Raven's Hand (5 page)

Celia was reeling from the news. I could see
it in her eyes. It was as if Evelyn had struck her a blow to the
face. She was in a daze, not even meeting my eyes. Her breathing
became rapid and shallow. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had
fainted, but Celia held on.

When her eyes did meet mine, they were
pleading. Someone had to do something. This couldn’t be allowed to
stand. Hannah would not do anything about it. She would not brook
any argument whatsoever. I had to say something, anything that
might stop this.

Then the last of Evelyn’s words replayed in
my mind. “Since Raven has proven herself unworthy.”

My lips quivered, as I realized the awful
truth. I had done this to my beloved Celia. I had doomed her to
this fate all because I questioned matters which I should have
simply accepted in dumb obedience.

Tears fell upon my cheeks and rolled down my
face, dropping onto my dessert plate. I should have known something
like this might happen. What a fool I was not to anticipate
Evelyn’s unalterable course. She required a bond for her son. When
I made myself troublesome in her sight, she was bound to turn to
the next girl in line, regardless of her age or depth of training.
This was the result.

Evelyn sat at her dessert for a full five
minutes more, eating pudding as though nothing at all was the
matter. I could not help but notice the smirk upon her ruby red
lips. She was actually enjoying the misery her news had caused. Her
eyes flicked up to mine momentarily.

“Why, Raven, you have hardly touched your
dessert,” Evelyn observed sweetly. “Is something wrong, dear?”

My breath caught in my chest.

I lowered my eyes again. “No, Mistress,” I
replied. “I’m not very hungry at the moment.”

Evelyn swallowed her last dollop of pudding
and then placed her spoon down upon her plate, dabbing at her lips
with her linen napkin. When she stood, we all stood together in
respect. She smiled at us; a wicked smile that let us know she
could do anything she wanted. There was nothing we could do.

Turning to her maidservant, she said, “You
may draw my bath.” Then, addressing our group, she offered, “Until
tomorrow, ladies.”

We remained standing until Mistress Evelyn
exited the room. Stunned silence was all any of us could come up
with. It was Hannah who finally spoke.

“You must be ready to depart by morning,
Celia,” she said. Then Hannah turned and left the table for her
quarters without another word.

To her credit, Celia kept her composure until
we both returned to my bedchamber. Once the door closed behind us,
Celia fell apart, sobbing uncontrollably upon my breast as we sat
upon the bed. I stroked her hair and made my best effort to console
her. Yet, tears streamed down my face the entire time.

There was no consolation I could truly offer
her. Tomorrow, Celia would be taken away in my place to face a life
she was unprepared to cope with. I did not explain the obvious:
that this whole situation was my fault. Still, I couldn’t stop
whispering in her ear how sorry I was for what had happened.

Killian and Esmeralda drew near to the great
wall that surrounded Rainier on all sides. It had towered nearly
one hundred feet for centuries and was almost another city in of
itself. Legions of the king’s soldiers lived within the barrack
complexes ranged throughout the wall, which was broader at the
bottom than the top. Still, two chariots could easily drive side by
side along the avenue atop the wall.

The Eastern Gate loomed ahead, but night had
come and the gate was already closed. Killian had anticipated this.
He knew of an inn where his mark of patronage would be accepted
without question. He had planned already for an overnight stay and
an early departure by the Eastern Road. Once he traveled beyond the
Mud Districts and the farm lands further out, he and Esmeralda
would depart the road for a trail leading into the Brine Wood and
Eliam’s Temple there.

A sign blew in the light breeze above the
door to the nearby inn. The city was so vast that the wind still
swept over the wall, but the dangerous seasonal storm winds had
been tempered greatly, protecting those who dwelt inside. The sign
caught Killian’s attention as the gas lamp out front illuminated
the image of a snarling canine baring blood-stained fangs.

“It doesn’t get much more wholesome than the
Mangy Cur, eh, Esmeralda?”

The mare stared at the inn and snorted.
Killian sensed her concern. Esmeralda was nervous.

“There’s nothing dangerous that I can tell,”
Killian replied, patting her neck reassuringly.

They moved along the side of the building
toward the stable in the rear. Despite the hour, several boys were
on hand to tend to Esmeralda’s needs. They worked a shift through
the night and would be replaced by others in the morning.

Killian left her in their care. He didn’t
recognize any of these particular boys. Those he remembered meeting
on an earlier visit with his father have either changed jobs or
grown too old to still be working the stables.

Still, Yeager, the proprietor, was known as a
cautious man. He would never have some pack of street urchins
working for him. Killian removed his package from Esmeralda’s
saddle, placing the wrapped sword under his cloak. He patted her
again before leaving and bid her goodnight. Esmeralda nuzzled at
him gently, blowing as a sign of affection.

He left her in the care of the boys who began
grooming and feeding her at once, preparing a stall with fresh
oats, hay and water. Killian walked back toward the front of the
inn and the main door where several people were just leaving,
singing a merry tune as they stumbled along toward their homes. He
treaded carefully, surveying the street in every direction to be
sure no one suspicious was about. Feeling secure, he walked to the
heavy oak door beneath the swaying signage and entered.

Once inside, the aroma of incense came to his
attention, caressing him with mint and cinnamon. The incense burned
in censer bowls fastened to thick support beams holding the second
floor in place above. Sitting upon small pedestals above each
censer sat the fashioned image of a Malkind spirit. It was not an
overestimation to say that Rainier’s citizens were extremely
superstitious, and none of them wished to offend the gods. The
incense burned day and night, making it the most noticeable odor in
the inn.

However, it wasn’t the only smell Killian
took in. There was the savor of fresh bread baking in the kitchen,
as well as the tang of peppered meats. Beneath these active scents
was the air of sweat and horseflesh. He was thankful for Yeager’s
superstition, if only for all of the incense to mask the assemblage
of body odor.

The Mangy Cur was not quite filled to
capacity this evening. But, being near the end of the week, this
was no surprise. Still, despite the crowd, Killian knew that most
of Yeager’s patrons would only be here for a while before heading
home a few hours after darkness fell. Only weary travelers tended
to remain overnight, and there were usually more than enough rooms
upstairs to accommodate Yeager’s share of them. He was not the only
inn near the Eastern Gate and certainly not the fanciest. However,
Yeager was an old friend of his father’s and trusted.

The Mangy Cur was quite the opposite sort of
inn one might expect, having such a name. However, it had been all
the rage several decades ago for the proprietors of inns to name
their establishments the oddest, most indecorous sort of things
they could come up with. On the inside, however, these same inns
would be positively charming.

Needless to say, it had become all the rage
for royals and First Order Commoners to seek out these places and
frequent them for fun. The Mangy Cur was one such inn of the day.
However, in recent years, the fascination with these establishments
had waned. The First Order Commoners still came as a matter of
habit and for want of reputable inns, despite the odd names, but
the royals no longer bothered.

The Mangy Cur, in Killian’s opinion, was top
shelf for an inn. It had almost all matching furniture, plenty of
space, a halfway decent clientele, and easily accepted marks of
patronage from royals. Yeager, now a burly man with hair already
white upon his head, spotted Killian from behind his mahogany bar
top and gave a wave.

Killian returned the gesture with a nod.
Wendy, one of Yeager’s daughters and his chief barmaid, observed
the wave from her father and followed his line of sight to Killian.
She brightened immediately, when she recognized him. Despite her
father being ever present, Wendy had never curbed her flirtatious
advances toward Killian.

She waved, and Killian responded in kind,
hiding a slight wince. He enjoyed Wendy’s company, but he had never
given a serious relationship with the girl the first thought. Given
her occupation, she probably flirted with most of the regular
clientele under the age of forty. Because her father was the
proprietor, Wendy might have still retained her virtue, but there
was almost as great a chance that she had not.

When Killian found a table, the girl hurried
over, bypassing raised hands desiring her attention in order to
come to him. “Been a while since you’ve come this way, Killian
Radden-son. I’ve hardly known what to do with myself.”

Killian only smiled. “Well, I hope Yeager
still has a room available. Quite a crowd tonight.”

Wendy sidled a little closer to him, brushing
his shoulder with her waist. “I could put in a word for you,” she
said, grinning. “Of course, I might expect something in
return.”

Killian sighed, unsure what to say. He didn’t
want to give Wendy any real hope of a relationship between them,
neither did he want to offend her. Still, she was so
persistent.

Finally, he offered, “A dance, perhaps?”

Wendy brightened at the prospect, nodding
once. “A dance it is,” she replied. “When I say?”

Killian nodded, smiling, “Of course,
milady.”

She smiled and wandered away toward the bar
and her father. “Shall I bring you your usual, then?”

“Thank you,” he called after her.

Once again, she ignored hands raised in her
direction. Another girl, not one of Yeager’s daughters, made her
way over to wait upon those Wendy had bypassed. She shook her head
wearily, apparently knowing there was no use complaining.

Killian took an opportunity to survey the
room more carefully. He made his observation as casual as possible.
Near as he could tell, no one seemed to be watching him. Still,
thieves were always about, and he had no intention of losing the
king’s newly forged blade before it could be blessed by Shalindra
and delivered to His Majesty for his bonding ceremony.

With King Stephen’s failing health, a need
had arisen for the heir to stand forth and take the reins of the
kingdom before a conflict among the great houses developed. Yet,
Nathan Rainier was barely nineteen-years-old and unmarried. He had
no bond at the moment either, though it was expected by all who
dwelt in Rainier that this matter would shortly be remedied.

Still, if anything prevented his bonding, or
his wedding, then he would remain unqualified to assume the crown,
giving the other houses an opportunity they would no doubt delight
to have. Killian had heard his father speaking with other notable
businessmen in Rainier about the problem. Some feared the other
houses would carry out some plot or another, attempting to disrupt
Nathan Rainier’s ascension to his father’s throne.

Fortunately for the royal family and the
capital city, House Rainier boasted the most powerful army of all
the houses. Only Auturn could compare. Legions of troops served
King Stephen and were ready at a moment’s notice to defend the
crown. Not only Killian’s father, but many other bladesmiths
provided the weapons that kept House Rainier safe. Stephen’s
subjects were loyal to a fault and desired no other ruler; even if
Nathan was young and untried as a leader. Surely the young prince’s
heritage had to count for something.

Killian was the same age as Nathan and
already he knew the arts of war as though by second nature. It
would have been ridiculous to suppose that Prince Nathan had not
received similar training; probably the finest tutors and
instructors privilege could buy. The people stood behind his
assuming the throne. After all, what other choice was there?

Wendy returned with a tankard and a pitcher
besides. “Let’s see it,” she said.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course, I do, but you know how my father
is about money,” Wendy explained. “He’d be nervous as a cat
charging the palace without anyone having seen your mark on the
same visit.”

Killian rolled up the sleeve of his left arm,
exposing a tattooed image of the Rainier family crest in
miniature—an eagle in flight over a blazing sun.

Wendy nodded. “Besides, at least I know
you’re still a prize catch.”

Killian grinned, but otherwise did not reply
to the comment.

“Are you sure you don’t want something a bit
stronger?” Wendy asked.

Killian held the tankard as she tipped the
pitcher and filled it with cool water.

He laughed, saying, “I wouldn’t want to start
stumbling about during our dance. You might not think so well of
me, if I mashed your toes.”

Wendy grinned. “Cheeky boy.”

She left the pitcher of water and walked back
to the kitchen, glancing back several times before passing Yeager
at the bar.

Killian sighed and muttered to himself, “I
wonder if Mother knows any tricks for dissuading a young woman
without offending her.”

While it was true that propriety demanded one
to marry from among the stock of one’s own station, he also
realized his mother and father would never begrudge him a breach of
etiquette. At least, not if he was infatuated. However, he was not.
Mostly, this was because no other girl had dazzled him like the
young raven-haired girl from his dreams.