She felt Cook voice a thousand arguments in her head – Wynn had dragged her back to the present and she pushed her memories of That Night away – but instead she nodded slowly and went to prepare a bath in the servant’s quarters. The room seemed different to Wynn now, it seemed older, worn. She felt as though she was looking at the world through a stain glass window, but there were no bright, cheerful colours, only dull greys, whites and blacks. She put her hand to her heart but she couldn’t feel it through her clothes and for a moment she thought she had actually died, her heart simply giving up, as she had predicted it might.
She could hear Cook's thoughts as she walked up the stairs, “
Should I have said no? She is still so weak, but then she needs my support right now. Well running a bath is fine, it does not need to be anything more, she needs to wash properly anyway
...”
The thoughts were confused as Cook passed someone on the stairs, Wynn considered for a moment, before deciding it was Braelyn. She had gleaned from the days Braelyn spent caring for her that Braelyn was calm, wise and kind.
“
I hope Wynn is feeling better, Cook seemed agitated
,” Braelyn thought as she stepped up to the door and knocked on it. Wynn called for her to enter and she smiled as she did so, her eyes crinkling in the process. Wynn managed a small smile back, but it did not reach her eyes.
“How are you feeling?” Braelyn said.
Wynn scowled, suddenly completely furious, “I’ve been branded. I won’t ever be free because he’s the Master and if he wants me he’ll have me... does that answer your question?”
Braelyn lowered her eyes. Wynn stared at her and felt the hurt she had caused Braelyn like a stab in her chest. She swallowed, aware how much her words could hurt someone like Braelyn, who was so kind despite her hard years. Wynn's face softened.
“I’m sorry; it’s not your fault, forgive me, it is hard to accept your sympathy and worry, it brings into focus what has happened.”
Braelyn smiled and Wynn felt a wash of reassurance flood through her. She walked over to Braelyn and they sat down in silence on the bed, the only sound the cry of a fox deep in the woods. Wynn took the chance to study Braelyn curiously; she had long willowy limbs under the brown maid’s outfit, and pale skin with rosy red cheeks. Her eyes were the colour of the ocean, or what Wynn imagined it to look like from the stories Cook had told her as a child. Her long blonde hair was tied up messily, loose strands falling in front of her eyes. She wasn’t classically beautiful; she had wide eyes and a nose slightly large for her face but there was something about her that inspired trust.
“Thank you for looking after me,” Wynn said after a while, “you did not have to and I'm sure I was not always the most easy to tend to. It is strange, the kindness you have shown me. How did you come to be here?”
Braelyn gulped and looked out of the window above Wynn’s bed and Wynn felt sadness emanate from the girl, “I never knew my parents,” she said softly, “I have pieced together my past from various Masters. I was sent to Methis as a baby and was passed between Manors for years before I settled in a Manor in Kingly. It was hard but they treated me fairly. My Master died just a few weeks ago and I was moved here. I don’t know what happened to him. There were rumours that he planned to oppose Lord Oprend... they were never proven but I always wonder. I knew nothing of it and am glad.”
Wynn nodded because she knew it was expected, but her mind could not piece together what Braelyn had said. It could not just be coincidence, could it? Coincidence that Wynn inherited this new
ability
days before, so that when she asked Cook about her mother she actually heard Cook’s memories, leading inconclusively to the realisation that her dream was not just a fabrication of her imagination but the events of That Night, cemented into her conscious. Braelyn was the baby that Cook managed to save, should she say something? Wynn swallowed and arranged her expression into one of empathy, it was clear Braelyn had respected and even liked her old Master. Would knowing she was actually Lord Oprend’s daughter make anything easier? Was it even true? Wynn took a deep breath; maybe she was still asleep, hallucinating from the pain of her wound... but everything seemed so true. She had no doubt that Lord Oprend had had something to do with the Lord of Kingly’s death. Wynn, despite herself, felt a mutual trust extend between them, bonded through horror and desperation. For once in her life she felt like she could trust someone... it was a fearful realisation. Would Braelyn feel the same if she knew what Wynn could do?
Braelyn sighed, breaking the silence, her mouth open to say something but Wynn was not paying attention. Someone was approaching. Their mind was dark and they emanated nothing but lust and excitement. Wynn would know that mind anywhere. The emotions intertwined with Braelyn’s kind patience and Wynn began to shake uncontrollably, staring at the door as though it would burst into flames. Braelyn followed her glance and jumped when a knock, a few seconds later, broke through the silence. Wynn struggled to breathe or even to sit upright, for she was so scared. Braelyn put her hand on Wynn's arm, exuding worry and confusion but Wynn ignored it. Panic was all she could feel or think, she looked hurriedly around the room, but there was no escape. She half rose to run, her mind unable to think coherently when the door opened and through it walked the Master. Wynn was blind with terror; she scrambled as far away from him as she could and hit her back against the wall. The Master grinned, his eyes wide with desire. The room went cold; his presence enveloped Wynn like a glove, strangling her, suffocating her, smothering her.
“Maid, get out. Wynn and I need a moment alone,” the Master hissed, licking his lips, but Braelyn did not move, her newfound feelings of trust and friendship for Wynn overrode any fear of the Master. The Master eyed her with rage and when she still refused to move yelled in anger at her defiance and grabbed Braelyn by the arm, throwing her out of the room and slamming the door behind her. Wynn felt Braelyn’s unease and fear from outside the door but ignored it, finding herself unable to cope with her feelings of fear as well as her own nausea. Wynn sat shaking on her bed, her eyes wide with fear. She studied the Master’s face, every disgusting, repellent feature. The wrinkles, the eyes, the smile. She wanted to get a knife and cut those eyes from his face so that he would never be able to see her again.
The Master walked forward and grabbed Wynn by the arm, lifting her to her feet off the bed and holding her upright because she had gone limp at his touch. He ran a finger gently along her scab and she shuddered. Her stomach churned and she had to repress the urge to retch. She focused wholly on holding herself together; she could feel her legs shaking and knew she was close to breaking down. She was not prepared when he grabbed her face and kissed her, his putrid breath filling her mouth. She closed her eyes to block it out, but nothing could disguise the Master’s lips on hers. She felt her head swim with the sudden explosion of happiness that was radiating from the Master. Her whole body stiffened as the hate she felt for him intensified. He eventually released her and threw her onto the bed.
“I was right, you have lips to die for,” he whispered, touching his lips as though he was dreaming. Wynn’s skin crawled and she wished right then that she could kill him, the sudden urge, the sudden
need
for the Master to die shocked her, she had never wished such a thing on anyone but at this moment it was her only wish. He advanced on her then, and took out the same knife that he had cut her with from his belt. The blood was still encrusted onto the blade, a stark and painful reminder of that day. Wynn gripped the sheets in fear as she saw what was coming. She felt like she was drowning under the surge of insistent emotions flooding from the Master, lust and excitement, happiness and pleasure. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, like a nightmare.
“You see this knife,” the Master purred, “I’m going to cut you again, and this time I will carve my name on your forehead so everyone will know you are mine. You will never be free my little Wynn. Escape is futile, wherever you run to people will know that you are mine for the very scar on your face.”
Wynn’s teeth ground together as the Master’s words hit a nerve, just as he knew they would. At that moment, the instant the words left his mouth, something inside Wynn snapped. She screamed in disgust and fear, not really forming words for her rage was so complete. She felt broken inside, dead. What hope did she have now? Anger rose from her stomach and she launched herself at him, pushing him back off the bed. He hit the floor with a thump, but quickly stood up; the knife glinted in his hand, his face contorted in rage. Wynn knew then she had sentenced herself to something far worse than a cut; to insult Lord Oprend was unspeakable.
Wynn scrambled off the bed to put as much distance as she could between her and the Master, but the room began to spin and she had to lean against the wall beside her bed to steady herself. The Master stood but a few feet away, his fists clenched, the knife in his left hand.
“You little bitch,” he hissed.
Wynn kept her eyes on the dagger; she could not tear her gaze away from the instrument that could kill her with one fell swoop. As she stared hate filled every nerve in her body and she wished again with everything she had that he would fall down dead. Slowly and calmly the Master flexed his arms then quicker than blinking threw the knife. It entered the wall beside Wynn’s face but Wynn was not flinch, the moment she at seen the Master pull back his arm to throw the dagger she had thrown her hands up to defend herself. The effect the motion had was unsettling; the Master flew into the wall at the other side of the room with such force that it cracked with an ear splitting crash. Dust floated around the Master’s unmoving body. The dagger rocked from side to side beside Wynn’s head, the force of the throw still in its hilt.
Wynn stood open mouthed, staring at her hands as though they contained the answer. They looked completely normal but she still could not stop inspecting them. Her mind felt suddenly clear and she quickly replayed what had urged her to throw her hands up, but could find no rational reason, for what had to she hoped to achieve? She had swung her hands instinctively and he had moved across the room, flung by an unknown force. Magic, Wynn thought suddenly and forcefully... but that was impossible, magic was forbidden, magic didn’t
exist
.
The Master whimpered and broke Wynn’s train of thought. She looked at his twisted body and pulled the knife out of the wall behind her, then walked over to him. Debris from the wall covered most of the Master’s body and a few splatters of blood dotted the grey stone. She leant over him, her shadow casting him into darkness and showing him for what he really was, old, weak and pathetic. She knelt beside him, shaking the knife from side to side in front of his eyes, taunting him. His eyes widened and Wynn could feel his fear and self pity like slap around the face. It was clear and nauseating.
“You were right; my lips
are
to die for,” Wynn spat, “and you see this knife, it is going straight into that black muscle that you call a heart.” The Master opened his mouth as though to beg but it was too late; Wynn stuck the knife through his chest and ended the Master’s life, in one quick motion. Blood dribbled from his mouth and his eyes stared at her accusingly, she stared back
as the realisation of what had happened sunk in; and yet, the fact that he was dead was nothing to how he had died. How
had
he died? By her knife certainly, by the force that came from her, that had erupted from her and thrown the Master as though he were nothing but a doll, what was it? It was like nothing she had ever witnessed, ever felt and yet it had come from inside her, as though part of her. She felt sure that whatever it was, it was linked with the extra sense she had developed.
Wynn blinked and realised she was shaking from head to toe. She turned on her heel and began to wander around the room. She wondered if she should take anything with her, for it was abundantly clear that she had to leave. She knew the army, knew what happened when someone defied them. Murder, like everything else wrong was illegal for the inhabitants, though all knew the army chose which laws to follow and which ones to break, and she had not only murdered a man, but the Lord of Woodstone. Her punishment would be severe, more she was sure, than a life sentence in The Rune. Wynn looked down at her apron and dress, at the blood and dust splattered on it and suppressed a gag. She began furiously to rip her clothes off and threw them in a pile on the floor; she would have nothing of the Master on her, not a hair, not blood, nothing.