Sanctuary of Roses by Colleen Gleason

into the faces of the fire fighters. Gavin ducked,
holding up an arm to ward off the black fog. Something stung him
fiercely on the shoulder, and he slapped a hand there to brush away
the sparks that landed on his bare skin. He cursed himself for
neglecting to pull on a sherte before leaving the keep, but
there was no time to stop now.
    “This way!” A voice shouted, and the mass of
fire fighters stumbled, shifting several steps in one direction to
move out of the wind’s changed path.
    The buckets kept coming, but the wind would
not allow them to gain an advantage. Soon, the walls of the first
building collapsed inward, sending up a shower of sparks and ash. A
spray of orange coals scattered over Gavin, stinging like tiny
needles that he didn’t have the time to brush away. Already, a
fourth building was beginning to smoke in the hay-like thatch of
the roof.
    With a shout that had grown rough because of
the sooty air, Gavin pointed at the coil of smoke coming from the
building. He beckoned for two of the lines of bucket-passers to
turn their attention to this new danger, then, with a quick nod to
Clem, he slipped out of his own position and started toward the
group of women and children.
    Pointing to the wife of the smith, he said,
“You—Sally—get you those children who are old enough, and whatever
women can be spared from watching the young ones, and throw water
on this house next. If we have God’s luck, we shall keep it from
spreading further.”
    He was just about to return to his place in
line when an agonized scream reached his ears.
    He turned to see a woman running toward the
fourth of the burning buildings. “My son! Barden! My son!” She
would have dashed into the blaze had Gavin not thrown out an arm
and caught her around the waist.
    When she looked up and recognized him, even
that did not stop her from struggling to get free. “My lord! My
son’s home! My son and his wife!” she shrieked—a mournful, wailing
cry that tore at Gavin’s heart. “I cannot find them! They are
burning!”
    “They are there?” he asked, looking at the
building, gauging how badly it was burning within. His glance
flickered over the mass of people that worked as one body, passing
buckets and tossing water. It was unlikely that Barden and his wife
had not been awakened by the activity. Thus, if they were within
the house, they were most certainly dead. “Stay you here.” He
started toward the house.
    “My lord—” her shriek of mingled gratitude
and horror followed him as he started toward the small home.
    Gavin was near enough to feel the blistering
waves of heat from the building next door when a hand closed over
his arm. He shook his arm to loosen the grip, and turned in
annoyance to see a familiar, soot-covered face. “Lady Madelyne!” he
exclaimed, stopping. “What are you doing?”
    “Nay, my lord, you cannot go in there!” she
tightened her grip on his bare arm, seemingly heedless of the sweat
that made her fingers slip. She was dressed in a long, stained
gown, with the bulk of her hair pulled back into a thick braid.
Sweat dripped down her own face, which was flushed from exertion
and speckled with ash.
    “I must see to her son,” he said simply.
“’Tis my duty. I am the lord, and I am foresworn to protect my
vassals.” He started away again.
    “Nay! My lord!” Moments later, she was after
him again, carrying a bucket of water. “Wait.”
    He turned, more annoyed. “You cannot say me
nay, Madelyne. I must—”
    “I would not. But, here, take this to cover
your mouth and head.” She handed him a length of cloth, and he saw
that she had torn her gown to her knees. It was wet and cool, and
she helped him to wrap it around his head and shoulders, leaving a
flap to pull over his mouth and nose. “Have a care!”
    Her words followed him, even over the
crackle and hiss of flame and the calls and shouts of
bucket-passers, and for once he did not ask himself why he should
have a care for his