“Am I a prisoner here, Miss Ratcher?” I said. “I'd like to know.”
“Just Ratcher. I would not presume to answer for your father, I mean, Lord Fellstone.”
“He isn't my father.” Papa was my father and always would be.
“Then by all means, tell him how much happier you were as the unremarkable child of an insignificant locksmith, and how greatly you prefer the friendship of the gravedigger's son over anything his lordship might have to offer you.”
She walked to the door. “His lordship expects you for dinner. A handmaid will help you prepare. I recommend you wait here till then. You never know who—or what—you might encounter in the hallways.” She let herself out.
I went to the bed, lay down, and stared at the canopy. Everything I’d believed to be true about my life and family had changed since I’d set out from home. Ash and Calder might need my help, but first I had to think. Nothing had turned out as I’d expected. Nothing.
What if my father really was Lord Fellstone? It would never change my feelings for Papa. He had raised me and taken care of me and taught me my trade. He loved me, protected me, nourished me. He would always be my true father, no matter what my relationship to Lord Fellstone might be.
I wondered how the lord would feel about me. He’d put me in the beautiful room that must once have belonged to my mother. The neglect of the nursery seemed to indicate a man whose heart was broken by the loss of his child. Did he truly wish to claim me as his daughter? Would he try to earn my love? Such feelings went against everything I’d learned about the conjurer and his wicked ways.
On the other hand, if he wanted my presence in his life badly enough, he might go so far as to make me his prisoner. I’d found the door of my bedroom locked, and there were bars on the windows. It seemed I might be forced to escape as my mother did before me. If I did, he would surely send his men after me. If I succeeded in saving Papa, we would have to flee Sorrenwood as quickly as possible.
Perhaps, though, I might use his interest in me as leverage to get what I wanted. I could agree to return to the castle and even live here for some time, if he would only give me the dreadmarrow and allow me to use it on Papa. And of course, he must tell me what happened to Mama, and set her free, if she were a prisoner here. My friends must also be allowed to leave the castle. If I meant that much to him, he ought to be willing to grant these requests, which should not affect him one way or the other.
Beyond all these considerations, there was something deeper that grated at my soul. Who am I? If I were Fellstone and not Skye, did that change anything about me? I’d never aspired to anything beyond work as a locksmith, and marriage to Ryland. It could be that I had no greater ambitions because I believed I came of humble origins. But if the blood of Fellstones ran through me… did that mean I could be a conjurer? It was said that one had to be born to it.
Before I discovered the power of the windrider, the very thought of magical incantations terrified me. But now I knew that magic could be used for something that was pure and innocent and joyous. Some conjurers were rumored to be virtuous. If I had that power… well, of course I would use it to make the world a better place for myself and everyone I cared for.
There was so much to consider. My mother also had a pedigree that I could not have imagined before. She came of a wealthy, aristocratic family. They didn’t sound like people I would wish to know, but perhaps they’d changed and might welcome a granddaughter. I would like to learn more about them, perhaps from Calder, who must know a great deal from his time growing up in their household. My mother might have a sister or cousins who I could visit at their estate someday.
But my mind was wandering far and wide again and I had to force myself back to the problems at hand. Find Ash and Calder. Get the dreadmarrow (perhaps stealing was no longer necessary). Save Papa. These came before any other consideration. After I dined with his lordship, I would make my requests, and if he refused them, it meant following through on the original plan, no matter what the risks might be.
The handmaid, Mary, arrived shortly thereafter and insisted I change into more formal attire for dinner. At first I resisted, until she threatened to call “my father.” It horrified me to learn that everyone in the castle already knew me as his daughter. How soon would word spread through Sorrenwood?
Mary then drew out the most beautiful gown I’d ever seen, a silk lavender in a style that would flatter my figure. I used to think I didn’t care for such finery, but I suppose it’s easy to say that when there’s no chance you’ll ever own such a thing. I decided there was no harm in treating myself this one time. No matter if the lord granted my requests, I could never see myself settling into life as a spoiled lady of the castle.
I’d managed to dress myself since I was four, and thus I found it difficult to stand like a helpless doll while Mary adorned me. She scolded me whenever I tried to help, until I gave up. When she was done, she held up a mirror of polished metal, and the girl who stared back at me seemed like a stranger. Perhaps clothes do make the man, or the woman. After that, Mary insisted on arranging my hair, and I was forced to sit in front of the mirror for another hour as she brushed my locks and arranged them in coils.
“What a pretty lass you are,” she said.
I bristled at the compliment and lowered my voice. “Can you help me? Have you seen any prisoners who were brought into the castle?”
Mary continued as if I’d said nothing. She took out a pearl necklace and earrings from a box. “His lordship sent these for you to wear tonight.” She clasped the pearls around my neck. I couldn’t help but stare at them and admire their luster, though I was determined not to be impressed by the jewels.
“I have money I can give you,” I said. “Please. It's important that I find them.”
It was like speaking to a statue. “Don't you look beautiful?” she said. “Let's try the earrings with it.” She clipped them onto my lobes. “You're very lucky, you know. You're going to sup with all the lords and ladies.”
The thought made my body stiffen and my stomach clench.
ASH
A year ago, Ash had sewn a nail into the waistband of his trousers. He knew that in his quest for revenge against Ratcher, he was likely to end up imprisoned someday. The nail was thin enough and small enough that it might not be noticed in an inspection of his belongings. He was right. His jailers had taken his belt and shoes, and must have searched him while he was unconscious, but they had not found the nail.
It took some time to pick away at the threads of his waistband. He should not have sewn it in so tightly, but he’d wanted to be sure it remained in place. Finally he opened enough of a hole to push the nail out. He went directly to work on the cuffs around his ankles.
A nail had seemed a wholly practical item to sew into his clothing. It could be used to pick a lock or to gouge out an eye. He would do that to Ratcher if he ran out of options; at least then he’d have the satisfaction of seeing her blinded before he died. And if for any reason they chose to let him molder in a cell for years instead of killing him, he could scratch the number of days that had passed on the wall, and slowly—ever so slowly—dig a passageway out. He knew how farfetched it was to imagine such an escape, yet any idea that gave him even the tiniest flicker of hope must be worthwhile.
After what must have been at least an hour of poking and scraping, his cuffs were still locked, and his respect for Tessa’s trade had grown by leaps and bounds. He swore under his breath. How could it be this difficult? He should’ve asked for instructions while they wandered about the forest. If she could learn locksmithing skills from her father, surely she could have passed them along. But he never asked, barely spoke to her at all, in fact. He was not afraid to face Ratcher in hand-to-hand combat, but had been petrified to raise his eyes to a young woman who made his heart beat faster.
She was unlike any girl he’d met before, as brave and clever as a man. Braver and cleverer than Ryland, come to think of it. He wished he could ha
ve met her under different circumstances… in a world where Lance was still alive. In a place of peace and harmony overseen by a just and kind-hearted ruler instead of a despot. A place where he could make an honest living as a scribe. Or better yet, he could learn to write poetry, although he could not imagine anyone ever paying for a volume of his poems. In this perfect world, Tessa could work as a locksmith if she wished, and perhaps even consent to be his wife.
Then again, if Fellstone hadn’t killed her father, there would have been nothing to come between Tessa and Ryland, and Ash would never have had a chance with her.
The key rattled in the door and Ash thrust the nail into his pocket. The jailer entered carrying a metal dish and slid it across the floor to him before ducking back out. Ash stared down at the unappetizing meal of soggy gruel resting on the stone floor beside him. Is that a moth floating in it? The sight made his stomach want to heave. But he knew he had to keep up his strength so he would be ready when the moment arrived to escape. He picked up the dish and removed the bug. Unless he too could turn into a bird, he was not ready to eat anything so revolting. He took a small spoonful of the gruel. It tasted as bad as it looked, but still he forced himself to take another swallow. And another.
TESSA
I lifted my spoon over a bowl of consommé, at a dining table so lavish King Midas would gratefully sup from it. The room was lit by golden candelabras. Red wine had been poured into cut crystal glasses. Real silverware, gilded cutlery, hand-painted porcelain, embroidered silk napkins… the list went on and on. No wonder the taxes in our village had gone up. One place setting at Lord Fellstone’s table was worth a great deal more than our house.
The footman had seated me to the right of the empty chair at the head of the table. Six others had already taken their places across and next to me, people I’d never seen before, dressed in rich satins, silks, and velvets. They looked as if they were of noble birth, but I held my head high. Papa taught me not to fear the wealthy, nor ever to cower to them.
The boy to my right looked roughly the same age as Ash. His blond hair was neatly combed back and he had a dark shadow where he apparently hoped to grow a mustache. There were lions embroidered on the cuffs of his white silk tunic. His soft, thick, pale hands compared poorly to those of Ash, which were tanned and fine-boned. I even preferred the marks of honest labor that Ash’s chipped fingernails and creased skin revealed.
The boy wore a mischievous expression as he leaned toward me and spoke into my ear. “We don't begin until his lordship arrives.”
I lowered my spoon.
“I'm Malcolm Harlan,” he continued. “Allow me to present Countess Bracken, seated across from us.”
The countess, to the left of the empty chair and directly opposite me, was a tiny woman bent under the weight of her thickly jeweled necklace. Her earlobes hung down unnaturally, stretched by heavy golden dewdrops. Her wrists were similarly overloaded with bracelets, and I wondered how she would eat her soup without submerging them. Her eyes—too large for her head—skewered me with a malicious glare.
“The hideous young fellow next to her is my younger brother, Edmund,” Malcolm said.
The young man, perhaps a year less than his brother, scowled across at us. He seemed to have spent a good deal of time arranging his appearance. Oil had been applied to tame the natural curl of his hair and his lips were red enough to make me wonder if he had dabbed them with rouge. He wore white, puffed silken sleeves and a purple embroidered vest. I felt quite certain that if I looked under the table, I would find him to be wearing matching purple satin breeches and white hose.
“That's my mother, Lady Harlan, beside him,” Malcolm added. “And father, Sir Harlan, next to her.”
Lady Harlan was striking in her beauty and appeared quite young. She had sensuous eyes, generous lips, a straight nose, and yellow hair coiled at the base of her neck. Unlike Countess Bracken, she showed good taste in the application of makeup and jewelry, with nothing more than a simple gold chain round her neck and small diamond earrings.
Her husband, Sir Harlan, was her opposite in every way. At least twice her age, he likely had never been a handsome man, even in his youth. Perhaps to compensate for his thinning hairline, he had thick sideburns of the type that were called “mutton chops” and a bulbous red nose that required constant application with his handkerchief. His dun-colored tunic strained at the seams over a plentiful belly.
“Good evening, young lady,” said Lady Harlan. She drawled, affecting the manner of an older woman, enunciating each syllable, as if trying to impress people with her education.
A young lady on Malcolm’s other side leaned around him to look at me. “Don’t forget me!” she said in a high-pitched squeal. Her silk gown was of a bright pink color, with playful cats embroidered along the neckline. Her hair was dull brown, her face narrow and pinched, and her eyebrows plucked down to a faint outline. She wore gold kitten earrings and a gold kitten necklace. I wondered if blowing on her necklace might turn her into a kitten.
“I'm Lady Nora,” she said. “Malcolm and I are engaged to be married. The countess is my grandmother. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Teresa.”
“That isn’t my—” I began to say, but a footman interrupted by announcing Lord Fellstone’s arrival. Two liveried servants held open the door as his lordship glided through it. He was richly but not ostentatiously dressed, in a black silk tunic with pearls on the cuffs. His fine wool breeches were also of plain black, and his leather shoes as well. He had a kind of feline grace, with silent and smoothly controlled movements like that of a wild cat stalking its prey. He did not so much sit in his seat at the head of the table, but melt into it.
Aside from what I’d viewed as sparrow-me, I had only seen him at a distance before, at public events which were carefully arranged to present the illusion of Lord Fellstone as a popular leader of the people. Close up, he looked handsome for his age, which I would guess to be mid-fifties. In reality, he might be five hundred years old and kept alive by the magic of the dreadmarrow. Certainly the skin of his face looked tight, as if the wrinkles had been unnaturally stretched out. His eyes were lively as he turned toward me and raised his glass.
“To my daughter, Lady Teresa. Welcome home,” he said, giving me a delighted look.
The guests raised their glasses and echoed his toast: "To Lady Teresa."
Why did they insist on calling me that? “It’s just Tessa,” I said, trying to keep the anger out of my tone.
Lady Nora hissed at me behind Malcolm’s back. “Pick up your glass.”
I’d never had wine before, nor any other form of spirits. Papa had been strongly against it and never kept any in the house. At the moment, I was a little afraid of the effect it might have on me. I’d watched the twins Margaret and Anna drink heavily one night, take off their clothes, and dance naked in the town square. Afterwards they were so ashamed, they kept inside their own house for months.
Everyone sat frozen, their glasses lifted with nowhere to go. All eyes rested on me except those of Sir Harlan, who gazed longingly at his soup. Malcolm was clearly entertained, and Lord Fellstone continued to smile.
I had nothing to gain by being stubborn, but if I relented it would show my willingness to adapt and the action might inspire a similar spirit of cooperation on the part of his lordship. I raised my glass and Lord Fellstone tapped it with his own.
“Let us be bound by the ties of blood, forever and always,” he said.
Everyone drained their glasses except for me.
“It’s rude not to drink,” said Lady Nora. I wanted to tell her it was rude to criticize other people, particularly those who had recently arrived and never been schooled on the behavior expected at the table of a mighty conjurer, but I held my tongue. I would do what was expected, come what may. I threw back the contents of my goblet all at once and lowered it with a gasp. From the heat that suffused my cheeks, I could tell my face must have flushed beet red.
Malcolm snickere
d as the servants poured more wine for all. Spoons clinked against china as everyone began to eat.
“Use the outermost fork for the next course,” said Lady Nora. “Let me know if you have any questions about the meal and I'll be happy to assist.”
I began to feel sympathy for Malcolm, her betrothed. How long could one bear her brainless patter? He would regret their union by the morning after they spoke their vows.
“She's not a half-wit,” Malcolm said, referring to me. It was hardly a compliment and yet I felt almost grateful for his championship.
“She hasn't been brought up like we have, has she? I'm only trying to help,” Lady Nora continued.
Sir Harlan paid no attention to anyone. He slurped his soup, disposing of it in no time, and glancing at the footmen as if he hoped to hasten the arrival of the next course with a look.
“I suppose this must all be quite overwhelming,” Lady Harlan said.
Lord Fellstone’s eyes narrowed.
“What do you mean?” I shifted to the side as a servant took my soup bowl.
“Goodness,” said Lady Harlan. “I do not suppose you have ever been to a place this grand before.”
“I don't measure the worth of a place by its size,” I said. “Nor by how much money was spent in decorating it.”
Edmund sneered. What an amiable fellow he was. “How would you measure it, then?” he said.
“By how warm and welcoming it feels,” I said, not to be deterred. Out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed Lord Fellstone studying me.
“What a charming sentiment,” said Malcolm. I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not.
“I'd like to see you try living in a hovel,” Edmund said to his brother.
Dreadmarrow Thief (The Conjurer Fellstone Book 1) Page 12