by S H Cooper
Chapter Twenty-Two
Within the outer walls of the castle, there is life I didn’t expect. An active market, people bustling by, children at play. They seem content, happy, even. They remind me of my neighbors in Moorsden. It doesn’t make sense. How can a place that makes me think of home be under the rulership of someone like Meverick Conan? Torren has said nothing but what an evil person he is and, after meeting him, I believe it. Is this an illusion? Some twisted fae magic he’s used to hide the truth of his people?
Still reeling with confusion, I’m taken through the inner gate and into the castle proper. Its design is simple; Meverick has filled it only with the basic necessities. The guard curtly points out the throne room, in which a seat carved from stone and overlaid with fur sits on a raised platform. Over it hangs a portrait of a stern-faced man who vaguely resembles Meverick. A crown is placed atop his head. We pass a dining hall, where a pair of long tables run almost the length of the room. There’s a third, smaller table set at the head the others. The guard tells me I will take my meals there, same as everyone else, except I will sit at the lord’s table.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from telling him I’d rather eat sand outside.
He doesn’t tell me much more than that and I’m given the impression he’s being purposefully vague. He doesn’t want me to know my way around. We pass hallways and closed doors, go up a winding staircase, until we are standing in front of a bed chamber.
“Yours,” the guard grunts. “You can come and go as you like, wherever you like. One of the handmaidens will be up to tend to your needs.”
“It’s not a cell?” I’m not sure if I mean to state it or ask it as a question.
I had expected to be a prisoner, but he’s treating me as if I’m a welcome guest.
“The lord commanded it,” he says in a way the let’s me know he doesn’t approve of this show of hospitality.
He leaves me standing in the doorway, my mouth hanging open and uncertain. Fearing a trick, I inch my way inside, sliding one foot ahead of the rest of me to test for some kind of trap. There is no false stone in the floor, no button to press that sends me screaming down a slide into the frigid ocean below the castle. It’s just a room.
A comfortable one at that. The bed is large and draped with thick velvet curtains and a heavy quilt. A wash basin and pitcher of water has been placed upon a small corner table. Steam rises from the pitcher, so it must have been filled recently. There is a wardrobe in which I find dresses hanging, a dressing table with combs and brushes, even a seat so that I can sit before its mirror.
The only thing that stands out is the iron bars placed over my window. Looking past them reveals a steep and straight drop into the water.
“My lady?” I jump at the timid voice that comes from behind me. A mousy girl in a plain grey dress stands in the doorway. She flinches at my surprise and apologizes quickly. “I’m sorry if I frightened you! My name is Ilyana. Lord Conan has sent me to be your handmaiden.”
“My what?” I don’t trust her, even as small and skittish as she seems, and keep a good distance between us.
“Your maid, my lady. If there’s anything you need, I will take care of it. He asked that I help you bathe and dress in something more,” she hesitates and averts her gaze, “suitable for a lady of your station.”
“I don’t need a maid,” I say rudely. “And my clothes are fine!”
She bobs her head. “Forgive me, my lady, but the lord commands it.”
I am already sick of hearing about Lord Conan’s commands.
Only the noisy growl from my stomach keeps me from telling her again that I don’t need her.
She drops into a deep curtesy and says, “You must be very hungry! I’ll bring you something from the kitchens!”
“No, wait!”
But she’s already gone. I listen to her footsteps fade rapidly down the stairs and sit on the edge of the bed with a sigh. What is the meaning of this, I wonder. Meverick hates my family and seeks only to hurt us, but he’s given me this room and a maid?
Ilyana returns to find me staring out the window again. She leaves a plate of dried fruit and cheese and a cup of water on the dressing table. She tells me she’ll be just out in the hall if I need anything else and scampers out. I don’t want to eat anything Meverick Conan has to offer me, but my mouth is watering just at the sight of the food. It feels like an eternity since I last ate. Hunger eventually wins out over pride and I attack the plate, clearing it in a very unladylike manner. As soon as I’m done, Ilyana is in the room again to clear the dish away.
“If you need anything, just ask!” she says again, a bit brighter this time.
I force a smile and nod and tell her I’m fine. Truthfully, I could’ve eaten twice what she’d first brought and still wanted more, but I’m on my guard. Whatever game Meverick is playing, I haven’t yet learned the rules and I must be careful. Ilyana could very well be acting as his eyes and ears, I’d be a daft thing indeed to think otherwise, and will no doubt be reporting my every move back to her lord.
Well, I think defiantly, let’s make it boring for the both of them.
I can be patient. I can sit on the end of this bed, my back straight, my hands folded in my lap, for as long as I need. I won’t give them any reason to think I am anything but an obedient little girl too scared to leave her room. Once they’ve become accustomed to that, I’ll start going out, little by little, never enough to make them take notice, until I find my map.
I don’t have to put much effort into pretending to be scared. Every time someone passes outside my door, my stomach tightens and I stiffen until I’m sure they’ve gone. For the most part, though, I’m left alone. I don’t even see Meverick. My only company is the handmaiden, Ilyana, and she continues to be nervous and flighty, especially after she took the clothes Reena had given me and disposed of them. I try to send her away a few times, but she only ever goes as far as the hallway, and even that’s mostly when I’m changing. Even then, I am careful to keep my back to the door. I’ve kept the necklace from the Halofain hidden so far and plan to keep it that way. I know there must be something special about the vial, which has remained warm even after so much time. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t want Ilyana or Meverick trying to take it. Since I refuse to go to the dining hall for my meals, she brings them to me twice a day and keeps an eye on me while I eat.
I don’t want to be mean to her, but her constant presence and the way she’s always watching me makes me short tempered. I’ve become like a bird in some pretty cage: comfortable, but frustrated and restless.
The first time I venture from my room a couple of days later, it’s well into the night and much of the castle has gone quiet. Ilyana is asleep at the foot of my bed, sitting upright with a shawl tucked around her shoulders. Her chin rests against her chest, which rises and falls with slow, steady breaths. I tiptoe past her, watching her keenly until I reach the door. I wince with every squeak it makes as I pull it open. Mercifully, Ilyana remains asleep, undisturbed by my exit.
I pad down the steps, one hand gliding against the rough stone wall, and pause at the bottom. A quick look in either direction reveals an empty corridor. Unsure of where to begin, I choose the nearest door and try its handle. It opens easily and I push it inward a little to see what’s on the other side. The moonlight coming in from the high window reveals just enough for me to know it’s a store room of some kind, with covered furniture and piles of disused things pushed against the walls. I close it off once more and continue down the hall, past rooms where I can hear snores and murmuring voices, and others that are altogether silent.
Only one room seems to have been left lit at this hour: the throne room.
A single candle burns beneath the portrait of the crowned man. I stand in the archway, staring up at the figure. Even painted, there’s an air of unquestionable authority about him. His hooded eyes feel like they follow me as I approach for a closer look. He looks even more like Meverick up
close, but older, with dark brown hair and a well-trimmed beard. The crown atop his head is fashioned to look like entwined serpents.
“My father,” Meverick says.
I jump, unaware he was there, and find him sitting in the far back corner in one of the audience seats. It’s hard to read his expression through the shadows. I tense, taking my eyes off of him just long enough to see if I’ve still got a clear pathway back to the door. Meverick remains in place.
“Your father never told you of him, did he?” he asks.
I clench my jaw, unwilling to have a conversation with him. Meverick continues on anyway.
“Our people were dying,” he says softly, but there is anger behind his words. “He would have done anything to save them. Just like Patrick McThomas would for his, I assume.”
Hearing him say my father’s name sets my teeth on edge. “Don’t speak as if you know my father!”
“I know his kind well enough,” Meverick replies. “So righteous. So honorable. Always so certain they’re doing the right thing. They don’t question their orders, they just follow them, regardless of who they might be hurting. My father wasn’t like that. He had no interest in serving a king who would ignore the suffering of innocents.”
I glance back up at the portrait. He certainly doesn’t look like a warm, caring person. And if Meverick is anything to go by, I doubt I’m terribly off with that assumption. It’s hard to think others might think fondly of either of them.
“I will not see his work go undone,” Meverick says, standing. “I will not see our people brought so low again.”
“Whatever ‘work’ you think you’re doing has nothing to do with my family!” I argue, heated despite the fear tightening my chest.
“How small your world is.” An almost-smile flickers across his features. “To think that nothing your people have done deserves any consequences.”
“My father –”
“Is just like the rest of them,” he interrupts me coolly. “He would see me as a threat. He would see me killed. But the snake that strikes first survives, and I mean to do just that. You will be comfortable here, Lady McThomas. All of your needs will be met. All you have to do is stay out of my way.”
He nods curtly and stalks out of the room, leaving me to scowl up at his father’s portrait.
It takes a few, long days before I feel bold enough to wander beyond my door again. Too afraid of running into Meverick alone again, I choose to do so during the day, when the castle is awake and active. As I suspected she would, Ilyana follows. I appreciate that she’s at least trying to be subtle about it. At the top of the stairs, I stop. I can hear the sounds of people going about their business down below and I’m not sure how they’ll react to me. Will they be upset I’ve left my room? Do they hate my family as much as Meverick does? I can feel Ilyana staring at me. It’s enough to push me forward, one step at a time. I need to find a way to get rid of her prying eyes.
To my surprise, no one really seems to care much one way or the other about me. A few glance my way, but it’s never anything more than a brief, curious look. No guards come to stop me. No one chases me. And, thankfully, Meverick is nowhere to be seen. I might as well just be another of Conan’s people. Again, I’m reminded of Moorsden while I walk through the castle. The smell of cooking drifts from the kitchen, there’s laughter, young women walking arm in arm and a group of men in the courtyard, training with swords and shields.
Up close, they don’t look like the monsters I remember from the field, their faces twisted into snarls and streaked with red. They’re just men; some no older than my brothers. I pause and watch them a while, and a cold hardness closes around my heart all the same. They could have been there that day. Any one of them could have had a hand in hurting my father and the other knights.
I turn sharply on my heel and sweep quickly away. The hardness in my chest has become prickly and painful and I can’t bear to watch them anymore. It makes me miss Father and Drake and Joseph too much.
Ilyana sticks to me like a shadow.
No matter which way I go, how I try to duck this way or that, she remains on my heels. I won’t be able to properly study a map if she keeps up like this. When I come across another stairwell leading down, I take it. It’s quiet down there and my footsteps echo noisily off the stone walls pressing in from both sides.
“My lady,” Ilyana’s frantic whisper chases after me. “Please, not down there!”
I ignore her and pick up the pace. Maybe I’ve found the one place she won’t go. Her quick, light footsteps coming down after me dash that hope as soon as it’s formed.
“My lady!”
The base of the stairs opens into a long, narrow hall and I jerk to a sudden stop with a surprised gasp.
There are people lined up along the wall. They're all dressed in grey rags, completely still with their heads bowed so their chins rest against their chests. Most are humans, but there are others that I only recognize because of Joseph’s storytelling. Short, sturdy folk with thick beards and curly hair, the same description my brother gave when he told me about dwarves, a people that lived in the mountains. There are a few small fae, like Torren, standing on a shelf above them. There’s even a huge creature, with the top half of a man and the bottom of a horse, among them.
Beside him is a slender lad with long, silvery hair. The tip of a pointed ear sticks out between the strands. An elf. He’s got a bruise around one of his eyes and his lower lip is split, as if he’d been fighting.
I jump when Ilyana tugs anxiously at my sleeve.
“We shouldn’t be here,” she says urgently.
“Who are these people?” I ask, nervous and quiet.
“Don’t concern yourself with them,” she tries to say, but I shoot her a displeased look and she shrinks back. “They’re just the silent ones, my lady. The slaves.”
“Slaves? That’s terrible!”
Ilyana tries to pull me back to the stairs. “They don’t even know they’re here, my lady.”
“How can that be?” I demand, planting myself firmly in place.
“The lord makes it so. They exist only to do his bidding. Otherwise, they stay here, as you see them. That’s all I know.”
Hesitantly, I step toward the nearest one, the bruised elf lad, and wave a hand in front of his face. He remains perfectly still.
“Are they alive?” I ask. The question is half in horror, half in wonder.
“Aye, my lady, but —”
“We can’t just leave them like this,” I say over my shoulder. “We have to help them!”
“We can’t! The lord’s magic is strong. He did this to them with only a touch.” In a more panicked tone, Ilyana continues, “Imagine what he’d do to us if he found us down here. He could make us one of them!”
While she rambles, I give the elf lad’s shoulder a shake. He still doesn’t move. Undeterred, I set my lips into a thin, determined line and tap my fingertips firmly against his cheek.
“Please, I could be in serious trouble for letting you come down here.” Ilyana pleads.
I look over my shoulder at her. She’s visibly trembling and has her hands clasped into a tight, white knot against her chest. The earnest, frightened expression on her face sends a rush of guilt through me. Her fear is very real. I can’t ignore it.
With a torn sigh, I turn back to the elf lad.
This time, though, he’s lifted his head and he’s staring back at me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I blink.
The elf blinks.
Ilyana lets out a tiny, strangled shriek and covers her mouth with both hands.
“You’re not supposed to be awake!” she squeaks through her fingers.
“Well this must be very inconvenient then,” the elf replies dryly.
He still hasn’t moved from his slightly hunched position, but his eyes travel quickly over the room.
“I don’t mean to add to the trouble I’m no doubt already causing, but...where am I?” he
asks.
“Oh no,” Ilyana whimpers. “This is not good. The lord is going to be so mad!”
“The lord?” The elf rolls the world around in his mouth and straightens.
He groans while stretching, his face pulled into an uncomfortable frown.
“You’re a slave,” I tell him plainly. “You don’t remember?”
“The last I remember is riding down a river in one of the boats. The current was fast, I lost control and was taken out to sea. I found my way to a shore and was met by,” he paused, trying to recall, “a man.”
“White hair, dark clothes, a face fit for a fist?” I say.
“That does ring a bell,” he replies.
“That would have been Meverick Conan.”
“Lord Conan!” Ilyana insists, her knuckles pressed against her lips. “Please, my lady, we must leave and alert the guards!”
“Lady?” The elf squints suspiciously at me. “So you’re part of the Conan clan?”
I want to spit at the suggestion, but settle for scowling fiercely at him.
“I’m going to take a wild guess here and assume that face means no,” he says.
“You guess right,” I huff. “I’m a prisoner here, like you.”
“It’s not often prisoners are treated with such respect, my lady,” the elf replies doubtfully.
“It’s complicated. And my name is Mary, not ‘my lady’.”
“Silvermoon,” the elf says. He’s become distracted by the other silent ones around him.
“Sorry?”
“My name, it’s Silvermoon.”
I bite my lip to keep the first less than kind comment from flying out. “Nice to meet you,” is all I say.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says from where he’s crouched in front of one of the dwarves. He gives the bearded fellow a shake and furrows his brow when the dwarf doesn’t awaken. “My elvish name is too complicated for the simple tongue of a human. I’ve simplified it for you. Are all of these people...alive?”