Griffin's Daughter (2 page)

Syukoe closed her eyes and struggled to keep from retching. The bitter taste of bile stung her mouth, and her skin prickled as if a thousand spiders had worked their way under her armor, trapping themselves beneath her clothing. Junko, because of her position as the king’s favorite concubine, was the only one who could get close enough to him to steal the ring, and even so, she could not have succeeded without the help of the Kirians. Junko did what she had to do, but, Goddess, did she have to cut off his finger?

A dark anger settled over Syukoe, dense and cold. Junko must have seen it in her face, for she backed away quickly, putting
Master Iku between herself and the princess. Syukoe stood up abruptly, overturning the stool. She glared down at the cowering concubine. Shiura Onjara, practitioner of the vilest form of magic, brutal and despotic though he had become, was still her father. He had once been a loving and
attentive parent, adored by his only daughter, until the lust for power twisted him into the beast that she now stood against. Still…

He is my father
, the hurt child within her cried.
This girl cut off my father’s finger!

Get a hold of yourself, Syukoe! She did what had to be done, by whatever means necessary. She assumed a terrible risk, and she succeeded. Now you have the White Griffin Ring in your possession, the only thing that may keep you alive and free your people.

If the spell could be completed in time.

“
He is coming,” Master Iku breathed.

The eldest Kirian stood with his head cocked slightly to one side, like an old hound that has caught the scent of danger. The others stood very still, bodies taut, eyes unfocused, as if they, too, could feel the approach of the king, like a great, onrushing storm. Syukoe cried out in pain as the ring, enclosed within her fist, burned with such sudden intensity that she had to drop it to the floor, where it lay shining with a white light like a star fallen from the heavens.

Quick as a striking serpent, Master Iku snatched up the ring. Its cold fire did not seem to affect the old sorcerer.

“
Highness! We must act now, or all is lost. For the elven people, you must be strong through what is to come. They will need a queen when this is finished.”

For a brief moment, Syukoe hesitated. What choice had she, really? She must either go along with the Kirians or face another day in which she watched while brave men and women fought and died, torn apart by an army of loathsome and unnatural creatures called up from the depths of the Void by her father’s vile magic. No, she hadn’t any choice at all.

She nodded once, decisively. “Let’s to it, then, and be done.”

“
Hold onto my sleeve, Princess,” the Master instructed. “If you’ve never teleported before, it can be very disorienting, and you may be quite dizzy when we arrive.”

“
Where are we going?” Syukoe asked.

“
To the only place where he will not hold the advantage,” replied the Master. “The stronghold of the Kirians.”

The Black Tower. Syukoe swallowed hard and tried to stop shaking. Her mouth tasted of ashes. She took hold of Master Iku’s elbow, as instructed. Beneath the heavy black fabric, the muscles of his arm felt hard, more like those of a warrior’s than a magician’s. Still holding fast to the ring in his left hand, he raised his right hand and traced a glyph in the air before him. He spoke a single word, and the glyph became visible, a softly glowing silver tangle of lines, meaningless to Syukoe’s untrained eye. The other Kirians obviously knew their part, for they all gathered close, surrounding Master Iku, Syukoe, and now Junko, who had wormed her way into the center of the group and stood with her back pressed against the princess’s.

The mages began to chant softly, rapidly. The air within the tent started to crackle and pop with energy. Syukoe felt the bare skin of her face and hands begin to prickle unpleasantly as if she were being stung by nettles. Just as the prickling intensified into true pain, Master Iku spoke three words loudly, in rapid succession, closed his fist and pulled downwards.

The room folded in on itself.

An Unexpected Invitation

The day started much like every other for Jelena. Emerging reluctantly from her cozy nest of rough woolen blankets, the young woman shivered as her bare feet touched the old rag rug lying on the flagstone floor beside her cot. Spring was in the air, but apparently, the stones of Amsara Castle hadn’t gotten the news yet. Dawn’s first flush had just begun to lighten the indigo sky. The day would be warm and dry, perfect for a festival.

A few live coals left over from last night still smoldered in the grate. With a handful of kindling and a chunk of fresh wood, Jelena soon had a small fire cheerfully burning. She hunkered down in front of the grate and held her hands to the flames, sighing with pleasure. The brutal cold of winter had begun to ease during the last few weeks, but nights and mornings remained chilly. From behind her, Jelena could hear old Claudia snoring softly. From experience, she knew Claudia’s uncannily accurate internal time sense always roused her foster mother at the same hour each morning.

A loud cough and a grunt heralded the old woman’s return to the waking world. “Big day today, my lamb. Lot of extra work t’ be done. Best get to it, I reckon,” Claudia said. She threw aside the rumpled bedclothes and rose ponderously to her feet, then ran a gnarled hand through her thinning, steel-gray hair.

“
Umm,” Jelena answered, still huddled before the fire and loath to move. How wonderful it would be to be able to sit here all morning with a mug of hot tea and a sweet roll!

“
C’mon , girl! Get yourself movin’ now! Them fires in the kitchen won’t make themselves. Cook’ll want ‘em nice and hot before she comes down.”

Jelena groaned out loud as she reluctantly left the bubble of warmth created by the flames and made a show of stomping to her chest to pull out her day clothes.

Claudia chuckled affectionately as she pulled on her robe and slippers. “Off to the necess’ry,” she announced, and slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Jelena preferred to use the chamber pot early in the morning; she found it infinitely better than sitting over a malodorous hole while a freezing draft chilled her backside. After relieving herself, she washed her face and hands in an old ceramic wash basin, then donned a coarse cotton smock with a rust brown overdress of linen. Very fine embroidery decorated the dress at the neck and hem, but it was old and worn from hard use. It was not something an average servant girl would wear, but then, Jelena was not an average servant.  She had acquired the dress as a castoff from her cousin, the Lady Thessalina.

Lastly, she pulled on gray cotton stockings and slipped a pair of sturdy leather sandals onto her feet, then turned her attention to her hair.

She gazed at herself in the small square mirror nailed to the wall next to the door and sighed. With a boar bristle brush in one hand and a wooden comb in the other, she attacked the tightly coiled, recalcitrant mass of mahogany curls that sprang from her head with a vengeance born of years of frustration. All her life, she had envied girls like Thessalina who had been blessed with shining waves of luxuriant hair that fell gracefully down their backs. Hers, by contrast, stood out from her head in a great bushy shock, refusing to be tamed by comb, pin, or hair grease.

During Jelena’s babyhood, Claudia had often tried in vain to cajole some semblance of order from her foster daughter’s chaotic tresses. “A gift from your mam,” Claudia would ruefully say as she tugged and twisted and smoothed. In the end, both child and nurse had grown weary of the struggle, and so Jelena’s hair had finally been allowed to do what it would with little interference, save an occasional trim.

On her eighteenth birthday, just two months past, Jelena had taken shears to her locks, and now had only a shoulder-length tangle to deal with. She would have cut it man-short, except then she would no longer have been able to hide her ears.

With a final tug, she finished the daily battle, securing the sides with a pair of ivory combs. These combs were her most cherished possessions, for they had belonged to her mother.

Jelena might have her mother’s hair, but the rest of her features bore the unmistakable stamp of her father’s elven blood, from the slightly upturned eyebrows and gently pointed ear tips, to the slender build of her body.

Because of the undeniable fact of her mixed human-elven parentage, she had lived her entire life on the margins of castle society, the barely tolerated bastard offspring of the duke’s late sister, Drucilla. The duke could not accept her as a full member of his family, but neither could he turn his back completely on his sister’s child, so the infant Jelena had been given at birth to Claudia so that she could be raised in the servants’ quarters.

Claudia’s face had been the loving visage floating above Jelena’s cradle; her voice crooned lullabies when sleep would not come. Claudia’s ample bosom had given shelter and comfort to her little girl, so hurt and tormented mercilessly by both castle children and adults alike. Claudia was Jelena’s heart-mother, the dearest person in her universe.

The older woman returned just as Jelena finished tying her work apron on over her dress. “What? Still here? You better get goin’ or Cook’ll be yellin’ for sure,” she said as she pulled her voluminous nightdress up over her head. She shook out the garment and carefully folded it before tucking it away in her chest.

“
I’m going, I’m going,” Jelena replied. She gave Claudia’s seamed cheek a quick peck, then dashed from the room and down the stairs to the door leading out into the yard. A blast of fresh cool air hit her as she pulled open the heavy oak door. A ray of golden, new morning sunlight dazzled her eyes. Somewhere, a cock crowed.

Gods, I’m late. Cook will be furious!

She hurried across the yard, still shrouded in cool shadows, heading toward the kitchen. She reached the door and paused just long enough to chirp a greeting to the small pride of castle felines that had congregated on the threshold. They responded by raising a raucous chorus of hungry meows, patting at her skirt hem with insistent paws and twining around her legs in an attempt to cajole from her their morning feeding. Jelena laughed at their antics, and bid them be patient. Just as she pushed through the half opened kitchen door, a great shout rang out.

“
Girrrl! Why aren’t them fires made yet?!  I’ve got a feast to get on! I need m’ fires now!”

Cook, a great she-bear of a woman, had the disposition to match her formidable bulk. She stood now, hands on hips, glaring at Jelena from beside the main hearth.

“
I’m sorry, Cook. I was a little slow this morning. I’ll get right to it,” Jelena apologized in her most deferential tone of voice. Her hands shook a little as she got busy. When Cook’s temper flared, she was fierce indeed. Jelena had often heard rumors that she had once been a soldier in the Imperial Army. Jelena had never doubted those stories.

Cook harrumphed and stalked away. Jelena soon had the main hearth fire going and had just finished the lighting of the big oven when the rest of the kitchen staff began to straggle in. Save for a cursory acknowledgment of her presence, most of them didn’t speak to her; in fact, she had worked beside some of these people for years, and had barely exchanged a handful of civil words with any of them. Now that she was older and strong enough to defend herself, the more persistent bullies limited themselves to verbal abuse, or they simply ignored her. Jelena didn’t mind; she had grown used to the solitude imposed on her by the pervasive bigotry of the castle’s residents, and it no longer bothered her.

The kitchen soon bustled with activity. The breakfast needed making for the family and the staff, and the enormous task of preparing the festival feast had to be started. After Jelena had finished lighting the fires, Cook put her to work chopping vegetables.

The Festival of Sansa was one of the most important holidays on the Soldaran solar calendar, celebrated during the month of Dul when winter’s harsh grip on the land began to ease. The people offered prayers to San, Goddess of Spring, and asked for her blessing on the new growing season. It was also a traditional time for matchmaking; an important part of every Sansa celebration was the marriage market, to be hosted this year by the Duchy, thus insuring a much larger crowd than usual for the castle’s public feast.

In addition to the public meal, the duke would be holding a private feast for his neighbors. Several nobles from afar were also expected to attend. The most senior members of the kitchen staff were to prepare this very special meal, including a spectacular Sansa cake made entirely by Cook herself—her night’s masterpiece.

Jelena had no expectations that she would be allowed to celebrate the holiday with the family this year. She had never been invited before, despite the protestations of her cousin Magnes, so this year should be no different.  This also no longer bothered her much. She was content to spend the holiday with Claudia, as she always had. The two of them would celebrate by eating their own little Sansa cake together.

Magnes was Duke Teodorus’s eldest child, future Duke of Amsara, and the only member of the Preseren clan who treated her like family. Magnes had been her only friend and playmate during their childhood.  Three years her senior and by virtue of his station, he suffered no adverse consequences by befriending her. When they were together, his mantle of protection shielded her, and the worst of the bullying ceased.