by Edun, Terah
Easing the door open, she sidled into the office area, which Robe used as his “pretty things” room. It was half-filled with rocks he’d picked up, shirts he refused to wear but loved to look at, and bright scraps of cloth pinned to the walls. Sometimes he kept colicky foals in here, too. Once he’d kept a baby snow leopard for a month—even built a nest for it. How Robe had managed to catch he dangerous creature, even a baby snow leopard had claws that rivaled the knife in her hand, and convinced the pegasi to keep his secret she would never know, but once Garth, the innkeeper, found out about the cub, all hell broke loose. It had taken some convincing, but Robe had handed the cub over to the innkeeper. Garth had told Robe he was sending it to a sanctuary, but really the innkeeper had sold it to a noble idiot who liked to keep dangerous pets.
Ciardis went over to the wall nook where Robe kept a couch. Carefully putting aside a pile of brightly colored shirts, she slid down onto the couch and curled up for an uneventful night’s rest. She woke to find a bowl of cooling porridge on the floor near her dangling arm and pale sunlight shining down on her face from the narrow window. With a wry smile, she reached for the mashed mix of raisins, milk, and oats. She was pretty sure it was the same thing the pegasi ate. Only Robe would give this to a person and consider it a proper meal for a human.
After eating and visiting the bathhouse, she headed out for another day of drudgery at the washer station. Occasionally she would pull her arm over her head and the muscles along her shoulder to stretch her arm as she walked. When she arrived, she saw a lady with stylishly pale hair standing inside Sarag’s office, arguing with the old washerwoman. Ciardis stopped in the hallway and listened to the conversation. The woman was shaking a knight’s surcoat in her hand. It was a beautifully vibrant red color – like the plumage of a dusk hen in Spring. Ciardis also knew it was soft as butter because she’d handled ten jerkins of similar make yesterday afternoon. Listening to the conversation she heard the woman demand, “What will it take? Twenty shillings? Forty?”
What will what take? Ciardis wondered with wide eyes. Whatever it was, this woman was offering two months’ salary for it.
Sarag shook her head slowly. “No. Ya can’t have my recipe.”
Recipe? What are they talking about? Realizing what it would look like if they caught her loitering in the hall, she contrived to look busy by shifting around and sorting the piles of clothes stacked against the far wall. Mags appeared out of nowhere with a curious look on her face, but Ciardis quickly waved her away from the pile of clothes she was sorting. She didn’t want to finish before the conversation in Sarag’s office was over. Mags walked away in a huff.
“Really, woman,” came the exasperated lady’s reply from Sarag’s office. “I just need it for the red costumes. Is it really so costly for you?”
Furiously thinking, the pieces to the puzzle clicked together for Ciardis. Red was a princely dye, one of the few that took skill to harvest and prepare. Ciardis was known across the Vale for her red dye which she made from a combination of mountain plants and one elusive ingredient that Sarag had been trying to drag out of her for years. Ciardis refused to give up her secret ingredient, Mountain Moon Leaf, and Sarag hadn’t been able to divise a substitute. More than anything Sarag loved her money and she knew that as long as she had access to Ciardis’s dye she could charge a hefty fee to individuals interested in getting their garments cleaned in a way that wouldn’t harm the bright red fabrics, which was why Ciardis had been in charge of all the red jerkins yesterday.
Sarag had warned her not to let the colors run, but quite frankly, she knew Ciardis’s cleaning mixtures were the best. Sarag was just lucky that Ciardis couldn’t venture out into her own laundry business; the Vale customer base wasn’t big enough for more than one.
“That old harpy,” Ciardis muttered after listening to the conversation. Sarag was trying to sell her dye for quite a bit of money and Ciardis was quite sure Sarag had no intention of sharing in the profits either.
As the pale-haired lady stalked out, Ciardis hurried out the side door and around to the front of the building to catch up with her. “Ma’am! Ma’am!” called Ciardis. When the lady stopped, she rushed up to her and blurted, “If it’s the mix for the red you want, I can sell it to you.”
“My, what a pretty thing you are,” said the lady as she eyed the girl. She reached forward to touch the loose strands of hair that had escaped from Ciardis’s bun. She looked curiously at the girl’s bronze skin and almond-shaped golden eyes. “How…unique,” she said. “Now, what was it you were saying?”
“The mix,” said Ciardis softly. “The soap mix, ma’am. It’s my recipe.” She raised her chin firmly and said, “It’s yours for thirty-five shillings.”
The lady’s dark brown eyes flashed in amusement as they met Ciardis’s golden ones. Ciardis grimaced, but held her ground, the woman probably knew Ciardis couldn’t make more than fifteen shillings in a month, twenty if she were lucky. “Well,” the lady said slowly, “I suppose I could agree to that. Bring the mix to my room this evening. I’m staying at the Green Inn.”
Nodding, Ciardis backed away respectfully. She was already late for her day’s work. Whirling around she ran down the hallway to the back of the building to the washer station to start her tasks. She’d been lucky that Sarag hadn’t come outside while they were talking.
Hours later while fixing the lye for the next morning’s batches, she overheard a bunch of the other girls talking about the mysterious guest from the South. Ciardis carried the large wooden tub filled with the ingredients for the lye outside. Mixing it there was always preferable, even in the cold. The stench would have been horrible in the little mixing room.
Lugging it outside she went to the area just behind the steam room filled with charcoal burners. Setting the heavy tub down with a heavy thud, she reached for the solution strapped to her in a round gourd. As she stirred it in a clockwise motion the voices drifted over.
Their conversation was just high enough for Ciardis to overhear from the other side of the steam room while the wall between them hid her from view.
“Did you see her?” one said in an excited whisper that Ciardis thought was Marianne, the candle maker’s daughter.
“She has to be a—” said another voice, but Ciardis couldn’t hear the last word.
Has to be a what? thought Ciardis with frustration, pushing her ear against the wall to catch the conversation.
A third girl, Rosie, squealed, “Oh my lord. It’s not possible. Why would one of those people come here? It’s unheard of for them to come so far out—we’re practically in the middle of nowhere, and at the very edge of the Algardis Kingdom.”
“Who knows,” sniffed Marianne with disdain, “But I won’t be having anything to do with her. You know what they say: anything goes in Sandrin. I mean, those type of people are abominations. Companions – they’re nothing but women with loose morals.”
“Of course; I wouldn’t either,” Rosie stammered. “I just meant that it’s exciting to see one so far from court.”
The second voice chimed in derisively, but Ciardis couldn’t make out the words. Ciardis recognized the voice as belonging to Sarah. After a moment, the girls rounded the corner and saw Ciardis bent over the mixing basin. When Sarah saw Ciardis, she raised an eyebrow and quickly shushed her companions, “Hush, both of you.”
The three town girls gave Ciardis ice-cold smiles, polite but distant while their eyes flitted over her faded dress, which had large spots where the color had faded away.
She returned their greeting and turned away, knowing that they had nothing to share with her. Even though she put on a brave face, she was wishing all the while that she had the courage to ask about the strange woman in their small vale. She wondered who the woman was, where she was from – could it really be Sandrin, and why she was here in Vaneis.
Tha
t evening, Ciardis gathered her last pound of precious mix for cleaning red dyed cloth and leathers. Carefully weighing it she put it on a small scale and used a stone weight as a countermeasure. One pound exactly. Satisfied Ciardis headed for the Green Inn. There were three inns in town – the one Ciardis stayed in which doubled as a pegasi waystation, and another which was a rundown shack with two rooms managed by an old crone and her son. The third inn, the Green Inn, was the one that the rich guests, like the caravan leader, always used. Looking around the room Ciardis made a beeline for Sarah after realizing she had no idea where the lady was staying. Sarah was the head waitress and one the few people whom she considered a friend. Tonight was busy. Even though they exchanged only a few quick words, Sarah had to jump up twice to grab the beer and meals ordered by the men cramming the room. After Sarah pointed out the way, Ciardis headed up to Room Three on the second floor. She knocked firmly on the door.
It hadn’t even been latched. It eased open with a creak.
Chapter 2
Absentmindedly, Ciardis noted that the creak on the door could be fixed with a little oil to loosen the stiff hinges at the base. She’d tell the Sarah later.
The pale-haired woman stood near the window, staring at a piece of parchment—a letter. She can read, Ciardis noted enviously. She had always wanted to be able to, but couldn’t afford the schoolmarm’s private lessons, and as a gypsy, the local villagers who paid the schoolmarm’s yearly wages wouldn’t let her attend for free.
The woman raised an elegant hand and gestured for Ciardis to come in. “I’m so glad you came,” said the woman. “This mix will do wonders for my costumes.”
“Costumes?” asked Ciardis.
“Yes,” said the woman with a laugh. “You didn’t think they were battle garb or something, did you?” Blushing, Ciardis kept silent. That was exactly what she had thought. Military uniforms were often red to hide bloodstains.
The woman stepped forward her dress swishing on the polishing wooden floors. Pressing her finger to her lips she looked Ciardis with studied nonchalance as she eyed her up and down. It made Ciardis feel like a bug under a microscope and she struggling not to squirm under the attention. Ciardis held up the red mix, hoping to bring the woman’s attention back to the reason she’d come.
Taking it deftly, the woman said, “Have you always been a laundress?”
“Yes,” said Ciardis. “As long as I can remember.”
“Nothing else?” asked the woman.
“No,” replied Ciardis, a bit resentfully. Heavens, she’d been lucky to get this job. No one wanted to hire a girl with no family ties.
Coyly the woman titled her head, showing off her smooth neck and beautifully draped curls in a practiced look, “And is that all you’ve ever wanted to be?”
“Of course not,” Ciardis snapped. “But there aren’t many jobs open to an orphaned gypsy girl, now are there?”
The woman’s eyes flashed as she laughed and said, “Ah, so you do have some fire in you!”
This time, Ciardis met her eyes dead on and said, “If you’ll pay me what was promised then our agreement will be done, milady. I should be getting back to my quarters.”
“How would you like to do what I do?” the woman asked.
Ciardis lifted her eyebrows and said, “Seeing as I have no idea what it is you do, milady, that would be hard to know.”
“My dear,” the woman responded grandly, “I am a companion.”
Ciardis blanched and almost fell down as she scrambled to lower herself into a curtsy. She cursed inwardly at herself for her awkwardness. “M-my apologies, milady. I-I didn’t know. I expected…I mean, I didn’t know what a companion looked like.”
As Ciardis raised her eyes, she noted that the woman was looking at her curiously. “Yes, well, we don’t always go around advertising ourselves,” she finally responded. “You may call me Lady Serena.”
Ciardis closed her eyes briefly and nodded. Her thoughts were whirling excitedly inside her head. A companion…a real companion?
Companions were legendary fixtures of the Emperor’s court. Stories were told of their beauty, their grace and above all their power. All of the best noble houses had one on staff…at least, that’s what she’d heard.
Straining to remember the girls conversation about the visitor from the South, Ciardis recalled Marianne’s whisper from earlier that day: “You know what they say: anything goes in Sandrin. I mean, those type of people are abominations. Companions – they’re nothing but women with loose morals.”
But it couldn’t be. It was impossible—companions never left the courts, and she had no markings. I’ll sell her the product and go, Ciardis thought.
Aloud, she said, “My apologies, Lady Serena. I—we—don’t get many companions so far from court.”
Laughing, the woman told her, “You’ll have to learn to control your vocal inflections better, dear. You’ve told me so much while speaking so very little! You don’t believe me, do you?” Before Ciardis could protest, Lady Serena pulled her lapel down to show her the mark of a true member of the companion’s guild.
On her left breast was the emblem of the Prince of Sandrin – a red lion rampant, encircled by the twisted vines of the Companions Guild symbol.
Ciardis’s eyes widened. There could be no mistaking that mark. The woman was as she claimed. Looking into her eyes, Ciardis whispered, “Did you mean it? When you asked if I wanted to be a companion?”
The woman nodded with a sly smile. “You have the build, and, shall we say, an exotic look. I can’t imagine you wouldn’t be able to find a suitable patron.”
When she heard that, Ciardis felt faint.
Before she could react, Lady Serena said, “Think about it carefully, Miss…?” She looked at Ciardis expectantly.
“Ciardis,” the gypsy girl blurted.
“Ah, even your name is lovely. You won’t have to change that.” Lady Serena looked around to make sure no one was within earshot, then leaned toward Ciardis and said, “My birth name was Gertrude.”
Ciardis stifled a giggle as the lady straightened and smiled. “Ah, a sense of humor—good. You’ll need it. I’ll sponsor you, young Ciardis, but it’s a hard life. Yet, it is worth every deprivation if you find the right patron.” Regally she tossed her hair as she continued, “We leave with the caravan in the morning, Ciardis. Say your goodbyes before then.”
Nodding mutely, Ciardis turned in a daze to leave the room. “My dear?” came Lady Serena’s melodic voice. Ciardis turned back. Lady Serena held a small coin bag out to her. “Your thirty-five shillings.”
It wasn’t until Ciardis was out of the inn that she realized that Lady Serena had never considered that Ciardis might refuse her offer.
When She closed the door and leaned back against it she reliazed her palms were wet from nervous perspiration. She wiped her sweaty hands on the fabric at her waist, and pocketed the money, thinking with envy, I doubt very much that anyone ever says no to her.
That evening, Ciardis sat quietly in her room. She looked around in the flickering lamplight, taking in the bare walls, the threadbare clothes hanging on pegs, the rag-filled mattress.
She had nothing tying her to Vaneis. Her parents were long dead. Fervis Miller was a fool, and Sarag had no intention of ever promoting her, no matter how often she demonstrated her worth. The best friends she had were Mags, who was flighty, and Robe, who would scarcely notice she was gone. No family, no lasting friendships and no lands were holding her here in this provincial backwater town.
“How hard a life could it be, living as a pampered companion?” Ciardis said to herself as she went around the room and picked up the few items that littered the floor, eyeing their weight and worth.
A scarf thrown carelessly on the bed had been a gift from a kindly old woman. A book about a lady k
night with purple eyes and a passion for justice—one of her few treasured possessions—lay near the window.
With her mind made up to leave Vaneis, she packed the three dresses she owned, the scarf, the book, some herbs for soap mix, and thirty shillings for the road in her satchel.
The next morning, she made sure to pay the innkeeper five shillings for her month’s rent. She filled a small rucksack full of food for her journey and left the inn with a smile on her face.
Once outside, Ciardis squinted, looking up and down the caravan line. There were six wagons attached to huraks – large, ponderous beasts that looked like oxen with claws. The huraks were all clearly anxious to go as they snorted and pawed the fresh snow with the three dagger-shaped claws on each foot. Empathizing with the huraks desire to get going Ciardis thought, You and me both buddies. She clutched her two bags and stared around for Lady Serena, trying not to seem too obvious.
“All riders up!” rang the call down the line. Ciardis gave up her nonchalant look in favor of panic and began to search frantically. She didn’t see Lady Serena anywhere. What if it had all been a cruel joke? After one last look, shoulders slumped, she turned to leave.
And then she heard a familiar voice call out, “My dear! My dear Ciardis! Here I am—over here!”
Ciardis turned and raised her hand to shield her eyes as she squinted into the morning sun. Lady Serena sat in the third carriage from the front in the long line, waving a handkerchief out the window.
“Hey, you!” said a loud baritone voice. It was the caravan driver on the front wagon. He was looking at Ciardis as he stood on the driver’s bench. “In or out?” he bellowed.
