by L. P. Dover
“We've been summoned to court,” Taran announced, her green eyes sparkling as she fanned herself. Her cheeks were flushed with excitement. I wasn't enthused.
“It's a dangerous place,” I said, my eyes wide.
Taran ignored me. “The king is yet unmarried, and the court will be overflowing with eligible titles. There will be opportunity in this.”
It didn't take long for her words to sink in.
“No,” I gasped.
Taran grinned.
“Mareth will undoubtedly ensnare the better match, but your marriage could be advantageous to us as well.”
Her words sounded distant. They were echoes between a rapid beating heart.
“But I'm to be a scribe.”
Mareth I could well understand. My half sister was born to be a Lady. She reveled in her station. I had never wanted a title. I was, after all, the proclaimed illegitimate daughter of Garod. His name offered me protection, nothing more. My father had encouraged my interest in the Archives. I had always believed he would let me stay there, away from the prying eyes of the public. But now . . .
“You may have been born on the wrong side of the cloth, dear, but your duties to your father remains. You will marry.”
I couldn't breathe. My chest felt too tight, my knees felt weak. The tapestry behind me was now bunched in my fist. I clung to it.
“Your fondness for knowledge is all well and good, Drastona, but it can only harm us now.”
Taran pulled a cord hanging from the vaulted ceiling near her head. I didn't even hear the sound the bells made as they traveled throughout the manor. I was deaf to it all.
It wasn't until Aigneis' strong hand settled on my shoulder that I moved. Her dark eyes met mine, the depths full of sympathy and something more. Fear maybe.
“You knew?” I whispered.
Aigneis was a middle-aged woman with dark auburn hair braided and wrapped around the top of her head. It was peppered with grey. She had been my nurse for as long as I could remember, and she knew as well as I why going to court would be dangerous for me. I didn't wear the mark of the mage, but the power ran through my veins. Taran was not aware of it, but my father was.
King Raemon had outlawed magic four years ago. Anyone with tainted blood was to be marked, a tattoo of a star on fire branded onto their wrist. It was a death sentence.
“We can work around it,” Aigneis answered, her breath against my ear as she guided me out of the parlor to a twisted stone staircase beyond. Her burning star flashed from her wrist as she took my hand in hers. I let her grip comfort me as she pulled me up the stairs and into my room, shutting the door against the chaos below.
The Archives. Court. Marriage. Something was wrong. It was all too quick.
Aigneis was agitated. It was obvious in the way she moved spastically around my room, her reddened hands patting her hair every time she walked from the hand-me-down tall, Henderonian armoire to the scarred open trunk at the end of my bed. My gaze followed her until the constant movement caused a dull ache behind my eyes.
“You're worried,” I finally stated.
Aigneis paused in mid-stride, a rose-colored garment folded over her arm. Her eyes wouldn't meet mine, and the room's low light threw shadows across her face.
“A little,” she admitted.
I stood up and moved to the armoire, my eyes tracing the complex, circular designs in the oak the Henderonians were so famous for. The wardrobe was an imported piece that had once belonged to Mareth. When one of my half sister's famous fits rendered a long crack down the middle of the door on the right side, the piece had been retired to my room and another wardrobe was commissioned.
I was glad of Mareth's temper. I loved the piece, crack and all. Its thick wooden legs had the wardrobe sitting a few inches off of the floor. For years, I had practiced writing on its underside, the upper half of my body hidden under the massive armoire. By the time I was thirteen, baby fat made it impossible for me to slide underneath, but I knew the markings were there and that was enough for me.
“You cannot go,” I said.
Aigneis sighed and closed the trunk before patting the top. I accepted her invitation and moved to take a seat. She lowered herself next to me, kissing the top of my head as her right hand stroked my loose hair. I never wore it up. The dark, sun streaked strands were too unruly to tame.
“Ah, my heart, it is not our decision to make.”
She was wrong. Court may be dangerous for me, but it was a death sentence for her. My eyes met hers, and she noted the concern there. Her free hand came down to cover my clenched fists, folded demurely but angrily in my lap.
“I am marked, yes. But I work for a noble family. My position protects me.”
I shook my head, and her hand fell away from my hair.
“Here. It protects you here. Not at court. Not where your mark will taunt the king himself.“
My words were sharp, but Aigneis was like a mother to me. She had served my birth mother before myself, although I was pretty certain my mother had been of low birth.
Aigneis never spoke of my mother, never described her, never revealed much outside of her love for me. Even Taran's curious questioning had been ignored despite several lashings my stepmother had inflicted on Aigneis. My father was ignorant of Taran's curiosity, but I had seen Aigneis' scars. I had helped apply the ointment when Taran's whippings went too far. I had threatened to go to my father once, but Aigneis had forbidden it. Her mark made her vulnerable to accusations.
“Your fear should be for yourself,” Aigneis whispered.
I was sixteen, the year most mages acquire their power. My mother had been a mage. It was the only knowledge Aigneis had been willing to part with, and it had simply been to prepare me. A wise choice, considering I had started showing signs earlier than most. Nature, Aigneis said, was my forte. Animals, for example, were attracted to me.
As if on cue, a low kek, kek filtered through the room, and I looked over my shoulder at a narrow casement with a makeshift windowseat fabricated from an old, broken trunk and large, well used brown pillows. A falcon perched on the stone sill, her sharp eyes glancing briefly at me before preening her bluish-black wings. She was a beautiful creature, almost three pounds with a nice forty-seven inch wingspan. She had black wingtips and a rusty, dark barred underbelly. I called her Ari. I had rescued her as an eyas from a falconer who insisted she was not suited for training. And, although I had released her to the wild years ago, she still returned to me often. Watching. Always watching.
“I do not fear for myself,” I said quietly, standing so that Aigneis could continue to pack my trunk.
Nothing in my room matched. The furniture was nothing more than old, worn settees covered in red or black velvet. Heavy tapestries with forest frescoes hung along the walls, and candelabras rested on bare wooden tables. In one corner stood a plain wooden chair against a low desk covered in parchment and ink. The other corner held my bed, a semi-large four-poster with an uncomfortable mattress stuffed with straw. The midnight blue comforter that covered it was thick, worn, and soft; I loved it as much as I loved my Henderonian armoire.
“You have come at a bad time, dear Ari,” I crooned as I moved to the window seat, my hand coming to rest carefully against the falcon's head.
Ari ignored me, her eyes sweeping over Aigneis as she folded one last dress before closing the trunk for good. Aigneis' cheeks were flushed, and I berated myself for not offering to pack the trunk. But what little rebellion I had left in me refused to pack for a trip I did not want to make.
“The journey will not take long, a week at most. At court, alliances will be made quickly. If you are wed, it will be done in haste.”
Aigneis' words were low, rushed, and I looked up at her, my eyes wide.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Aigneis' jaw tightened.
“Because that is the way of things now, Stone. Court is not as it was. No one speaks truth. Alliances are the only thing that matter. Tr
ust no one. People are pawns in the king's game, and it comes at a bad time.”
I was frozen, watching as Aigneis' eyes skimmed the room cautiously.
“Aigneis?” I asked, but my unspoken question was interrupted by a loud knock at the door.
Aigneis moved to answer it, her hand lifting once more to her hair. She tended to smooth it when she was anxious.
“Aigneis,” a man greeted, and I shooed the falcon hurriedly out the window as my father stepped into the chamber.
Garod was a large man, of average height but solidly built. He was tan of skin, like most Medeisian men, and his chestnut brown hair was cropped short and left uncovered. He wore a casual, belted dark brown tunic over tan breeches with tall, shiny black boots. His deep green eyes met mine evenly.
“Daughter, I expect you know of our invitation to court?”
His gaze was sympathetic. It reminded me of another moment many years ago, the only other time he had ever entered my chamber. He had been appalled by the furnishings and had threatened to remove them all, replacing them with splendid, imported pieces. But I loved my room, and I refused. Garod was not a bad father, just a busy one.
“May I request to stay behind?”
It was a futile attempt. I knew it by the look in his eyes, but stubbornness knows no bounds. Garod moved awkwardly in the small space, folding his bulky form to sit firmly on the edge of my bed. It squealed in protest, and I worried about the frame. My father didn't seem to notice.
“These are bad times. No one is immune to Raemon's edicts. Marriage to the right nobleman . . . it is the way to protection.”
Marriage again. I fought the urge to bite my nails.
“I could be a scribe. I know the work.”
Garod's face fell, his gaze moving from Aigneis to the door before returning to me.
“Drastona,” he began, one large hand coming up to pat my shoulder awkwardly. It was a bad sign. “The scribes are being disbanded.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in, but when they did, a strange numbness stole over me.
“Disbanded?”
My question sounded distant even to me. Aedan's words played in my head. She is a witch, my dear, there is no doubt, but what she does now protects you.
“Like the mages?”
“Aye,” my father answered
It was too much; first the mages and now the scribes. Magic, knowledge, and writing . . . all outlawed. I sat down heavily next to my father.
“Why does he fear it all so much?” I whispered.
Garod closed his eyes briefly, lifting his hand to rub a spot above his brows.
“Knowledge is power, and King Raemon fears all power but his own.”
My father's words were treasonous, spoken in whispers inside of a worn out room with only myself and a weary maid. I glanced at my window, at the darkening horizon beyond. A few stars braved the semi-darkness, sparkling against a purple-hued sky shot through with pink.
“And their mark?” I asked.
Stray clouds lined in grey wove among the brave stars, vicious warriors attempting to snuff out hope.
“An inkwell covered in cracks,” my father answered.
I thought of the men and women I'd spent my childhood sitting next to in the Archives, of their good-natured hidden smiles as I wasted parchment with innocent doodles.
“The Archives?”
The words came out on a gasp, my throat constricted by tears.
“It will remain,” my father answered. “But the scribes will be sent away.”
The clouds outside had overtaken the stars, the thick, suffocating dark masses eating the brave celestial bodies alive.
The scribes were being sent away. To die?
“Be ready on the morrow, Daughter. We leave at dawn.”
My father's large hand landed gently on the crown of my head before suddenly disappearing. I never heard him leave. My eyes were on the window, on the occasional brave star as it tried to break through the cloud cover. Medeisia was fast becoming a land of ignorant people forced to follow a mad king. We were being snuffed out, eaten alive.
Chapter 2
“Really, Mother! You honestly expect me to share a carriage with that awkward, dusty child?”
Mareth's voice was shrill, the servants loading the carriages tense as Aigneis and I skirted the workers carefully. The journey to the capital was not a long one, but the forests along the way were full of outlaws, desperate marked men full of bloodthirsty rage.
“I honestly expect you to,” Taran answered, her voice firm, final.
Even in simple travel attire, Taran was magnificent and Mareth had inherited her mother's looks. Petite, with dark silky curls, and the same golden skin, Mareth stood in a fiery, red dress, her green eyes sparkling with malice.
“She should be marked and sent away, and you know it,” Mareth hissed before lifting her skirts to kick angrily at the dirt beneath her feet.
Dew-covered soil and grass clung to the hem of her dress as she spun and stomped to the carriage. The footman on duty did not open the door fast enough, and he was rewarded with a slap as Mareth climbed haughtily to her perch within the coach.
The footman's expression was even, his eyes averted as I approached, and I winced. There was a visible five-fingered mark along his whiskerless cheek. His jaw was tight, and his eyes bright as he fought to hold his tongue. He was barely thirteen turns. The boy was young to be a footman, but times were hard and a more experienced man required higher pay. My father wasn't the only nobleman who had begun hiring younger servants, children even.
“Jarvis,” I acknowledged as the boy helped me into the carriage. He didn't answer. He simply assisted Aigneis before shutting the carriage door, leaving me alone in a musty coach with an irrational, mumbling half sister and eerily calm companion.
“You shouldn't speak with the servants, Stone,” Mareth scolded.
I looked away, my gaze on the window. It was damp outside, the morning blanketed by fog, turning the landscape grey despite the sun burning behind the clouds. It promised to be a humid day, sticky and warm. I suddenly appreciated Aigneis' choice in clothes. My light blue dress was thin, and we had left off several petticoats due to travel.
“There is to be a great reception, I hear,” Mareth said, her tone laced with excitement. Her thoughts, like her mother's, were on court.
There were shouts from outside, and the carriage jerked, throwing me against the seat as Mareth continued to chatter across from me.
“ . . . a magnificent feast, dancing . . .”
A kek, kek broke through Mareth's words, and I let my eyes wander to the sky where a dark shadow flew against the grey backdrop. Ari.
“ . . . so many eligible noblemen. We are quite lucky, you know.”
The carriage was moving away from the manor. Away from the scribes I'd grown up amongst, and from the Archives that would now stand empty, the books within yellowing with age as dust overtook the tomes.
“Do you even hear me, Stone?” Mareth asked.
I looked back at her briefly and nodded. It was the only encouragement she needed.
“If we play our cards right, we'll both be married within a fortnight. Just think—”
My eyes fell to Aigneis' wrist, and I stiffened.
“Is that all you care about?” I interrupted, my voice tight. Aigneis glanced at me in warning as Mareth paused, her eyes narrowing.
“Marriage?” Mareth asked. “Of course I care about it. If we marry well, the family will be established, our position guaranteed.”
My lips thinned. “Safety shouldn't depend on who we marry.”
Mareth laughed, the sound harsh. “In your case, marriage is all you have.”
“Mareth!” Aigneis warned.
I stiffened, my eyes moving between them.
“What do you mean?”
Mareth laughed again, and she clapped merrily as the coach bounced along, hitting a small rut that threw me into Aigneis. I pushed away from her.
/> “You don't know?” Mareth asked, clapping again, her giddiness turning into something darker, malevolent. Her green eyes met mine evenly. “Have you not heard of the scribes? About father's post?”
Aigneis leaned forward. “I don't think now is—"
The scribes I knew of, but my father?
“No,” I interrupted. “What about father's post?”
Mareth watched me, her gaze greedy.
“It is no more, dear Sister.”
She spat the endearment as if it hurt her to claim any relationship to me. I sat unblinking, her acid tone leaving me cold.
“Stop there, Mareth,” Aigneis ordered, her face flushed.
Mareth's gaze moved to the older woman, her eyes flashing.
“I take no orders from the likes of you.”
I wanted to defend Aigneis, but I was frozen, my gaze now on my companion.
“What is she talking about?” I asked. “What does she mean by no more?”
Aigneis sighed. “Your father's post has been suspended. The ambassadorship has been dissolved.”
A numb feeling swept over me as Aigneis lowered her head, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, one hand low enough it instinctively covered the mage's mark on her wrist.
“W-what? Why?”
There was only one reason the king would dissolve my father's post. One reason only. There was no need for an ambassador if Medeisia had no intention of having relations with Sadeemia. I didn't wait for Aigneis' answer.
“The king would risk war with a nation twice our size?” I asked.
Mareth's expression was dark. “It's treason to question the king.”
I ignored her. “What will Father do now?”
I expected Aigneis to answer, but her head stayed lowered. It was Mareth's gaze that met mine, watching me a moment before her expression turned wicked.
“Garod has been offered a post at Court. You see, this is the reason why marriage is so important to you, Sister. Without marriage, you will die.”