He soon had the new door on the hinges, and I had to admit it looked a lot like the original. I wasn’t sure if anyone would notice the difference but I was too tired to care. Dorian went off again and came back with a broom. I swear he was getting positively domestic. He cleaned the floor without my help, but I like to think I supervised. He got all the wood up he could find, being careful to leave the jewelry where it lay; then in a stroke of pure genius, he plucked up a bottle of red wine from the credenza.
“Wha?” I asked intelligently, as he smashed it on the floor next to Devon’s head.
“Maybe the fool will think she brained him with it. At the very least his clothes will be ruined, he should count himself lucky.” He helped me up and half carried me to my own room. You can never have enough friends like Dorian, but I was grateful to have him. I never could have finished our night’s deception without him.
I sank slowly into the soft feather bed, but as I drifted off I couldn’t help but wonder, what would Devon think when he discovered his key no longer fit the lock on his chamber door? That made me chuckle for a second, then I was asleep.
Chapter 8
For the same reason mages eschew purely mental methods for channeling their abilities, use of the common tongue for that purpose is generally avoided. The best tool for controlling aythar is usually considered to be a dead language, one acquired by deliberate learning after reaching puberty. It is also believed that languages which have been used for this purpose over many generations serve best, as the words and phrases gain a certain amount of power in their own right. Because of this, even individuals with a moderate to low emittance are sometimes able to effect minor spells by using language and symbols that have absorbed some inherent power due to long use by mages past.
Devon woke early the next morning, only two hours after Mordecai had at last fallen asleep. He was careful not to move at first, uncertain what had happened. He was lying on the floor, fragments of glass scattered about around him. He listened for several minutes before deciding he must be alone, so he sat up and assessed himself.
It didn’t look good. His clothes were beyond saving, soaked through with dark stains. For a moment he thought he had been stabbed, till he realized it was wine rather than blood on his clothes. The door was closed, but the girl was gone. He was fairly sure he hadn’t finished his business with her… unless he had some memory loss. Had someone hit him with the wine bottle? Was it her, or someone else? Either possibility was disturbing.
He stripped his clothes and used some water from the pitcher to clean himself up before donning fresh attire. If someone else had struck him, then that meant he had an unknown enemy, one who had managed to get into his room while he was unaware. If the girl had done it then he had a gap in his memory, for she had been quite beyond such things at his last recollection. It must have been someone else; he would not have been so incompetent as to let that slip of a girl get away so easily.
The door… he checked his pocket, the key was still there. If she had used his key she had replaced it, unlikely, he thought. Her fear had been too great, she would have run, and kept the key. Devon Tremont knew a lot about fear and its effects. He checked the door, and sure enough it was unlocked.
“Someone’s been interfering,” he said to himself. The real question was who? What would they do with the knowledge they had? Nothing. If they were planning to use last night against him they would have done so already, bringing guards and witnesses while he lay unconscious. If anyone accused him now he could easily deny it. Why? That’s what he would have done. Whoever it was had sacrificed a large advantage. They took nothing, his money and possessions were intact, only the girl was missing.
The girl, that was it. The only reason to hide last night’s crime would be to protect her reputation. But she was a common maid, he thought. No one would care about her. Almost everyone within the castle would be more concerned with justice; only a select few would care more for her than destroying him. What had she said last night? He’s the blacksmith’s son. “He’s also a mage,” muttered Devon. He had seen a strong golden aura about the man each time they had met. It was the first thing that had piqued his interest.
She had held out against fear for a remarkably long time, and still had told him little. She must have strong reasons to protect him; likely enough she was in love with him. “And his room is only a short walk from here… and one corridor over.” he said to himself.
Devon Tremont had always been decisive, he did not waver now. Rising he buckled on his sword and left the room and locked the door behind himself. At least he tried to… the key would not turn in the lock. Another mystery, he thought. He shook his head and headed for Mordecai’s room at a casual pace.
When he reached his destination he was dismayed to see a large guard standing outside the room. What is his connection to the Lancasters? Nothing made sense. They were clearly complicit in his deception. The man was a commoner, yet they had given him a room fit for a king. Marcus was obviously quite attached to him. And he is a mage, he thought. That was the lynch pin, the key everything revolved around. The Lancaster family needed a mage. Did that mean they knew something regarding his plans for the future? If so the Lancasters might well be seeking magical power to bolster their position.
He kept walking, nodding at the guard as he passed. Deep in thought he began to carefully consider his next step.
Much lower in the castle Penny awoke. She had worked very late so Miri, the head maid, had let her sleep in. Normally all the staff were up before dawn. Penny’s eyes snapped open, something was wrong. She had slept well, but now she was wide awake. Looking around the room she was beset with confusion.
How did I get here? she thought. “What happened?” she said. Suddenly she remembered, and her chest tightened with emotion. Fear, shame and rage fought within her for dominance. A surging storm rose up within, the fear and helpless terror of the night before washed over her, threatening her sanity. Mother, what should I do? That thought brought her nearly to tears, the helpless sorrow of a child who knows she can never go back, never go home. Her mother was dead and her father was almost an invalid, unable to work. Caring for him had become her purpose; he was why she had taken this job.
Now it was gone, along with her hopes for the future. She doubted she could keep her job once her shame became public knowledge. The room was empty so she drew the sheets back, afraid of what she might find.
She was naked, every stitch of clothing gone. There was blood on her thighs and a bandage around her right leg. The blood was to be expected, but she didn’t recall hurting her leg. He must have done that after I passed out. A vivid image rose in her mind, an ugly image of what had been done to her. The only mercy was that she had been unconscious; at least she wouldn’t have to remember that. Except in my nightmares, she added mentally.
She got up and mechanically began putting on one of her spare uniforms. Her leg was stiff where it had been injured but she felt alright otherwise. There was no soreness, no pain… down there, which seemed a bit unusual. She knew some girls had little pain, but she suspected Devon had not been gentle. “I guess I should count my blessings,” she said, and then it was too much, she began crying. The tears poured out of her and her body heaved with great wracking sobs. She hadn’t cried like this since she was a child.