By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) (5 page)

         Shayna raised her daughter in seclusion. 
The nearby village of Falondell was the only civilization Cinder ever knew, and
the only opportunity she ever had to interact with other people, including
humans.  The mother loved her daughter and raised her as a pure-blooded Faerie,
teaching her the secrets of the planet as only nature’s children—the elves—knew. 
But Cinder longed to know of her father and of other humans, so at the age of
forty-seven, seeming in her early twenties in human years, she set out towards
Andrelia and her beginnings.

         Her search had an absolute air of
futility all about it, and anyone but Cinder would have seen how impossible
success would be.  Perhaps it was her naiveté, or the elven confidence
instilled by her mother, or even her belief that since she aged so slowly a
long search would mean little to her.  Maybe it was a combination of these
reasons, but Cinder was not daunted in the least when the tremendous walls
loomed ahead in the distance still miles away.  “What a great adventure,” she
thought enthusiastically, welcoming a chance to study the strange, wild race
called man.  Cinder was looking for a person named Valmar, who would now be
near 70 years of age, if he still lived.  Shayna had told her daughter the name
of the tavern where she met him, the decades seeming but a few days or weeks to
the immortal Faerie. 

         What Cinder could not possibly realize
was that her father had gained the gratitude of many powerful people by using
his art to their benefit.  One such gift he received from a noted mage was a
magical elixir that restored much of the Quill’s youth.  This elixir was
limited in the years it reversed and also in its safety:  unbeknownst to
Rovair, the formula failed, killing its imbiber, more often than it worked,
which is why the rich and influential rarely took such a risk.  For Rovair, the
elixir worked, so, wanted by the authorities at the time, the Quill’s new age
allowed him a new identity as well, forever clearing him of all past crimes. 
With this new ‘gift’ he began a new life, performing even more daring
forgeries.  Since the Quill had been forging for decades, no court could
convict a man clearly only in his twenties for crimes committed before he would
have even been born.  Fifteen years had passed since, and Valmar, now going by
the name Rovair Shingleshod, was nearing age forty for his second time.

         Against these obstacles, Cinder entered
the city and began her search.  Against these obstacles, Cinder met her father
in the same tavern as had her mother, and yet did not know he was her father,
and he did not know that he had even created a daughter.  Just like her mother,
Cinder was attracted to the man’s charm and sly smile when he approached her in
the inn.  When she asked him if he knew an elderly man named Valmar, Rovair
thought nothing of it.  He had not been Valmar in fifteen years and he
certainly was not the only man to ever be called by that name in a city so vast.

         Though Rovair cared very little for
Cinder’s quest and thought it hopeless, he did promise to help her in her
search, wanting only to bed the beautiful woman.  He carried her single bag of
belongings from the inn where she was staying to his home.  Cinder had been in
the city only two weeks and that night was the first time she had ever been
alone with a man not chaperoned, and the first time she had been in a man’s
bedroom, ever.  Cinder was enthralled by her first kiss, and a dangerous fire
was started deep inside her.  It was not until after Rovair had laid her on his
bed that she again remembered her quest, thinking their actions queer to be
performing while in the midst of such an important conversation.

         “Do you think we will find him?” she
asked with a giggle as he kissed her neck.

         “Of course,” Rovair said.  Again Cinder
giggled playfully, trying her own hand at passionate kissing.  It was not a
very skilled effort, but Rovair could not deny the pleasure he received from
it.

         “I have come such a long way.  My mother
said that I should stay away from humans.  She said that they were bad, but you
make me feel good.  She said forty-seven was too young to go out on my own.”

         “I don’t think you’re forty-seven,” he
chuckled, sliding his hand farther up Cinder’s thigh.

         “Oh I am.  I did not tell you, but I am
half-elven.  I fooled you, did I not?”

         “Oh?” Rovair said inattentively, humoring
Cinder as he nibbled on the bare skin of her shoulder.

         “Yes.  My mother is an elf.  A Faerie.”

         “I knew an elf long ago,” he said
absently.  “She tasted very much like you.” Cinder laughed.

         “I do not taste,” Cinder giggled, rubbing
his hair, hair that felt very coarse to one who had only ever touched silken
elven tresses.

         “Shayna was her name,” he said, nibbling
down the front of Cinder’s shoulder and nearing her still covered breast.

         “What!” Cinder screamed, shoving Rovair
back.  “Maybe you knew my mother.  Her name is Shayna.  Shayna Starshine.  Do
you think it was she?  Do you think it was she that you met?  Maybe you know my
father too!”  Rovair stopped his hand and gently held the soft skin of her
shoulder between his teeth.  “What?” she asked as Rovair lay motionless, all
the clues slowly falling together in his mind.  With a great heave he leapt off
the bed and paced quickly around the room, fixing his hair and clearing his
throat nervously.  “Don’t stop,” Cinder whined, but he ignored her pleading.

         “How old are you?” he asked, not looking
at Cinder.

         “Forty-seven.”

         “Your mother’s name?”

         “Shayna Starshine, Witch of Darkwood.”

         “Great gods!” Rovair exclaimed, looking
at Cinder’s incredibly beautiful body.  Rovair was bent over, hands on his
knees, the wind sucked from his chest in utter shock.  “My name was
Valmar...forty-seven years ago.  You’re
my
daughter,” he murmured,
nearly falling over.  Not only was he shocked by the fact that he just learned
that he had had a daughter nearly half a century ago, but this daughter was
arguably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen,
and
he had nearly
made love to her.

         “Daddy!” she screamed, leaping into his
arms.  Rovair nearly dropped Cinder in his self-disgust.

         “I kissed you!” he said.

         “It was very nice, Daddy,” she said,
squeezing his neck as he cradled her, an arm around her back, one under her
legs.  “Do it again.”

         “Don’t call me that,” he said, his face
pale and white.

         “What’s wrong Daddy?  Is that not the
correct human term?”

         “Get dressed,” Rovair said, setting
Cinder on the bed, his eyes closed tightly.

         “Are we done?” she asked.

         “I need to explain some things to you, my
dear,” he said with a heavy sigh.  “Come downstairs when you’re dressed.” 
Rovair gingerly walked out, hands thrust out before him, his eyes closed.  He
shut the door softly behind him. 

         Cinder hurried downstairs to where her
father waited in his posh, well-furnished parlor, only to find him fully
dressed and unable, or unwilling, to look at her.  Rovair had done many things
in his life that most would call sick, mean, base, even disgusting, but none
matched his feat that night in his mind.  There, then, in his house stood a
woman just slightly less beautiful to him than the maiden to whom he had lost
his heart, the only maid in his seventy-two years he had actually loved and
pined for in all the years since.  He desired Cinder, but his sense of
morality, the sense Rovair thought long ago burnt out, kept him from her.  He
explained to Cinder that what they had done was a mistake, but she had by then
forgotten about it, so happy that her father had been found.  It seemed
impossible, but Cinder felt, she just knew, that she was this man’s daughter. 

         Their relationship grew into a diverse
one.  They began nearly as lovers, then tried being father and daughter, but
found that uncomfortable as well.  Rovair noted his daughter’s many gifts
however.  Most important to him were her keen mind, deft touch, exquisite
penmanship, and undeniable charm.  If Cinder would have had the desire, coupled
with his expertise, she could have been an even greater con artist than her
father, but she was interested in it only enough to become very good.  She did
possess a massive curiosity about humans:  what they did, what they liked, what
they carried in their pockets...so Rovair taught her slight of hand through
which she soon became the best he had ever seen.  Cinder could pick locks,
filch items from a person’s pockets, palm objects without notice, etc.  So she
could do things like lift a few more gold crowns when she accepted bribes or
steal back a document she had just handed over to a client when he turned his
back to leave, whereupon Rovair could ostensibly recopy it for the client who
had ‘misplaced’ it, for an extra fee of course.

         Cinder had come to the city raised as an
elven maid, as pure as a six year-old child, but Rovair saw no harm in teaching
his only heir the knack of how to survive in the vicious world of humanity. 
This meant using her brains and beauty to manipulate people to serve her needs;
and his.  Cinder was naturally good at it, but being basically a sweet creature
Rovair could not seem to instill a vindictive attitude into her nature:  Cinder
was simply incapable of believing that people were intrinsically manipulative
themselves. 

         Cinder trusted everyone; Rovair no one. 
He kept Cinder under lock and key, forbidding her to leave the house unless
working.  Not only did he want to keep her safe but he wanted to keep her to
himself.  While their relationship was never a sexual one, it was intense and
Rovair was as jealous as any lover, or father, and guarded
his
Cinder
with the combined determination of both.

         Thus, Rovair did not put too much trust
in Cinder to carry out complex scams and he used her simply as a go-between. 
She would bat her lashes and play a brainless messenger while actually
gathering great deals of information in her pretty, yet brilliant head.  This
arrangement would also be safer for her; if caught Cinder would most certainly
be let go with simply warning not to do whatever crime she had been accused of
again.  Once.  After that, Rovair would have to cease using Cinder.  But so
very confident, Rovair never worried about her being apprehended.  To aid in
their plans, they pretended to be lovers; Cinder was never allowed to tell
anyone that he was her father.  The greatest reason was if Rovair were
arrested, she, as his heir, would be responsible for his debts and fines, and
he would not burden his only child with such a loss.

         Though Cinder found most of his
skullduggery rather simple and less than interesting, she did find the humans
of Andrelia fascinating.  Simply by altering the style of her hair and the way
she dressed, Cinder could pass as a human, an elf maid, or, of course, as
half-elven.  But she loved to imitate humans, wishing desperately that she was,
and had been raised as, one.  She soon cast off her dainty elven slippers,
wholesome dresses and conservative undergarments, for clothing flattering her
shapely long-legged form:  four-inch high heels, dresses either slit high, low
cut or both, and silk corsets and garter belts.  She styled her hair like the
women around her and loved to, through incantations she had learned from her
mother, change her hair color to platinum blonde, dark red, or any other shade
she desired. 

         But now, her father was gone.  Cinder had
lived with him several months and now was alone.  Rovair had offered to take
Cinder with him, but they both knew that she would only slow his escape.  He
had to leave the city for at least several years before his fifty odd years of
crimes would be forgotten, as well as the 20,000 gold crown price on his head,
the fourth highest bounty ever offered.  Cinder wanted to stay and Rovair could
only hope that his daughter had learned more street smarts than she had openly
shown.

         Cinder walked down from the porch and,
without looking back, headed off toward the city market where she hoped she would
be picked up by a profitable employer.  While she had inherited a goodly sum of
monies, finding employment would aid her in assuming a truly human life and
help her to interact with them without raising suspicion as to her motives. 

         After strolling only a block, a group of
soldiers, the city guard, ran past her, their weapons drawn as they battered
down the door to her former home and ran inside.  She turned and walked on,
careful not to appear, but really unconcerned if she was, associated with the
Quill.  Cinder began whistling a tune, a human tune, as she swung her purse
happily:  now thrust amongst all those humans, alone without anyone to tell her
how she could perform her studies.  Cinder could learn what she wanted, how she
wanted, and from whom she wanted without anyone to tell her “no” anymore.

         The party had gone well for Selric and as
a bonus to his pleasure, Angelique was resplendent as she stood on the balcony
overlooking the city down the hill and away towards the waterfront.  Street lanterns
burned a golden-orange light around the villa and throughout the other more
affluent parts of the city, appearing as glowing orbs here and there to the
observer’s view.  Angelique wore a white gown trimmed with thread of gold and
platinum:  diamonds and golden jewels adorned her neck, wrists, and sat perched
in the form of a tiara atop her flaxen hair.  Her face lit up and her posture
straightened, if possible for such a pert figure, as she watched Selric walk
out to her.  In the torchlight, she sparkled like a million twinkling stars;
her hair, lips, skin, jewels, and especially her hopeful eyes.   It broke
Selric’s heart.