by GinaRJ
She inhaled a very deep breath and released it as if in surrender. “Time shall tell,” she said to the heavens in reference to the questions she had concerning the summons. “Time shall tell, and I know you are with me.”
Yes, she had searched her mind. Was there something she’d done wrong and was yet to be punished for? She couldn’t think of anything. Her fault had once upon a time been her temper, rather an inability to control it. But she’d come such a long way with it, managed to regulate her moods with ease. Other than an occasional verbal disagreement she couldn’t see where she’d done any particular thing wrong.
“I believe this is yours,” said a voice from behind her. She swung around to discover a man standing in the shadows, and then in the light of the moon as it began to peep out from the clouds. He stood not so far away, the silk scarf in hand.
Rachel had placed a palm over her heart which had for a moment ceased to beat. She sucked in a sharp breath of air, exhaling it just as quickly. “Sir, you…you startled me.”
“I am sorry,” he kindly apologized, and came closer so as to offer the lost article. Although a little shaken by the intrusion, she raised a slow hand to accept it. “Thank you,” she uncertainly managed. “It was a gift. I would not want to lose it.” Her eyes briefly studied the scarf and then the area beyond. She barely shook her head, wondering aloud, “Where did you come from?”
“The upper wall,” he told her. She glanced up to identify what he referred to. The wall above the roof of the complex had been the furthest thing from her mind up till the moment let alone the idea that somebody other than herself would be out and about at that hour.
“I have been watching you,” he said, and then, “for quite some time.”
She turned to drape the scarf over her hair, tying it back in place. “I suppose it is well if I am being watched. I am after all a stranger here.”
“Rachel the Elder,” he aloud acknowledged. “My friend should be pleased.”
“Friend.” She apprehensively studied the man. He appeared harmless. But the exterior of anything in particular could not be solely relied upon in any case.
“Jacob Trent,” he clarified, adding “I have found no fault in you…just as he had hoped I would not.”
She barely shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps I have said too much.”
Her gaze dropped while she considered the peculiar statement, but for only a short time. “Tell me, sir… why has he bid me to come here? You and he are friends,” she recalled him saying. “You must know.”
“I know very little, only that you made an impression upon him some time ago.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Your letter,” he reminded.
“It was two years ago when I sent it. I also received a message from him in return. His impression hardly seemed set in my favor. He rejected my request for funds, which was my ultimate purpose, and with an overall cruel choice of words. Has anything changed?”
“Perhaps, but it is not for me to say. You shall see and speak with him soon enough. Then you will have your answers.” He took a step back and after a slight bow turned and would have walked away.
“Sir!” she mindlessly called out, stopping him. He turned back around to both see and hear her. “Am I in any danger?”
He slid his hands into his pockets, barely shook his head and claimed, “No. In fact, I would say you have never been so safe as you are now, and will continue to be so long as you are anywhere near the Great City. Be at peace. All is well.” He bowed again and went his way, disappearing into the night.
Rachel turned, clutching her arms to herself, staring out into the darkness while the winds blew all around her. At one point she felt as if she was being watched and swung around. She glanced up and in all directions. She saw nothing out of ordinary and nobody. She relaxed. A gentle smile touched her lips. She looked up at the heavens. “See what a fool I am,” she criticized, “A fool to worry.” She smiled again and dashed toward the door, making her way to her room, to her bed and toward a peaceful rest.
CHAPTER TWO
That morning, as specified, she found Camille waiting in the exact spot she’d left her the afternoon before. The woman’s eyes dazzled with delight as Rachel descended the staircase. She raised her hands, clasping them together so that they formed one tiny fist. “Ah!” She beamed. “Beautiful!”
Rachel remembered the sight of herself from the mirror upstairs. She could not help but silently agree. The gown was lovely in itself making her look just the same. She wasn’t really sure how to think of it. She could admit to feeling Camille’s account—beautiful. But she felt extremely awkward just the same.
She had not eagerly dressed for the day…quite the contrary. More than anything she’d wanted to slip into the skirt and blouse she’d brought along for the occasion. But she hadn’t succeeded in persuading anyone in that place to allow her to do so.
She hadn’t ever worn anything other than a plain skirt and blouse—always simple and modest, just as Camille had stated. It was a part of the Sacred Oath: the one she’d gone by all these years…the only one to the best of her knowledge. Things were obviously done differently outside of Westerly…in this place, anyway.
Of course this ensemble was temporary and for a specific occasion only. Still she just didn’t feel right, as if she’d forsaken the Sacred Sisterhood altogether. How was it this Sister Camille could dress so attractively and not seem to mind it at all?
As with her attire the maidens had also taken special care with her hair, brushing and leaving it to trail down her back in thick, dark wavy locks, silky from the soap she’d used to wash it, and also dabs of pleasant smelling lotions the maidens had applied as some finishing touch. Another thing she was not prone to, nor was she sure of, for she always wore her hair in the tightest possible bun and never pampered it with anything besides a gentle brushing once in the morning and again the evening. This end result was absolutely stunning. She’d hardly believed the sight of herself after she had been directed to a mirror through which she both bitterly and impressively examined herself. She could not describe what she saw, only that while it was increasingly pleasant in one sense, it was increasingly disagreeable in another.
The analysis was short-lived. She’d quickly proceeded following the instructions set out to her the day before, meeting Camille at exactly the tenth hour in the same spot she’d left her.
“Stunning,” Camille again commended and then audibly reasoned, “I see it fits you well.”
“And with few adjustments.”
“You have a natural beauty, Rachel the Elder, but it has surely this day been enhanced. This gown also serves a reminder of what fine taste I have,” she praised. “It is perfect for the occasion. Lord Trent should be pleased. As should you,” she added with a most reassuring tone. “Do not dare for a moment be guilt-ridden. To be so elaborately adorned should be considered a privilege, not a sin. And trust me, Rachel the Elder, you have not erred in the slightest.”
The maidens entered with her suitcases and carried them to the door, putting them in the care of an escort. “Will I not be staying again?” She asked, entertaining a tug of regret. This was an environment she would’ve liked to enjoy a while longer.
“You will be supplied a room in the palace for the remainder of your stay.”
Just how long would that be, she wondered, and again, why?
Camille ushered her outside and to an awaiting carriage—a fancy outfit with rims lined of gold and a team of beautiful white horses the likes of which she had never laid eyes upon. From the lord himself, she figured. The escort lent them a hand in stepping up and inside before taking his place above.
The ride was very short. They travelled the end of the street, turning onto another and then yet another. They came to a bridge leading into the city, and then a set of gates that looked as if they could be closed at any given time. The stagecoach travelled streets paved with cobblestone,
aligned with shrubs and trees and flowers, and passed by houses, shops, places of business and marketplaces. There were people everywhere, going about their business. They stopped to stare as they went by.
Camille leaned closer to her to say, “Lord Trent’s carriage. It does draw the attention of the people.”
Rachel said nothing, but continued to stare out from the small window. Several minutes into the ride, a castle came into view. Not just a castle, but a palace; A very huge and beautiful palace.
It was breathtaking.
Camille smiled thoughtfully. “The very name of the Great City speaks for itself. It is one of the richest in all of New Ebony. The emperor’s palace is only richer than this, and one other, the palace of Emwark.”
The marketplace they passed through was full and very busy, engaged by men, women and children, some of whom also stopped what they were doing to stare as the carriage passed by. There was another set of gates, which they travelled through by permission of the guards keeping it. The entire ground was paved for a generous space. Then there were yards and lawns, very nicely decorated with flowers and trees and shrubs.
Directly outside of the palace the driver halted and they were lent a hand in stepping down. Rachel took a moment, so long as she was allowed, to stare up at the enormous structure before her.
Several guards had come out to join them. “This way,” Camille whispered to her, and they were directed along, four guards ahead of them and four behind. They were eventually joined by a slender, neatly dressed man whom Camille referred to as Percival, and who travelled along with them, placing Camille in the center of the trio they together made.
It was obvious Camille had been in this place before, perhaps numerous times. She was at perfect ease. Rachel tried to imitate her by walking tall and staring straight ahead, to not be completely distracted by the brilliant decorations they passed along the way lest she trip and stumble over her own feet or appear overly informal in comparison to her companions. She could not completely resist. Moving only her eyes, she caught brief glimpses of breathtaking paintings, rich-looking crimson curtains that put one in mind of a king’s robe, and golden statues of various sorts. The marble floor was clean and flawless, even pleasant to the very step. It was all so stunning, like from stories she had read and heard as a child, ones she’d dismissed and avoided in her later years.
The guards ahead led them to a set of doors before separating in perfect unison, two to the left and two the right. Percival stepped up between them and swung the doors opened. He stood by to allow Camille and Rachel to enter before him.
The quarters they entered were immense and extravagant as all else. Immaculate. The atmosphere was very quiet, cozy, warm, and engaged by one relaxed man who sat far across the room staring toward the opposite direction at a fireless hearth.
Percival guided them closer, stopping dead center a large crimson rug. “Milord,” he summoned, straightening slender shoulders while making the announcement, “Sister Camille of Harp. Rachel the Elder of Westerly.”
Jacob Trent turned his head toward their direction. Palms pressed down at either side of him, he pushed himself up, stood and turned altogether. Rachel had held her breath for this was a moment she had both anticipated and dreaded with all her might, the moment when she would actually meet Jacob Trent face to face, the lord of the Great City.
He was a large man—not heavy, but tall and strong-looking. His shoulders were broad and his presence a powerful one, although not in any egotistical way. He was dressed just as he’d been described…richly. Although not a youngster his face bore very few wrinkles and was quite handsome one could not help but note. His expression was warm as was the twinkle in dark brown eyes which exposed both contentment and pleasure at the sight of them. She slowly released the breath of air she’d held seeing how harmless he did appear, not matching at all the description she’d come up with by way the letter she’d received from him two years earlier.
“Sir Trent,” Camille pleasantly greeted, bowing her head in a quite sophisticated manner.
“Camille,” he returned, his voice deep but mild. He came closer, the grin never leaving his face. “A pleasure to see you.” He took her hands and dropped a kiss on her left cheek. He afterward focused upon Rachel, stepping over so as to stand directly before her. His penetrating eyes became very bright and dazzling, brimming with a pleasure she had not expected. He took a hand, raised and dropped a kiss upon it.
“Rachel the Elder.” His grin deepened, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. Camille’s silence had guaranteed it was true. It appeared he almost laughed.
“Such a pleasure to meet you,” he replied.
“And you,” she managed.
“I am pleased you made it safe and sound. It is an honor to have you here.”
Her gaze fretfully lowered, skipping about the floor. Her nerves were a bit on edge and she didn’t really know what to say.
“I trust your trip was safe,” he said.
She looked up to find a crease between concerned dark brown eyes. “It was,” she assured him.
“And that you were properly greeted upon arrival.”
“Of course,” Camille casually replied with that same considerate smile, the same calm thoughtful voice.
“I haven’t the slightest complaint,” Rachel assured him.
“Then neither do I,” he said, peering into her eyes as if to draw something out of her very soul. He turned his attention toward Percival who’d stood silently by. He nodded his head. Camille turned and Percival began escorting her from the room. Rachel’s eyes followed, watching the two of them go. The doors closed behind them and her heart skipped a couple of beats.
“Please,” Jacob began once they were alone, his grin fading away, “don’t be afraid. I did not request this audience in order to do you harm. You are safe. I promise it.”
She allowed him to take her elbow. He ushered her toward the sitting area from which he’d arisen and to a plush chair situated to the left of the fireplace. He extended a hand, offering her a seat. She slipped away from him and took it.
Noting how very tense and confused she was, he raised a hand and then lowered it while his eyes saddened. “I imagine my petition was entirely unforeseen. You must be confounded, apprehensive, worried. It is your right to be all of those things and more.”
“Why did you ask me to come here?” She directly asked.
He seemed a bit confounded, apprehensive and worried, himself. He avoided her stare for a time before coming to say, “I was eager to meet you if it may be so simply put.”
“I don’t understand,” she quietly admitted and would have mentioned his letter. But she could tell he was preparing to say something or another and did not want to interfere.
He had put his hands behind his back, his gaze to the floor. “I am a foolish man,” he alleged, “A very, very foolish man. I have always been a foolish man. I was a foolish child. A foolish young lad.” He raised his head, lifting his gaze to hers. “You recall my message from so many years ago.”
“I recall it well.”
“As I recall yours,” he quietly replied and after a brief silence eased down to claim the seat opposite her. “I have recalled it again and again and again the past several months…word for word by memory alone. I could no longer resist speaking to the one who wrote it. I regret my reaction to it. In fact, I have never been sorrier for any one thing than that response. I must have come across as something dreadful.”
She was touched by the genuine regret upon his face and in his eyes. “You weren’t kind, no,” she admitted, and gently shrugged. “But I had forgotten it; that is until this summons brought it all back to mind.”
“Had I ever been referred to as kind?” It seemed more a point than an inquiry.
“No,” she answered anyway. “But insolent rumors and even possibility mattered little when the people of Westerly were suffering. I would rather risk being refused than be guilty of doing nothing at all.”
“Now that I have met you face to face I perceive you are hardly the tyrant I’d imagined…considering the message I did receive. You were the one to write it.”
“I did not write it, no, not with my own hand…but the words were mine. But now compared to then I am a different sort of man. A very different sort of man.” He leaned back, dropping folded hands upon his stomach. “As you may know I lost yet another wife two years ago—around the time I received your letter. And then one year ago my one and only child. My son.”
“I am sorry to hear this.”
“My son,” he quietly repeated, “only seven years of age. It was a fault of my own, I imagine. I have heard it said a man will reap what he has sown, even outside of the field. I imagine I have brought devastation upon myself by bringing it upon various people over the years… in various ways. I lost my one and only child. But since then…when I lost him…” He stared out as if into nowhere. “Something happened. Something…unusual.”
She watched him closely, leaning inward, waiting for him to continue.
“I have never been one to cry. My mother claimed that even as a babe I did not cry. I simply made demands. But that day as a forty-eight year old man, when I heard that my child was dead, I found myself in the chapel, down on my knees with my face to the floor…crying—sobbing, even. With everything inside of me, I mourned…and I spoke out into the open although there was nobody there. I guess you could say I talked to God…and for the first time in my life.” He stood, placing his hands behind his back. “Something amazing happened that day…something extraordinary. It was as if some cold, heavy weight lifted off me—like some heavy invisible cloak…replaced by something else. Something good.”
“It was a conversion,” she happily told him, intrigued by his recollection of the event.