Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

Braced as she was for a reprimand about the kitchen fire, Larajin was surprised by his words.

“Master, I don’t-”

“You don’t understand? No, I suppose not. I shall have to put it plainly, then. I am asking that you not, at any time or in any company-noble or common-describe my feelings toward you as being like that of a father for a daughter. People might draw … the wrong conclusions.” Heavy eyebrows frowning, he let his eyes bore into hers. “Do you understand me now?”

Biting her tongue, Larajin nodded. She understood all too well. Since that day last winter when Habrith had revealed that Thamalon Uskevren was Larajin’s father, Larajin had kept this secret close to her heart-like the obedient servant she had been raised to be. The only one she had confided in, so far, was Talbot.

She’d tried to summon up the courage to tell the master that she knew that he was her father, but whenever she’d been about to speak, the words fled from her lips. Now she could see the response they would have incurred. Not what she’d prayed for-acceptance and acknowledgement-but anger. The last thing the master wanted was to acknowledge the fact that he had sired a child on a wild elf of the Tangled Trees. Larajin was nothing more than an embarrassment to him. She was a thorn he deliberately pricked himself with, day in and day out, by keeping her as a servant-a reminder of something in himself that he abhorred.

The master accepted her silent reply with a nod, probably not even seeing the anger that was starting to smolder inside her. His lips parted, as if he were about to add something more, but whatever he was going to say was interrupted by a knock at the study door.

“Yes?” he asked.

The door opened, and Erevis Cale stepped into the study with a bow.

“Master Drakkar has departed Stormweather Towers,” he announced. “I’ll ensure that the driver of his carriage gets a good tip.”

“Very good, Cale.”

Larajin had heard master and butler use this code in the past, and understood what it meant. Cale had just assured the master that Drakkar’s movements would be noted and reported. The master’s suspicions about the wizard would do her little good. She could hardly tell him about Drakkar attacking her in the Hunting Garden without bringing up her wild elf heritage and with it, Thamalon Uskevren’s indiscretion. After his stern warning never to even allude to this secret, she could hardly turn to him for help.

She would have to seek help elsewhere. Now that Drakkar knew who she was, Stormweather Towers was no longera safe haven. She had to leave Selgaunt, and as soon as possible.

She dropped her eyes to the carpet as Cale folded his arms across his chest and scowled at her.

“Now then, Larajin,” he began. “There is the matter of the fire atop the stove-a fire that could have spread to the rest of the kitchen, had it not been spotted-and the disciplinary action to be taken.” He turned to the master, and added, “In light of the gravity of the error, I would suggest, Master Thamalon, that-”

The master sighed, and once again held up his hand. Cale fell into an obedient silence.

“I think we’ll keep her away from the kitchen for the next little while,” the master said. “Perhaps getting her out from underfoot will give you some relief. Assign her to serve in young Thamalon’s tallhouse for the next month, and see how she fares there. As her punishment for causing a fire that could have burned Stormweather Towers to the ground, had it spread beyond the stove, Larajin is to immediately undertake the task of cleaning the mess in the kitchen. She is not to stop nor rest until the stove is returned to full working order and the pots are gleaming. She must do this alone, without assistance from any of the staff.”

This last was directed at Larajin, who was meant to quail under the imagined enormity of the task, but her mind was on more pressing concerns-like whether the Hulorn’s men would arrest her the next time she ventured out onto the streets.

“Master Thamalon, I must protest,” Cale sputtered. “The punishment is not severe enough. I would suggest-”

“Erevis Cale,” the master said. “I am not interested in hearing your suggestions.”

Larajin blinked in surprise. In all her years at Stormweather Towers, she had never heard the master use that tone with Cale. For the first time in memory, he was speaking to his butler as a servant.

Cale’s face flushed, but he held his tongue. “As you wish, Master.”

His eyes, however, spoke volumes as he turned to Larajin.

“Kitchen,” he spat. “Now!”

Larajin studied her reflection in the mirror in Mistress Thazienne’s bedroom. The emerald-green gown she wore was stiff with gold embroidery and seed pearls, its sleeves tight to the elbow and flaring with slashes of white from elbow to shoulder. The bodice was high and thrusting, the hemline low.

The gown was Thazienne’s, the color designed to complement her sea-green eyes. It was a little long on Larajin-a good thing, since it hid the serviceable leather boots she was wearing-and a little loose in the bodice. With a bit of padding, it fit her well enough.

She’d tucked her hair up into a bun, and covered it with an elaborate cap hung with lace and trailing peacock feathers. Looking in the mirror, the only thing that gave her disguise away was her work-roughened hands, the nails still black with soot. Otherwise, she looked like her half-sister. It ought to work. The gods only knew how many times Thazienne had disguised herself as Larajin, when she wanted to creep about the city in the guise of a common servant.

She yawned, then stretched to ease the aching muscles in her neck and back. She’d spent long hours scrubbing the kitchen, under Erevis Cale’s baleful glare. She was exhausted, but she couldn’t afford to sleep-she had to get away from the city first.

Cracking open the door to Thazienne’s room, she made sure the hallway was clear. She picked up the leather bag she’d packed for her journey and slung its strap over her shoulder. She’d raided the pantry after she finished cleaning the kitchen, and had filled the bag with enough food to see her through the next few days. The bag also held a kitchen knife, candles, flint and steel for kindling a fire, a light summer blanket, and a change of clothes.

Also inside the bag, tied into a handkerchief, were the few coins she’d been able to save over the years: mostly pennies and a handful of silver ravens. She hoped they’d be enough for a seat on a carriage to the neighboring city of Ordulin-perhaps even as far as Essembra.

She crept down the darkened hallway to Tal’s bedroom and slipped a folded letter under his door. She’d left a similar letter for her adoptive parents in the stables, where her father would find it in the morning. Their letter had been vague, saying only that she was in danger, and had to leave Selgaunt for a time-that she would send word to them later. She told her parents they shouldn’t worry; she was going to a place where she would be under the goddess’s protection. It wasn’t exactly a lie. Her destination-the Tangled Trees-was watched over by Hanali Celanil.

Her parents, however, would assume that she meant the goddess Sune and that she was traveling to the House of Firehair-Sune’s temple in the city of Daerlun. When they reported their daughter’s sudden and seemingly inexplicable departure to the master, he would no doubt send agents after Larajin-and they would head west. Drakkar, if he followed them, would be thrown off the scent.

The letter she’d slipped under Tal’s door included more detail than the one she’d left for her parents. She’d included a description of her encounter with the Hulorn’s wizard, whom she now was able to put a name to. Tal knew about Larajin’s earlier brush with Drakkar in the Hunting Garden. He would understand the threat, why she needed to leave-and the need for secrecy.