“The same faint-hearted chaps back in Coonor would say that’s because most of them have no idea how to get back to where we bought them from,” Lord Karak said with a smirk.
An icy terror was seeping through Emelia’s body as she eavesdropped. She could hardly follow all these grown-up words. Did they mean she wouldn’t be able to find Papa?
“We keep reasonable records, not least for the legality of the contract of servitude,” Master Tremen said with a shrug. “I am certain any could return. Very few do.”
“As you say,” Lord Karak said. “Father is interested in purchasing some Islanders and we hear you have some in…training.”
“Indeed,” Master Tremen said brightly. “Ten years ago they were a rarity, m’lord. Now we have had an influx. I hear that there is a famine in the Scattered Isles.”
Emelia started at the sudden mention of her homeland.
“Aye, I heard as much too,” Herfen said. “Juton in the Clifftop House was speculating it was due to the dearth of fish in the Islands. Word has it that the Water-mages have been altering the currents for the Corinthian fleet.”
“Their loss, our gain,” Master Tremen said, snorting another pinch of snuff. “The Island girls are far better value than the Azaguntans. They are hard workers, physically superior and most..,” he paused for a moment as his mouth widened into something not altogether unlike a smile “… beautiful.”
“And obedient?”
“Oh…of course, of course,” the mouth narrowed. “All our girls are obedient at this house. We are most rigorous with the discipline—they are fluent in Eerian by the time we sell them on and versed in the etiquette of the grand houses. I have one at the moment who is most delightful to the eye—she has remarkable grey eyes. I shall show you her now in fact—Emelia is her name.”
The chairs scraped as the visitors stood. Emelia’s mouth was dry. These men were here to take her away! These men were coming to see her in the dormitory now!
Emelia grasped the sheets and flew down the corridor. She took the stairs two at a time, images of skipping across the rocks of her beach-side home flashing across her mind. The clatter of boots were echoing down the first floor corridor as she twisted around the base of the stairwell and hurtled through the door and into the corridor.
She slowed as she reached the dormitory door and chanced a look back. She would be flayed alive if she were caught out of bed at this hour. She opened the heavy door, wincing at the slight creak and eased her way into the dormitory.
Emelia flung the fresh sheet over the bed and dove under it. Twenty seconds later, as her heart still pounded in her ears, a chink of gold lantern light invaded the room. The three figures clumped across the dormitory.
“This is her. She’s been with us five months now, so ready to start as soon as you need.”
Emelia lay as still as she could whilst Tremen’s hand grasped her shoulder.
“Open your eyes, girl, there are men here to see you.”
Emelia rolled over, blinking her eyes in a befuddled manner then squinting at the lantern light. Master Tremen tugged her into a sitting position then pulled her chin to look up. Her whole body was trembling as she met Lord Karak and Herfen’s stares.
“Hmm, yes I see,” Herfen said. “Lord Ebon-Farr will be satisfied.”
“As will mother,” Lord Karak said. “All her friends have Islanders now. I’m uncertain about Gresham though.”
“Ha. That’s my concern, young master,” Herfen said. “Right, Tremen, some more wine before we retire perchance? It’s not often I am allowed a break from the Keep.”
The three strode from the dormitory leaving Emelia feeling stunned and terrified. The other girls peered from their beds but not one said a word. She rubbed her chin furiously where Tremen had grasped it: she could still smell the pungent fragrance of the snuff on her skin.
She lay there in the dark of the room, listening as the undulation of the girls’ slumber resumed.
Sleep had left her. And besides, had she wanted to sleep the nightmare would be there, waiting for her as it did every night now. As it had done ever since she had left the island on that dark ship.
Asha, why have you let the evil people take me from Papa and Mama?
The sea goddess made no reply.
How am I going live? Asha help me… help me please.
Don’t be daft, a voice replied.
It was a girl’s voice. A naughty voice—the one that had tempted her into listening upstairs. Yet there was no-one close to her and the other girls were asleep.
Are you a ghost?
Don’t be silly Emelia. I am the other voice—I’ve always been with you.
Emelia felt icy fear seeping through her. What was happening?
Who are you then?
I am a friend, like no other could ever be.
Oh. Can you...can you help me? Look after me? Stop the darkness in the night coming for me?
I can Emelia, yes I can. All I need is your trust and your belief. I can help you escape to wherever you want to.
How?
Just by shutting your eyes. Your dreams will be your refuge and I shall be your guardian.
But you don’t know…bad things happen in my sleep.
Ah but I do know…you mustn’t worry, I can show you how to find good dreams. I can show you how dreams can help you see. Even the worst dreams, even they can show you secrets. You just have to know how to look.
But -
Shush! The voice laughed hard, almost hysterically, then continued. Sshh! Dreams are a game. You just have to know how to play them. Now close your eyes, stupid!
Emelia trembled. She tentatively closed her eyes.
That’s it, that’s it. Now relax your mind and come with me!
Emelia emptied her thoughts. In moments, she was asleep. And with that sleep soft deep breaths arrived. Presently, she smiled.
Chapter 1 The Air Mage
Harvestide 1920
The first glow of dawn shone off the knight’s armour as he banked towards the Citadel. Far below Emelia peered up at him through the slit-like window of her dormitory. To her, it was as if the knight and his griffon were cast from molten gold.
She saw them sweep down out of the sky and come to perch atop the Citadel of Air, on Coonor’s highest plateau. Emelia stared longingly at the tiny glinting figure and then stepped down from the window and back into the shadows of chamber that she shared with the other servants.
The other girls, seven in number, were still sleeping. The morning light was not yet intense enough to break their slumber. Emelia had been awake an hour already, watching the evolution of dark to light in the tiny chamber. Mother Gresham always teased that she should have been born with her eyes on stalks because of the amount of time she spent peering through the windows of the Keep.
Yet what a view it commanded. The world seemed to roll effortlessly away from the eye. The Keep perched on the edge of Coonor, City of the Mists, and had been the residence to the House of Ebon-Farr for a millennium. Emelia fancied that the mountains fell away from the precipitous city like the billowing skirts of some Eerian lady, rippling as they became hills and settling finally on the smooth farmlands that edged to the horizon. Somewhere beyond was the sea and across the sea, the island of her birth.
Her bare feet curled away from the cold flags of the dormitory as she crossed the room towards the bowl in the corner. She allowed herself a moment of fantasy as she imagined the sensation of diving, of slipping unclothed into the warm sea of her early childhood, the taste of brine nipping her throat. How would it feel to twist and spin without ground beneath her, to swim in water like the knights flew on their griffons through the air?
The cold water sliced through the daydream as she washed away the night sweat. Emelia’s nights were tempestuous and laden with vivid dreams. Whilst her fellow maids shivered under the rough yarkel-wool blankets, she would sweat the night through, abruptly wakening into the dense blackness.
Only
fragments of her dream now remained, like the smell of a pipe after the smoke has cleared. Emelia was certain that she had been some kind of animal, perhaps a lamb or sheep. She recalled wandering through the higher corridors, squinting at faded tapestries and dusty shields. The focus of her mind’s eye had swirled like draining water in a bath. Then she had been on top of the Keep. Fear had risen within her as she looked to either side. The world dropped away from the ancient edges of the roof. On one side she could plummet without ever hitting the bottom. On the other she could see the cobbled streets that ran from the gatehouse; the invitation of a quicker death.
She dried her face with a threadbare towel and slipped quickly from her night shirt, goose flesh appearing in an instant. She tugged on a brown yarkel-wool tunic and skirt. Emelia felt the reassuring presence of her shell pendant, the only remnant of a distant childhood.
The next detail of the dream was vague. There had been a wolf or a wild dog on the roof with her. Had she seen him or heard him? Or had she felt him? Had she sensed his fur pressing close to her woolly side and his hot breath on her neck?
Her feet had skittered underneath her and then she had that curious appreciation of weightlessness and the cobbles rushed towards her. She always woke up as she fell. A shudder slid up her body.
Several moans arose in the cramped dormitory as the other girls began to stir. Emelia began tidying her curly blonde hair. She dipped a wooden comb into a pot of grease and ash and scraped it through her tresses, wincing in discomfort. Fingers still numb from the frigid air of the dormitory, she secured it in a bun before washing her grey fingers. The Ebon-Farrs preferred a traditional appearance for their house staff. She returned to her bed to straighten her sheets. Her cot was situated between those of Sandila and Abila—friends as close as sisters.
Emelia smiled as Abila tumbled from bed and scurried to the bowl. Abila was small and chubby, her body carrying puppy fat that was yet to dwindle with maturity. Like Emelia she was a Scattered Islander. They shared the same blonde hair and pale skin of the Islanders yet in height and build they were poles apart.
Sandila rolled in bed and yanked the covers over her head. She was the night to Abila’s day. Sandila, an Azaguntan, enjoyed big hips and big bosoms and had a brashness that made Emelia blush almost perpetually. Her impudent smile and flashing eyes acted like a sprite’s song to the men of the garrison stationed above them. A small part of Emelia’s mind emulated Sandila, a little voice that spoke inside her head when embarrassment threatened to paralyse her. Emelia had named her Emebaka: it meant the light of dreams in the Island dialect.
“How are you always first to the bowl, Emelia?” Abila asked, shivering as she slipped on her skirt.
“You get the best views of the patrol at this time. Well you do if you’re a foot taller than I am.”
Sandila’s muffled voice was griping. “More like little Miss Star Eyes wants to get the warmest milk from big Momma Gresham’s teat.”
The room erupted in laughter at this and Emelia kicked playfully at Sandila’s covered form. The copper haired girl sat up chuckling. The colour drained from her face as she came upright. Emelia instinctively stepped back as Sandila coughed and then vomited over the pale stone floor.
The acrid stench assailed the slave girls’ nostrils and they all began whining and yelling. Emelia side-stepped past the pool of vomit then moved towards Sandila. An unexpected hush came upon the room as Sandila lay back down, wiping her mouth.
Annre and Abila had clambered out of their beds, bleary-eyed, their hair emulating haystacks. The two exchanged looks and then sprinted for the bowl. The room erupted into frenzied activity as they all realised that the last one in the dormitory with Sandila would be the one Mother Gresham would make clear it up.
***
The manner in which Mother Gresham dominated her area of the kitchen went beyond her physical presence, which was formidable enough. Her corpulent bulk seemed to expand to occupy all available space. Rolls of fat cascaded from her face, giving the appearance of a gigantic candle that had melted. Her arms had swinging flaps of skin that Sandila joked could lift her enormous bulk over the upper city’s walls and into the void beyond, should a wind catch her unawares.
Yet there was a shrewd glint in Gresham’s eyes, borne from the strength of mind that had elevated the Mother from her beginnings as a scullerymaid to the matriarch of the lower floors.
She waddled the short distance to the robust bench on the periphery of the huge bustling kitchen. Emelia observed, over the top of the bread roll she ate, that Mother’s breathing had that peculiar wheeze of the gargantuan.
Mother Gresham took a mouthful of the alcas bread and scratched one of her chins in thought. She turned to address the six girls who squatted against the kitchen wall eating their breakfast. The peppery seeds of the bread gave her face an extra flush.
“Sandila’s left us in a bit of a fix, my girls,” she said. She spoke Imperial with a strong Azaguntan accent.
“Not as much of a fix as poor Gelia’s in now,” Emelia said to Abila with a whisper. Gelia, the slowest of the maids, was still scrubbing vomit in the adjacent dormitory.
“Sandila was to be taking up Lord Ebon-Farr’s breakfast early today. He always insists on her when he has guests,” Gresham said.
“I wonder why,” Abila said to Emelia. She tried not to laugh back, biting hard into her alcas bread.
Mother Gresham fixed her steely gaze on Emelia.
“Which I suppose means we’ll have to unleash you on them today, Emelia.”
Emelia blushed as the girls all stared at her. A trickle of dread rose from her belly and her mouth began to dry despite the moistness of the bread.
“B-but Mother, surely Annre is better to…” Emelia said.
Mother shook her head, her jowls wobbling. “Annre, Abila and Tarn are to attend Lady Ebon-Farr for her dressing. M’lady has an engagement with Lady Farvous in Northside. I think we all remember your last experience of dressing.”
Emelia cringed at the reminder. Two years ago she had helped dress Lady Ebon-Farr in her many rich skirts and had torn the fabric on a loose nail. Mother had been obliged to cane her and she had sobbed herself to sleep for a week afterwards.
If she wasn’t such an ignorant crone, continually moving as you tried to fix her skirts, it wouldn’t have happened, Emebaka observed acidly. Emelia shut the voice out and tried to think of another excuse.
Mother interjected before Emelia could speak.
“Gedre and Quellik are needed in the kitchen today for the baking. The garrison are working full tilt with the Ni-Faris festival coming up and besides they are both too young to be acting as parlourmaid.”
Gedre and Quellik both began to protest, but a glare from Mother Gresham brought them to a halt. Gresham had a temper to match her flaming hair.
A rich voice rose above the din from the kitchen as Captain Ris came in, and sat besides Mother on the already strained timber bench.
“It is a fair comment, lass. The lads are busting a gut and a hungry soldier is a mutinous one. Besides, it’ll give the lads a treat to see those eyes of yours in the upper Keep.”
The other girls all laughed. Emelia blushed again, feeling suddenly awkward and uncomfortable.
Ris’s pale blue eyes met hers as he peered down his hawkish nose. Like most Eerians he was tall and slim, with the grey hair that grew on them all from manhood. He had a clipped beard that gave his jaw a commanding edge.
“It seems only the other day these lasses were brought on the stagecoach from Greypeak, all doe-eyed and smelling of starch. You’ve done a fine job with them, Mother, what with Mister Hirfen moving to the Lord’s estate in Lower Eeria.”
Mother clucked at the praise.
“You’re too generous, Captain. Merciful Torik knows that girls can be a challenge, but they’ve each got good in them if you can just ferret it out.”
“The lads’d ferret it out of the Azaguntan lass, that’s for sure—shame she’s taken
a fever,” Ris said with a chuckle. “Young Emelia’s diamond eyes might yet put a smile on his Lordship’s face today. He’s got some serious company it would seem, to be rising as early as the likes of us.”
Emelia sighed in defeat and rose.
***
Emelia straightened the pressed pinafore she had put on top of her tunic and skirt, still feeling self-conscious as she ascended the final flight of steps. It had been several months since she had journeyed so high in the Keep. Most of Emelia’s days as a maid were spent in the lowest floors: in the kitchens, the cellars and the sewing rooms. On occasional days she was sent to attend to some minor task amongst the city garrison. The garrison was stationed on the three floors of the Keep that rose from street level. The bawdy welcome that female servants received meant Mother Gresham usually dispatched the more robust girls, like Gellia or Sandila. So it was with some trepidation that Emelia had embarked on her errand.
Predictably the journey through the garrison’s floors had been replete with teasing. Most comments revolved around crude observations that Emelia had changed from a gawky adolescent to a young woman in what seemed only a few months.
Emelia turned the corner of the stairwell and was startled to see a hunched figure on the stairs ahead. He was a broad lad, although two or three years younger than her. Soft sobs echoed against the hard stone.
She made to approach him then hesitated. It was unforgivable to dally on the way to serve the lord. Yet the lad was new and she felt a surge of pity in her heart.
“Are you alright?”
The boy jumped, drying his eyes.
“Are you crying?”
“No!” he said. He stood to leave. Emelia saw his scalp had a reddened area and his long blond hair was patchy.
“Alright, sorry. Are you hurt then? My name’s Emelia. I’m one of the kitchenmaids.”
The boy stopped and looked at her. He was fair and very well built.
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