martin’s face shifted from anger to ice. He withdrew, and gave her a mock salute. “As my lady pleases. As I myself have trespassed, I am sorry. But my rudeness doesn’t alter what I’ve said. You must stop sharing your power with him. For Tielmark’s sake, if not for mine.”
    “I don’t know what you mean.” She sounded childish now—she knew it, and he knew it too.
    “You got your swim,” he said, derisive, as he stood away from her. “I hope getting your way is enough to make you happy.”

chapter 3
    In the confusion after the wounded and the bodies had been dragged out of the water, the sentiment among the marketgoers left stranded on the river’s banks was not weighted in the travelers’ favor. Martin had killed three men, and the fourth man had taken his own life. With one side slaughtered, unable to be questioned for their side of the story, no one could agree what had precipitated the violence.
    As the corpses were laid on the bank, the mood of the crowd grew ugly. The market crowd knew nothing of Bissanty conspiracies; all they had seen was four men attempt to stop some queue-jumpers, an act for which they had paid with their lives.
    One woman had broken her ankle escaping the bridge’s collapse; others suffered bruises. Many of those trapped on both banks carried perishable goods. A few responded constructively. Three carpenters who had been traveling to Soiscroix went down into the water to salvage the scrap lumber, and, with many hands helping, it was not long before they had rigged up a narrow plank bridge. But anyone who had goods in a cart or wagon was seriously out of luck.
    As much as the chaos and violence, the animated vine had frightened them. As work progressed on making the temporary bridge secure, some men began to systematically destroy what remained of the vine, building a fire and laying bedraggled garlands of leaves upon it. The garlands steamed as the flames touched them, casting off foul-smelling smoke.
    Others still turned to mete justice on the queue-jumpers.
    The bridgekeeper, who should have been able to vouch for them,
was too timid to take charge and quell the mob’s rage. Fierce questions revealed he’d been approached, days