“Is something the matter, my love?”
The wire beaded with the onyx stones that had been woven into Monica's hair had come loose and he idly played with one of the jewels. “All is well.”
She snorted. “The last time you made love to me like that, you were about to go into battle against the Tierans.” She traced a scar on his shoulder with light fingers. “Tell me what's the matter or I'll have you thrown into the stocks.”
He chuckled. “You wouldn't dare.”
The half-hearted scowl she had mustered dissolved into a smirk. “No. But it's a fine threat, nonetheless.”
Chuckling, Emmerich pulled away and climbed out of the bed, going to the washbasin to wash away his sweat. But as he stood there, his smile bled away.
The only sound between them was the sound of water splashing. When he turned, drying his chest, Monica wore a real scowl.
“This is to do with Marduk,” she said. “What are you planning, Emm?”
“I'm not planning anything.” He tossed the towel to the side.
“You never could lie to me.”
He sighed. “You know I love you.”
“And I love you.”
“I know you do.”
“I should hope so, as our affair would risk more than my father's wrath. If the Council learned I had 'sullied' myself with a commoner, we could have a revolt on our hands, and it would ruin any chance of alliance with Tier.”
He returned to the bed, sitting beside her. “I only wish you would hear me out.”
“I have heard you out. A dozen times over. But Marduk has brought stability and unity among the witches and wizards of the land. The King isn't going to ignore that or set aside the man who's done that simply on the suspicions of the Captain of the Guard.”
“My suspicion should be enough!”
She jerked back at the force of his anger. “If you would tell me what those suspicions were based upon, perhaps I could be of more help.”
Emmerich looked away, seeing the bloodied and burned bodies of his family in his mind's eye again. But he couldn't dare make himself speak of it. It was his own pain to carry. And he would not have Monica pity him.
After a long moment, Monica threw aside the sheet covering her legs and got out of the bed. “Marduk has been nothing but a boon to this Court. If I didn't know any better, I would say you're jealous.”
“Jealous?” He gaped at her
“Yes. And I don't have the luxury of siding with you simply because I care about you. I have to have hard evidence, Emm. I have to think about my people.”
“How is this not thinking about your people?” He got out of the bed and rounded it, stopping in front of her. “How is this not looking into their best interests? Marduk is a monster and the longer he stays here, the more he's going to poison those around him.”
“Is that why you hired the spy?”
“The what?”
“We both know that Gavin isn't only a bard, Emm. And it was far too convenient that he appeared just when you were beginning to let your sentiments regarding Marduk be made known. You have a lot to learn about politics and espionage, my love.”
“Gavin is not a spy. He's here to learn if my suspicions are true and to protect the King.”
“That's your job, Emmerich. You are the Captain of the Guard.”
“I am doing my job! Getting Gavin into the Court was part of that. And he's close to finding out the truth.”
For a long moment, Monica scowled at him, but the scowl slowly melted into a smirk. “No. He's not.”
With a flick of her wrist, an invisible force threw Emmerich across the room. He fell against the stand holding the basin and pitcher, sending them crashing to the floor. He stared up at her in shock, his arm bleeding from where the broken porcelain cut him.
She crossed the room, her hips rolling seductively. “Tonight, things change, Emmerich. The King will die. Change your mind about Marduk, and you'll be able to sit in the throne by mine.” She stopped in front of him, smiling down at him. “As King.”
Emmerich slowly stood, his heart thudding against his chest. He stared at her, confused and in pain. His hand pressed against the wound in his arm. “Monica, what's happened to you?”
“Marduk has been teaching me his magic and I've learned truths you can only dream of. I've seen things you can only imagine. Marduk is going to remake the world, Emm, and it's going to be glorious.”
He grasped her shoulders. “My love, listen to yourself. Do you hear what you're saying? You're talking about killing the King, your father, and you wish for me to be a part of that? Marduk has poisoned you. You must–”
Monica shoved against him, sending him sprawling against the wall, and she snatched up the ornamental dagger on the table by them. Screaming, she lunged at him, the blade held high. He didn't even think. Years of serving in the army and then the Palace Guard took over as he caught her wrist, twisted her arm, and slid the blade under her ribs, upward toward her heart.
Her mouth gaped in shock. Slowly, her legs gave way and she collapsed to the floor, the dagger clattering to the ground by her. She choked on her blood as more pooled beneath her.
Distantly, he heard the clanging of bells and shouting. Something else had happened in the Palace. He heard the door leading into the Princess's parlor open and Cassius call for him. Emmerich's heart in his throat, he could only stare down at Monica, who looked up at him with glassy eyes as she shivered with pain and choked on blood.
Cassius approached the curtain covering the archway into the bedchamber.
“Captain!” he cried. “Is all well?”
Monica gave one more shudder and moved no more.
“A moment,” Emmerich choked out, stumbling to the pile of his garments by the bed. “What's happened?” He fumbled with his clothes, his eyes going back to the corpse over and over again.
“An alarm has sounded from the King's chambers. They're saying the King is dead.”
Bile rose in Emmerich's throat. He couldn't stay here. “Then, go, man! And take the guards with you. I will attend to the Princess.” He swallowed. “She is Queen now and protecting her is a priority.”
There was a pause. “Captain?”
“Go! That is an order!”
“Sir!” Boots tromped away from the curtain and, after a moment, he heard the door open and close.
Emmerich, now fully clothed, sat on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his shaking hands as he tried to pull himself together. Gavin was supposed to be with the King tonight. He was either dead or on the run. He had to find him. They had to get away. Go to the North, to the lords there.
Stumbling up, he ran out of the room and away from the nightmare lying in a pool of blood.
Chapter Four
Two years later...
Clara twisted her matted hair and wrapped a short length of rope around it, tying it off with a knot. Fleetingly, she thought of the gowned ladies with long, braided hair, some of it with silk ribbons intertwined with the tresses. Theirs was a style of art - hers, solely utilitarian. She savored a small taste of pride at knowing that word.
“Girl! Where are you?” bellowed the cook.
Scrambling up from her thin pallet, she ran into the kitchen from the tiny room she shared with Cook and two others, adjusting her tunic as she went. Cook, sweaty and breathless, was stirring the morning's porridge in a large hanging cauldron. Her two fellow slaves were working at other tasks.
“I need more wood,” she said. “Gerrie didn't bring in enough last night.”
Clara rushed into the small courtyard just outside the back kitchen door. The stink of the compost pile and the bite of the morning air hardly touched her as she jogged around the small rectangles of vegetables and herbs Cook nurtured. Aromatic applewood sat in a neat stack by the wall that surrounded the castle. Scooping up an armload, she hurried back. When winter came, they would have to move the pile closer to the door.
Inside the kitchen, she carefully placed th
e logs in the fireplace, the greedy flames licking at the wood. The remainder she arranged by the fire and then looked questioningly at Cook, who nodded her head.
“Good gel,” she said. “I need ye to begin cutting the fruit now. And wash thy hands first!”
Clara scrubbed up at the sink and began to slice the apples and figs to adorn the lord's table. Her stomach grumbled sharply but she ignored it.
Clara carefully arranged the sliced fruits on a large silver platter. Cook walked by, glanced at it, and grunted her approval. In her own way, Cook was kind. Clara didn't recall being beaten for anything she didn't deserve, like the time she didn't check to see if the milk had soured and almost sent it up to be served at the high table. She still bore the scars from that, but the accident could have killed someone.
With the lord's visitor, breakfast was formal, making the four of them rush from one end of the kitchen to another, preparing the food. Finally, the serving boys, dressed in the dark orange and rusty red of the House of Dwervin, arrived, took up the platters and left. The women collapsed on a bench at the large worktable.
“I cannot wait,” said Cook, “for the master to get more cooks. I hear he was lookin' at folk just the other day. Well, time to eat ourselves.” She got up and the three girls stood, but Cook impatiently waved for them to sit down.
Cook herself was not a slave, though she never really ventured out much. However, a strange camaraderie had developed between the four of them. The woman returned shortly with a tray bearing small bowls of porridge, bread, and the last of the blackberries. They ate quickly and silently, then stood to clean and prepare for the large and elaborate noon meal. Thankfully, more cooks did arrive.
As Clara scrubbed roots at the sink a few candle marks later, she felt the ominous prickle ripple across her scalp. Terrified, she tried to push it back, but it exploded before her eyes: a man with hair black as midnight and eyes the color of bracken. He sat at a long table, talking to her master. The vision sharpened and focused on the dark-haired man's hand, which reached into his heavily embroidered tunic as if to scratch at a pesky flea.
As he pulled his hand out, he flicked his fingers. Her master, so intent on his conversation, paid no attention, but Clara saw tiny specks of dust flying into his cup. The vision ended and the sink full of roots hazily came back into focus.
Clara leaned against the edge of the table, gasping and shivering.
“What is this?” asked a sharp, deep voice. A hand struck her in the back of her head. “Back to work!”
One of the new cooks scowled at her and she bent back to her scrubbing, trying to ignore the pain in her head.
The visitor is going to poison my master, she thought. But when? At this meal? Why should I care one way or another, though? He bought me like I was a bolt of cloth for his wife.
She imagined the ensuing chaos of the lord's death and how she could make her escape. Perhaps she could find a blacksmith that would be willing to remove her slave's collar. However, this was the kindest she had ever been treated, here at the castle. In a sick, twisted way, she should thank him for making her his slave, because Heaven only knew what would have happened to her if she had stayed with her parents or sold elsewhere. That made up her mind.
When she finished her task, she looked around for Cook. The kitchen swarmed with people and heat. Clara blinked the sweat from her eyes. She didn’t see Cook and everyone else was too busy to set her a new task.
The serving boys appeared again and began scooping up laden dishes. Clara slipped close to the door. As they left in a neat line, she followed a careful distance behind them as they wound up a flight of stairs to a broad landing.
She hung back, peeking around the corner. The master of ceremonies, a large, rotund man with a smooth face and elaborate embroidery on his tunic, looked at the boys lined up before him. He straightened a tunic here, brushed hair there, and arranged the food on the plates to suit whatever the protocol could exist for food arrangement. Finally, everything seemed to satisfy, and he swept open the door. The boys filed out. Clara got a brief glimpse of an immense hall before the master of ceremonies stepped out, closing the door firmly behind him.
Cautiously, she crept up to the door. Was he standing just on the other side? She became painfully aware of her dirty tunic and undergown, and tangled hair, some of which had fallen from the rope to hang around her face in greasy tendrils. An inner voice demanded to know just what she thought she could accomplish. But she'd come this far. It seemed foolish to stop now.
Taking a deep breath, Clara opened the door a crack and peeked through. She saw the side of the high table. Between her and the table, the master of ceremonies stood with his side to the door, announcing the course. With a gesture, the serving boys began to move down the tables, starting from the lord’s and moving down. Chatter filled the massive hall. The rotund man moved a little away and she saw the guests sitting with his lordship, and sure enough, there sat the man in her vision, flicking his fingers.
Before she could let herself think, Clara burst from the door and bolted for the table. People just began turning when she grasped the guest and shoved him to the ground, the chair flying backwards. Wine and food spilled everywhere as he flung out his arms. For a moment, she felt a swift pressure, as if her hair was being pulled, before strong hands gripped her, flinging her to the floor. A boot pressed into her back and she felt the cold tip of blade on her neck above her slave's collar.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Lord Dwervin.
“That child attacked me,” cried the man angrily as he scrambled to his feet. “Is this your idea of hospitality, Dwervin?”
“My love, look!” Lady Dwervin pointed at her lap dog. The animal lay curled on the floor by the pool of the lord's wine, convulsing with foam dripping from his mouth.
Silence rippled through the hall. The sword tip removed itself from Clara and calloused hands (now a little more gentle) brought her to her feet. She looked over her shoulder and saw it was one of his lordship’s personal bodyguards, decked out resplendently in the house’s colors. She swung her attention to the tableau before her.
Lord Dwervin glared at the visitor, who tried to look arrogant and blameless. “Care to explain, wizard?”
A chill ran through Clara as she looked wide-eyed at the man, finally taking in the emerald belt that marked him as a member of the Brethren. The Brethren, recently come to power under the new King, were the arbitrators and dispensers of justice in the land. However, even in the kitchens, Clara heard rumors of wizards attacking people and demanding protection money and extorting them.
What could her master have done to warrant poisoning?
“I have nothing to explain,” replied the man coldly. “It seems that one of your dogs has suddenly taken ill. Perhaps this girl can explain.”
Their attention swung onto her. The guard gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. She raised her hands gestured to her head, and then to the wizard. Dwervin stared at her. Her hands fluttered as she tried to think and sweat beaded her brow.
“I know her,” whispered Lady Dwervin. “She’s the mute that works in the kitchens with Relly.”
It occurred to Clara that, until that moment, she hadn’t known Cook’s real name.
“Well, I’m glad someone knows who she is,” her master snapped. “But what is she doing here?”
Desperately, she pointed at the wizard, at the side of his tunic with the inner pocket and then pointed at the wine and the now dead dog. The guard caught on.
He said, “Your lordship, I think she is trying to tell you that Wizard Brellin has something on his person.”
“Search him.”
Three guards came and grasped Brellin by his arms and shoulders while a fourth reached into the tunic to draw out a small pouch. He opened it, revealing a white powder, which he held out for the lord's inspection.
“I see how His Majesty's favor swings,” said Lord Dwervin. “Kill the wizard and we'll send back the head.” Lady Dw
ervin made a protesting noise but her husband cut her off with a raised hand.
The guards forced Brellin to his knees, while the guard with the powder drew his sword. A great boom resounded, knocking everyone to the floor. When they stood, Brellin was gone.
“Find him!” cried the guard who had held (and now helped up) Clara as a panicked babble filled the hall.
Guards rushed to obey as the dinner guests raised voices in alarm and confusion. Such a great din of boot steps and voices arose, she grabbed onto the guard for dear life. The kitchens suddenly seemed like a silent haven.
The lord came and stood before her, and as she only came to his chest she craned her head up to see his face. “How, child, did you know he was trying to kill me?” Closer, she could see he had light blue eyes and a bit of grey in his short blond hair.
Clara pointed to her head, circling around to her eyes.
“You saw it?”
She nodded.
He studied her a long moment before saying, “Orvin, take her back to the kitchens.”
“If Relly wants to know where she’s been?”
He shrugged. “It’s a madhouse down there; I doubt they’ve noticed her absence. If someone does ask, say that she was caught looking through the service door.”
“Gossip travels faster than a race horse, milord.”
“Well, let it.”
Orvin bowed and pulled Clara away. She finally saw how large the hall was but before she could do more than be amazed, she was back through the service door, going down to the kitchens. The guard said nothing to her at all, only pushed her into the melee before ducking quickly back through the door.
Cook (Relly, Clara thought to herself) saw her and cried, “What are ye doing standing there? I need help with this roast!”
Grateful to be amid familiarity, she scurried over to the roasting pit.
Brellin sighed with disgust as he looked at the slit in his sleeve. He had only just gotten that shirt. Dropping his arm, he carried on down the hall toward his tower room. A page ran up behind him.
Clara Page 3