Chapter 7 Cutting the Cord
Windstide 1920
At night the kitchen was a peaceful place, albeit only for the four hours in the smallest hours when even the bakers had to rest. The silvery moonlight from the waning Eerian moon mixed with the blue of the Aquatonian to give the interior the quality of frost. Two kitchen boys were curled together under a yarkel blanket for warmth. A small mouse nibbled at the crumbs that lay on their clay plates, the remnants of their supper.
Emelia crept across the cold flags, considering the fragments that remained of her own life at the Keep. She had been almost disappointed that Mother Gresham had not beaten her for her earlier affront; somehow the pain would have fired her fury all the more. Instead she had looked at her with eyes wracked by sorrow. In a flat voice she said that leaving the Keep would be punishment enough, and that if she tried such tomfoolery at the Enclave she’d be living on a lily pad in the Arch-mage’s garden. She had then told Captain Ris that one by one all her girls were going. Gresham had solemnly appraised Emelia, commenting that the girl she had raised had gone that day at the carnival, melting into the crowds never to return. Emelia had skulked to pack her scanty possessions in the girls’ dormitory, the bitter words stinging deeper than any birch.
Yet in a sense Gresham’s comment was true. After all, the old Emelia—a young girl obedient and courteous—would have never eased herself out of her cot at high moon and snuck through the kitchens with escape in mind. She had kissed Abila with tears in her eyes, hoping perhaps one day to see her again, but knowing in her soul that it was not going to be possible.
In the corner of the kitchen Torm was asleep, his head resting on a pile of rags. Emelia hesitated to take a final look at him. His bruised face was peaceful and his ankle was securely strapped.
His eyes flicked open and for several seconds Emelia and Torm just stared at one another.
“Heard what you did,” he said in a low voice. “I still think sticking him would have been better.”
“Perhaps, though my discretion has meant I’m still here to try escape and not in a deep cell in Iyrit Crag,” Emelia said. “One day we’ll get justice.”
“I’ll pray for that day. Perhaps he’ll get drunk and fall off a griffon.”
Emelia knelt by Torm. Her hand touched his swollen face.
“I’d take you with me if I could, I …”
“You’ll have a far better chance if I stay slumbering on this cold stone floor. I would slow you down and get you captured. Two servants on the run? No chance.”
“One day, I’ll come back for you.”
“You’ll do no such thing. I’ll be nipping at your heels like a guppy in no time. You keep checking over your shoulder, Emelia, and one day I’ll be there.”
Emelia stood and secured her satchel.
“I’ll look every day,” she said.
“About what I said earlier. I’m sorry.”
“I know. Bye, Torm.”
She turned and slipped across the kitchen towards the steps. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Torm roll towards the wall.
Emelia reached the stone stairs that led to the levels above and paused. A vision of her younger self, running under the wood tables with Sandila and Abila came to her, a warm orange spectre in the silver blue backdrop. A lump sprang into her throat and she had to choke back a tear as she turned and left that child behind forever.
Although little thought had gone into this beyond the encouraging tones of Emebaka there was no doubt in Emelia that it was her sole option. She could be a servant no more; something had switched inside her. There had been an awakening, an epiphany that something about her was different, destined for another path in life. She could not sit around counting the wasted days until she came of age.
A paralysing surge of fear stopped her in her tracks. She wavered on the steps, looking back down to the kitchen.
I am on a threshold, Emebaka, if I take another step I know I won’t go back.
What holds your legs frozen to the spot then?
I... I am terrified. I’m no longer to have the safety of the Keep, and with each passing second I doubt that the Enclave is a place of security for me. Uthor has his blood-stained reach into the place and I keep thinking of the dark sorcerer talking about the Arch-mage.
That may all be supposition and lies though.
Aye, but something has happened to me, Emebaka. Something awakens, like a long dormant dragon. I feel it growing within me. I’m changing somehow—doing impossible things. If the Air-mages find I can hurl grown men across rooms like rag dolls and fall through solid walls do you think they will ever let me go? I’ll not be spending six years at the Enclave. No, I’ll never see the light of day again.
It required more effort to take that step than anything ever had in Emelia’s life before. Yet as the first step forward lifted her up the stairs, the second rapidly followed and before long she was vaulting up the stairwell.
Her satchel bag was crammed with bits of bread and cheese, enough for perhaps a week. Then she would be forced to steal to live. Could she become a thief? She pondered this as she slipped up the stairs, keeping flush to the wall. For a moment this afternoon she could have been a killer she had been so enraged. So yes, indeed, she could steal if she was required to. It would take weeks and weeks to traverse the farmlands of Lower Eeria and winter was coming; her timing could not have been worse. Yet staying in the city was a poorer option. Escaped servants rarely had pleasant lives; they invariably gravitated to Cheapside and the horrors it held for young girls.
She had reached the ground floor now, where the main barracks of the garrison was located. This was the only real option for exiting the Keep and was, of course, always guarded. None the less she had heard from some of the older girls that at this hour the guards were fairly somnolent and with Engin’s grace the opportunity may arise for her to slip out into the upper city. Then perhaps she would hide in a cart bound for the countryside and then away.
Emelia’s hand drifted to her pendant as she began to creep from the landing into the ground floor’s corridors. She reeled in horror, her long fingers scrabbling at the bare skin of her neck.
It was gone.
She almost screamed in frustration with the realisation of where she had lost it. As Uthor had grabbed her neck, seconds before she had somehow thrown him across the chamber, she had felt it snap. She punched the wall, the hard stone sending pain lancinating through her fingers. Tears welled once more and she bit hard on her lip to stop her cries of disappointment and pain.
Emelia stood frozen, like the ethereal kitchen she had only just left, as she weighed her options. The sound of voices from further down the torch-lit corridor made her mind up for her and she swivelled and padded back to the stairs and upwards. She trod the same wide steps that she had hours before as she had gone to confront Uthor. The irony was not lost on her as she rapidly adjusted her make-shift plan. Perhaps she could leave the Keep from the roof, ascend to the city wall and then seek a way down the towers or steps? The idea seemed unappealing given the fate of her friend but roaming the whole building was surely an invitation to being discovered.
Emelia approached the landing of the fourth floor, slowed and began to creep, making as little sound as the ancient stones around her. This floor was often guarded and she needed to make some assessment as to the wakefulness of its sentry. Could she fabricate some excuse to pass a guard? Some yarn about why she roamed the Keep at an hour past high moon?
You really do have the Moon’s malady, Emebaka chuckled. She smiled despite herself, easing around the corner of the stairs.
The landing was vacant, its only occupant a suit of armour. Perhaps Engin was visiting the Keep tonight to pay her back for all the misfortune of the last few weeks. Emelia entered the corridor, which was lit by eight torches. She passed the old tapestry that covered the alcove, and out of the corner of her eye saw a slight bulge in the cloth at the base.
It was the tip of a boot.
 
; She bit her fist to suppress her scream. The boot was flat to the floor as if its owner was sleeping. Her hands trembled as she pulled the tapestry to the side.
Crammed in the alcove, between the stacked benches, was the bound figure of a guard. Emelia’s immediate thought was that he was dead but then she saw the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath his chain mail hauberk. He was expertly tied with rope and had a thick gag in his mouth, secured by a knotted cloth. An ugly bruise was behind his ear and a dried trickle of blood had wormed down his neck like a strange tattoo.
Leave him be, this is not your problem anymore, Emelia, Emebaka hissed. Let us get the pendant and get out of here, for there is villainy afoot and we best not be caught up in any more trouble before we depart.
For once the voice made sense; Emelia replaced the tapestry and walked silently towards the door to Lord Ebon-Farr’s day chamber. She eased the heavy door open, used by now to its weight and conscious of how to avoid its creaking.
Two figures whirled to face her as she entered the room. They were silhouetted against the large window. She made to yell in surprise but her mouth was so dry no sound came. They flew into action. The nearest, a slim man with a neat moustache raised his hands and hissed some words in a language Emelia didn’t understand. Air shimmered around his hands and she was propelled into the wall, the impact knocking the breath from her. It was as if the invisible hand of a giant was clutching her, as if her limbs were made of lead.
The second man had run across the room drawing a dagger. He was on her in an instant, the cold steel of the tip pressing painfully into her throat whilst his other hand covered her mouth.
Up close he was handsome, although Emelia was perhaps not best placed to admire his dashing features. His hair was tied back in a ponytail and both his ears were pierced with gold earrings.
“Listen. I shall say this once,” he said in a low voice. “We are thieves not killers. However, if you chose to scream you will force me to push this dagger through your neck. Is that very clear?”
Emelia looked into his eyes to gauge whether this was an idle threat. It was not easy to tell. His eyes were a warm deep green yet there was a hard edge to them, every bit as keen as his knife. In any case, she thought, alerting the Keep was the last thing she wanted.
Seeing her acknowledgement the thief slipped his hand away and lowered his dagger. She felt the invisible pressure ease as the second man approached, a look of fascination written on his face. She suddenly felt very self-conscious and awkward before these strangers and blushed.
“Are you a slave here, love?” the man with the pony-tail asked.
“Not a slave, a servant—a housemaid. I’m… in servitude,” Emelia said.
He turned to the second man who Emelia saw was primly presented.
“You know, Jem, getting the young lasses from other nations to do their housework—like they’re too good for it. That’s so, well, so... Eerian. Arrogant sods.”
“Where else would you expect to find something ‘so Eerian’, Hunor? The feeding pits of Pyrios? The gardens of Versica? This is the main market for the Azaguntan slavers that you rip off in your games of Kirit’s eye.”
Hunor wrinkled his nose and turned his attention back to Emelia. “What’s a housemaid doing prowling around the place at this hour, like a thief? Lighting up the fires early? Are you running away, love? Going to find fame and fortune on the stage in the playhouse at Kokis?”
When Emelia didn’t answer he shrugged. “Anyhow, nice to make your acquaintance but I’m afraid we’re going to have to tie you up. We’re at work, y’see.”
Emelia look startled and her mind raced; she couldn’t be tied up waiting for the Ebon-Farrs to find her. She could not face the Enclave.
“Take me with you. I can help you,” she said.
Hunor paused as he was unfurling his rope and stared in surprise at her. “I’m sorry, love. We’re not in the… ah… recruitment game at the moment. You see we’re sort of vagabond, freebooter types. I mean you are quite striking. Those eyes are remarkable. Really. But I’m afraid…”
“Hunor,” Jem said. “Just wait a moment.”
Slender fingers lifted Emelia’s chin and she met Jem’s gaze with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. Emelia found his hazel eyes hypnotic. Her skin tingled, like she had just come inside from the wind.
“Let it out,” he whispered. “It’s like a cauldron inside you isn’t it? Pushing inside your skull.”
Emelia could hardly breathe; her blood ran cold in expectation. By Torik, how does he know?
The air reverberated around Emelia, pushing Jem’s hand away. A smile worked its way across Jem’s lips.
“She’s a Wild-mage.”
Both Hunor and Emelia stared at Jem in disbelief.
“She’s a Wild-mage?”
“I’m a what?” Emelia asked.
Jem came closer to the pair. Emelia could see how he differed from Hunor. His hair was neatly combed and parted with a surgical precision. His face was as young as Hunor’s yet paler, with a clipped moustache. It was his eyes, however, that fascinated Emelia as she observed him: they burned with a feverish intelligence, seeming to penetrate within her soul.
“I can see the Web bending around her, Hunor. Trust me, she has the magic gift. Like me. She’s like me.”
“No offence, mate, but she’s not a bit like you. I mean she’s young and pretty and those sparklers in her head would make her a fortune in the right places, but, well, no offence love, she’s a housemaid doing a bunk. Wild-magic or no.”
“I think we can trust her, Hunor. Seriously. When I say she is like me I refer, of course, to the potential she holds within her.”
Emelia stared at Jem. The air crackled with tension and Emelia had the strangest sense that she had always known this man, that she had always trusted him.
“We can trust her, Hunor. She wants far more than this place and she can help us.”
“Oh, that’s different then. If you’re going to contribute to the job, then you’re all right by me, love. I still think a career on the stage might be a safer option. I must introduce you to Igridd the Pink sometime. He’s got some great acts.”
“Hunor!”
“Oh yeah, sorry, Jem. Tangents and all that. Right… the key! Where is it? See Jem can get us into the antechamber but not the store itself, so we need the key for the second door.”
The key, Emelia thought in panic. Her mind raced and then she realised what they were seeking. They wanted the blue crystal. That same fateful day that Lord Talis had met the Arch-mage she had heard their discussion of this crystal. Earlier today she had seen him on the floor below with a key entering a locked room.
“It’s around his neck,” she said, gesturing at the door leading through to the lord’s bedchambers. “On a cord around his neck.”
Hunor and Jem both smiled at the same time and glanced where she pointed. Hunor flipped the dagger in his hand, caught it and then offered it to Emelia handle first. She gawped at the weapon; the silver and blue of the moons that shone through the large window gave the metal an icy quality.
“It’s to cut the cord, love,” Hunor said. “Regard this as your trial by fire.”