Kara (13 page)

Kara was glad she was just the passenger. It
took her a moment to realize she was this Rose. “It will end. War
is only a means to an end, our safety.”

She watched the other woman’s expression
suddenly change greatly, confusing Kara.

“Your pendant… Oh, how beautiful. It is
glowing!”

Kara didn’t even realize she had the necklace
on. Her hand went up to touch it. “Thank you. It was a gift from
Guillaud. I like to think that every time it glows, he is thinking
of me.”

The guests gave a little laugh. Kara looked
toward her husband and winked. Guillaud smiled at her and winked
back.

But when she turned back and saw the eyes of
the other woman, she was taken aback. Jealousy and greed were
plainly visible in those green eyes, but only for a moment. With a
blink, the woman hid her intent. Kara felt her own feelings toward
the woman surge— the fires of hate burning. Unlike the other woman,
she could conceal it.

“Spoils of war can be fun. Henry, when you
and your army are slaughtering trolls, see if they have anything as
pretty as that necklace and bring me home a present.” The wine
slurred the woman’s speech. Henry turned a bit red with
embarrassment at the statement.

“Now, Miranda, it is not always about the
loot.” He tried to give her a stern look, but her eyes had drifted
back to Kara, to the necklace.

Again the scene started to fade out, and
people and places became a blur. Unsettled, Kara took in the scene.
When it settled, she recognized it as Rose’s room. Walking by the
fireplace was Miranda, in the same dress she’d worn at dinner. Was
this just later in the evening after dinner?

“The men are probably just talking about war
and battle stuff. Boring talk.” Miranda had an unsteady step. She
sipped from her goblet.

“Maybe you should sit down. The wine was
strong tonight.” Kara said, as she approached Miranda from behind.
She turned her away from the fire and guided her to a bench.

“Your necklace is pretty.”

“Thank you.”

“I want it.” Miranda pushed away from Kara,
the rest of the wine spilling out over the goblet. Kara held her
ground.

“I know. I saw it in your eyes.”

Both women stared down the other. Miranda
dropped her goblet, which made a clang on the floor. Her eyes did
not hide her intent. No one made a move, except for the sway
Miranda had from the wine.

“I think you should sit before you get hurt.”
Kara said, her anger burning.

Kara herself was scared to death at what was
going to happen. Inside she tensed, while outwardly Rose appeared
cool and collected.

It appeared that Miranda was going to object,
but another dose of the wine swam through her. One of her legs gave
out and she stumbled into a table, breaking a bottle of perfume.
The fragrance bottle sliced Miranda’s hand. Quickly, the blood
coated her palm. It took the woman a moment to realize that she was
bleeding. The wounded hand left its bloody imprint upon the table
as Miranda tried to steady herself.

Fire again relit in her eyes as the pain
swatted away the haze. Instead of taunting again, the red-haired
woman chose action. She lunged for the necklace, one bloody hand
grabbing it before the owner had time to react.

But all went blurry, but not as a dream
change. Kara could still see Miranda, but everything seemed to have
a glaze over it. Anger and hatred burned so extreme that Kara went
numb. What she could see was Miranda falling. The woman had let go
of the necklace screaming. Also, a look of confusion then horror
crossed her face. Her mouth opened to scream, but Kara heard
nothing.

Then all was dark.

At first, Kara thought the dream was over,
but she wasn’t awake. It was a black canvass of nothing, with no
sound or any sense permeating. But then, from the right, a green
scaly hand spread out in front of her face, fingers spread wide. It
was grabbing for her. It was going to take her away!

No!

***

The scream ripped through the house waking
everyone instantly. Kara sat up and felt a hand at her neck. She
looked down and saw the creepy goblin from the market, its hands
outstretched, trying to choke her. She screamed again, and the door
burst open.

“Goblin!” Kara shouted. The hand slipped
away. She pointed at the cowering creature. Dante, in fox form, and
Hambone stood there. Snow sat up beside Kara, wrapping her arms
around the frightened girl.

Skrag bolted for the window.

Dante darted after the goblin. The fox’s
teeth chomped down on one of Skrag’s legs as he dived through the
window. The goblin squealed, hanging partially out of the
window.

Hambone ran for the front door intending to
grab the goblin from the outside. Dante tried to hang on, but Skrag
kicked and squirmed. The taste of goblin blood made his stomach
want to hurl.

Skrag hit the ground outside just as Hambone
rounded the side of the house ready to clobber the intruder. Skrag
ran like he had never done before. Even though injured, Katrena’s
henchman disappeared quickly into the forest. Hambone wanted to
give chase, but his concern for Kara won out. He poked his head in
the window.

Dante leapt up to attack, thinking the goblin
was coming back for more. He stopped, collided with Hambone’s nose,
and they both let out a yelp.

Kara sat sobbing, hugging herself, and
rocking back and forth.

“Where’s the goblin?” Dante snarled, wanting
nothing better than to finish the attack.

“Running scared. How’s Kara? Is she hurt?”
Hambone looked toward Snow, who patted Kara’s back and hummed
lightly in her ear.

Dante impatiently exclaimed, “Let’s go get
him!”

“No.”

The word broke Dante’s resolve and he settled
down, disappointment appearing in his eyes.

“But….”

“Kara is our first priority. That was
Katrena’s slave. I know where to find that goblin when I need him.”
Hambone’s eyes never left the pair on the bed.

A caw from behind him startled the dwarc.
Hambone stuck his head out of the window and bumped his head on the
window frame. On a tree next to him perched a crow. It stared at
him, sizing him up. It moved very little, except for the head
twitching now and then. With a final caw, it flew into the night,
not to another tree, but farther to the north.

Hambone watched it go, and then stuck his
head back in.

“Where’s Grace?”

Dante’s face had a sudden look of surprise.
“Oh…” and he ran off to the next room. A creak, and then all of a
sudden Grace was heard loud and clear. She came buzzing into the
room, and toward the bed. Her tone lowered when she got to Kara and
Snow.

“Grace, Grace…she’s fine. She’s fine.” Snow
repeated. The sprite zipped around her. Dante slowly inched his way
back in, trying to make it close to the window. Grace spotted him
before he was halfway. She changed direction mid swoop and charged
in front of Dante.

The ranting sprite went on and on. Dante’s
fox ears, that were usually up and alert, now drooped. His eyes
averted, and his head hung down in shame.

“Enough!” Hambone roared. Grace stopped mid
speak. All eyes turned toward the dwarc in the window. Kara also
looked up, her eyes red from crying.

“Kara, are you okay?” Hambone asked
gently.

She thought for a moment and then nodded.
Eyes returned to Hambone.

“Dante, apologize to Grace for locking her in
that trunk.”

“But it was only….”

“Dante.” The quick, sharp word stopped the
fox short. He bowed his head and then nodded too.

“I’m sorry Grace. I guess it wasn’t a night
to be funny.” Dante said. Grace stared deeply at the fox before
giving a small affirmative twitter.

All eyes went back to Hambone and silence
fell. A wolf’s howl far in the distance broke the mood. Soon
another wolf answered.

“Lire wolves. We better get this blood
cleaned up. They can smell one drop a mile away.”

Chapter Eleven

Mornings in the castle were often cold. Night
air crept along the stone passageways and lingered there, waiting
for the first to wake. This was no exception for the king. Before
his wife’s passing, La’ard would keep a fire going in his suite,
listening to the crackling and popping sounds of the fire as he
drifted off. But these days, he did not care for sleep. Rest only
brought on nightmares.

Five years ago, on a dawn such as this and
every one before it, the queen had awoke. She was an early riser,
where La’ard took his royal time. Melinda Deavanet might have come
from royalty, but her heart was that of a peasant, humble and kind.
Sometimes the simple life attracted her more than the fancy
clothes, servants, and other queenly pursuits.

Rising in the morning helped her pursue just
a small part of that simple life. Within the walls of the castle,
La’ard had provided his wife with space for a magnificent garden.
Of course, caretakers and gardeners were available as well, but the
queen tended it herself. It was her chance to step outside her
duties and just be normal.

That morning, Melinda made her way to the
courtyard and out to her beds. The night sky had departed and the
sun was just starting to make its appeal to the heavens. No one was
in the courtyard at this hour, so the queen would not be disturbed.
She did hate servants interrupting her to ask if they could lend a
hand in her stead.

It was an hour until someone came looking for
her. They found the king quickly, but already it was too late. His
wife had been long gone by then None could change the outcome—not
doctor, alchemist, or even spook. Her heart had given out and taken
her life.

It was a morning he relived daily.

Ever since Melinda had been taken from him,
La’ard did not sleep late. Continuing in her footsteps, he came to
the garden every day, but he had no taste for cultivation. He
believed it to be beneath him. No, La’ard came to visit her
tomb.

Many protested, reservedly, about his plan to
place his wife’s mausoleum in the heart of her oasis. They pushed
to have her placed in the crypt below the castle. But opinions soon
relented after one opponent was taken to the dungeon. La’ard would
have his way.

Today, La’ard was a little later than usual.
He spent his nights in even less sleep now, since Euphoria was
possessed. But his nights of tossing and turning would not
interfere with his homage to his wife. Maybe a curse caused him to
be awake all night, but then fall asleep just when he should be
rising.

The tomb stood out with its white marble
walls. He had scoured his land and further kingdoms to find enough
of the material. It was of minimal size, just big enough for him to
enter and sit by her side. La’ard kept the key around his neck
always. . He had to have part of the garden transplanted in order
for the burial vault to be placed. To honor his wife, La’ard saw to
it the flowers and plants were moved rather than destroyed. Roses,
taken from plants she’d tended, were often the flower that filled
the two vases on either side of the door.

He calmly made his way through the rows of
plants. La’ard kept his eyes downcast, not looking at the blooms,
for they reminded him of her. Pain of loss gripped his heart during
this journey to the tomb, such suffering that no power or riches
could overwhelm it. He had tried after that first year to rid
himself of the pain. The guilt turned to anger, and his subjects
felt the rage. He beat servants on sight, and denied peasants’ and
subjects’ requests. He even punished some for the audacity to ask.
Wine flowed like water. Empty barrels started to pile up as the
weeks went on. His mood changed with the vintage, but there was
never enough wine to wash away his pain.

Melinda’s tomb shined immaculate, sparkling,
pure. When snow came, servants would brush it away and shovel a
path down the pathway for the king. It was his standing command to
do so, but they did it mostly to honor their departed queen.

This day the key fit in the lock with no
resistance. With a simple turn, the tumblers disengaged. The door
did not creak as the king pulled it open. Sunlight lit the small
room, which never looked as inviting as he had once hoped it would.
To him it looked cold, a place for the dead. But he did not care.
It was not a place to make him feel happy. It was a room of solace,
a room for a lonely man to grieve, and dream of what used to
be.

Silently, he entered and sat upon the stone
bench. Melinda’s marble casket was to the right of him, decorated
with roses. A carved passage in the lid brought tears to his eyes
the moment he started to read aloud. “A beauty among queens,
forever laid to rest. A rose among the flowers….”

He could not finish the poem for his emotions
gripped him. One hand covered his eyes as his other rested upon the
cool marble coffin.

“I miss you.” He spoke aloud the regret from
his heart.

La’ard.

He sat straight up, a bolt of cold
electricity running through him. Was his queen answering him?

Father.

And now the shock was replaced with white-hot
fury. That thing occupying his daughter was calling him. It needed
to talk.

La’ard’s eyes were aflame at the disgrace,
the blasphemy of calling upon him now in this sacred place. His
steps were weighted, and he almost marched out of the tomb,
dishonoring it. But he caught his temper, quarantined it for his
ritual penance. Back to the sarcophagus, La’ard bent and kissed it.
Then, gently, he sealed the tomb up. Once the key was around his
neck, he released his anger.

Soon this would be finished. La’ard would see
to it.

***

Caw! Caw!

Jesset stirred from his sleep to the
incessant cry. It started in his dream, or was it a nightmare.
Jesset groaned. He turned toward the window where a black crow
perched. Odefus, back with information.