by Barb Hendee
Then she strode toward Saorise.
* * *
Amelie ran down to the storage room that Heath had shown her near the base of the east tower. Crossing the room swiftly, she passed through the doorway at the back and descended the stairs. She could hear the crackling of logs and see a glowing light before she even emerged into the guardroom of the old prisons.
Although she had no idea what she would find, at the bottom of the stairs, it took her a moment to absorb the sight before her.
A fire crackled in the small hearth. Heath sat cross-legged on the floor in the center of a triangle that had been drawn in black chalk. His tunic and wool shirt lay a few paces behind him, and his chest and arms were bare.
He was perspiring, and his skin glistened.
There was a dagger strapped to his left forearm. Directly above the sheath, she saw several deep cuts that had just begun to heal. There wasn’t a single hair on his smooth torso, but the muscles in his arms were more defined than she would have expected. A short hook had been placed over the fire, and a small iron cauldron hung from the hook.
About six strands of red-gold hair, the same color as his own, lay on the floor beside him, but these were longer, much longer.
He was in the middle of pouring something from a white bottle into the cauldron.
“Heath?” Amelie said.
His head whipped toward her. His expression was still, but his light brown eyes held a glint of madness.
“Amelie?” he said in turn.
“Whatever you’re doing, stop doing it,” she said.
He dropped the bottle and jumped to his feet.
She’d wanted to find him as quickly as possible, but for the first time, she wondered about her wisdom in coming down here alone.
“I have to finish,” he said. “I have to save her. I tried everything else . . . everything, and if I don’t save her now, she’ll be in his bed tomorrow. She doesn’t understand what he’ll do . . . and I have to save her.”
Though she’d never suspected Heath, looking down at the long red-blond strands on the floor, Amelie realized that somehow he had killed his older sister and his uncle, and he was about to kill Rochelle.
She held up her hand, still gripping the dark, gray-streaked hair. “Like you saved Carlotta.”
Heath’s eyes widened at the sight. “No! I was trying to save Rochelle. Carlotta was behind all this. We wouldn’t be here if not for her poisoned heart. I don’t want to do this, Amelie. I never wanted it. But there’s no other choice now, and you must let me finish. You must see I’m right.”
“No.”
His expression went still. Drawing the dagger from its sheath on his wrist, he took a step closer. “Move away from the stairwell.”
She had two choices: fight or flee.
If she fought and lost, he’d finish whatever he was doing here and kill Rochelle. If she fled, she might make it up the stairs before he caught her . . . at least she’d get far enough to call for help.
Whirling, she jumped back up the stairs. But she was laced into a floor-length evening gown, and she made it only four steps when a hand grabbed her arm from behind, jerking her backward.
He pinned her against the wall near the bottom of the stairwell and held the dagger a few inches from her throat. He was stronger than she’d imagined.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I would never have hurt you.”
The madness in his eyes and the resignation in his voice filled her with fear. He had one of her arms pinned, but her other hand was free. Falling back on the only defense she had in the moment, she grabbed his jaw.
In a flash, she reached for the spark of his spirit, trying to rip his awareness from this moment, to trap and disorient him in the mists of time. She found his spirit instantly, and she latched on.
The first jolt hit, and she focused as hard as she could on why he had done these terrible things. The second jolt hit, and they were both swept into the gray and white mists, moving backward. She fought to mesh her spirit with his, as she’d done with Maddox. She needed to see through Heath’s eyes, to feel what he felt, to understand his tortured mind.
He fought back, trying to break his spirit free, but she held on. In here, she was the stronger one.
The mists cleared.
Chapter Fourteen
Quillette Manor
Three years in the past
Heath’s fifteenth year was the happiest of his life.
His father, Baron Alexis Quillette, was not only titled, but also one of the most prosperous wine merchants in Droevinka, and he worked hard. But Alexis had been forced into “learning the business” at the age of twelve by his own father, and as a result, he’d missed a good part of his childhood.
He wanted more for his son.
“Enjoy these years,” he told Heath. “Learn what you must from your tutors, but otherwise let yourself be young. Do as you wish.”
And so Heath did.
However, the only thing he wished to do was spend time with two of his sisters. He learned writing and mathematics and music from his tutors, but every other spare moment was spent with Rochelle and Lizbeth. When the weather was foul, they would hide in the attic and put on plays for one another, acting out the characters with great flair and drama.
When the weather was fine, they rode their horses all over their family’s lands, sometimes—when they had no lessons—disappearing from breakfast to dinner. Out in the forest around the manor, they played make-believe games in which Rochelle was a princess and Lizbeth was a cruel villain who abducted her. Heath was the hero who rescued Rochelle.
They took delight in stealing clothes or other items from the manor to use in their games. Rochelle seldom required any sort of costume. She looked the part of the princess all on her own.
Heath loved his younger sister, Lizbeth, who had just turned twelve that year, but he adored Rochelle.
She was the most perfect thing he’d ever seen. Sometimes he thought this sentiment might seem vain, as she was his twin, younger than him by ten minutes, and they looked so much alike, but he made most other people uncomfortable. He put them off. Rochelle dazzled them. No one could see her, listen to her voice, and not fall in love.
So Heath’s life was filled with imaginary games and putting on plays in the attic and riding his horse . . . all in the company of his two favorite sisters.
His father paid little attention to how he chose to spend his days so long as he was happy.
His mother said little but made it clear she did not approve of the arrangement. Nor did his elder sister, Carlotta.
Heath had a difficult time speaking to anyone besides his father or his younger sisters. With everyone else, he could rarely think of a proper response or anything to say, and attempting to speak to his mother was most difficult. For one, she rarely spoke to him unless it was to criticize or offer a correction, and for the first fifteen years of his life, he didn’t remember saying anything to her other than “Yes, Mother.”
Carlotta almost never spoke to him at all.
It didn’t matter. He had Rochelle and Lizbeth, and the three of them would hide and talk and play for hours.
But as midsummer approached that year, one day, their mother was out, and they took advantage of playing on the main floor of the manor. Lizbeth was the villain, as always, and Rochelle was the princess.
“You won’t escape me!” Lizbeth shouted. She wore an old pair of their father’s pants, rolled up, and she’d drawn a mustache on her upper lip with charcoal.
Rochelle pretended to struggle, and then Heath ran into the dining room with a wooden sword.
He was about to call to Rochelle to take heart when he saw one of the hired house guards standing on the far side of the dining room. The man stared at Heath with a look of measured disgust.
Heath stopped. “Let’s go
up to the attic.”
Rochelle and Lizbeth followed him out.
Later, he was still troubled, with a knot in his stomach, and he asked Rochelle, “Did you see that guard’s face when he looked at me?”
She shrugged. “What does it matter?”
“Was I doing something wrong?”
“Of course not. He’s a grown-up. He probably thinks it’s strange for a young man your age to spend all his time playing with his sisters. Ignore him.”
Young man? Was he a young man now? He didn’t want to be. His father had spoken to him of the adult world, and it sounded awful, filled with accounts and ledgers and worry and toil and duty.
Heath wanted nothing in his current life to change.
Yet, that year, he did learn that not all change was a bad thing, and two new men entered his life. The first was Captain Maddox.
Heath’s mother, Lady Helena, had suddenly seemed to think the family would be doing more traveling in the near future—Heath had no idea why—and she wanted a bodyguard who was a tad more impressive than their hired men at the manor. Captain Maddox was apparently some sort of “gift” arranged by Aunt Clarisse, who was mother to Prince Rodêk. Maddox arrived in shining boots, wearing a long sword and the pale yellow tabard of the Äntes.
Lady Helena was pleased, as she loved all things Äntes, and she informed the family that Maddox was not to be considered a servant, and that he would live in the manor and dine with them. At first, Heath had great trepidation over this news. Captain Maddox was tall, muscular, and ruggedly handsome. He was the type of man other men wanted to be. Heath had never been at ease with men like that—or rather, they’d never been at ease with him.
But the captain was unfailingly polite to Heath and quickly proved himself interested in little else than protecting the family. He oversaw the hired guards and kept most of them out of the house. Soon, Heath was glad for his solid presence.
There was only one drawback to his arrival.
Heath wasn’t aware of it until he noticed his parents arguing more than usual. Lady Helena and Baron Alexis had never liked each other, or at least not in Heath’s memory, and they learned to arrange their days so that they only need be in the same company at dinner. Even then, they barely spoke.
But of late, Heath had heard them shouting behind closed doors, and one day, he came into the house to see if he could sneak some bread and cheese to bring back outside to Lizbeth and Rochelle for lunch, and he heard raised voices on the main floor, coming from the drawing room.
“You do him no service and no favors!” his mother shouted. “Do you see how our own guards look at him? Do you see how our friends look at him when they dine with us?”
“I’ll not force him into manhood too fast!” Heath’s father returned. “I’ve told you that.”
“How long will you wait? Until he’s shaving every morning, and all the young men of the other families have years of training behind them?”
Heath froze. They were arguing about him.
Slowly, he crept back outside, worried. It sounded as though Mother was pressing Father into forcing Heath to take his place in the adult world.
A few days later, Captain Maddox approached him. Heath watched him cautiously, sensing something was up.
“Your father sent me,” Maddox said without preamble. “I’m to teach you how to use a sword.”
Oh . . . , Heath thought. That didn’t sound too bad.
Unfortunately, it was. At fifteen, Heath was still small and slight of build. Earlier that year, Rochelle had grown taller than him. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t swing a sword more than three or four times before he nearly dropped it in exhaustion.
Embarrassed, he expected harsh criticism from the captain, but Maddox sat him down and said, “I was worried about this. Don’t fret. Most boys from families like yours start at least basic training and learning how to use a dagger much earlier, and they’ve built up some strength by now. But boys . . . men can keep growing until they’re twenty. You’ll grow into yourself. I promise. I’ll teach you the sword later, maybe next year.”
“Yes, but I think Mother wants me to learn how to fight now.”
“I know, and I have an idea about that. Be ready to go out riding with me tomorrow after lunch.”
Although Heath had planned to spend tomorrow playing among the trees with Rochelle and Lizbeth, acting out a new story he’d thought up, he was curious to see where Maddox would take him. So the following afternoon, he had his horse saddled, and he was ready.
Maddox joined him, and they rode out the manor gates, heading south.
They took a forest path and went all the way to the edge of Quillette land. Up ahead, Heath heard a rushing creek, and he saw an unusual encampment, a collection of wagons with small houses built on top—like rolling homes. There were horses grazing at the outskirts of the camp and chickens pecking the ground around the wagons. Perhaps twenty people milled about the camp. Some of the women were putting vegetables in a large pot hanging on a hook over a fire pit built in the center of camp. Everyone was dressed in bright colors of scarlet or royal blue or purple, and most wore bracelets or rings in their ears, even some of the men.
Heads turned as Heath and Maddox approached, but then smiles broke out and some people called, “Captain, come and have lunch.”
In his studies with his tutors, Heath had learned a little about the history of the Móndyalítko, but what he’d read had not prepared him for this sight. He felt as if he were riding into a larger-scale version of one of the plays that he and his sisters performed together.
Before entering the camp, though, he pulled up his horse. He didn’t quite follow the situation. “These people are on my father’s land.”
Maddox stopped beside him. “I know. They come every summer and stay through autumn. They have your father’s permission to camp and to fish in the creek. I rode out here the first week I arrived . . . just to make certain these people presented no danger, but I’ve no concerns. I’ve made friends with a few of them, and there’s one I wish you to meet.”
Heath marveled at this news. All this time, every summer and autumn, there had been a group of gypsies camping on Quillette lands, and he’d never known.
Maddox dismounted his horse, and Heath followed suit.
A woman with dark hair greeted them, smiling at Maddox and then assessing Heath. She appeared pleased and interested at the same time. “Captain, have you brought us a pretty young man?”
Maddox smiled back, “Leave off, Neda. He’s not for you.” He looked around. “Is Jace about?”
“In here,” a low voice called. The door to one of the wagons opened, and a man emerged, coming down a set of makeshift steps. He yawned and stretched as if he’d been asleep in the middle of the day.
“You need me?” he asked Maddox as he approached.
The man was about thirty, with dusky skin and dark wavy hair pulled back into a ponytail. He wore a loose orange shirt and faded brown pants. His feet were bare.
“Yes,” Maddox answered. “I was hoping to hire you.”
The man raised an eyebrow, but Maddox continued. Motioning to the man, he said, “Heath, this is Jace. He’s very . . . skilled with a dagger, much better than me. Jace, this is my mistress’s son. She wanted him trained with a sword, but he’s not ready. He’s got speed and balance. I thought learning the dagger could help get him started.”
Though Heath was still puzzled, he flushed under the compliment. He had no idea he was possessed of speed or balance.
The man called Jace tilted his head and studied Heath. “You ever held a dagger before, lad?”
“No,” Heath answered. He did wonder how Maddox had learned Jace was so skilled with a small blade, but he didn’t ask.
“We’ll pay you two silver pennies per lesson if the boy comes out here, and three if you come to the manor,�
�� Maddox said.
“Quite generous,” Jace answered.
“Then you’ll do it?”
“Why not?”
And with that, Heath found himself exposed to a new world, both inside and outside himself. Sometimes Jace came to the manor, and they practiced out in the front area of the stable, and sometimes Heath rode to the camp. He liked it there. For the most part, the gypsies lived as they pleased, just as Heath wished to continue doing. They all seemed to accept him, and none of the men found him off-putting.
It also soon surprised him how much he came to enjoy the lessons themselves. Like Maddox, Jace was a patient teacher, and he never pressed too hard. He taught Heath how to hold a small blade correctly, how to dodge, how to slash, and when to thrust. Heath came to understand that he indeed was possessed of speed and balance.
Even better, he impressed his sisters with his growing skills when they played their games in the forest—while he was the hero rescuing Rochelle. Of course he was careful, and he never got his blade anywhere near Lizbeth. He just brandished it and showed his sisters what he could do.
One day, Jace brought him a leather sheath to fasten to his wrist. Heath loved this idea. The next day, he made up a story about a forest brigand with a good heart, and Lizbeth played an evil nobleman who abducted Rochelle. Heath was able to pull the dagger from inside his sleeve and surprise both his sisters. They laughed and clapped.
And so . . . Heath’s fifteenth year was the happiest of his life. He had his freedom, his sisters, his father, the quiet support of Captain Maddox, and a camp full of gypsies who accepted him for who he was.
Then, not far into his sixteenth year, the world began to change.
The first change wasn’t bad. He had a growth spurt, and he grew taller than Rochelle. He could feel the strength increasing in his arms when he practiced with Jace, and Jace stepped up the training regime.
But in late autumn, the Móndyalítko packed up and rolled away, going to their winter destination and promising to see Heath the following summer.
Another change soon followed, and this one hurt.