Wind Over Bone: The Estralony Cycle #2 (Young Adult Fantasy Romance)

by E D Ebeling

  “This alcove isn’t big enough for us.” The man spun Sarid under his arm, cracked her like a whip.

  “On the contrary”––she tried to pull her hands away––“I can’t keep my feet as it is.”

  “Then I’ll keep them for you.” He pulled her beneath the curtain.

  They were in the main hall now, coursing through gowns and coats, lace and satin. She looked down at her drab rags. The front of her skirts hung low––she saw the wrinkled tip of a sausage. She imagined them spilling over the floor.

  “I am in no fit state to be seen.” Sarid tugged her feet back; he dragged her forward.

  “And these people are in no fit state to notice you.” He led her across the floor, pulling her up when she fell. “Unless I want them to.”

  “Where are we going?” Sarid shouted.

  “To see to Sir Cavidof.”

  Sarid had heard of him. Sir Cavidof brought his six mastiffs everywhere with him. Even to dances. Complaints were few: the dogs were big, mean looking, and impeccably mannered.

  It was a trick, a sabotage. She jerked back, tripping over the hem of her skirts, crushing the sausages. The spicy smell came up around her. People turned to look, some of them pinching their noses.

  Black shapes moved like shadows around skirts, thumped against legs. “Damn those stinking shits,” said someone. Three of them found Sarid.

  They mashed their faces against her, and nipped at and slobbered over her skirts. “Hi, Lotni! Heel, Cortsa!” called a gruff voice. When Sarid tried to tear away they grew more excited, flinging webs of saliva over their deep chests, jumping up on her.

  Sarid’s dance partner melted into the crowd, which had formed a tight ring around her. Three more dogs squeezed through the people and threw themselves on her, and Sarid collapsed. They snuffed and nosed around her skirts, and tore the sausages free. They fought, and the crowd laughed, and a big man with a face all wrinkled in a grimace shoved through the crowd and beat the dogs back with his cane. He apologized over and over, looking more ready to cry than Sarid. He held out a hand. She stared at it.

  Her eyes moved past the hand––she saw Rischa, jacket half off, hair red in the candlelight. He looked as though one of the dogs had vomited on his shoes. He turned to Sarid’s tall, dark dance partner and said something she couldn’t hear.

  Her shock turned into deep, deep mortification. She picked herself up and looked round. The room seemed much bigger than it had been; it waved and rippled as though underwater. She bit her cheek so hard her eyes watered. And then she ran, pushing bodies aside, ignoring the hisses. She ran until she was outside the hall.

  She kept running and reached her fireplace. She crawled through and didn’t get up from the floor. Her gasps became sobs, angry sobs, and she glared at the ceiling. Gryka walked through the fireplace, looking embarrassed. She licked Sarid’s sticky face and tried to fit her gigantic self into Sarid’s lap. Sarid laughed at this, and they slept there on the floor.

  ***

  For four days Sarid and Gryka rose at dawn, spent the day outdoors, and slipped back inside well after sundown. Sarid was eager to avoid people, particularly Rischa, and the cold didn’t bother her. She was able to clothe herself in warm layers both physical and magical. And she rather liked the cold––a pristine, equilibratory state unsullied by the noise and fervor of warm weather.

  So it was by perverse happenstance that, at dawn on the fifth day, as soon as she stepped outside, two girls ambushed her. One of them was quite tall and the other just Sarid’s size but heavier; and Sarid, not a natural or inventive fighter, didn’t think of her magic, and could only jerk her limbs and howl as the two girls bound her wrists. Gryka jumped up and down, offering no help whatsoever, and the smaller girl wrapped a scrap of linen around Sarid’s head and adroitly gagged her.

  “You’re right,” she said. “She’s prettier than Selya. A regular vila.”

  “Have you always been so handy with a gag?” said the tall girl.

  “I’ve been practicing.”

  “With whom?”

  “Rokal.”

  The tall girl shook her head and looked behind her. “Let’s go through her rooms. Won’t take as long.”

  The shorter girl looked Sarid over and clicked her tongue. “Your dog looks a lot like you. So much so, in fact––I wonder, have we bound the wrong person?”

  The tall girl shoved Sarid back inside. “Very nice, that.”

  “The dog’s pretty, Mari. Why must calling a person a dog always be bad?”

  “Because dogs are servile and shamefully self-abasing. Now walk,” she said to Sarid, “or we’ll drag you.” Each girl grabbed Sarid by an arm and pulled her through her chamber. Gryka led the way, tail wagging furiously.

  “Where’s the way out?” the short girl said, and Gryka bounded through the fireplace. The girl looked even more dismayed than Sarid. “We’ve got to crawl through the fireplace?”

  “With a captive,” said Mari. “It’s an adventure, Ed––we’re fugitives fleeing our enemy’s fortress.”

  “What fugitive in his right mind would get up this early?” The other girl yawned hugely. She got down on her knees and crawled through the fireplace.

  “Not all fugitives lie in same as you.” Mari came after, dragging Sarid. She hauled her up, and the two girls marched her down the corridor.

  “Hmmm hmm,” said Sarid.

  “She’s probably wondering,” said Mari.

  “You’re going to be our dolly,” said Ed. “Only what you deserve, baiting the dogs during a ball. The yod spin’s my favorite, and you tore right into the middle like a mad badger.”

  As the two girls bantered back and forth, walking, pushing Sarid before them, she willed her heart rate down enough to notice the taste of juniper wine on the cloth in her mouth. They led her into a salon decorated horribly in yellow. Her throat stuck and her stomach clenched.

  Mari looked at her expression and laughed. “Either the gag’s too tight, or she doesn’t like the color, Ed.”

  “Lady Haek likes it.”

  “Doesn’t know fashion from goat-shit.” Mari opened an inner door.

  “Nor do you. You need me.”

  Mari kicked off her shoes. They were in a large, untidy bedchamber––there were furs and coats piled on the bed, and more on the floor, all muddy and covered in burrs. “Some lady’s maid you are.”

  “Mari?” someone said from the door. “I’ve never seen you up so early.”

  Mari looked up. It was Rischa. “What do you want?”

  “Help.” He held up a green jacket. “There’s a tallow stain on the cuff, and that woman in the laundry––”

  “Nalia?” Mari snorted. “She’s a scary one. Borrow one of Rokal’s.”

  “Too big.”

  “Piss on it, then.”

  “What?” Gryka nosed his hand. He looked around and saw Sarid. “You found her. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “We know she leaves at dawn,” said Mari, “and we know where her garden is. Full of monkshood and mandragora and other witchy things.” She undid the gag.

  Sarid spat it out. “Mandragora? What’re you doing?” Her voice made Gryka drop to the floor and wriggle in terror.

  “You gagged her?” said Rischa.

  “She’d a headache,” said Mari.

  “Bones,” said Rischa, “I didn’t think you wanted to go to a dance––”

  “I didn’t,” said Sarid. “I don’t.”

  “But then”––he squinted at her––“why were you there? Were you lost?”

  “That horrible man forced me.” She wrenched her hands out of the rope when Ed had undone the knots.

  “My brother’s odd, but he’s not horrible. Never harmed anyone.”

  His brother. She shook her head, laughed in disbelief. “Define harm.”

  “Shut up, both of you.” Mari collapsed onto a couch. “I just pulled my arse out of bed at the crack of dawn. So you”––she pointed a long finger at Sarid–�
��“are going sit quietly while we stuff you in silk.”

  Rischa’s neck turned red. “Now, you can’t just make her go.”

  Mari crossed her arms. “You’re crass enough to admit the group with the prettiest girl always wins Count Pash’s favor. And we need to topple Vanli’s autocracy.”

  “I thought this was for friendship’s sake,” said Rischa.

  “Enough of it is that you needn’t complain.” Mari heaved herself up. “Edloiva, find a dress. And you––think you’re staying to watch?” She pushed Rischa across the room and out the door. He looked horrified. Sarid glared and Mari slammed the door in his face.

  “Well?” Mari said, turning to Sarid. “He’s a good boy. You’ll make him happy, and he’s been a bit down. You want to make him happy?” Sarid didn’t know what to say, and Mari shrugged. “Doesn’t know her own mind, probably.”

  It was true enough. For hours Sarid suffered herself to be tugged and pulled about by the two girls, until they finally settled on a cream-colored gown of Edloiva’s. It had to be stuffed with stockings around the chest and butt, but, nevertheless, suited Sarid’s blushing face in quite a comely fashion, according to Edloiva, and nicely complimented Sarid’s blonde curls, which had been tamed under a net of pearls and broken beneath a satin lash.

  “Doesn’t she seem a perfect dove?” said Edloiva that afternoon, when Rischa and another boy came to the door. Sarid hadn’t eaten anything except a stale breakfast roll; and a bubbling had risen in her stomach that could have been hunger but felt very much like dread.

  “She looks like she’s a broken wing,” said Rischa.

  “Oh, Rischa,” said Mari, fingering his stained coat cuff. He’d scrubbed the pile off the velvet. “That’s what comes of having no mother. There, you see,” she said to Sarid, “he doesn’t know how to dress himself, either.”

  Sarid stepped into the corridor, hand on the doorframe for support; she was taller than Rischa in Edloiva’s shoes. “Silly,” said Rischa, looking down at them. “Take them off.”

  “She won’t,” said Mari. “They’re the only things can make her stand up straight. Now let’s––Oh! Masks. I’m sure you remembered masks?” She said it mordantly, as though she expected they hadn’t.

  “Artisan made in Neridona.” The strange boy pulled a mask out of his coat. It was ceramic and had a long snout––a haughty looking fox. He attached it to his face with ribbons.

  “Go get them, Ed,” said Mari. “Neridona? Edloiva was content to make ours.”

  “Here they are,” said Edloiva, rushing back with three masks of starched linen. “You can have mine from last year, Sarid––snow leopard. It hasn’t gone yellow yet––Where’s yours, Rischa? You can’t have everyone knowing who you are.”

  “I forgot.” Rischa shrugged, and looked behind him.

  “I can’t imagine why Master Eliav would want everyone to know who he is,” said Mari.

  “I would have brought one,” Rischa said, irritated, “but when does one think of a mask?”

  “You can’t wear any of mine,” said Edloiva. “They’re too delicate. It’d look silly.”

  “What about that snow hare you wore last spring?” said the strange boy.

  “Shut up, Rokal.” Edloiva pulled up her bodice. “What’ll we do?”

  “Wrap his head in a sheet,” said Mari. And then her face narrowed in thought. “That hare. Edloiva’s always had a big face.” Edloiva opened her mouth, but Mari cut her off, “The mask was linen. We could just take the whiskers off and those stupid eyelashes…”

  “We’ll be late,” said Edloiva peevishly.

  “Then hurry and find it,” said Mari.

  So Edloiva went and rummaged in her drawers; and it was a strange crew that finally went to dinner––a purple crow, a princess with a long luxurious red wig, a fox, a snow leopard, and a pink-cheeked hare with no whiskers.

  Long ago it was believed that the walls between worlds crumbled on the longest night of the year, and Veles, king of the underworld, allowed the dead to roam the earth. So people would don masks and drape themselves with waterweeds, pretending they were ancestral spirits come up from Veles’ watery underworld, so as to hide from the real spirits, who were often hungry for flesh.

  There were no waterweeds now; the masks were used to hide social status, at least among the upper class, and they were usually discarded long before the night’s end. Sarid planned to keep hers attached to her face the entire night.

  ***

  They came to the high doors of the banquet hall; the bubbling in Sarid’s stomach had become a churning, and she wondered if she would be able to eat anything.

  There was a table that could seat hundreds––square, with a hole in its center so that entertainment could be viewed by everyone. Garlands of laurel and balsam hung from the rafters and twined down the white pillars, and everyone was dressed in bright costumes. The room resembled a flowerbed. There were no rules, no arrangements, and everyone sat where they pleased.

  Most masks were half-face: a good thing, as there were five courses of excellent food. The soup came first (“Watch your earrings,” said Mari) and Sarid found her hunger when she tried the pike with parsley and chives. Then there was partridge poached in maple sugar, and ham studded with jewel-like currents. A stew of caramelized apple and quince came next, and to end it, a trifle soaked in liqueur, and little crisp spice cakes.

  The drinks were good, too: they served the usual wine, and a drink made of eggs, brandy and nutmeg; and there was a hot creamy liqueur served with dessert, made from a southern bean. The taste was delightful to Sarid (who was on her third drink, feeding Gryka bits of ham beneath the table, and feeling better about everything). Sweet, bitter, and nutty.

  “Chocolate,” said the girl on her right, whom she didn’t know. She was tall and had on a falcon mask. “Don’t drink too much. It puts you under a spell, they say. Makes you fall in love.”

  Sarid rubbed sugar off her cheek. “After falling asleep, I expect.”

  The girl smiled. “They’ve just served tea.” She dragged over a small samovar and poured them both a cup. She nodded at Gryka. “Your hound has beautiful, sad eyes.”

  “She’ll cry her way straight onto your plate,” said Sarid.

  The girl laughed, and Mari, two seats down, looked over and called to Sarid: “Keep your hound away from my sister. She loves dogs. Been known to steal them.”

  “And you’ve been known to exaggerate,” said the girl with the falcon mask. She touched a finger to her tea, to feel the temperature.

  “Exaggeration”––Mari was slurring her speech––“makes for a pleasant surprise later on.”

  “Or an unpleasant one,” said Rischa, holding up his wine glass and swirling the dregs.

  “Either way,” said Mari, “you get a remarkable insight into your preconceptions.”

  “Silliness,” said Falcon Girl.

  “Pretty good for after dinner.” Rischa looked at Edloiva, who was giggling and tucking bits of trifle into Rokal’s mouth. Then he pointed at the empty seats on the other side of the table. “Are we the only ones left?”

  They got up, brushing crumbs from their laps, and went to dance.

  The ballroom was crowded and already filled with smoke. It seemed smaller and sweeter this time––the corners were stuffed with garlands and the floor strewn with pine needles that sent up fragrance as they trod on them.

  “Come on,” Mari said, sighing. “Let’s pay our respects to Uncle before we get all hot and red.”

  Rokal sniggered behind his mask. Edloiva pulled on it and it snapped back with a painful-sounding slap. He rubbed his cheeks, a red glow spreading all the way down to his mouth. “Where is he?”

  “Over there,” said the girl in the falcon mask, pointing to a far corner. “Ministering to a ring of wilting flowers.” They walked over, squeezed into single file by the crowd.

  “The crow,” cried a dumpy old man. He seized Mari, lifted her mask, and planted a kiss on he
r cheek. Too late Sarid looked around and realized there were no masks on the faces; she saw Edloiva pulling hers off.

  “Take it off,” whispered Edloiva, “so you’re not thought disrespectful.” Sarid gave her head a little shake. “Here––” Edloiva made a swipe at her face, and so as to not undergo the humiliation of Edloiva forcefully removing it, she took a breath and placed it atop her head. “But your hair!” And Edloiva in turn was seized by the old man, who must be Count Pash, the patriarch at Charevost.

  He planted a kiss on her cheek. “Miss Edloiva! Your father’s teaching comportment in the south, isn’t he?” Edloiva said something sweet in reply and Sarid perceived that she was next in line. She started edging away.

  “And who’s this?” roared the man, taking Sarid by the hand, pulling her up.

  “Rischa found her somewhere,” said Mari, shrugging.

  Pash went still. A muscle twitched in his powdered cheek. “A witchling, Master Rischa?” Then he laughed and kissed her on the mouth––an interminably long, sloppy kiss. He thrust her away and seized Rischa by the neck. “Watch out for those eyes, boy.” He reached next for Mari’s sister. “Leva,” he said, kissing her as well, “my comelier niece.” The girl smiled weakly and broke away from him. The gap was immediately filled by more girls.

  Leva stared at Sarid, her falcon mask dangling from a finger. She said to Rischa, “Your little dalliances have always seemed trite and inconsequential. But this?” She turned and walked away, and the crowd closed around her. Sarid put her mask back on.

  “Well done,” said Mari to Sarid. “Nothing like a pretty face sowing seeds of discord.”

  “Ooh, look,” chimed Edloiva, pushing at them, “they’re going to dance a yod spin.”

  ***

  The next dance was wild and fast, with circles spinning counter to each other, and the beat lashed into frenzy by musicians slamming spoons on kettledrums. Sarid, already warm with drink, felt as though a fire were burning in her hands, these clenched by a different masker at every turn. Rischa was swept away and Sarid looked briefly but couldn’t find him. Flushed and excited she forgot him and Leva, and was tangled into the rich dark and color of the night.