by SJ Himes
Cook put a hand on the top of his head, ruffling his hair gently, but still he flinched. Another sigh, then Jaime was led away from the table towards the door that led to the small room he slept in behind the kitchen. Cook slept in the room next door. Jaime found himself sitting on his small pallet, and he curled up in a ball, tucking his face into his knees and shivering. A blanket covered him, and Cook’s big hand rubbed up and down his back for a few moments. “Stay here, boy. You’re off duty the rest of the day. We’ll talk when you wake.”
Jaime woke with a deep ache in his empty belly and a sore head from crying. He uncurled from his fetal position and stretched, noting the darkness coming from beneath the door. How long had he slept?
Jaime cautiously left his room, ducking into the shared water closet nearby. The bucket of clean water for rinsing was frozen over, and he shivered when he broke the thin layer of ice. Drying his hands on the rough cloth provided, he peeked out, and when he saw no one around, he tiptoed into the kitchen. The fire in the hearth was freshly banked, and there were a few pots still simmering with trays waiting to be plated with the beef stew he could smell cooking. The royal guardsmen were fed during the long winter nights, their shifts varied and required hot food. It was quiet, at odds with the last week of hectic activity.
A couple of servants he didn’t know where ladling hot soup into bowls, and one spied him on the far side of the room. A whisper went to Cook, who Jaime now saw was sitting beside the fire in the shadows.
“Give the lad a bowl,” Cook grumbled, and Jaime found the courage to walk across the wide space and take a steaming bowl from a nameless servant who eyed him curiously. Jaime sat on a small stool, accepting with a murmured thanks a hunk of buttered bread thrust his direction.
“Take those meals to the guards on duty, I need some time,” Cook ordered, and the servants hustled out of the room with their trays. Quickly, it was just Jaime and Cook and the snapping embers.
Jaime used the bread to scoop up the stew, the thick gravy and chunks of meat tasting like dirt as his nerves ate away at his appetite. He knew he should eat, especially if his luck was about to run out, and he found himself out in the cold. He refused to look up from his bowl, finishing the last drop.
“Captain Marcus came and asked after you while you were sleeping,” Cook said, and Jaime’s nerves grew taut at his voice. “Wasn’t he the guard who took you from the slavers?”
Jaime swallowed and put his bowl on the table, wringing his hands. “Yes, sir. Captain Marcus was in the port that day when the slavers took us off the ships.”
“Slavery is illegal here in this country; I’m surprised the slavers even came into port.” Cook was making conversation, and the tension in Jaime’s shoulders lessened a bit.
“The ship took damage in a storm, and the slavers feared loss of merchandise. They took us out of the hold because it was taking on water, and the workers needed to get down there. So, they took us up to the wharf and kept us behind some crates, hoping to stay out of view.”
“Well, I’m glad the guards saw you then, it sounds like luck was involved in rescuing all of you,” Cook was trying, Jaime could tell. Why they were talking about something that was surely publicly known was making him uncomfortable, but if it kept Cook from tossing him out as useless, he could put up with being uncomfortable. He’d felt far worse.
“You’re educated, boy. I can hear it in how you speak, in the words you use. What did you do before the slavers got you?”
Hope sparked in his chest at the thought that maybe he wasn’t going to be kicked out of the castle. He may have no skills, but he was educated. Maybe there was a place for him somewhere.
“I was a student, sir, at a private academy in Corinthia. I was in my last year,” Jaime admitted, risking a peek. Cook nodded at him. “My father sent me to school, I was an only child. He died several months ago from an early wave of autumn fever.”
“He died and you ended up in chains?”
“Yes, sir. My father died deeply in debt. I didn’t know how bad things were, otherwise I wouldn’t have kept going to the school. It was very expensive,” Jaime wiped his cheeks, resigned to the tears he found. “I went back home when I learned he was dead to find him cremated already, and our home being sold off piece by piece by his creditors. I rushed in to stop them but ended up in chains. They sold me to settle the last of his debts.”
Not entirely true, but the full truth might see him back in chains. He needed to guard himself, even against the kindness shown to him by his new masters. He might not be a slave anymore, but a servant had only his masters to protect him, and losing that protection would be the end of him.
“When did he die?”
“Just over six months ago.”
“You spent nearly six months in chains? By the Goddess, it’s a miracle you came out of it unscathed,” Cook muttered, shaking his head. “I’m sorry you went through that.”
Jaime rubbed his wrists, the scars hidden beneath his sleeves. He nodded—no use drawing attention to his injuries. Though unscathed was so far from the actual truth, he didn’t want to think about it.
“Well, I suggest that you go see Captain Marcus sometime tomorrow. He’s a good man who worries about you. I think he may like you, lad. There’s no custom here that would interfere if your feelings leaned that way.”
Jaime peered up at that, taking in Cook’s small smirk. He blushed and shook his head. “The captain is a nice man. He saved my life.”
“But not to your liking?” Cook inquired, not unkindly. Jaime shrugged, then shook his head. Cook chuckled, and Jaime relaxed a bit more.
Jaime was afraid to say he found someone else far more appealing. The captain was a kind man, young for his position and surely honorable, but Jaime felt nothing but gratitude for the dashing, ink black-haired royal guard. Captain Marcus was devastatingly handsome, so beautiful that Jaime imagined the captain had lovers for every day of the year, but he wasn’t the man that had captured his attention. Warm brown eyes that reminded Jaime of autumnal honey and rich chestnut hair swam in his inner mind, and Jaime quickly banished the thoughts of the handsome prince. He knew his place, and it was nowhere near royalty.
“You’ve slept the day away.” Cook made it a statement, not a judgment, but Jaime still flushed and nodded. He wasn’t tired in the least, and it was in the middle of the night.
“I’m not tired at all,” Jaime said, and Cook gave him a rueful smile. “Is there work to be done I can get started on?”
“There’s always work to be done,” Cook replied, and Jaime chuckled. “Do you know the way to the barracks?”
Jaime nodded. It was blazoned in his mind, as it was from the barracks that he first came to the palace. From there, Captain Marcus had escorted him to the kitchens and into Cook’s care.
“Good.” Cook pointed at a medium-sized pot still hanging over the fire. “That pot is meant for the common room in the barracks. Drop the full one off, hang it over the fire pit where the empty one should be, and bring the empty back here. You can lay out the bread pans for breakfast when you get back. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” Maybe Cook was trying to nudge him towards Captain Marcus, despite his reticence. He doubted the Captain was awake at this late hour—surely the man in charge of palace defenses and security was soundly sleeping. Jaime doubted he would run into Captain Marcus.
“Good boy. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Jaime carefully hung the heavy pot of stew on the iron hook that swung out over the center fire pit in the middle of the common room. He added another log to feed the dying fire and picked up the used pot by its wooden handle, its insides crusty and dried. There was nothing left inside, which he wasn’t surprised to see, as everything Cook made was delicious.
He turned for the door with his burden, but a voice calling out in soft greeting drew him to a halt.
Captain Marcus filled the door, his broad, muscular body taking up the entire
frame. The small smile lifting a corner of the captain’s mouth made Jaime blush and fidget. The man was incredibly handsome, to the point Jaime felt intimidated. Which was surely unfair, as the Captain gave the impression he was a kind man. Jaime dropped the pot, and it rolled into the fire pit, sending ash swirling into the air. He cried out in dismay and reached down for it, but a big hand seized his wrist and pulled him away.
“Don’t! Let me get it, you’ll burn yourself,” ordered the captain. Jaime was helpless to stop him.
Captain Marcus gently moved him back, and Jaime found himself watching, embarrassed, as the captain took a corner of his scarlet cape and lifted the wayward pot from the embers. Captain Marcus quickly set it down on the floor away from the fire, shaking out his hand before sucking on the fleshy side.
“Oh! Did you burn yourself? I’m sorry! I should have fished it out myself.” Jaime reached for the captain’s hand and rubbed at the reddened burn on his callused skin. A welt was raising, and it would most certainly hurt quite a bit.
“I’ve had worse, sweet Jaime.” Marcus smiled down at him, not at all bothered by the injury. That cape was thin silk and dyed cotton, nothing to protect the skin from burning hot metal.
“Still…” Jaime rubbed at the mark and watched as the angry hue faded beneath his touch. The burn vanished as if it never was, and Jaime snatched back his hands, hoping the captain didn’t notice. “I guess it wasn’t that bad after all.”
Jaime grabbed the empty pot by its wooden handle and hurried for the door, anxious to leave. He risked a look back, and the captain was staring in bemusement at his now healed hand. Jaime gulped, and all but ran back to the kitchens. He heard the captain calling for him, but Jaime was out of sight, and he ran without guilt for not obeying.
Cook spent the day sending him long contemplative looks as Jaime went about his regular duties of chopping, fetching, and stirring with his head down and the determination not to draw attention to himself. The lash marks on his back may be healed from time and distance, but the memories of his torment were still fresh. Jaime carried a secret, and it was what earned him the whip. The people here in the palace may be kind, and slavery may be illegal, but this new country might be more like his old one in terms of prejudice against magic.
Jaime looked down at his hands and tried to push away the memories of the healer’s academy from his mind. Corinthia was home to a school that taught the healing arts, and Jaime’s father had mortgaged their whole lives to send him there once Jaime had shown signs of the healing gift. As the locals were superstitious and feared magic users with a passion that wasn’t rational, it seemed best that he be sent far from the city of his birth to the Healer’s Academy at Corinthia on the shores of the Hellebore Empire.
It was a gift that was useless in the end because it ruined his father, and he wasn’t home to use it when it would have been most needed. Jaime’s father had passed from an illness that he’d learned to heal while away at school—an ironic twist of fate that left him mired in guilt.
Let him spend his days working with his hands in a more mundane manner. Every palace, every castle needed servants, and there was no shortage of work.
Jaime was scrubbing potatoes when a hush fell over the kitchen. Jaime ran a wet hand over his brow, pushing back his plain boring light brown locks, and looked to the entrance from the main hall.
Captain Marcus, along with two of his men, stood at the entranceway, searching over the crowd of servants and cooks. Jaime spun back to the sink, desperate and looking for a way out. They must be here for him—in the weeks since his arrival, the guards never came to the kitchen, only doing so once to drop Jaime off, then they left.
Jaime grabbed a rag and dried his hands, walking as casually as he could for the rear hall that led to his room. He would need to grab his pallet and a blanket, and then disappear into the servants’ hall. The guards tended to stay in the main halls of the palace, and he might be able to hide long enough to escape without being seen. Hopefully they weren’t familiar with the servants’ halls, and he could evade them. Captain Marcus might have been attracted to him before, but now he couldn’t count on that affection staying his hand if Jaime was to be arrested.
“Jaime!”
He ran, sprinting for his room. Cook was coming across the large room, pushing aside those gawking in his way, Captain Marcus and his men at his heels. One of Cook’s big, burly undercooks got in his way, and Jaime almost fell over. The entrance to the servants’ halls was closer. He would need to forget his stuff—he ran, ducking into the twisting labyrinth of the servants’ halls, hoping to get so lost that no one would find him.
The servants’ halls were empty, and Jaime ran full out, fear and adrenaline making him sweat, chills running down his spine. He could hear people behind him, calling his name. He couldn’t risk them catching him—he had to get away. After several turns, Jaime ran past the lift, then doubled back. He threw the lever, randomly choosing a floor, and hopped on. It took a moment, his heart racing in terror that he would be caught, but it lurched upwards.
Jaime collapsed against the wall of the lift, exhaustion sparing him from being worried about its creaky motion upwards. If the time spent traveling was any indication, the lift went higher than the last time he took it by several floors. Jaime almost fell when it jerked to a halt, and he scrambled from the lift. Spinning back to the levers in the wall, he sent the lift on a new trip back down before he jogged down a poorly lit hall.
Silvery winter light crept in the dark hall from a skylight above his head, and Jaime squinted out the blurry window pane to see a cloudy sky and snow falling. He had to be near the top of the castle, or perhaps one of the turrets. He recalled his journey to the castle, and his first sight of the grand structure on a mountainside rearing up into the sky with towers and turrets piercing the clouds and flags flying, brilliant bursts of color against the gray overtones of the season.
Heart jumping again at the thought of being so high, Jaime slowed, creeping along walls that were slick with frost. The wind screamed through tiny cracks in the slanted ceiling, and he shivered as his sweat-soaked hair caught the chill and the adrenaline left his muscles, making him cramp up and his throat dry. He wished fervently for something warm to drink.
He walked until there was nowhere to go, and he came to the end of a hallway, his feet leaving the only marks in the fine layer of dust upon the stone floor. There was a small alcove with a narrow window and a bench built into the wall. Maybe at one point it was used as a viewpoint, but not for a very long time based on the cobwebs and undisturbed dust covering everything. Jaime took the chance to sit, curling up on the stone bench with the wall at his back. He rested his chin on his knees and watched the hall where it curved out of view.
Tears escaped, scalding as they ran down his chilled cheeks. Jaime squeezed his legs tighter, shaking and biting his lip as he fought back sobs. Six months ago, he was learning how to be a healer in one of the safest places in the world for someone like him, but he had to rush home, despite his teachers’ pleas to remain at the academy. When he got home, he had nothing to defend himself with when the men ransacking his family home recognized him and tossed him in chains. The rumors of why he was sent away to school were enough to ensure he received no kindness or mercy from his captors.
The slavers came for him before the shock of wearing chains had even settled in his mind. They tore him from his school robes, sneering at the fine fabrics and stealing his boots. Left naked but for his thin undergarments about his waist, Jaime was dragged through the city to the slave pens. There, he was chained, whipped when he fought back, and starved near to death on many occasions. Finally, after an indeterminable amount of time, he and a dozen other ostracized men had been sent to the ships to be slave labor on a mining island in the far north.
His sleeves bunched up from his posture, revealing the thick and layered scars on both of his wrists caused by his futile struggles with the shackles he spent months in. Jaime angrily tugged h
is sleeves back down to hide the proof of his powerless state and buried his face in his knees. He bore matching scars upon his back, the slavers’ whips leaving their stamp on his skin.
Jaime could heal, a rare gift in many parts of the world that gave him purpose, value. Yet, for him, it was useless—he could heal others, but never himself.
He was so cold. He muttered and curled in tighter, trying to find some warmth. He ached, muscles cramping and sore, and he shook from head to toe.
Warmth came, and he instinctively turned his face into the hot, large hand cupping his cheek.
“He’s got a fever,” someone swore, and Jaime frowned, sure he knew that voice, though he’d only heard it once before. “He needs the healers.”
Strong arms lifted him up, cradling him to a warm, solid chest. Jaime shivered and pressed his face into the heat and strength holding him so effortlessly.
“Let me take him, Highness,” someone else said, but the arms holding him refused to relinquish him to the other voice. “The boy is dirty and sick.”
“I have him, Captain.” The power in that short phrase should have scared him, but Jaime turned deeper into the embrace, a sense of safety letting him slip deeper into sleep. The voice was protective, tone conveying authority and possessiveness. “That’s it, Jaime. I’ve got you. Not long now, and we’ll get you warmed up and this whole mess sorted out. You’re safe.”
