SanClare Black (The Prince of Sorrows)

by Jenna Waterford

  Michael’s hand flew up to cover then rub at the alleged smudge. “It itched!”

  “I’m not all funny!”

  “Tell me!” Michael insisted. “I have to finish, or I’ll be late for evening meal, and then I’ll get in more trouble, and then I’ll never be done scrubbing floors! And you know Nanna Mabbina won’t save anything for me.”

  Pol’s annoyance flared, and his hatred for Abbess Ethene’s first assistant seemed so strong to Michael that he wondered how anyone could be ignorant of it. But Pol controlled himself, his excitement overpowering his anger.

  “My uncle’s come back, and he’s staying this time. He’s part-owner of the Red Boar Inn, and he’s arranged for me to go live there and be apprenticed to his stable master!”

  Michael’s eyes widened in dismay but he forced the smile to stay on his face and breathed, “That’s wonderful news, Pol. You’ll have a family again.” It was what Pol had always wanted—all of it.

  Overnight...

  “He’s promised before every one of his last three voyages that it would be his last, but then he’s changed his mind. But this time he means it! He says between the fever and the fighting, Vail doesn’t have to hit him over the head a third time.”

  Michael cast a wincing glance around the hall, wondering if Pol’s words could be counted as blasphemy, but nothing happened.

  “Mabbina’s got you so jumpy, Michael. I didn’t say anything wrong.”

  “Nanna Mabbina,” Michael corrected. “You know how she is about that.”

  “Michael, would you relax?”

  Michael gave Pol a quick hug. “I’m so happy for you. But you’d better go—”

  “Hold on!” Pol protested. He pushed Michael away playfully, laughing. “I’m not done yet.”

  “What?” Michael wanted him to leave so he could start feeling properly sorry for himself, but he didn’t want to steal the smile from Pol’s face just because he wasn’t happy about the news for himself.

  Pol grinned. “I asked him about you.”

  “About me?” Michael’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “Yes! I want you to come live with us, too.”

  The words rang in Michael’s ears, too beautiful to be believed.

  Pol’s gaze shifted away, though, as he continued. “But he said not right away.”

  Michael tried not to let his face fall and held his breath to keep himself from demanding to know why Pol had even told him if it was all pointless.

  Pol rushed on. “He said there’s so much going on, and he doesn’t have things settled yet, but as soon as we do, he’s going to file the papers. He said you could be his clerk or something. He’d figure it out, he said. And we’ll be together!”

  Michael stood frozen for a long moment before launching himself at Pol again, hugging him. “That would be great, Pol. I would love that.”

  “Get you out of here, away from that old bag Mabbina—”

  “Shh!” Michael hissed.

  But Pol continued, his grin turning impudent as they stepped away from each other once more. “Room of your own, right? Just like you’ve always wanted.”

  Michael grinned back this time. “That would be really great,” he said. “But go on, now, or I really will be late.”

  “All right. I’ll save your seat,” Pol called as he disappeared around the corner. Michael listened as his footsteps faded down the corridor leading back to the main part of the building. Away from here.

  Yesterday he’d scrubbed the corridor’s floor. Today he scrubbed the entrance hall floor. Tomorrow he’d be doing something equally unpleasant and exhausting and isolated. Even if he didn’t do anything to deserve it, Mabbina would figure out some way to justify it. As if she even has to.

  Michael hoped Pol’s uncle hadn’t been putting him off, lying to him to keep him from asking. I won’t hope too much. I won’t expect it. He’d be apprenticed soon enough, anyway. Even if it didn’t work out to go live with Pol, he should be getting out of JhaPel in a few moons.

  He knelt back down to finish the last part of the floor that still needed scrubbing, almost laughing when he remembered how jealously he’d guarded his free time before and how often he’d turned down his friends’ pleas to join them just so he could be alone for a little while. He rarely had the luxury of turning anything down or joining in anything anymore. I was mean about it, too, acting like I was special. Pol would look hurt while trying to hide it, and Michael had pretended he didn’t notice sometimes. Selfish...but he’s still trying to protect me.

  Mabbina had been in charge ever since Abbess Ethene caught fever from helping out at Landsend during the epidemic. Ethene hadn’t been the same since, and she only seemed to get worse as time passed. Where he was used to talking to her every day before, it had been over a moon since Michael had last even seen her. When the nannas talked about her now, it was always in hushed, worried tones.

  He hadn’t spent very much time before Ethene’s illness doing the heavy chores. Mostly, he’d been assigned to garden or scullery duty. He’d have given up morning meals for an entire moon if he could’ve gone back to working in the gardens. He’d even have welcomed mucking out the stables or washing the endless piles of dishes that stacked up in the scullery, but instead, Mabbina found fault with him and assigned him solitary scrubbings, sweepings, dustings, and polishings in the echoing halls, corridors, and little-used great rooms of the orphanage’s web of interconnected buildings.

  In spite of his obvious talent for gardening—something that, unlike his arts skills, even Mabbina couldn’t deny was of practical value in the real world—once Mabbina had taken over in Ethene’s stead, keeping Michael apart from the other children as much as possible seemed to be more of a priority for her.

  Michael sighed again and looked around the hall once more as he stood up, having finished scrubbing the floor. He still had to haul in clean water to give it a final rinsing. Leaving the scrub brush on the floor, he picked up the bucket and walked toward the enormous front door. Mabbina had left the key in the lock so that he could use the pump just outside the orphanage’s front gate instead of having to go to the other end of the compound for water.

  That’s one kindness at least, Michael thought. He struggled with the key for a moment before it would turn and then struggled again with the door, which towered over him at four times his height and half as wide as it was tall, before he managed to get it open enough to go through.

  The late afternoon sun shone down across the square and Michael walked out to the pump slowly in order to enjoy the outdoors as long as possible. He pumped fresh water into the bucket until it overflowed clean and pure. Catching a double handful of water, he drank deeply, ignoring the soaking he was giving himself. But he knew he was wasting time he didn’t have to spare. Heaving the bucket up off the ground he half-carried, half-dragged it back to the front steps.

  Just as he was struggling up the stairs with his burden, a small figure shot by him, brushing against his leg.

  “Cyra!” he gasped. “You startled me.”

  He turned around to see what the cat was running from and saw a small mob of older boys coming through the gate. They carried sticks and rocks and were shouting and laughing. It was then that Michael noticed fresh drops of blood on the steps.

  “Get out of here!” he shouted at the boys, startling them for a moment so that they stopped and stared at him. The biggest boy stepped out from his group, swaggering up to the foot of the stairs.

  “My, if it ain’t Michael, the prettiest little orphan-boy in all of JhaPel,” Telyr said. “Want to come out and play with us?”

  “You shouldn’t be here.” He tried to sound severe, but he felt himself blushing. “The nannas’ll chase you off. Again.”

  “I’ll be betting they don’t chase you off, do they?” Telyr, the group’s apparent leader, stared at Michael with an insolent grin on his face. “I bet no one ever chases you off. If you come with us, I can promise you’d earn a lot of clink, too,
for not being chased off.” The other boys laughed.

  Michael’s grip tightened on the bucket’s handle, and he thought his face must now be bright red. Exhausted and cornered by the mob, he was not in any position to fight back or even make a decent showing if he were fool enough to try. I’ll just have to hope I’m fast enough.

  Heaving with all his strength, he threw the contents of the bucket at Telyr, drenching him, and shouted, “Kiska! Worthless kiska trash!” He scrambled up the top three steps and put the last of his energy into shutting the enormous door which swung closed much more easily than it had opened. His hands shook as he fumbled with the lock, but he felt the bolt shoot home just as the boys reached the door and started pounding on it.

  Their shouts and taunts were muffled by the thick, sturdy door, but he could still understand what they were saying. He backed away into the center of the hall, his fists clenched and his breath coming in painful gasps.

  “Kiska trash,” he whispered.

  “Michael!” a far-too familiar voice snapped as the outside noise finally subsided. “What are you doing?”

  He turned and faced the sharp, disapproving glare of Nanna Mabbina. I have to find Cyra. She’s hurt.

  “I’m sorry, Nanna. I went to get water to rinse the floor—”

  “Well, where is it, then?” She moved closer with near-stomping strides. Michael backed away a step before he was able to make himself hold his ground.

  “There were some boys outside. They were—”

  He was interrupted again, this time by a loud thunk as something hit the door.

  Mabbina was across the hall and yanking open the huge door before another tic had passed. She glared out at Telyr and his mob who froze at the sight of her, forming a tableau of shock and fear.

  Michael watched the little mob scatter. She doesn’t even have to say anything.

  “Go on, then,” she growled gesturing toward the pump.

  Michael hesitated for a long tic—wanting to protest, wanting to beg permission to go find Cyra—but he knew Mabbina wouldn’t let him. She wouldn’t care about a cat nor see any value in his wasting time on such a mission of mercy.

  “Yes, senna.” He hurried past her and down the steps, retrieving the dropped bucket as he went.

  She waited at the door, watching for Telyr’s mob to return, Michael supposed, and only left once he was safely back inside the walls of JhaPel—and safely back at work scrubbing the floor, this time under orders to also clean up the bloodstains.

  Though he worked as fast as he could, he soon realized there was no way he was going to finish in time for evening meal. The light began to fail, and he was having a hard time seeing to clean. One of the younger nannas went by with the lamplighter, but this didn’t help much.

  He tried to find Cyra while cleaning, but Nanna Mabbina started hovering, walking by at regular intervals to make sure he was doing his job.

  “You aren’t paying attention to your work, Michael,” she snapped after catching him at the arched doorway leading out into the South Courtyard. He was trying to follow the blood-splotch trail Cyra had left behind her.

  He turned, and looked up at Mabbina, desperate. “Please, Nanna. Cyra’s hurt. May I please go look for her? I’ll—”

  “I told you to clean up this mess,” Mabbina said icily.

  “I know, but she’s—” The woman’s expression darkened, and Michael froze, having to fight the impulse to back away again.

  Mabbina shook her head as if disappointed. “Tomorrow. The west retreat cabin. It was just vacated and needs a thorough cleaning before it’s next use at quarter’s end.”

  Michael couldn’t help it. He closed his eyes. A flicker of frustration showed on his face. He barely stopped himself from stamping a foot in useless protest. “But my lesson’s tomorrow,” he managed not to wail as he looked back up at her imploringly.

  Mabbina’s impatience snapped like static in the air around him. “Yes. I meant to tell you. I’ve sent word to Magister Vaznel that we’ll no longer be taking up his time.”

  Michael’s mouth dropped open, but nothing came out. No demands for explanation. No cries of protest. It was pointless, and he knew it. Saying or doing anything would only result in more solitary chores. He dropped his eyes to hide his hurt and anger, closed his mouth, and nodded. “Yes, senna.”

  She finally went away, and he finished cleaning up the bloodstains in the dim lamplight. The trail of bloodstains ended in the South Courtyard, so, once he put away the bucket and scrub brush, he would return to start his search there.

  Pol and Ned were waiting for him outside the dining hall when he hurried by on his way back to find Cyra at last.

  “Where’re you going?” Ned frowned at him.

  “There’s just enough time, if you hurry,” Pol added. “We were just about to come find you.”

  “I have to go—”

  “No, you don’t,” Ned insisted and caught his arm. “You need to eat, you scrawny thing.” He pulled Michael back into the dining hall and into line.

  The first nanna in the line smiled at him, not seeming to mind that he was Mabbina’s least-favorite, but the others were all wary and cast frowning, appraising looks at Michael as he moved down the line. Pol glared back at them and demanded another spoonful of potatoes when he thought one of the nannas had shorted him the full helping. Michael almost protested—Pol had already seen to it that more food than he could possibly eat had been scooped onto his tray—but Pol’s outrage kept him silent. When they reached the end of the line, Pol grabbed the tray and carried it while Ned kept him in tow. Together, they propelled him across the dining hall and to their traditional table.

  “Now, eat,” Pol ordered and almost banged the tray down in front of him. Michael obeyed, but he couldn’t help noticing more changes he didn’t like. He noted absences like wounds. Nella had been sent off into service at some highborn household three moons before; Jiin had left a moon before that for his own apprenticeship. Michael never heard what it was he was apprenticing to be, though. He hoped Jiin liked it. There were always new faces and always fewer familiar ones.

  He stood out now as he always had, but it was no longer just because of his lovely face and long hair. Now it was because everyone was trying to figure out what it was that Mabbina saw in him that made her loathe him. It didn’t help that most of the nannas liked Mabbina’s authoritative, no-nonsense ways better than Ethene’s more indulgent, affectionate approach to the children. Many had agreed with Mabbina that Ethene gave Michael too many special privileges.

  He ate with his eyes on his plate, relieved to be able to hide amongst his remaining friends. It’s so loud now that I’m not with everyone all the time. I get used to the quiet whether I want to or not. I just want everything to go back to the way it used to be. He tried not to think about Pol’s promise, though the thought whispered through his mind that it would be even better to finally get away from JhaPel altogether.

  Michael hadn’t realized how hungry he’d been. The food tasted so good, it almost hurt, but he felt guilty for sitting there eating while Cyra was out there somewhere, wounded and scared.

  The other children’s conversation roiled around him, and he made a few noises and nods, pretending to be listening, but all he wanted was to go find Cyra. He wasn’t sure if even Pol would understand—no one else quite looked at the cats at JhaPel as anything more than mousers.

  He ate quickly, which was not his way, and Pol frowned at him. “What’s the matter?”

  Michael shot him a look, almost wary. “I have to go do something. I’m late.” He mopped up the last bit of stew with the last bit of bread and popped it into his mouth. “I have to go,” he said around the mouthful.

  Pol seemed about to argue with him or ask a question, but he subsided. “Fine. You go on, then. I’ll get your tray.”

  “Thanks.” Michael flashed a quick smile as he stood up, and then he broke into a run. He reached the dining hall doors and was down the corridor before
anything else could delay him.

  He made it to the South Courtyard and slipped outside into the garden without being stopped again. Once there, he dropped his imperfect mental protections in an attempt to sense Cyra. He searched for a long time, sensing only the vaguest flicker which, he thought, was faint enough to be his imagination.

  It grew late, and Last Prayer would sound soon. If he didn’t want even more trouble, he needed to get to his dorm and be under covers before rounds.

  “Oh, Cyra.” He felt helpless and miserable. “Where are you?” He took a few steps toward the dormitory building when something moved in the greenery nearby, catching his attention.

  “Who’s there?” he asked. No one answered, but something moved again, and then he heard it. A faint, mewling cry came from somewhere in amongst the bean plants. He caught a brief sense of fear and pain and focused on it.

  Cyra! Oh, please, Vail, let it be Cyra. Please.

  Michael bit his lip and followed the cry to its source. “Shize.” He knelt down in the waist-deep greenery to pick up the small gray cat.

  She’d obviously been beaten up pretty badly, and, remembering how she’d run past him earlier that day, Michael was shocked she’d been able to move so quickly. She trembled in his arms, managing a weak, kitten’s mew every few moments.

  “It isn’t fair.” Michael ran a gentle hand down her back, feeling for any more injuries. “You’re so much smaller than they are. You’re even smaller than the other cats.”

  She flinched when his fingers brushed her side, and he brought his hand away bloody. His first impulse was to take her to one of the nannas, but he couldn’t go to Ethene, and Tierna hadn’t come back to stay at JhaPel for some time.

  Ever since Mabbina took over. Most likely, he’d meet up with Mabbina who would be furious with him for even looking for Cyra. She wouldn’t be sympathetic to a wounded cat even if it was right in front of her.

  He slid sideways to sit on the ground where he’d been kneeling. Cyra huddled against him with her nose tucked in the crook of his arm, and he could feel her increasing weakness and pain.