Harbinger: Fate's Forsaken: Book One (47 page)

“It’s
beautiful,” Aerilyn said, and Kael was about to agree when he saw that she
wasn’t even looking at the feast.

Had he not been
so blinded by hunger, he might have noticed that the far wall of the room was
made up entirely of glass: a huge sheet of it that stretched from the ceiling
down to the floor. Outside, the ocean glittered beneath the white cliffs. Small
fishing boats rode the waves and hauled in nets teeming with sea life.

“Yes, I always
thought so,” Uncle Martin said as he joined her. “This particular sheet of
glass was meant to grace King Banagher’s great hall, but sadly the shipment
never quite made it there.”

“Because you
looted it,” Aerilyn said, trying to look severe.

Uncle Martin
snorted. “I’d resent the implication if it wasn’t true. Yes — I stole it.
And much to my brother’s dismay, I knocked out this wall and had it put in
here.”

“Why was Matteo
against it?” she asked.

“Oh, some
rubbish about it not being safe,” he said, with a wave of his hand.

“Well it isn’t.”
Jake’s face reddened when all eyes turned to him. “I only mean it could break
easily. Something like, say, a rock could bust it. And then of course you could
always fall out and,” he glanced down at the jagged rocks below, “I believe
you’d die.”

Uncle Martin
crossed his arms. “Oh? Why don’t you fix it, then?”

Jake looked
taken aback. “Sir?”

“Yes, you mages
are a smart lot — make it unbreakable, if it’s so dangerous.”

“But I’m a
battlemage. Home protection spells aren’t exactly in my staff.”

“Well, get them
there. No, my mind’s made up,” Uncle Martin said before Jake could refuse. “I
want you to enchant this window,
and
you can start immediately.”

Jake clamped his
mouth on whatever argument he’d had ready, grabbed a handful of provisions off
the table and practically jogged out the door.

“Do you need me
to tell you where the spell room is?” Uncle Martin called after him.

“No, I think
I’ve got a pretty good idea. Thanks.”

“Strange folk,
the mages,” Uncle Martin said when he was gone. “I swear they’re happiest when
buried under a mountain of spell books. Now,” he clapped his hands together,
“let’s tuck in!”

Uncle Martin
handled the seating arrangements — not surprisingly, he managed to
situate himself between Aerilyn and Kyleigh. No sooner did they sit than the
kitchen doors swung open, and a herd of maids bustled in. They filled glasses
with water and goblets with wine, supplied white squares of cloth and poured
sauce wherever it was needed.

Kael was already
well into his second round of pork when Kyleigh reached over and tucked one of
the cloth squares into the front of his shirt. She seemed torn between laughing
and groaning at the sheer amount of grease on his confused face. “It’s a
napkin,” she explained.

“What in
Kingdom’s name is a napkin?”

“It’s like a
shield for your shirt — in case that hog decides to fight back.”

He thought
napkins were a ridiculous idea. But she could have tied a scarf around his eyes
and he wouldn’t have cared — just so long as it didn’t get in the way of
his mouth. “Why aren’t you eating?” he asked when he noticed her empty plate.

“I’ve got the
cook working on her favorite dish,” Uncle Martin said while batting the
breadcrumbs out of his mustache. “It should be — ah, here it comes!”

A maid edged
through the kitchen door, her arms shaking from the weight of the platter she
carried. Kyleigh took it from her before she had to go too far and set it down
in her place. Five slabs of meat were stacked upon it. When she cut into them,
the seared outside gave way to the raw, marbled pink flesh underneath.

“What is that?”
Kael asked. It certainly didn’t smell like any game he knew.

“Beef,” she
admitted. “I know it’s not very sportsmanlike of me to eat a fence animal, but
I can’t help myself. Here.” She cut off a chunk and sat it on his plate.

Aerilyn looked
alarmed. “You aren’t going to eat that, are you?”

He’d been
planning on it. In fact, the beef was already halfway to his mouth. “Why, is
something wrong with it?”

She wrinkled her
nose in disgust. “It’s not even
cooked
!
Only barbarians eat raw meat.”

Lysander’s fork
clattered onto his plate, and that was very suddenly the only sound in the
room. “How dare you,” he snapped.

“I didn’t mean
it like that,” Aerilyn said defensively. “I only meant —”

“There’s enough
ignorance in the Kingdom without you adding to it,” he continued, half out of
his chair. “And here I thought you understood —”

“I
do
understand!” Aerilyn shouted, rising
up to meet him. “She knows I didn’t mean it like that, I didn’t mean
her
—!”

“Just her kind,
eh? Just the rest of them?”

“Enough. Sit
down,” Kyleigh barked.

They sat
stiffly, still glaring daggers at one another.

Kyleigh jabbed
her knife at Aerilyn. “Stop arguing. You know what you meant. And you,” she turned
the blade on Lysander, “there’s no reason to make every slight into a battle.
I’ve got thick skin. I promise I’m not going to run off crying to my room every
time I’m called a name — unlike some of our number.”

Aerilyn looked
on the verge of being indignant before she inclined her head. “I suppose I
deserved that.”

“You certainly
did, you filthy merchant,” Kyleigh said with a grin. Then she elbowed Kael.
“Just try it.”

And he did. And
he decided that he liked beef very much, even raw.

“I confess I don’t
know what’s wrong with women these days,” Uncle Martin grumbled. “I suppose
it’s all this war and unrest — but it’s making them too … agreeable. When
Matteo and I were lads, there was little to do besides sneak into the nobles’
parties and get the girls to fight.” He laughed and dabbed napkin at the corner
of his mouth. “That was always the best distraction. Two dignified ladies
rolling around, clawing each other’s faces off would stop any ball dead in its
tracks. Then while the gentlemen tried to separate them, Matteo and I would
make off with the silver …”

They spent the
rest of the day trading stories. Uncle Martin relived his glory days while
Lysander gave him a very drawn-out and over dramatized version of their battle
with the Witch. “And then Kael tore the chains off like they were naught but
seaweed —”

“Hold on a
moment.” Uncle Martin leaned around and fixed him with a serious look. “Tore
the spells apart, did you? Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

“Don’t play coy,
Martin,” Kyleigh said, taking a sip from her glass. “You know very well what
the man is.”

He never took
his gleaming eyes off of Kael. “So it’s true, then? I’ll admit I
did
wonder,” he said, and his eyes
flicked involuntarily to the top of Kael’s head. “Well, it’s been years since
I’ve had a whisperer to grace my table.” He raised his goblet high in the air.
“To your health!”

Every few
minutes or so, they’d have to put down their forks long enough for Uncle Martin
to give a toast. He toasted good friends, interesting conversation, heroism,
and warm bread. Then when the sun began to set, he toasted the evening.

“Where’d you
find all of this loot?” Jonathan asked. He was in the process of groaning his
way through a fourth helping of potatoes.

“To Lord
Gilderick’s gullibility,” Uncle Martin declared, raising his glass. “Had he not
made the very serious mistake of transporting his goods overseas, we wouldn’t
have such a feast set before us!”

Even Kael would
drink to that.

When the sun
dipped low and took the light with it, maids slipped in and lit the many
candles spread out across the table. Lysander waited until they’d gone before
he said: “Why don’t I recognize any of the servants? Have things changed so
much?”

Uncle Martin
screwed up his nose and folded his napkin very neatly onto the center of his
empty plate. “Most of the girls you knew are married, now. They’ve got homes
and children to tend to. And then we’ve had to take most of the lads on as
pirates.”

“But he’s right:
I don’t recognize a single face,” Thelred said. “And when we left, there were
only a few servants. Now it seems like you’ve got one for every room.”

Uncle Martin’s
face turned serious, a worry plagued his voice. “There are dark things
happening in the Kingdom, dark things indeed.”

“What sorts of
things?” Thelred pressed.

“Dark things.”
Against the pale candlelight, Uncle Martin’s face suddenly looked a hundred
years old. “A year ago, we raided one of the Duke’s personal vessels. It was a
bitter fight, and after we’d tipped the last of the bodies overboard, we went
to inspect our loot. I went below with some of the lads and saw cargo marked as
livestock, heading for the Endless Plains … only it wasn’t cows or sheep we
found. It was people — clapped in irons and stamped for sale. We’ve found
three others since.” He nodded towards the kitchen. “That’s where most of the
new ones came from. They’ve been split up from their families, and I haven’t
the heart to throw them out. The least I can do is give them work, teach them a
trade and put a roof over their heads until things get better.”

A long,
impossibly heavy silence trailed his words. Then Thelred’s voice came out of
the shadows, hissing like a man with no air: “
Slaves
?”

Uncle Martin
nodded. “Dark things, I tell you.”

Lysander said
nothing. His face was so contorted with rage that Kael imagined there would
have been a hurricane lambasting the window, had he still been cursed.

“But we have a
plan,” Kael reminded him, firmly. “We’ll put an end to this.”

“You’re right,”
Lysander said after a moment. He took a deep breath and snatched his goblet up.
“To freedom!” And he downed the whole thing.

“Absolutely,”
Uncle Martin agreed with a swig of his own. “And I think we could all do with a
slice of cake. Bimply!”

The way he said
it, Kael thought it was a swear. But then a plump woman stepped out from the
kitchen and bustled over to their table. “You called?” she said.

Lysander sprang
to his feet and nearly crushed her in his embrace. “Dear Mrs. Bimply, how I’ve
missed your cooking! I wish you’d join the pirates. A good galley makes the
journey that much shorter.”

She blushed and
pushed him away. “I’ve told you a thousand times, Captain — a ship is no
place for an old woman like me.”

“Quite right,
quite right,” Uncle Martin interrupted. “But after all this dark talk, we’ve
agreed that we could do with some cake. How about a chocolate one with extra
sugar?”

Mrs. Bimply
frowned, planting her hands on her stout hips. “You know you aren’t supposed to
have any cake, Mr. Martin. It’s not good for your heart.”

“Not good for my
—? I tell you, Lysander, I’ve been living in a dungeon. Everyday, she
finds a new way to torture me.” He shot a glare at Mrs. Bimply, who gasped.

“I never
—”

“Denying me
cake,” Uncle Martin said loudly, rapping his cane on the table. “Plundering my
secret stashes of cookies — all twelve of them! And,” he narrowed his
eyes at her, “she trims the fat off my roast. How’s a man to keep up his
strength, I ask you, if he’s got no fat on his roast? Abomination!”

“Well forgive me
for wanting to keep your health,” Mrs. Bimply said through pursed lips. “You’ll
eat yourself into an early grave if you don’t take care of your heart, just
like your father did.”

Uncle Martin
leveled his cane at her. “Don’t bring Papa into this. The war is between you
and me, Bimply, and I intend to win. Cake!”

She opened her
mouth to retort, but Lysander stopped her. “It’s not worth the bloodbath,” he
said quietly. “He’s likely to have an attack just screaming over dessert.”

Mrs. Bimply
threw up her hands and disappeared into the kitchen. A few moments later she
returned — carrying a tray nearly bent under the weight of a sprawling
chocolate cake.

Uncle Martin
cackled in triumph and tucked his napkin under his chin. “Ah, my very favorite.
Kyleigh likes the edge pieces, if I recall. And I’ll take one from the middle.
I want as much sugar as possible on the top!”

Kael thought if
he tried to stuff anything else down his throat, his stomach would toss it
right back. The pork was sitting heavy and the warmth made his eyelids droop.
So while the others argued over cake, he slipped away and headed for his room.

He climbed the
spiral staircase and nearly tumbled straight back down when a maid leapt out
from the shadows and said: “Your room’s right this way, Master Kael.”

“Thanks,” he
muttered, and followed her down the hall.

A large bed that
squatted next to the window took over a good portion of his room. The hearth
nearly covered one entire wall. A small dresser sat off to the side, and in the
opposite corner crouched a bath. Steam rose up off the water in lazy tendrils,
and he suddenly realized how very filthy he was.

“There’s spare
clothes in the dresser, should you need them,” the maid said, with a quick
glance at his wretchedly stained shirt. “Do let me know if you need anything
else.”

“All right.” He
turned to the bath again, but he could feel the maid staring at him. “What?”

She was young,
barely his own age, and when he spoke, her cheeks turned pink. “Begging your
pardon, sir. But is it true what the kitchen maids are saying? That
you
were the one to slay the Witch of
Wendelgrimm?”

Something about
the way she stared made him uneasy. He ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose
so. It was my dagger that found her heart, but I had plenty of help,” he added
quickly when she gasped.

“You’re a true
hero, then.” She clasped her hands tightly in front of her and smiled in a way
that made him take a step back. “I’ve never met a hero before.”