by Lisa Smedman
The voice paused, then added in a seductive tone, “Thamalon, I hope you will give this matter careful thought. This may provide Sembia’s only chance to push the Red Plumes north. It may even provide an excuse to march on Hillsfar itself—an opportunity you’ve long been waiting for, or so I’m told.”
The master’s voice grew thoughtful. “We shall see.”
From inside the study came the clink of a glass being set upon a metal tray. It was followed an instant later by the rustle of robes and the thunk of a staff against the floor as someone approached the door. Cale’s hand dropped from the latch, and he moved away from the door, pulling Larajin with him as he made room for the departing visitor.
As the door swung open, Larajin’s eyes widened in alarm. The master’s visitor was a tall, dark-skinned man wearing smoke-gray hose and a doublet with crimson-slashed sleeves. Perhaps fifty years of age, he had eyes that glittered like polished jet, dark, wavy hair, and a neatly trimmed beard that was no more than a thin line framing his jaw and chin—a Sembian affectation he had adopted, together with the doublet, since the last time Larajin had seen him. He leaned on a knotted bloodwood staff studded with dark thorns that had been pushed point-first into its blood-colored wood like tacks, forming a spiral design. A halo of upturned thorns crowned the top.
A tiny corner of Larajin’s mind screamed at her to drop her eyes, as Erevis Cale was doing, to play the part of servant, to avoid drawing attention to herself. Instead she stared, mesmerized, at the staff. She had seen first-hand the deadly black bolts of magical energy that staff could produce, had watched in horror as they reduced a wild elf to a smoking husk in the Hunting Garden—and all because Larajin had seen what the Hulorn had done to himself with his foul magic.
Please, Goddess, don’t let him recognize me, Larajin silently prayed, dropping her eyes at last and staring hard at the carpet. I’m a servant, only a servant. Invisible and silent.
If only she had stopped a moment to put her turban on. Perhaps he would not recognize her, even with her hair unbound. She’d been wearing different clothes then, had…
The Hulorn’s wizard paused, directly in front of her. Ice flowed through her blood as his gaze slithered down, then up her body, coming to rest on her face.
“You look familiar to me, girl,” he wheezed. “Do I know you?”
Somehow, Larajin found her voice. “I do not think so, sir. I’m just a servant. Perhaps you saw me waiting tables, during a previous visit to Stormweather Towers.”
“This is my first visit to your master’s house.”
“Or you might have seen me on the streets or in the market,” Larajin quickly added. “I’m often sent to do the shopping.”
The wizard’s eyes grew bored. “Perhaps that was it,” he agreed.
Inwardly, Larajin sighed with relief as the wizard turned to leave, but just then, a familiar sound echoed down the hall.
Mrrow?
The tressym padded out of the open library door, into the hallway. Head turning, she looked in Larajin’s direction—and her ears flattened as she spotted the wizard. Baring her teeth in a hiss, she backed slowly away, then suddenly spun and leaped into flight, her brilliant wings flapping furiously. Landing delicately on a window ledge, she batted at the latch with a paw, opened the window with a shove of her head, then disappeared through it.
Erevis Cale muttered, “That’s enough of you, cat.”
He strode down the hall to snap the window shut.
Larajin froze, unable to speak, as the wizard turned back to her with narrowed eyes. He tipped his staff until the head of it was under her chin. Its thorns pricked her skin, causing her to flinch and jerk her head up.
Recognition burned in the wizard’s eyes as they met hers.
“Does your master treat you well?” he asked in a whisper. “Would you like to come and serve the Hulorn, instead? Perhaps you could feed his pets.”
Larajin’s mind flew back to the rats she’d encountered in the sewers under the Hulorn’s Hunting Garden. Misshapen monstrosities, they’d been altered by the Hulorn’s dark magic to grow hooves, wings, horns—even a tiny human head. Larajin shuddered at the memory of their sharp teeth worrying her flesh. She’d fought them off once—and didn’t want to face them again. The Hulorn’s wizard was subtly letting her know what her fate would be, now that he knew who she was.
“Sir, I…” was all she could manage in response. Gods, was this all she could do—cower before him, meek as a mouse? At last she found her voice. “My master is too fond of me. I am like a daughter to him. He would never allow—”
“A pity,” the wizard answered, withdrawing his staff from under her chin. “You seem like a good servant—one who knows the value of being seen and not heard.” His voice dropped. “Of course, there are other, more certain ways to ensure silence, aren’t there?”
He turned away with a chuckle as Erevis Cale strode back to where Larajin stood. Cale gave the wizard a sharp look, and followed him with his eyes as the wizard made his way down the hall.
A moment later, the master appeared in the doorway. He appeared not to have overheard the exchange and merely nodded at the departing wizard’s back.
“Erevis,” he said, “please see Master Drakkar to the door.”
Cale glanced up sharply at this command, then turned and walked smoothly down the hall. The moment he was out of sight, the master said, “Larajin, a word if you please.”
Still shaking from her brush with the wizard, Larajin immediately launched into a defense of her actions. Now, more than ever, she needed the master’s goodwill.
“Master Thamalon,” she said, “I only meant to leave the tallow untended for a moment. The fire in the stove had burned down to coals. I didn’t realize it would—”
The master held up a hand, demanding silence. Deep green eyes blazed down at her from under a thick crop of wavy, snow-white hair. Surprisingly, though the conversation Larajin had just overheard seemed like a matter of state, the master was casually dressed, wearing a doublet with solid sleeves and soft leather house shoes over plain white hose. He’d obviously not been expecting a visitor so late at night. He closed the door of the study, then turned and spoke in a stern voice.
“Larajin, I would ask that you refrain, in the future, from describing my affections for you in the terms you used tonight.”
Braced as she was for a reprimand about the kitchen fire, Larajin was surprised by his words.
“Master, I don’t—”
“You don’t understand? No, I suppose not. I shall have to put it plainly, then. I am asking that you not, at any time or in any company—noble or common—describe my feelings toward you as being like that of a father for a daughter. People might draw … the wrong conclusions.” Heavy eyebrows frowning, he let his eyes bore into hers. “Do you understand me now?”
Biting her tongue, Larajin nodded. She understood all too well. Since that day last winter when Habrith had revealed that Thamalon Uskevren was Larajin’s father, Larajin had kept this secret close to her heart—like the obedient servant she had been raised to be. The only one she had confided in, so far, was Talbot.
She’d tried to summon up the courage to tell the master that she knew that he was her father, but whenever she’d been about to speak, the words fled from her lips. Now she could see the response they would have incurred. Not what she’d prayed for—acceptance and acknowledgement—but anger. The last thing the master wanted was to acknowledge the fact that he had sired a child on a wild elf of the Tangled Trees. Larajin was nothing more than an embarrassment to him. She was a thorn he deliberately pricked himself with, day in and day out, by keeping her as a servant—a reminder of something in himself that he abhorred.
The master accepted her silent reply with a nod, probably not even seeing the anger that was starting to smolder inside her. His lips parted, as if he were about to add something more, but whatever he was going to say was interrupted by a knock at the study door.
“Yes?”
he asked.
The door opened, and Erevis Cale stepped into the study with a bow.
“Master Drakkar has departed Stormweather Towers,” he announced. “I’ll ensure that the driver of his carriage gets a good tip.”
“Very good, Cale.”
Larajin had heard master and butler use this code in the past, and understood what it meant. Cale had just assured the master that Drakkar’s movements would be noted and reported. The master’s suspicions about the wizard would do her little good. She could hardly tell him about Drakkar attacking her in the Hunting Garden without bringing up her wild elf heritage and with it, Thamalon Uskevren’s indiscretion. After his stern warning never to even allude to this secret, she could hardly turn to him for help.
She would have to seek help elsewhere. Now that Drakkar knew who she was, Stormweather Towers was no longera safe haven. She had to leave Selgaunt, and as soon as possible.
She dropped her eyes to the carpet as Cale folded his arms across his chest and scowled at her.
“Now then, Larajin,” he began. “There is the matter of the fire atop the stove—a fire that could have spread to the rest of the kitchen, had it not been spotted—and the disciplinary action to be taken.” He turned to the master, and added, “In light of the gravity of the error, I would suggest, Master Thamalon, that—”
The master sighed, and once again held up his hand. Cale fell into an obedient silence.
“I think we’ll keep her away from the kitchen for the next little while,” the master said. “Perhaps getting her out from underfoot will give you some relief. Assign her to serve in young Thamalon’s tallhouse for the next month, and see how she fares there. As her punishment for causing a fire that could have burned Stormweather Towers to the ground, had it spread beyond the stove, Larajin is to immediately undertake the task of cleaning the mess in the kitchen. She is not to stop nor rest until the stove is returned to full working order and the pots are gleaming. She must do this alone, without assistance from any of the staff.”
This last was directed at Larajin, who was meant to quail under the imagined enormity of the task, but her mind was on more pressing concerns—like whether the Hulorn’s men would arrest her the next time she ventured out onto the streets.
“Master Thamalon, I must protest,” Cale sputtered. “The punishment is not severe enough. I would suggest—”
“Erevis Cale,” the master said. “I am not interested in hearing your suggestions.”
Larajin blinked in surprise. In all her years at Stormweather Towers, she had never heard the master use that tone with Cale. For the first time in memory, he was speaking to his butler as a servant.
Cale’s face flushed, but he held his tongue. “As you wish, Master.”
His eyes, however, spoke volumes as he turned to Larajin.
“Kitchen,” he spat. “Now!”
Larajin studied her reflection in the mirror in Mistress Thazienne’s bedroom. The emerald-green gown she wore was stiff with gold embroidery and seed pearls, its sleeves tight to the elbow and flaring with slashes of white from elbow to shoulder. The bodice was high and thrusting, the hemline low.
The gown was Thazienne’s, the color designed to complement her sea-green eyes. It was a little long on Larajin—a good thing, since it hid the serviceable leather boots she was wearing—and a little loose in the bodice. With a bit of padding, it fit her well enough.
She’d tucked her hair up into a bun, and covered it with an elaborate cap hung with lace and trailing peacock feathers. Looking in the mirror, the only thing that gave her disguise away was her work-roughened hands, the nails still black with soot. Otherwise, she looked like her half-sister. It ought to work. The gods only knew how many times Thazienne had disguised herself as Larajin, when she wanted to creep about the city in the guise of a common servant.
She yawned, then stretched to ease the aching muscles in her neck and back. She’d spent long hours scrubbing the kitchen, under Erevis Cale’s baleful glare. She was exhausted, but she couldn’t afford to sleep—she had to get away from the city first.
Cracking open the door to Thazienne’s room, she made sure the hallway was clear. She picked up the leather bag she’d packed for her journey and slung its strap over her shoulder. She’d raided the pantry after she finished cleaning the kitchen, and had filled the bag with enough food to see her through the next few days. The bag also held a kitchen knife, candles, flint and steel for kindling a fire, a light summer blanket, and a change of clothes.
Also inside the bag, tied into a handkerchief, were the few coins she’d been able to save over the years: mostly pennies and a handful of silver ravens. She hoped they’d be enough for a seat on a carriage to the neighboring city of Ordulin—perhaps even as far as Essembra.
She crept down the darkened hallway to Tal’s bedroom and slipped a folded letter under his door. She’d left a similar letter for her adoptive parents in the stables, where her father would find it in the morning. Their letter had been vague, saying only that she was in danger, and had to leave Selgaunt for a time—that she would send word to them later. She told her parents they shouldn’t worry; she was going to a place where she would be under the goddess’s protection. It wasn’t exactly a lie. Her destination—the Tangled Trees—was watched over by Hanali Celanil.
Her parents, however, would assume that she meant the goddess Sune and that she was traveling to the House of Firehair—Sune’s temple in the city of Daerlun. When they reported their daughter’s sudden and seemingly inexplicable departure to the master, he would no doubt send agents after Larajin—and they would head west. Drakkar, if he followed them, would be thrown off the scent.
The letter she’d slipped under Tal’s door included more detail than the one she’d left for her parents. She’d included a description of her encounter with the Hulorn’s wizard, whom she now was able to put a name to. Tal knew about Larajin’s earlier brush with Drakkar in the Hunting Garden. He would understand the threat, why she needed to leave—and the need for secrecy.
Making her way through the wide halls to Stormweather Towers’s grand front entrance—if Drakkar did have men watching the house, they’d probably be expecting her to slip out through the servants’ door at the rear—she peered out a leaded-glass window at the darkened street. The time was halfway between midnight and dawn. At that hour, Sarn Street was virtually deserted. A boy walking on stilts tended the street lanterns, trimming their wicks and topping up their oil, and a solitary carriage clattered past on a side road, but the tallhouses that lined the street were, for the most part, dark and silent.
She was just about to open the door when the gleam of metal in a doorway across the street gave her pause. The lantern boy noticed it, too. He bent at the waist to peer down into the doorway, then straightened and moved away at a rapid clip. Inside the doorway, a figure shifted. It was a man clad entirely in black but with a helm that caught the lantern light. He was a member of the city guard.
Larajin had been right. The Hulorn’s men were watching Stormweather Towers. They must have expected her to try to slip away, perhaps even counted on it. That way, she could simply be made to disappear, and Master Thamalon would never be the wiser about who took her or why. The gods only knew how many of the guard were out there, waiting and watching. Larajin wasn’t going to make it on her own—even in disguise. She needed help.
She was only an initiate of the goddess Sune, not even a real cleric, and what little she knew of Hanali Celanil’s worship was entirely self-taught from tomes in the master’s library that had been written by human authors who hadn’t been initiated into the goddess’s mysteries, but perhaps …
Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a heart-shaped locket. It was made of cheap metal, probably brass, that had been burnished to look like gold. Most of the finish had rubbed off long ago, and the original chain was long gone. Larajin had replaced it with a short circle of red embroidery thread, just wide enough to slip over her hand. She’d paid only a fe
w pennies for the trinket, which she’d found in a peddler’s stall in the market. Its value to her, however, was immeasurable—not because of the locket itself but because of what it held.
Larajin lifted the locket to her nose. From within came a faint, floral scent, as fresh as the day she’d placed the petal inside the heart. She knew that if she opened the locket, the petal would still be a bright red, flecked with gold.
The flower from which it had come—known as Sune’s Kisses to humans, and Hanali’s Heart to the elves—was sacred to both goddesses. Drawing its scent into her lungs, Larajin released it in the form of a whispered prayer.
“Sune and Hanali Celanil, hear my plea and shield me from my enemies. Cloak me with your breath, and make my footsteps as light as a lover’s whispers.”
The locket in her hand grew warm. From inside her clenched fingers came a faint red glow: the sign of magic at work. Thankful that her prayers had been answered—by Sune, it would seem, since the floral scent that accompanied Hanali Celanil’s blessing was absent—Larajin slipped the string of the locket around her wrist.
She squared her shoulders and opened the door, trusting in the goddess to protect her. Even so, her heart was pounding in her throat as she descended the front steps that led to the street.
The air had a thick quality to it. A mist that glittered as though it were flecked with droplets of gold formed whorls and eddies in the street, obscuring the tallhouses on either side. Across the street, the guard stepped out of the doorway and squinted. He raised a hand, prodding the air ahead of him like a blind man, and took a hesitant step into the swirling fog.
“Hey, lads, look sharp!” he called out. “Something’s up.”
Larajin smiled. She could see him, but he, it seemed, could not see her. Gathering up her gown so it wouldn’t rustle, she crept up Sarn Street on tiptoe, barely daring to breathe. Cloaked in the magical fog, she was all but invisible to the guard who was bounding up the front steps of Stormweather Towers, tripping in his haste to block the door. She was likewise unseen by the guard at the corner, and a third, who had been approaching down the cross street, only to be confronted by a cloud of golden mist. The latter drew his sword, and used it like a cane to probe the air ahead—a cane with a deadly point. He cocked his head as Larajin’s boots made a faint scuffing sound on the cobblestones, and he turned in her direction.