Passages

by Passages (epub)

  How the Prince had achieved his goal—and then treacherously plotted to assassinate his own wife in order to become regent.

  Thelken sank down to the bench as he listened, growing paler with her every word.

  Cera explained how the Prince, Sinmon, and the other supporters had ambushed the Queen. How they had died fighting the Queen and her protectors. “There was no hunting accident,” she concluded. “But both Crowns preferred silence instead of the ugly truth.”

  “My perfect, bright boy . . .” Thelken whispered, shaking his head, the arrogance gone from his face. “Always a dreamer. Always a schemer. Always falling in with others’ plans, always looking for the easy path.” His proud features spasmed with pain before he lifted his head to glare at Cera. “You could have stopped—”

  “No,” Cera said. “I could not.” She opened her mouth to go on, to tell of the abuses she had suffered at Sinmon’s hands. But no. Might as well try to talk a sheep into shedding its fleece.

  “I don’t suppose you were pregnant when . . .” Thelken’s voice trailed off and he flushed red.

  Cera blinked and then narrowed her eyes at the thought that he’d try to claim otherwise. “No, Thelken,” she replied. “It’s been over a year.”

  He nodded and looked off in a long, painful silence. “I’ve lost both my sons . . .” he whispered.

  “You are welcome to rest here overnight,” Cera said briskly. Perhaps too firmly, but her willingness to be polite was stretching thin. “However, I am sure you will wish to depart early in the morning for your home.” She paused. “If you wish to go to Haven and demand more information, you can, of course. I doubt the Crown will offer you much more than I have. Perhaps even less.”

  “I . . .” Any argument seemed to drain out of him. “Yes . . . perhaps you are right.”

  Cera softened, a bit. The man was clearly devastated. “You have daughters, Thelken.”

  “Daughters?” Thelken looked confused. “Well, of course, but they are not capable of—”

  He cut his words off and flushed again. “Your pardon, Ceraratha.”

  “Cera,” she said calmly.

  Thelken cleared his throat. “Your father told me that as well when I went to see him. He served me jasmine tea and denied knowing any more than I did about Sinmon’s death. Does he know the truth?”

  “No. It wasn’t his story to tell,” Cera said. “It was mine.” She’d had enough; more than enough. “I will see you again at the evening meal.” She gave him a clear nod of dismissal.

  He stared for a moment, then got to his feet and jerked a shallow bow in her direction. He blundered toward the door, where she knew someone would guide him back to his chambers.

  She rose then, moved over to the balcony and looked out. Over the fields, the stock, and the people.

  Her lands, her people, her Sandbriar.

  She knew full well the pressure Thelken felt. To have an heir, someone to care for her land and people when she was no longer able. Such a thing promised continuity and stability. The pressure would mount for an heir of her body. But perhaps, just perhaps, there was another way . . .

  Jebren was working in the garden below, clipping and pruning. He didn’t seem to be suffering any lasting effects of the ewe’s ire.

  He lifted his head as if sensing her regard and spotted her. For a moment he looked embarrassed, even a bit . . . sheepish. But then he raised his hand in greeting.

  Cera lifted her hand in response.

  She’d been idle long enough. Cera stepped away from the balcony and headed to the door. There was work to be done, true enough, but first she thought she might go down to Jebren’s stillroom and ask if he knew anything about growing jasmine for tea.

  To Lady Cera of Sandbriar, in the Kingdom of Valdemar,

  Hail, Lady Cera,

  Please forgive any lingering rudeness I left in my departure. My grief overwhelmed my manners.

  My journey home gave me a great deal of time to think and consider your words. I have also sought out your father’s wise counsel. I have also consulted my wife in this matter.

  May I entreat you to take my eldest daughter as a foster for a year? With her consent, we have delayed seeking a suitor for her hand for that period. I believe that she would learn much from you in that time. Not just about the management of a holding, either.

  You would have our grateful thanks for all of your assistance.

  Thelkenpothonar, Lord of Rethwellan

  Burrowing Owl, Hidden No More

  Dayle A. Dermatis

  The Golden Compass Tavern was crowded and noisy, but unlike normal taverns, it was crowded with scholars, and the noise wasn’t from increasingly inebriated drinkers arguing with each other but rather from healthy debates between students about engineering principles.

  Almost every evening, the Blue-clad Artificer students left their Collegium after their final classes and descended upon the Golden Compass to discuss ideas and plans and concepts.

  In the back room, the Master Artificers conducted their own conversations and debates, only emerging when there was an emergency or their presence was otherwise requested, or when they wanted to honor a particularly promising student with a mentorship.

  That, Kya coveted most of all.

  Except she wasn’t a student Artificer.

  The Golden Compass was no ordinary tavern, and Kya was no ordinary barmaid.

  Kya wove between the tables, carrying plates of spice-rubbed, sizzling skewered meat or toasted cheese, bread, and drinks. As she deposited the orders at various tables, she cast a keen eye over the papers spread across the wooden surfaces.

  Here, she was known as Burrow, or Bur, a nickname her father had given her because she reminded him of a burrowing owl, quiet and smart, rumpled and hiding, but aware of her surroundings. Kya had cropped her wispy, white-blond hair short so it was easier to care for—she had more important things to think about and spend her time on, and (she hoped) she’d be less likely to be recognized—and along with her wide brown eyes and slight stature, she did rather look like an owl.

  (Unsurprisingly, her mother hated the nickname.)

  Here, nobody knew her past, and nobody knew her desires. Here, she was barely noticed as long as she brought the right food and drink to the right people. Nobody noticed her, and she preferred it that way. She assumed nobody cared. Certainly her parents didn’t, except when it came to grooming her to be someone she didn’t want to be.

  Here, she hoped, she could change her future.

  She slid a wooden plate of dough-wrapped sausages onto a table, careful to avoid the scatter of papers. All of the food was designed to be eaten with a minimum of a mess, so as to not drip on or smear the paperwork. Someone thanked her without even looking up. She lingered for a moment, perusing the nearest sketch, that of a threshing machine, with measurements and parts identified and notations on how this design would be faster.

  Kya had been obsessed with how things worked for as long as she could remember. The eldest, she was expected to take over the estate from her parents, but her interests had always diverted her attention elsewhere. When she was old enough to realize her parents despaired at all the things she took apart to learn how they worked, she had learned how to put them back together after she had examined them. Once she had narrowly escaped being run over by a wagon she was lying underneath, trying to understand how the axles and wheels worked.

  Soon after that, her parents—largely her mother—insisted she learned the noble arts, as befitting an heir. But Kya spent more time figuring out how to make the spinning wheels and looms more effective and adjusting them accordingly than she did making thread or cloth.

  Spending time weaving and creating wasn’t a bad thing, all told. And her math abilities meant she’d do a spectacular job running the estate’s finances—after all, her father said, it was
far better to handle the books personally than entrust them to someone else.

  But the idea of having to host tea parties, dress up and greet guests, or meet with the estate folk to hear their requests . . . Kya shuddered. She found curtsying and other forms of “noble behavior” to be outdated and dull, but, more importantly, she had no interest in idle chatter with people she didn’t know or care about, who didn’t share her interests.

  Here at the Golden Compass, she ached to be part of a group, adding her voice to the exchange of ideas. These were people she wanted to talk to.

  Kya lingered at another table, unnoticed, looking over the shoulder of a boy, his cheeks flushed because he kept rubbing them, as he worked on his plans for a pulley system to extract ore from a mine. He was almost there, but Kya saw an error in his calculations, one she thought would’ve been obvious.

  Part of her longed to point out his mistake. But she was just a barmaid, as far as everyone knew, and she couldn’t reveal who she really was or what her ultimate goal was.

  Although it made her uncomfortable, a twist in her stomach, she knew she could use this information when she applied to be chosen as a mentee to one of the Master Artificers. No, she would never throw someone under a wagon like that. She would bide her time, waiting for the opportunity to show off her own knowledge and skills. What that opportunity would be, unfortunately, she had no way to predict.

  But she was going to find some way, somehow, to get a mentorship.

  And she had to do it before her family found her and dragged her back home.

  Her parents hadn’t wanted her to come to the Collegium, obviously, so finally she just ran away. She couldn’t apply at the Collegium because no doubt that was the first place her parents would look for her. When she learned the Golden Compass was where the Artificer students gathered, she determined to get a job there and learn as much as she could.

  She was focused on a singular goal: to invent something so spectacular that it would convince a master to take her on as an apprentice. At that point, surely, her parents couldn’t force her to return home.

  The fact that she hadn’t heard from them or heard a rumor that they were looking for her didn’t really surprise her. She had disappointed them, and she wouldn’t be surprised if they had washed their hands of her and cast her side in favor of one of her younger siblings.

  Her mother would do that. Her father . . . maybe he would understand, after some time.

  Unless he forgot about her, too.

  * * *

  * * *

  Later than evening, the patrons had trickled away, and Kya had cleaned the rectangular wooden tables and smaller square ones, swiped up the coins left for her tips, put the chairs up, and mopped the floor. The last of the fire, mostly coals now, snapped in the hearth, sending the sweet scent of pine and smoke to accompany her work.

  She gathered up the papers the students had left behind. If they were abandoned, it meant the student didn’t need them anymore. Kya’s job was to put them in a box by the back room, and someone would pick them up and scrape them so they could be used again.

  And since they were left behind, Kya didn’t feel bad borrowing some of them to study. When she found errors, she’d correct them as an exercise for herself, before returning the paper to be scraped clean.

  Sometimes she wondered how Anders and Cosa, the proprietors of the Golden Compass, stayed in business. The students tended to nurse a single beer or two throughout the night, if even that. Kya suspected the Master Artificers helped keep the tavern going.

  She didn’t mind working late. In fact, her willingness to clean up and close down the kitchen at night made her an even more welcome candidate for the job, because it meant Anders and Cosa could have something of an evening together.

  She’d arrived without a job history (because she believed in being honest), but she’d assured them she knew how to handle customers, remember orders, and work hard. Cosa had been harder to convince, but when Kya gently pointed out a couple of ways to make their kitchen more efficient, just by reorganizing where things were stored, Cosa had looked at her with fresh eyes.

  As part of the deal, she had a tiny room upstairs in which to sleep, access to a privy, and whatever food she desired. No doubt her slight stature had made them think the latter wouldn’t cost them much.

  They didn’t realize how wonderfully the schedule worked for her: it meant her days were free to be spent at the Artificers Guild Library, greedily reading and learning everything she could. Despite her lack of Blues, nobody seemed to care that she was there, as long as she kept quiet and didn’t try to take books away or harm them. The librarians probably didn’t even notice her.

  In the kitchen, she scrubbed dishes and the stove, tidied everything away. Her eyes burned; sleep would be welcome.

  Just a few more tasks.

  Propping open the back door, she brought out a bucket of scraps and tossed them to the chickens, then came back with food for the poor: ends of bread, rinds of cheese with enough left to gnaw on, bruised fruit, slightly wilted vegetables, untouched skewers of grilled meat. She set these in a wooden box at the side of the tavern.

  One more trip, to place empty bottles out for the dairyman along with Cosa’s list of cheeses and butter for the next delivery.

  That crate deposited along the side wall of the tavern, Kya wiped her hands on her apron, faintly gray no matter how many times it had been washed—which had been many—and headed to the back door. A quick sponge bath to wipe away the sweat and food odors and then blessed sleep.

  The estate Weaponsmaster would have been disgusted by her lack of attention.

  Two men—or three? Her eyes weren’t as accustomed to the dark as she would have preferred. Quiet enough, but not assassin-silent. Just enough to grab her before she realized they were there.

  Through her fear, she assessed the situation.

  She’d been trained in crossbow and swordplay, as much as befitted someone of her stature, but she had neither weapon at hand. She had a small knife on her belt, which could do some damage, but she couldn’t get to it with her arms pinned behind her back and a strong, meaty hand over her mouth.

  Anders and Cosa also lived above the tavern, but they’d be asleep by now. A scuffle might rouse them enough to decide the chickens were in a kerfuffle, or something equally trivial.

  “Shh now, girl,” one of the men muttered, his voice low and rough. “We’re not here to hurt ya.”

  Then what was their purpose? The man didn’t elaborate, and she couldn’t ask for more information, thanks to the hand across her mouth.

  Kya forced herself to relax and stop struggling. Sometimes, going limp meant an attacker would ease his grip, and she might be able to wriggle away and run.

  Unfortunately, the man holding her was smart enough to keep his hands firmly on her arms, and when a cloth gagged her mouth and ropes bound her hands, she knew she’d have to come up with another plan.

  Her heart pounded, no matter how she tried to breathe evenly through her nose as they set her (not gently, but not terribly roughly, either) into the back of a covered wagon. No ambient light leaked through the canvas covering the wagon.

  She heard one of the men make a “Hup!” to horses, and then they were in motion.

  Why her? What was she worth to anyone? At least, not yet? Not until she proved her worth as an Artificer. She certainly was a terrible heir to her family’s estate.

  Between her shorn hair and plain clothes and the fact she’d changed her name, there was little reason to believe anyone had noticed her, much less recognized her.

  Perhaps they’d made a mistake, abducted the wrong person.

  Kya took a deep breath in, filling her lungs, softening her muscles. She had to stay calm and alert, consider structure and weaknesses, pay attention to all details.

  She pulled down her gag, but before she even su
cked in a breath to scream, she realized the folly of it. It was late enough that few people were on the streets, and the heavy canvas covering the wagon would muffle the sound anyway. The only people who were likely to hear were her abductors. Banging her feet against the sides wouldn’t stand out against the rattling wheels against the cobbles.

  They’d bound her wrists in front of her, but she hadn’t had the foresight to twist her arms so the bindings would be loose when she relaxed them.

  She explored them with her mouth, but she couldn’t get her teeth to close around the rough rope. Disheartened, she spat out a strand that had caught between her teeth. Kya crawled around the wagon on her elbows and knees until she hit the sides, her fingers scrabbling for anything sharp she might rub or cut the ropes against. She found nothing. When she crawled to the back of the wagon, she twisted onto one side so her bound hands could explore the bindings there.

  The ropes that tied the canvas cover down were affixed to hooks or something on the outer side of the wagon. She couldn’t reach to untie them even if her hands had been free.

  Bruised and bouncing on the unforgiving wooden floor of the wagon, she frantically cast about for another option.

  Another breath, then another.

  She calculated the weight of the wagon. Not heavy enough for her to knock it over.

  There was no obvious way to escape or signal for help.

  Or . . . was there?

  As she’d crawled around, she’d heard the coins she’d picked up jangling in the front pocket of her apron.

  She strained, her shoulders pulling painfully, but she managed to scoop some of the money out of the pocket. Then, it was simple enough to drop a coin out the wagon, onto the road.

  Then another.

  A little while later, another.

  With any luck, they wouldn’t be found by a street urchin who could use the money. With any luck, someone would notice the line of coins and realize they were a trail.