Legend of the Ravenstone (5 page)

“Do you know why you have been summoned?” Duke Barendorn asked.

For as apparent as the situation was, Kariayla did not know if she was expected to answer. She did not know if she could answer.

The duke produced a letter and raised it for her to see. “My daughter, your lady and companion, has disappeared. We believe she has run off with one of the castle squires.”

Kariayla’s eyes could not grow any wider.

“As her companion, I expect you knew something of her relationship with this young man.”

Kariayla nodded dumbly.

The duke’s expression hardened. “I expect she confided in you about her plans to evade her arranged marriage.”

“N-no, my lord,” Kariayla said, horrified. “She never spoke of such a plan.”

“I do not have patience for liars,” he warned. “If she ever indicated her desire to run away with Fredrick Astin, I demand you tell me now.”

“No, my lord. I would not lie to you,” Kariayla said, close to tears.

Duchess Barendorn, who had been sitting beside him, stood in a fury. “Regardless of what she told you, you have failed in your role as her attendant. Where were you when she decided to flee the castle?”

Kariayla wiped her eyes. “I—she wanted to take a walk in the garden—alone. She insisted—”

“You left her alone.” The duchess’s statement was more an accusation.

“At her request, my lady,” Kariayla said, her voice breaking.

“I believe she enabled this entire scenario,” the duchess said to her husband. “She allowed Eleana to meet with the squire and turned a blind eye to their escape.”

“No, that’s not true,” Kariayla blurted. “When I heard them in the garden, I thought they were saying goodbye to one another.” She realized her mistake as soon as it had left her lips.

“You saw them together,” Duke Barendorn said, his face reddening.

“I didn’t know—”

“Enough.” The Queen of Belorn rose, and the room quieted. “We will send riders to search for your daughter and return her to the castle. Squire Astin, when found, will be reprimanded accordingly.” Her eyes met with Kariayla’s. “The attendant’s role is at an end. She will return to the kitchen to serve under the clerk as before.”

“Your pardon, Your Majesty, but should she not be punished for her lapse in duty?” Duke Barendorn asked.

“The consequences she will face upon her return to the kitchen will be adequate,” the queen said. Then to Kariayla, “It would be best for me not to hear your name distinguished amongst the others. Do you understand me?”

Kariayla swallowed and nodded.

“You are dismissed. Report to Clerk Melgora for instruction.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Kariayla bowed and left the room, feeling worse than when she had arrived. Her fate was sealed. She would never leave Belorn.

~*~

T
he unopened letter remained upon the table where the messenger had left it. Its exterior was neatly addressed to “Master Prentishun,” and so he had been reluctant to see its contents. The day had already begun poorly, and he expected his mood to decline further upon opening the letter.

“Master Prentishun,” indeed.
The fact that it was not addressed to “Medoriate Prentishun” indicated that the author knew him. He was not a wizard, though the Humans believed anyone with magic carried the title “Medoriate.” And to say he wielded magic was a gross overstatement of his innate abilities. He possessed one item of power—a staff that he could illuminate at best. Whitestar served him better as a walking aid.

He reached for the staff now, gripping it firmly as he pushed out of his chair. He stared at the empty tray next to the letter—a testament to his antisocial behavior for the morning meal. The one person he should speak to—the one to whom he owed an apology—was not likely in a position to humor his meager excuses. And he had plenty of excuses, enough to make him question exactly what it was he sought to accomplish by overstaying his welcome in this Human castle.

He rubbed his brow and found himself staring at the letter again. Turning away, he shuffled across the room to where he had left his pipe and filler by the bedside.
To where do I go now? I have lied my way into the Belorn library to find that it contains nothing of what I seek. What is the likelihood that
The Forging
is but a myth that arose with many others from the Humans’ Cataclysm? I am an old man looking for an older book, and to what purpose? Because I feel I have been wronged? Because some ancient account will give me the courage to return to Markanturos to face those who ostracized me? Is there truly any sense in this?

He lit the pipe and took a few puffs. “I cannot return to Mystland,” he murmured aloud. That much was certain. His entire vocation in medori territory had ended shamefully. He had had a respectful position as a curator of magical antiquities, and he had been passionate about his work. As time passed, however, his unresolved and bitter feelings toward his people had infected his new life. He had grown lazy in his research, uncaring about the history that once captivated his interest. It had become clear that his life was a farce—a solitary Markanturian trying to blend in with Human medori. He knew more of their trinkets and artifacts than they did, but of his own history, nothing was solid. As he came to see it, he was a man without a past, present, or future.

What was real, what was accessible, was the only escape that brought him solace. In Markanturos, his homeland, it was one of the Sacred Trio: good company, good food, and good wine. The wine had followed him in his travels. It was a reliable companion when he was alone, and he had come to accept that he was always alone. One might argue it was the wine that cost him his position as curator. He did not care to speculate; Mystland had been just another place in which he did not belong. He took what he could carry of his belongings and accumulated funds, and set out for Belorn under the pretense of historical research.

It was not a complete lie,
he reconsidered. His eyes flicked to the letter. “What further insult do they wish to weigh upon me? Did I forget to sign my resignation?” He stomped to the table and snatched up the item in question. He pulled open the paper, and a second sheet fell to the floor. He ignored it and began to read.

Master Prentishun,

“What distasteful antic is this?” He cast the letter aside, only to be confronted by the fallen page at his feet. “Oh, bother!” He kicked at it, then grunted as he bent to pick it up.

Greetings, my Markanturian friend!

“He cannot be serious.” He reread both letters.
He is serious, of course. He wants me to visit him. I am wary of the word “journey.” Warier still of a man who calls himself “Hawkwing.” And what does he mean by his “companion?”
The messenger had not mentioned that anyone had accompanied the letter.

“You are quite presumptuous to assume I will accept your invitation, William,” he grumbled. Worse than the invitation was the fact that he could only accept. There was nowhere for him to go, his funds were nearly exhausted, and—what he refused to admit to himself—was that William had spurred his curiosity.

He took both letters and stuffed them in his travel bag. “My hosts will likely be pleased to hear of my imminent departure. Perhaps as pleased as I will be to leave.” He thumped his staff and left the room.

~*~

T
he floor was cleaner than she was. Dirt, grit, and blood were wedged beneath her shredded fingernails as she scrubbed at the greasy stone. Her knuckles were scraped raw, and the filthy water stung with every dip of the scouring brush. The bruises were not a result of her labor so much as Clerk Melgora’s irrational tantrums. Broomsticks, pots, and cooking utensils made convenient instruments of punishment, and when no such item was within reach, Melgora’s feet or fists were equally as effective.

Kariayla tried not to think about her situation, but despair was difficult to ignore. One evening she was in a dress, beside a noblewoman; the next day she was in rags, scraping at the encrusted kitchen floor. The blame for Eleana’s disappearance was yet another addition to her list of failures. She could understand the need for the Barendorns to punish her. She could even understand why Eleana had to take advantage of the opportunity to leave with her lover. But what tore at her heart was how quickly she had been discarded, forgotten. What did it truly mean to be called a friend when there was no obligation of fidelity?

She wondered where Eleana had fled, and she wondered if they would inevitably be found.
Or she will keep her freedom and become his wife. They might seek refuge in a small town, raise a family. A happy life with the one she loves.
Kariayla paused when she heard Melgora’s voice in the background. Soon the clerks and the cooks would be preparing for the afternoon meal, and she did not want to be in the way when the kitchen grew busy. She tried to work faster, scrubbing harder at the stone so she would not be flogged with the broom. She hardly noticed that her fingers were bleeding again, swirls of red mixing with the soapy water as she pushed the brush back and forth with maddened vigor.

There was an awkward clearing of the throat from someone behind her, but she did not stop until she heard a voice. “Your pardon, my dear, but I...I was hoping to speak with you.”

Kariayla turned on her knees to stare up at the Blood Mage. He did not look happy or comfortable to be there. She glanced around nervously, afraid that he would get her in trouble for being distracted.

“If you have a moment....”

She gave a quick nod and made the effort to stand. Her knees buckled, but before she could fall, she felt thick fingers snare her arm to steady her. Embarrassed, she thanked him and looked away.

“I wanted to apologize for my rambling after dinner. I expect I made you uncomfortable, and it was not my intention at all. I, too, am rather passionate about history.”

“There was no harm done, Medoriate, sir,” Kariayla said quietly.

“Arcturus,” the Blood Mage said. “I am not a medoriate, despite my appearance.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I...also came to wish you well,” Arcturus said. “I will be leaving Belorn with a caravan headed for Valesage. It is rather a strange turn of events, and I...” He chuckled. “I have no reason to be telling you all this. As you can see, I do not need wine to ramble.”

Kariayla looked up at him, knowing how awkward he must feel. “A good journey to you, sir. May the Spirits protect you.”

“The spirits...” he mused. “Yes. Thank you. It was a pleasure to have met you, Kariayla.”

She gave a slight bow to him and watched as he walked away.
Only a stranger remembers my name,
she thought, miserable.
He can go where he pleases. Eleana took her freedom to leave. How I envy them. Their lives are their own.
Lost in thought, she did not hear the approach of her overseer.

“You lazy girl!”

Kariayla winced and backed against the wall as Clerk Melgora bore down upon her. Her back seared with pain, but the greater threat was before her. The broad-shouldered kitchen clerk was nearly as red as the Blood Mage, her eyes bulging from her face. In her hand was a menacingly poised flesh hook. “I won’t have no lazy rats in my kitchen! Worthless girl!”

“I’m sorry,” Kariayla squeaked. “I’m sorry. I’ll finish the floor.”

“I’ll finish you! Think you’re better than us? Well, the missy isn’t here to protect you now!” Melgora swatted at her with the hook, and Kariayla moved aside a little too slowly. She felt the sharp points bite into her arm, tearing through her clothes as Melgora retracted the weapon. She watched, stunned, as the warm blood welled and dripped to the ground.

She means to kill me!

Recovering her senses, Kariayla scrambled along the wall to get away from her attacker. “You’re mad!” she cried, keeping her eyes on the pursuing clerk.

“What did you say? What did you say to me?” Melgora screeched. “I’ll teach you! You’ll learn your place!”

Kariayla slammed against a table, trapped in a corner. She glimpsed other servants who had come at the sound of the commotion. They would not help her—not unless they wanted the clerk’s wrath turned upon them.

Melgora swung at her again, and Kariayla dropped to the ground, crawling beneath the table. The clerk’s foot grazed her shoulder, and she skittered to the opposite side. Melgora rounded the corner after her like a hungry bear.

“Stop!” Kariayla cried, ducking back beneath the table.

The clerk growled and crouched low, swiping frantically with the flesh hook. There was the sharp sound of a tear, Kariayla’s yelp of pain, and then an eruption. A pair of black, leathery wings flung wide with a spattering of blood from where they had been struck. “
Get away from me!”
she shrieked, her voice grating with the force.

Melgora dropped the hook, and Kariayla rushed at her. She toppled the clerk and leapt to her feet, her heart coursing with unbridled rage. She raced through the kitchen, past the terrified faces that eagerly moved aside or fled from her intended path. Her legs carried her through the darkened storage rooms, then up the stairs, and out the doors into the bright afternoon sun. She ran across the courtyard, oblivious to the shouts and cries that followed her.