Rift

by Andrea Cremer

  “You know not of what you speak,” Father Michael said, bowing his head and making the sign of the cross. “Stop this wicked speech.”

  “Tricked!” Edmund cried out. Ember shrank into her chair as he came toward her, pointing an accusing finger. “No daughter of mine will become a witch.”

  Sensing a presence behind her, she drew a quick breath when she turned to see Barrow standing over her. His stance wasn’t aggressive, but he looked as immovable as an oak tree.

  “You’ll find no witches here, my lord,” he said, offering her father a cold smile. Ember shuddered when his hand rested on her shoulder. A strange sensation curled from the point where his fingers touched her, sliding over her skin and snatching her breath.

  Another tall figure loomed before her father, blocking his path to the table.

  Edmund Morrow lurched into Lukasz’s immense form. The knight grasped her father’s arms, steering him away from Ember.

  “Seek your bed, my lord,” Lukasz said, giving her father no choice in the matter as he pushed him to the door. “Before you do any further harm.”

  Ossia Morrow rose, pale and trembling. She didn’t look at her younger daughter when she spoke.

  “Agnes, we must see to your father.” Ember’s mother made a much more dignified exit from the hall.

  Ember watched her mother disappear into the hall and her heart pinched with grief. Despite their disapproval, she’d still hoped to part from her family on good terms. Now it seemed only bitterness would mark their farewell.

  A soft touch turned Ember’s gaze. Agnes’s slender fingers grasped hers shakily.

  “I shall miss you,” Agnes whispered.

  For the first time that day, Ember’s resolve cracked. She grabbed Agnes, pulling her into a fierce embrace. “I wish you every happiness, Agnes.”

  Agnes flinched at Ember’s words. She kissed Ember’s cheek and hurried after their mother, leaving Ember to sit alone. The scene having ended, conversation returned to its low din. Servants appeared to clean up the rubble of food and broken dishes Ember’s father had left in his wake. She twisted her hands together, unsure of what to say or do now that her family had abandoned her. Without the storm of her father’s rage commanding her attention, her mind began to reel. He’d obviously been drunk, but his furious cries had unsettled her. Of course he would be angry about losing her match to Mackenzie’s son, but he’d voiced fears about trickery and curses. How much did her father know about the secrets of Conatus? His shrieks echoed in her mind, making her shiver.

  “It’s over now.” A chair scraped over the stone floor as Alistair pulled up a seat next to her. “They’ll be gone in the morning.”

  He smiled at her, but she couldn’t return the mirthful gleam in his eye. A heavy weight pressed into her chest. The jubilation of being freed from her father’s will felt hollow now in the wake of his outburst. Her family, despite how she’d thought them burdensome, had always cared for her. Now they were gone and she faced a world filled with dangers she couldn’t imagine.

  “No daughter of mine will become a witch.”

  Father Michael seemed a good man, but if the work of Conatus was kept secret from the Church, did that mean it was somehow wicked?

  Weariness settled over her like a winter cloak. Barrow, whose hand still rested on her shoulder, must have felt her sigh.

  “You should rest,” he said. The pressure of his touch stirred something deep inside her. She wanted to take his hand in hers and feel its warmth.

  Alistair stood up. “I can show you to your room.”

  “No,” Barrow said. Grasping her arms lightly, he helped Ember rise. “I am her mentor and as such my task begins now. I will introduce her to life as one of the Guard.”

  Alistair opened his mouth to protest but was interrupted when Kael appeared. The blond warrior slung his arm around Alistair’s shoulders. “Come, good squire. Help me settle a wager. Did I not slay four foes single-handedly two nights ago?”

  Before Alistair could answer, Kael pulled him around, dragging him back to the Guard’s table.

  Barrow strode from the hall. Ember stared after him for a moment until she realized he meant for her to follow. She nearly crashed into him as she hurried into the corridor, where he stood waiting for her with the barest hint of a smile. It was one of his most frequent expressions, and it both intrigued and puzzled her.

  He didn’t give her the chance to speak, but simply turned and led her through the torch-lit manor until they reached its outer doors. Given Barrow’s height, Ember had to match each of his long strides with two of her own. His silence pressed down on her. She wondered if he regretted offering to train her and perhaps now saw her only as a burden. After her father’s behavior at the feast, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he expected her to be nothing more than a spoiled noble’s daughter.

  Soon they were crossing the dark courtyard to the barracks. In the darkness its squat, stone shape was lonely and foreboding. He turned sharply right instead, leading her up a narrow staircase that she hadn’t noticed on her prior visit. The second level of the barracks featured a long hall lined with wooden doors.

  “Our cells,” Barrow said.

  Ember glanced at him, wondering at the use of the word cell for their quarters. Perhaps this life would differ little from that of a nun.

  “You’re likely to find them simple,” he continued. “But they serve our purpose well.”

  “It’s fine,” she said.

  He led her to the very end of the hallway, stopping at the final door on the right. She spotted another staircase descending from this side of the corridor.

  Barrow followed her gaze. “These stairs lead through the armory and are the closest to the rear exit that opens onto the practice field.”

  He gestured for her to open the door they’d stopped in front of. “This will be your room.”

  Ember turned the iron handle and the door swung inward, revealing an austere, rectangular space. Her cell contained a narrow pallet. The lip of a brass chamber pot peeked out from beneath the wooden frame. A simple writing table and chair sat under the room’s only window. Three objects sat on the table: a candlestick, a clay pitcher, and a basin. A tall wardrobe was half hidden by the open door.

  “You’ll find the clothing you need there.” Barrow waved in the direction of the wardrobe. Then he coughed, looking away from her. “The belongings you brought with you from your father’s house are being stored in the manor. You’ll have no need of them here . . . nor does your cell offer space to keep them.”

  Ember thought of the trunk filled with dresses that her mother had insisted she bring. The more Ember considered their journey, and the conversations leading up to it, up to the very morning she’d been called to the Guard, the more Ember saw how deeply each of her father’s words and deeds had been full of contradiction . . . and how all of it had been tinged with fear.

  “In the event that you must dress as befits your former station,” Barrow was saying, “you will have a room in the manor where you can make ready. I should give you fair warning that even the dress you wear now will be gone when you return to your cell tomorrow night.”

  “What do you mean?” Ember asked.

  Barrow frowned. “I think it best if I leave it to Sorcha to explain this to you. I have no experience to share.”

  Ember wanted to ask further, but Barrow’s stern manner didn’t seem to welcome questions.

  Barrow went to the table and picked up the candlestick before slipping back into the hallway. A moment later he reappeared, having lit the candle from one of the corridor’s lanterns, and returned it to its place on the table. “I’ll bid you good night then, Lady Morrow.” He closed the door as he left, not waiting for her answer.

  The cloud-covered sky rendered her cell very dark. The single candle offered a subtle gleam as she moved to the wardrobe to search for nightclothes. Upon opening the wardrobe, Ember was greeted by unfamiliar garb. No kirtles, brocade, or even simple wool dre
sses lay within. Instead she found a pair of hose so fine she thought they must be silk, linen chemises, leather chausses, and the tabard worn by the Guard. She ran her fingers over supple leather breeches. She’d never worn anything like them. The clothing of the Guard was the clothing of men. The thought of dressing in their manner was both strange and exciting. On the highest shelf she found sleeping shirts, though like the rest of the wardrobe’s contents they were new and not those she’d brought from home.

  Ember shed her gown and kirtle, trading her chemise for one of the sleeping shirts. She folded her clothes and left them at the foot of the wardrobe where they could be easily collected. The floor chilled her bare feet and she scurried to the pallet. She blew out the candle before lying down. Without the help of the slender flame, the room surrendered to darkness. Ember shivered, pulling the scratchy wool blanket over her, thankful that the pallet was filled with a soft material, likely feathers or down, and not straw.

  Damp cold crept beneath her blanket and Ember considered digging her cloak out from the pile of clothing and wearing it for additional warmth. But if, as Barrow had said, the clothes she’d worn today would be gone tomorrow, then she’d be better off adjusting to her new living conditions as quickly as possible. She missed Agnes, with whom she’d shared a bed at their father’s house. Her sister’s giggles and whispers late into the night would have been as welcome in this lonely cell as her warmth.

  Thoughts of her sister made Ember feel even colder. With each day of the journey, and tonight at the feast, Agnes seemed to grow more ill and sorrowful. Ember was certain her sister was hiding something. The only regret she felt was that she wouldn’t be able to help Agnes as she prepared for her wedding.

  Ember curled into a ball and waited for the wool blanket to trap her body heat, cocooning her away from the chill of her cell. As her mind drifted, she couldn’t help but remember the warmth of thick furs and fine cloth that covered her in her father’s house.

  “The past,” she murmured, only half awake. “The past is no more.”

  She had begun to drift away from the world when quiet knocking brought her back. She slipped from her bed, the cold floor on her bare feet making her draw a hissing breath. Another knock came and when Ember opened the door, Barrow’s tall frame loomed before her.

  “Barrow,” she whispered, the sight of him shocking her heartbeat into a frenzy.

  He took a step back, as if the sight of her made him unsure of himself. Ember glanced down. Her nightshirt fit loosely and its neckline was askew, leaving one of her shoulders bare. And he’d easily glimpse her pale legs from the knees down.

  Heat crept up the back of her neck. Giving a quick shake of his head like someone trying to clear his own befuddlement, Barrow moved out of the doorway to reveal another figure standing at his back.

  “You have a visitor,” he said softly.

  “Oh, Ember.” Agnes rushed forward, throwing her arms around Ember.

  “I’ll be waiting outside and will escort you back to the manor when you’re ready, Lady Morrow,” Barrow told Agnes, and closed the door.

  Agnes was clinging to Ember, who held her sister tight. She was embarrassed that her eyes had begun to sting with tears, but having her sister close was such a comfort, and their sudden parting at dinner hadn’t been the type of good-bye Ember had hoped for.

  “Thank you for coming,” Ember said. “My heart was broken after the day our family had.”

  Agnes let Ember go, and though her face was tear-stricken, her eyes were tight with guilt.

  “What’s wrong?” Ember asked.

  “Father sent me,” Agnes murmured, casting her gaze downward.

  Ember turned her back on Agnes and crossed the room to sit on the bed.

  “But, Ember.” Agnes’s voice quivered. “I did want to come myself. I swear. I already miss you terribly and we haven’t even been parted a day.”

  Ember couldn’t bite back her anger. “Why did Father send you?”

  “Only to ask you to reconsider.” Agnes scurried to the bed, taking Ember’s hands.

  “He knows I can’t leave. And even if I could, I don’t want to,” Ember snarled, though it felt like stones were slowly being piled on her chest. It wasn’t Agnes’s fault that their father wouldn’t accept Ember’s determination to have a life of her own.

  Agnes squeezed Ember’s fingers. “You don’t have to. Father only asks . . . no, pleads for you to make a different choice. One that doesn’t cut you off from your family.”

  Ember sat quietly, looking into her sister’s reddened eyes.

  “I know you don’t want to surrender to Father’s will,” Agnes said. “But what of me? Of Mother?”

  “What would you have me do?” Ember whispered.

  “Couldn’t you serve Conatus some other way?” Agnes asked. “Must you become a warrior?”

  Ember gritted her teeth. “Father’s only concern is that he’s still able to marry me off.”

  “You’re right,” Agnes agreed, surprising Ember. “But I would wish the joys of marriage and motherhood upon my sister. Joys we could share.”

  Ember pulled her hands free of Agnes’s grip with a sigh. “Agnes, you are so dear to me, but you’ve never understood who I am.”

  “Do you really want to be like Father’s men?” Agnes frowned. “Those horrid brutes?”

  Ember thought of the Guard standing around her, welcoming her to their ranks. She remembered the terrible beauty of Barrow and Kael battling on the practice field. Most of all, she recalled the pure exhilaration of fighting alone, of opposing a true foe, and of winning. She’d never felt such joy and she wouldn’t give that up. Not even for her sister.

  “The Conatus Guard are nothing like Father’s men,” Ember said quietly. She focused a piercing gaze on Agnes. “But you know that. You saw Barrow fight them.”

  When Ember said Barrow’s name, a smile formed on her lips.

  Agnes bowed her head. “Tearmunn serves a noble purpose. I won’t deny that. But surely you needn’t fight—”

  “I do,” Ember interrupted. “I will miss you every day, Agnes. But this is what I’ve longed for, always. There is no other choice for me.”

  She smiled gently at Agnes. “Imagine how you felt when you learned you were to marry—how happy you were. That is how happy I am.”

  Agnes made a choking sound that became a sob. She didn’t speak, only nodded. Rather unsteadily, Agnes rose and moved to the door. Before she opened it, she looked over her shoulder.

  “I wish you well, sister,” Agnes told her. She paused, lowering her voice. “Would that I had the happiness you think I do.”

  Ember stood up. “Agnes—”

  But Agnes shook her head, opened the door, and slipped out, leaving Ember alone. She stood still for a few minutes and stared at the door while an emptiness made her feel cold to her very bones. Rather numbly, Ember lay down and pulled the wool blanket up her chin. She let a restless sleep take her, not knowing if it would bring sweet dreams of the future or nightmares.

  EIGHT

  MORNING LIGHT WOKE Ember just before a knock came on her door. She sat up, breathless, not remembering where she was. The knock came again, more insistent this time.

  “Ember!”

  It was Alistair’s voice that jarred her memory. She scrambled out of bed, panicked that she might already be late for her first day with the Guard. She bit her lip, not wanting to cry out as her feet touched the icy floor.

  “I’m awake,” she called.

  The door opened and Alistair’s head poked in. “Hungry?”

  Ember smiled at the sight of her friend’s familiar grin. “I am.”

  “Get dressed and come to the hall,” he said. “You’ll need your strength.”

  Then he was gone. Ember had no idea what the day might bring. She only hoped she could meet any challenges thrown her way. She took the pitcher from the table, grimacing when she saw the thin layer of ice covering the water inside. Cracking open the ice with her fing
ers, she poured the water into the basin. She squealed a little as she splashed the freezing water over her face, but she hoped not so loudly that anyone heard.

  Dressing would be her first adventure of the day. She had just pulled on her hose and had one leg in her leather breeches when another knock came at the door.

  “I’m almost ready, Alistair,” she called.

  But the face that appeared when the door opened was not Alistair’s.

  “And I’m sure he can’t wait to see you.” Sorcha smiled.

  Ember had been on one foot preparing to draw up the other leg of her breeches and nearly fell over.

  Sorcha laughed. “I’m here because Barrow thought you might need some assistance with your clothes.”

  “Really, I’m doing fine,” Ember said, quickly pulling on the chausses. “You startled me.”

  “Mmmm.” Sorcha came into the room. She was holding a long, narrow band of cloth in her hands. “I’m sure. That’s not what I’m here for. Breeches are easy.”

  Ember frowned as she tied the laces of her chausses to her cotton braies. “And shirts are hard?” It was odd, but not unpleasant, to have layers of fabric wrapped around her legs rather than the broad press of skirts.

  Sorcha laughed again. “Not really. But you’ll want something more than a shirt. Trust me. Take your nightclothes off.”

  Ember pulled her sleeping shirt over her head.

  “Now lift your arms,” Sorcha said.

  “Why?” Ember asked, though she complied.

  “You’ll see.” Sorcha began winding soft fabric around Ember’s body, starting just below her armpits. Sorcha kept the fabric tight, which bound Ember’s breasts firmly to her chest, considerably flattening her curves. The wrapping stopped in line with Ember’s lower ribs.

  “When you practice doing this yourself, be certain you’ve bound the cloth tightly enough,” Sorcha said. “You don’t want it coming apart when you’re in the middle of a fight.”

  Ember watched as Sorcha forced the end of the band beneath the wrapped fabric and over again, holding it in place.