Philippa merely offered a cool smile. “Master Howell and I made this arrangement and signed the documents on his last visit. Three months ago.” She raised a carefully groomed black eyebrow as she added, “You were too lost in your selfish dramatics to mind our visitors such as Master Howell.”
“How could you be so cruel?” she countered, barely able to speak past the knot in her throat. “Baba had just died!” She blinked away the threat of tears, knowing she couldn’t show weakness in front of the two drakes wearing human skins. Turning to Howell, Damaris met his gaze and held it. “How much was she indebted to you? I have a dowry that can be used to pay off those debts.”
“Not anymore,” Philippa hissed. “The dowry reverts to me and is no longer accessible to an indentured girl. I shall use it to set Ella and myself up in a new house in the cities where we belong. You . . . You will go with Master Howell. But, first you will change into your appropriate attire. We wouldn’t want anyone to be misled into thinking you were anything save indentured.”
There was a crash of dishes shattering against the smooth wooden floor. Damaris spun to see Ella had dropped a tea tray as she gaped at her mother. “Mother, no! Damaris is our family!”
Philippa sniffed. “She is nothing of the sort to us. We haven’t a drop of Kushite blood in our veins. And, she is not a daughter to me.” She glided over to Ella and took her by the wrist. “Come along, a lady should never make a scene over rearranging the household. Sacrifices are sometimes a necessity.”
“She’s not a servant!” Ella screeched.
Damaris moved to catch the younger girl’s eyes and shook her head. “Ella, enough. It will be all right.”
Ella stared at her, mouth gaping, and large teardrops spilling over her lashes. “No it won’t!”
“Silence!” Philippa hissed. “She is nothing to us. Not anymore. I shall hear no more of her or this matter. Master Howell, please take your indentured and leave.”
“Of course, Lady Tremblay. Come along, girl, and change into those robes at once.”
Damaris narrowed her eyes at him. “I cannot do both at once. You should choose your orders more carefully.”
Howell’s ruddy complexion grew mottled then he jerked his chin toward to the door. “Avail yourself of a room and change. Do not attempt to run or I shall deal with you harshly.”
She bit back a caustic reply and merely dipped her head. He was right, unfortunately. Attempting to flee this horrible trick would only result in giving him more leeway to cause her harm. She passed Ella and her mother, not able to speak past the growing knot in her throat. She ended up in her chamber out of habit more than conscious effort.
She changed from her kirtle into the pale blue robe and then moved to stare out the window. The gardens spread out below, a sight that usually gave her comfort, but now it only echoed the emptiness around her. She pressed her fist against her mouth to keep from making any sound.
She knew she couldn’t tarry without risking Howell’s ire. And, that snake was not to be trusted when he was in a decent mood. She didn’t let herself look at the small box on her dressing table, at the jewelry left behind by her mother. Anything she attempted to take would be snatched away by Howell since indentured servants owned nothing until their debts were worked off. It was somehow better to allow the jewelry to be sold to help Ella than to see it in Howell’s hands.
Squaring her shoulders, Damaris raised her chin even as she left the cowl down in a small act of defiance. She wanted Philippa to see she wasn’t broken by this latest betrayal and, more importantly, she wanted Ella to see the same.
She descended the stairs in silence. Hanna, Philippa’s maid was likely upstairs still, and Cook . . . Well, she would be in the kitchen, which she had fully claimed as her domain since the day Baba had hired her in Belfarad. There would be no farewells granted. Howell wouldn’t be a kind master to his indentured servant, certainly not to the point of indulging farewells to her old life.
“Damaris!”
The call was the only warning before Ella crashed into her, wrapping her slender arms around her waist in a hug that felt more like a vise. Damaris returned the hug, ducking her head to press a kiss against Ella’s head before whispering in her ear, “Be kind to her. Remember what Baba always said. It is those who are most lacking in kindness to others who need it the most. But, learn to stand on your own feet as well.”
“He didn’t say that,” came the faint whisper.
She smiled, as she whispered back, “No I am saying that. Be kind, but wise. Be kind, but strong enough to say no when that is the kindest thing to say.”
“Ella!”
“Girl!”
Damaris squeezed Ella once more and moved away. She walked toward the green viper of a man. He yanked her cowl up though he didn’t say a word about it. Instead, he nodded to the door. “Let us go. We have other estates to visit.”
She followed him to a covered wagon drawn by mountain ponies. The shaggy beasts didn’t even twitch an ear at their approach. Howell gestured impatiently toward the back of the wagon. “In with you, girl.”
“How long?” When he merely stared at her, she quietly clarified, “How long is my indenture to last? Any binding contract of indenture must specify a term of service shorter than one’s lifespan or it will be considered in violation of the law against slavery. And, it cannot be passed down to one’s children. Therefore, you must show me the contract of indenture so I know the terms as is dictated by law.”
Howell drew a folded parchment out of his belt pouch and opened it slowly. He smirked as he murmured, “I see no reason to read the whole of it. Lady Tremblay signed her ward, Damaris Desrosiers, into indenture to Elias Howell for the term of ten years with the understanding that the term of indenture shall increase by five years should the servant get with child before the term of her indenture ends.” He lowered the parchment and began to fold it as he added, “Of course, it is common knowledge that you are not free to marry while indentured unless I grant permission. Now, get in the wagon.”
For a moment she considered protesting or fighting. However, this was one time when the wisest thing was to cooperate. Especially, since she had no protectors with her father’s death. For now, she was trapped. Shaddai willing, she would find a way out or else she feared the next ten years would be little better than death. Shaddai willing . . .
* * *
Three weeks of travel with Howell proved almost as arduous as she had feared. The man lacked any sort of decent care or kindness toward anyone beneath him in rank. Even the sturdy mountain ponies weren’t free from his ire as he often resorted to using the whip to spur them on whenever he felt they moved too slowly for his liking. They often did.
Damaris had been sparred their fate thus far. Yet, there were times when he gave her such a black look that she feared he would turn the whip on her if it had been within reach. She’d stayed quiet and meek, all to avoid drawing the man’s temper. After they left the last village, she had feared what he would do without any urgent need to travel yet he kept pushing the ponies. Each day ended with him drinking more wine than one man should consume until he passed out in a snoring heap beside the remnants of the campfire.
He didn’t say where they were going or why it was so urgent. And, she’d dared not ask him anything. Instead, she remained huddled in the back corner of the wagon partially hidden by the bolts of fabric and the carefully wrapped packages of rich clothing.
A shout woke her out of her light doze. Not Howell’s shout, that she knew too well, but the shout of a stranger. Or, rather, of multiple strangers as the shout was echoed and carried on by more voices. She couldn’t see Howell since he’d tied the front flap of canvas down. As the wagon continued forward, she heard a change in the sound of the ponies’ hoofbeats and in the wagon wheels themselves. They weren’t bouncing over a trail anymore. The path had smoothed so the wagon didn’t rock quite so vigorously, and she was able to extract herself from her little corner. Creeping to the
wagon’s tail, she loosened the ties securing the canvas to the wagon just enough so she could peek out. She caught a glimpse of white fabric and then of wooden buildings with thatched rooves. Another village?
The wagon continued rolling, leaving the village in their wake, and then the wheels bounced over something causing her to fall back. She braced herself with one hand against the bottom of the wagon and the other gripping the edge of the wagon. If she toppled into the bolts of fabrics and upset them in any way, Howell wouldn’t be beyond delivering a slap across her face for it. He’d made it abundantly clear that he considered his goods of far higher value than Damaris herself.
Once the wagon settled, she crept back to the canvas and peeked out once more. Grey stone met her gaze. Stone as far as she could see. Then, as the wagon rolled on, she caught a glimpse of white fabric again. Only this time she could see better. The white swathes of fabric were actually capes hanging down the backs of men moving along the top of the massive stone wall they’d passed through into an inner bailey.
“Girl!”
Damaris jumped and quickly looked over her shoulder only to find that Howell was barking through the canvas instead of pulling it aside. His words sounded strained beneath the typical grumble, however. “Begin unloading as soon as we stop or you will not eat tonight.”
“I understand,” she murmured, knowing he’d want some sort of acknowledgement.
The wagon rolled to a stop, and then rocked slightly as Howell climbed out of the driver’s seat. She scrambled to untie the canvas flap and then tie it back. The noise of a busy keep swept over her, and she was hard pressed not to stare at the people around them. She faltered as she realized more and more of the soldiers with white cloaks were staring at her.
“What are you doing?” Howell’s face was nearly purple as he gestured sharply and hissed, “Get down from there, and get to work!”
She slipped from the back of the wagon and for a moment, she was certain Howell would strike her. Then, a rich baritone echoed through the air. “Howell, what is this?”
Howell turned an unhealthy color of ashy paste as the blood drained from his cheeks. He turned and scurried in the direction of the voice. She didn’t pay heed to the new conversation, however, as her attention was snared by the odd sight of a tall blond man striding across the inner bailey, as brawny as any blacksmith though the black tabard and mail shirt beneath it denied the label, with a woman whose curly black hair and warm brown skin pointed to Kushite blood gathered in his arms. Even more bewildering was the sight of an elderly woman chasing after him, her snow white hair carefully pinned and bundles of herbs dangling from her belt, the sure sign of a healer. The healer scowled as they approached a hippogriff.
“The girl is my indentured servant, my lord.”
Damaris quickly turned and reached for a bolt of green fabric that reminded her of a fresh unopened rosebud.
“Stop.”
The baritone didn’t rumble with threat or deviate from the steady calm and yet . . . She obeyed. Stepping away from the wagon, she noted that Howell now scurried at the elbow of a tall dark haired man. He wasn’t as broad in the shoulders as the blond warrior; however, there was an air of readiness and command despite his lean stature. He wore a white cloak like the rest of the soldiers, yet there were a few differences. The pale grey of his tunic was of richer wool than the other men’s, though unadorned, and his leather jerkin was well oiled. His dark brown hair hung in wild waves, brushing the top of his shoulders, pushed about the wind now sweeping through the bailey. Dark brown eyes studied her with an intensity that made her feel . . . small though he did not tower over her. A light layer of stubble covered his cheeks’ faded tan, attesting to long hours of darkness during winter in the far northern mountains of Cian Gwenith and that summer had not quite seized the northernmost valleys.
The stranger’s searching gaze seemed to pierce her, and she was almost tempted to push back her cowl so she could gain a better look at him.
“My lord Silvermere, you must understand that I—”
“Did not have permission to bind another into service to you,” the man interrupted, a fierceness leaping into his eyes but not his voice as he slowly turned his head to look at Howell. “Now tell me, Master Howell, have the laws changed that a mere cloth merchant who is indebted to an earl may take a . . . servant of indenture?”
The sudden sensation that her future was being rewritten swept over Damaris, as Howell murmured obsequiously, “No, my lord. However, if the earl would be inclined to hear my story . . .”
“I know your story,” the Earl of Silvermere stated as his dark brown eyes once more turned to her, rooting her to the spot. She couldn’t look away, could hardly think of what to say, so she stayed silent. After another long moment of his gaze boring into her, the earl added in a low tone, “I am far more interested in her story.”
* * *
Tancred, Earl of Silvermere, bit back the instinctive urge to breathe a warning flame toward the sniveling drake of a man as Howell squawked in insult. “My lord, I must protest. The girl is a known liar!”
He slowly turned to look down at the man and raised an eyebrow. “I suppose you are an expert on the matter, Howell.” The merchant grew flushed and then paled once more before Tancred continued, “However, given our past dealings, I do not find myself inclined to believe a single utterance that emerges from your mouth.”
The pale blue cowl shadowed most of the girl’s features, yet he caught a hint of a smile out of the corner of his eye. Now, that he found intriguing. He ignored Howell’s spluttering protests as he returned to studying the girl before him. Her warm brown skin and the curly black hair peeking out from beneath her cowl marked her as a Kushite. Yet, it was her dark brown eyes that caught his attention the most as they watched him with wariness and an utter lack of fear. Something that certainly appealed given how often humans reacted to being confronted by authority with fear, hostility, or annoying sycophancy.
He inhaled, testing her scent . . . Pure human. Something that was almost . . . disappointing despite the fact that allowing another dragon to enter Silvermere would have been too great a risk. Recalling himself, Tancred spoke with the same steady calm he used to soothe petitioners and children alike. “How did you come to be indentured?”
Dark brown eyes gleamed with intelligence as she answered in the exact same tone, “I was indentured into Howell’s service by my stepmother.”
He barely kept from laughing at the small show of rebellion. This one still had her spirit. A good thing from where he stood. The amusement faded when he heard the whole of her answer, however. Her father’s wife had surrendered her into an arrangement that was little better than slavery? Dragons had servants and bound companions, of course, but this practice of years of unpaid service was . . . intolerable. Ten years in their midst, and he still did not understand human reasoning on this matter when their own laws forbade slavery.
Tancred frowned. “Then, you are not of age?”
“I turned sixteen two months past,” she stated simply. Her expression tightened as she continued, “However, my stepmother signed me into indenture two months prior to my coming of age.”
“My lord,” Howell interjected, “indentures are allowed to be signed by guardians and parents on any child who is four and ten years of age while some begin at the tender age of ten, when the child is ready to be apprenticed. It is common practice when a family falls into hard times.”
“And, have you fallen into hard times?” he asked, ignoring the man.
The girl’s gaze had lowered only to rise once more to meet his own. She spread her hands out. “I stand before you because my father died four months past.”
“You see, my lord? The girl testifies that her indenture was handled justly. It is permissible under kingdom laws. ”
Tancred cast the merchant a cold look that caused him to nearly stumble over the hem of his bright green robes as he instinctively backed away. Keeping careful control no
t to lose his human appearance, Tancred stated firmly, “What is permissible is not always what is right, much less what should be done. Be that as it may, there is still the matter of your lack of permission to accept indentures for you are still indebted to me for your attempts at cheating me last year.”
Howell’s expression turned sickly as he realized several of Tancred’s men stood about him now. No doubt, he knew they were prepared to seize him at the proper signal. His eyes grew wild and he whipped his head around to face Tancred once more. “My lord! I must protest . . . Last year was merely a misunderstanding.”
“No, you attempted to pass off inferior quality goods for the prices of silver cloth and gold cloth. That is cheating, and I was merciful enough to allow you this year to sell your wares so you might return to Silvermere and repay your debts to me.” Tancred paused deliberately, watching the human squirm beneath his unblinking stare, before continuing. “Instead, I find you have taken out a contract of indenture. Did you also bring the balance of what is due to me?”
The merchant’s breathing grew more panicked, shortening to quick bursts, as he struggled for words. “N-no, my lord. I have had a difficult year. Many of my clients have fallen ill due to a plague, and I have been unable to collect as much coin as usual. Yet, I returned to your keep on the appointed day for I did not wish you to think I am the sort of man who would spit on the kind mercy of any noble, much less the Earl of Silvermere.”
“No. You are merely the sort of man who continues to lie to any who might believe your tales.” Tancred nodded to where the hippogriff had been held. “I was host to Sir George, and he made no mention of any plague besetting Cian Gwenith. As the king’s nephew, he would be among the first to know of any sort of pestilence, do you not agree, Master Howell?”
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