The Key of Amatahns

by Elisabeth Wheatley

  Chapter One

  The evening fire had already been lit, though the sun was still well above the horizon. Janir took in her reflection, hoping she looked presentable.

  It had been nearly seven years since she had first met Armandius. At times she couldn’t remember what Adasha had been like at all, sometimes it seemed she had been born in this castle. The ancient walls greyed by age, the rolling wheat fields, and sloping hills beyond were more home than the Citadel of the Argetallams had ever been.

  A smallish, round woman in a matron’s wimple peered over her shoulder. “Don’t you dare move yet,” she said with mock severity, wielding a comb through Janir’s hair with a practiced efficiency. “You might dash about like a hooligan on most days, but tonight… There you are, sweetheart.”

  The matron affectionately patted Janir’s head. Setting down the boar’s hair brush, she stood and admired her work.

  “Thank you.” Janir was a little surprised at the transformation—she saw a young noblewoman in that mirror, a proper lady.

  “No charge of mine shall go about looking as if you romp in the fields all day,” the old lady added proudly. “Even if you do. See? I told you getting dressed up for these kinds of guests wouldn’t be so horrible.”

  “You’ve done wonderfully, Dame Selila.” Janir fought the urge to touch her carefully arranged locks. She didn’t want to muss them. “Would you mind telling His Lordship that I will be down soon?”

  Dame Selila nodded and scurried away to inform Armandius. Her pattering steps faded down the hall and Janir was alone.

  Thankfully, Janir had taken after her mother. She could easily be taken for Brevian. Snatching up a necklace from the dresser, Janir fastened it in place. A silver medallion hung several inches below her throat. It was a seven point star with a solid emerald in the center. The points were formed by the interlocking pattern of seven tiny swords—the emblem of the Caersynn house.

  Armandius had given her the medallion on the day he had brought her here to his castle. She had been frightened and timid, a motherless and defenseless child. Armandius had hung the chain around her neck and said: “You are a part of my family now.”

  Janir bit her lip. She knew she was not Armandius’ daughter. But how she wished she was.

  Wedged the mirror and the wall, where it had stayed for months, sat a polished mahogany box. Armandius had given it to her just last year. He’d said it had been in her pony’s saddlebags when he found her and she might want it someday, but should keep it hidden. He’d offered no further explanation and she still didn’t know what was inside. Never had she found the courage to look.

  There were times, like right now, she felt a tremor in the air, a pull toward the box. She lightly touched the side of the shiny lid, just enough to stir the dust that had settled since the maids’ last visit. Those girls dusted around the box thinking it was part of the mirror, clueless as Janir as to what might be inside. Armandius had once told her that hiding things in plain sight was the best…

  Open me.

  It was hardly there, a hazy concept of thought that her mind translated into words. The moment the familiar beckoning voice came, Janir jerked her hand away as if the box were poisonous.

  “No,” she snapped out loud.

  It was a constant reminder of her Argetallam blood. Janir hated the very sight of it, yet something deep within her, some innate instinct perhaps, was loath to throw it out. Therefore, it had remained in its current location for nearly a year.

  Smoothing the front of her blue silk dress, Janir realized that she could no longer stall. The man she called “Father” had guests tonight and it would be unseemly to delay any longer. Turning on her heel, Janir strode to the oaken door and slipped into the long corridor lit by flickering torches.

  She made her way along the hall, shoes clacking against the stone. It was not long before Janir arrived at a pair of imposing double doors at the end of a corridor. After briefly making sure that everything on her was in order, she placed a hand on the door and swung it open.

  The interior scene was unusual for this castle, though it might have been considered normal in any other. Armandius stood with a polite but strained expression as a thin, powdered, and perfumed young woman giggled and tittered. The woman had enough lace around her neck to have been a milk weed and a skirt to house a family of martens.

  Beside her was a bored looking man only slightly older. The man appeared to be unremarkable in every way, except for his slit mouth. He kept contorting and pursing his lips as if he were waiting for something that was behind schedule.

  Janir did not spend an excessive amount of time surveying the two mortal guests. Her gaze was immediately drawn to the elf standing slightly to one side and staring at her. Janir almost gulped when she spotted Velaskas. She suspected that his frequent visits which, according to the older staff, previously occurred only every few years or so, were planned to check on her.

  The servants know and tell all, was a proverb that Armandius had once quoted. Janir could only hope and pray that none of them suspected her secret.

  Janir always felt that she was on trial when Velaskas came, like there was some forgotten evil she had committed and he was just waiting for the perfect moment to expose her crime. However, it was hard to wholly dread Velaskas’ visits when that was the only time she saw his son, Saoven.

  To her disappointment, Saoven was nowhere to be seen. She’d heard he might return from an errand for his father early tonight, but it was unlikely. Still, she was sure Saoven would make time to visit with her and Armandius at some point. He usually did. As one of a very small number of people she had truly managed to befriend, he was always a welcome sight.

  Velaskas did not so much as nod when their gazes met, he stared at her with a blank expression that spoke more than a thousand words.

  If it were not for Armandius, Velaskas would have killed her at the Norwin Pass, the mountain road where they had found her. Janir’s hand conscientiously went up to the left side her neck, where all that remained of the wound was a faint scar. She admitted to herself that Velaskas saved her life that day. Still, he had only done it to keep her alive long enough for questioning—there had been no other survivors.

  Armandius heard the doors and whirled around, visibly elated at an excuse not to look at the prattling woman behind him. “Jenny,” Armandius smiled, using his pet name for her. “You’re late, child.” His tone was chastising, but Janir knew that it was more for abandoning him with the giggling little doxy than for her tardiness.

  “Forgive me, Father.” Janir tried to block the girlish grin that threatened to spread across her face.

  Father. That was what she had called him ever since the Norwin Pass. It had been a rather abrupt choice, made when they’d stopped at another lord’s manor on the way to Castle Caersynn. Armandius made a split second decision to introduce her as his illegitimate daughter and the story had stuck ever since.

  Not even Dame Selila knew the truth.

  Armandius clasped Janir’s hands and kissed her forehead. “Duke Ronan, Lady Rowella,” Armandius addressed his guests. “Would you kindly allow me to present my natural daughter, Lady Janir Caersynn.”

  The woman, Lady Rowella, smiled her artificial smile and curtsied in the most sumptuous fashion. Duke Ronan made a bored gesture.

  “Why do you not curtsy, child?” Lady Rowella inquired in her high pitched squeak of a voice.

  “I never learned, milady,” Janir said uncomfortably.

  “But you have been raised by Lord Armandius Caersynn, one of the finest lords in all Brevia! Surely he taught you manners,” the noblewoman trilled.

  “Does my father strike you as the kind of man who knows how to curtsy?” It was out before Janir could stop it.

  Armandius allowed a strangled smile before assuming a rebuking frown. Duke Ronan remained unbearably expressionless while Lady Rowella stood looking baffled.

  “Forgive Janir,” Armandius apologized
, “it is not often that we have guests.”

  From the wall behind Armandius, a door creaked open and a demure boy of about ten peered out into the foyer. “Excuse me, my lord,” the page interrupted. “Dinner is served.”

  Armandius acknowledged the boy perfunctorily. “Thank you.”

  The five of them filed into Armandius’ banquet hall. It was well lit and spacious, like most of Castle Caersynn. Simple tapestries adorned the walls and the table was of a rather plain design. Janir knew that theirs was not the most ornate banquet hall, but she treasured it along with the rest of the castle’s furnishings for one reason.

  “Oh, my.” Lady Rowella was quite obviously displeased with the hall. “How quaint.” She feigned a smile. “But…when was the last time you redecorated?”

  “Twenty-two years ago,” Armandius answered simply.

  Janir seethed with possessive jealousy when Lady Rowella took her usual place next to Armandius and she found herself seated directly across from Velaskas. The girl looked down at her plate to avoid his unnerving stare.

  From the head of the table, Armandius tried to engage Duke Ronan in conversation out of courtesy. Nonetheless, the duke’s sister talked enough for the both of them and Armandius soon realized that the duke wished to remain silent.

  “Really, Lord Caersynn,” Lady Rowella lamented. “This place looks rather dreary, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Janir demanded.

  Armandius shot her a look across the table and she realized she had spoken out of turn. He might let her speak freely when it was just them, but any proper lord’s daughter—even an illegitimate one—would have known better. Janir ducked in embarrassment, but…was this woman trying to get Armandius to let her help with the castle decoration? If so, Janir wouldn’t stand for such a thing. But everyone ignored her.

  “Are you certain that the castle isn’t lacking…” Janir noticed Lady Rowella’s hand inching across the table to Armandius’. “…a feminine touch, perhaps?” Lady Rowella completed in a breathy voice, laying her hand over his in a disconcerting gesture. Janir nearly gagged on her piece of wild boar.

  “There are females all around me,” Armandius deftly replied. “Janir, my late steward’s widow…”

  “Servants and children,” Lady Rowella countered. “Not at all the companionship a man, such as yourself…” Rowella leaned closer to Armandius. Armandius leaned away from Rowella.

  “Tell me, Lord Caersynn…” Rowella was speaking in a tone Janir had never heard a noblewoman use before, not that she had met many of those.

  Velaskas looked almost bemused, while Duke Ronan seemed to be thoroughly absorbed in his slice of venison. Armandius stared at Rowella with a displeased expression he had sometimes used when chastising Janir. Without a word, he pulled his hand from beneath Rowella’s and returned to his plate.

  Janir stared at the gold band with an intricate weave pattern he always wore on his left hand. All that time living as a widower and he still wore it.

  “You say you last decorated twenty-two years ago?” Rowella tried to strike up a conversation she could follow. “What was the occasion?”

  Armandius turned a stiff gaze to Rowella. “Aryana Meliard was brought here as my newlywed wife.”

  Janir grew even more uncomfortable, if that was possible. Her mother was a nearly forbidden subject even with her. What would Armandius make of a relative stranger causing her to be brought up, so frivolously, too?

  “Well,” Rowella seemed to take no notice, “that was quite awhile ago. Have you ever considered…remarrying?”

  Janir felt sick. Was this actually happening? At dinner of all places? She whispered a prayer, pleading that this was a nightmare and she would wake up.

  “I admit I have,” Armandius quietly replied, speaking more to himself than to the chattering little twit at his left. He glanced to Janir for a moment before continuing. “But all the women deemed suitable for marital purposes would be either too old to bear heirs to the house of Caersynn or too young to be tolerable.” Armandius stared hard at Rowella as he uttered the final sentence.

  While Janir hoped he didn’t find all young women to be as abrasive as Rowella, the noblewoman herself apparently had no sense of subtlety.

  “But perhaps there could be one…who you would find tolerable, maybe even enjoyable.” Rowella had taken on that same disturbing tone in her last few words.

  Armandius was clearly not enjoying Rowella’s advances. Still, the wench seemed not to notice.

  That night’s dinner was proving to be one of the most awkward meals Janir had had her lifetime. Listening to Rowella’s nauseating talk while pretending to still hold an interest for food was its own challenge.

  By the second course, Janir was longing for Rowella to choke on something, maybe the piece of lamb she was sliding around her plate. But no, Rowella took such small bites that a rat couldn’t have choked if it tried.