“Have you known her long?”
When there is nothing but dust left in the mortar and pestle, she looks up. “All my life.”
“Did you grow up in the castle?”
“I did,” she says, pouring the contents of the container into the small pot. She uncorks a vial of amber liquid and adds in several droppers-full. “Father let me apprentice with the previous physician until he passed away last year. The king chose me as his replacement.”
“So you’ve always lived here at Callihan Hall?”
“I have. I’ve never even left Foghum.”
The air burns my face like an astringent. I take in a breath—it smells of rosemary and marjoram. This reminds me of Muuth in his lab. “Doesn’t it feel like a prison to you?”
“Why should it? Everybody I love and all the happy memories I ever made are here.”
“But don’t you ever wonder what life is like out there?”
“Sometimes. But this is my home. I couldn’t leave it.”
“What if something were to happen to it? What if the dragons burned it down?”
She turns startled eyes onto my own. “Then they would pay for doing it.”
Patience opens a cabinet and removes four empty glass jars. She sets them on the table and reaches for a rag to grab the handle of the small pot. She gently spoons the warm, thickening cream into the jars and screws the lids shut. In another cabinet, she pulls out another two jars, these already full. The jars look familiar, like the kind of salve Muuth would give me for a dragon burn or skin irritation. I open one to look inside. It even smells the same. Then I recall that those same jars were at Raina’s inn, too. How—? But in the next moment, I put the pieces together. Adom comes here for medicine. Raina has it, so he must give it to her, maybe to help with the survivors who end up at their inns. And he gives it to Muuth, too. But why?
For me? My cheeks burn, and I suddenly feel a rush of shame.
“Do you know why Ryrick needs so much witch hazel cream?” I ask.
“It’s good for a variety of skin issues, like burns and insect bites,” Patience says.
“Burns?”
“Minor burns, like the kind you’d get over an open flame when trying to toast bread.” Her eyes widen. “Not dragon burns, if that’s what you’re thinking. Ryrick keeps an emergency stock of medical supplies in the cupboard near the kitchen. Servants can take what they need.”
Not me. With my luck, Cydra’d catch me with a jar and accuse me of stealing it. Still, it’d be useful to have some on hand. Muuth won’t always be around, and I need to learn how to survive on my own. “Could you teach me how to make it sometime?”
“Of course. Just not tomorrow. My father has a hunting trip planned, and I usually go with him. One of the benefits of working at the castle is that the servants can hunt in the king’s forest for sport. It’s one of my father’s favorite pastimes.” She smooths Ryrick’s note. “The message you delivered is an invitation for me to join him tomorrow.”
“What about the day after tomorrow?”
“That will work. Can you come by around noon?”
I nod and fill a sack with the clanking jars of cream, say goodbye to Patience, and follow the spiral staircase to the ground entry. At the bottom, I turn toward the servants’ quarters but stop just as Lord Berrel’s bushy blond head comes into view. He’s carrying a bow, and at his side is a tall gentleman with a massive red beard that droops to his stomach.
Berrel’s eyes scan me as he passes, but I don’t see any recognition in them. “Lord Darton,” he says. “I understand your alliance with Count Malandre, but it doesn’t hurt to hedge bets, does it? Why, even King Siles has a mine just north of the forest that he allows me to run for him. Malandre may have the cornerstone on agricultural revenue, but he doesn’t own all the land. What we need are investors to purchase and front costs for more processing factories.”
“But if I build a factory on my land, how do we make up the losses in food production and export income? If Malandre knew I was even considering your proposal, he’d drop me from his list of feed suppliers in a heartbeat. Or worse.” Darton shudders.
“With the money you make from processing raw minerals like the dragon scales, you can more than make up those anticipated losses. You could afford to import food from the neighboring farms, even as far away as Newaka. People want the dragon scales, Lord Darton. They are no longer just opulence for the upper classes. They are a talisman. A sign of hope.”
“You’re slick talking, Lord Berrel, but you forget one thing. Not all of us believe dragon scales are merely pretty rocks. I see what those beasts do to my countryside. If I invest my inheritance, my life’s work, to a factory and a dragon burns it down, I have nothing left.”
Their words fade as they move toward the forest, and I hurry back to Ryrick.
~ * ~
“King Siles is holding a banquet next week,” Ryrick announces as I help him move barrels of wine from the king’s wine cellar.
“What did you say?” It takes mighty power to hoist the wooden barrels and drag them upstairs for the cook. My eyelids droop.
Ryrick has trouble carrying his burden, and he eyes me when I insist on carrying my own. “There’s a banquet next week. We’ll need twice the help on the floor that day.”
“I’ll help in the kitchen,” I volunteer. What better way to meet the king? Nobles never look twice at the servants. I can blend in perfectly. Granted, Adom might see me if he comes. But with so many people in the hall, the odds are in my favor.
Ryrick pauses in his work. “Are you sure about this, lass? You’re fresh here. We can’t afford mistakes on an occasion of this magnitude.”
“I’ll do my best.” I hoist another wine barrel—the third in ten minutes.
My actions seem to please the old butler. He frowns. “Cydra works you like a dog,” he grumbles, clearly troubled. “Maybe you ought to take a break that night—”
“Please, Ryrick,” I beg, sensing I’m losing him. “I need the work. I need… the money.”
Ryrick’s visage softens. “I don’t know what trouble you’ve gotten yourself into, lass. But I’ll let you work that night if you promise to do your best.”
“I promise!” I almost drop the barrel of wine in my excitement, and catch it mid-fall.
Ryrick shakes his head.
“Sorry.” Embarrassment tinges my cheeks.
Cydra descends the cellar steps, each footfall creaking – like a willow tree groaning against the ground with every forceful gust of wind. “What’s keeping you?” she gripes. “Longley needs wine to cook the meat, and the lords are complaining in the parlor room because we haven’t refilled their glasses. Could you move more slowly, you lazy beasts?”
My fingertips are snow-white, straining to keep traction around the barrel’s rim. I adjust my hold and pull myself up the steps. Cydra stands in the middle of the staircase, barricading my way, tapping her toes in impatience. I attempt to squeeze past her.
And miss a step. My foot falls on air and my body rocks forward. The barrel flies out of my hands. It lands on Cydra’s extended foot, bounces, and rolls down the stairs. Her mouth forms a perfect ‘O’ and her eyes widen in shock and pain.
Crrrack. Wood splits. Blood-red liquid trickles across the ground.
“Your very best, eh?” Ryrick groans at the bottom of the stairs.
Cydra’s veneer is mottled, like a beet about to burst. “Upstairs,” she gasps. “Now.”
“Do you need help?” I frown at her bruising toes. Are they broken? Nausea overtakes me. Have I permanently damaged her? Will she dismiss me for this? Can she dismiss me? I curse my clumsiness. Why hadn’t I asked her to move from the stairs?
She grips my tunic. “Get upstairs.”
Ryrick makes a soft hemming sound. “Leave her be,” he breathes. “Just take it out of her p
ay.” His voice sounds soft and sympathetic, inciting my further distress. I failed Ryrick.
“I’ll make her pay,” Cydra promises. She looks like a dragon. Except uglier.
I climb the rest of the stairs, preparing myself for a beating. She limps after me.
When we reach the surface, she grabs my hand and drags me to an isolated corner of the courtyard. “Look what you’ve done.” She points to her feet. Light illuminates her red, swollen limb clearly. She forces my chin up. “You’re a stupid, stupid girl. If Lady Celeste hadn’t intervened, we’d have called the guards to take you away. You’re common, lying riffraff.”
“I’m sorry, Cydra. I’ll pay for the damage.”
Cydra’s countenance, if possible, grows redder. “Of course you’ll pay. You’ll pay for the wine and you’ll pay for my foot. Nobody, not even a dog, would want you working for them.”
A surge of rage boils my blood. “If you don’t want me working for you, release me to Ryrick and Longley. They don’t seem to think I’m lying riffraff. I’ll pay for the damages, but I won’t stand here and let you abuse me just so you can feel better about yourself.”
Cydra’s shrill laugh pierces. “Don’t be an idiot, girl. I know you never worked for Count Malandre. I checked in with him, and he never had a girl who managed his estates. The man who’s been doing it has been in the position for forty years.”
My mouth opens, but I can’t seem to form any intelligible words. I’m caught. She knows. It’s only a matter of time before she rats me out to Count Malandre.
The victorious glint in her eyes burns brighter. “Count Malandre wouldn’t associate with the likes of you. You’re a liar, and only wenchers like Lord Faigen would ever pay you mind.” Cydra steps closer to me. “I want you out. Tonight.” She pinches my ear until I think it will bleed, then, after I let out a small, mewling cry, she releases me and hobbles away.
I try breathing, but it only aggravates the lump in my throat. Instead, I settle for wheezing. Slowly, I become aware of curious eyes watching me. The servants witnessed the display. I walk slowly, shakily into the servants’ quarters, only to find Ryrick blocking my path.
“Elanor,” he croaks, eyes soft and sad. “Let me talk to her. She’ll change her mind.”
Emotions are useless. Like mold on a cave wall. They’ll call me weak if I show my feelings. So I take a deep breath, shove it all down, and push past him.
When I enter my own, private sanctuary, I close the door, stretch out on the bed, and cry.
EIGHT
My second month on Onyx, Adom punished me for killing a youngling dragon. I had just turned ten, and in my mind, the younglings were scary little beasts who wanted to eat me but unlike the grown dragons exhibited no signs of self-control. Every morning, I’d fling animal carcasses into their caves and leave the surly creatures to fight for the bits by themselves.
Younglings must be monitored when they are fed; if they are not, the strong will eventually starve out the weak. One of the younglings failed to thrive, and the dragons caught on to my neglect. That day, the discussion was so intense the walls of the mountain shook. Hot dragon breath poured like lava smoke from the summit top. In the central cave, cold dragon meals lay forgotten in the heat of the moment. And I kept myself hidden away.
Irna thought they should eat me for my insolence. Ona agreed. Silva wanted revenge for the vicious atrocities committed against her litter. Others fell in line until only Adom was left.
“They’re angry with you, El. They want you dead,” Muuth translated for me.
“Tell them I’ll do what they want!” I begged. “Tell them I’m sorry.”
Muuth curled next to me behind a rock. “Don’t fret,” he said. “Adom will protect you.”
I started to cry.
“He’s pleading for you,” Muuth whispered in my ear.
I stared at my dragon-intercessor with hope, his speech nothing but unintelligible gibberish to my ears. Ona silenced him with one sharp word. The other dragons howled.
“What did they say?”
Muuth smacked a wrinkled hand to his aging forehead. He seemed tired. “They’re calling him soft. They say he must pay the price.”
Adom spoke again. At last, they all made sounds of agreement.
“Did he win out?”
“He compromised,” Muuth says. “He didn’t win, and he didn’t lose.” Then he observed my stricken countenance. “You’re not dead, lass. You’ll be punished, but you’re not dead.”
That night, Adom made me sleep in the cave with the bloodthirsty dragon younglings. I couldn’t close an eye for even a second, because the beasts wanted to feast on me. They slithered like snakes and came at me from the air like bats. I had no weapon. I knew I’d be killed if I hurt them, so I spent the night running circles around the cave. When Adom came to get me the next morning, he walked with a limp and his skin around his neckline was healing from fresh burns. He told me it was a game the dragons sometimes played with him. Afterward, he went away for weeks. And I grew to hate him for leaving me behind.
~ * ~
Maybe I’d suppressed the memory after years of racing through pitch black caves with scaly tails winding around my legs and gnashing teeth at my arms. Maybe cowering in corners avoiding the mad flutter of wings pushed it all into my subconscious. I don’t know why I’d forgotten about that night, about Adom’s injuries. Why I’d never made the connection between his wounds and the argument he’d gotten into with the other dragons the day before.
So maybe it was true, after all. He felt sorry for me, in his own way. Did that make him a decent person? Was he more human than Cydra?
No. He wasn’t better than Cydra. Because unlike Cydra, Adom had total power over me. She could pinch my ear and call me names, but she couldn’t hurt me. Not really. I could leave this place at any time. I’ve never been Cydra’s slave. Thinking this puts me into my right self. If I can survive burns and talons, Cydra was nothing.
No use crying. It wastes time, and does nothing but give me a headache when what I really need to do is come up with a plan. What do I do now? Find the king? Expose Adom? Somehow, I’m convinced that if Cydra could be so cruel and unforgiving, just because of my lowly position, then the king could be worse. He could have me thrown in prison for lying. Or worse. Adom would still be free, and I couldn’t do anything to protect the people of Trana from a cell. So what? Go to Lord Berrel? Tell him I need his protection after all?
I lift my head from the tear-soaked pillow.
The door creaks open. “Elanor? Are you there?” Patience stands on the other side, eyes wet with worry. She carries a wooden tray of food, a bowl of white potato soup and a bit of flaxen bread. “Ryrick said you dropped a wine barrel on old Battleax. How are you?”
“How am I? Shouldn’t you be more concerned about Cydra?”
Patience shrugs. “Cydra will recover. He said she screamed at you. She can be such a—”
“She fired me,” I whisper, propping myself up on elbows.
“I’m so sorry,” Patience says. “Can you talk to someone? Your previous employer?”
“There might be someone I can talk to.” Suddenly, I think about the scales I have stashed away. Berrel said they were worth money. Maybe I could sell them to someone?
“Good,” she says. “Let me know if you need my help to get things sorted out.” She makes no move to leave. After a quiet moment, she crosses the room and sets the tray on my desk. Patience reaches into a satchel and pulls out a glass jar of pale pink cream. “Ryrick thought you might need this.” She sets the jar down beside the tray with a clunk. “I can make more, if you need it. I’m always giving them out by the dozens to the nobles. Just today, I filled an order for four dozen for Count Malandre. He likes to give them as gifts to an inn he stays at.”
“Are you still hunting with your father today?”
She plops onto my bed and swings one leg over the other. “Yes, I am. Do you want me to bring you back a rabbit or a quail? We usually collect more than enough for the both of us.”
“No, thank you.” Since she is making herself at home, I settle next to her with the tray. The soup is hot and dumplings add comforting fullness to my innards. “Be careful in the forest.”
Her eyes, usually wide across like eggs, shrink to the size of peanuts. “Are you concerned about other hunters or about dragons? You don’t believe there are any hiding in the forest?”
“There are all manner of terrifying things that live there.” I shudder, thinking of the Forest of Four in Onyx. It isn’t a place I would casually take a stroll. I’m not afraid of bugs or cobwebs or even slithering things. It’s the things lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce and claw at your guts until you are nothing but entrails and gooey blood that fill me with unease.
“I know the king’s forest like the back of my hand,” Patience assures me. “It’s where I go to extract herbs for my medicines. Did you know belladonna grows by the west trail?”
“Belladonna? Isn’t that nightshade?”
“Yes, but in the smallest doses it can be useful for certain conditions.”
“Remind me to keep you around if I am forced into a life of poverty and have to resort to roaming the forest. You would be a useful companion.”
She giggles. After a moment, the laughter fades and she’s somber again. “Don’t you have a family who could take you in? At least until you get back on your feet?”
“No family.”
“None whatsoever?” She stands. “Then Ryrick and I will be your family.”
“That’s kind of you, but I can’t exactly stay with you after I leave here.”
“Why not? We have family visit us often. I’ll say you’re a cousin.”
“Cydra will know you’re lying. Ryrick didn’t claim to know me when I arrived.”
Slither Page 14
