A Gift Freely Given (The Tahaerin Chronicles Book 1)

by J. Ellen Ross

  He dug through her little bag of things. It looked as though she had packed it herself. He found books on horse care and collections of stories about famous battles, all written for adults. Tucked amongst those sat a few small toys, including several small horses carved from wood and a small soldier to ride one.

  When he started to read from the storybook, Leisha stopped him. “The poems, please.”

  Digging back into the bag, he found a small, dark book. “This one, Your Highness?”

  She nodded and he began reading. The first poem spoke of a girl who could not be with her lover because of a debt owed to her father. Symon thought it was a bit mature for a two-and-a-half-year-old child, but she closed her eyes and moved her lips along with him as he read. The next piece of poetry was longer, about loneliness and longing for a past spring. When it ended, Leisha turned her large, dark eyes to him and said, “That one is the saddest, Symon.”

  “Do you know all the poems in here?” he asked her.

  “Yes. And the things in the other books.”

  He looked in the bag for the book on horse care. “You know about horses? How to care for their feet? How to feed them?”

  Now she scowled at him. “Yes,” she insisted, sounding offended by his doubt. She began rattling off facts about when to feed hay, when to feed grain, how to make horse bread and when to call a farrier though she struggled with the last word. Reaching out, she took her books from him and stuffed them back into her bag.

  After that day, she started talking to Symon more about horses and poems and other things she read about in her book. Having no wife and no children of his own, Symon found himself enchanted with the tiny princess and enjoyed the days they spent in the coach together. Sometimes, he asked if he could read her books, and she solemnly gave permission for him to do so when she napped.

  A few times, Leisha asked him about Embriel and what it would be like. He tried to reassure her it would not be terribly different from Lida, except King Andrzej had children of his own and she would be living with them. She would have friends there to play with.

  In the middle of a conversation about the differences between Embriel and Tahaerin, she asked, “Does Shola hate me?”

  “Your mother?” Symon stammered, wondering how to answer a question like that.

  “She doesn’t act like mothers in books.”

  All his attempts to explain and excuse Shola fell on deaf ears. Leisha turned back to the window, letting him know his answers did not satisfy her.

  ***

  With fair weather, the procession of wagons and carriages made the trip in good time. As they neared Embriel’s capital, Arnost, Symon saw the city resting at the confluence of two rivers, spread wide and sprawling. The royal palace sat on top of a bluff rising up on the north side of the Arn River. As they approached, he halted the carriage to show Leisha.

  “Look at the two rivers and how they come together here,” he said.

  The little girl crawled into his lap and looked out the window where he pointed. “Do they ever grow apart again?” she asked, following the curve of the river as it wound downstream and out of view.

  “No, they become one river and flow together all the way to the sea,” he replied.

  Leisha made a face and managed to look even more somber than normal. “I wish we never had to be apart, Symon.”

  He felt a lump in his throat and tried to tell her she would be happier here, away from Shola. He wanted to tell her before she knew it, it would be time to come home and marry whoever her father chose for her. He wanted her to know how he hated leaving her here with strangers. But he did not know how to explain any of it to a child.

  An escort of Embriel soldiers met them on the road as it descended toward the city. Curious onlookers lined the way beginning well outside the city walls and continued down the street leading to the palace, all hoping for a glimpse of the little princess brought back as spoils of war. The soldiers kept the roads clear, ordering people back and lashing out at those who did not move fast enough. A few jeered and Symon tried to distract his tiny charge as they moved from through the city streets.

  Once inside the castle walls, the carriage stopped and Symon offered Leisha his hand. They climbed out of the coach together, though she did not seem afraid. He bowed low to King Andrzej as he and his people approached. Several women trailed behind and Symon guessed they were nannies. “As promised, Sire, King Davos Tahaerin has sent his daughter to you. He asks that you honor your promise as well and care for her as if she were your own.”

  Andrzej nodded. “My son, Lukas, is on his way to Lida now. Tell your king I’ll honor my promise and care for his daughter, so long as he does not violate our treaty.”

  “His Majesty sent several nursemaids, Sire,” Symon said and motioned forward Leisha’s nannies, who climbed out of other coaches.

  Laughing, Andrzej said, “I’ve no need of your Tahaerin spies.” He waved them back. “And those wagons of Tahaerin junk can return with you as well. Come here, child.” He motioned to Leisha.

  Rattled, Symon thought he should have at least used her title to summon her. She was royalty, hostage or not.

  Leisha looked up at Symon and then back at the king. Without moving, she shouted in her tiny voice, “Princess.”

  “What did she say?” Andrzej asked, looking at Symon.

  “Go now, Princess.” Symon tried to push her forward, but she refused and stood glowering instead.

  “He should use my title, Symon. I heard you say it.” Her lower lip began to tremble as her eyes filled with tears.

  “Wysia, the girl,” Andrzej snapped. One of the nannies on the steps moved forward and scooped Leisha up quickly.

  “He should use my title, Symon,” the little girl wailed, reaching for him. “Use my title!”

  He heard her shrieking even as they disappeared into the depths of the castle.

  ***

  Excluding the scene on the steps when she arrived, Wysia found Leisha to be a delightful child. She moved into the nursery with the other royal children and seemed pleased to have company. Pretty, black hair framed a sweet face. She was small and delicate, but not frail, ate what the servants brought her and entertained herself for hours with games she invented. Tutors for the older children might think it odd she wanted to sit in the lessons, but Wysia liked her quiet and biddable nature.

  However, after a month or so Wysia and the other nannies noticed odd things about the new little princess. She wept whenever another child cried, and Leisha raged whenever anyone else threw a tantrum. More disconcerting, she fell once and skinned a knee. As she cried, all the other children around her began weeping as well. Even the older children and adults noticed their moods changing with the tide of Leisha’s emotions. Soon, none of the children wanted anything to do with the strange little girl.

  Strangest of all, occasionally she spoke to the adults about their private thoughts. On one occasion, Wysia sat staring out the window thinking about taking the girl outside to play in the small yard reserved for the royal children.

  Leisha looked up from the game she had laid out on the floor. “I’d rather go see the horses in the stable, Wysia. The yard is boring.”

  Wysia requested an audience with Georg, the king’s castellan. “It’s about the girl, sir. Leisha,” she began. “I think it’s clear she’s not right.”

  Georg looked puzzled. “In what way is a two-year-old child not right?”

  “Sir, she knows things, without anyone telling her.” The woman paused and looked pained. “She knows what we’re thinking.”

  “Are you suggesting Leisha is reading your thoughts?” He sounded skeptical. As far as he knew, no one had seen a single mind reader in Embriel for over for over a hundred years. A century ago, they had been hunted to near extinction when an odd religious fervor swept over the continent. It seemed unlikely one would suddenly appear in the Tahaerin royal house. On the other hand, what a delicious and scandalous idea.

  Wysia told hi
m about Leisha’s strange behaviors. “The other children are disturbed, as are most of the other nurses, sir.”

  Georg leaned back in his chair, considering. “We burned the last of those who could read minds at the stake over a century ago. I like to think we’re more enlightened now. We can separate her from the other children, but she has to have nannies. You’ll have to handle finding women willing to live with her.”

  “I think everyone will be happier if she can be moved.”

  Georg found new apartments for the princess and her staff, in an unused wing of the castle. Large and well furnished, Leisha roamed around inside and Wysia noticed an almost immediate effect on her. No longer subject to the constant emotional storms of the other children, she quieted. The nannies still felt her sadness and anger, but it seemed easier to manage now.

  The new rooms overlooked a pretty herb garden where she could play outside alone since the older children refused to play with her. Wysia and the other women arranged for her meals, cared for her wardrobe, cleaned the rooms and made sure she stayed away from the rest of the house. But her ability to read and speak well beyond her age disturbed most of them. Already at two and a half, she read books on botany and dog breeding. Her tutors often left when they ran out of things to teach her. So, the little princess grew up alone, with nannies who found her odd and unlikeable.

  Orphaned

  A horse whickered and stamped its feet. The little boy in the wagon stirred, confused for a few seconds, unsure of his surroundings. Where was everyone? Then, he remembered his mother telling him to sleep on the bags of grain in the wagon because he felt sick after dinner. Usually, everyone in the caravan slept together. Sleeping in the wagon was a bit more comfortable than the ground around the campfire.

  He heard the horses shuffling about, nervous and unhappy. It was his older brother’s job to check on them when they could not settle at night. Zaraki pulled himself up to look over the side of the wagon and saw a few people beginning to stir, roused from sleep by the new noises. No one else saw the dark shapes moving outside the camp, creeping closer and upsetting the horses.

  Zaraki tried to scream, to wake someone, to warn his parents. The rough wood of his father’s wagon bit into his hands as he opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He ducked his head and heard the first alarm raised.

  The caravan master cried out. More voices joined his and then the screaming started.

  Frozen with fear, Zaraki cowered in the wagon. He ground his small fist into his mouth, afraid now he might start screaming along with the others. It would mean death, he knew. The intruders came for spoils or for slaves. If it were spoils, he would be dead soon. They would find his hiding place and kill him. If they hunted for slaves, they would likely take only the adults. Children could not keep up as they were herded back across the border. All travelers knew the stories, and he heard them repeated after dinnertime. But his father had promised slavers did not cross over into Streza any longer. The king fought them back and kept this area safe.

  Now, unfamiliar voices joined with the sounds of swords and people being beaten. Zaraki burrowed deeper into the cargo in the wagon. He heard his mother scream and began to cry.

  It seemed like hours the attack went on. Weeping and scared voices replaced the sounds of violence while unfamiliar men barked orders. He wiped his nose and peeked over the side of the wagon.

  All around, the people of the caravan crouched on the ground, bloodied and bruised. Slavers, surely then, Zaraki thought. The campfire cast enough light for him to see his father amongst those still alive. A body that might be his mother lay crumpled near where they staked the horses for the night. His father was looking towards the still form, tears streaming down his filthy face. Blood soaked his clothes.

  Suddenly, his father let out an animal growl and surged to his feet, driving towards the nearest slaver. Zaraki saw one of the barbarians step to one side and slash his ugly sword at his father’s chest.

  The boy shrank back. All around him, the air churned with the smell of smoke and blood and death. It threatened to choke him. He buried his face again and tried to think of what his father would tell him to do. Hide, surely.

  Finally, the slavers began to pull the people to their feet and drive them out in the night. Zaraki heard the retreating footfalls and horse sounds and waited for them to leave before emerging from his hiding place. Remains of the little caravan littered the ground, bodies left for the scavengers. The slavers needed to move quickly, so they took nothing but captives. The boy stood by the wagon, shivering and sobbing; the distance between himself and where his father lay on the far side of the campfire seemed insurmountable. He almost ran away.

  “Da,” Zaraki said, barely above a whisper. His father moaned and shifted. Relieved and released from his paralysis the boy ran to his father and tugged at his arm. Gasping through his sobs he wailed, “Da, please, please get up.”

  “Run,” his father wheezed through blood-caked lips. “Run, please.”

  “No, Da. No. Get up,” Zaraki pleaded.

  His father shuddered, blood blooming fresh on his side. “Run away, son.”

  With tears in his eyes, Zaraki turned and did as his father told him. Looking over the remains of the caravan, he spotted a small knife in the dirt and grabbed it up before streaking off into the night. His only thought was to run opposite the slavers had gone. He ran for hours until his tears dried and his legs ached. As the sun rose, he collapsed next to a small stand of short trees and slept for hours.

  For days, he tried to follow the track left by other caravans also heading to Ostrava. He thought he remembered his father saying the city lay only a few more days away. The rough, dry ground wore holes in shoes and without shade, Zaraki was sunburned, his lips cracked and chapped. He found water in a few small streams, but food eluded him. The boy had no idea how to forage.

  After a week of privation, he saw trees and smoke rising on the horizon. He turned towards the forest, thinking there at least he would be out of the sun. As he got closer, he could see the towers and spires of a castle rising above the short, squat buildings of the town. A castle meant safety from bandits and slavers.

  But a castle town did not mean orphaned boys would find shelter or food. Zaraki tried again and again to find help, but shopkeepers chased him off and mothers walking with their children backed away from the wretched, filthy boy. Worse, some threatened him and drove him away. For a child used to loving parents and warm meals, this rejection seemed unspeakably cruel. That first night, exhausted, he fell asleep in an alley, clutching his knife to his chest.

  In the morning, he awoke and tried again to find someone to help him. He saw beggars in town and tried his hand at it. Someone took pity on him and gave him the leftovers from their lunch, half an apple and the remains of two pieces of bread. Zaraki burst into tears and wept as he ate sitting in the dirt.

  Another two days passed with no food and no coins from begging. The boy ached all over. He knew he smelled awful and his clothes were filthy and torn. His mother would be so disappointed to see the state of the nice traveling wear she had made him before their trip began. Traumatized and despondent, the boy headed to the main square. Perhaps begging there would yield better results today.

  Exhausted, he failed to notice the horses cantering toward him as he crossed the road towards the booths selling food. He only looked up from the ground when the first animal almost crushed him. Jumping back, he scrambled out of the way and against the wall of a house, like the one he used to live in. “Out of the way, brat,” the soldier cried out.

  Terrified and overwhelmed, he slid to the ground, sobbing. Once the men and their horses passed by, he heard the sounds of boots crunching in the dirt in front of him. When he looked up, a well-dressed man stood watching him. “You’re quick, aren’t you, boy?”

  Zaraki sniffled and wiped his nose on his filthy sleeve.

  “Do you have a name or are you just a waif?” the stranger asked.

  “Z
araki, sir,” the boy managed. “I’m not a waif.” He thought the word meant he had no family. While his was dead, he once had a mother and father who loved him and an older brother who played with him.

  The filthy child seemed rather well spoken for a street urchin. “How old are you?”

  “Seven, sir.”

  “I’m Cezar and I work for the lord of this town. You look hungry. Would you like something to eat and a warm place to sleep?” He held out a gloved hand to the boy.

  Zaraki very much wanted both things so he reached out and let the man pull him to his feet.

  “Good. Come with me, boy. You can call me Father.”

  Hardened

  Andrzej listened with half an ear as his clerk droned on about his eastern estate’s accounts. Never a man of numbers, he happily left it all to his nephew to manage. Usually, Risto did so without involving him overly much. This time, something caught his ear. “Wait, go back. How much am I spending on nannies for the girl?”

  Risto looked up, surprised to find his uncle paying attention. He scanned down the page to the appropriate entry. “All of the women’s wages come to three hundred tira a year, uncle. Since they live in the castle, you also pay for their food.”

  “Three hundred tira for that brat? No. She’s old enough not to need so much looking after. I’ll let some go. She’s what? Six or seven? I shouldn’t have to pay for two full complements of nurses anymore.”

  “Excellent,” Risto said. “We can use any money you save to begin work on the fences around Bohdan. There have been complaints from your man there about cows invading his rye fields.”

  Tilla, when she appeared, was a large, neat woman. He did not remember hiring her, nor could he remember ever seeing her in the halls. That meant she did an adequate job, staying in the children’s wing, keeping them quiet and away from him. She looked as Andrzej expected—tidy, clean dress, her hair swept under a simple cap. She bobbed a curtsy.