by A. F. Dery
He blurted out a confused question, his eyebrows knitting together, but for the life of her, it made no sense. Oh no, is his headache addling my mind somehow? Kesara had never heard of such a thing.
“I’m sorry, my lord?”
Lord Eladria blinked at her and rose slowly to his feet. She watched him as if in a dream, her head tilting back to follow his progress as he unfolded with startling agility for one so immense. He was a veritable giant and she wondered with a kind of awe about how he managed normal doorways.
“What the hell did you just do?” he asked slowly, carefully enunciating each word. That was when, her eyes fixed on his great misshapen mouth against her will, she understood the previous difficulty. He clearly had to be careful in speech, with his mouth and jaw as they were. In his surprise, he’d spoken too quickly and the result had been incoherent to her unsuspecting ears.
She forced her eyes, with great effort, back to his, which also forced her to take a step back, given that her neck was not hinged. The fierce look she saw there made her shrink away still further.
“I-I...helped, my lord?” she guessed, wringing her hands.
He stared down at her expectantly. She blinked back at him with a perfectly schooled facade of blankness.
Finally he prompted, “When you touched me?”
“Yes, my lord?” It still came out as a question. He sighed and shook his head slightly, the shoulder length strands falling back into his face. The act seemed to remind him of something.
“Go fetch one of my usual staff, girl,” he said clearly. “And tell Cook I will be down there to speak with her soon. She is to be ready for me.”
“Yes, my lord,” she barely suppressed a smile of relief as she clumsily dropped a curtsy and fled, nearly impaling herself on...something....on her way to the door.
The guards must have overheard somehow, for it opened at her approach and she barely stopped herself from careening down the narrow stairs. She was blinded all at once by the sudden brightness of the tower outside, a brightness which made the pain in her head again explode. She paused to give herself a moment to adjust before she fell and broke her neck, the sudden implications of her earlier act only now catching up with her.
Just once won’t hurt me, she told herself firmly. It’s just a headache. And strangely, it did not appear that the Dread Lord had recognized her for what she was. He might not even know about the existence of her kind. That thought was actually a tremendous relief. Of course, it was only a matter of time before he started asking questions again. Probably coinciding with his next headache, she thought cynically.
No, there was a slightly more urgent concern: how was she going to maintain the effect on him from a distance? She wasn’t sure she could. In proximity, there was certainly no trouble, but as she moved away? Could she make it as far as the kitchen before the fragile and temporary bond between them snapped?
Only one way to know, she thought. Interiorly she clutched at the tenuous connection between them, hugging the pain of his great pounding head to herself, and she began the long plod down the winding staircase.
She could feel that connection like a bit of taffy in her mind, stretching thinner and thinner as she moved away. She was disappointed when it snapped into nothingness not even halfway down the tower, punctuated by a roar that reminded her vividly of a bear she heard once that had been disturbed during its winter sleep. It was a sound that cut through her, reminding her terribly of deep brown eyes pressing against her own rough palm, the wet brush of his eyelashes against her skin.
Her head, of course, now felt fine, but she spun around and started back up, taking the steps two at a time, as fast as she dared.
What are you doing, you fool? she screamed at herself as she hurried, her legs burning mercilessly. Run, the other way! If you do this, he’ll never let you go! He’ll never leave you alone! Once could be a fluke, but twice?
Kesara ignored it. She fully expected to run face-first into a soldier descending the stair to retrieve her, but no soldier came, and when she reappeared panting at the landing, a flash of surprise was twinned on their faces.
“Let me in,” she huffed. Her throat and lungs burned horribly from the cold, damp air.
“The Dread Lord has not summoned you,” the guard who had addressed her before said firmly. “What business do you have here?”
“Didn’t you hear him just now?” she sputtered. “He needs help.”
“His Lordship has always had the headaches,” the guard said flatly. “But he manages. He has even led us to victory with one. But so good of a wee little Ytaren to be concerned.” This last was accompanied by a slight sneer.
Kesara gritted her teeth. “Let me in,” she ground out from between them, her hands curling into fists at her sides. The soldiers both saw this and laughed.
“What are you going to do, chit?” the other mocked, grinning. “Smack us in the shins? Or bite our ankles?” His fellow guffawed.
She knew she ought not to have done it, but before she could even stop herself, the memory of a blade being driven through her shoulder (no, not her shoulder, it was someone else’s shoulder...) seared itself across her mind.
And into his. It spoke to the fortitude and constitution of Eladrian soldiers than he only uttered a hoarse cry of shock rather than the scream that had been elicited from the actual injured, his hand flying up to his shoulder. The other soldier turned to him, visibly confused at what had just happened, as Kesara took her chances and sprinted between them.
The only difficulty was, of course, the huge, oaken door now barring her way. She was not even sure she could open it on her own, but she was counting on a certain individual being sensitive to sound. She pounded on it with both fists screaming “LET ME IN! I CAN HELP YOU!” at the top of her lungs.
The soldiers quickly recovered themselves- she had not tried to maintain any connection to the one she’d “wounded” and the pain was already gone- and she felt metal gauntleted hands close around her upper arms, lifting her onto her toes and dragging her away from the door to the top of the stair. The back of another such hand came up from her right and struck her, rattling her teeth and causing her to smell blood.
I deserve this, she thought bitterly, feeling the warmth sliding down her upper lip. I could have died in my bed, but no. I’ll die over the headache of some ungrateful noble who doesn’t even know about me.
Kesara flinched as she saw the hand come up again, screwing her eyes shut and bracing for the impact, when she was suddenly dropped. She landed hard onto the top stairs, no doubt pitied by some benevolent deity, for one of her hands struck the bottom edge of the railing where it met the stone and she clung to it, stopping her fall.
She heard the crash of metal and a muddled hissing that carried the imperious tone of an order. Kesara opened her eyes.
Not an arm’s length away stood the Dread Lord, squinting against the light and glaring murderously. At her. One of the soldiers lay crumpled and twitching at his feet, the other stood against the wall nearest to her and reached down, again taking her by the arm and decisively pulling her onto the landing.
Only at the last possible moment did Kesara relent and release the railing, knowing full well that her doom was assured whether she was hanging onto it or not. She scrambled to get her feet beneath her, not that it mattered. The hand clenched around her arm held her up.
“What are you about, girl?” Lord Eladria asked. The words were a little slurred, but she understood them.
“I...well...” Kesara suddenly felt foolish and there was no time to debate with herself what to tell him, or how much. “I wanted to help you,” she finished lamely. “I had hoped I could keep it up from downstairs, but I couldn’t.”
His Lordship frowned and she shuddered involuntarily. With his face, the expression was more of a terrifying caricature of displeasure than the usual innocuous gesture. If he noticed her reaction, he ignored it.
“Did you get another servant to come up?” he asked. I
t took her a moment this time to translate mentally but she flushed and mumbled, “Well no...I came right back when I realized...”
“Maybe you had better do that,” he suggested with a dark look that made her cringe from within the soldier’s grip. “You see, here, I am lord, and I expect my servants to obey me. Not that this will be an issue with you much longer, if you can’t be bothered to follow simple instructions. To say nothing of assaulting one of my men.”
Kesara somehow managed a nervous little laugh. “Assaulting, my lord? What did I do- nay, what could I do to one of your men? They are twice my size and they are twice as many.”
The frown somehow deepened and the breath caught in Kesara’s throat. “I don’t know that yet, but you must have done something. They would never act against a woman without provocation.” He bent a little at the shoulders, his eyes intently studying her face. “Though they did overreact. They will be disciplined.”
Will be? Kesara thought, her eyes flicking against her will to the soldier crumpled on the floor. They darted back to him when she felt his fingers probing her cheek with the businesslike mien of a midwife.
“Nothing broken,” he said after a moment, “you are very fortunate.” Somehow, she knew without having to be told that he was not addressing only her. His hand fell away, his fingertips dappled with bright crimson.
Lord Eladria suddenly closed his eyes and Kesara knew that the pain must be getting to him. She bit her lip, unsure of how to proceed.
“My lord, I can help you, but only if I stay near you,” she said. He lifted an eyebrow inquisitively but his eyes stayed shut.
“I don’t need your help,” he said finally. “I have always managed and I know not what sorcery you called upon before. I will not have it in this Keep, nor in this country.” Despite the implied threat, his voice was merely tired.
“It is no sorcery, my lord,” Kesara said hesitantly. “I don’t know how it happens, actually, but I’m almost entirely certain it isn’t sorcery.”
“Almost entirely certain?” Lord Eladria echoed, opening his eyes slightly to peer at her.
“Well, I’ve heard theories, but I’m not sure how I feel about them. None of them have ever mentioned sorcery,” she explained quickly. Then she clamped her mouth shut, worrying she had said too much. What if he asked about those theories, or where she had heard them from? But the Dread Lord simply gave a very slow shake of his head.
“It is irrelevant,” he said. “You’re not to do it again.” His tone left no room for argument, but no argument was in Kesara anyhow. He continued, in slightly more subdued tones, “I understand you were trying to...help. So I will allow you another chance, in spite of...” He made a vague hand gesture that was apparently intended to cover everything from the abominable liberties she’d taken to the perceived assault of his guards.”But there will not be another such chance. Now do as I have told you, girl.”
Kesara did not hesitate in dropping something akin to a curtsy and resuming her flight down the stairwell.
It feels like knives, Thane, Dread Lord of Eladria, mused to himself. He was a man much experienced with blades and it felt as though a dozen of them were skewering his brains unseen, still white hot from the forge. Standing in the brightness of the landing had been excruciating, and he was suddenly sure from where he now sat ensconced in the comforting darkness, a fresh tea tray (sans scones) before him, that he would not have let the little foreign girl go if he’d been thinking clearly.
Hell, if he had not been so desperate at the moment she’d first come upon him, he would not have...he would not have. That is all. He could not bear now to even think of his childish behavior in that moment of weakness. It was not like him.
He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. He ought to have been more upset that some sort of dark sorcery may have been wrought upon his person without his consent, however temporarily, but all he could remember was the pure and overwhelming sense of relief. His headaches could last for days, and he had woken with this one already clutching him in its grasp. Every breath felt labored, every sound was amplified and a fresh invisible knife in his head.
Soon, he knew, the stabbing would resolve into mere pounding, and he would go out to the barracks as was his habit to train with his men. Not many leaders would fight or train with their troops; his own father would never have dreamed of such a thing. But Thane had grown up in their midst, had even gone to battle with them for the first time when scarcely into his teens. They were more his family than his blood relations had ever been, and he would have given his life for any one of them.
Now he was left to worry about the threat the foreign girl presented, if any. He always kept his word and having given her another chance, he meant to do so. But he thought he should have someone keep an eye on her. It did not seem likely that she was present to work mischief if she had tried to help him, though of course that “help” could have been mischief all on its own, for all he knew. It was unfortunate, but Thane knew little of what passed for sorcery and witchcraft and had no interest in learning. Strategy, war, those were different matters, as were the sciences he dabbled in when he had time of his own. But forces he could not see and weigh and reckon with, powers that could not be held at the edge of his favorite battle-ax, he had neither time nor interest for; had, in fact, nothing but a surplus of distrust.
And he felt perfectly justified in that distrust. Take this moment, for example, he thought to himself, settling back in his chair and wrapping his hands around an earthenware mug. That girl did something to take the pain away, and now that it has returned to me, it feels worse than it did before because of the reprieve. He snorted.
And what had she done? She had touched the back of his head. He frowned at the memory. Perhaps she had simply taken advantage of a pressure point or some such thing to alleviate his pain. He had heard of healers who believed pressing various places on the body somehow righted the living energy within that person. Such ideas were certainly on the “questionable” list in Thane’s mind, but he could not deny he had felt absolute relief. Perhaps it was an effect that wore off quickly, which is why she had come back, why she had needed to see him again. That was not, he thought with some hope, sorcery. It was science, if one he could not claim much understanding of. His own interests lay in quite another direction.
Still, he thought, it’s a good theory. He lifted his hand to the back of his head and tried to press where she had, but it had no effect on the stabbing. Of course, he was not trained to it, he reasoned, and perhaps she was. Perhaps there was a trick to it. And of course she’d not be likely to share it, not when it could secure her a position in the Keep of the Dread Lord.
But then, why not apply as a healer rather than a maid? It made little sense to him. The idea that she never would have been considered for such a position given her alien status teased at the edges of his mind, but he dismissed it. He knew there was prejudice against foreigners- hell, he felt the very same way as the rest of his kinsmen on the subject- but when presented with the evidence of it in its more practical applications, he could not bring himself to acknowledge it. Thane could recognize this fact about himself but preferred not to think any more about it. In all honesty, he personally would have hired a Lyntaran if it meant his people would benefit from such an action and he was sure the corresponding risks could be mitigated, and his feelings for that particular country were well known.
But Thane had made his decision and rolled that die. He would give his instructions to Cook when he’d finished his tea, and the dire consequences would just have to wait.
He lifted his mug, noticing for the first time the stickiness on his fingers. The girl was lucky, he thought. He still didn’t know what she had supposedly done- his men were not one for making excuses for themselves- but something inside him protested to see a woman struck. He’d seen far too much of that in his life.
Then something occurred to him, something strange. He set down the mug and rubbed his fingers together thoug
htfully. She had been bleeding. No broken bones, of course, but a nosebleed and a bruised cheek. He had pressed her cheekbone and jaw firmly to inspect them and she had not even reacted. Had not even blinked. Eladrians were known for their stoicism, but her breathing hadn’t even faltered. It was just...odd. Then, too, he had heard her knocking into the furniture fairly hard when she had entered the outer room, but she had not gasped or cursed or cried out like a normal person.
Another sort of sorcery? he wondered, his brows knitting together. But no, that made no sense. There was only so much that could be blamed on the dark arts. He had never heard of being impervious to pain as a fruit of sorcery. And was she really impervious, or simply resistant? It could be natural. Perhaps all her countrymen were like this. That thought only made him darken; this was something he needed to establish for strategic reasons. One never knew what enemies the future might bring, and one who would fight heedless of pain would be formidable indeed.
Thane drank down the last of his tea and rose to wash and dress. There was much that needed doing. He could only hope he’d not made a mistake by letting the girl leave him freely. He supposed he ought to be reassured that she had done as he’d told her first, but a clever mind would have done that anyway to buy themselves more time. Of course, nothing she had done so far had convinced him that she qualified as “clever.” Certainly if he’d left her to the consequences of her own foolhardy behavior, her fellow servants would be trying to scrape her off the stairwell by now.
After performing his usual ablutions, he descended the stairs and made his way through the Keep down the kitchen. It was not unusual to see his Lordship in any particular part of the Keep; he had no sense of propriety in that regard, and no eyebrows were raised, though plenty of bodies were bent in signs of respect as he passed.
