Clara

by Suzanna J. Linton

  “That's the elder?”

  He grunted and went back to writing.

  “How old are you?”

  He blinked at her. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just because.”

  “That seems to be your reason for everything.”

  “It's better than no reason at all.”

  Mara chuckled. “Emmerich is nineteen winters.”

  Emmerich being a winter's child made sense to Clara, as he seemed to have an almost melancholic, frosty air about him. Or maybe he just didn't like new people.

  “And where's your mother?” she asked.

  His hand stopped moving and he bit out, “Dead.”

  Clara flushed. “I'm sorry.”

  Emmerich grunted again but didn't look up from his work. Realizing he wanted nothing more to do with her, she moved away and sat at Mara's feet. She plucked blades of grass, tossing them around her. “Why do people call you a witch? You're too nice to be a witch.”

  Mara chuckled. “Sometimes people call someone a witch because that person happens to have a talent or ability no one else has. Like Emmerich with his writing. Half the people in this caravan can write but very few in your village can. So, to them, we're witches because we can do something they can't.”

  Clara nodded solemnly. “Like me.” Her eyes widened as she realized she had said too much.

  “Child, what do you mean?”

  “Nothing. It's nothing.”

  “Probably just bragging about nothing,” muttered Emmerich.

  His words goaded Clara. Jerking her head up, she blurted, “I know when things will happen before they do. I see them in my mind.”

  “Oh-ho, so you are a witch. More like a witchling, as you're too small to be a full witch.”

  “I'm not a witch!”

  “Hush, Emmerich,” reprimanded Mara. “Like all young men, you speak before you have had a chance to think. And you're not a witch, Clara. Many little ones can do what you do. You'll probably grow out of it. But I suggest you keep it to yourself, just to be safe. There are those who would use you for their own reasons and none of those reasons are good.”

  Clara nodded and went back to plucking blades of grass. After a few moments of silence, Mara began speaking about herbs and flowers. Clara listened raptly, asking questions and making observations. Emmerich didn't speak again, not even when it came time to pour the tonic into the bottles and some of the hot liquid splashed onto his hand, only grimacing at the pain.

  Finally, as the sun began its slant toward the horizon, Mara filled and corked the last bottle.

  “Emmerich,” said Mara, “I want you to walk Clara home.”

  Clara half-expected him to object but he only walked away, calling out, “Come along.”

  “It was nice meeting you, Mara,” she said before turning and running after Emmerich.

  “Nice meeting you as well,” she yelled out after them.

  Clara worked hard to keep up with Emmerich's ground-eating stride. When they reached the edge of the village, he stopped.

  “Well, here you are.” He gestured at the avenue still full of people. “You're home.”

  “This isn't my home. I live on the other side and down the road, in the cottage by a stand of sycamores.”

  He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Fine then. Come along.” But this time, he didn't walk so quickly and he chose a route among the crowd and vendors that was less crowded, keeping within sight of Clara. When going through a dense area couldn't be helped, he took her hand. It was a large, broad hand, and almost seemed to not fit him. A broad scar snaked along just below the knuckles.

  Eventually, they left the village and he quickly dropped her hand. The children were gone from the meadow but she could see the places where their play bent flowers and weeds.

  When they reached her cottage, Clara was surprised to see Haggard and his open-topped wagon in the front yard. He leaned against it, smoking his pipe.

  “Well, goodnight,” she said, turning off the road.

  “I'll take you to your door,” muttered Emmerich, following after her.

  As they reached Haggard, he looked up. “Ho, there, Clara. Who do you have there?”

  “This is Emmerich.” She felt very proud to introduce her first real friend, albeit a surly one. “He lives in the caravan.”

  “I thought I told you to stay away from them.”

  She had no answer for that, so she posed her own question. “What did Mama want?”

  Straightening, Haggard reached into the back of the wagon and pulled out a pair of manacles. “Now, Clara, I want you to hold real still.”

  Like lightning, Emmerich jerked forward and slammed Haggard against the side of the wagon, dealing the man a hard blow to the stomach. “Clara, run! He's a slaver!”

  Clara backed up several paces, watching the two men struggle. Fear and confusion grew thick on her tongue. She only knew slavers were bad men and Haggard was not a bad man. He called her pretty and bought her sweets.

  “Clara,” cried Emmerich again. His bottom lip was bleeding and he struggled to keep Haggard from throwing him to the ground. “For the Child's sake, run!”

  The panic in his voice broke the paralysis of fear and she bolted toward the house.

  “Da!” she screamed. Da would save her. Da was always there for her.

  She heard Emmerich cry out in pain just as she reached the door. It opened and Mama stood there.

  Clara stopped, looking up at her with wary, tear-filled eyes. Mama grabbed her by her two braids and dragged Clara back to the wagon.

  “Da!” she screamed again. In the falling twilight, Clara could see Emmerich in a heap on the ground.

  “Here, take her,” said Mama, shoving her at Haggard, who caught her by the shoulders.

  Haggard threw her to the ground and held her down with his knee while expertly latching the manacles to her ankles.

  “Should we kill the boy?” she asked.

  “No,” sobbed Clara. Something in her urged her to say, “He's the headman's son.”

  Haggard gave Mama a significant look. “It'd be folly.”

  “Then I'll wake him after you're gone.”

  “It'd be for the best.” He lifted Clara in his arms and dumped her into the back of the wagon. “I can't go too far, as it's so dark, but we'll make something of a start.”

  “Safe travel, Haggard.”

  He grunted his thanks and climbed into the driver's seat. With a flint, he lit a lamp that hung on a pole. Clucking his tongue, he started his mules, turning the wagon around and climbing up onto the road. Clara crawled to the back of the wagon, using the gate to pull herself up onto her knees.

  True night had almost fallen, the last pale pink streaks of sunset fading away, but she could barely make out the shape of the unconscious body in the yard.

  “Emmerich!” she cried again, but Haggard twitched the mules into a trot and they soon left Emmerich and the little cottage by the sycamores behind.

  Cold water splashed onto Emmerich's face and he awoke, spluttering and coughing. He wiped water from his eyes.

  “Get up,” snapped a harsh, female voice. “Get up and be on your way.”

  He groaned as he sat up. His insides burned and ached. Blinking, he looked up at the woman glaring down at him, an empty water pail in her hand. It took a moment for him to remember why he was laying in the dirt with his side on fire.

  “Where did he take her?” he asked, pushing himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain. One hand came up to press against his side.

  “That's not any concern of yours,” the woman said. “Now get.” Turning, she stomped away into the cottage.

  As she opened the door, he heard a man's voice slur, “Where's my Clara?”

  The front door of the cottage slammed, followed by arguing voices. Gripping his side, Emmerich jogged away. Night had fallen but the festival was still going strong, lanterns and torches lighting the streets as people drank, sang, and made merry. Emmerich sho
ved his way through them, causing more than one person to protest at the rough treatment.

  He staggered into the bright circle of his caravan just as his father was about to ride out looking for him. His Da, Harold, stood by the fire, a group of men gathered around him as he snapped off instructions on how they would search.

  “I'm here,” Emmerich called as he approached.

  Harold turned, eyes widening as he saw his son's bruised face. “What the devil happened to you? Are you hurt?”

  “I need a horse,” Emmerich said. “A girl's been taken by a slaver and I need to find her.”

  “A girl?”

  “That Clara child?” Mara, who'd been standing with a worried knot of women to one side, came forward. “Is that who's been taken away?”

  “Aye,” replied Emmerich. He gripped his father's arm. “Da, I fought the slaver that tried to take her but he was stronger. I have to follow her. Please!”

  “Do you even know where she’s gone, though?” Mara asked.

  Harold grimace. “It would be the nearest large town, and that's Pearl Falls. Emm, I know you want to help this girl and that's commendable, but there's nothing you can do. You can't buy her back, we don't have that sort of money, and you can't fight the henchmen a slaver uses to protect his wares. Mother, take Emmerich to your wagon.”

  “But–” Emmerich tried to protest.

  Harold scowled at his son. “The answer is no. Now, go.”

  Mara took Emmerich by the arm and gently led him away to her wagon.

  “I have to find her, Gran,” Emmerich said. “I have to. She was really scared and it's wrong.”

  Mara shushed him. “I know. I know. But you need to rest.”

  Mara filled Emmerich with a sleep tonic to keep him from running off. Two days passed in a drugged haze. But enough of his head cleared by then so that, on the last night they were to spend in the village before moving on, he only pretended to drink the tonic she put to his lips, spitting it out once she left the wagon.

  He waited until the camp settled down for a good sleep before a long day. His side still ached when he breathed too hard (a couple of his ribs were cracked) but he ignored the pain as he gathered some supplies into a pack and went to the few horses. They used oxen to pull the wagons but his father kept a handful of horses for him and a few others to ride.

  The rustling of leaves warned Emmerich of the approach of the watchmen and he ducked behind a mare. The pair of men strolled by, talking in low tones about the condition of the road north of them, into neighboring Teir, not noticing Emmerich. He let out a breath once they were gone.

  Taking the mare, he led her away from the camp, waiting until he was in the village itself before swinging up into the saddle. With a cluck and a tap of his heels, he started on his way, thankful for the full moon ahead that lit his way. However, the bouncing of a trotting mare did not make his ribs very thankful.

  It was a hard ride to Pearl Falls, a little over a se'ennight away further south. Bluebell had the unlucky distinction of being one of the most rural and isolated villages in Lorst. Emmerich's Da liked to joke that the monarchy could fall and be replaced thrice over and most of these small mountain communities wouldn't even notice.

  Emmerich pushed as hard as he dared, starting off early in the morning and ending late in the evening. He didn't stop unless he absolutely had to. His aches grew worse as he went and he chewed willow bark to numb the pain.

  In his travels with his family, Emmerich had seen villages, towns, and cities alike. He'd seen the sea and the desert. He once saw great beasts called oliphants with tusks longer than his Da was tall, carrying bands of warriors. When he finally reached Pearl Falls, there was nothing to excite his interest. Just dirty streets and tired faces. It looked like any other backwoods town.

  He'd dreamed of riding into town just in time to see Clara brought forward onto the auction block. He would ride in, through the crowd, snatch her down, and whisk her away. However, aside from the usual traffic and business, he didn't see a slave market.

  Remembering his Da's advice that nothing happened in a town without the tavern keeper knowing, Emmerich rode down the main street until he saw a faded sign painted with a tankard hanging over a door.

  The tavern was smoky and ill lit with candles and oil lamps. Several men sat at the long tables over the remains of their noon meals, nursing the ale in their tankards. Emmerich approached the long bar and knocked on it to get the tavern keeper's attention.

  “Aye,” the man said, sidling over. “What can I do for you, boy?”

  “Do you know where the slave market is?” he asked.

  “Slave market? Ain't a slave market around here, boy.”

  “There has to be. I know a slaver was coming here, with a little girl.”

  The man rubbed his chin. “Little girl, eh?”

  “Aye. And the slaver is an old man, with one eye.”

  “That so?” He gave Emmerich a pointed look.

  Grimacing, Emmerich dug into the money pouch at his belt. He hadn't thought to bring much but he did have a few silver coins. He tossed those onto the bar.

  The tavern keeper scooped them up. “That slaver came by yesterday. Wasn't here more than a few candle marks and left again, without that girl.”

  “Who'd he sell her to?”

  “There was another slaver here, by the name of Rosch, leading a small band of slaves, but he's already gone, lad. He left about the same time as your slaver.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “Not my business to know. Now, you gonna buy ale or are you gonna pepper me with questions?”

  Scowling, Emmerich left the tavern, looking around the crowded street as he tried to decide his next move. He no longer had any money and he ran out of food two days earlier. Worst of all, the slaver could have gone anywhere from Pearl Falls, and Lorst was a big country. At that moment, he heard a shout. Turning, he sighed at seeing one of his Da's men, Ivan, coming up to him.

  “There you are,” Ivan said. “Your Da is worried sick. Had me come chasing after you and I've been a few candle marks behind the whole way. What are you doing here?”

  “I need to find her, Ivan.”

  “Is she here?”

  Grimacing, Emmerich shook his head and related what he found.

  “Then you've done all you can. Come home, Emm. Come on.” Ivan laid a hand on Emmerich's shoulder. “You can't catch up now. He could've gone any which way.”

  Emmerich stood there a long moment, wrestling with the idea. He hadn't really liked Clara but he hated slavers. And he hated the idea of her ending up dead in a mine somewhere or in a brothel. His skin crawled at the idea of what some men would do to a little girl. But Ivan was right. The trail ended here and, for all he knew, the slaver was bound for Tier or to one of the nomads in the far North. With a sigh, he nodded.

  “All right,” Emmerich said.

  “There's a lad. Come along.”

  But Emmerich couldn't help one last glance around before following Ivan, as if he half hoped to see Clara, lost in the crowd.

  Chapter Three

  Thirteen Years Later...

  Emmerich strutted down the marble hall, his left hand lying comfortably on the pommel of his sword. A few servants he knew passed by and he nodded at them in greeting. Stopping in front of a pair of large double doors, he returned the salute of the guards standing there.

  “Report,” he said.

  “Princess Monica has retired to her rooms, Captain,” replied one of the guards, a swarthy man of Arventi descent named Cassius. “No one has been by save the maids. All is quiet.”

  “Very good. Carry on.”

  The men saluted him again as he opened one of the doors and went through, down the hall, to another door. Pausing a moment, he tugged on the red tunic every member of the King's army wore, though his was emblazoned with the double-headed eagle of the Royal Family's personal Guard. Clearing his throat, he rapped his knuckles on the door.

  Afte
r a long moment, the Princess’s lady-in-waiting, Lady Pauline, answered the door.

  “Her Highness is expecting you, Captain,” she replied, stepping back. As soon as he entered the room, she picked up a bundle and left, as if doing a late night errand. Lady Pauline always seemed to find a sudden, late night errand to conduct when Captain Emmerich came around.

  “Your Highness,” Emmerich said as the door closed behind him. “You look well tonight.”

  Princess Monica set aside the book she'd been reading and stood, smiling. A dark crimson dress hugged the curves of her body and her dark curls were piled on top of her head. Small opals on wire woven into her hair glittered in the lamp and firelight. More opals spilled from her throat. But none of the jewels could compare with her bright blue eyes.

  “As do you, Emm. Would you like some wine?”

  “I would.” As was his habit when he spent evenings with the Princess, he took off his sword belt and laid it on a table to the side. Next to it he slapped down his gloves.

  “I saw you practicing with the men earlier today. It was very impressive.” She brought him a goblet of wine.

  “I do my best for the Throne.” His fingers brushed hers as he took the cup. But, instead of drinking from it, he set it aside and gathered her into his arms. “You're all I've thought about today, though.” He began to kiss up her neck, stopping to nibble at her ear.

  “Careful. You don't want to be remiss in your duties.”

  “On the contrary.” He started to trail kisses along her jaw, stopping just above her mouth. “I do them better knowing I'm doing them for you.” He caught her mouth with his. She tasted like wine and honey and he groaned as his tongue slipped into her mouth to slide against hers.

  She sighed as her hands slid up his chest to cup his face. Emmerich's hands worked with the ease of practice as he undid the strings of her gown, sending the fabric to pool at their feet. Breaking the kiss, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bedchamber.

  Unlike other nights, he didn't take his time in his lovemaking. He was rough, quick, and relentless. When they lay in each other's arms afterward, Monica looked at him with concern.