Entreat Me

  Louvaen stood, tucked her much lighter purse into her cloak pocket and held onto the endorsement as if her life depended on it. Her father’s freedom did. “Are there any other ransoms—oh, sorry—debts besides this one I should know about before I go?”

  Hildebrandt waved his minions out of the chamber. They scattered like frightened birds before a hawk. His eyebrows knitted together, creating a furry white caterpillar over his eyes. Louvaen might have laughed if she didn’t want to slap him. “I’ve had enough of you sharpening that tongue on my hide, mistress. This unpleasantness could have been avoided if your father had agreed to a betrothal.”

  “If Jimenin wasn’t such a pip tarse with an unnatural obsession for my sister, this unpleasantness as you so gently describe it wouldn’t exist.” Louvaen took juvenile pleasure in the magister’s pinched disapproval of her vulgarity. She took even greater pleasure in his shock when she told him “Besides, my father can’t agree to a betrothal. Cinnia was married day before yesterday. You may know of him. Gavin de Lovet? She is Lady de Lovet now.”

  Hildebrandt’s mouth fell open, closed and opened again, reminding her of a dying fish. He finally snagged the frayed edges of his dignity and wrapped himself in a cloak of undisguised disdain. “Please extend my congratulations.”

  Louvaen snorted. “Our business is concluded, magister. I better not see a single one of your buzzard catchpoles lurking about my doorstep, or I’ll shoot him on sight.”

  She marched out of his chambers, nodded to the clerk peeking at her from behind his ledgers and slammed the doors behind her.

  Sparrow whickered, and she gave him a quick hug in celebration of her victory. She had mounted and was in the midst of guiding the horse away from the hitch rail when the voice of the man she most despised spoke behind her. “Mistress Duenda, no one told me you’d returned to Monteblanco.”

  Louvaen’s hands clenched the reins as she turned Sparrow and found Jimenin standing in front of her, a shark’s smile pasted on his banal features. She fancied an oily darkness watched her from his empty eyes. She shuddered but refused to reveal her fear. “Obviously someone told you, or you wouldn’t be here,” she countered.

  He stretched out a hand as if to lay it on Sparrow’s neck. The horse’s ears laid flat against its head. Louvaen liked Sparrow even more. Jimenin ignored the warning and reached for the bridle. “Leaving the Merchant House? Nasty business in there. I heard about your poor father. Maybe I can help.”

  With those words, Louvaen snapped. She swung the spare length of both reins, lashing as hard as she could. The leather whistled through the air, cracking across Jimenin’s smirking features. Blood splattered Louvaen’s hem. He screamed and staggered away, clutching his face. Louvaen followed, using Sparrow’s bulk to shove Jimenin until he fell to his knees. The crowd milling around them halted and stared.

  Louvaen shook in the saddle, rage tempting her to trample the fallen Jimenin in the streets. Her voice rang in the quiet. “I’m done with you, you loathsome toad. Come near my family again, and I’ll kill you.”

  She’d likely signed her death warrant with that declaration before half the town; she didn’t care. As a final insult, she leaned from Sparrow’s back and spat on Jimenin before wheeling the horse around to gallop out of the square.

  Once she assured herself she wasn’t followed, she slowed Sparrow to a brisk trot and set out for the debtor’s tower. The last standing portion of an ancient fortress, the four-story prison with its fortified walls and double gates had served as both short and long-term residence to several of the town’s citizens. Louvaen had hoped never to visit it for any reason. She left Sparrow at the nearby stables and slogged across the muddy street to the entry gate and guard post. The guard on duty directed her to the warden’s office in a bored voice and promptly turned a longing gaze toward the closest pub. Louvaen wondered how many detainees had escaped the tower and ambled right past this particular guard.

  The warden’s office was tucked into a narrow corner where guardhouse met tower. She rapped on the oak batten door, and a boisterous voice bade her enter. Illuminated by the morning sun pouring through one window and a brace of candles perched on a scarred and worn table, the office was as plain and humble as the Merchant House had been pretentious.

  The man charged with the governing of the tower was a scruffy sort, with a bedraggled beard Louvaen suspected worked as a comfortable nest for fleas. He peered at her from rheumy eyes. “What do you want?”

  “My father’s release.” She handed him the copy of the endorsement. “Debt paid for Mercer Hallis.”

  He opened the endorsement, read the signatures while picking his teeth with dirty fingers and returned it to her with a grunt. “Take a seat. I’ll get him.”

  He left her in the office to worry and pace. It was only minutes but seemed like hours before the door opened and Mercer shuffled into the office. Louvaen leapt up and threw her arms around her father. “Papa!”

  “Louvaen?” Mercer returned her hug before stepping back to stare at her. His tired features drooped in dismay. “My darling girl, you shouldn’t be here.”

  She blinked, stunned. Of all the greetings she might have expected, this one caught her completely by surprise. She took his hand, noting the cracked skin and black dirt caked under his nails. “Don’t be silly, Papa. Where else would I be?”

  Mercer closed his eyes, and Louvaen noticed the ravages that age and worry had stamped on his face—the parchment-thin eyelids as crinkled as whitewash baked years in the sun, the deep lines the fanned from the corners of his eyes to his temples and bracketed his mouth. The deaths of two beloved wives had aged him, but this business with Jimenin had painted decades on him. He looked worn-out. “I wish you hadn’t come,” he said.

  She laid an arm across his shoulders and ushered him toward the door. “Well there’s nothing to be done for it. I’m here, and we’re going home.” Maybe a bath, a hot meal and a nap in his own bed would erase this strange and desperate melancholy that made her fear for his mind.

  He glanced back, peering into the office as if its shadows hid an unknown threat. “Where’s Cinnia?”

  “I came alone, Papa.” His shoulders sagged under her grip, whether from relief or despair, she didn’t know. “I’ll tell you everything once we get settled.”

  Unsure if Sparrow would accept a second rider, they opted to walk home. Mercer was a morose companion, and Louvaen was too focused on watching every alleyway they passed, fearful a vengeful Jimenin would set his paid brutes on them.

  Though she ached to see Ballard and missed the dilapidated comfort of his castle, the sight of the home she once shared with Thomas made her grin. A modest two-story timber frame with a stone and plaster façade, the house had been Thomas’s and later hers after his death. A row of rose bushes, flowerless and black, bristled below the front windows. In late spring and summer, they’d blossom with lush yellow and pink blooms. She made a note to herself to rip them out by the roots at the first opportunity and replace them with cowslips and foxglove.

  The back garden was big enough to hold a small stable for horses, a coop for hens and a potager for herbs and vegetables. Louvaen loved every crack and corner of the property. She hoped her soon-to-be guests from Ketach Tor would love it as well, because they’d be packed in like cordwood until they found new accommodations.

  She gave Mercer the key to the house and promised to light a fire in the parlor as soon as she unsaddled and stabled Sparrow. The bleak expression he wore flummoxed her. His remark that he wished she hadn’t come had equally shocked her. “What does he think?” she muttered to herself as she led the horse to the stables. “That I’d let him rot in a prison?” None of this made any sense, and she planned to question him as soon as he’d rested enough from his ordeal.

  Sunlight streamed through the transom of windows set high on one side of the stables. The two stalls had been swept clean in her absence. Sparrow would have the place to himself. Plowfoot remained at Ketach Tor for
now. An image of Ballard’s face rose in her mind’s eye, and she sighed.

  The sound of voices halted her as she put her hand on the back door to enter the kitchen. She recognized Mercer’s voice and finally the feminine one speaking to him. The neighbor. Niamh must have noticed their arrival and wasted no time paying a visit. Louvaen liked Niamh and was grateful for her care of Mercer while his daughters had virtually disappeared into the far north. The older woman greeted her with a hug when she stepped into the kitchen.

  Short and plump, with a sweet face and shrewd dark eyes, Niamh Cooper had lived next door since before Thomas brought Louvaen home as his bride. She’d comforted Louvaen after Thomas’s death—one widow to another—and had shared tea and laughter over the latest town gossip and the antics of Cinnia’s many suitors. She ran a successful carding business and was respected in the community. For all that Mercer didn’t make the soundest financial decisions, he had a knack for attracting smart, capable women.

  Niamh pressed a cup of tea into her hand and helped remove the satchel from her shoulder. “Thank the gods you’re back. I was up all night last night thinking of ways to free your father.” She pushed Louvaen to one of the chairs at the kitchen table and made her sit before bustling to the hearth and stoking the fire. “I’ve made a pest of myself and invaded your house. Just toss me out when you’re ready.”

  Tired from her journey and still infuriated at having to ransom her father out of prison, Louvaen was too happy for the help. “Please stay, Niamh. You brew a fine tea, and I welcome the company as much as Papa does.”

  Mercer sat next to his daughter, uncharacteristically dour. “You shouldn’t be here, Lou.”

  His litany annoyed her, and snappish words hovered on her lips before Niamh interrupted her. She shook an admonishing finger at Mercer. “Don’t be a fool, old man. Of course she should be here. She and Cinnia are the only ones who could get you out of the tower.” She eyed Louvaen, puzzled. “Though I’m impressed with the fates. Were you returning home when the Merchant House sent the catchpoles for your father? I thought it a week’s journey at least.”

  “It is, but I had a little help from the de Sauveterres’ sorcerer.”

  It was Mercer’s turn to look puzzled. “You don’t like magic.”

  How many times had she made such a declaration and then eaten those words in the past few months? “No, I don’t. But it has its uses. I didn’t leave Ketach Tor until I saw you in the prison cell.” Two pairs of eyebrows went up at her statement, and she smiled. “Why don’t you sit down with a cup of your own, Niamh. This requires a lengthy explanation.”

  She started with her return trip to Ketach Tor, after she’d paid the first set of Jimenin’s markers. Her story had all the makings of a fairytale. A curse cast by a vengeful woman and barely leashed by a powerful sorcerer who could halt aging for centuries, a crumbling castle, magic mirrors and a kind, beautiful girl who’d fallen in love with a man turning into a beast.

  The reality was magical but not at all charming. Louvaen had developed a robust hatred for roses. Her kind and beautiful sister looked forward to an early widowhood. The man who married her would die as a man and be reborn a creature straight out of a nightmare, same as the father who had sacrificed himself to save him. She left out the parts in her recitation where she’d almost drowned in the pond and Gavin had tried to kill her. Mercer already stared at her wide-eyed and pale.

  “Ambrose—the sorcerer—gave me another enchanted mirror before I left this time. I can summon Cinnia. Would you like to see her?”

  Mercer nodded eagerly at her offer. She retrieved the mirror from her satchel, unwound its protective cloth and handed it to him. The silver gilt backing glinted in the sunlight, highlighting delicate scrollwork etched by a master silversmith centuries earlier.

  Mercer grasped the handle as if it might shatter. The glass reflected back his somber visage. He wet his lips. “What do I say?”

  She smiled. “It’s ensorcelled to obey only my command. Watch.” She leaned toward the mirror and said in a clear voice “Show me Cinnia.”

  Niamh left her seat to join them as they watched the glass cloud with a heavy mist. Louvaen lifted one hand, ready to banish the image if they caught Cinnia during a delicate moment. Her luck held as the mist cleared, revealing her sister sitting peacefully in a chair by the fire in the bower. Gavin sat on a low stool at her knees, his head in her lap, eyes closed in bliss as she slid her fingers through his hair.

  “Oh, how lovely,” Niamh said.

  Tears glossed Mercer’s eyes. “My beautiful daughter. What a lovely bride you must have made.”

  Louvaen coughed to ease the tightness in her throat. “She was beautiful, as always. Happy to marry the man she loved but sorry you weren’t there. She would have married Gavin in Monteblanco if she’d been able to, Papa.”

  His gaze remained riveted on the tranquil image. “She does look happy.”

  “She is.” At least for now. If will and desire equaled power, Louvaen would halt the future that bore down on her sister and her new husband. But she was powerless. Another woman’s rage had defeated them. She had only comfort to offer Cinnia when she grieved and sanctuary to give Ballard’s household when they abandoned Ketach Tor.

  Mercer blinked several times and returned the mirror to Louvaen. “Enough for now. It’s good she’s there, safe with her new husband. I wish you’d stayed with her, Lou.”

  She waved her hand over the glass, scattering the image. “You keep saying that, Papa. What’s changed? I paid this new—and fraudulent—debt. Married and bedded, Cinnia is no longer of interest to Jimenin. And what kind of daughter would I be to leave you in a prison cell?”

  “A wise one.” He pushed away his teacup. “This hasn’t been about Cinnia since you returned the first time and paid off my debt with de Sauveterre’s money. This is about you.”

  Louvaen spat her tea back into her cup. “Me? You aren’t making sense. Rickety old longshanks Hildebrandt repeated Jimenin’s offer to forgive the debt if you gave him Cinnia in marriage. This was always about her.”

  He shook his head. “No. Even if I lost my senses and agreed to such a union, Jimenin would still exact revenge. You out-maneuvered and humiliated him—twice now. He didn’t know when you’d return. By tossing me in the debtor’s tower, he hoped I’d die in there before you returned to Monteblanco. I’m not enfeebled but I’m old, and that’s no place for the healthiest man. He’d have his revenge. No amount of money or threats from you could resurrect me.” His mouth curved into a weak smile. “I expect you took him by surprise when you showed up after only a day.” The smile faded. “He’ll be a man burning with purpose now—eager to destroy you. To be honest, I kept waiting for one of his henchmen to shoot one or both of us on the way home.”

  Louvaen buried her face in her hands. “I curse the day that slimy scurf was born.” Her mind whirled with a thousand different thoughts. Reason dictated she heed her father’s warning, especially now after her earlier confrontation with him. And she would, when the quiet came, and she lay in her bed wondering how she’d get out of this calamity. The plans to house Cinnia, Magda and the girls—not to mention Ambrose—might need to change. A new thought struck her. For the first time since she and Ballard had discussed where his household would go after they left Ketach Tor, she was happy at the idea of Ambrose living with them. Jimenin had a pack of minions to do his dirty work; Louvaen had a curmudgeonly old sorcerer. They were more than equally matched. She just had to make sure and avoid her adversary until Ambrose got here.

  “Move to another town.” Niamh refilled Mercer’s cup with the last of the tea. “Find someplace else to live away from Jimenin and his influence. Sell your house to the Hildebrandts or the Kadinas. They’ll gladly buy it and rent it out to some merchant for an exorbitant amount and make their money back in less than a year.”

  Louvaen’s hackles rose. “I’m staying. Jimenin has already made me run and jump like a trained pony. He won’t chas
e me out of my home.”

  She smiled when Niamh placed an affectionate kiss on the top of Mercer’s head before bustling around the table to the larder. “You can discuss it more later. I know your kitchen as well as my own now, Louvaen. You and your father are knackered. Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll have water heated and a little dinner ready when you wake.”

  Louvaen didn’t protest. Melancholy had worn her down more than the journey. Now was not the time to wallow in sorrow or regrets. There were too many things to do, too many things to plan, but she couldn’t shake the weight settling deep in her chest that made it hard to breathe and oh so easy to cry. She thanked Niamh for the help, hugged her father and trekked up the stairs with her satchel.

  Her room was neater than when she left—the bed made and her books in order on the shelf near the window. Because her father had never been one to wield a duster, she expected a fine layer of dust on everything, but even the mirror was clear and the floor swept. Niamh must have been here with her broom and dust rags.

  She dropped the bag on the bed and emptied the contents. Her day frocks and chemise were wrinkled beyond hope. She’d add ironing to her list of tasks if she didn’t want to look like a frazzled drassock. A narrow bundle wrapped in familiar bronze silk fell among the clothes. The dagger Ballard gave her. She left it covered and placed the weapon on the small table by her bed.

  His eyes, so dark before the last flux, had revealed a wary hope when he presented her with the knife, as if unsure she’d like the piece. That he offered so fine a gift and in the spirit in which it was given almost brought her to her knees. Thank the gods she had accepted. Other than her memories of him, this was the only thing of his she could call hers.

  Or so she thought. A quick shake of the upended satchel gave up a wilted and crushed bit of bittersweet. A soft sob escaped her as she picked up the piece of tendril and twined it around her finger. The battered leaf drooped, curled at the edges but still green. The tears she’d held back since he’d tossed her on Sparrow and sent the horse galloping through the gate flooded her eyes and coursed down her cheeks.