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Life at Westmarch continued at it's never ceasing pace. Those who called it home had learned long ago that there was little point in hurrying things along—it would all take care of itself in time.
The ranks of maids underneath Galia were falling into a quiet routine, unbroken by special events or important guests. Slaves in other lines of work continued with life day by day, each grateful to not have the job of another. All, that is, except for those few who were Jydda's personal servants.
Jydda of the House of Downes was known far and wide for her beauty. From her high cheekbones to her effortless movements, the woman was as near perfection as many would ever come. Her only failing, the one thing that secured her place in reality, was her acidic personality.
For countless years, Jydda had received everything she wanted, and discarded it with equal ease. Nothing was a challenge, nothing out of reach for her, and she knew it. She knew how to manipulate people into doing what she wanted, but when it came to slaves she felt no need to hide her true nature; they would perform her tasks whether they liked it or not.
The other servants of Westmarch knew all too well the plight each was in when under Jydda's reign. She tended to grow weary of servants quickly and they conveniently disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again. Rumors were many and varied, none pleasant, concerning their fate. Each time a slave in her service would disappear, all others would tense, knowing that one from their number would be chosen to replace the last. Very little in Westmarch was as dreaded as becoming one of Jydda's own.
One of the group, a man who looked to be in his late twenties, hurried up to Galia in the hallway, hair in disarray. Struggling to catch his breath, he automatically smoothed his hair back into place and straightened up. “Lady Jydda demands a new set of sheets, twelve-hundred thread count, in cream.”
Knowing that all of Jydda's demands were to be fulfilled immediately, for the welfare of all, Galia gestured for the servant to follow her. When they reached the linen room, she showed him to the bedsheets. “This section is all twelve-hundred thread count or higher. Which color do you want?”
The man paled noticeably, his face drawn. “There's more than one color. Which one is cream?”
After a slight hesitation, Galia pulled two flat sheets off of the shelf. “I would say one of these is the color Lady Jydda is after.”
“But which?” Galia could see sweat beading on his forehead; however, she could only shake her head in bewilderment. He swallowed. “I'll have to take both and let her choose. She'll . . .” His words trailed off, both knowing what lay in store for him on his return. Taking a complete set of each, taking care not to wrinkle them, he turned and hurried off down the hall, obviously holding himself to a walk. Galia gave a small sigh. Others had been dismissed for far less.
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Galia was never pleased to see Glegnar, nor was this an exception. She suspected that he had been drinking the night before, his bloodshot eyes seeming to have trouble focusing. The scent that drifted from him toward her caused her to take a small step backward, timing her move to when he would be unlikely to notice.
“Galia, you need to get over and clean the north walkway. Jydda's in a state over the mirrors, or something.” He rubbed a filthy hand roughly across his eyes, and Galia inched backward once more. Striving to focus on her face once more, Glegnar continued, “You better do it; she don't want no underling.”
The picture of a well trained servant, Galia gave a short curtsy, bowing her head, then turned and set off quietly toward the offending corridor. This was a fairly regular occurrence in Westmarch and, though cautious, Galia was not overly concerned. Jydda generally took her anger out on her personal servants, but it was of little import if she struck Galia.
Stopping off at a discreet supply closet, Galia retrieved a small container with the necessary cleaners and continued her route, keeping her eyes focused meekly on the ground. The safest way to exist for a slave was to blend flawlessly into his or her surroundings, and Galia had it down to an art. How else would she have become a supervisor?
As Galia entered the north walkway, she could hear the faint sounds of Jydda's wrath. Her strident voice, the thuds of objects being hurled, doors slamming, it was all routine. Jydda was the only regular tenant in the vicinity, most guests not wishing to hear her constant tantrums.
Perhaps if I start directly across from her room it will ease her wrath. If she cannot find anything irritating, she'll have a hard time justifying herself. Galia silently sat the cleaners on a nearby table and began washing the ornate mirror directly across from the closed door. The noise here was slightly louder, but the walls and doors of Westmarch were meant to provide privacy and did a surprisingly good job, despite their age. Galia wiped the glass once more, making sure no errant streak remained, then proceeded to dust the deeply carved frame and adjacent sconces. She flinched involuntarily when something heavy struck the door behind her. Continuing her work, unhurried, she felt a brief wave of pity for whomever was receiving the brunt of the storm. Still, there was little she could do.
It took a substantial amount of time to care for the north walkway. Galia took the time to care for any small thing that may set Jydda off once more. She was glad that Jydda's personal servants had received a brief respite when the lady had stormed from her room, but she felt greater relief that Jydda had not noticed her presence. Finishing her task, Galia returned her load to the supply closet, then moved to check on those under her tutelage. Those under her were grateful for their under-master, knowing Galia was prone to pitch in readily wherever help was needed. No emergency seemed to flap her ever present calm, no calamity distorted her aura. Galia was valuable to all at Westmarch, whether they chose to recognize the fact or not. Yet, Galia herself had not the faintest inkling of her importance. She was a slave, nothing less or more, and would remain so for eternity.
Chapter Three
It seemed to Integrity that very little time had passed since Galia had discovered her hiding place and had helped to return her there, but she couldn't trust her judgment of time. One day blended into the next, one week was indiscernible from the previous. She felt oddly safe, though for no logical reason, and she was content for the first time since she had left her home.
Therefore, when Ben entered her room in a frenzy and began shoving clothes from her dresser into a plastic garbage bag, hissing at her to get her shoes on, Integrity's security was shattered. Fear clutched at her lungs, constricting them. She felt dizzy and her mind seemed to go on strike. Ben glanced at her, and instantly regret crossed his face. Checking over his shoulder to make sure the door had latched securely, he approached her slowly. “I'm sorry, Integrity. Everything's okay.” He stopped several feet from her, gazing intently into her eyes. “I shouldn't have acted like that. I'm just excited.” When Integrity relaxed a bit, he smiled and said, “Where are your shoes? I'll get them for you.”
“What's going on? Where are we going?” Integrity pulled a pair of white socks and her sneakers on as Ben continued to throw her clothes into the plastic bag.
Finishing his task, Ben shoved the drawer closed, then moved to the bathroom and began tossing in whatever he found there. “We're getting out of here.” An excited smile spread across his face, making him look younger than usual.
Integrity was on her feet in an instant. “We're leaving Westmarch? Really.”
“We're outta here, Integrity. We're as good as gone!” Finished in the bathroom, Ben snapped off the light and tossed the bag over his shoulder. “You ready?”
A thrill pulsing through her veins, Integrity grinned. “You bet! Let's go!”
When Ben held his hand out for her to take, she hesitated for half a second before taking it. Excitement shot through her like electricity, but she forced herself to keep a level head. This was important.
Ben glanced quickly up and down the hall before leading Integrity out of the room. It seemed just a few seconds before he had her outside of the buil
ding. The bright sunlight caused her to wince involuntarily, but the warmth of the sun felt glorious as it poured through her skin. Ben squeezed her hand reassuringly, then started jogging across the perfectly manicured lawn, Integrity in tow. She felt horribly exposed here, but pressed forward nonetheless, trusting Ben's judgment. Entering the safety of the tree cover was welcome.
Once they had weaved their way between tree trunks until they were thoroughly hidden, Ben stopped and looked at her and set down the bag. “Do you need to rest for a minute?”
Trying unsuccessfully to disguise her labored breathing, Integrity shook her head back and forth. “I'm fine. Let's keep going.” She tingled with awareness that he hadn't let go of her hand, despite the fact that she knew it was damp. He must not find me disgusting. That's a good sign...
“Are you sure? It's better if we keep going, but we can spare a minute or two.” He looked back in the direction of the castle as he spoke, keeping his voice low.
Swallowing air greedily, she replied, “I'm fine, let's keep going. We don't want to get caught now.”
Branches and pine needles scraped her bare arms and occasionally caught on the plastic bag filled with her belongings. She wanted to make some witty remark about the bag looking more and more like Swiss cheese, but couldn't catch her breath to do so. Staying in a small room for months on end had wreaked havoc with her body—the muscles in her legs were burning, her shoulders and neck ached, and her joints complained persistently. This trip couldn't end quickly enough, as far as she was concerned, as long as it didn't end up back at Westmarch.
Before long Ben led her to a rough dirt path and a nondescript car. While he tossed her bag into the trunk, she slid into the passenger seat, grateful to get off of her feet. Her pulse throbbed uncomfortably near her ear and she felt disoriented. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the headrest.
She felt the car shift as Ben lowered himself into the driver's seat, then heard his door shut. When several seconds passed without the car starting, she opened her eyes to look at Ben, thinking there was a problem. He was giving her the oddest look, unlike anything she'd ever seen before. “What?” she asked.
Seeming to snap back to reality, Ben said, “Oh, sorry.” He turned his attention to sliding the key into the ignition and starting the car. Integrity shivered involuntarily. Half of her liked the way he had looked at her, so intently, but the other half felt uncomfortable. She turned to look out the windshield, gathering her thoughts.
After a few minutes of slow driving down the bumpy, twisting track, she asked, “So, where are we going?” She studiously kept her gaze on the trees around them as a single bead of sweat trickled down her side.
“As far away from here as we can get.” His voice was more tense than she'd ever heard it before, making her shift nervously. She'd never seen Ben like this before. He was usually so carefree.
Desperate to break the awkward silence, she asked, “How did you get the car? Not that I'm not glad. I am.” Stop rambling, she chided herself.
“There are lots of vehicles at Westmarch. This one is old enough to not be missed, but not old enough to be valuable. I've been trying for a long time to get access to a car.” She saw him glance briefly at her before focusing on the road again; she tried to appear as though she hadn't noticed. “I didn't say anything about it before now because I didn't want to get your hopes up. I figured I'd get a car eventually, but it could be a long time; it was better this way.”
Not knowing what to say, Integrity made a noncommittal sound. What could she say? She was getting away from Westmarch and, if all went well, would never be going back. What more could she ask for? So why do I feel so uneasy?
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They drove over an hour before they exited the woods. Integrity was grateful that she hadn't tried to hoof it away from Westmarch—she never would have made it. When she'd mentioned this to Ben, he had laughed and made some wry remark about not being “outdoorsy” himself.
The long silences grew less and less awkward as Integrity became accustomed to them. They drove through a small town or two before gaining access to a relatively isolated freeway. It had been several hours of driving past town after town and Integrity's lower body was beginning to lose feeling. When Ben signaled to exit, she sat up straighter and looked around. She couldn't see much off of the ramp, a gas station or two, a distant house. Ben parked in front of a pump, turned the car off, then climbed easily out. She noticed him pull a wallet from one of the pockets of his dress slacks before he shut the door.
She was uncomfortably hungry, though her time with Glegnar made that easy to ignore, but she had more pressing needs at the moment. She sat in the car, undecided, before sighing and getting out of the car. Ben looked up immediately.
“I'm just gonna run inside for a minute.” She kept her eyes focused on the roof of the car, flicking absently at a small piece of paint sticking up from a rust spot.
Ben stuck the hose back in the machine and said, “I'll come with you.”
Integrity could feel a blush pricking her cheeks. “Oh, it's okay, I'll only be a second.” Why? Why am I having this conversation with a hottie? He must know I need to pee!
He twisted the cap back on the gas tank and shut the door. “I want a drink. Can I get you anything?” He walked around the back of the car and waited for her to join him. Staring furiously at the ground, she caught up and they walked into the gas station.
By this time, having stood up, she couldn't take the time to be sly and look at a few of the aisles, but instead made a bee-line for the dingy sign hanging from the ceiling, the “t” barely visible in “bathroom.”
When she had finished, Ben was waiting for her, plastic grocery bag in hand. “Ready?” he smiled. She forced herself to smile back, mortified. “I didn't know what you liked, so I just grabbed some stuff. I hope that's okay?”
“You didn't have to, but thanks.” He held the door for her, then opened the car door for her. Her stomach gave a small lurch, not being used to this kind of treatment. Boys had never paid her much attention, let alone treated her like a princess. She felt kind of stupid, but a nice stupid.
The sun was disappearing behind a distant mountain by this time, and Integrity was grateful for the jerky and chips that Ben had bought at the gas station. While hunger was easy to ignore, it was always nice to be full.
“How come you're not eating more?” Integrity asked. “Aren't boys supposed to be bottomless pits?”
Ben slapped his flat stomach with a laugh. “I must be abnormal. It doesn't take much at all to keep me going.”
“Oh, great,” she teased back, “now I'm the pig. Just what every girl wants.”
Ben glanced at her, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before returning his gaze to the road. “A pig you most certainly are not. You're much too pretty.”
Integrity was grateful for the dim light of early night, grateful for it's ability to hide her expression. Did he really just say that? He can't have meant what I think, though. He was just being nice. Get it together, girl!
Trying to gloss over his comment, she held an open bag of chips out toward him. “Well, make a girl feel better and eat some more chips.”
“All right, if you're going to make me,” he joked, taking a handful from the bag.
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Things were tense at Westmarch. Rumors flew wildly among the servants, many and varied. Several were more popular than others, including things as extreme as a death in the royal family, but whatever had everyone in an uproar was kept tight under lock and key. No one could tell for sure what was causing the stress and short tempers among the elite of the castle. The tension was undeniable, regardless.
Galia was constantly being hit up for information by those who worked under her. She knew very little, but, being adept at blending into the background, she was privy to more information than most. From her observations she knew that the only people who were upset without cause were those who knew the royal family we
ll, lending credence to the death theory. But why would they hide something like that? An event of such magnitude should be shared with all, great and small, to mourn together.
No, a royal death was unlikely, in her eyes. Secrets were few in Westmarch, and those that existed were guarded too jealously for any reasonable hypothesis to come close to. Whatever it was that had the hierarchy in a stir would be something vitally important, and Galia could not imagine what that might be.
As she walked through the laundry, she heard snatches of conversation. One maid was telling another that someone was violently upset because she had been snubbed by Lady Jydda, while another butler asserted that the king's son was, indeed, dead, thereby leaving the ascension to the throne up for grabs.
Galia recalled that she had not seen or heard of the crown prince for some weeks, but that was not so unusual. Such a powerful young man had little to hold him at Westmarch, certainly not for all of his time. While it was possible, she still did not believe him to be dead. The king and queen were no fools; they had surely made plans in case of their son's untimely demise. No, the throne would not be open to any who could win the approval of the king. Such an accusation was wildly out of the realm of possibility.
Turning another corner, she absently traced a finger along the top of a table, then glanced down to make sure there was no dust. Arriving at her destination, she stood squarely in front of the door and rapped three times, before sliding her passkey into the lock and turning it.
Glancing briefly around the room, Galia turned and shut the door behind her. “Integrity?” she called. A few steps forward showed that the bathroom door was open, the light off. “Integrity?” she called again, thinking that the girl might have been startled and taken cover. A more thorough investigation showed that the girl was nowhere in the room. Galia sat down on the edge of the chair, puzzled. Where could the girl have gone, and why? Galia couldn't even be sure that the door had been locked when she came; she had automatically used her key.
Integrity: Book One of the Destine Series Page 4