by Ross Kitson
***
It took a good minute for Emelia’s eyes to adjust to the darkness of the Ebon-Farrs’ bedchamber. The day room had been relatively bright with moonlight. In the bed chamber the smaller windows were concealed by heavy curtains, thickened to trap heat within the chill room. A fire in the corner had burned out, leaving a faint scent of wood smoke in the chamber.
The bedroom was a testament to Lady Ebon-Farr’s adoration of soft furnishings. Emelia had always been fascinated by the explosion of cushions that adorned this room. They came in every shape and size. The majority were from local weavers in the town of Melton, a picturesque place that sat on the edge of the harsh Plain of Meltor. These cushions mixed yarkel and sheep wool stuffing with cow leather trim in beautiful patterns. Dotted between were the plush fineries of Mirioth and some extravagant giant Feldorian cushions. As bad luck would have it they were scattered across the polished floorboards and made traversing the room in the near pitch black a true challenge for Emelia.
Emelia weaved silently past the dressing table, with its powders and perfumes, past the leather armchairs and towards the four-poster bed that dominated the far side of the room. It loomed like an ominous beast from a fairy tale, emulating Mother Gresham’s best yarns about evil dragons and gargantuan mountain giants.
Emelia caught a movement out of the corner of her eye as she neared the foot of the bed. She froze, the dagger clasped firmly in her hand. In an instant she recognised it was only her reflection in the full-length mirror, given extra clarity by a slim chink of blue moonlight slipping past the lined curtains.
Emelia turned cautiously to face her own image. It had been many years since she seen any reflection, bar a glimpse in a grubby puddle or a distorted caricature in the curve of a brass kettle. Her reflection stared back nonchalantly as she looked herself up and down, fascinated by the change.
Gone was the awkward adolescent, overly conscious of her maturing figure, and in its place stood a young woman, proud and confident. Her blonde hair was tied back allowing the pale moonlight to illuminate her face. It was long, with a thin nose, large glittering eyes and full lips that had never forgotten how to smile. She had a tall athletic physique, with muscled arms, toned legs and small breasts pulled flatter by the overly small tunic she wore.
When had she become this woman that stood before her? Minutes ago when she had met Jem’s intense gaze? Hours ago when she had challenged vile Uthor and unleashed some strange force? Days ago when she had unknowingly said her last words to her closest friend? Or was it that moment when Hirk the Netreptan had whispered for her to flee the coup when the time was right? They could not clip her wings now.
With new resolve Emelia slipped past the foot of the bed and towards the slumbering occupants. Lord Talis slept flat on his back. The scanty moonlight that fell upon him gave him the appearance of a corpse. At his side Lady Ebon-Farr was sprawled. She was evidently a far more exuberant sleeper. She regularly moaned and mumbled and changed position, tangling the bed sheets around her like a bizarre ball gown. The scent of wine hung in the air and Emelia surmised that they had continued the drinking after Uthor had been taken to the Citadel of Air.
Inch by inch Emelia moved towards Lord Talis, her own breath slowing to near silence as she came closer. She could see a moist patch of saliva on his cheek and a light wine snore was rasping from his lips.
A strange feeling arose inside her as she came within a foot of his hawkish face. In truth it was difficult to describe exactly how she felt, for here was a man who had become the all-encompassing force in her life. This was her master and her lord. His will and whim dictated how she lived, how she ate, what she wore and what she thought. She scurried around in the shadows he cast, as if he were imbued with the morose grey of the stones, a part of this castle like some living statue. He was the all. He was a god that ruled in this domain she was trapped within. So as she looked down at him and the golden key that was lying on his bony chest she was transfixed by a sense of obligation and loyalty to this man, bound to him as servant and master in the way a babe would be bound to its mother at birth by its umbilical cord.
The voice that she kept repressed within her came to her rescue once more. It surged to the surface, like a shark breaking the still sea at night. Emelia, it is past time we did this, Emebaka implored. Cut it now. Cut that cord.
She slipped the razor sharp dagger under the leather cord and with a tiny pressure it slit. Her eyes were glued to the rhythmic breathing of Lord Talis as she tentatively gripped the key and then gently lifted it away from him.
His breathing paused then continued and Emelia slowly exhaled, little spots dancing in her vision from the prolonged holding of her breath. She stepped back carefully, noting the brass bedpan within inches of her right foot as she did so. Now that would have been a poor trial by fire, she smiled.
The cord had finally been cut.
