They rode for several hours in silence. Jacob was practically bursting with questions—and tears—but he knew better than to breathe a word. Not when his mother and the frightening woman across from him were locked in stares. Keturah sat up straight with her chin up, shoulders back, and was glaring with every inch of heart she had at the woman across from her. The Lady Darkwaters stared calmly back, equally poised although not quite as rigidly so, with her hands folded neatly in front of her lap. Jacob actually somewhat liked the other woman. She had a softness about her, a gentleness that made her seem warm and inviting. But one glance at Keturah, who was not about to give in, and he sank back in his seat and pulled his legs up to his chest self consciously.
Following several hours of tense, sore silence, the foreign woman finally asked, “What is your name, girl?” That caught Keturah by surprise. She almost squeaked, her eyes flying open, locking on the woman. For a moment, she didn’t breathe, her heart pounding, her mind racing. And then her breath all came out in a rush. She eyed the woman suspiciously, but the lady held up a hand inoffensively. “As far as I am aware, I am the only one who has guessed, or if anyone else has, they will not speak of it, and neither will you.”
Keturah gave her a look. “So you are not going to tell your husband about me? You do not seem the type to keep things like this.”
The woman considered her for a long moment. “I am not. Up until today, my husband has known everything I thought, felt, wanted, hated, and said.”
“Sounds invasive,” Keturah remarked dryly. The woman gave her a cold look. “So why, then?”
Again, the lady did not speak right away but seemed to consider her words for a long while, turning them over in her mind before she said slowly, “I…have my own reasons. I have let you keep your own secrets…like why your house looks as though someone has torn it apart.” Keturah tensed. “And you will let me have mine.”
“I do not see that I have much of a choice,” Keturah growled.
The woman offered a small smile, sad, and after another long moment, asked, “What is your name?”
The thief studied her, the child watching her very intently. At long last, she said, “Keturah. But the village knows me as Ketan.”
She gave a single nod and then gestured to Jacob. “And …is he your brother?”
Keturah glanced to Jacob and then shook her head, looking back to the woman. “No. He is my son.”
The woman’s brows furrowed in confusion. “You do not seem old enough.”
Keturah shrugged. “I am old enough, but he is not mine. He was…orphaned…in unavoidable circumstances.” The woman’s eyes went a little wide, and she brought a hand to her throat subconsciously. She was no fool. Whether or not Keturah had been the assassin was irrelevant. “The men at the den of thieves…wanted to drown him in the well.” Keturah tensed up all over again, angry. “I took him and… tried to find him a home…but no one would take him…”
“So you did…” the woman said softly, considerately.
Keturah glared and snapped, “What was I supposed to do!”
There was a dull thud on the side of the carriage, and a booming voice called, “Is everything alright?”
The lady pushed open the window and said, “Everything is fine, dear. No need to worry.” Menawa grunted and she shut the window with a sigh, looking back at Keturah with a bit of reproach. But she sighed and considered the woman, “Anyone else would have drowned him…or left him an orphan…not many would take on the care of a child not their own.”
Keturah scowled but did not remark upon her own circumstance. She wanted to change the subject and so quickly asked, “What is the mansion like and where will I stay? Is there anyone else? What are my duties?”
The woman held up a hand to silence the bombardment and smiled a bit, feeling more at ease and more sure of her decision not to breathe word of the woman to her husband, although it pained her greatly to do so. “The only resident of the manor is the sorcerer…everything in the household is run by his magic.”
“Then why doesn’t he take care of the garden himself?” Keturah grumbled irritably.
The woman sighed. “The magic can touch nothing living. He was…gifted magic from a powerful being. I am not sure as to the monster’s capabilities, but the magician cannot affect the living. He can pluck the fruit or have an enchanted tool so do, but he cannot make the tree yield fruit or sustain itself year long no matter how he alters the environment and weather.”
“He can alter the environment and weather?” Keturah gaped, and the woman nodded. Uneasily, Keturah sank back into her seat. He must be some sorcerer indeed then. She puffed out a sigh. “Well, what about us then?”
“You,” said she, “will have your choice of rooms. I am sure that something will be prepared for you and your son. So long as you tend the garden, as is your only requirement, you may stay and, if I know the sorcerer as well as I think, be given whatever pleasure he can afford you.”
Keturah raised a brow. “If he’s so temperamental, why would he take us in his care?”
The woman sighed and said uneasily, “Some things cannot be explained, my dear. Some things you will just have to see for yourself.”
Keturah sighed. “What of Jacob then? What will be required of him?”
The woman looked a bit alarmed and then laughed a bit. “We’re not turning you to slaves, Keturah. Consider yourself…an indentured servant. Jacob is not bound by this. So long as he is not underfoot of the lord of the manor, then I am certain he will be permitted to do as he pleases.”
“And what of the lord of the manor?” Keturah asked with a sigh. “What should I know of him?”
Again, a vague answer: “That all is up to him what he shall reveal to you and at what time.”
Keturah rolled her eyes. “May I at least know his name? ‘Lord of the Manor’ is a mouthful.”
The woman considered her with a wry expression. “You are a saucy one, aren’t you?” Keturah arched a brow, unrepentant. “Very well then. As to his name, that is his own to give. But the locals call him the Guardian.”
Everything in Keturah went cold and still, and she felt sick. “The Guardian?” she hissed, her voice sharp and quiet, as if afraid to speak too loud, leaning forward and glaring at the woman. “You said a sorcerer! Not the Guardian! The dark-magic sorcerer who drove out everyone from his lands with his black magic!”
The woman scoffed. “Hardly.” But she could see that Keturah was not convinced and sighed heavily. “Keturah, whatever may or may not be true about him, you have my word as a woman and a mother…no harm will come to you or the child. I swear it.” Keturah sank back in her seat and looked over at Jacob who seemed uneasy, looking down at his lap in between furtive glances at the ladies. “May I ask one more question?” the lady asked. Keturah glared up at her, tired already, and they had another day and a half to go. “The Hawthorne Rose…you are familiar with it… How?”
Keturah turned her eyes to the window. “No…you may not ask…” she said softly, half convinced that the woman would press her on the matter. But the Lady Darkwaters only pursed her lips in concentration for a moment before nodding to herself and sitting back in her seat, content to let the carriage fall silent.
The lady said only, “It has been a long seventeen years.” in a voice quiet and murmured so much so that Keturah did not ask her as to her meaning. Seventeen years since what? She sighed and tried to put it out of her mind.
◆◆◆
‘Manor’ was an understatement. What they considered a mansion was in fact, at least to Keturah, a small castle (with little, arbitrary note on the word ‘small’). The great mansion was three stories high, although each ceiling could not have been less than twenty feet. The main house was nestled against a mountain, built into the very side of it, with great, gaping windows covering the outside, splendid reliefs etched into majestic columns. Off each side was an extension of the house, each angled in a bit to frame in a beautiful courtyard.
The only thing disrupting the magnificence of the place was the state of the landscape. Despite the beautiful statues, everything around them was quite dead. Grass and weeds flourished well enough, but the trees were void of leaves, and their bark was worn and dark. The bushes were thin and uneven, and the flower beds were buried under leaves and dead plants. Lady Darkwaters had not overstated the Guardian’s severe need of a groundskeeper. It was rather unsightly. Keturah thought that it would have looked better if nature had been allowed to just grow over everything instead of what appeared to be a haphazard attempt at maintaining the garden.
Despite the grounds though, Keturah felt small and pitiful in her worn, patched clothes, her dirty face and hair, as she stared up at this beautiful building, having to tilt her head back just to see the top of it, sunlight pouring onto her face from beneath the cap. She glanced back down when she saw the great giant, Manok, move past them and into the mansion undisturbed. “And this is where we leave you,” said Lady Darkwaters, coming up beside them. “We will stop only to rest and water our horses and take our meal in the courtyard before continuing on.”
Keturah looked up at her with a mild start. “So soon? You are not even stopping to rest? After all, it is nearly nightfall.” Keturah wasn’t especially fond of the woman, but she was less fond of being very suddenly left alone to the throes of the Guardian without so much as a formal introduction.
The woman laughed a bit and said, “Take courage. We have a long travel ahead of us, and the sorcerer prefers his seclusion.” She then glanced to Manok and added, “You will perhaps see my son here from time to time. He is of the few company that the Guardian enjoys.”
Keturah scoffed. “Can he not garden?”
The woman gave her a look. “We cannot spare our firstborn for so meager a task when there are others who are much more capable in any event.”
Keturah gave her a sardonic expression and looked down at the little boy at her side who was far too intently staring at the building and looking very excited. Jacob, as if knowing he was watched, threw back a beaming grin to Keturah. “Can we go inside, Ketan? Please?”
Keturah looked up at Regina hesitantly. “You are certain the Guardian will not harm him?”
She nodded firmly. “Never…although the sight of him may frighten the child…that, I am afraid, is beyond helping. But he is free to wander about. The magic will guard him and keep him from where he is not welcomed.”
Keturah gave a single nod but as the woman turned to leave asked, “Why are you doing this?…why not just kill me like your husband wanted?”
The woman looked back at her and laughed a bit. “It is not for your sake, my dear. Go now. The sun is already falling and we have a ways left to travel. We shall see you inside before we go.”
Keturah gave her an uneasy looked before sighing, throwing her bag over her shoulder, and heading closer to the massive double-door entry. Jacob whooped and went running on ahead. The ‘older brother’ shook her head, casting a look back at the woman, but found instead that the mother had fixed her attention on one of the tall windows in the right wing of the house. Keturah looked up at the window but could see nothing from the glare of the sun, despite how she squinted her eyes.
“Come on, Ketan!” cried the boy, the double doors creaking open wide at their approach, and the young woman sighed and followed the child up the tall flight of stairs and through the doors.
Chapter Five
Alvaro’s hands were large, a warm brown that wasn’t at all like the people he lived near. His palms and fingers were rough, calloused from severe work and attentive care to his tasks. He spent so much time looking at his hands because he worked with them so frequently. His nails were kept trimmed down to the bed, except for his thumbnails, for he occasionally made use of the sharp, black nails for his work.
He focused his attention less upon his hands, however, and more for the delicate little piece within his grasp. He had to construct the piece by hand without magic or it would interfere with his later spells, and with hands as large and clumsy as his own, it meant that Alvaro had to be particularly careful in his work.
He was very young when he first came to live in that manor. The Beast built it for him, constructed it all for him, for his heir. He had stood in the entry hall crafted with his own magic and watched as mother and child stepped into that place. The mother had recoiled at the sight of him, but he—Alvaro—had looked upon the monster with surprise and, perhaps, a bit of gladness. For once, he was not the most terrifying thing in the room. He’d approached the Dark Sorcerer, already very tall and broad for his young age, and offered the Beast his hand. Such a marvelous display that monster had only ever seen once before.
This place was his one solace. Aside from the Beast, only his brother, Manok came to spend any time with him, appearing every few months for a few nights. They would share a few meals, perhaps spar. And Manok was always patient to watch and listen as the Guardian explained his newest invention or spell. Alvaro was very adept at his magic, prided himself on it even. It was his own small joy, his recompense for his hideous form. The people in this area suffered from no harm. He made certain that weather was favorable to their crops, plenty of rain and sunlight, and that the creatures which so often plagued villages were nowhere to be seen within the vicinity of the manor. And so, the Guardian supposed that the people of that area lived happy lives…but he wouldn’t really know.
Isolation was a painful curse, and Alvaro had lived with it all of his life. Even at home, before he had come to the manor, no brother or sister, no cousin or friend, none would come near him. Manok was kinder than others, but he was also fairly older than Alvaro and had no interest in the child’s games. And back then, Alvaro had been forbidden to use magic (something for which the Beast had nearly killed Menawa for and which spurred the construction of the Darkwaters Mansion).
Days when Manok would come were always glad times for Alvaro. Now that the brothers were older, their difference in age was much less significant than it had been before. They had long and sometimes interesting conversations. Alvaro would explain all about magic and spells to Manok, and he would also counsel Manok who was not nearly as well read as the isolated magician. In return, Manok would bring things from the outside world—paintings mostly. The manor was filled with the most magnificent pieces of art. Landscapes of every imaginable place, women in beautiful dresses, men working in fields or laughing in taverns. They were more difficult paintings to find since few patrons wanted painting of such mundane things. But they were a source of great joy to Alvaro.
The Lord of the Manor flexed his fingers over his work table, gently letting out the delicate threads of magic known only to his eyes. They sank into the pile of paper that he’d been working with for the past week and a half. Magic also was not innate. It took a great deal of practice and precision that was actually rather difficult for hands the size of a bear’s. He had suffered many failures with this motion spell (as noted by the heaps of ‘dead’ stone statues off to the side of the house which he needed to re-commission for some other project), but he was certain this time that he had gotten it right. His fingers twitched in anticipation, waiting to see what would happe
n.
Suddenly he clapped his hands together, letting out a loud shout of joy as the delicate paper butterflies he’d spent a week and a half constructing took flight, filling the room with the sound of quiet fluttering.
“You’re back to your silly experiments,” came an amused voice from the door.
The Guardian jumped, grabbing his mask and pulling it back onto his face quickly. It covered his face, mostly. There was a hole under his nose for breathing, and eye holes, but his lips and chin were covered. It was plain black, stiff and hard, with a cloth covering. How had he not heard them arrive? Alvaro was usually so careful about making sure he was aware of his surroundings. He supposed that he had been so excited and eager to finally be finished with this spell that he’d allowed himself to become completely absorbed.
“Manok,” he said, carefully tempering his voice, the muffling mask helping to smooth out the coarse sound. He spoke so softly, but his voice was deep enough that it still hummed in the chest of any who heard him speak. “I thought you were in town this week. Why are you here?”
“I’ve come to inform you of something,” Manok said. “We found you a gardener.” His brother leaned casually against the far wall, crossing his arms over his chest and considering his younger but much larger kinsman.
“Really?” the lord asked, turning and looking at the other man. They both had the same dark skin, the same calloused hands, and were both massive in size. The only difference was that, despite Manok’s size, he still very much resembled a man. But Alvaro was much too large (and in all the wrong places) to be a man. He was more the size of an ogre, or perhaps a hairless bear.
“Really; this one’s tough too, was able to stare down mother and father,” he said.
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