He used my real name. Euryale looked askance at the Alyan but remained silent as her gaze travelled from face to face. The settlers looked at each other, and Euryale thought there was an unasked question in their glances. She studied their faces.
From the middle of the clustered group, a woman stepped forward, bangles on her wrists and ankles jingling as she moved. “We have no leader,” she said. “I am Wren.”
Euryale thought the group’s members, even those of the same race, looked as if they came from a variety of places. Most of the group appeared human, like the Surfacers of Unukalhai, so their lack of leadership didn’t surprise her. Surfacers were weak and prone to sharing governance, a trait she found particularly distasteful.
“Do you have weaponssss?” Glendoque asked.
A tall, pale, and thin fellow with pointed ears stepped forward and stood next to Wren. Had he not been so pale, Euryale would have thought him a stretched out distant cousin.
“Why do you ask?” the male responded. He tilted his head, and Euryale felt the wall of distrust in his aura.
Members of the group began to shift in place.
“The ssssoldierssss will return. Apart from a hidden entry in the woodssss, the tunnel issss the only way into thesssse cavessss,” he said, pointing toward the tunnel leading out. “If we sssseal it, they are not likely to find ussss, but if they do, we musssst be prepared to fight.”
The tall male spoke up again. “I’m Jarrod. Show me the hidden entrance, and then we’ll discuss whether or not to seal the tunnel.”
Glendoque nodded and started the trek toward the entrance in the woods. “Thissss way.”
Jarrod followed him.
Wren’s voice rose above the whispers of the settlers. “Females and children. Look around you. Gather rocks you can throw.”
Euryale slipped into the shadows, where she felt more comfortable, and watched as the men took positions near the spot where the tunnel spilled into the grotto. Women and children snatched up fist-sized stones and dropped them into piles.
She’d told Glendoque not to become involved in the matter, but he had ignored her warnings. Now, the once quiet cave brimmed with noisy strangers, and not just any strangers. Surfacers, no less! More importantly, the Surfacers posed an unexpected disruption of the plan Euryale had begun to formulate before Glendoque had so rudely interrupted her bath. She’d gotten as far as one conclusion: Ilythiiria never did anything without a specific purpose in mind, and that purpose always involved a long-term goal. Ilythiiria had chosen the location for a specific reason. Though she didn’t know why, she couldn’t see how being stuck in an isolated cave would have constituted any less of a punishment than dying in the Abyss. Ilythiiria would have known Euryale would feel that way. Surely, the mentor had intended for her to go somewhere else. And so Euryale had planned on travelling only with Glendoque and at night, when sunlight didn’t almost blind her. Along with her magic, darkness and a fierce Alyan warrior would have safeguarded her until she got to wherever Ilythiiria had meant for her to go. She knew she could still follow that plan, even if their encounter with the Surfacers might delay its execution. Still, it was an unwelcome interruption.
But, as she continued to observe the Surfacers from a distance, Euryale began to formulate a different scheme. Perhaps these invaders of her contemplative bathing, this ragged crew of weaklings, could be useful. Their flaw might come in handy. She needed protection, and numbers provided just that, especially if she controlled those numbers. She had occupied the cave first, and that made it her realm unless and until she decided otherwise. Sharing her realm might put her in good stead as someone they could trust enough to follow. They owed Glendoque their lives, and Glendoque served her. That meant the Surfacers owed her their lives. She would collect on that debt and use them to claim what the robed ones had denied her.
If I can just get past the revolting flavor of their weakness without killing them.
CHAPTER FOUR
Orphans
Morning light streamed through the stained glass window on the eastern wall of Gráinne’s chambers, shooting shards of red and blue radiance past the bed and across the room to the opposite wall. Her eyelids fluttered open slowly, and then her eyes widened as the figure of her husband sitting on the chaise near the bed came into focus.
“Good morning, my dear.”
Gráinne remained stonily silent, but her heart beat so fast it made her ears thump with its rhythm.
“Get up and put on something . . . clean. I want you to join me in the dining hall for breakfast.”
Gráinne didn’t move. She had no will power to fight. What can he do to me now? “I have no appetite.”
Slyxx sighed and stood, sending Gráinne’s heart into a drum roll.
“I’ll expect you straight away.”
Although Gráinne hated the malice his voice projected when issuing a command, she especially loathed the way he slurred words together. The combination set her teeth to grinding. While admitting she owed her sensitivity to her grandmother Alanna’s meticulous attention to diction and her mother’s soothing way of issuing commands in velvet tones that solicited cooperation and solidarity, Gráinne also knew she judged Slyxx in a way she wouldn’t judge others with the same mannerisms. At the moment, she was quite content with harshly declaring him as sloppy in speaking and inelegant in the way he ruled. Those were the kindest things she could say about him.
The Marquis turned to exit the room, passing around Gráinne’s bed to the staircase. Before he disappeared from sight, his footsteps slowed and stopped. She didn’t have to look his direction to know he was peering at her over the edge of a stair tread. His cruelty burned into her back.
“If you can’t manage on your own, I can help you dress, my love.” He continued down the stairs.
Unspoken threats. Gráinne slammed her eyelids shut and listened for the hinge on the stairwell door to stop creaking.
“Someday, you will meet someone you cannot bully,” she said in a deep growl. Although she’d witnessed it first hand, Slyxx’s viciousness still felt more foreign and dangerous to her than did his new Kathan servant. Until she could think through all that had happened and regain some strength and speed, she could, at the very least, not make matters worse by provoking him.
Slowly, she climbed off the bed, her legs wobbly. Gráinne bent over a well-oiled wooden trunk bearing the MacKenna coat of arms. A white lion dormant on a black background, it was the standard her father’s family would have worn on shields and displayed on flags carried into battle . . . if they’d ever gone into a battle, that is. Though brave and powerful, MacKenna men tended to serve as diplomats and sometimes mages, but never warriors. Her father had been an exception in his role as Commander of the Queen’s Guard, though he, like his forebears, hadn’t seen a single moment of combat beyond training. The occasion had never arisen for the Queen’s Guard to draw swords. The garrison of the League of Guardians was little more than an armory and a meeting place for the men of Incorrigible, young and old, who wanted to escape the sharp tongues of their mothers and wives. She supposed it was where her father had gone to feel important while his wife, the reigning monarch, conducted business in the castle of a land at peace within and isolated from other realms by the sea.
Rummaging through the trunk, Gráinne pulled out several simple dresses. With no heart or strength for fussing with frills and layers, she promptly stuffed the dresses back inside without bothering to fold them. She closed the trunk, running her fingers tenderly over the coat of arms before moving on to a smaller, black leather chest without ornamentation of any kind save its iron hinges and the locking mechanism on the front of it.
No longer stretched tightly over its wooden frame, the chest’s leather sagged at its nicked and peeling corners. A twelfth-year birthday gift from her grandmother, it had become Gráinne’s repository for mementos, jewelry, and clothing with special meaning. Over the years, she had purged and refilled the chest repeatedly. Now, it held on
ly a few items family members had given her and two outfits, both of which Slyxx detested her wearing: a riding outfit and her azure Novice robe.
Gráinne threw open the chest and reached inside, fingering the thick, coarse hemp belt and the heavy fabric of the robe. Deciding she prized it too much to put it at risk of Slyxx’s wrath, she dug deeper into the chest and pulled out a pair of black leather pants, a black leather tunic, and a pair of riding boots. She slipped out of the sweat-and-blood-stained dress and draped it across the corner of the chest so it wouldn’t stain her robe. Gingerly, she pulled on the leather outfit, which had sleeves long enough to hide the bandages Lan had applied. The snugness of the shirt’s fit squeezed her wounds and made them throb. She slipped her feet into the boots and tucked the pants into the tops of them before going to the dressing table and sitting down in front of the looking glass.
The tear-streaked face and knotted entanglement of dark ginger curls staring back at Gráinne disgusted her. She poured water from a jug on the table into a bowl and used the cloth in the bowl to wash her face. Without regard for the tenderness of her scalp, she then pulled a wide comb through her hair and gathered the curls into a braid, letting the full length of the thick plait hang down her back. Rogue strands of curls had already begun to creep out of the weave at the base of her hairline and around her face by the time she stood up and walked down the staircase, a smile playing at the corners of her lips and a dim glimmer of defiance dancing in her eyes.
As Gráinne rounded the corner to the dining hall, the door flew open, and Slyxx’s massive figure filled the doorway. His expression, plastered with rage, turned to surprise when he saw his wife, and then he set his jaw almost square. Before he could speak, Gráinne stepped past him to the table, purposefully clicking the heels of her boots on the grey stone floor.
The former grand dining hall now looked like an informal tavern. In place of the formal table was a small, round table low to the floor. Ornately carved along the edges, it had a simple pattern of teal painted on the inside of the swirls carved into its top. Instead of chairs, it had stacks of tapestry pillows on overlapping rugs of all hues and patterns. The stark dining room had exploded into a den of colours and textures since she’d seen it last.
Gráinne walked to the closest pile of cushions and sat down without saying a word, her back to the Marquis, who hadn’t moved from the doorway. Under other circumstances, she would have enjoyed the new furnishings for the warmth they injected into a drab, stiff setting. But, her foul mood coloured everything as “difficult.” The cushions had required her to bend and lower her aching body. She dreaded getting up. The three place settings of pewter plates and mugs and knives hinted that the third setting was for her husband’s new servant. She would have to sit through hearing Slyxx issue more of his loathsome commands.
Lan’s entry into the dining room from the kitchen almost immediately after Gráinne sat down confirmed the extra place setting as his.
Gráinne eyed the knives.
Both Lan and Gráinne flinched when the dining hall door slammed.
“Master. Marquessa,” Lan said, acknowledging each with a slight bow as he stood behind a stack of cushions.
Gráinne looked at him but offered no response.
Lan remained standing until Slyxx took a seat.
Before anyone could speak, the kitchen door opened, and Caera the cook entered carrying platters laden with fruits and meats, which she set in the middle of the table. Draped over one arm she carried linen cloths, which she handed each diner. The small, thin woman scurried back to the kitchen, her blonde curls bouncing and her green skirt swishing behind her.
“I hear you’ve met,” Slyxx said as he reached for an apple.
Angered that Slyxx thought they were going to have a normal conversation, Gráinne shot him a squinted glare and laid her cloth over her knife before reaching to pluck a small cluster of grapes from the platter. She put them on her plate and began to remove them from their stems one at a time, plucking each gently and laying it aside before moving to the next.
“We have, Master.”
“Wife!”
Gráinne glanced up.
Slyxx took his knife in hand and began to peel the apple as he spoke, moving his gaze from her to the apple and back again repeatedly, as if making certain he held her attention. “A merchant ship is on its way. I must soon journey to buy goods.”
Gráinne had abandoned study of the grapes on her plate, but she still did not speak. She popped a grape into her mouth and reached for her knife, which she used to stab a piece of meat. She nibbled it, afraid eating too quickly might case the nausea to return. Grainne finished chewing the slice of meat and swallowed its mush. While one hand played with the grapes on her plate, the other slid the knife back under the cloth. Not soon enough.
Lan covered his mouth and coughed. “Pardon me.”
Gráinne searched Lan’s face for signs his cough was genuine. She couldn’t help but wonder just how much of her thoughts he could hear and how he did it.
Lan answered her question with a smug smile.
“Our storehouses need replenishing before winter.” Slyxx bit into a slice of apple.
Gráinne couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. “If your murderers had not pillaged and burned the storehouses in Incorrigible, you could have gone there to barter for goods!”
Slyxx finished chewing the apple slice and then shrugged indifferently. “True. But then, I would’ve missed the chance to spend this uninterrupted time with you before we set sail. We’ll be at sea about two moons’ time, confined together in a small space.” He gave her a lewd wink and chuckled. “Hopefully, you’ll have news upon our return that you are with child.”
“We? Our return?” She would bite off her tongue before giving him the satisfaction of even saying the word “child.” She had no intention of becoming a mother, particularly not the mother of a ruthless murderer’s child. Goddess only knows how such a child would turn out if it were true to its father’s blood.
Lan covered his mouth and coughed again.
“Of course, my dear.” Slyxx picked up where he’d left off. “You will accompany me on the journey. What kind of husband would I be if I left my beloved all alone for such a long time? And besides, we really must get my son, the future King, into this world, and I think his conception will be easier if we’re in the same bed each night.”
Caera returned with a jug of wine and another platter, this one piled with breads. Gráinne grabbed the jug from the cook, tipping it over to fill Lan’s mug.
Gráinne laid her hand on the cloth covering the knife, and Lan coughed again.
“Hairball?” she snapped. “For mercy’s sake, take a drink.”
The Marquis burst into laughter, and Lan’s ears lay back almost flat against his hair. The Kathan tipped the cup to his lips and shot Gráinne the same squinted glare she had sent Slyxx’s way earlier. Gráinne defiantly popped the last of the grapes into her mouth.
Slyxx laughed. Gráinne captured a small piece of bread and tore into it, hoping it would absorb the acid churning in her stomach. Lan tipped his cup and drank more wine.
For the remainder of the meal, Gráinne nibbled to regain her strength and sat in silence as her husband rambled on about the finery he hoped to purchase, the swords he wanted to have made, and the goods required to sustain the household through the winter. Lan picked at his food and inserted commentary about storage methods to preserve the goods for longer periods, and thus, reduce the expense of winter stores, leaving more gold and silver to buy the items Slyxx coveted. When she could stand no more of their talk, Gráinne announced, “If you will excuse me, I need fresh air. I am going for a ride.” Her hand rested on the cloth covering her knife.
“Where are you riding?” Slyxx asked.
Caera entered the dining hall and began to clear away the empty dishes and scraps, scooping up Gráinne’s knife and the cloth covering it.
Gráinne shrugged. “The Cove of Tears,
the Woods of the Dead. There are so many delightful choices. I have not decided. I will know when I get there.”
Slyxx turned his gaze to Lan but spoke to Gráinne. “Lan will accompany you. Dressed as you are, a highwayman at a distance might mistake you for a man and aim his arrow in your direction.”
Gráinne smiled sweetly at her husband when his gazed returned to her. He hated when she wore men’s riding gear. The pain she felt from the snugly fitting sleeves of the tunic had been worth it. “Have you spotted ships landing?” she asked, feigning concern.
“No.”
“Then, I am sure I will be fine. There is not a soul who does not work for you who is alive and within an arrow’s range.”
She turned to leave, but Slyxx caught her wrist. Gráinne winced.
“I’d feel better knowing you are safe.”
Slyxx’s wife glared at the hand holding her wrist. So this is how it will be, is it? Your little creature is to be the jailer’s guard and spy?
Her thoughts and feelings building to a gush, Gráinne was teetering on an unrelenting verbal attack when Lan cleared his throat. Both Gráinne and Slyxx looked in his direction.
“If I may, Master . . . I can follow along behind the Marquessa at a distance close enough to be able to see and hear any lurking dangers before she encounters them and still respect her privacy.” He twitched his ears.
Normally, Gráinne might have found the motion humorous. At the moment, she found it exasperating.
“Perfect! Then, it’s settled.” Slyxx dropped Gráinne’s wrist and plunged his hand into the platter of meat, pulling out a charred drumstick of turkey that he gnawed on viciously. While chewing, he slobbered out, “Clever boy. Multiple talents. A wise bargain.”
Gráinne walked out of the dining hall, her frustration masking her pain.
Lan stood and bowed courteously to Slyxx. “Master.” He followed at the promised distance until Gráinne reached the stables. There, he closed in and entered behind her, snagging a heavy, studded saddle meant for a warhorse.
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