Some crew members already had made their way to the dining hall, but the Marquis wasn’t among them. A few sat at the long table. The remainder sat cross-legged on cushions at low tables like the one that had replaced the dining table after Lan arrived. Stragglers continued to file into the room.
Gráinne smiled at the guests as she poured mead into goblets Caera had set to the right of each plate. “Quench your thirst,” she said. “There is more to come.”
After Gráinne made four trips to the kitchen to refill the jugs, Slyxx finally arrived. All but three chairs at the long table—hers and the two on either side of the Marquis—now had seated guests in them. A few of the low tables had only three sailors at them, but most had four or five.
“Sit down, woman!” Her husband’s voice filled the room.
Gráinne sat in her chair. Perspiration glistened in the hollow of her neck.
Caera entered the room and put two heavily laden platters onto the table in front of the Marquis before swinging around to return to the kitchen. As she scurried away, the Bovan reached out and slapped her rump, all but lifting the teensy cook off her feet and propelling her forward. Caera maintained her balance and continued forward as if nothing had happened.
Slyxx laughed loudly at the end of the table, and Gráinne looked his way just in time to see Lan and Argwan entering the room together. Her heart skipped a beat. Then two. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself before anyone noticed. The pair took their seats.
Slyxx rose and lifted his goblet. The din slowly died, and his deep voice boomed, “May fair winds take us to the richest ports and home again laden with bounty.” He looked directly at Gráinne. “And may my son be as clever as his mother and as strong . . . and handsome as his father!”
Clever? Queasiness gripped her. Her mind reeled. Did Argwan confess to Slyxx? Did Lan overhear my argument with the collector and confirm Argwan’s side of the story?
The crowd of sailors cheered and laughed.
Lan coughed and looked at Gráinne, his expression blank.
Though sure all the colour in her face had rushed from her cheeks, Gráinne remained intent on maintaining her composure. Raising her own goblet, she stood, and the pandemonium waned. “May the Goddess and these good sailors bring you home to us safely,” she shouted, moving her goblet to acknowledge first her husband and then the guests. Or not.
Before the tumult of cheers began, Gráinne heard Lan cough again. Both Slyxx and Gráinne nodded to each other and then tipped up their goblets. The Marquis fell back into his chair and let out a crashing laugh. Gráinne lowered herself into her chair and placed her goblet back on the table, her gaze shifting toward Lan, whose lips had twisted into a smirk . . . directed at her.
Nothing much happened over the next few hours of the feast, save for Caera fending off clutches and swatting at sailors. One, bolstered in bravery by an overabundance of mead and much to the amusement of his fellow shipmates, managed to pull her onto his lap before he became the recipient of a sound bang on the head from an empty pewter platter she carried.
When she thought it safe to exit without much notice, Gráinne made her way to the kitchen with an empty platter in hand. Once there, she held a finger to her lips, slipped out quickly, and ran around to the back entrance to the reception room, where she entered and climbed the staircase two stairs at a time. Reaching her chamber, she rushed to the dressing table and lifted the lid to the crock of rot she and Lan had used to dress her wounds. Gráinne dipped her fingers into it, and as she had every morning for several weeks, she swallowed and stuck her fingers into her mouth, licking the bitter, greasy mixture from them. It made her want to gag.
A cough sounded from behind her.
Gráinne turned to see Lan standing beside her bed.
“So that is how you do it,” he said snidely. “I had wondered how the sickness could have appeared so quickly.”
Gráinne slammed the crock back down on the table and wiped her fingers on the cushion of the bench that sat in front of the table. She resisted wiping her mouth. “I do not know what you are talking about. Now, get out of my chamber.” She picked up the wide comb that rested on the table and reached behind her head to run it through her cascading curls. She struggled not to have thoughts.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
Gráinne glared at the Kathan. “Go ahead. Tell him. He will make us go with him. If you think he has worked your fingers to the bone these past weeks, imagine what he will be like when confined on a ship or proving his superiority in the trade ports.”
Lan stood silent, and Gráinne could see in the twitching and rotating of his ears that the Kathan was thinking about what she’d said. He turned and left without responding.
Dear Goddess, do not let him tell Slyxx.
From just outside the door, Lan’s voice proclaimed, “The Goddess has no power over me!”
Gráinne could feel the nausea starting to build. She didn’t have much time before it would overtake her. She would have to chance the Kathan preferred the peace and quiet of Vandovir to Slyxx’s constant abuse and orders. She set the comb on the table and retraced her steps back to the kitchen, where she found Caera.
Balancing a platter of meats and vegetables on one hand, Caera was sliding her fingers under a tray of fruit when a pasty Gráinne stepped over the threshold. She spun around, bringing the fruit tray into balance as she raised it above her head. “Ma’am?”
“Tell me where to take it,” Gráinne said, whisking the tray off Caera’s hand.
“Your end of the table, ma’am.” Caera looked apprehensively at Gráinne but with a hint of gratitude that softened her apparent fear.
Time was passing more quickly than seemed possible, and Gráinne needed to get out of the kitchen, not only before her trip away drew undue suspicion, but also before the smells brought the fatty mixture—already churning in her stomach—back up. She balanced the tray as best she could and headed for the dining hall.
Caera followed Gráinne, all but holding her breath.
Successfully setting down the teetering tray, Gráinne slid into her chair and gestured to the food. “Enjoy, gentlemen,” she proclaimed.
Caera exhaled and returned her focus to the tasks at hand.
Hands immediately reached toward the piled apples and pears on the platter Gráinne had offloaded.
Gráinne managed a smile and leaned back in the chair. Folding her hands across her midriff, she scanned the row of occupants to her left until her gaze fell on Lan. He was watching her with an indiscernible expression. To the left of Lan sat her husband, who leaned forward, engaged in what appeared to be light-hearted conversation. To Slyxx’s left sat Argwan, whose sullen frown wrinkled his forehead.
A sudden tightening of Gráinne’s stomach set her mouth to watering. Although she would have redirected blood to cause it if she could have, paling came of its own accord. One of her hands flew to her mouth, and she stood slowly, pushing her chair away from her.
“Marquessa? Are you ill?” asked a seaman a couple of chairs away from her.
Gráinne shook her head and swallowed, forcing the vomit back down her throat.
The motion gained Slyxx’s attention and his disapproval when he saw his wife’s peaked face. He frowned and then shouted, “My son is not yet born and already he gives his mother grief!”
Spinning around and running into the kitchen, Gráinne barely made it to the slop bucket before the oily combination in her stomach forced its way out.
The crew finally having had their fill, the clamor in the dining hall had died down before Gráinne returned. Looking embarrassed and still pale, she played her expected role. She approached her husband, leaned down, and kissed the top of his head, tenderly laying a hand aside his cheek. “I had hoped to feel better on your last night at home. I am sorry, my dear.” Certain the kiss had assured his attention was fully on her, Gráinne suddenly grasped her stomach and bent over, her other hand flying to her mouth. She shook he
r head and ran out of the dining hall, through the reception room, and up the stairs to her chamber, hoping her husband’s aversion to vomit would keep him out of her room for one last night.
Two hours before dawn, Gráinne awoke to success. She listened for the sound of Slyxx’s breathing before she moved, but her ears met a silence yielding more relief than she had imagined quiet could produce. Clearly, he had chosen to spend his last night in the comfort of his own chambers.
Although she wanted to dance in celebration, she thought it best to dress quickly and get downstairs before other occupants of the castle awoke, but most particularly her husband. It would be like him to fulfill his desires one last time before leaving her. That he would begin his journey unsatisfied was a gift from the Goddess she intended to help deliver.
Gráinne arrived in the kitchen to find it frigid and empty. No wood burned in the fireplace. She stepped outside and looked around. Caera was nowhere to be seen. Gráinne frowned as she walked around to the back entrance to the reception room and puzzled over the cook’s whereabouts before re-entering the kitchen. A snap from the direction of the fireplace startled her, and she jerked her head in its direction to find Caera kneeling and breaking twigs to start the fire. “There you are,” Gráinne said.
The cook didn’t turn around and look at her, but she replied quietly. “I am sorry to be so late getting started, ma’am.”
Something about Caera’s voice didn’t sound normal or even right. “Caera? Are you unwell?”
“No ma’am.”
“You do not sound well. Are you sure?”
“Yes ma’am.”
As Gráinne pressed on with questions, she grew more and more uneasy. “Were you up long after I went to my chambers? Did you not get enough rest?”
Caera stopped piling twigs into the fireplace and hesitated before answering. “I will be fine, ma’am. No need to worry.”
The cook had not looked at Gráinne even once since she’d come inside. Something most definitely is not right. “Caera?” she called softly, her concern infusing the word.
Caera remained still and quiet, staring at the pile of kindling in the fireplace.
Gráinne approached the kneeling woman and crouched to the left of her. When Caera didn’t turn to look at her, she reached out and gently cupped the cook’s chin. Nudging Caera’s chin toward her, Gráinne saw skin so swollen it stretched the right side of the cook’s face. Angry red and black welts started at the corner of her lips, crossed her cheek, continued past the corner of her eye, and disappeared at her temple.
“Which of the sailors did this to you?” Gráinne asked.
Caera shook her head. “It does not matter, ma’am. It is done.”
“It does matter. Tell me who did this to you. I will see that he . . . .”
The kitchen door flew open, and Slyxx’s massive frame blocked the open doorway. “We leave at dawn. Bread, fruit, and milk will do this morning. I want the crew sober and their bellies light.”
“Yes, sir,” Caera said, her voice shaky.
Gráinne rose. “One of the crew has hurt Caera.”
“Ma’am. . . .”
Slyxx looked confused.
Gráinne repeated her statement more loudly, “I said one of the crew has hurt Caera.” She pointed toward the injured cook, who looked down.
A twisted smile slowly stretched Slyxx’s lips into a mock. Gráinne froze in horror, and Slyxx barreled out of the kitchen, his laughter as swollen with cruelty as the puffy bruises on Caera’s face.
What have I done?
Although Gráinne reached out to hold the cook, a palpable awkwardness pulled her arms back to her sides. This is my fault for keeping him out of my chambers.
“I am sorry,” she croaked out in a whisper.
Caera struck a shank of flint against a slab of flint stone to start the fire. Over and again she repeated the motion, each strike more aggressive than the one before it. Finally, a spark ignited the dry grass and twigs. Caera continued to strike the flint as if she hadn’t noticed her success. Teardrops splattered and sizzled in the growing flames.
Gráinne didn’t know what else to say or do, so she slipped out of the room to give Caera privacy. As she pulled the door quietly to, she thought she heard the cook whisper, “So am I.”
At dawn, Lan knocked on Gráinne’s door. “The Marquis requires your presence in his study . . . at once.”
Gráinne complied but took her time getting there. The whole of the walk to the study, she thought of her cousin’s voice saying, “Hold your tongue, Ginny. Like thith.” This time, her mood robbed the memory of its humor. She arrived to find Lan already there and standing behind and to the left of Slyxx, who sat at the oversized oak desk with quill in hand and deeply concentrating on the parchment over which the quill bobbed and perched. Lan stood like a soldier at ease with hands clasped behind his rump and his feet slightly parted. His ears stood attentively but did not move.
“That should do it,” Slyxx declared as he put down the quill and leaned back in his chair. “Ah, my dear. Just in time.” He nodded toward the freshly inked parchment and continued, “I’ve set my name to a document appointing Lan as my administrator. In my stead for the length of my journey, he will have all due powers to administer my property and conduct business on my behalf . . . as he deems fit to serve my best interests.”
Gráinne could feel what was coming next.
“He will, of course, serve as your guardian, as well.”
You mean jailer. She wanted him out of her sight, and the sooner the better. “As you wish. I am sure Lan is more than capable of managing your estate.”
Slyxx clapped his hands together and stood. “Excellent! I thought you might see the wisdom in my choice.” He circled around the end of the desk and gathered Gráinne in his arms, holding her close and drawing in the scent of her hair. “You need only worry about making certain my son is healthy and strong.” He tightened his arms and squeezed before relaxing his embrace and bending until his mouth neared his wife’s.
His breath hot and sour, Gráinne tasted his pungent threat before he uttered it.
“Take care, little bear. The wife you save may be my own.” He pecked at her lips and drew back. Looking at Lan, he gave one final instruction, “If you have to kill her, too, make certain nobody knows she is dead.” He strode out of the study, leaving Lan and Gráinne in locked stares.
Neither blinked until after they’d left the study in opposite directions.
When the trade ship’s sails disappeared beyond the northern sea’s horizon, Gráinne took her first full breath since becoming a Seetan. She felt more light-hearted than she considered appropriate for someone whose homeland and its citizens had been destroyed with such disregard, and she was aware that guilt tinged her relief. Even so, Slyxx’s absence gave her berth to hope. What if he and the Kathan had lied? Perhaps there were survivors.
“All I have to do is figure out how to escape without getting killed.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cats
Before dawn on the day after Slyxx’s departure, Gráinne awoke and practically jumped into her riding gear before groping carelessly in one of the scroll chests until she found the tube of wood with an emerald-coloured letter “I” painted on it. Shaking it produced a hollow rattle she thought aptly portended its role in her planned escape. She smiled as she trotted down to the kitchen, the most droll scroll she’d read clacking away inside the equally droll case in hand.
“Good morning, Caera. There is no need to heat water for me. I will not be bathing this morning.”
Caera looked up from the fire, lifting her eyebrows as she replied, “Oh?” Most of the swelling in Caera’s face had subsided, and the bruises had begun to look less angry.
“I am going for a ride and will bathe when I return.”
“Yes, ma’am. Will you take your mid-day meal here?”
“No.”
Caera returned to stoking the fire. “And before your ride? Do yo
u wish a light meal?”
“No, thank you.” The awkwardness of their conversation saddened Gráinne at the same time as it angered her. This was Slyxx’s fault. Though she had tricked her husband into staying out of her chambers, Slyxx had made the decision to abuse Caera. You will not get away with this, Slyxx Seetan. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Gráinne asked, picking up an empty basket from atop a wobbly stack of woven baskets and trays in the corner.
Caera stopped, withdrawing the iron poker from the kindling she’d been prodding. “Where will you be riding?”
“Nowhere,” Lan answered from the doorway.
Gráinne tossed a quick glance at the Kathan. Everything about him seemed to droop—his eyelids, the hollows below his cheekbones, his tail. She dropped the scroll case into the basket, through the handle of which she threaded her arm. Then she snatched a loaf of flax-seed bread from the shelf next to the fireplace and looked at Caera as she responded, ripping the loaf in half, “The meadows near the pines.”
Caera’s gaze moved from Gráinne to Lan.
“And if I say it is not in your best interests . . . or, more importantly, those of the Marquis?” He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.
Caera’s gaze moved back to Gráinne.
Gráinne defiantly chucked both ends of the split loaf of bread into the basket and walked to the bin of hard-fleshed tree fruits. She plucked two pears from the top layer and palmed them as she examined each before plopping them into the basket one at a time. Then she turned to the cheese cupboard. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Caera staring at Lan, and the tip of the Kathan’s tail twitching arrhythmically.
Gráinne grabbed a cloth-wrapped hunk of cheese and dropped it into the basket, forcing the thought into her consciousness. What a lovely day for a picnic. She slid her fingers around the wooden handle of the knife on the table in the center of the kitchen. Fire glinted on the blade as she held it up and examined it. That is what I would say.
Lan hissed and bounded out of the kitchen.
Caera blinked. “What just happened?”
The Dragon Writers Collection Page 108