The Dragon Writers Collection

by DragonWritersCollective

  Caera approached and gave a curtsy that sent her green skirt dipping onto the floor before she sat down. She shifted nervously on the bench and looked at the pattern of stones in the floor.

  “I am fine, Caera.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Gráinne sighed softly and concluded delicacy or delay had no place in the conversation. “What do women use to . . . .?” Words failed her, but she struggled to continue. This was too important to let embarrassment interfere with learning what she needed to know. “To . . . rid . . . themselves of the . . . unborn.” Gráinne wanted to say “of the unwanted child of an unwanted brute” but held back the expression to save Caera, as much as herself, from further discomfort.

  Caera looked up at Gráinne and back down again, speaking in a hushed tone, “A strong infusion of yarrow, feverfew, and blood root, but the yarrow should be added in small quantities, or it induces vomiting, and the infusion will not work.” Speaking in a normal tone, she added, “And do you wish to take your breakfast here or in the dining hall . . . with the Marquis and Master Lan?

  Gráinne blinked. “Master Lan?”

  Caera looked up in surprise. “Yes ma’am. Master Lan, the cat…well…whatever he is. The one at breakfast yesterday. Do you not remember him?”

  “Of course I remember him. I meant why do you call him ‘Master’?”

  Caera seemed relieved. “The Marquis instructed me to do so.”

  “I see.” said Gráinne, snagging the comb on a tangle in her hair and wincing.

  Caera stood immediately. “Please let me do that, ma’am.”

  Gráinne smiled and shook her head, accidentally tugging on the tangle and wincing again. Somehow, that amused her, and a tinkle of laughter escaped. “You should get back to the Marquis and Master Lan,” she said, making a comical face as she uttered the Kathan’s newly bestowed title. “One of them will think he is starving to death because you have not plopped half a cow in front of him.” She laughed again, this time more solidly. Gráinne smiled as she looked at Caera. The cook was obviously suppressing a wide grin.

  “Yes, Marquessa.”

  The title had always seemed an ill fit to Gráinne. It had been given to her through a marriage she didn’t want and by a man she would never consider a husband. Clearly, Slyxx had employed Lan to spy, and that alone infuriated her. Master, indeed. Caera worked hard, and she deserved fair and respectful treatment. Maybe there was something she could do about that.

  Caera took a few steps toward the door before Gráinne called out to her.

  “Oh, and Caera, call me Gráinne.”

  “Oh, no ma’am. I could not.”

  “Oh, yes ma’am, you can . . . and will.”

  “But . . . ,” Caera protested as she turned around, an expression of fear on her face.

  Gráinne interrupted, “No but. My name is Gráinne, and that is what I wish you to call me.” After speaking the words, Gráinne reconsidered Caera’s expression of fear and her own demands. She added, “In private then. Fair enough?”

  Caera again looked relieved. “As you wish, ma’am.”

  Gráinne lifted an eyebrow in obvious mock disapproval.

  “Guh . . . Gráinne,” she stuttered with blended apprehension and embarrassment.

  “Thank you, Caera.” She smiled. For the first time, Gráinne thought the cook looked shy, but she had no opportunity to evaluate her perception because Caera gave a quick curtsy and scurried out of the room.

  Yarrow, feverfew, and blood root. Gráinne mumbled to herself as she tilted her head and looked at the bite marks on her neck. “Now where is that rot?”

  Slyxx’s vicious attacks continued, except without need for restraining Gráinne. Rather than fighting his advances, she tolerated them with indifference, so much so that on several occasions, he slapped her after he’d taken his pleasure.

  During each vile episode, Gráinne stared at the window if she could and thought about the words she’d heard coming from it. Sometimes, images popped into her mind of women in solid-coloured robes of every shade in the rainbow and more: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, white, black, gold, and silver. When Gráinne thought about the figure cloaked in green, she saw images of the woman stooping to pluck tender shoots of plants from a meadow. She also saw the woman standing next to another female, one with raven hair dressed in black robes and unrolling a scroll. Gráinne could see the scroll contained a drawing—an outline she couldn’t quite make out.

  Each day after she’d bathed and dressed and had a hearty breakfast, Gráinne strolled casually down the path from the castle to the dales and gently rolling hills of Vandovir, gathering basket in hand. Lan always followed at a distance, but they didn’t speak or even acknowledge each other. He sulked. Gráinne noticed he looked tired and less well-kempt than on the morning they’d met, but she forewent taunting him about it. Instead, she lazily picked wildflowers and berries and searched for the ingredients for the tea Caera had told her would make Slyxx believe she was barren and not worth his time and cruelty. Within days, Gráinne found the blood root and feverfew. She searched for telltale white clusters in meadows of grass, both tall and low, but the yarrow eluded her. Each afternoon, she returned to the castle, the last challenge of her quest as fruitless as she prayed she would remain.

  A week into Slyxx’s attacks, Gráinne felt less certain her plan would work. She still hadn’t located the third ingredient, and it was becoming more difficult each day for her to draw into herself when Slyxx violated her. It seemed to her that her reactions to his torment and his viciousness grew proportionately. The slightest wince or moan or shrinking away from his touch incited new acts of cruelty, more frequent visits to her chamber, and greater satisfaction.

  After breakfast on morning, when Slyxx had eaten his fill and stomped off to his study, Gráinne went into the kitchen in search of Caera. She grasped the cook’s hand and pulled her out the exterior kitchen door, the one through which Caera brought in wood, food, and water. She whispered, “Yarrow. Where does it grow?”

  Caera looked confused and shrugged. “What do you mean, Mar . . . Gráinne?” she asked.

  Gráinne looked around nervously, expecting Lan to round the corner of the castle and see the two women standing there. “Please, Caera, just tell me where I can find yarrow.”

  “Incorrigible.”

  Gráinne’s heart sank. “Where in Incorrigible?”

  “In the alfalfa fields.”

  “On the southeastern corner, not far from the Tower?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Distracted by concentrating on remembering what she’d seen when she’d looked across the channel, Gráinne didn’t notice Caera’s slip-up with her name. She shook her head. “I cannot remember.”

  “Cannot remember what, ma’am?”

  “If the fields were burned.”

  “You should be able to see them from the western courtyard.”

  “Yes!” Hope glimmered in her eyes as she pivoted on one foot and ran toward the northwestern corner of the castle. She rounded it tightly and cut across the courtyard toward its southwestern corner. Stopping short of the railing she’d clung to while watching her homeland destroyed, she peered toward the corner where the Tower of the Arcana stood, its windows gone and soot soiling its stone window frames. Tracing the lines of the Tower down to its foundation, Gráinne’s heart sank again. The woods in the foreground were nothing but black stubble. The area where farmers and healers grew and harvested low-lying alfalfa had become a perfect square of soot. Gráinne kicked the railing, wailing as the pain of toe against stone registered.

  The sound of tromping heels on the stone sent Gráinne spinning around. Expecting to see Caera, she had lowered her gaze. It met the waistband of black leather pants instead of Caera’s sweet face. Gráinne turned away.

  “Enjoying the view, my love?”

  Her toe throbbed, and she remembered an incident in her childhood when her younger cousin had accidentally dropped an ornam
ental shield on Gráinne’s foot. She had acted so grown up as she told Gráinne, “Grandmother says it is especially important to hold your tongue when you are in pain, Ginny.” Aine then had stuck out her tongue and pinched it between finger and thumb. “Li thith,” her cousin had said. Her cousin’s distraction had worked. She’d forgotten all about the pain in her toe as the two giggled over Aine’s silliness. For a moment, she was lost in the memory of the closeness she and Aine had always felt for each other, a closeness they’d vowed to keep. They’d sealed the vow by giving each other the secret names of Annie and Ginny. Gráinne wondered if Annie was alive. She knew what her cousin would say. Hold your tongue, Ginny. Gráinne remained silent.

  Slyxx slipped his arms around Gráinne from behind, drawing her lithe figure closer to him. Gráinne stiffened.

  “Is something troubling you?”

  “I do not feel well,” Gráinne said, her tone flat and lifeless.

  “How so?” he asked, sniffing her hair as he rubbed his chin in the curls atop her head in a way an onlooker might have viewed as lovingly.

  “I need to throw up.”

  For the rapidity with which Slyxx released her and stepped back, Gráinne might as well have said she had leprosy. She took advantage of the freedom and wheeled around, running into the castle and up to her private chamber.

  Breakfast for the next ten days ended with Gráinne throwing up whatever she’d eaten. She stayed in her room day and night. Slyxx stopped coming into her chamber after two consecutive days of the vomiting.

  A few days before the trade ship’s scheduled arrival, Gráinne appeared at the breakfast table on the edge of fainting. Her skin had sallowed, and she felt drained of energy.

  Lan commented, “You do not look well, Marquessa. Is there something I can do?”

  “Aye,” she replied weakly. “Bring back a midwife when you return from your journey.”

  “The Gods be praised!” Slyxx chirped, slamming his hands down on the table. “They’ve given me a son.”

  Not yet.

  Lan leaned forward to look more closely at Gráinne’s face, his eyes wide and his ears tilted toward her as if they’d grown stiff. “Midwife? Are you saying you are with child?”

  Gráinne looked back at Lan, humility shrouding her disgust. She chose her words carefully, her thoughts even more so. “I do not think I can travel by sea. It would be too risky. I need to remain . . . .”

  “What? Nonsense!” Slyxx interrupted.

  Gráinne suppressed the urge to seize the carving knife on the meat platter. “Do you want a son or not?” She lifted an eyebrow as she stared directly at her husband.

  Slyxx leaned back on the pile of cushions and drew a boot up to rest on them, wrapping his arms around his bent knee. He stared at Gráinne’s face but said nothing.

  “You and Lan will have to go without me. Caera can tend to me until you return with a midwife.”

  After a few moments, Slyxx spoke, looking first at Gráinne and then at Lan. “You are right, my love. It is an unnecessary risk. Lan will remain to keep you and Caera safe. I will go alone.”

  His term of endearment made Gráinne even more nauseous than did the smell of the cooked meat on the platter. Gráinne turned her face toward Lan again. This time, his face was expressionless, his ears stationary.

  “Caera! Bring the best wine! We’ve cause to celebrate!” Slyxx released his knee and slapped it as his boot thudded on the floor.

  Gráinne took a deep breath, drawing in as much of the scent of the meat as she could in one breath. Her face turned a shade bordering on green, and she stood abruptly, knocking over her plate and spilling food onto the cushion as she dashed for the stairway leading to her chamber. Behind her, she could hear Slyxx laughing. Crossing the threshold into the stairwell, she slammed the door and began the climb. We shall see who laughs last, brute.

  The next few days dragged on for Gráinne, who rarely caught glimpses of Lan for more than a few minutes at a time. On the few occasions when she did, he was a blur of black, flying coattails gesturing madly toward crates and sacks piled in the inner courtyard.

  Gráinne passed as much time alone as she could, rummaging through chests in her bed chamber. She sorted and folded all of her clothing and set aside some green gowns to give to Caera, certain it was her favorite colour and that the cook had no spare fabric to make her own. She even rearranged her shoes, piling up pairs in need of repair.

  Staring at the heap of shoes, she could hear her mother’s voice saying, “Child, you are brutal enough on shoes to keep a host of cobblers’ children dressed in finery!” The thought made Gráinne smile.

  Late one evening, when she had fussed interminably over her clothing and bedding and every trinket in her room, she moved on to the collection of trunks she’d avoided, the ones containing scroll cases Annie’s father had sent to Vandovir. About a month after Gráinne had arrived at the Seetans’ castle, a courier had delivered the trunks with no explanation beyond stating they were from the husband of her mother’s twin sister Brianna. Gráinne had opened the trunks and found them filled with scroll cases. She had dug through them in search of a note explaining why her uncle, Syldhen Rosca, had sent them, but she’d found no such note and had set the trunks aside, too depressed about isolation in Vandovir to focus on them.

  While digging into the other chests, Gráinne had wondered if the contents of the scroll cases might hold a clue to the words the voice in the window had spoken. Although she believed there was something important she needed to know, she still found the trunks and the scroll cases inside of them frightening. What if I learn something I do not want to know?

  The haunting visions of the woman in green would drive her mad if wondering about the meaning of the woman’s words didn’t. “You are not going to leave me in peace, are you?” she whispered.

  Gráinne took a deep breath and began the procrastinated task by sorting the cases according to type. One pile for the leather cases adorned with elaborate patterns of bright fabric, paint, or intricate metalwork. Another for carved wooden tubes. A third for those made of fabric and tied with ribbons or cords. Then, she sat on the floor in front of the piles and sorted each according to the markings on them—seals, names, and symbols. Several hours later, clusters of cases surrounded her.

  Gráinne surveyed the piles of cases. Apprehensive about dredging up memories of her family, she decided to begin with the pile of cases not bearing her family crest or a name or seal she recognized. Examining scroll after scroll individually as she pulled them from their cases, she discovered dry rot had taken its toll on some. Several of the scrolls wrapped in fabric were brittle, and bits and pieces of them crumbled on touch as she tried to unroll them. These she left alone upon discovering their fragility. She could almost hear her uncle—not just a Scribe, but a meticulous Elven Scribe—saying, “Scrolls with dry rot require special processes before handling. Skip the work, and dust is the only tale they will tell.” She heeded his advice and moved on to the more soft and supple ones, most of which bore signs and symbols painted or penned on them in her native language. Her aversion to scroll cases bearing anything she recognized dissipated increasingly as she concentrated on the careful handling of each.

  Her exploration revealed the scrolls were as diverse as their protective cases. Some were land or naval navigation maps bearing their authors’ seals, others histories of families who were no more. Among the most intriguing scrolls, she found at least a dozen clearly penned in feminine script, though unsigned.

  The female-penned scrolls described a Goddess religion and included references to the ceremonies of a group of unnamed priestesses. Full of axioms and rules, the scrolls of the priestesses read like advanced primers, but for whom, besides neophytes or acolytes, remained a mystery, as the Scribes offered no introductions and named no readers.

  As she read on, she learned that the priestesses lived in a vast temple, which was described at length. The whole of the temple encompassed woods, mountains,
and meadows. Its central structure, however, was a spectacular cave with levels both above and below ground. Formations of stone growing out of its main cavern walls bore a variety of figures of the Goddess. A winding network of tunnels linked small grottos, and each of these, in turn, contained a unique shrine.

  Reading through scroll after scroll, Gráinne felt more and more comfortable with the content she found. In one drawing of a grotto shrine, she saw a vessel bearing a painted symbol for water. In another, she recognized an intricately carved knot representing metamorphosis and rebirth. She concluded the scrolls belonged to a religion with practices much like those she’d studied in her time with the Order of Numinus in Incorrigible.

  The candle flickered, and Gráinne realized she’d stayed up for most of the night. Despite all the sorting and reading, none of the scrolls she had opened contained anything matching the diagram she’d seen in the vision. Dry and itchy, her eyes hurt from squinting at parchment. A dull throb had begun to pound in her head. She rubbed her temples. Who is that woman, and what do her words mean? Why did she say them to me? And why did Uncle Syldhen send me the scrolls? Is there something I am supposed to understand?

  Looking at the piles upon piles of scrolls was enough to set off a full-blown headache. She rubbed her temples again and rolled the scroll she’d last read. She put it in its case carefully and then remembered her cousin’s voice saying, “Hold your tongue, Ginny.”

  Gráinne hurled the case at the wall. “Damn you, Mother! Have you no answers?!!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Scribes

  On the day before the Marquis’s departure, Gráinne awoke to the sound of Slyxx’s voice.

  “Gráinne, wake up. There is much to be done today.”

  His unexpected voice startled her, and she bolted upright. She could hear water splashing in the marble bath. Gaining her bearings, she slid out of the bed at once and nodded before rushing off, hoping she could escape his advances. “I will be right there, Caera.”