Griffin's Daughter

by Leslie Ann Moore

  She gazed down at the baby, sleeping peacefully on a full stomach. On impulse, she got up and went to open the wooden chest at the foot of her bed. She reached in and removed Drucilla’s ring from its hiding place at the very bottom. She held the ring up to catch the light of the room’s single oil lamp and examined it thoughtfully for a while before returning it to the bottom of the chest.

  The baby awoke and began to fuss. Claudia scooped the infant up and cradled her against her large, soft breasts. Instinctively, the child began to suck.

  “ You’ll get nothin’ from these old tits, little one,” she said, rocking the baby gently back and forth. She traced the shape of one tiny, pointed ear with a fingertip. A sudden, fierce determination swept through her. “I promised yer mam I’d protect you from folks’ abusin’ you ‘cause of what you are, and by the gods, I’m going t’ do my best. And when yer old enough, I’ll give you yer dad’s ring and maybe, just maybe, you can find him.”

  Claudia kissed the baby’s forehead and rocked her until she drifted off to sleep again.

  Chapter 1

  An Unexpected Invitation

  The day started much like every other for Jelena. Emerging reluctantly from her cozy nest of rough woolen blankets, the young woman shivered as her bare feet touched the old rag rug lying on the flagstone floor beside her cot. Spring was in the air, but apparently, the stones of Amsara Castle hadn’t gotten the news yet. Dawn’s first flush had just begun to lighten the indigo sky. The day would be warm and dry, perfect for a festival.

  A few live coals left over from last night still smoldered in the grate. With a handful of kindling and a chunk of fresh wood, Jelena soon had a small fire cheerfully burning. She hunkered down in front of the grate and held her hands to the flames, sighing with pleasure. The brutal cold of winter had begun to ease during the last few weeks, but nights and mornings remained chilly. From behind her, Jelena could hear old Claudia snoring softly. From experience, she knew Claudia’s uncannily accurate internal time sense always roused her foster mother at the same hour each morning.

  A loud cough and a grunt heralded the old woman’s return to the waking world. “Big day today, my lamb. Lot of extra work t’ be done. Best get to it, I reckon,” Claudia said. She threw aside the rumpled bedclothes and rose ponderously to her feet, then ran a gnarled hand through her thinning, steel-gray hair.

  “ Umm,” Jelena answered, still huddled before the fire and loath to move. How wonderful it would be to be able to sit here all morning with a mug of hot tea and a sweet roll!

  “ C’mon, girl! Get yourself movin’ now! Them fires in the kitchen won’t make themselves. Cook’ll want ‘em nice and hot before she comes down.”

  Jelena groaned out loud as she reluctantly left the bubble of warmth created by the flames and made a show of stomping to her chest to pull out her day clothes.

  Claudia chuckled affectionately as she pulled on her robe and slippers. “Off to the necess’ry,” she announced, and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Jelena preferred to use the chamber pot early in the morning; she found it infinitely better than sitting over a malodorous hole while a freezing draft chilled her backside. After relieving herself, she washed her face and hands in an old ceramic wash basin, then donned a coarse cotton smock with a rust brown overdress of linen. Very fine embroidery decorated the dress at the neck and hem, but it was old and worn from hard use. It was not something an average servant girl would wear, but then, Jelena was not an average servant. She had acquired the dress as a castoff from her cousin, the Lady Thessalina.

  Lastly, she pulled on gray cotton stockings and slipped a pair of sturdy leather sandals onto her feet, then turned her attention to her hair.

  She gazed at herself in the small square mirror nailed to the wall next to the door and sighed. With a boar bristle brush in one hand and a wooden comb in the other, she attacked the tightly coiled, recalcitrant mass of mahogany curls that sprang from her head with a vengeance born of years of frustration. All her life, she had envied girls like Thessalina who had been blessed with shining waves of luxuriant hair that fell gracefully down their backs. Hers, by contrast, stood out from her head in a great bushy shock, refusing to be tamed by comb, pin, or hair grease.

  During Jelena’s babyhood, Claudia had often tried in vain to cajole some semblance of order from her foster daughter’s chaotic tresses. “A gift from your mam,” Claudia would ruefully say as she tugged and twisted and smoothed. In the end, both child and nurse had grown weary of the struggle, and so Jelena’s hair had finally been allowed to do what it would with little interference, save an occasional trim.

  On her eighteenth birthday, just two months past, Jelena had taken shears to her locks, and now had only a shoulder-length tangle to deal with. She would have cut it man-short, except then she would no longer have been able to hide her ears.

  With a final tug, she finished the daily battle, securing the sides with a pair of ivory combs. These combs were her most cherished possessions, for they had belonged to her mother.

  Jelena might have her mother’s hair, but the rest of her features bore the unmistakable stamp of her father’s elven blood, from the slightly upturned eyebrows and gently pointed ear tips, to the slender build of her body.

  Because of the undeniable fact of her mixed human-elven parentage, she had lived her entire life on the margins of castle society, the barely tolerated bastard offspring of the duke’s late sister, Drucilla. The duke could not accept her as a full member of his family, but neither could he turn his back completely on his sister’s child, so the infant Jelena had been given at birth to Claudia so that she could be raised in the servants’ quarters.

  Claudia’s face had been the loving visage floating above Jelena’s cradle; her voice crooned lullabies when sleep would not come. Claudia’s ample bosom had given shelter and comfort to her little girl, so hurt and tormented mercilessly by both castle children and adults alike. Claudia was Jelena’s heart-mother, the dearest person in her universe.

  The older woman returned just as Jelena finished tying her work apron on over her dress. “What? Still here? You better get goin’ or Cook’ll be yellin’ for sure,” she said as she pulled her voluminous nightdress up over her head. She shook out the garment and carefully folded it before tucking it away in her chest.

  “ I’m going, I’m going,” Jelena replied. She gave Claudia’s seamed cheek a quick peck, then dashed from the room and down the stairs to the door leading out into the yard. A blast of fresh cool air hit her as she pulled open the heavy oak door. A ray of golden, new morning sunlight dazzled her eyes. Somewhere, a cock crowed.

  Gods, I’m late. Cook will be furious!

  She hurried across the yard, still shrouded in cool shadows, heading toward the kitchen. She reached the door and paused just long enough to chirp a greeting to the small pride of castle felines that had congregated on the threshold. They responded by raising a raucous chorus of hungry meows, patting at her skirt hem with insistent paws and twining around her legs in an attempt to cajole from her their morning feeding. Jelena laughed at their antics, and bid them be patient. Just as she pushed through the half opened kitchen door, a great shout rang out.

  “ Girrrl! Why aren’t them fires made yet?! I’ve got a feast to get on! I need m’ fires now!”

  Cook, a great she-bear of a woman, had the disposition to match her formidable bulk. She stood now, hands on hips, glaring at Jelena from beside the main hearth.

  “ I’m sorry, Cook. I was a little slow this morning. I’ll get right to it,” Jelena apologized in her most deferential tone of voice. Her hands shook a little as she got busy. When Cook’s temper flared, she was fierce indeed. Jelena had often heard rumors that she had once been a soldier in the Imperial Army. Jelena had never doubted those stories.

  Cook harrumphed and stalked away. Jelena soon had the main hearth fire going and had just finished the lighting of the big oven when the rest of the kitchen sta
ff began to straggle in. Save for a cursory acknowledgment of her presence, most of them didn’t speak to her; in fact, she had worked beside some of these people for years, and had barely exchanged a handful of civil words with any of them. Now that she was older and strong enough to defend herself, the more persistent bullies limited themselves to verbal abuse, or they simply ignored her. Jelena didn’t mind; she had grown used to the solitude imposed on her by the pervasive bigotry of the castle’s residents, and it no longer bothered her.

  The kitchen soon bustled with activity. The breakfast needed making for the family and the staff, and the enormous task of preparing the festival feast had to be started. After Jelena had finished lighting the fires, Cook put her to work chopping vegetables.

  The Festival of Sansa was one of the most important holidays on the Soldaran solar calendar, celebrated during the month of Dul when winter’s harsh grip on the land began to ease. The people offered prayers to San, Goddess of Spring, and asked for her blessing on the new growing season. It was also a traditional time for matchmaking; an important part of every Sansa celebration was the marriage market, to be hosted this year by the Duchy, thus insuring a much larger crowd than usual for the castle’s public feast.

  In addition to the public meal, the duke would be holding a private feast for his neighbors. Several nobles from afar were also expected to attend. The most senior members of the kitchen staff were to prepare this very special meal, including a spectacular Sansa cake made entirely by Cook herself-her night’s masterpiece.

  Jelena had no expectations that she would be allowed to celebrate the holiday with the family this year. She had never been invited before, despite the protestations of her cousin Magnes, so this year should be no different. This also no longer bothered her much. She was content to spend the holiday with Claudia, as she always had. The two of them would celebrate by eating their own little Sansa cake together.

  Magnes was Duke Teodorus’s eldest child, future Duke of Amsara, and the only member of the Preseren clan who treated her like family. Magnes had been her only friend and playmate during their childhood. Three years her senior and by virtue of his station, he suffered no adverse consequences by befriending her. When they were together, his mantle of protection shielded her, and the worst of the bullying ceased.

  Magnes had taught her to read and write, to ride a horse, and to shoot a bow, which she now did with great skill. Jelena loved him dearly, as much as she loved Claudia.

  Break time arrived, and Jelena stopped work to get her breakfast along with the rest of the kitchen staff-oatmeal with dried apples, mild yellow cheese, and fresh bread, hot from the oven. Jelena collected her food, and with a mug of honey-sweetened tea to wash it all down, settled into a corner to eat and wait for Claudia.

  The older woman soon appeared, and after getting her food and having a few words with some of the other staff, she waved to Jelena and sat at the kitchen’s long trestle table, which ran along the back wall. Jelena almost never sat at the table with the others unless Claudia sat with her. She rose from her corner and went to join her foster mother.

  Since both of the duke’s children were now adults, Claudia’s services as a nurse were no longer needed by the family. She had therefore been put in charge of the castle’s laundry. She still acted as the castle midwife and informal healer for the staff, dispensing advice and herbal remedies. She also served as liaison between the staff and the duke if a serious health problem requiring the services of the district physician arose.

  Claudia patted the bench beside her, indicating that Jelena should sit. Her clothes were still damp from the moist air of the laundry, and a few stray wisps of wet, gray hair straggled from beneath her linen cap. She had a slightly quizzical expression on her face as if she were trying to make sense of something puzzling. “Saw yer uncle the duke just now, afore I came t’get my breakfast. He told me to tell you to come to his study straightaway. I told ‘im you’d still be eating, so he says oh well, then, have her come when she be finished. Now, what d’you suppose he wants with you this mornin’?”

  “ I have no idea,” Jelena replied. Her uncle rarely paid any attention to her at all, much less summoned her into his presence. He seemed to prefer that she stay away from him. A vague sense of unease sent tiny prickles down her spine, like spiders skittering over her skin. What on earth could he possibly want with her on this particular morning? She found that her appetite had deserted her, and the food that she had already consumed had turned to rocks in her stomach.

  “ I’d better go now,” she murmured, pushing her dishes aside.

  She stood up and removed her apron. Claudia took the garment from her and draped it across her shoulder. She reached out and squeezed Jelena’s hand in reassurance. “Nought to worry ‘bout, my girl. He prob’ly just wants to invite you to eat with the family this year, is all.”

  “ After all this time?” Jelena shook her head in disbelief. “I think it must be something else.” She gulped down the remainder of her tea and left the kitchen by a side door. In order to reach the castle keep where the duke had his private quarters, Jelena had to first negotiate a maze of tables that had been set up in the yard for the public feast.

  Jelena rarely entered the keep. Since she had no official place in the ducal family, and her duties did not involve chambermaid’s work, she had almost no reason to cross over its massive stone threshold. The few occasions when she had been inside, it had almost always been at the invitation of Magnes. Despite their long and close friendship, she had only ever been to his private quarters once, and that had been several years ago when they were still children. Both she and her cousin recognized the impropriety of her coming to his chambers now that they were grown.

  Jelena remembered the way to her uncle’s study from the last time she had been there, a little over three years ago. The day of her fifteenth birthday, the duke had summoned her to tell her she had officially come of age now, and could choose to stay at Amsara Castle to live and work, or she could leave. If she chose to stay, she would remain his ward until he could arrange some sort of match for her, if possible. At the time, she felt as if she’d had no other choice. She had chosen to stay, for where else could she go? As difficult as her life was at Amsara, she knew no other home.

  The keep’s massive, iron-banded oak door stood open. Jelena stepped through and stood a moment, blinking owlishly while her eyes adjusted to the dimness.

  Dust motes swirled and danced in the shafts of sunlight spilling down from slit windows set high up in the walls. Ancient banners hung from wooden poles set at regular intervals into the stone. The grunts of horses and the good-natured shouts of men-at-arms at their morning exercises drifted through the open door. An elderly wolfhound lay in a patch of sun near the great hearth, soaking up the double warmth of fire and solar heat. His tail thumping rhythmically upon the stone floor, the dog’s liquid amber eyes tracked Jelena as she moved farther into the room.

  “ Come here, Ghost,” Jelena called softly to the dog, and the old beast climbed laboriously to his feet and ambled over to her. He pushed his massive, grizzled head into her hands and stared up adoringly into her eyes.

  In his prime, Ghost had been Magnes’s favorite hunting dog and his constant companion. Despite his ferocity in the field, he had always been patient and gentle with people. Now, stiff and slow with age, he spent most of his days either lying before a fire or sleeping in the sun.

  Jelena bent to press her cheek against the wiry fur atop Ghost’s head, breathing in his musky aroma. She had always loved this dog for his sweet nature and because he belonged to Magnes.

  With a final scratch behind the ears, she left Ghost at the foot of the stairs leading up to the second floor of the keep. Climbing took too much out of him now, so after uttering a soft whuff of farewell, the big dog went back to his patch of sunshine.

  Jelena made her way up the stairs and down a short corridor to the polished oak door of her uncle’s study. Before knocking, she smoothed
her skirts and made sure that the tips of her ears were hidden beneath her hair; concealment of the most elven of her features had become automatic. This simple act of protective camouflage somehow always made her feel a little safer and stronger. She drew in a deep, shaky breath, and rapped firmly.

  “ Come!” a deep voice called out from within.

  Jelena pushed the door open just wide enough to slide her slim body through, closing it carefully behind her. She paused, her quick, hazel eyes taking in the scene before her. Dark, heavy wood and shadowy corners made up her uncle’s study. A small fire burned in the stone hearth to her left. Tapestries hung against the walls, depicting various scenes from the Stories of the Gods. Numerous cases and tables were scattered about the room, all serving as display areas for an extraordinary collection of scale models. There were models of ships, siege engines-even a complete replica of Amsara Castle itself. All had been lovingly constructed out of wood and metal by the duke’s own hands. The smells of dust and wood smoke infused the air, and a telltale tickle in Jelena’s nose heralded a sneeze, which she quickly stifled.

  “ Come here, girl. I can’t speak to you when you’re across the room,” her uncle commanded.

  “ Yes, Uncle,” Jelena answered, and quickly crossed the expanse of Sermatian carpeting to stand before the duke, who sat at a small writing table. The scritch-scratch of quill pen upon parchment was the only sound in the room for several heartbeats as the duke worked, ignoring his niece completely. Just as Jelena began to fidget, he put down his pen and fixed his steely blue eyes upon her.

  Duke Teodorus Preseren looked much like his castle’s keep-squarely built, imposing, and strong. He had a broad, plain face, with a heavy jaw and beetling brows, which at first glance could give the false impression of brutish stupidity. However, one would only have to look into his eyes, which gleamed with a shrewd intelligence, to realize that underestimating the Duke of Amsara would be a serious mistake. He was a man completely devoid of any sentimentality, an able administrator, hard and extremely demanding with his people, yet well respected for his fairness and judgment. Jelena knew that he took very good care of the folk of Amsara, and because of this, she had never borne her uncle any ill will.