“But we lie all the time,” said the clever child.
Ketan snorted a laugh. “Yes, well. I make no excuse for that. I do what I must to make sure your belly is full. Survival is one thing but…if you make a vow, you must keep it, even at the cost of your own life. A man without his word is nothing. Do you understand, boy?” Jacob was looking up at the older boy with so curious and focused an expression, but he nodded slowly, and that contented the older one. “Good. Now let’s eat.”
A Beast’s Tale
With a great thrust of my magic, I force the doors of the palace open and step calmly, dripping wet, out of the courtyard and into the hall. The place is all alit with fire from sconces and a great billowing flame down in the great hall within a massive hearth decorated with gold and amber stones. The ceilings stretch tall and arch above me, expertly crafted. I have been in enough castles to know the subtle details that define the wealthy from the merely rich.
Outside of the glass panes in the windows, the darkness is illuminated with a crash of lightning, turning the darkness white for a mere instant before it is consumed once more. Rain beats on the glass and implements a terrible percussion of sound to welcome me into this home. It beats and rages, and I stand among the torrential rain from the doorway of the dwelling. None have noticed me quite yet.
I step inside, rain dripping from my massive form, leaving the driving storm behind me. The man I had met on the road some few miles off walks meekly at my side, soaking and shivering, his teeth chattering as badly as his knees while we walk. My boots make a wet, slurping sound when I come out of the storm and onto the elegant stone. The door slams shut behind us, blocking out the chaos.
With the door shut, the castle changes entirely. I can smell the warm scent of honey and lavender and ale. The hint of a meaty dinner lingers in the air as well. There is no musty or damp scent within these walls. Everything is clean and well cared for. A home.
The servants of the place gather to the entrance and watch us now with wide-eyed trepidation. I stand to my full height, and they draw back, their eyes going wide. “A giant?” one man whispers to another. There are perhaps twenty servants in the hall when I make my way inside. Most of them come towards their comrade and my cloaked figure, but a few stay far back.
I raise my head, showing a flash of blue eyes and a long, warped muzzle dripping from the rain.
“No, no,” cries another, “an ogre!”
“He’s got fur!”
“A beast!”
The voices get higher and louder, and my escort glances up at me sheepishly before watching the others. Several more move away from our greeters and take off deeper into the castle.
“Where is your lord and lady?” I ask, my gravelly voice grinding through the rising panic of the place and bringing every soul to start and tremble. Everything goes very still and silent except for the patterned breathing of the terrified. I let out a low gush of a sigh. We are never going to get anywhere at this rate. Apparently, humans have not become any wiser or less cowardly in all of my years of roaming. Oh, they pride themselves on their many advancements and accomplishments since their ancestors’ days, but I assure you that despite the accumulation of knowledge and power, they have not become anything more remarkable than their ancestors had been.
“Has he returned!” a voice calls down the hall, and I lift my head to watch a young man descend the stairs with great a hurry. His feet scuttle along the stairs in a rush, strapped in fine, leather boots. He’s nearly dressed for bed, wearing his slacks and a casual shirt made of a soft silk. His hair is mussed and his eyes tired.
Halfway down the stairs, however, he glances up at the hall and comes to a very alarmed halt. Seeing me, he looks around hastily, grabs a sword from a suit of armor, and points it at me. How quaint. “What have you, creature!” cries he. “Be gone from here!” Perhaps this human, at least, is not quite as worthless as the others. He is brave enough to at once grab a weapon and face me and yet not stupid enough to charge me. It still remains to be seen if he is worthy of my attention, however.
I raise a brow and watch him with vague and quickly disappearing interest as a faint and slight form follows down the stairs. “What is it?” a soft voice calls, and a delicate hand lays itself on the young man’s arm. She is younger even than he, though still a woman, with hair like the darkest depths of the sea, black and rich, and her eyes a blue the likes of which I have rarely seen. Such a contrast is she to her husband who is gilded with brown hair and golden skin, his eyes a light green. He is a man used to swords and horses and sunlight, someone of work and strength. By contrast, the little creature at his side is scarcely more than a child. Her eyes are wide with innocence and kindness, her voice a quiet whisper of sound. Her clothes are silks and satins, an elegant lavender gown and a slight, velvet robe pulled over her.
So, this is the creature who has filled the home with warmth and the scent of sweetness and health. She sucks in a breath at the sight of me and cowers a bit behind her mate who puts an arm out to shield her from me and turns his defiant look back to mine. Others around me have gathered their nerve and drawn weapons. Surely this man cannot think to best me with that mere toothpick of a blade, but he stands before his bride regardless, his sword point unswerving from its target.
It is time to finish this. “Peace,” I call, unable to smooth my voice to anything remotely comforting. “I have heard of your wife’s sorrow and have come to offer my aid.”
The young duke hesitates, watching me, but then grinds his teeth, and raises his sword a bit. Apparently not the reasonable man I had assumed. Rash. Bold. But…perhaps I will abide him. “Wait!” cries his wife, and she lays her hand once more on her husband’s, moving out from behind him and before me. She steps quietly the remaining distance, her feet bare and padding softly. How like a child indeed, innocent and mild.
“Isabella,” her husband whispers, trying to call her back, but she ignores him until she reaches the bottom of the stairs, and her eyes go to mine. Her husband gives a curse and follows her, putting a large hand on her shoulder and towering over her, as if guarding her. He narrows his eyes at me.
“Speak you true?” she asks, watching me with her hands brought up to her chest like a frightened girl. A few guards around me lower their swords a bit, watching me, and I step forward, bowing my head. She takes another desperate step towards me. “Can you heal me?”
“I can.”
Her husband whispers some sharp warning to her, but she turns to him and clasps his free hand, whispering quietly. I cannot see her face, but I can see his; his expression is twisted in agony as he watches her, aware of nothing else but those blue eyes on his and the words on her lips. He sighs and hangs his head. Finally, he lowers the sword and his company do likewise. They step aside for me, and I approach, hidden in the darkness of my cloak. Even the fires and light of this room cannot remove the shadows from under the folds of my cloth, and all that can be seen to them is my eyes as before.
The duke moves protectively before his wife, and he faces me and asks, “How can you do what you say?”
“How cannot be explained in the expanse of time before your death,” I reply, standing before him and peering down at him through the darkness of my cloak. He clenches his teeth. “I am from magic of old and powers great. Barrenness is no great calamity to one who has raised up nations and brought them down again.”
His eyes grow wide for fear, and rightly so. “Why?” he demands, although it is scarce more than a choked whisper. “Why would you help us?”
I turn my head just a bit to the side, my cloak writhing about my form in eerie discontent. “I do not offer without a price. Know that with sure confidence that I can give you and your wife the children you desire. But in return, I ask a boon of you.”
“What do you ask?” is his immediate response. And that there is a question to tickle both our fancies. What do I ask? I who have nothing I desire and have had in my life everything that I could ever want? Though
I wander the earth as a vagabond, I lack for nothing. Wealth and riches hold no meaning for one of my power, and neither beauty nor vanity, for nothing could ever compare to the elegant magnificence of my beloved wife nor the sweet, unadulterated beauty of my daughter. What then has this simple man to offer me?
My hesitance is making this man even more afraid. Finally, I sigh and say honestly, “There is nothing you have that I desire. But, everything has a price. I will then ask a mere boon from you: should I ever return to you or any of your descendants, you must give me whatever I ask for.”
“Anything?” the duke asks and frowns at me. “Here now. That is too steep a price! If it were only my lifetime, that would be one thing, but I cannot curse my entire family!”
I rub my chin, considering beneath the blackness of my cloak. “Very well then. Since my bargain will grant you children, I will then say that a boon from you, your wife, or one of your children. Only one man or woman shall pay the boon and only your direct descendants from this wife alone.” I gesture to the lady standing at his side, the little Isabella.
He opens his mouth again to speak, but his wife makes a soft sound, pitiful and quiet, and his eyes turn to her. For a moment, my heart is struck with agony at the sight of them. The look in his eyes is that of the utmost tenderness and compassion for his wife; his brows knit together in concern and frustration, but those green eyes are so tender and desperate, focused upon her. I am made to remember gazing with such eyes upon my lost love, and it is such a painful memory that for a moment, I almost feel as though I have returned to this world once more. At last, he turns to me, and I know his answer before it leaves his mouth. “Very well.”
I incline my head, a single nod shown only by the dip of my hood. My gloved hand reaches into the black folds of my cloak, and from it, I procure a small, simple object. The tiny object is dwarfed in my grasp but fits easily in his, and he holds it up for his wife to see. She reaches out, touches the object with reverence. It is a simple thing, but ornately beautiful: a rose brooch with dark red petals spread open wide, the stem made of green gold and twisted in an elegant display, tiny thorns glittering along the sides, green-gold vines snaking around the stem and the leaves. “Pin it to your brocade,” I tell her. “So long as it is in your possession, you will abide no trouble conceiving a child.”
“Thank you…” she whispers, and holds the thing to her breast as though it were a tiny infant. She closes her eyes for a moment and then looks up to me with tears that run down her pale, soft cheeks. It is the first time in a long while such a creature as she has ever looked upon me as though I were a god. It unnerves me slightly, and I give only a slight nod. I am more curious now than ever before to see exactly what sort of babe these two bring into this world.
I turn to take my leave, wet boots squishing upon the brown stone as I make my way out to the storm once more. I know quite well to not disturb the sanctity of this home with my presence. Only fear and death follow after me. I call out, however, as I approach the door, a deep rumble of sound to challenge the gale outside, “Remember, Christof Ketan Hawthorne, Duke of Hawthorne Manor…I will come to collect my boon.”
The double doors of the castle swing open, rain pouring out on the cobblestone streets. I reach out towards the storm with an open hand. Clenching my fist, I ball up my hand tightly and whisper ancient sounds under my breath before casting my hand to the side. The rain falls slower and slower, a faint pitter-patter upon the stone, and then it is gone and the night is left bare and still. Behind me, voices gasp and whisper in awe and terror, and I leave them there in that place, stepping out into the quiet night.
Chapter Two
“Alexzander, you’re not hearing me,” Ketan growled at him.
“I am hearing you,” Lex replied as though bored, sitting back in his chair and rubbing his wiry, blond goatee with mild interest as he inspected the piece in his hand. It was a gem, and although Ketan could not tell the difference from glass and diamond (and nor did he care), Alexzander could spot a fake better than anyone. Ketan opened his mouth to speak, but Alexzander picked up his head. “It’s good,” he said and handed the stone back to man at his side. “Tell him that I’ll do business with him. Make sure that he is aware that I will be inspecting every gem.”
Alexzander’s man gave a single nod and left the room, leaving one other guard with him. Ketan eyed the remaining man warily. He had worked with this group for nearly a decade and was well aware that every one of them was ruthless and loyal to the core. Although Ketan was the best thief in their troupe, he was not the most skilled fighter, and there were other contacts Alexzander had who, frankly, Ketan wanted to remain ignorant of.
“Now then, all I hear is some very uncharacteristic complaining,” Alexzander said, turning his attention back to Ketan. Everything in Ketan tightened and tensed. For all that Alexzander was tall and thinly shaped, Ketan was not fooled. Alexzander was not strong, but he was clever and cruel, determined to his last breath to have what he wanted. He was not a man to be denied. Even if he was refused what he wanted, whomever refused him, lord or lady or child, would regret their decision very, very dearly. Alexzander did not lose lightly.
“Alexzander,” Ketan said tightly, “Have you seen them? The woman is strong and capable in her own right, but what’s more is she is always flanked by no less than two of her companions, each accounting for two or three of me in size and much more than me in strength and skill.” He was tired. It was late. He had put Jacob to bed, but he still was going to have to get up early in the morning and complete what work he could before the sun was too high. But Alexzander was not a man to be rushed.
“So find a way to separate her from the article,” Alexzander said sharply, his patience wearing thin.
“The only time she removes it,” growled the young man, “is at night. It goes on the chest at the foot of her bed no less than eight inches from the feet of her great monster of a husband. There is a guard outside of the door and another who circles the perimeter.”
“So take it then,” Alexzander replied as if that was the obvious solution.
Ketan guffawed at him. “Take it then!” he cried, standing up from his seat and nearly knocking his chair back. “Lex, you are mad! I am not about to send myself into a suicide mission!” Alexzander’s scowl deepened, but the argument was finished as far as Ketan was concerned. “Forget it!” he roared, and the sound carried through the house. “Find someone else. The only way you’re getting that damn rose is killing every one of them, and I am not capable.”
Ketan spun around and took two stomps towards the door before Alexzander’s voice stopped him where he stood. “Very well.” Ketan paused, turning his head back with a dubious frown. Alexzander was never so agreeable. But the man stood up and parted his hands. “I understand, Ketan. It is…after all…quite an unfair task.”
He began to move around the desk, and Ketan turned his head to always keep him in his sights. One did not look away from a dragon. Snakes would always be snakes.
At the front of his desk, Alexzander smiled a wry smile and said, “After all…should anything happen to you…poor little Jacob would be all on his own.” A cold chill went straight through Ketan, and his voice escaped him. Before he could say anything, Alexzander turned his head, without taking his eyes off Ketan, and said to the remaining man, “Why don’t we go pay Jacob a visit? Make sure he’s doing well…”
Ketan had no idea what that meant, whether to kill him or scare him. But the man left the room, and at once, Ketan’s feet thrust him towards the door.
Alexzander snatched Ketan’s wrist, however, with a surprisingly strong grip and yanked him back. “No!” Ketan screamed. “Jacob! Jacob!”
Alexzander grabbed both wrists and slammed Ketan’s back against the far wall. The breath rushed out of him with painful force, and it took all of his strength to suck it back in. In one swift movement, Alexzander had both of Ketan’s slender wrists in the hold of one of his hands and the other ripped down t
he front of his chest, tearing open the worn, cotton shirt and the cloth wrappings around his chest. The shredded wrappings fell away, and small breasts, bruised from their confinement, were thrust into the open air. Alexzander grabbed one violently in his hand, not at all surprised by the sight of a woman’s form.
“You belong to me, Keturah!” Alexzander hissed with so wicked and twisted a snarl, his face right in front of hers. Tears burned her eyes, though more from pain than from fear when Alexzander twisted her breast. She struggled to breathe, to speak, to plead for Jacob’s life. “Everything you are! Everything you have! You owe it to me!” He kissed her roughly, bruising her mouth, and she choked out a sob, struggling.
Finally, he released her and struck her, and Ketan—Keturah—scattered to the floor, shirt flying open with a fresh imprint on her breast from his hand. “But you will find, Keturah,” cooed Alexzander as the woman pushed herself up uneasily, “that I am a merciful god.” He showed his hands, palms out in good faith. “You’d better hurry, my dear. Nightshade is the fastest horse in the Western world.”
And just like that, Keturah bolted from the room. There was little that she could do about the shirt flying open, but she grabbed her cloak and yanked it around her, running out the door and mounting the stallion waiting for her.
“Go! Go!” she screamed at the creature, her voice hitting a shrill note in her panic. She slammed her heels into the side of the horse, leaning forward. The beast cried out in alarm at the abuse and took off, his heartbeat matching hers in fierceness and fear. She had to hurry. She had to get back. Back to Kaldir. Back to her home. Back to Jacob.
Rose Borne Page 2