Realizing she needed a change of clothes, she approached the chests, alert to Slyxx’s ogling. “Is there anything in particular you would like me to wear today, as it is your last day here.” Hopefully the last ever.
“Something modest and befitting a woman with child. We have guests,” he said, his tone unusually withdrawn and official.
Gráinne forewent asking about the guests, whom she assumed came from the scheduled trade ship. She wanted to limit her interaction with her husband as much as possible. Every moment alone with him risked another rape. Satisfied curiosity wasn’t worth the risk. “As you wish.”
Pulling a rust gown with a high collar from the chest bearing her family seal and a cotton shift and long knickers from another, she scurried off to the waiting bath. She would worry about shoes later. Caera had left the room by the time Gráinne arrived, so she secured the door and leaned against it. She’d become accustomed to mornings without Slyxx’s sexual onslaughts, and the thought of them resuming made her shudder. Listening through the door, Gráinne waited for the sound of her husband’s heels to fade before she exhaled fully and relaxed enough to take off her night clothes and get into the bath.
The headache from the night before had gone away, but her frustration remained. Delaying exploration of the rest of the scrolls until Slyxx had departed amplified her annoyance.
Gráinne arrived in the dining hall to find the low table and the piled cushions gone and the long, carved dining table with chairs once again in their places. The room teemed with male beings she didn’t know. Among them sat a human in a chair closest to Slyxx. A leather hat over a knotted scarf covered his hair and topped off a sunbaked face and stretched torso. His attire—a fitted military jacket with rows of braid on its sleeves—projected an air of authority. Gráinne decided he was most likely the ship’s Captain.
The man tipped his hat to her and flashed a set of snow white teeth.
Those cannot be real. She smiled back at him.
Across the table from the Captain sat the ugliest being Gráinne had ever seen. She supposed he was male, like the others in the room, though she could see only slightly more than his profile. His face was pudgy—roughly round, though twisted. His nose sloped more to one side than the other and looked as if the end of it had melted. In truth, it looked more like a pig snout than a nose. His shaved head made the fat folds on the back of his short neck appear even fatter. He was at least twice the size of anyone else in the room, including Slyxx, whose frame could fill the doorway of a modest cottage. The saffron tunic—which enhanced the male’s yellowish skin—had long, flowing sleeves. As he reached for something on a platter, he dragged a sleeve through his plate.
As Gráinne stood staring at the giant being, others in the room seemed to take notice of her arrival, and their murmurs and laughter died to intermittent hushed tones. The ugly male turned his face toward Gráinne, whose heart thumped out of rhythm when she saw the previously unseen other half of his distorted face. He had only a right eye and no eyebrows. Crudely sewn skin sank into his left eye socket. Gráinne pitied him and looked for some blessing in his misfortune. She decided the missing eyebrows saved his facial asymmetry from even greater pronouncement by lopsided framing.
“Ahh. My wife has arrived.”
For once, Gráinne was relieved to hear her husband’s voice. She felt self-conscious, as every eye—including the sole one of the giant, jaundiced male—looked toward her. She gave a slight nod and plopped into the chair at the end of the table opposite her husband.
“Marquessa.”
The hoarse voice came from the chair to her right, and Gráinne turned her gaze toward it. The male sitting there couldn’t have been half Lan’s size. Without the neatly braided beard covering a chin barely clearing the edge of the table, he would have looked like a child of five. Not stocky enough to be a Dwarf. “Sir,” Gráinne replied politely.
“The Marquis says you will not accompany us. I am disappointed. Yes, I am. I had hoped to talk with you about your homeland.”
Gráinne wrinkled her brow.
A tiny hand shot out toward hers, which rested on the table. The male’s frigid palm blanketed Gráinne’s hand and patted it. “I am a collector and keeper of histories, a writer of tales.”
She wondered if the movement was supposed to comfort her for the murders and destruction in Incorrigible. “A bard?” she asked, drawing back her hand and placing it in her lap.
“Not exactly. I do not wander from place to place telling stories.”
“Then what do you do with your histories and tales?”
“I pen them onto scrolls and sell them. Yes, I do.”
“A Scribe then?”
“Of sorts.”
“You must know a lot about the origins of scrolls.”
The man beamed. “Indeed, I have collected thousands of them from many corners of the world. Yes, I have.”
Gráinne feigned composure, but her pulse was racing. “Can you tell the dates of the scrolls or who wrote them simply by reading them?”
“Sometimes.”
A clamor in the kitchen interrupted their conversation.
“Stupid woman!” screeched Lan.
“If you will excuse me,” Gráinne said politely and then rose and went into the kitchen to investigate.
Caera knelt on the floor, scooping up the remnants of a steaming pie. Lan stood over her. His ears lay against his hair, which stood on end. His tail swished jerkily to and fro.
“What happened, and why are you speaking to her that way?” Gráinne demanded.
Lan hissed. “This stupid woman has spoiled the dessert I baked for the Marquis and his guests!”
“I am sure she did not mean to, La . . . ,” Gráinne began.
“But she did!”
Caera began to sob, and anger rose in Gráinne.
“Then bake another for tonight’s feast instead. There is plenty of time yet,” she commanded.
“You do not issue orders to me!” he retorted in a growing rage.
Gráinne cocked her head to the side. “We shall see about that.”
Caera sputtered, “I am s . . . sorry.”
She crouched beside Caera and put an arm around her. Her tone packed with supportiveness, she said, “Do not let this arrogant cat upset you. You did not drop the pie on purpose.”
“I. Am. Not. A. Cat! I am Kathan, you stupid woman . . . or whatever you are!” His words came out infused with a snarl. He wheezed, short of breath. And then his eyes widened.
Gráinne had had her fill of Lan’s abuse—of herself and, even more so, of Caera. She was tired of hearing him say “stupid woman” every time things didn’t go according to his liking. She was tired of him making Caera call him Master. She rose to her full height and stepped closer to him before she Shifted her vocal cords and drew out a threatening feline snarl.
Lan stepped back, clearly shaken. He hissed back at her but retreated anyway.
Gráinne didn’t pursue him. She relaxed and let the inside of her throat return to its human form.
“I am so sorry, ma’am. It was an accident. When I turned to move the pie to a safe place for cooling, I bumped into him and dropped it. I am not accustomed to having anyone in my kitchen.”
“It does not matter, Caera. It was not your fault. Do not listen to that creature.”
“He worked so hard on the pie, ma’am, and I am sure it was delicious, and I have gone and ruined it, and he has labored so hard all week.” Caera stopped only long enough to catch a breath. “Did you see how he looks? He has hardly eaten or slept.”
Gráinne looked toward the door and nodded. “Aye.” A twang of guilt tugged at her.
“Perhaps he will forgive me if I make another pie and say it is his. It will be the best pie I have ever baked,” the cook said resolutely as she scooped the last of the spilled pie onto the platter and stood.
“Thank you, Caera,” Gráinne said, distracted by the discussion with the small male at the table. Although
she wanted to remain in the kitchen and comfort the cook, she needed to speak more with the guest who knew about scrolls. He would leave Vandovir tomorrow, and that didn’t leave much time if she wanted him to look at the scrolls and tell her what he could about them. Gráinne gave Caera a comforting smile and tender pat on the arm before she returned to the dining hall.
Once again, gawks trained on her as she entered, and Gráinne felt like the only drumstick among the starving. She took her place at the table, sending a shake of her head toward her husband’s questioning glance. He continued to talk to the Captain, and for the first time, Gráinne noticed the empty chair to her left. Even though thoughts of Lan and his condition nagged her, she was still angry with him. Gráinne turned her attention away from the chair she assumed was his and back toward the male to her right. “I apologize for the interruption. You were saying?”
“I forget.”
“The scrolls and how you can identify their Scribes and dates,” she reminded him.
“Ah yes. Yes, I can.” The man chomped on a slice of roasted lamb he’d stabbed with his knife.
“Where did you say you come from?”
The man didn’t wait until he’d swallowed the meat before responding. “I did not say, but I come from a land you have never heard of most likely. Librar. I am Librarian. Yes, I am.”
Gráinne shook her head. “Librar. You are right. I have never heard of it, but I am not well-travelled. And your name?”
The male stabbed another piece of lamb. “I am called Argwan of Bédor. Bédor was my father’s name. Yes, it was.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Argwan of Bédor. What a pity we will not have more time to become acquainted. I should very much like to learn about Librar.” She paused and then dropped the next sentence as casually as she would have spoken about the weather. “I, too, have a scroll collection.”
Argwan perked up.
Gráinne smiled. “Would you like to see it?”
The little male’s eyes lit up, and Gráinne thought she caught a glint of greed in them.
Argwan pulverized the lamb in his mouth and swallowed before gushing, “Oh, yes, please. I would very much like to see it. Yes, I would.”
“Gráinne! Come and meet the Captain!” Slyxx yelled down the table.
Gráinne looked down at Argwan as she stood. “I will arrange for you to see the collection.”
Argwan wrung his hands. “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed, that would be delightful!”
When she reached the end of the table, Slyxx and the Captain stood. The seaman flashed his bright teeth in a lust-filled smile. Most definitely not real teeth. She was thankful she wouldn’t be confined for three months on a ship with him. She didn’t trust him or his white birch teeth.
As the guests finished their breakfast, they filtered out of the dining hall, stopping to tip a hat or bend at the waist before going into the courtyard. Gráinne smiled politely in return as she took in the exotic makeup of the crew members who would accompany Slyxx. One had horns that curled on his head, similar to those of a satyr, but he had the face of a bull and stood on two legs. The remainder of his body seemed more human than not, though his chest was like that of a bull—broad and thick and muscled. He wore boots on enormous feet. After the creature had spoken with the Marquis about which crates to load into the hold first, he went about his business. Gráinne looked over her shoulder at her husband. “Is he a Minotaur? I have never seen one without hooves or with horns that curl as his do.”
Slyxx laughed so loudly the crew members turned and looked at him and his wife. Gráinne blushed.
“He’s Bovan.”
Gráinne looked confused.
“I assure you he’s more human than you can imagine. . . .” Slyxx hesitated and leaned down to Gráinne’s ear, slowly running his hot tongue up her neck as he ensnared her body and drew her close. “Some say his member is the size of a bull’s and that no human woman’s fit for pleasure with another once he’s had her.”
Refraining from further commentary on the Bovan, Gráinne leaned away from the growing hardness Slyxx pressed against the swell of her rump. Slyxx laughed cruelly, wholly amused by his wife’s public discomfort.
Just past midday, a fidgety Argwan approached Gráinne. “May I speak with you, Marquessa?” he asked shakily.
“Of course,” said Gráinne.
Argwan wasted no time divulging the topic of discussion. Abruptly and unmannerly, he blurted out, “Will you show me the scrolls now?”
More than greed. Obsession. Gráinne looked from Argwan to her husband and back again. “They are in my private chambers.”
Argwan shifted from one foot to the other. “I . . . I . . . will make it worth your while if they are of value,” he said, his hopeful stare into Gráinne’s eyes also scrutinizing her expression for signs of approval. “I would not pen copies without your permission, of course,” he added.
“I appreciate your consideration. I doubt they are of great value. If my husband does not object, however, I will show them to you,” she said, full well knowing Argwan would seize the opportunity for gain if he could.
Argwan’s cheeks slumped, and he gave an awkward bow from the waist before bustling off, one hand wringing the other in jittery motions.
Gráinne smiled as she watched him disappear into the throng of taller crew members loading goods onto a cart scheduled to depart for the ship.
Her husband’s voice interrupted her amusement. “What did he want?”
Gráinne acted bored, but her pulse raced. This was her chance to gauge her husband’s reaction to allowing Argwan into her chambers. “To know if I might be interested in selling him some of my scroll cases.”
“I see. And why would you sell them?”
Gráinne shrugged. “I have no use for them. The castle is drafty and damp. Surely, your son will need furs to lie on and to keep him warm, and the fur traders will pass through in a moon or two. Caera can chaperone, to assure Argwan does not steal anything from us and so nobody can say he was alone with me . . . inappropriately.”
Slyxx laughed. “As if that little male could do anything you didn’t facilitate. He would need a chair to stand on!”
Disgusted at the very thought of Argwan’s frigid hand touching her, Gráinne faked a laugh. “Precisely! Nonetheless, we would not want anyone to cast aspersions on the woman who will bear your son, would we?”
Slyxx’s laughter faded, and he stiffened. “Take Caera with you, but don’t linger. She has a meal to prepare. Tonight, we feast.”
“Of course,” Gráinne said, setting off toward the kitchen before he reconsidered.
Fifteen minutes later, Caera arrived at Gráinne’s door with Argwan following closely behind her. “Marquessa,” she called out as she rapped on the heavy door.
“Come in,” Gráinne replied, trying not to show the elation she felt that her plan had thus far been successful.
The pair entered the chamber, and while Caera gave a short curtsy, Argwan didn’t even acknowledge Gráinne. Rather, his sharp eyes immediately scanned the room, ceasing movement and glimmering hungrily at first glimpse of the piles of scroll cases scattered about the sitting area.
A clamor sounded in the courtyard, and Gráinne walked to the window overlooking it. The gates to the courtyard were swinging open, and men leading horses entered. Among them was Slyxx’s horse . . . saddled. Her pulse quickened. A stroke of luck at last had come.
Caera’s brow crinkled. “What is it, ma’am?”
“Nothing to worry about. The crew is preparing to load the ship. They will return this evening.”
Caera busied herself tidying up the dressing table.
Gráinne turned around to find Argwan already sifting through the scroll cases, so she sat in her favorite chair—the one with the padded back and thick but lumpy cushion made of crimson velvet. Entwining her fingers, she rested her hands in her lap and listened to the Marquis barking out orders over the clanging of crates and the restless clomping of hor
se hooves on slate. All the while, she watched the scroll collector.
Argwan picked up one after another of the scroll cases, his meticulousness in handling and examining them not lost on Gráinne. He scrutinized each from every angle before setting it down gently and moving on to the next. My uncle would have approved.
Each time Argwan finished one examination and went on to the next, Gráinne grew more impatient to hear the gates swinging shut. At last, the creaking of the wood strapped with iron came, and Gráinne waited a few moments before rising and walking nonchalantly to look out the window again. No sign of anyone.
“Caera, you may go to the kitchen and begin preparations for tonight’s feast. The crew will be famished by the time they return.”
“But, Mar . . . ,” Caera protested.
“I will be fine.”
Caera bit her lip.
“Truly. I will be fine. We will come downstairs long before they return.”
Caera gave a quick curtsy. As she crossed the threshold into the hallway, she glanced apprehensively at Gráinne, who returned the gesture with a grateful nod and comforting smile. When the cook was out of sight, Gráinne returned to the chair and sank into it.
Engrossed in his examinations, Argwan rolled a scroll case between his thumb and forefinger, studying the markings on it.
Gráinne suspected he hadn’t paid the slightest attention to her conversation with Caera. “What do you think about that one?” she asked.
The little man continued to study the case, seemingly oblivious to her voice.
She elevated her volume, “Argwan? Have you found anything interesting?”
The collector fumbled the case but caught it before it hit the floor. “Indeed,” he responded and scrambled toward her with the case in hand. “This one and several of the others. They bear this symbol. Yes, they do,” he said, pointing toward a sketch of knot work Gráinne had seen in Incorrigible—on the backs of chairs, stone tiles, doors, even as the pattern of hedgerows.
“What is so interesting about the symbol?” she asked, wondering if Argwan really was the expert he claimed to be.
His eyes widened in surprise, and Argwan blurted out, “What is so interesting about it? Do you know what this is, Marquessa?”
The Dragon Writers Collection Page 106