Strayborn

by E E Rawls

  “Your Grace Chatsalott? Lord Hercule?” A soft note spoke from the staircase behind them. Hercule turned to the faeryn slave, who was barely a year younger than himself.

  Her eyes were mint green, pupils a deeper green, set in a petite face like angel-cake. Honey-hair, a mix of flaxen highlights and amber streaks, was tied back in a thick, intricate braid down her back. A handful of loose bangs trailed down her left cheek, shading one mint eye. In the middle of her back, wings like a green luna moth’s shimmered in the hallway lamplight. Though pretty, they hung limp and lifeless, folded behind her like wilted petals—nothing of how alive they’d once been when she first arrived at the mansion. He often wondered what had made them change.

  “The dining room is prepared, dinner is waiting to be served...when you are ready, Your Grace, Milord.” The slave girl added a curtsy to each of them.

  Mother paused from her ceaseless chatter, confused at first, then realized what time it was. “Oh! Oh gracious me, look at the time, a half-hour late! Why wasn’t dinner ready sooner? It’s past the proper time, in my standards.” She huffed.

  “The chef has been in mourning for a relative these past few days, Your Grace, but he’s been trying his best,” the faeryn cut in, eyes lowered respectfully.

  “Oh? Is that right? He’s— Ah, I remember now! But I do not think that is a good enough excuse to skimp out on one’s duties. Why, if noblewomen sat around every time they felt dreary, nothing would ever get done around the house.”

  Hercule held in a snarky comment. Noble ladies never did anything around the house—it was servants and slaves who did all the work.

  The faeryn, Marigold, cut in once more, this time her expression flat as stone as she added quite bluntly, “...And because you told him to wait until later. You were full from your evening tea, I believe were your words.”

  “I most definitely did not—! Oh, I did? Oh yes, yes. I did. Ahaha! But I’m well and ready for dinner now. Not too much, mind you. A lady must keep her figuuure,” Mother prattled.

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Marigold’s expression remained flat.

  Hercule hid his amusement and left Mother to chatter on and on to the air, silently thanking Marigold for the distraction as he slipped away. It was time for a quick meal, then off to bed.

  THE DINING TABLE SPARKLED with extravagant dinnerware and a three-course meal. Hercule ate in a hurry, even if it was improper, while Mother babbled on about the day’s gossip, and Father was lost in his own thoughts, mechanically forking the cream pasta. Hercule paid them no attention, until Mother suddenly mentioned the Festival Duel.

  “What a dreadful thing! A human, can you believe it? A creature like that wanting to train as a Draev Guardian? How’s such nonsense possible! It shouldn’t be allowed, in my opinion—and in my friends’ opinions, too. It’s been the gossip all day. I’m surprised a riot hasn’t started,” said Mother.

  Mother’s faeryn slave and Marigold both waited by the wall, alongside the head butler, ready to refill glasses and take away finished plates. Their very long ears were tilted forward to listen.

  “Do you know that human person, daaarling?” Chatsalott craned her neck.

  Hercule averted his gaze from her. “I’ve...seen him around,” he replied impassively. No reason to get Mother in a fit. She didn’t need to know the half-human was in Harlow with him.

  Father spoke suddenly, “I have decided. It is not proper.”

  Hercule choked on his potato-leek soup. Did he mean to do something about Cyrus?

  “Not proper for the heir of Dragonsbane to be away without his personal slave-attendant,” Father finished. “A House slave to do your laundry, serve meals and such, instead of using servants from Draevensett whom we know nothing of.”

  Hercule paused mid-chew, and from the corner of his eye noticed Marigold stiffen. How this topic had come up, he had no idea, but at least it didn’t involve Cyrus. Perhaps Father had tuned out Mother’s voice and hadn’t heard a word she said. Neither of them had attended the Festival Duel.

  “Several of the other noblesons keep their House’s personal attendants with them in Draevensett,” continued Father.

  Hercule frowned; he knew where this was going.

  “It is a sign of sophistication these days. Without it, a House may be viewed as too cheap to provide the best of comfort for its heir. And I will not have the Dragonsbane House talked about as being cheap. Therefore,” Father’s tone firmed, and Hercule swallowed, “I have arranged for your personal slave-attendant to live in Draevensett among the school’s servants. She will be responsible for your care and daily chores.”

  A faint gasp escaped Marigold, in the same moment that a frustrated grunt escaped Hercule. “Father, I don’t need—”

  “End of discussion. For House Dragonsbane’s image, this is how it will be. That is final.”

  Hercule’s jaw clicked shut, struggling to hold in his rising temper. He knew it was no use arguing.

  Why did this nonsense have to come up now? What idiot noble started this trend? He’d ring their silken neck!

  Hercule could just picture it: Aken laughing his head off, and all of Harlow shooting disdainful looks at the snooty nobleson with his faeryn slave-attendant doing his laundry... What an embarrasement!

  He was already labeled the “rich brat” enough. Imagine what they’d call him now?

  ‘Why can’t I just have a normal life?’ he silently wished, and not for the first time.

  Chapter 41

  Cyrus couldn’t sleep, couldn’t rest, not after the wild ordeal she’d survived through. Images of Doughboy kept flashing in her head—flashbacks of pounding fists and near misses seeking to flatten her. And then the images of something else surfaced, like bubbles rising from her mind’s darkest depths: the nightmare showing Mother’s lovely hair and pooling blood, and the mist parting to reveal a boy standing over her...

  Cyrus sat up.

  Why did she see young Master Nephryte in that nightmare of mist and murder? She scooted the rest of the way out of bed, shouldered on a robe, and padded her way silently down Harlow’s corridor, cast in the patterened shadows of the windows as moonlight crept between the dwindling rainclouds.

  It was time to learn the truth. Now or never, she had to ask.

  Her knock was faint on the door, but his sharp ears heard all the same and he let her inside. Master Nephryte motioned she take a seat by the lit fireplace. He adjusted a lavender robe over his pajamas. “I see something is troubling you,” he noted, and took a seat opposite her. His eyes glowed like rivers in the dull light.

  Cyrus fingered the white scarring around her wrists, visible now without the gloves on. Her heart was a thumping rabbit’s foot, and she couldn’t meet his gaze directly.

  The Master laced his fingers, leaned back and waited. Her mouth opened and closed several times, before she finally let the words spill out. “Did you know my mother?”

  It shocked her ears to hear herself finally say it out loud, and fear built up in her chest.

  Master Nephryte regarded her for one lengthy moment, then straightened. “You remember me, then?”

  Her breath held, her ribs freezing up, she could do no more than nod.

  “I won’t pretend with you, Cyrus,” Nephryte said carefully. “I was there. Though I’m surprised a young child could remember... Then again, traumatic experiences do tend to stick in the mind, no matter what age, don’t they?”

  She couldn’t reply.

  “Should I recall that memory more clearly for you, now?” He crossed his legs and folded his hands, ready to recount that fateful day.

  The Outer Woods, 10 Years Ago

  THE FIRST RAYS OF DAWN slanted color through night’s grip on the land, and thirteen-year-old Nephryte was jogging through the cool of the early woods.

  He came around a cluster of birch trees wreathed in mist, when something red caught his eye.

  He slowed and then pivoted, almost stumbling over a woman lying on the ground. A
fter catching his balance, he saw that the woman was motionless, her scarlet hair mingled with a pool of blood.

  Nephryte kneeled beside the body, the shock of it making him choke, and he quickly felt for a pulse.

  There was none.

  Horrified, he sat back on his heels and scanned the surrounding trees. All was quiet, still as death in the woods, the person responsible long since gone.

  Blood seeped from the woman’s chest, a strange wound etched in black. What could cause this? The work of an unusual Ability? But that meant this was the work of a vempar.

  He found a spot showing two different sets of tracks: More than one vempar, then.

  Nephryte rubbed his eyes, contemplating what to do.

  Who was this woman? How could someone do this to her?

  Uh...uhu...uhu...

  His ears twitched to the side. That sound, it was like whimpering.

  Nephryte rose, careful not to make noise, and followed the whimper to the base of an old tree, where there was a dug-out tunnel of an animal den.

  He hesitated, not wanting to get bitten if it was an animal—he’d Heal, but it’d still hurt.

  Uh...uhu...

  Animals couldn’t whimper like that, though, could they?

  Nephryte tensed and reached his arm down into the murky darkness of the den. His fingers brushed against what felt like fabric. And the fabric shuddered, drawing back farther.

  He retracted his arm and sat back, instead trying to coax whatever was down there with his voice. “Is someone there? It’s safe now. You can come out. I won’t hurt you.”

  He peered inside the dirt tunnel as something shuffled about, and then a mop of curly red hair appeared. A head poked out of the den, and twin lilac eyes looked up at him. Nephryte swallowed his surprise, and reached to lift the child the rest of the way out. She couldn’t be more than two years old.

  He held her for a moment, fascinated, and then she cried.

  “Mommy! Uhuuu, I want Mommy!”

  A lump caught in his throat. He wasn’t sure what to do with her, and so set her down. But she crawled faster than he expected and headed toward the still form of what had been her mother.

  He stopped the child just in time, holding her back by the shoulders.

  She tugged and squirmed, her attention fixed on the body. Nephryte noticed blood on his shirt, and hoped it hadn’t frightened the child. What should he do? Was she too young to understand the situation?

  He sat down, and forced her to sit too, using air to hold her in place. “You can’t go to Mommy. She’s passed away.”

  “Mommy’s there. I want Mommy!” the girl struggled.

  Nephryte inhaled. How could he explain this?

  “Have you ever seen a butterfly or bumblebee stop moving?” he asked, and the child turned her head to him. “They get hurt, and don’t ever wake up?”

  The child’s head bobbed a little.

  “That happens to people, too.”

  “Mommy won’t wake up?” Panic filled the girl’s voice, and he wondered if he’d made a mistake letting her know.

  “Ah, I’m not the best with kids...” he mumbled, scratching his head. Then he leaned down to her height, “Do you have other family? A daddy?”

  “Daddy,” she repeated.

  Something seemed off about her. He brushed her upper lip back and noticed. “No fangs?” He freed an ear from her red waves. “And these aren’t vempar ears. They’re more like...a human’s? But your mother is vempar.” He pondered. “Oh no. Is your daddy human?”

  She cocked her head, not understanding the question.

  “This’ll complicate things...” He sighed.

  Nephryte let the child say goodbye to her mother—letting her get close enough, but not too close. It took a long time of waiting and staring at the body before she finally said, “Bu-bye, Mommy.” She hiccupped, little hands scrubbing tears as they wet her face. She didn’t want to leave, didn’t want to say goodbye, and he still wasn’t sure she fully understood. It was an effort to pull her away.

  “I’ll take care of your mother later, I promise. But you can’t stay here. You need to see your daddy.” He ruffled the back of her head. Whether she understood or not, she didn’t protest when he picked her up.

  Nephryte held the child in his arms, sheltered under his cloak, and he activated his Ability, manipulating the air to carry them up above the woods. The nearest human residence he knew of was Elvenstone, and it was with much caution that he flew and approached the border.

  The moment he came within view of the town rooftops, a volley of bullets fired.

  With a wave of his free hand the bullets were stopped midair and left hanging, as he glided down to the front gate, alighting with grace.

  Human guards held gunswords at the ready, all except for one human, whose attire he recognized to be that of an Argos. The Argos approached him at the gate with a harsh scowl.

  “Just because there’s a temporary truce between our races, while battling those goblin vermin, doesn’t mean you’re welcome here. Vempar.” He spat. “But I’m guessing you’d already know that?”

  Nephryte nodded curtly, and unwrapped the child from his cloak. “I’m searching for this child’s father. I found her in the woods near her mother’s body.”

  The Argos’s eyes narrowed, neck craning to get a look.

  “She’s half-human. You must know who her family is?” asked Nephryte.

  “Half-human?” The Argos spat. “Is there a name?”

  Nephryte sat the child up in his arms, meeting her lilac gaze. “What’s your name, hm? What did Mommy call you?”

  She flopped her head from side to side. “My name Swyrus,” she tried to pronounce.

  “Swyrus?” Nephryte gave her a funny look, and she giggled. “Oh, you mean Cyrus, like the constellation?”

  “Swyrus constetashen~!” she sing-songed.

  “Cyrus...” The Argos considered, then commanded him: “Stay put,” as he vanished back inside the gate. Long minutes passed until he returned, and this time with another human in tow. “That her?”

  The grim expression of the human he’d brought with him could have melted stone. “Yeah. Looks like her,” the man said. He stopped ten feet from Nephryte before motioning with a hand. “Let her down. I’m her father.”

  Nephryte didn’t like the look of him. “I can show you where the mother is, if you want to bury her,” he offered.

  “How’d she die?” the man asked instead, with bitter intensity.

  Nephryte hesitated. This wouldn’t sound good coming from him. “It looked like she was murdered...by vempars.”

  The father didn’t seem phased by the news, just a twitch in the jaw. “Vempars killing vempars. Guess you hunt your own kind as much as you hunt others,” he snorted. “Keep the body with your own people. But hand over my child.”

  A part of Nephryte held Cyrus closer. He almost didn’t want to hand her over, which surprised him. The child clung tighter to him, too, pouty cheeks ready to cry. If only he could keep her...but he was young, and still in school. He could never give her the time and attention she would need—children were not pets you could just leave at home and come back to.

  With a heavy heart Nephryte set her down, standing her feet on the grass. “There’s your daddy, see? Go on. Go to him,” he motioned.

  She took a few wobbly steps, and Nephryte quietly backed away.

  But then she turned and ran back to his leg, hugging him. He patted her back. “Don’t want to say bye, hm? But he’s your daddy. This is your home, right?” For the second time he wondered if he was making the right choice, if a half-blood child would be taken care of or hated here among humans.

  He ruffled a hand through her hair. “Maybe we’ll meet again, someday. Anything is possible.” He smiled down fondly. “I know another child, a rambunctious blond who you’d be good friends with.” He chuckled, thinking about him. “Let’s meet again, okay? It’s a promise.” Her small hands fit in his.

&nbs
p; He let her go then, hurrying up into the sky before she could chase after him.

  She cried, hand reaching for his vanishing form, before the human picked her up.

  Nephryte didn’t turn back. He couldn’t.

  Present Day

  The first streaks of dawn gave color to the darkness, while a nightingale trilled to finish its song, and Cyrus approached the gravestone.

  There was no name but “Loving Mother” engraved on the front. A small vase for flowers stood beside, and a creeping vine sought to climb the stone as it already had over other graves—she yanked chunks of it away.

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she had asked Master Nephryte, and he looked down at her with something between fondness and sadness.

  “And bring up bad memories for you?” he had replied. “I couldn’t make you relive such a painful scar, Cyrus. Though I admit,” a smile tugged at him, “I am glad you didn’t forget me. I certainly never forgot you.” He’d then ruffled the top of her hair.

  Now, he waited several steps back, as Cyrus reunited with her mother for the first time since that tragic day.

  She’d been there when Mother died, hidden safely in an animal den. Mother had tried to protect her—and succeeded—but she hadn’t been able to protect herself.

  Cyrus wasn’t sure before today if she’d been there in the woods with Mother, always assuming the killer would have ended her life, too, if she had been. But now the truth rested before her—if only it could help catch the murderers.

  Cyrus held in a breath, and fiddled with a handful of daises and daffodils before fitting them inside the little vase, getting on her knees.

  “Hi, Mom.” Her fingers reached to brush the stone, still damp from the morning dew. She smiled through tears. “I finally made it back to you.”

  As the sky cast off night’s dark cloak, warm light caressed her cheeks and the gravestone. So many years of wondering and heartache, and getting no answers, but at last, she’d found her. The memories of Mother’s love were renewed in her mind, even if blurred at the edges.