Ember ate slowly, trying to make everything last. She knew better than to ask for seconds.
Marda’s idea of femininity included small portions and no seconds. It never seemed fair, the way Marda held Ember down. Ember worked as hard as the boys did—it was only right that she get the same kinds of rewards.
“Is it gifting time yet?” Tiva asked Paeder, who looked to Marda for an answer. She gave a slight nod. The twins looked at each other and grinned, both of them squirming in their seats like five-yearolds.“Can we go first?” Tiva asked his father. Paeder answered nonverbally with his usual shrug.
“This is from both of us, Ember,” Tiva said. “We made it ourselves, though I did most of the work.” Ren slugged him. “Don’t listen to him, Ember. We split the work up half and half.” He handed her a paper-wrapped package—very sloppily wrapped, she noticed, but wrapped nonetheless. The twins waited expectantly while she opened it.
The object was heavy and round, and Ember couldn’t figure out what it might be, as it felt like nothing more than a stone. She untied the strings and pulled the paper away to find . . . a very unassuming piece of plain granite, about the size and shape of a large duck egg.
“Oh. A rock.” She hadn’t really believed Ren when he’d said he dug her gift out of the garbage. The disappointment hit her hard.
“Pull it apart,” Tiva said, rolling his eyes.
Ember pulled slightly. The rock slid apart, two halves of a whole. She gasped, absolutely
incredulous. The flat side was a rainbow of color in an inward spiraling pattern. It was not paint, but real crystal embedded in the rock, symbols etched over the surface.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, then paused.“But what is it?”
“We were hoping you’d ask,” Ren answered. Tiva reached across the table and snagged the two pieces of paper the stone had been wrapped in. He unfolded them and set one half of the stone, spiral down, on top of a blank piece of paper in front of Ember, then placed the other page in front of himself. He pulled a blackstick from behind his ear and grinned as he wrote something down. Tiva then placed the second stone on his paper and whispered to it, as though it were a living thing. It lit up with rainbow light for a brief second and seemed to suck the writing from the paper itself. It gathered the black scribbles like a sponge taking in water, and then the stone in front of Ember lit up, and the words that Tiva had written spread themselves across her page. She gasped, and it was with a trembling hand that she moved the rock sitting before her to read the message:
"Pretty neat, huh? Thought you would like these sending stones so we can keep in touch better. Hate to be an evahn giver, but we’ve got to take one back to school with us for it to work. Happy birthing day, Emmie. Welove you."
Ember looked up and met her brothers’ eyes with mist in her own. “I don’t know what to say, guys. This is amazing. Thank you very much.”
Tiva shrugged, embarrassed now that their gift was so well-received. “It’s nothing, Sis. We’ve sort of been missing you, and this way we can talk even if we’re not together.”
Ember scooted back her chair, went over behind the twins and wrapped an arm around each of them. Then, avoiding Tiva’s smelly hair, she gave them both a sound kiss on the cheek. “I miss you too, and thanks. It’s an incredible gift, and I’ll keep it with me no matter where I go.”
Ember’s thoughts flashed to her planned departure for the trials. She meant what she said, on multiple levels. The stones would ease her conscience a bit.
“Well, I don’t know if I can top that,” Aldarin said, reaching for his saddle bag, “but I saw this and thought you might like it, with winter coming on.”
He pulled a bulky package from his bag and handed it to her. She unwrapped it and found several items of clothing—a new sable brown cloak with a hood, soft and light as silk with fur lining the hood and edges. There was also a pair of gloves, and socks made from the same light material. “Those are all warm-spelled, Sis. You’ll never get cold when you’re wearing them,” Aldarin said.
Ember threw her arms around him. He knew her better than anyone. Her biggest complaint of working in the winter had always been the cold. It was the most wonderful, practical gift he could have given her, and she told him so. Feminine, but not too much so. He grinned at the praise.
Marda spoke then, her deep brown eyes gleaming. “I left your gift on your bed. Go see it and come show us all, dear,” she purred. Ember knew that tone. It said, “Don’t fight me, sweetheart.” Ember already had a pretty good idea she was going to hate her mother’s gift, but she pushed herself away from the table and made her way up the stairs to her room.
Sure enough, laid out on the bed was the frilliest, most annoyingly gaudy pink dress Ember had ever seen. Did her mother not know her at all? Her brothers, who didn’t share her blood, gave her gifts she could use and love, and her mother, the woman who birthed her, gave her this? She could hardly stand to look at the dress, let alone put it on. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were blue instead of pink. She caressed the silky material, closed her eyes, and tried to imagine it blue—the deep, dark blue of her midnight pool, a silvery moon shining on its surface. The ache for acceptance, for love of herself as an individual, and especially as a daughter, tore through her heart, and Ember felt something begin to build.
It was a hum, a slight vibration that started in the pit of her stomach and spread outward like Ezeker’s cough medicine. She clung to the feeling and hugged the dress to her as if it represented everything lacking in her life.
Something itched in her hands—and then it burned. Ember cried out and dropped the dress to examine her hand for the blister she was sure to find . . . but there was nothing. Her hand looked perfectly normal, but for the faint glow winking at her from the wolf ’s eye. It faded quickly, and Ember looked down at the dress to see if there was a pin, or nettle, or firebug. Something had to cause the pain.
She gasped at what she saw.
The frilly pink dress that had existed only a few seconds before was gone, and in its place was the dress she had seen and wished for in her head, all the frills and lace missing. She reached down and picked it up, sure she was imagining things. But no—the dress before her was as real as the gift from her mother had been.
Ember’s head started to swim, and she had to sit down. Blue silk in her hands, she collapsed in the middle of the floor and stared at the fabric, unbelieving.
“Ember, are you all right? I heard you cry out . . .” Marda’s voice came from the doorway. Ember heard the hesitation in her step. She could nearly hear the beat of her heart as her mother caught sight of the dress. Marda’s voice was cold and fearful when she spoke again. “That is not the dress I left on your bed. Where did it come from?”
“From my head, Mum. It came from my head,” Ember responded, a little panicked and overwhelmed by the understanding of what had happened. “I saw it in my head, and then it was there,” she continued, gesturing wildly.
Marda didn’t move for several long seconds from the spot that seemed to have rooted her to the floor. She stepped forward slowly and took Ember’s hand from the folds of the dress that lay in her lap.
She paused, utterly still, staring for a long moment at the tattoos on Ember’s wrists and hands before she pulled back the sleeve and examined the recently acquired wolves. Ember was suddenly very grateful for the high-collared shirt that hid the embedded pendant. Marda prodded at the dark chains on Ember’s hands when the wolf ’s eye suddenly winked at her with a flash of emerald light. Marda jerked, but did not let go. She took Ember’s chin in her other hand and pulled it up so that her daughter would meet her eyes as she crouched down beside her.
“Where,” she asked in almost a whisper, fear and anger fighting in her voice, “did you get that?” She pointed with a sharp jab at the wolf on the back of Ember’s hand.
Ember met her gaze without backing down. There was nothing to be done about it now. “From my da,” she responded, and watched her mother
nearly faint at the words.
Marda let go of Ember’s chin as she sat down heavily on the floor. “What?” she whispered, gray as the ash that fell outside.
“I got it from Da . . . through Ezeker.”
Ember proceeded to tell her mother the whole story. She could gauge her mother’s emotions by the color of her skin, the set of her lips—and the more Ember spoke, the angrier Marda became. When she was finally done, Marda was furious.
“That meddling old man. I told him to mind his own affairs, and he just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could he? He’ll be hearing from me, you can be sure of that, and if I have anything to do with it, he’ll be out of this town for good. He had no right—”
“He had every right, Mother,” Ember interrupted. “He was following instructions left for him before you even came here. He was only doing what you didn’t have the courage to do.” She regretted the words before they left her mouth, but she couldn’t bite them back.
“I beg your pardon?” Marda demanded, whispering in her anger.
“Who do you think you are, child, to judge me so? You have no idea why I do the things I do—”
“Yes, I do, Mother,” Ember interrupted again. “I know more than you think. I know why you don’t want me to draw attention to myself, and I know why you want me to stay away from magic. I know my father was a mage, and I know he was killed by C’Tan because she was trying to get to me! Isn’t that enough?”
Marda’s grief crushed her a little more with each revelation, but instead of speaking, she drew herself up and became angrier. “Get it off, Ember. Take that chain off and throw it away. You have no understanding of the trouble to which this leads. Get rid of it. Now!” Her voice rose.
Ember stood and faced her mother, outwardly calm, but inwardly angry and very determined.
“No,“ she responded, her arms folded over the midnight dress.
“What?” Marda hissed. Her eyes narrowed in anger.
“I said no, Mother. I can’t. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. You’ve given me nothing of my father’s. Nothing! No memories, no stories, no old treasures or tokens. Nothing. This, this,” she said, thrusting her hands out before her, “is the one and only thing I have had in my entire life that was mine from him alone. This, and a pendant that seems more like a slave chain than jewelry. You use it to control me by never allowing it to leave my skin. Enough, Mother. No more. Ezeker has done nothing to harm me, and much more to help me than you have.” Ember paused, then decided to reveal the last of it. “I am going to the mage trials.”
“No!” Marda whispered, terror on her face. Ember was untouched by it. She knew what she had to do.
“Yes. If I am ever to survive this evil mage, C’Tan, I must do it with knowledge and training under my belt. Maybe I’m destined to die by her hand . . .” Marda choked at that phrase, but Ember continued relentlessly. “But maybe, just maybe, I can survive, if I know what I’m doing. It’s the only chance I’ve got.”
“You don’t even know if what Ezeker says is true! How can you base a life-changing decision on the words of some old man?” Marda demanded, her eyes desperate.
“Ezeker didn’t tell me, Mum.”
Marda looked lost for a moment, as if the thought of anyone else knowing the truth boggled her.
Ember almost took it back, almost told her the truth about Ezeker’s hidden cove where Aldarin had listened in. Her heart ached, knowing how much she was hurting her mother, but it was something she had to do.
Marda didn’t answer.
Ember sighed. “Mum, it’s too late for me to turn back now.” She laid the dress in her mother’s hands as a reminder of the magic that was already manifesting itself in her daughter.
Marda took it with a sob and turned her back. Ember stood still, watching her for a long moment, unsure what to do next. It seemed the best thing was to give Marda some time. She’d get used to the idea eventually, whether she liked it or not.
Ember moved past, debating whether to rest her hand on her mother’s back as she left, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she paused long enough to say, “I love you, Mum. I’m sorry,” before she walked down the staircase.
Her brothers and stepfather stared at her as she headed toward the front door. Obviously the argument had carried down the stairs. There was no point in waiting for Ezeker to pick her up in the morning. She’d go to him tonight.
The boys stood in silence, only Paeder smiling at her. They seemed to be in awe more than anything, amazed that she’d actually had the audacity to stand up to Marda.
“Good for you, sweetheart,” Paeder whispered as she opened the door. She turned and gave him a half-smile. He winked at her, and she almost cried. Instead, she blinked hard and held it in, nodded once, and went through the front door, unsure if her mother would ever speak to her again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The dress was more beautiful than Kayla could have imagined. It was lovely, with the bodice in deep blue velvet with silver laces and trim. The ensemble was amazingly simple and complex at the same time, and Kayla couldn’t have asked for more.
She laid the dress and cape across her temporary bed at Dragonmeer, slippers and jewels beside them, and smoothed out the minute wrinkles that had appeared during the short coach trip to Brant’s home.
She was about to begin unpacking her small trunk when there came a light tap at her door.
Enter,” she called.
A lithe blonde entered and curtsied with a huge grin spread across her face. “My name would be Sarali, miss. Master Brant wanted me to help ye with the bags and anything else ye might be needing. I’m yours for as long as ye’d be needing me.”
Kayla was instantly grateful. “Wonderful. Sarali, is it?” she asked the small woman as she swooped about the room like a bird coming in to roost.
“Yes, Miss Kayla, Sarali it be, though I know me name doesn’t fit me voice. Me husband changed it on our wedding day. Seemed the proper thing to do at the time,” the girl prattled on. She didn’t seem to be more than sixteen or seventeen by voice and figure, but her face showed a few lines etched there by time. Kayla upped her assessment by half. Perhaps twenty-five or thirty? It was hard to tell. Sarali seemed to be one of those ageless people who would look as good at fifty as they had at seventeen.
“So you’re married?” Kayla sat on the bed, careful not to disturb the dress, and chatted with the girl as she worked.
“Yes, miss. I’d be married to the big lug of a chef.”
“The man with the tattoos? From Ketahe?” Kayla asked, remembering her first sight of the man as their coach pulled into the stables. He had been in the back of the castle, his arms loaded with miscellaneous boxes that looked heavier than any normal man should be able to carry, but he was certainly not normal. The man was huge, and Kayla had been frightened by him at first. Though he seemed vaguely familiar, she knew she’d never met the man. He had seemed so fierce with all the tattoos, and she had heard many tales of the terrifying strength of the Ketahean people. They were known as warriors, not cooks, and she had never imagined one of them being married to a little sprite of a thing like her new chambermaid.
Sarali nodded with pride. “He be the one. The form behind the tattoos isn’t much to look at, and he can’t speak a word of common, but he’s a great cook and a man full of passion.” She shrugged. “A girl can get mighty swept up by his kind, if ye catch me meaning, lady.” She grinned from ear to ear, not the least bit embarrassed, though Kayla could feel herself reddening at the girl’s admission.
“Oh . . .” Kayla tried to regain her composure. “Thank you, Sarali. It is a pleasure to meet you. I’ll be sure to let Brant know how wonderful you’ve been.”
“Oh, he’d be knowing that already, miss. Sir Brant and I have an understanding, and he’d not have assigned me to ye if he weren’t already a mite pleased with me work.” And with that she turned and flounced down the stairs, leaving Kayla breathless in her wake.
K
ayla sat in her room for a long minute before she pulled out the final two items from the beaded satchel she’d carried all day long. The first was the flute she’d played for the nobles that morning, and the second was the Sapphire Flute. She ran her hands across the polished wood, and it seemed that she could almost feel the flute calling to her from inside its case. It hummed and throbbed in her heart and mind, calling like a siren to free it from its prison. She was mesmerized, entranced by the feelings that lured her, taunted her to open the case. Should she? Did she dare?
She was saved by the sound of another knock at the door. She snapped her eyes toward the entry with mixed feelings of relief and reluctance, and stood only long enough to shove the case beneath her mattress.
“Enter,” she called for the second time that evening. The door opened slowly, and Brant stuck his head in.
“Everything okay in there? Did Sarali get you settled?”
“She certainly did. She’s wonderful, Brant. However did you know I needed her?”
“I’m not completely uncivil, you know. I am the son of a duke, and I know how you ladies work. Especially you, Miss Kayla,” he answered, face splitting in a mischievous smile.
Kayla got up from her perch on the bed and opened the door. “Get in here, you big cream puff,” she demanded, pulling at his arm.
“I can’t go in there, Kay. It wouldn’t look decent,” he answered, fully serious for a change.
“And when has that ever stopped you?” she shot back. His reluctance faded only a little, and she yanked him inside and shut the door behind him. Brant looked about like a cornered rat, and Kayla started to laugh.
“I’m not going to attack you in my bedroom just because you proposed to me, silly. We’ve slept side by side many times in total innocence. Do you really think I would take a chance of ruining things now?”
He looked a bit chagrined at that point, but was still a little wary. She decided it would be best to change the subject. She moved to the side of her bed and dug beneath the feather mattress, finding the hard lump in no time at all.
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