Another pause, then Huon sighed. “Your housekeeper doesn’t like the girl for being indentured.”
“Clotho usually shows better judgement.” Tancred started to resume walking only to slow when he noticed one of the guardsmen approaching Damaris.
“That is Owen,” Huon offered before he could even ask. “According to the gossips pretending to be soldiers, he has been flirting after the cinder maid for months. She seems welcoming enough to his attentions. Enough that my men claim some of the other servant girls fill their ears with complaints that she has snared Owen instead of allowing them to be wooed,” he murmured drily.
Fire stirred before he caught himself. No. No matter the strange pull toward her he had felt the night before in the library, he had no claim to her heart. It was better if she had a standing attachment. It would keep them both at an appropriate distance, make him think of her as a sibling or cousin. His gaze strayed to the pale blue robe as she picked up both buckets and slowly made her way toward the kitchen. Thinking of her as kin would be difficult. He’d never felt for any of his cousins what he’d felt in the library. And Damaris was . . . not a dragon.
* * *
Damaris carefully raked the ashes over the baking loaves and then swept the remains off the hearth. She set the pail of ashes to one side and leaned back on her heels as she dabbed beads of sweat off her brow. The hard shove to her back nearly sent her tumbling into the fireplace before she managed to catch herself on the side of the stones. She hissed as the heat from the stones kissed her skin, although thank Shaddai it wasn’t hot enough to burn.
She turned her head to look for her attacker only to be slapped across the face. She rocked unsteadily, this time slamming a shoulder into the edge of the stones. She blinked and raised a hand to ward off any further blows.
There was a screech, and then a cloud of ash choked her as the pail was dumped over her. She heard it clatter to the ground as more people shouted. Cook was roaring in his deep voice for someone to . . . Damaris doubled over, coughing against the ash invading her nose and mouth. She could barely breathe much less see what was happening, although she could hear more screeching and shouts. She opened her eyes and could just make out, beyond the tears and ash clinging to her lashes, the shape of a girl being held off the ground by one of the undercooks.
Turning her sleeve inside out, she wiped the ash away from her eyes and nose before she tried once more to figure out what had happened. A sharp shout split the air, “What is the meaning of this? Benoi, release Agatha at once! What were you thinking to handle my daughter in such a way?”
“That girl of yours is mad,” Cook rumbled. “She nearly shoved the cinder lass headfirst into the fires.”
Damaris blinked until she could finally see around her. Benoi, one of the undercooks, was lowering Agatha to stand on her own feet again. The girl’s eyes flashed with fury. It seemed as though she were about to dig her nails into him before she glanced at the other side of the kitchen. Damaris followed the younger girl’s gaze only to shiver when she met Clotho’s furious squint. The woman’s black gown and stiff white wimple were immaculate. The same could not be said of the kitchen. Grey flecks of ash covered everything from the fireplace to the long table that held the dough and meats Cook had been preparing for the morning meal. Freshly scrubbed pots were covered in it as well as three tall stacks of dishes and trenchers. The sight alone was enough to make her want to weep.
Agatha wasted no time in protesting, “She was drawing sigils in the ash! I was only trying to keep her from spelling all of us like she has Owen!”
She gaped at the girl before she slowly shook her head. “I was only tending to the loaves as they baked. I don’t know magic.”
“You’re a liar and a witch,” Agatha snapped. “Owen wouldn’t be chasing after you if you weren’t forcing him to think he loved you.”
An incredulous laugh escaped her. “Love? Owen does not love me. He doesn’t love anyone save himself. And, I most certainly have no interest in him. Certainly not enough to risk my life with some sigil drawing.”
“You see? She admits to drawing sigils.” Agatha stepped toward her, an almost manic light in her eyes, as she thrust a finger at her. “She is a witch by her own admission. You all heard her!”
“I heard nothing of the sort,” Cook rumbled. “What I see is my kitchens are made filthy by a petty squabble over some emptyheaded guardsman by two servant girls. Clotho, his lordship will not be pleased to hear such frivolous accusations.”
Agatha stamped her foot. “Mother! You must see it! She is a witch!”
“Calm yourself child and be silent!” Clotho hissed, making Agatha swallow her next words. The woman’s furious squint landed on Damaris next. “And, you. Making mischief. Attempting to get my daughter into trouble by causing her to believe you were playing with magic? All of what has happened here is your fault. You will never make any drawings in the ash again.”
“Mistress Clotho, I did not—”
“Silence!” Clotho strode to the tinder pile and withdrew a slender branch and then she gestured sharply at Damaris. “Come here!”
She didn’t want to go anywhere near the furious woman. For a brief moment, she entertained the thought of running, but where could she go? As she slowly forced her feet to move toward where Clotho was waiting, she couldn’t help glancing around at the others. Everyone watched, but no one moved or spoke up again. Not Benoi or even his uncle, Cook. When she met their gazes, they both looked away from her. Cook gave his head a slow shake. There was no use fighting the housekeeper. She was within her rights to punish servants . . . and the indentured servant was the lowest of the low. There was no one who would stand up for her or protest Clotho’s treatment.
Biting back tears of sheer frustration, Damaris raised her chin slightly as she came to a halt in front of Clotho. The older woman looked her over for a long moment before she spoke clearly enough for all in the kitchens to hear her. “The punishment for anyone who plays at witchery by drawing sigils is to lose a hand or two fingers. However, since Agatha destroyed the evidence against you in her . . . misguided attempt to prevent harm to the rest of us, I shall be far more merciful. Hold out your left hand with the palm up, girl. Now.”
She couldn’t help tensing in anticipation of what she knew was coming. Her fingers trembled despite her best efforts as she held her hand out. The first strike was quick, and the sting took a moment to register. The second strike hurt a little more. Then, the third and fourth followed in even quicker succession. By the time Clotho had delivered ten strikes of the switch to the palm of her hand, Damaris was digging her nails into her leg and biting her cheek hard enough to taste blood.
Finally, the strikes stopped and Clotho set the switch back in the tinder pile. “You will clean every inch of this kitchen.”
“With respect, Clotho, I do not want that girl to clean my kitchen,” Cook suddenly rumbled. “This ash is everywhere, and I trust only my own to clean it.”
Clotho’s eyelid twitched and for a moment, Damaris wondered if she was about to snatch the switch back up to use on Cook. A ridiculous idea, of course. Especially since Cook was twice her size. She sniffed. “She will still help. Have her scrub the pots and clean the fireplace.” Clotho gave Damaris another hard look as she added, “You will have no rations for the next three days.”
“Yes, Mistress Clotho,” she murmured.
“Agatha, you will come with me.” Clotho waited for her daughter to approach and then grasped her by the wrist and pulled her from the kitchens, pausing only once to shout, “All of you, return to work!”
Damaris’ hands shook and her left hand throbbed painfully as she dutifully scrubbed each of the huge pots inside and out. She’d been forced to brush off the ash spilled on her clothes as best she could, but the water she used for scrubbing seemed to set the ashes deeper into the fabric smearing it with dark grey streaks. Her cheek throbbed to a lesser extent, and she willed herself to ignore it all.
&nbs
p; The kitchen maids whispered amongst themselves as they worked to repair the damage until Cook silenced them with a look while he and his helpers once more began the process of preparing the morning meal. He’d ordered the youngest boys to run the spoiled meats to the hippogriff handlers.
Hours crawled past until only Damaris and Cook remained in the kitchens. Cook placed the last of his doughs to rise for in the morning and then he gave her a long look. However, he said nothing before he too left. Then she was alone, still attempting to clean the fireplace while ignoring the painful numbness in her hands after hours of scrubbing.
“What did you do to earn Clotho’s rage now?”
Damaris didn’t look up at Bettrys’ voice as she replied softly, “It was Agatha’s rage. Her mother merely punished me, and no one stopped her.”
“Must be why Cook looked as though he’d been accused of harming a woman when he disturbed my sleep,” Bettrys muttered as she grasped Damaris by the wrist. “What did she use?”
“A switch from the tinder pile. Ten lashes.”
“Harrumph, this is her being easy with you? What was that man thinking to say such a thing?”
Damaris didn’t bother to answer as she allowed the healer to smear a salve across her throbbing palm. No one would stop Clotho and Agatha. Not fully. And she . . . She couldn’t escape them. There was nowhere to run and even if there was, there would be no hiding that she was indentured without any other clothes to wear. She was trapped between two vipers unless . . . Unless she could find a way to meet the dragon’s challenge. No, she needed more. She needed to strike a bargain with him. One that would allow her to escape from beneath Clotho’s heel and away from Agatha’s spite.
“I don’t know what you just decided to do, girl, but I hope it will work. For your sake. And so I’m not constantly using my good salves on you.”
She glanced up into the healer’s eyes and managed a small smile. “As do I, Bettrys. Though I always miss our conversations when I am not in need of a salve for a burn or bruise.”
The healer harrumphed. “If you gained bruises more often, I would have gone to the earl myself. Instead, you gain them in droves for a sennight or two and then nothing for months. Whatever you decided, I hope you will listen to me and stay far away from Agatha this time. That girl has gone mad over that fool of a guard. Stay away from them both.”
“I shall do my best,” she promised.
She waited a quarter of an hour after Bettrys left. The salves she used did wonders to easing the pain in her hands and cheek to barely noticeable. Damaris scrubbed at her face and the front of her hair, but she still had some smudges of ash.
Her other robe and cowl were still being laundered, which meant her ashy robe and cowl would have to suffice. She crept through the corridors of the keep until she finally stood in front of the earl’s bookroom. She paused, knocked once, and then tried the handle. It opened.
She slipped inside and closed it before she could second guess her decision. There was a snort from behind her. She looked around to see the dragon was sitting at his desk, a quill delicately clutched in his claw tipped hand, but his focus was on her. He tilted his angular head to one side and stated simply, “You should be more careful not to roll about in the ashes.”
“What is it you want from me?” She moved toward the desk, taking care not to bump into anything as she continued in a low rush of a whisper, “You said you want me to be your companion. What does that mean?”
The dragon lowered his quill and stood up, his wings rustling with the movement. “As my companion, you would allow me to maintain my appearance as fully human. Since you read, you may also serve as my scribe when I cannot write missives myself.” He paused for a moment that seemed to stretch out for minutes if not hours, then his resonate baritone sank through her as he stated, “In return for this agreement, I will free you from your indenture.”
It was everything she wanted and yet . . . “And, you only want me to help you stay human? To be a scribe?” She shook her head slowly, not quite able to believe it. “That cannot be everything you want.”
The dragon’s nostrils flared, and his wings unfurled slightly. However, his voice remained calm as he replied, “As I told you last night, I do not become so, shall we say, personally involved with my companions. Besides, dragons have companions who may be male, female, young, or old. Do you think all such relationships would acquire the intimacy of a mated pair when there are the bonds of familial, parental and sibling, and friendship as well?”
Her cheeks grew warm, but then she nodded. “You are correct, of course. Relationships may take many forms that do not fall within the realm of lovers and endure rich and true for years. However, I suppose it is because I am human and this is not . . . common. There being a bond between a man and a woman whom he calls his companion, that is. Most people who were to hear such an address would assume there is something far more intimate between the pair.”
“There was a time when humans practiced the art of companionship with each other as well as other races. Though that was before my time as well.” The dragon waved a clawed hand in a manner that could only be described as airy as he continued, “The suspicions of idle minds are unworthy of acknowledgment, Damaris. However, since it troubles you, I give you my word that you won’t be prevented from marrying in the future. All I ask is that you allow the bond between us to have a year to mature into a firm link before you introduce a mate bond.”
“Why?”
“I have only had one companion before you, and she was a wyvern. The books I’ve been studying do not address the establishment of a bond of companionship with a pureblood human, so I am not certain what changes you will experience. Save for the lengthening of your lifespan to that of a dragon, of course.”
Damaris stared at him as she attempted to process everything he had just said. “How long do dragons live?”
“Oh, centuries. There are a few elders who’ve lived at least ten centuries or was it twenty? I don’t remember at the moment, and we lost many of our eldest during the dragon wars along with many of the youngest.”
“How old are you?”
He grinned, an odd expression on his reptilian face that exposed his mouthful of fangs. “I am only sixty years of age, and I was born in the Burnt Lands.”
“Only sixty,” she repeated under her breath. “A veritable boy.”
The dragon huffed. “Don’t be insulting, woman. I am more than of age. We don’t slow in aging until we are past our twentieth year. The older we grow, the more slowly time affects us. It will be the same for you when the bond is established.”
She hesitated a moment and then forced a question past her lips. She suspected she already knew the answer. Nevertheless, she couldn’t rest easy until she heard it from the dragon himself. “Will I still need to report to Clotho?”
His head drew back, and he huffed a stream of smoke from his slit nostrils. “No, of course not! A dragon’s companion may only be commanded by their dragon. No one else has authority over you from the moment our bond is established.”
She wouldn’t have to fear Clotho’s wrath anymore or dread Agatha’s next scheme in a fit of jealous rage. The thought alone made her want to embrace the dragon.
“Are you ready?”
She nodded. “I am.”
The dragon approached, towering over her as he held out his right arm. She clasped it, feeling the roughness of his scales when her fingers brushed against them and the heat they held. Then, he took her left hand only to pause, dipping his muzzle low as he sniffed. “Why are you doused in healing salves?”
“A mishap occurred in the kitchens.” She hedged around the full truth. Setting the dragon against Clotho would only ensure the women targeted her even after she escaped her indenture. She needed this freedom more than to risk losing it to Clotho and Agatha’s lies. “It is nothing to worry over as I shall not be there anymore.”
He studied her for a long moment, then dipped his head. “Very well.�
�� He tugged her hand toward his chest and gently pressed it against the center just above his diaphragm. She could feel his heart beat beneath the far side of her hand and there was an intense heat beneath the heel of her palm. “My inner flame. Now, I do the same to you. Do not beat my nose again.”
He placed the flat of his palm over the center of her chest and slightly to the left, taking care not to snag her robe with his claws. The heat of his touch seeped through the robe’s fabric and into her skin until it almost felt as though his heat was surrounding her heart.
His resonate baritone vibrated through her as he spoke, “Damaris Desrosiers, daughter of Dumi, do you pledge to serve within the household of Tancred as companion? Do you pledge fidelity as you are bound to me? Before Shaddai and upon your true name?”
“I pledge it before Shaddai and upon my true name.”
Heat surged beneath her hands and around her heart as though fire were sinking through her skin and into her very being. The dragon bowed his head. “As dragon and master to the companion, Damaris Desrosiers, I, Tancred, pledge by my true name to protect her and to share in my hoard and meals and home with her until such a time as death parts us or we choose ourselves to dissolve this bond of companionship. This I pledge before Shaddai and upon my true name.”
Then, he leaned in close and blew a smoke laden breath over her knocking her cowl back with the force of it. Finally, he closed the scant distance between them to press his broad scaly forehead against hers.
He blew another breath over her, moving her hair, before he released his grip and stepped out of reach.
“That sounded . . . very much like we needed a priest of Shaddai,” Damaris gasped. She reached up to touch where his hand had rested against her chest. Her robe was still warm. She looked at him with more curiosity than anything else. “Is that how it is always done?”
“Oh no. That was the most formal means of establishing a companion bond. It’s not the most common anymore. It is the fastest to establish itself between different species, however, which is why I chose it for tonight.”
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