“Hurry, Damaris! For the love of Shaddai, you move as though your feet are encased in stone.”
Damaris quickened her pace as much as she could without sloshing water out of the bucket she was carrying. It didn’t keep Agatha from tapping her foot as she glowered at Damaris. She jerked her chin toward an open door. “Through there. Hurry. I’ve fresh rushes waiting to go in already, and Clotho expects this room to be ready within the hour so you’d best not tarry.”
She bit back the retort that the task would go faster if they both scrubbed. Swallowing her pride, Damaris merely nodded and stepped past the slightly younger girl. Scrubbing as quickly as she could while Agatha leaned in the doorway, she reminded herself why she had been willing to take the place of one of the maids when she fell ill that morning. She wasn’t sitting in the wilting heat of the kitchens, and the lye and cold water wasn’t quite as harsh on her skin as popping embers.
Her arms shook and her back ached almost as much as her knees by the time she finished scrubbing the chamber. Fortunately, there was nothing to empty as the visitors had yet to arrive. Agatha sniffed, then nodded. “It will have to suffice. Grab the rushes. Must I tell you everything?”
Biting back another hot reply, Damaris moved the bucket to sit on the edge of the hearth before she picked up one of the bundles of rushes. Sweet smelling lavender had already been gathered in the bundle, leaving only the task of spreading them across the stone floor. Somehow it wasn’t a surprise to find Agatha once more leaning against a wall, looking bored. Her brown skin was a shade lighter than Damaris’ and her brown hair was caught in intricate braids that remained uncovered by a wimple. She looked up once, and her eyes narrowed to a squint that loudly attested her parentage. “Don’t laze about, Damaris. Or must I report to my mother that you are failing to fulfill your assigned duties? Again.”
“We would finish faster if we worked together,” Damaris finally stated as she spread the next bundle of rushes across the floor. “We still have to make up the bed.”
“I will not be blamed for your laziness,” Agatha sniffed. She flounced over, however, and began helping with the bedding.
Damaris barely kept her jaw from dropping at Agatha’s sudden show of compliance. The girl almost never contributed any help when she could possibly leave it to another. And, she most certainly didn’t make a habit of helping Damaris. It was quite frankly too out of character to believe.
A vague sense of unease crept over Damaris as she smoothed the linens across the feather filled mattress. Still, she didn’t dare question the other girl. Knowing Agatha, she would react by spilling the ash pail on the bed and then blame Damaris for it, a tale that her mother would readily believe.
Which made it all the more unsettling when Agatha began humming as they placed the coverlet on the bed then settled the furs across the foot of the bed. She was never that cheerful during her work. Never.
Damaris kept quiet as she worked. She hurried from the bed to stoke the fire, ensuring the room would be warm when the marquise and her husband finally arrived. When the flames sparked to life, Damaris leaned back on her heels and gave a quick nod. “There.”
“Well done, Damaris. For an indentured, you have some skill at things, especially fire.” Agatha’s grin turned cunning as she tilted her head to one side. She fingered the bronze charms hanging from one of her braids before she murmured, “I wonder, does that make you a fire witch? Or perhaps . . . you are actually a dragon?”
“Don’t be foolish, Agatha,” Damaris retorted without thinking. “There are no more dragons in the Five Kingdoms, and everyone knows it no matter what the gossips try to tell us.”
The smile vanished as the other girl’s expression darkened. “How dare you speak to me in such a way? You are a clumsy oaf. Why just look at the mess you’ve made of the new rushes.”
Her breath caught in her lungs, choking her into being too slow to react as Agatha kicked the bucket of sudsy water over, splashing over and soaking the rushes. “No.” She looked from the ruined rushes to Agatha, shaking her head as she asked, “Why would you do such a thing?”
Agatha abruptly yanked on Damaris’ cowl, tugging the pale blue fabric into her line of sight. “This is why. You are nothing, even cinder lass is too good a position for you. You were foolish enough to sign yourself into a term of indenture, and then you go about these three years acting as though you are somehow better than the rest of us. We are actually paid servants with the honor of being chosen to work for the Earl of Silvermere. You . . . You were nothing more than a burden removed from a fool of a merchant who couldn’t escape the earl’s justice.”
She pulled away from her and adjusted her cowl so she could see everything again. Staring up into the other girl’s eyes, she forced herself to speak calmly as she replied, “You want something from me. What is it, Agatha? What could I possibly have that you want?”
A smile curved the other girl’s lips and then she tilted her head back as she laughed. “Nothing at all.” The look of a hunter didn’t leave her eyes as she continued with feigned lightness, “However, since you have made such a mess and we both know that Mother will put you on starvation rations for the rest of the sennight if she finds out, you should do something for me. A task equal to the burden of having to remake this floor sounds just right to me.”
Damaris paused in raking up the sodden rushes and eyed the girl warily. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, it’s quite simple. You only need to go clean the earl’s bookroom tonight.”
She immediately shook her head. “No one is allowed in the earl’s private chambers, which includes the bookroom. Clotho has made that perfectly clear.”
Agatha sniffed. “Would you rather I inform her that you intentionally spoiled the rushes in the marquise’s chamber? That would earn you a few nights in the storeroom, wouldn’t it?”
Damaris shivered in site of herself. There had been several times over the last three years when she made a mistake or spoke too carelessly to Clotho and she was locked in the so called storeroom for up to a full sennight. The little room had more in common with a dungeon than a storeroom. Located at the top of the tower above the hippogriffs’ roost, the small room could only be accessed by climbing steep stairs and then entering through a small door that was more suited to a child than an adult. Every time Damaris had been forced to crawl in on her hands and knees, she’d had the irrational fear of becoming trapped in the narrow doorway. The room itself was empty of any furniture or comforts, with a single arrow slit to provide the barest hint of light during the day. The emptiness could be difficult to deal with as she listened to the hippogriffs below making a keening call or stamping their rear hooves. Clotho had made it clear that she was not to make any noise when in the room or there would be further consequences. The housekeeper had never clarified what those consequences might be. She hadn’t needed to, the threat of them was more than enough to keep Damaris bound in silence whenever she was locked in that little storeroom at the top of the tower.
By the mercy of Shaddai, she had managed to avoid any visits to that room for the better part of six months. Something she did not intend to change now in the midst of winter. The last time she had been in that room during the winter months, she had caught a fever and chills. Realizing Agatha was still waiting for an answer, Damaris slowly nodded. “All right, I’ll take care of it. I’ll clean his bookroom.”
Agatha smiled almost as brightly as when presented with a new bauble. “I knew you would make a wise choice, Damaris. And, don’t forget. You have to clean it tonight without getting caught by anyone.” She laughed softly. “We wouldn’t want you to get into trouble, after all.”
She didn’t bother to protest and was careful to keep her expression emotionless as she worked to replace the ruined rushes. It was both fortunate and unfortunate that fixing the damage only required a simple patching since it meant that she didn’t need to spend more than a half hour on the fix.
Yet, her promise haunted her
steps and drove her to distraction as she returned to the kitchens. When Clotho had caught sight of her, the housekeeper immediately ordered her to scrub the floors of the library. Keeping her hands busy, Damaris fought to keep her thoughts from wandering to the earl. Despite being indentured to him for over three years now, she’d rarely seen him. The last time she had interacted with him had been . . . That night not long after she’d arrived when he had spoken to her in the library. When he had asked if she’d been breathing fire.
Her scrubbing slowed as she recalled the odd conversation. Of course, then, there had been no fear of actually meeting a dragon in the Five Kingdoms. Now, however, it seemed the only gossip the merchants and travelling bards carried when they made their winding ways to Silvermere was of a hunt for dragons walking as men. Nonsense, the lot of it. Everyone knew dragons were huge scaly beasts with claws that could slice a man in two with a single swipe and wings that could summon gale winds and, of course, breathing fire that would melt your very bones.
How anyone could mistake such a terrifying creature for a man was beyond her. Unless, they had been swimming in their cups all the day before spying the beasts. Yet, the rumors and gossip persisted. Sometimes, the servants would look at her where she sat in the corner by the fire, minding the ashes, and whisper of how she always smelled of smoke. The only blessing was Bettrys. The healer would huff in annoyance and ask how anyone would expect a cinder lass not to smell of smoke when the scent clung to any one of the kitchen maids or the cooks and undercooks or the boys who turned the spits. Did they think they lived in a house full of dragons?
No one ever dared reply to the snow haired healer. She was a blessing, indeed, though she spent more time in her stillroom than in the kitchens. Damaris shook her head as she kept scrubbing the floor. The accusation of being a dragon was nothing to scoff at anymore, no matter how foolish she thought it. And, Agatha’s willingness to whisper such an accusation was . . . disconcerting to say the least.
“It is those who are most lacking in kindness to others who need it the most,” she murmured as she paused in her scrubbing to massage her aching hands. She winced as her fingers brushed over a splinter. Picking at it, she added ruefully, “Sometimes the best way to survive a cave lion is to stay silent until it loses interest in you. Unfortunately, neither of my cave lions have had a thorn for me to pluck from their paws.”
She hissed as the splinter finally came free, then a drop of blood welled up. Wiping the drop away, she tried to ignore the growl of her stomach as she continued scrubbing. The library’s length and breadth made time crawl by as she scrubbed between the shelves and even underneath the tables. When she dropped the brush into the bucket for the last time, she almost wept from sheer relief. She’d rather bank a thousand fires with fresh popping embers than scrub the floors of the keep again.
The sound of voices murmuring in the great hall reached her as she slowly made her way back down to the kitchens. The side door to the great hall opened, allowing the roar of voices and the softer strains of music to fill the corridor. Agatha slipped out and then paused when she saw Damaris. A small smirk curved her lips as she approached. “You should hurry. If you’re to complete your chores before midnight.” Her gaze flicked over the stains on Damaris’ skirts and then she added, “Though you should change. You don’t want to make a mess of the earl’s bookroom.”
The small inkling of hope that Agatha had forgotten her ridiculous request died with each word that spilled past her lips. Damaris bit back the urge to scream in frustration. Instead, she offered a curt nod before forcing herself to hurry down to the kitchens. She left the brush and bucket in one of the storerooms off the corridor leading to the main kitchens and snagged a small meat pie to ease her hunger pangs.
By the time she had eaten and changed into her spare robe and cowl, she was once again having second thoughts about the task ahead. Clotho had made the announcement forbidding any servant from entering the earl’s private chambers including his bookroom the day after Damaris had been dismissed from banking the fires by the earl. And, she had promised a fortnight in the tower’s storeroom for anyone who dared trespass.
Doubts and second thoughts plagued her the entire way to the bookroom until she finally stood in front of the door. She hesitated, poised to enter, then shook her head. No. This was ridiculous. She would tell Agatha that she had done what was required without clarifying that she considered respecting the earl’s order for privacy what was truly required. The matter would be settled then.
She turned to go back down the stairs only to find Agatha leaning one shoulder against the wall, blocking the way to the stairwell. The other girl folded her arms over her breasts and raised an eyebrow. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to say a single word.
Damaris slowly moved back to the door and tested the handle, praying it was locked. But, the latch gave with a click that sunk to the hollows of her stomach. She bit back a low groan as the door opened beneath her touch.
She wouldn’t give Agatha the pleasure of seeing how uneasy this was making her. Squaring her shoulders, Damaris slipped through the doorway and closed the door behind her. The room was empty, thank Shaddai. No doubt the earl was still in the great hall.
She paused at the sight of such . . . disorder. The fire was burning low, not yet banked, and its light was still enough to allow her to see books lying strewn about the room. Books and scrolls filled the two chairs in the room with more stacked haphazardly along shelves that threatened to sag beneath the weight of it all. Still more books and scrolls mixed in with sheets of parchment lay across what should have been the earl’s desk.
How could any man function with so much chaos and sheer clutter? She couldn’t even begin to imagine it. Crossing to the desk, she reached out to steady a stack of five books that threatened to topple at any moment. She shifted the books to sit more firmly on the desk only to lunge for a piece of parchment fluttering toward the ground.
Words caught her attention.
A rogue attempted to use the season’s first snow storm to sneak across the border of Carabas by first entering through Silvermere. Under the cover the clouds and snow, I confronted the rogue and was able to repel him. He was a red though I am uncertain if he is indeed the same rogue originally driven from Carabas by the current marquise. It is my belief, however, that it is the most likely option.
I will continue to maintain watch on the borders though there are others who watch Carabas from the north. King Stephen’s madness continues to grow by an alarming rate. It seems certain he will soon form hunts for dragons again though he continues searching for them among his own people. I am not yet
The letter ended there. Damaris stared at the words and jumped as a door opened across from her. The parchment fell from her hand as she looked up, expecting to see the earl. Her mind spinning with questions she could form into words even within her own thoughts.
Everything stopped, her breath caught in her throat, as she stared at silver scales that gleamed dully beneath the orange glow of the dying fire. Her eyes fixed on sharp curved claws jutting from scale covered hands and slowly traveled up, taking in the sinewy neck and narrow jaws, the angular head, the slightly sloped horns of white, and white wings that rose in tips above both head and horns. Then, her gaze dropped to meet fiery orange eyes. A dragon who stood like a man . . . A dragon . . . here.
* * *
Tancred repressed a groan at the sight of a pale blue figure. Fires burn the rogue for attempting to cross his borders again. He’d fought the red rogue back, of course. However, the villain had singed his hide badly enough across his back that he’d been forced into a second transformation from his proper form into his between form. The pain of his wounds had combined with the sheer agony of forcing a second transformation in close succession to leave him stranded in a mountain cave for most of the previous night.
He had not even been able to make his way back to the keep until nearly dawn. Only the thick cloud cover had prevented
his own men seeing him. Remaining in this form all day and hiding in his private quarters had at last eased the pain from his singed scales. However, it seemed his senses were still not fully recovered from his earlier weariness or else he would not have walked into this . . . burnt mess of a disaster.
Not for the first time, he wished for Tara’s presence. His former companion would have known exactly what to do to prevent such a disaster. There was a slight change in the air, the whistling exhale of a stifled breath, and his eyes fixed once more on the girl. She hadn’t screamed, hadn’t moved . . .
No sooner had the observation crossed his mind than the girl dashed for the bookroom’s outer door. Tancred hissed as he leapt over the desk and caught the girl before she could reach the handle. Pinning her back against one of the book shelves, he didn’t even have time to choose his words before pain blossomed in his snout. He hissed and snatched the book from the girl’s hand before she could deliver another blow.
Flame licked his throat and a stream of smoke flowed from his nostrils as he ran his forked tongue along his fangs. The girl still didn’t utter a sound. Instead, she grabbed another much thicker book from the shelf.
Tancred’s slit nostrils flared as he recognized the title. “Not that one! It is the only original compendium of the races of Sonera and their lands in my entire collection.”
The girl’s dark eyes darted from him to the book and then she deliberately returned it to the shelf.
“Thank you. Now, will you please explain what you are doing here? Ow!” He shook his head, nose smarting from the force of her blow. “Stop that!”
The girl had grabbed the book with both hands and now drew it back, a determined glint in her eyes and her lips pressed into a firm line. Tancred plucked the book from her hands and tossed it onto the closest chair. Then, before the infernal female could find another makeshift weapon, he lunged. This time he pinned her arms to her sides as he held her against the bookshelf. His wings unfurled enough to form a makeshift cocoon around them, blocking her sight from anything except him. Catching her gaze, he held it and allowed persuasion to filter into his voice as he demanded, “I ask again, woman, who are you? Are you one of Carabas’ servants?”
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