Dragon's Maid

by Kimberly A Rogers

  He didn’t bother to wait for the ashen faced merchant to untie his tongue before he nodded to his men. “Take Master Howell into custody. All of his possessions will be seized to pay off his debt to me.” A single hard look was all that was required to quell the man’s cry of outrage. “In addition, Master Howell, you will surrender the papers of indenture on this girl. As you were indebted to me and not free to enter any such contract, the papers are now mine.”

  He gestured sharply, and two of the men seized Howell by either arm. Turning his back on the protesting man, Tancred stepped closer to the girl. “What is your name?”

  She raised her chin as she replied, “I am Damaris Desrosiers.”

  “Very well. Commander Warin.”

  “My lord. The papers.”

  He didn’t look away from the girl as he accepted the folded parchment. Unfolding it, he glanced down only long enough to confirm it was the contract of indenture. Ten years of service . . . Was that longer than the usual term of indenture? He didn’t know although it was something he would certainly investigate.

  “Take Mistress Desrosiers to Clotho. Inform her of the situation, then report back to me.” He paused and addressed the girl directly as he added, “Clotho is my housekeeper. She will find work for you.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the commander intoned with a sharp salute, his left fist striking his leather jerkin with a solid thud.

  The girl merely inclined her head as she murmured, “As you wish, my lord.”

  Tancred watched her follow the commander toward the keep, her pale blue robes standing out in contrast to the white cloak. He would have to check his books on human laws, but first . . . Fire burned in his chest, threatening to lap up his throat and escape. First, he needed to deal with the fact that the rogue dragon of Carabas had been exposed. He should have dealt with the villain himself when he first smelled him at the border of Carabas. If only the dragon king hadn’t forbidden the confrontation when Tancred reported it, forcing him to sit for the better part of ten years with the knowledge that a rogue ruled the territory directly to the north.

  Now a shepherdess of all creatures had defeated the rogue and driven him out of Carabas . . . as witnessed by Sir George. The boy was half in love with her too! Tancred shook his head as he strode toward the keep, leaving the wagon and ponies to be tended to by his men. Love . . . Foolish emotion that blinded even sensible men to reason, and Sir George had always been more romantic minded than sensible. A steady enough man when it came to fulfilling his duties as the nephew of the king, though he was not the heir and committed to defending the people of Cian Gwenith. When it came to notions of great deeds and daring risks, however, Tancred had yet to meet a man who was less sensible about such things. Apparently, he had never learned that many lauded heroes found their way to early graves through a lack of patience and sound judgment. Love only made things worse.

  He shook his head as he hurried into the keep and took the narrow stairs that bypassed the great hall. He needed to retreat to his bookroom before another interruption appeared. The dragon king needed to be alerted to the change in Cian Gwenith. And, Tancred already knew his king would not be pleased to learn that the rogue ousting from Carabas had not occurred without witnesses. Worse, Sir George had already let it slip that he had witnessed the rogue shifting from his human skin into his proper dragon form. Despite his foolish tendencies, Sir George would not allow such vital information to fall by the wayside. Now, King Stephen would rediscover the forgotten knowledge that dragons could walk unnoticed among humans. Curse the rogue.

  * * *

  Damaris tried not to gape like she’d never witnessed the inside of a keep before now. No matter that it was the truth. The grey stone walls were etched with patterns and sigils including carved hippogriffs. Some of the carvings clutched silver roses in their taloned forefeet, though never more than one or two blooms at a time. Only the royal house could include three roses as their mark. The Earl of Silvermere’s two roses signified he was one of the highest nobles in the kingdom outside of the royal family. She remembered that from her lessons . . . only the Marquis of Carabas outranked him, and Carabas had been isolated from the rest of the kingdom for years.

  There were huge tapestries hanging along the walls where there were no carvings. They featured more hippogriffs and a few of men hunting cave lions from the back of hippogriffs. Then, the commander led her down a narrow staircase into a corridor that smelled of cooking meat and baking bread. Her mouth watered and her stomach gurgled at the tantalizing smells much to her chagrin. Howell had not been generous with her meals. She’d only been allowed a small crust of bread that morning, and it had been almost too hard to eat even after she’d soaked it with her ration of water.

  Her escort didn’t act as though he had heard anything. He never broke stride either, slowing only once and stepping to the side as a girl carrying a bucket and brush hurried past. She didn’t seem to notice Damaris at all.

  Catching herself plucking at the sleeves of her robe, Damaris forced her fingers to still. There was a blast of heated air when she followed the commander through a door followed by even stronger smells of cooking food and the noise of voices calling to each other. Then, a heavy silence abruptly fell over the kitchens.

  Damaris knew even before Commander Warin stepped aside that every eye was now fixed on her. On her pale blue robe and cowl. Her skin crawled beneath the weight of so many eyes, but she forced herself to stand tall.

  “Commander Warin, what have you brought into my kitchens?” came a harsh call. The staring servants parted to reveal a tall woman clad all in black and with a wimple so tight that it pulled at the skin of her face, giving her a permanent squint. A large ring of keys hung from her belt, clicking as she swept toward them with a glower firmly in place. Her squint narrowed even further as she looked Damaris over and demanded, “What is this? An indentured? Take her back to her master. I’ve no use for her.”

  “Her master is now the earl, and his instructions are for you to give the girl a place.”

  The woman drew back for a moment and then a scowl twisted her thin lips as she snapped, “When did the Earl of Silvermere begin taking indentured servants? He detests them.”

  “The merchant Howell indentured the girl while still indebted to the earl for last year’s grievances. As such her indenture was claimed by the earl.” The commander sounded almost bored with the conversation and not the least intimidated by the housekeeper.

  “Howell? That cheating rat?” the housekeeper hissed. “Then, she’s likely a thief and a cheat as well.”

  “The girl was a recent indenture,” the commander countered still sounding rather bored, “perhaps he didn’t have time to corrupt her. And, even if he did, you will no doubt cure her of any such schemes, Clotho.”

  Clotho huffed. “Do not mock me, Warin. I know everyone’s secrets, remember?”

  The boredom slipped from the commander’s face, and he gave the housekeeper a hard look. “How could anyone forget with your willingness to remind them? Damaris Desrosiers is now in your care by order of the earl. Assign her as you see fit.”

  He spun on his heel, white cloak snapping out behind him, and returned the way they had come.

  Damaris couldn’t help wishing she accompanied him. The stillness of the kitchens was disconcerting though not as much as the housekeeper’s squint. It felt as though she were a vulture deciding which bone to pick at first. She scolded herself for the unkind thought. Acting with any sort of hostility or resentment would only make things worse. Compliance would be the best tactic for now, the best way to ensure she didn’t make enemies among the regular servants.

  Clotho huffed once more before she cast a bone searing scowl at the room around them. She clapped her hands twice and snapped. “Cease your gawking and back to work. The earl expects his meals to be timely, and we’ve more soldiers to feed today. You. Come with me.”

  She followed the woman to a corner of the kitchen tucked beside the huge
fireplace where meat was being turned on the spit. Immediately beads of sweat prickled her brow and started to trickle down her back. Clotho looked entirely unaffected by the heat of the fire however as she looked Damaris over with a curl to her upper lip. “There has never been an indentured servant in Silvermere in my lifetime or in the lifetimes of my foremothers. Worse, you belonged to that weasel of a man. Well, he is no longer your master and any scheme or plot he whispered to you is to be abandoned and forgotten. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mistress Clotho,” she intoned dutifully.

  The older woman sniffed, a hint of red painting her sallow cheeks though it was difficult to say if it was the heat or temper that put it there. “You will be allowed to join the servants for each meal, one in the morning and one in the evening. If you shirk your duties or are disrespectful to anyone, you will be punished. If you cause any further disruptions of the carrying out of assigned tasks, you will be punished. If you attempt to steal anything, you will be taken to the earl in breach of your contract and he will likely imprison you if not have you flogged.” She paused then snapped, “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mistress Clotho.”

  “Very well,” she murmured, her brown eyes glinting with a speculation that made Damaris’ skin crawl with foreboding. “I do not trust anyone who came out of that weasel’s service. And you . . .” Her gaze flicked over the pale blue robe. “You would reflect poorly on the earl should anyone see you. You will be the cinder lass. That should keep you out of mischief and where you may be watched.”

  “Yes, Mistress Clotho,” she murmured. A cinder lass wouldn’t be too terrible. Or so she hoped.

  * * *

  “You should know by now to watch out for biting embers, girl.”

  Damaris’ smile turned into a wince as Bettrys smeared a cold salve over her latest burn. The snow haired healer’s speech was gruff, but her touch gentle as she worked. Damaris cleared her throat. “Yes, I know it. Unfortunately, this one surprised me when it popped.”

  “Clotho still screeching?”

  Her lips twisted into a rueful smile. The healer’s dislike for the housekeeper was well known though the two women never deigned to indulge in anything more than a cold acknowledgement when they were in the same room. An occurrence that was thankfully rare. Only once in the two months since she’d arrived in Silvermere had Damaris witnessed them interact and she had gotten chills even though she was sitting in front of the kitchen fireplace, watching bread rolls bake in the ashes.

  “Well? Or did the burn affect your memory as well?”

  Damaris blinked, then smiled. “It is not so bad today. Her daughter has returned, and Clotho seems . . . grateful.”

  Bettrys huffed out a noisy breath as she finished smearing the salve across the back of Damaris. “The drake’s young are still drakes. Stay away from Agatha if you can. She’s fifteen, the only true pride of Clotho’s life, and just as venomous as her mother though she’s far more likely to bite, the spoilt chit.”

  A small sense of unease crawled up Damaris’ spine at the healer’s words, but she only nodded. “I will do my best. Thank you for the salve.”

  “Back to the kitchens with you?” Bettrys asked as she rose from her stool and strode toward the shelves holding all the poultices, jars, and salves.

  Damaris ducked to avoid bumping into a line of dried herbs hanging from the room’s low ceiling. “Not yet. Clotho has expanded my duties. I am to bank all the fires in the keep starting tonight. I’ve only three rooms left to attend now that I’ve finished in the great hall.”

  The healer harrumphed. “More like the great hall nearly finished you. Do not burn yourself again tonight or I shall leave you to sit out by the water troughs.”

  She hid a smile. Despite her gruff words, the healer had been the only one among the earl’s people to show her any true kindness since her arrival. The other servants either ignored her entirely or slighted her. Even the guardsmen who passed through the kitchens gave her a wide berth when she was there.

  Leaving the kitchen and the eyes behind had been a pleasant relief tonight. Even with the spot of trouble involving the great hall’s massive fireplace. She only had the library and the earl’s quarters to attend before she could seek her bed.

  “Off with you then before you cause my entire workroom to stink of ash.”

  Damaris nodded to the older woman, pausing to squeeze her free hand, as she whispered, “Thank you, Bettrys.”

  Unfortunately, Clotho had not told her the library held two fireplaces. Nor that each was close to half the size of the kitchen’s fireplace. As wide as three men standing fingertip to fingertip and the length of a man in depth, the fires had been built in the very back, which meant she had to step inside the fireplace in order to bank them. The stones were hot beneath her feet, seeping through the leather soles of her shoes as she worked to scoop ashes over the glowing coals. She shifted her feet while also attempting to prevent any clouds from escaping the fireplace and soiling the books.

  Once the fire was banked, she quickly stepped out of the fireplace and thanked Shaddai that the library floor was not strewn with rushes. The cold stone of the floor was a welcome relief to her feet. She still had the second fire to bank, yet she couldn’t bring herself to rush past the books. Some of which had been left lying open on a table situated about halfway between the two fireplaces on either side of the room.

  Her feet moved of their own volition, drawing her close to the table. She could only just make out the lines of one book. “The Five Kingdoms were freed from the oppressive and dangerous company of dragons through the numerous battles of the dragon wars. Once the creatures were killed or driven out of the kingdoms, there remained only the race of man within the Five Kingdoms as the selkies vanished into the sea and the griffins retreated to the highest peaks of the mountains in the far north. The other rumored races were never seen even before the dragon wars though some adventurers claimed otherwise. Thus, balance was restored to the Five Kingdoms and the race of men was allowed to prosper.”

  “If one can call a century of one war of succession after another prospering,” a voice interjected.

  Damaris looked up sharply, already knowing who had joined her since the rich baritone was unmistakable. The earl strolled around the edge of a bookshelf, hands clasped behind his back. His armor was gone, leaving him in a light grey tunic and dark leggings with boots that nearly reached his knees. His long brown hair was pulled back from his face though still loose. His eyes looked darker in the shadows as he nodded. “I didn’t know indentured servants were able to read.”

  “My father was a merchant. He taught me to read when I was a child.”

  The earl nodded, a contemplative expression skittering across his face. “A wise man.” He came a little closer and paused to sniff. “You smell like smoke. Why?”

  For some reason, her mind went blank and the words wouldn’t be summoned to her tongue. The earl strolled closer then leaned in as he whispered, “Have you been breathing fire tonight?”

  A soft laugh escaped her before she recalled who was speaking. And, what Clotho would no doubt do if she learned of this meeting. Taking a quick step back, Damaris picked up her shovel and pail once more before she murmured, “No, my lord. I am no dragon.”

  “More’s the pity,” he sighed.

  She bit back another laugh though she couldn’t quite keep from smiling a little even as she shook her head. “Who would wish such a thing, when being a dragon would lend itself to a worse fate than being an indentured servant?”

  The earl’s eyes flickered with something . . . She blinked and it was gone. It must have been a trick of the shadows. Tightening her grip on the shovel’s handle, she offered a slight curtsey. “Forgive me, my lord. I wasn’t thinking. I’m the cinder lass. I shall bank the fires in your chambers and bookroom as soon as I finish here in the library.”

  “No.”

  She’d already moved toward the remaining fireplace but paused to
look over her shoulder at his response. She frowned slightly. “My lord?”

  “No, do not trouble yourself with the fires in my private rooms. I shall attend to them myself.”

  She hesitated. “Are you certain, my lord? Clotho said I was to tend to all the fireplaces being used.”

  The earl raised an eyebrow. “Do you doubt my capability of banking a small fireplace or two?”

  Her gaze darted involuntarily to his lean frame. There was muscle beneath the fine wool of his tunic and his leggings and boots left no doubt that he wasn’t a man who could be called spindly or frail in form. Realizing she had been staring too long, Damaris lifted her gaze to the earl’s eyes and saw a half smile curl his lips.

  Her cheeks grew hot, but she refused to show him she had become distracted or flustered. Instead, she quickly bobbed another curtesy. “Of course, my lord.”

  He raised both eyebrows. “You do doubt me? What shall I do then with the knowledge that a cinder lass thinks me so inept?”

  She blushed all the more, the heat seeping from her cheeks to her throat and even to warm her ears. Fortunately, she didn’t think he was close enough to see the blush beneath her complexion. “That was not my intent, my lord.”

  The earl chuckled. “No, though I thank you.”

  “My lord?”

  “I’ve not had reason for amusement in some time.” He offered a half bow that was strangely lacking in mockery. “You have my thanks, mistress cinder lass.” He straightened, then nodded. “Finish banking the fires, then seek your bed.”

  She watched him disappear around the bookshelves once more. Only after she heard the door shut firmly in his wake did she allow herself to shake her head. “An odd man.”

  She didn’t allow herself to dwell on it. Her life was difficult enough without attempting to understand a strange nobleman.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  Three Years Later . . .