Elfling (U.S. Edition)

by Corinna Turner

  I finally looked at the living Duke, realizing he was dressed as usual in very dark colors, black today, trimmed with dark green. His face was rather closed. Glancing back at the portrait, I noticed that one corner of the frame and a small part of the canvas was blackened and burned. “What happened to it?”

  The Duke gave a pained smile in which there was no humor at all. “Your mother put a torch to it as she was leaving. Fortunately we managed to save it.”

  I gave him my full attention, as an assumption I had been making ever since learning of my legitimacy crumbled. “She left you?”

  The Duke nodded, his eyes distant. “She left me. I would not have left her for the world.” The last sentence was so soft that I barely heard.

  “Why did she leave?” I demanded.

  “It wasn’t her fault,” said my father quickly. “She couldn’t have done anything else.”

  “Then what happened? What did you do?”

  The Duke turned his head to say a few words to the footmen, who hefted the painting again and made their way from the room. A maid came in before they could close the door, carrying a tray of food.

  “You’d better eat,” said the Duke.

  ~+~

  I ate a thick slice of bread. It was a lot bigger than what I would have paid a half copper for, but this was soft, white bread, made from flour into which no sand or grit had been mixed. Then I had a piece of cheese, but I could only eat half of it, it was so rich. I ate a little slice of lamb, and then couldn’t eat anything more. I hadn’t been so full in years.

  “Are you sure you don’t want anything else?” my father asked, as I settled back in the bed, smiling in satisfaction at this feast.

  “No, really, I couldn’t eat another bite,” I told him. Raven moved in eagerly on the remains of my meal. The rest of the piece of cheese disappeared, and a slice of lamb, then she curled up in sleepy satisfaction.

  “You are my daughter for sure,” murmured the Duke, but before I could ask what he meant by this cryptic comment, he asked, “Where did you come by a dragonet?”

  “A what?” I glanced at Raven, startled. “Is that what she is?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Are dragonets even real? I thought she was an exotic foreign creature.”

  “Well, she is exotic. Not foreign, though, she could easily be a British species. And they are real. They are a sort of natural, ah...supernatural creature, if you see what I mean.”

  I nodded, looking Raven over again. Raven was still so small that her body fitted in my palm, although her tail trailed and her neck stuck out. She stretched her neck out now and chirruped at the Duke, blinking her large golden eyes at him until he rubbed her under the chin.

  “That explains...quite a lot,” I remarked.

  “I’ve told the servants she’s an exotic foreign creature from the Americas,” the Duke added. “Best if she’s not seen outside the grounds, though.”

  I nodded, yawning, happy with the precaution. Satisfied with the attention, Raven curled up again and the Duke smiled at us both.

  “Get some sleep. You’re certainly not allowed up today,” he added, as he left the room.

  Just before my eyes closed, I realized that he’d never answered my question.

  ~+~

  CHAPTER 9

  WARRIOR

  I woke with dawn’s light filtering through the curtains. I’d had the postponed bath the previous day and the maids had successfully untangled my hair. I’d slept for most of the rest of the day, but now I jumped out of bed, pleased at how much better I felt.

  My father had not been idle whilst I was recuperating. In addition to the servant’s bell cord, a little hand bell now sat on the bedside table. I racked my mind back to my old life and tried giving it a little ring. In came my brand new lady’s maid to dress me. Susie was only a few years older than myself, but highly accomplished. She had already found some old dresses in the attics in something like my size and having put me into one of these, she proceeded to do something incredible with my newly reclaimed hair.

  I submitted to all this in a slight daze and hastened downstairs to escape the bewildering efficiency. Passing the disturbingly charred portrait at the head of the stairs, I met my father halfway across the hall. He was dressed for riding, had a crop in his hand and smelt slightly of horse.

  “Are you going riding? Can I come?” I asked, recent illness, inexplicable hairstyle and unaccustomed skirts all forgotten.

  “Fortunately,” declared the Duke, “I am not going, I am coming back from. Perhaps you can come with me tomorrow, but we shall have to see.” He spoiled the sternness of this latter declaration with a smile.

  “Oh,” I said, rather disappointed, then brightening, I asked, “Breakfast isn’t finished yet, is it?”

  “Breakfast is in fact my destination. And for that, you are most welcome.”

  He continued towards the dining room and I fell in beside him, almost literally, for I kept treading on the hem of my skirt, which was too long and would have been so even for a girl who had not been wearing breeches for the past four years.

  He caught my final headlong plunge and laughed as he steadied me. “You’ll be glad to hear,” he said, as we helped ourselves to sausages and toast and several other tasty things that made my stomach rumble just to look at them, “that the seamstress is due sometime today. She’s bringing a few of her needle girls too, so by the end of the day you ought to have clothes that fit properly.”

  I managed to control my madly chewing jaws long enough to say, “That will be nice.”

  Alban Ravena glanced at me again and covered a smile. “What’s her name, by the way?” he asked, nodding to Raven, who had launched an assault on a sausage with similar fervor.

  “Oh, she’s called Raven,” I said, taking the sausage away from the ‘Raven’ in question. “You can’t eat all that,” I said firmly, “your stomach simply isn’t large enough.”

  Raven screeched angrily but didn’t try to reclaim the sausage and soon curled up on my shoulder in a way that suggested she might just have stomach-ache. Whatever her uncanny intelligence, she was still a baby.

  “What do you want to do until the seamstress arrives?” the Duke asked me. “This morning, I am at your disposal.”

  “Can I see the stables? And the kennels?”

  “Certainly, but we’ll have to wrap you up well.”

  I heard this with some trepidation and sure enough, I went out to the stables swathed in a ridiculous number of warm things, from hats and scarves to coats and cloaks. Mostly the maid’s fault, although I felt pretty sure that if I hadn’t looked like a woolly ball on legs the Duke wouldn’t have let me out.

  We were met part-way to the stables by what turned out to be the head groom, an elderly man, who limped slightly from one fall too many. “Ah, my Lord, I was coming to find you. I keep putting it off but it’s no good. It’s about Warrior.”

  My father’s face fell. “How is he?”

  The groom looked very uncomfortable. “We’ve given him special care for years, my lord, knowing how you feel about him, but he won’t eat at all now, not even his special mash. Perhaps you could...look at him, my lord.”

  The Duke sighed and most of the happiness seemed to have leached out of him. “Yes, I’ll come.”

  ~+~

  Warrior must have been an immense animal when he was younger, I thought, looking at the massive frame, now all but bare of flesh and horribly gaunt. He stood in a warm stall, head hanging. A blanket covered him and an untouched bran mash still steamed faintly in a bucket.

  I looked closer at the mixture and by dipping a finger and licking it, established that it was an oatmeal mash laced with syrup. If the old horse couldn’t eat that, then it couldn’t eat anything. I couldn’t help dipping my finger a couple more times, for I had rarely eaten anything so tasty and nutritious since leaving my mother’s house. Then I noticed the groom eyeing me covertly and desisted. I’d just eaten a good breakfast, after all.r />
  Alban Ravena stroked the great, bony head and was rewarded with a faint, but undeniably affectionate, nudge. “This horse carried me into battle when I was younger,” he told me quietly. “Kept me safe...fought better than I did,” he added, with a shadow of a smile.

  Now was not the time to ask eager questions about when and where he had fought in battle, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “Let’s try you with some grass, old fellow,” the Duke said after a moment, but it was only with a great deal of effort that the old horse was persuaded to walk as far as the nearest pasture. Warrior lipped at a few blades of grass, but they fell from his mouth untasted, and he went back to standing with his head hanging listlessly.

  One arm around the great muzzle, Alban ran his fingers through the thin forelock. “Very well,” he murmured to the big horse, “you make yourself quite clear, old friend.”

  He swallowed and his jaw tightened. He glanced at one of the grooms standing by. “John, my crossbow,” he ordered curtly. He glanced at me, “Go inside, child.”

  I failed to suppress a snort at that. If I’d met this old nag wandering owner-less down a street, I’d have cut its throat and had a feast.

  The Duke clearly realized his concern for me was misplaced, for he did not repeat the order. He slid his arms around the horse’s neck and ran his fingers through the patchy coat. “When I returned, I feared he might not remember me, after so long. I was very happy that he did. Ah well,” he finished softly.

  John had reappeared and wordlessly held out a crossbow and a pair of bolts. The Duke drew away from the horse to take them. He stuck one bolt in the ground, set the other in place and cranked the handle rapidly. Then, expression set, he placed the tip to the back of the horse’s head and pulled the trigger.

  The crossbow went off with a vicious thwack and Alban stepped back as the horse lurched, went to its knees and then rolled over to sprawl on its side. For a while the great hooves jerked, then they lay still.

  Alban handed the crossbow and the second quarrel back to John. “Bury him between the oak trees on Gallant’s Rise,” he ordered, and strode off back to the stables.

  I hurried after him, trying to think not of all that meat, tough as it might be, going to waste, but of my father’s pain at losing an old friend, even an equine one.

  ~+~

  CHAPTER 10

  MISTRESS OF THE HOUSE

  The first batch of clothes arrived from the seamstress, and my wardrobe began to look much less bare. More to the point, a riding habit now hung there. I had managed no more than two small meals a day to start with, but I had just managed three, and that had clearly pleased my father. In fact, I was feeling so much stronger that the Duke had said that I might go riding with him the next morning.

  I could hardly wait and strove to remind myself that the fact that I would be put up on the oldest, calmest nag in the stables was really a good thing, considering my lack of recent practice. To be honest, even the thought of the gentle ambler on which I would sit in the morning could not dull my excitement. I hadn’t really noticed, during my long fight for survival, but I had missed my horses.

  I changed a few more things around in my wardrobe and shut the door. Springing across my bedchamber, I headed downstairs, already at home again in my skirts, now that they were at least the correct length.

  After knocking on the study door, I paused a moment before entering, collecting myself. It hadn’t taken me long to realize that I must do what I was about to do, but still, I couldn’t help feeling ill at ease about the whole thing.

  My father sat at his desk and smiled at my approach. He seemed to be taking Warrior’s loss stoically enough, as far as I could see. If he’d been a little distracted now and then over the last few days, that was only to be expected. I’d heard all about the mighty, or once-mighty, Warrior from Anna, the housekeeper. The horse had been given to my father when just a boy, by his father, as a newborn colt.

  I realized that I was eyeing my father rather scrutinizingly and quickly looked away, reminding myself that he was not my mother. I didn’t even like to think about my mother having such a dear old horse shot, let alone doing it herself. There would have been gloom in the house for weeks. My father’s attitude was clearly that his old friend had had a long, good life, which was now over, and what more could anyone ask for, human or equine?

  I perched on the edge of the desk, for the study was not really designed for conversation, and drew in a breath. My expression must have been solemn, because my father raised an inquiring brow.

  “I need to speak with you,” I said in a bit of a rush. “I’ve been thinking, and I think it would be best if I...made a sort of confession.”

  The eyebrow went up a little further. “I am not a priest,” he said neutrally.

  “No, not for that reason, exactly. Just so that you know...the worst things that I’ve done. Just so that I don’t have to guard myself night and day for...forever, in case something slips out that you didn’t know about, and makes you angry...once you’re...used to me...”

  He returned my gaze seriously. “Perhaps you are right that it would be better for me to know all now. I will endeavor to be understanding.”

  I didn’t find that last bit entirely comforting, but I supposed it was better than a rash promise of forgiveness; it showed he took me seriously.

  “Well,” I began hesitantly, “there’s the lying. I’ve been lying for years. I’ve been telling everyone I’m a boy and my name’s Serapion.”

  “I noticed,” remarked my father. “Lying is certainly a sin, but so is stupidity, even if it is not generally listed in church. In this case, I think you were very sensible to lie. I am very glad you did. Of course, I speak as a parent not a priest. Go on.”

  I breathed a little easier. I hadn’t expected him to be cross about that, of course, and in truth, it didn’t worry me much, it was just habit to begin a confession with the small things. And I was feeling more comfortable, having begun.

  “There’s the stealing,” I pressed on, “I’ve done some of that. When I was younger—when I was first on the street—I picked pockets most of the time, to survive. Siri…Someone taught me how.” Even to my father, I didn’t want to discuss Siridean. I didn’t even understand what had happened in that garret room, and anyone who heard that tale would think me either mad or a murderer. How could they think anything else?

  “It saved my life,” I went on. “But eventually I figured out—with a little help from Father Mahoney—that I shouldn’t really be doing it, not as an everyday thing. It helped that I was old enough by then to start getting the odd bit of work here and there. So the last year or two, I only resorted to it when it was a question of my life, when I couldn’t go any longer without food, or I had to have a warm garment. Only then.”

  “I can see that,” said the Duke seriously, eyeing my gaunt bones. “But I won’t say I’m sorry for that. Theologically, there’s never any excuse for sin—well, there are different opinions on when stealing is sinning, I suppose. But I shan’t beat you for doing it to stay alive. I’d probably do the same. It would take a saint to resist in such extremity.”

  I swallowed slightly. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might decide to punish me. I hoped that he was joking.

  “One day I was carrying a man’s bags at the inn,” I went on. “I took them to his room and waited for him to pay me, but he just shut the door and grabbed me. Maybe he’d realized I was a girl, I don’t know. He was a man, so you know what he wanted.” I shot a look at my father. His expression was dangerous.

  “I fought very hard,” I continued, “but he was very strong and I couldn’t get away. So I took out...a knife that I had, and I struck him with it. I stabbed him in the chest because I was afraid if I cut him somewhere else he’d just be enraged. He fell down and moaned a bit and then he...stopped moaning. I didn’t mean to kill him,” I declared firmly, “but he was dead, so I did. I took my knife back and...” I hesitated, wrestling with myself, “and
I took his purse,” I admitted at last, “and I left. It wasn’t the sort of inn where they’d be bothered about a body, and no one ever asked me anything about it. I was able to buy a cloak for winter, though,” I added, then wished I hadn’t, in case it gave him the wrong impression.

  I shot another glance at him. His face was still grim.

  He glanced at me when he felt my gaze. “I cannot scold you for this,” he said quietly, “when I myself have killed, and at less provocation and with much more intent. It is lucky you did kill him though, or I would do so,” he added under his breath. He hesitated, then went on, “as for the rest, stealing from the dead is considered in a very bad light, but it’s really just stealing, and the man wasn’t going to miss it. Not that it was right,” he added quickly, “but considering what he tried to do...” He shook his head. “If you want an estimation of how much you sinned, go to a priest. I am not angry with you.”

  I breathed slightly easier. “I’ve confessed all this already and been absolved. Anyway,” I said, opening my mouth to continue, and I saw a faint shade of horror flick through my father’s eyes.

  “There’s more?” he interrupted.

  I nodded, aware that as I was progressing from bad to worse he must be wondering what was worse than killing, even in self-defense. I told him about Master Simmons.

  “He said there was this man who he needed dead, and if I’d do it for him there’d be some gold.” Seeing my father’s horrified look, I added quickly and somewhat angrily, “I said no! And I went and told the man that someone wanted him dead, and he asked who, and I...I pretended I’d forgotten. So he gave me money and I...remembered and told him. I saw Master Simmons hanged a few days later. So I suppose I killed him too,” I finished softly.

  Alban Ravena closed his eyes for a moment. “You did not kill this Master Simmons. He killed himself by his own actions,” he said firmly. “I hope you’ve finished?”