by M. C. Elam
Devon grabbed him by the back of the neck. “Get your lazy arse off my fence. I said I want to see what she’s about.”
“Step away from him, nice and slow.” Still and calm Evan raised her arms. The stallion pawed the ground, snorted and tossed its head. She fixed her gaze on its frightened eyes and took another step.
The men let go of the ropes and backed away.
“She’s singing. Damn my eyes, I’ve never seen the like.”
“She be witching that horse, Mr. Devon,” said Luther.
“Witching, huh,” Devon laughed and cuffed the man. “She’s no witch, just a girl with a gentle hand for the beasts.”
Evan closed on the horse and stroked his trembling neck. It edged away, still leery. She let it go and waited.
“Plenty of time, sweet one. Plenty of time.”
When next she tried to touch him, the stallion was calm. His ears had perked and curiosity replaced the fear in his warm brown eyes. Evan put one arm around his neck, loosened the ropes and brought them over his head. The horse scented the air and found her human essence close and comforting.
She looked toward the man that stood over the branding fire. “If you must mark him so, bring the iron to me.”
Cautious the man approached. “You got no glove. Iron’ll burn you sure.”
“Give it to me.”
“Fool woman. A-right then. It be your hand, not mine.” He handed her the iron and retreated.
“You see that,” said Luther. “Iron should a singed the skin clear to the meat. She don’t even flinch.”
Evan stroked the stallion’s flank with her free hand and found the best place for the brand. She closed her eyes and laid her palm flat against the spot. When her skin began to tingle, she lifted the hand and applied the iron. The smell of burning hair permeated the air. The stallion took a single step, bumped against her, and stopped. When she cast the iron away, a B with two wavy lines beneath it marked the hide.
“All over now, sweet boy.” She rested her head against his side, heard the sound of his heart pounding in her ears and then a rushing hum like bees swarming around a hive. Images blurred until she imagined she was inside a tunnel speeding faster and faster toward a light at the end, but instead of growing larger, the light shrank to a mere pinhole, a flickering candle in the darkness, a single star in a black sky.
***
The room was clean and private. Fresh linens and a sheep’s wool blanket lay folded on the narrow bed, and a fresh coat of whitewash covered the naked walls. An upturned barrel topped with a flat board made a table that sat under a small window across from the bed, and a short keg acted as a chair. The glass lamp in the center of the table had a fluted chimney. The oil smelt like anise. It surprised Evan. Scented oil was a luxury. A tiny fireplace graced the outer wall next to the window. The grate sat empty, but kindling and a few split logs rested in an old basket that had seen many seasons. She crossed the room and opened the shutters. Brenan's Fist lay just beyond two rows of stockade style posts that were set four feet apart, and strung with interlaced wire fencing that created a central walkway. While she watched, two guards approached from opposite directions, stopped, turned and walked off the way they had come. Beyond the fence, wagons laden with goods rumbled past, and women with laundry baskets balanced atop their heads dodged groups of rowdy children playing stickball with clumps of dirt that burst to pieces when one of them struck too hard. Men on horseback headed into the city, and in the distance, a single line of Owlmen guarded the Brendemore gate. She strained for a better look. They did appear formidable, mounted on huge black horses and clad in black armor. Melendarius had described them as elite warriors, and when she asked him where the name originated, he had smiled.
“Evolution, dear girl. In times past their black armor turned to rusty ruin. As cruel and despicable as Peter Brenan may be, one must admit he has a proclivity for observation.”
She had given him a blank stare.
“Behold, the bird, Lady Evan. Does the raindrop penetrate its feather mantle? Peter ordered the design of feathered cloaks and had the feathers died to match the black armor.”
“So many magnificent owls destroyed?”
Melendarius had laughed at her assumption. “Chicken feathers, dear girl, gathered from the ground, plucked from the tails of every horrified rooster in Lawrenzia. Many a farmer slit apart his mattress ticking and emptied the feathers into a sack.”
“Not owls?”
“Nay, not owls.”
“Then how came they by that name?”
He had shrugged. “Perhaps because they are night birds and Brenan is a dark man. At any rate, the cloaks disappeared in favor of mantles when his smiths developed rust resistant armor. They are only men, lass. Always remember; they are but men. Evil, perhaps but men just the same, and feathers are after all merely feathers, pillow stuffing.”
She watched them now parading before the gates and leaned her head against the sill. The ominous shadow of Baline’s destruction blazed in her chest. A whirling gust swept road dust through the window. Evan tasted grit and pushed the shutters closed. Fatigue took her and she sought the narrow bed and the comfort of the woolen blanket. Chicken feathers, she thought.
“Ascalla will pluck your feathers one day, Peter Brenan,” she whispered just before sleep came.
***
A shelf hung on the opposite wall beside the door in the small chamber. A china bowl and ewer sat beside a framed mirror. Evan toweled her hair damp dry and let the tangled mass of dark curls tumble down her back. She picked up a wide toothed comb from beside the ewer and began sorting through the snarls, first with her fingers, then following with the comb until all the tangles disappeared. Gods but it felt so good to be clean and wearing clean clothes. The skirt was homespun, nothing fancy, and the soft chemise smelled sweet and fresh. Someone had a good eye for size. Both fit her well.
Her dirty chemise lay where she had dropped it beside a large wooden washtub. She picked it up and slit the stitches in the neck seam with her thumb. The black pearl rolled into her palm, and she looked around for a new hiding place. What if they moved her from the room? She knew she couldn’t risk leaving it here. She slipped the chain over her head, and the pearl tumbled between her breasts.
A knock rattled the door, and she jumped at the sound. The knock came again, a little louder but still tentative.
“I come to fetch the bathing tub, miss.”
The voice was soft, feminine.
“I can come back later if you want.”
“No, no. You may take it now. I’m all finished.”
The handle rattled.
“Miss, you got to lift the latch. Door be locked.”
She had closed it earlier behind the two men who brought the tub, but assumed the telltale click that followed meant one of them locked her inside. She moved to the door, lifted the black iron latch and pushed, another click. She turned the handle and the door opened.
A pretty girl about her age waited in the corridor. Her blonde hair, confined to a single long braid, hung nearly to the waist and a bright scarlet ribbon tied around the end kept it from coming loose. Behind the girl, the same two men who had delivered the tub, waited. Evan recognized them from the corral.
“Door locks when you close it, miss.”
Evan stepped aside to let her enter. The men dragged the tub into the corridor and slopped a little water over the side. One of them produced a mop, and the spill disappeared.
“What if no one is in the room, how can you get inside?” Still confused by the lock, Evan examined the latch.
“A key, miss.” She pointed to a short, round key hanging beside the door. “Mr. Devon keeps the keys down to the stable master’s quarters ‘till someone uses a room.”
“What if I forget the key and close the door.”
The girl laughed. “Why, he turns red in the face and hollers ‘cause he’s got to bust off the lock. Makes a frightful show about it. Evening meal’s about ready. I
’ll plait your hair if you like.” She moved the keg chair in front of the mirror and patted the seat.
Evan sat down and watched the girl take up the comb and begin to dress her hair. She separated the heavy mass into three sections and began to braid. She was just coiling the finished braid when Evan felt something feather soft touch her neck and rest against her shoulder. The sensation reminded her of a gentle caress, warm and sweet. She half expected to see the girl’s hand resting on her shoulder but saw nothing in the mirror, nothing but her own skin. She raised her hand and touched the place.
Finished, the girl stepped away, and Evan thought she saw a shadowy figure reflected in the looking glass. Her breath caught, and she dropped her gaze. When she looked back the shadow had disappeared along with the caress.
“Don’t look right coiled,” said the girl. She stepped behind Evan and removed the pins. “That’s better. Too pretty to tame in a coil. Best get us to the hall. I’ll show you the way.” She took the key from the peg, handed it to Evan, and stepped into the corridor. Evan followed. “My name be Winnie. Owlmen took me out a Glynmora.”
Evan knew she was fishing for a name. “I’m Ceri. A man called Luther kidnapped me from Baline in Ascalla.”
The girl stopped again and faced her. “He’s no man. Lowlife’s what he be. Mr. Devon bought that horse, too. I expect you wouldn’t remember seeing as how you crumpled-up right to the ground.”
“He bought me?”
“Aye, miss.”
Evan’s body went stiff. “I thought….”
“Thought you be free I expect. Having the key and all. None of us be free. Mr. Devon, he…. Hey, where you going now?”
Evan turned back toward the little room, but the girl caught her arm.
“Now miss, don’t take on so. Mr. Devon, he be one of us. Runs the stable but he be property all the same. Sides, got to eat, don’t you? Been out of it two days. Calling out and thrashing in that bed. Me and Cookie got a little broth into you was all.”
***
Vegetable stew, thick slices of dark bread and plenty of soft butter made Evan’s mouth water, but her stomach refused more than a few bites before she pushed the bowl of stew aside.
“Not to your taste?”
She gave Mr. Devon an apologetic look. “I do like it, but my stomach’s not used to so much.”
Devon observed her thin arms and the way the skin stretched tight across her jaw. The size of her belly didn’t conceal the shadowy circles beneath her eyes or the pale, almost translucent look of her skin. I could circle her waist with one hand, he thought. Luther, that bastard, trust him to starve the horse and the woman down to nothing.
“Small meals at first, then,” he offered.
“Yes, thank you, small meals.”
Short answers and she hadn’t looked at him once since she sat down. He didn’t think fear kept her eyes averted, not the way she squared her shoulders in an almost obstinate posture that dared anyone to come close. No, he sensed her eyes held the image of her soul, something she wouldn’t share easily. Her hands fluttered in her lap, fingers laced together, nails broken but scrubbed clean, blue veins interlaced like rivers on a map under her pale skin. Those hands reminded him of hatchlings, vulnerable, yet determined to fly.
After a first glance, when Winnie showed her a place next to Mr. Devon, no one paid much attention to a new face at the long table. The stable hands sat at the lower end. They ate and carried on a good-natured insulting sort of banter amid loud laughter that confused her. Slaves that laughed, she found nothing funny. The men who tried to brand the stallion and took the washtub away were here, too. All of them seemed to respect Devon. Perhaps that spoke well of him. She didn’t know.
“What shall I call you?”
Evan jumped.
“Sir?”
“What name do you go by?”
“My name is Ceri.”
A half-truth, she’d looked at him long enough for him to catch the subterfuge.
“Well, Ceri, if you are finished, I’d have private words with you. Will you follow me?” He rose and offered his arm.
“Given a choice, I’d return to the little room.”
“We can talk there if you wish.”
Evan’s heart lurched. She didn’t want to be in so small a space with him. “I meant alone.”
“I know what you meant.” He offered his arm again, but she shook her head and stood. “Follow me then. My quarters are through that door.”
She hadn’t expected anything so cheery as the large room beyond the door. A fire crackled on the hearth, and huge bentwood chairs draped with hides stood on either side. A long wall, covered over with plaster applied and reapplied until the surface was smooth and even, drew her attention. A painter’s pallet spattered with varying hues rested on a low stool. A dozen or more closed pots of paint sat on another of those barrel tables. A row of various sized brushes, some newly wrapped and trimmed, others worn and uneven rested beside the paint pots,. The most striking part of the room was the wall. Either end appeared gray and barren except for some charcoal scratching across the surface, wavy lines that looked like the high end of land meeting the horizon. In the center, color exploded in a rugged bluff that towered above a gentle plain of golden grass. Nestled beyond the grassland, smoke trailed into the sky above a small village. Atop the bluff, a rider paused, his gaze intent on the vista that stretched before him. Bare-chested except for a pale deerskin vest, the light from a sunset burned the sky behind him. The affect turned his features dark, unrecognizable. His hair, caught at the nape and bound with a leather thong, ended in beadwork. The same blue beads decorated each side of the vest.
“How do you know him?” The sound of her own voice startled her.
“I don’t.”
She turned to face Mr. Devon. “That bluff overlooks Baline in Ascalla.” He didn’t seem so formidable now. “You made the painting?”
“Aye.”
“Then I know you. At least I know of you from your mother and father. You are Devon Runderly.”
“I am.”
Evan walked closer to the painting. “Your parents mourn you and your brother.” Long slender strokes and a thousand variations in hue made each blade of grass stand apart and gave life to the painting. She stretched to touch the calf of the rider. The plaster felt cold and smooth, not the way she knew his skin felt.
“And you say you don’t know him.”
“No, he’s an image I see in my head.” He came to stand beside her. “I have a feeling you do know him.”
“Probably just coincidence.” She moved away. May I sit? I feel so tired.”
He motioned her to one of the fur-clad chairs and sat across from her. “You said the figure in my painting was a coincidence.”
“Aye, a coincidence that he seems familiar to me. He looks like James Hawkins.”
“King Ian’s son?”
“Aye, his son. The man in the painting looks like him.”
Devon poured a mug of sweet wine and handed it to her. “How do you know my parents?” Afraid she might be reluctant to reveal information, he kept his voice low and calm. She turned a questioning eye his way. “I don’t know if talking to you is safe. Your parents are dear to me.”
“As they are to me and word of them would be welcome to my ears. The Owlmen captured Billy and me fourteen years ago during a raid. They brought us over the mountains. Billy was four years old. I was twelve.”
“My mother died in that raid.”
“Many died.”
“And now you run the stable.” She stood up and stepped toward the door. “And buy people.” Her demeanor changed and a cold look came into her eyes.
“Yes, sometimes I buy people, if I have enough coin.” He sighed and turned back to the fire. “But it isn’t what you think.”
“What do I think?”
“That I am like the rest of them, like Luther, even.”
“More polished but yes, like him.”
His face red
dened, and he pressed his lips together in a thin line. “I am nothing like him. Believe what you will. I saved you from the auction block.” A tinge of anger edged his voice. “When you fell unconscious in the corral, Luther thought you were dead. I feigned the same ignorance and paid him what he asked, two silver crowns. Likely as not he’s spent the whole of it on drink.”
Evan clenched her fingers, wary now that she’d touched his anger. He wasn’t anything like Luther. She hadn’t meant to compare them. But he wasn’t like Horace and Annabelle either. He spoke with a cultured lilt and not the same brogue of the country folk. That thick cap of copper red hair was like Horace’s, and she couldn’t deny his freckled skin or the curve of his nose. In another twenty-five years, she’d be looking at the image of Horace Runderly without that rolling eye. “What happened to Billy?”
“In the pens. Billy keeps me here. Peter Brenan is an expert manipulator. When he found I had knowledge of horses, he put me in charge of the stable. No wages, but the patrons sometimes toss a bit of coin my way.”
“And you buy slaves with it.” A scowl marked her expression, and she shook her head.
“Drop that haughty tone. You know nothing of my circumstance.”
“You could buy Billy and escape.”
Harsh laughter echoed against the plastered wall. “Buy Billy? Don’t you think I tried? Billy is off limits. Any other slave in the pens is mine for a price, any except Billy Runderly.” His voiced cracked, and Billy’s name came in a choked whisper. He poured a mug of sweet wine and turned to face the fire.
A silent mantle closed around them. Evan knew she had misjudged him, but what did he expect. She had survived the mountain, survived near starvation, survived Luther. Her belly was full of baby. She wondered if she still had the shine, the glow of a woman blessed by the Mother. What the trail didn’t take from her, the babe had. Her hair lacked sheen. Her skin, gray and tight, and stretched over bone looked as though it might crack and split. Devon Runderly spoke truth. He had saved her. Hard labor for a few coppers was the future she’d have found atop the auction block.
Devon stared into the flames, his face a mask of discontent. When the girl touched his arm he jumped at the unexpected tenderness.