The Grimoire of Yule (The Shadows of Legend Book 1)

by Adam Golden

  He wondered, even though he knew it didn’t and couldn’t matter. She was Domina, the Mistress, she commanded and everyone obeyed. No one questioned the Mistress, not even her husband, at least that was what the other servants whispered. He had never seen the Master. Father had told him there was such a person, but it meant nothing to him in his real life. Domina ruled them, cared for them, provided, and if she wanted him to sit in this Godforsaken place while she . . . well, that was what he had to do.

  Duty.

  “No phase of life, whether public or private, can be free from duty.”

  How often had he heard those words? Father loved to quote Cicero, and the old philosopher had much to say on duty, loyalty, and gratitude. “Duty,” father said, “was the sum of a man’s tasks and his trials. How he bore up under the weight of those twin burdens, that was character.” He supposed this task was his trial, this pollution, this embarrassment was the price demanded by his duty. He didn’t know, as much as he would like to think so, he was no man grown to such knowledge. He’d only had eight winters, what could he know of such things? What he did know was that he was ashamed of his weakness, ashamed that he could not bear it with the same easy strength he knew his father would have. After all, all he had to do was sit there and watch. How could he be so weak? To quiver so at sitting, no matter how wretched the environment, it was disgraceful. He squared his shoulders and straightened his spine. He would not shame the old man. He would show his character. Still, it was hard to watch. Why did he have to watch?

  She looked back over her shoulder as though she’d heard his thoughts, and the boy yelped. He hated when she did that! How could she know? He ducked his head, but not enough that she might think he was averting his eyes. Her command had been clear, he was to watch. Character. Duty. The smile that curved her lips seemed bright, gay, he supposed most would find it pretty, if not beautiful. It always felt otherwise to him. It never seemed to reach her eyes, it felt cold, even mean.

  It reminded him of Ludmila, the terrible, cruel little daughter of the mistress’ secretary. There was a creature quick with a sly pinch or sharp kick. Ludmila was the terror of the villa, she loved to hurt, to tease, and especially to make the younger children cry. None dared to stand up to her, or to tell, and those who did found their tormentor hiding behind moist eyes, a pouting lip, and a sickeningly sweet face. He’d lost count of how many of her victims he’d seen strapped for upsetting the poor delicate little monster. The look in the mistress’ eyes was less naked, far better controlled, but it was there nonetheless. She knew exactly how much he hated this, and for some reason she enjoyed his discomfort.

  “I hate you.”

  He formed the words carefully in his mind as he watched her sweat-slicked body writhe on top of her rented partner. If she could truly read his mind, let her read that while she moaned and shook and twisted about like the worst sort of wanton. It was the darkest secret of his heart, one he kept from everyone. They were words he could never say to anyone, not his closest friends, not his father. He bit down hard on his lip to keep his face impassive. Especially father. He hated her, the woman who had given him and his father everything they had. He despised the Mistress with a fire that surpassed Ludmila, or Jocco, the butcher’s boy that had wailed him bloody the month before for no reason, or anyone else he’d ever known.

  Those were petty childish dislikes, what he felt for her was something else. Something darker, something that frightened him if he let himself consider it too deeply, so he didn’t consider it, at least not often. He knew he was wrong. Who was he to hate her? Who was he to judge? But judge he had and hate he did. It was as much a part of him as his hands or his eyes, not only could he not be parted from it, he didn’t want to be, not really. As long as he held onto that hate, he was doing something, he was resisting, if only in the deepest parts of his mind.

  He continued to watch, eyes dutifully locked on the sweaty, thrashing entanglement of bodies. The mistress looked back over her shoulder, raked him with that cruel secret smile again and, with all the grace of a carnival acrobat, she twisted and slid, maneuvering her slim form so that she could turn to face him without dislodging her leased mount from his place. She knelt now, straddling the pleasure slave. Her back arched to display her taut stomach and small pert breasts as she rocked and ground her hips on the man she’d paid for. She stared at him all the while, a predator stalking game. He felt himself cringe inwardly at every exclamation of pleasure and every slap of flesh on flesh.

  He wasn’t a complete innocent, nor was he a fool. He might have been a child, but he knew something of sex, he’d heard men and older boys talking of it, and he knew that many of them would have given much to be in his place at this moment. Indeed, many of the guards and servants at the villa gave great sums of money for such experiences. Perhaps he was unnatural, perhaps it was just his youth, or perhaps his loathing of this woman overrode the natural drives, he didn’t know. What he did know was that if given the choice, he would rather have swallowed his own tongue than be a part of this travesty a moment longer, but he didn’t have a choice, did he? Duty.

  The Mistress continued her slow, hard grinding on the slave’s pelvis and as she did she slid a finger between her lips, sucking at it slowly before she drew it out again. The long, severely pointed nail that tipped the finger was a deep red, the dark almost black red of heart’s blood.

  His eyes locked on that nail and he swallowed hard, forcing the bile that had just surged up into his mouth back down. The savagely sharp nail scored the flesh of the Mistress’s left breast as cleanly as any blade could have, and a rivulet of blood trickled out of the fresh cut. The boy pushed himself back into the cushion of the grimy couch. Despite his loathing, despite the gorge rising in his throat, he had to admit in this moment there was always a power about her, a pull that was hard to ignore.

  “Come.” The word came out as a purr of ecstasy as she ground her hips in slow hard circles.

  The slave moaned and jerked.

  “Come!” she demanded more loudly, eyes burning with a mixture of passion and command.

  The slave’s body shuddered as though he were in the grips of a seizure, and he roared a gasping exclamation of pleasure as he spent himself inside her.

  The boy sighed and stood. The slave likely imagined she’d been talking to him, she hadn’t. He steadied himself mentally and moved to where she waited, glistening with sweat, still shivering with pleasure, and smiling. Trial. Character. Duty.

  —

  “Pa! Pa, I caught one! It was hard, I must have fought it for . . .” The boy’s exultant speech ended in a thud as his shoulder failed to move the door to the cabin he and his father shared. The little boy’s sleight frame was rocked backward, his feet tangled with his homemade fishing pole, and any hope of recovery was lost. The boy, his pole, and the small pike dangling from its line landed in a sprawl in the dirt. Tears raced forward at the unexpected pain, but the boy bit back his sob. He wasn’t a baby anymore, he reminded himself.

  Pa said a man, or even a boy, couldn’t go about sniveling and leaking over every little thing. Pa said he’d have to learn when not to cry. Pa would never cry about tripping over his feet, so neither would he. He wiped fiercely at his face and got back to his feet. Rubbing idly at a sore spot where his buttock had found a sharp stone, he moved to try the door again. Locked, this door was never locked, never in his whole life. His little fist hammered on the stout wood but even he could barely hear the result.

  “Pa! The door is locked! Pa?” he called and pressed his ear against the door, there was no response, but he thought maybe he could hear something, a grunting maybe? Groaning? Could his father be in there and hurt? His little fist smacked the door in frustration, if he were bigger he could kick down the door . . . or . . . or something. What if his Pa was hurt, what if he needed help? There was no other way. Wait! There was a window in Pa’s bedroom. Maybe he could open it or break it!

  The window was higher up than he’d realiz
ed, he could just catch the lip if he jumped as high as he could, but pulling himself up was hard. He could hear the noises he’d caught a hint of at the door more clearly now. It was garbled, just the muffled suggestion of sound, but there was definitely someone in there, and he thought there was more than one person.

  One of the sounds was low, deep, like Pa’s voice, the other was higher, sharper, a lady? Whoever it was it sounded like crying or maybe fighting. It sounded something like the grunts and groans he and his friends made while wrestling, but that was crazy. Pa would never wrestle a lady, that wouldn’t be proper, and it certainly wouldn’t be fair!

  He leapt from the sill of the window again and caught it with both hands. Pa said he was strong for his age, but pulling himself up made his arms shake so badly he barely held his grip. Gritting his teeth and straining with every bit of muscle he had, he slowly managed to force himself up until he could almost see through the bottom edge of the window. A little more! Just a little . . .

  The wrestling noises had stopped, the higher sound, he was sure it was a lady’s voice now, was all he heard. He couldn’t make out the words, it was more like listening to someone hum under their breath, you couldn’t catch it all, just the suggestion of a tune.

  “No!” That came through so clearly and forcefully in Pa’s rough timber that he nearly lost his grip and fell. “. . . I won’t! I can’t . . . he’s mine!”

  He was shocked, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d ever heard his Pa raise his voice like that, and never to a lady. What was he talking about? What could they be fighting about?

  The woman said something again, the sound of her voice was sharper this time, less melodic. She was angry, very angry. There was a loud thud and the sharp ringing crack of something breaking.

  He took a deep breath, held it, and pulled as hard as he could. Slowly, painfully slowly, he inched his nose just over the sill. God his arms hurt, they were shaking so badly he could barely focus his eyes. He was going to fall any second, but he had to see first. The curtain was mostly drawn, the room was dark except for slim bands of light where the curtains left spaces. The parts of the room he could see looked empty. There were clothes in heaps on the floor. Strange, Pa always told him to be neat and tidy.

  He inched himself to the left slightly and pressed his face against the glass. He could just make out the end of Pa’s narrow bed, one of the blankets hung off the end to the floor and . . . a foot? Pa’s foot? He was in bed, at this time of day? He must have been hurt. Maybe the woman was some kind of healer? Pa was never a very good patient when he was sick.

  There was a flash of movement on the other side of the room, near the door. It moved faster than he could track, he just caught a hint, a flutter of cloth as it passed through the door. White cloth, he thought, but with a shimmer at the edge, something shiny, bronze or gold? He wasn’t sure.

  He was still straining to get a closer look when he heard the cabin’s front door bang open. The sound was so loud and so sudden that he startled, lost his grip on the sill and was suddenly falling. He crashed onto his back with more force than he would have thought possible.

  Halos of yellow light burst before his eyes, the air exploded out of his lungs and he couldn’t pull it back. God it hurt. It hurt everywhere. Hot tears filled his eyes, clouding everything. He could hear the gasping, pathetic mewling sounds leaking from him while he twisted about, trying futilely to pull in some air. It came slowly, too slowly, a drop where he needed a torrent, but slowly he was able to fill his burning lungs. It felt like it took hours. Everything hurt, tears leaked down his cheeks at the pain that shot from his back through his whole body. He lay there, arms wrapped around himself, sniveling for a long moment before he remembered.

  The door. The door was open! Pa!

  He rolled himself onto his stomach, and pushed himself up to his hands and knees, and then slowly to his feet.

  “I’m coming Pa,” the boy said stoutly.

  The door was wide open, the house was quiet, and the front room looked just the way it always did. There was a pile of clothes before the hearth that needed darning. Pa’s pipe rested on the stool next to his chair. The dishes from breakfast were clean and drying on the table. Everything was ordinary, except that nothing was. Nothing ever would be again.

  He’d thought Pa was sleeping at first. He could see that there was blood, just a little, but maybe he’d been right before. Maybe Pa had hurt himself and the woman had been trying to help him. Pa was big, maybe she hadn’t been able to get him into the bed all the way by herself, which was why his leg and one arm were hanging off. Maybe she’d rushed off to find someone to help her. Maybe he’d hit his head and that’s why he didn’t respond when the boy called him. He went on and on with the ‘maybes’ long after he saw that his Pa’s eyes were open, staring, and empty.

  He went on calling to the old man after he saw the blood and broken pottery all around the head of the bed. Pa would be alright. The woman had gone to fetch help. He would wait with Pa until help came.

  He didn’t remember getting back to his feet, and he didn’t feel himself walking, just the cool slim hands on his shoulders. He didn’t hear the words at first. There were people about, a crowd of them, he only had eyes for Pa but he heard them in snatches.

  “. . . terrible . . . who could do such a . . .”

  “That poor child.”

  “. . . will become of him?”

  “Five? Maybe six? Can’t be much older . . . just a babe . . .”

  He stiffened at that one. He was no baby! He would be a man, like his Pa said. He would cry for his Pa, but not where they could see.

  While he was deciding that someone knelt before him, a woman, a beautiful woman, smiling sadly the way grownups do when they want to make kids feel better. It was the Mistress, Lady Fulvia herself. Usually he would have been nervous, anxious, and uncertain, now he felt only numbness. Pa was dead, the world was over. Why be nervous? Nothing mattered.

  “. . . so sorry little one,” the Mistress said kindly, her voice soft and sweet like music. “Your father was an exceptional man, a man of great strength and conviction. He did his duty for our family, and we will do ours for his. You will come to live with me in the main villa. I have a son about your age, and I just know you’ll be great friends.”

  The soft words and gentle touches the mistress offered made him want to rush into her arms and sob out the torrent of hurt and bliss and confusion that threatened to split him in half, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not for everyone to see. Tears filled his eyes but he dashed them away angrily with the back of his hand.

  “There now, it’s alright,” the mistress said gently. “Tears are fine, do not be afraid to let them out.” He dabbed at his face with the edge of her wrap, giving him another of those strange sad smiles. The fabric was the softest thing he’d ever felt. It must have been silk of the finest white, but she paid it no mind and, when she stood and extended her hand toward him, the sunlight shimmering of the garment’s golden hem made him shine like an angel.

  He let her take his hand, let her lead him away, his mind full of his Pa’s blank, empty stare, of the blood and of the last sound his voice had ever made.

  “. . . he’s mine!”

  —

  I love you.

  The thought had the quality of a delighted sigh of contentment. All was right with the world. Had there ever been a woman more beautiful? More kind? To care for him as she did, to love him though he knew himself unworthy. She was a saint. There was an ocean of noise and movement, of strange scents and strange people all around them, but none of that mattered, none of it intruded on him at all. Not while she held him, safe and secure with her. He felt her hands stroking his hair and he shivered with ecstasy, cuddling in close against her skin. The smell of her was his favorite scent in the world. Even slick with perspiration she smelled of flowers and fruit. It was the smell of home. She was his home. She was everything, well, she and his brother. They were his life
, and he would happily have died for either one. He couldn’t imagine denying either anything, but he was always secretly pleased that this time was just for the two of them. Here she was all his, and that made this the best place in the world. He looked up and found her smiling down at him as though she’d read his mind. He loved when she did that, loved the sense of connection they shared at those times. He pushed himself away from her just a little and licked his lips.

  “I love you, Mother,” he said, hating the paltry plainness of the words. It hardly seemed enough.

  Those beautiful intelligent eyes blazed with the playful light that was always there when she looked on him. She ran a finger along the edge of his bottom lip, wiping away a small red bead of his meal and gently pressed the back of his head until his lips found her breast and he began suckling slowly again.

  “And I love you, my loyal, dutiful son. My Tulio,” Fulvia murmured softly as she rocked the sleight bloody-mouthed boy curled against her naked body.

  On Bearing Weights

  Nicholas bit down hard around the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and pressed all his concentration into the Mending. It wouldn’t be enough, just as it hadn’t been enough the half-dozen other times in the last three days, but it would buy time. Time for him to grow stronger, time for him to think of something else. What that might be he had no idea.

  The body on the grimy hemp mat before him relaxed slightly, the convulsions slowed and then stopped. The tattoo of wheezing, choking gasps slowed to something approaching a normal rhythm, and Tulio settled into a calmer, more quiet sleep. At least for now.