Ice and heat woke her, although she didn’t remember falling asleep, to a body drained dry and heavy as stone. Soft sheets cushioned her, cold against her skin, as sunlight burned her from above.
A sudden breeze dragged its icy caress across her middle. She jolted, squeezed her legs together, scrabbled feebly in the dark for her blanket. The bed was endlessly vast, despairingly empty. The last thing she wanted to do was open her eyes so the blazing sun could scorch them, but she couldn’t bear being so naked.
She flipped onto her belly, burrowed her face into her pillow, then creaked open her eyelids. She was sticky all over, in particular between her legs, like she did after every night of passion with Coris.
Coris.
The name jolted her to her senses like a douse of water. Meya bolted upright, heart racing, eyes frozen wide open.
Faces—Baron Graye, the watching knights, her own in the mirror. Sounds—Graye’s whispers, her moans and cries, her screams of bliss, rustling of shed garment, creaking of wood, meeting of flesh. Smells—tea, perfume, sweat, the stench of lust, his seed flowing down her skin, taking root, branding her. Eyes, watching, unblinking. She couldn’t take it any longer. She needed rest. Her knees buckled. The world careened. He didn’t stop, flung her onto the bed, stabbed her, again, again, again. Eyes, still watching. He dragged his tongue across every inch of her skin. Again, she summited, yet couldn’t feel, not even the heat of tears sliding down her cheeks. She couldn’t move. Her body had drifted just beyond her grasp. Eyes, unblinking on looming shadows. He splayed her limbs for them to see as again he ravaged her—
Her head spun, and she dove from long experience. She reached under the bed, but this wasn’t Coris’s room. Chamberpot. Where’s the chamberpot? Tears threatened to spill from her eyes as acid barreled up her throat. She leaped for the light and emptied her bowels out the window.
Spent, hollowed out, she sunk to the floor, knees folded high, arms wrapped over her chest. She seared down there with every move. Coris would never push her this far. Graye’s ooze had become one with her skin. She couldn’t see it, yet she felt it. His stench smothered her nostrils. She rubbed until she was red raw. It wouldn’t go off. Water. I need water. Yet, even all the water of the Celestel couldn’t scrape off the nightmare of his touch reaching deep inside her.
No. No. NO!
Whimpers grew into wails of despair, yet no-one was here to heed her, even to scold her to silence. Why? Why was there no-one? Her whole family was always just across the hearth. Coris was always right beside her.
What have I done? Oh Freda, what have I done?
Her curling toes crushed fabric of some sort between them. Meya opened her eyes. Draped down the side of the bed was a silken dress of pure white, embroidered with charcoal-gray thread, lined with lace.
A circle of curtains stood at the heart of the room, likely shrouding a bathtub lined with sponge, filled with steaming hot milk, scattered with rose petals. Should she tug the tasseled rope next to the bed, a crowd of servants would burst inside, toting warm, fluffy towels, armed with an array of potions for her skin and hair, ready to wait on her every need.
This is what I’ve done. This is the fruit of my labors. This is my life now.
Baroness Graye. Lady Hadrian no more. Baroness Graye.
She whispered to herself, over and over, yet she trembled as the words echoed in her head, as she pulled the resplendent dress to her and pressed it flush to her bosom. She rocked back and forth, struggling in vain to staunch the tears flowing down her cheeks.
Baroness Graye. Baroness Graye. Baroness Graye.
----------------------------------------
Meya bathed and dressed herself, as she’d always done. Even braided and pinned her hair the best she could. Unlike Coris, she still couldn’t numb herself to being served like a helpless babe by folks who until recently had been her equals—sometimes even superiors. Even sitting in carriages while whips shuttled her around made her uneasy, unless it was with Coris, Arinel or other nobles.
She stepped out to last night’s hallway, now lit dazzling bright by the morning rising at full force, then at once almost crashed into the same maid in gray from ereyesterday. She’d probably come to press her ear to the door, see if Meya was at long last awake.
Poor girl was terrified to see her clean and fully dressed. She led Meya downstairs to the same tea-table at the end of the gallery, then scurried off with a harried promise of breakfast.
Baroness, the girl had called her, over and over. She couldn’t be over a year younger than Meya. The voices still chorused in her head, when a bowl of steaming wheat porridge landed before her with a clink and a waft of cinnamon, followed by jars of cream, sugar and raisins. Meya followed the hand up the arm to find one of Graye’s older male servants from her last time here. Probably the butler.
“Thank you, sir.” Yet again, habit tricked her into bowing. Meya sprung upright, slipping on her best Arinel voice. “Where’s the Baron?”
The butler arranged silverware neatly next to her napkin, then straightened with a courteous smile.
“Off to fulfill his Council duties, my lady. He said you’d had a rigorous night, and has instructed us to let you rest your fill.”
Meya’s face burned as she drooped in shame. She spied on Graye’s clock with many faces. Unfortunately, none of them seemed to tell the time on the land of Latakia. She returned glumly to the white gruel in her bowl. She felt cold dollops hitting her cheeks, trickling down her throat, spilling down her front, sliding down her thighs. Her bowels churned and heaved. She scrabbled for the spoon, gripped it so tight its cold seeped through to the bones of metal under her skin.
“Before he left, the Baron arranged for gold, jewels and fine fabric to be sent to your parents at the Dragon’s Crossing, and also took the liberty of inviting them to meet you here,” the butler prattled on, seemingly unaware. Meya’s heart froze, then plummeted into a void when the sharp neighing of horses blew in through the tall windows. The butler perked up, his face bright.
“Splendid timing! That must be Icari, back with them already.”
Sure enough, not long after, the far door opened. In came the whip, Icari, and the fearful messenger boy, and no more. Meya couldn’t decide if she was relieved or crestfallen. She wasn’t ready to meet them. Not yet.
“Where’s Mum and Dad?” She bolted up when they came in talking distance. For a moment, Icari didn’t seem to have heard, then he raised his unblinking blue eyes to her, his face pale and haunted as the messenger behind him.
“Sir Mirram and Madam Alanna would like me to convey they are grateful for your generosity,” he regurgitated words like a golem, shaking his head numbly, “but they cannot accept your gifts, nor your invitation, as they know not of Baroness Graye.”
Silence fell. Meya gaped at Icari, as he, the butler, the errand boy stared expectantly back at her. Time seemed to have slowed, but of course it was in actuality just her head. Yet, why was she caught off guard? This was Mum and Dad! The Mum and Dad that for seventeen years she’d seen reject every last coin of copper not earned through a hard day’s work. She knew how they’d react. She should know better than any how to convince them—force them to accept her gold, yet she didn’t.
Yet, there was no sense in putting it off. Graye was right—every second past is an eternity of pain for Dad. She’d have to face Dad sooner or later, if she wanted to help him.
Meya drew a deep breath, then heaved a long sigh.
“Right.” She nodded slowly, then met eyes with the waiting Icari.
“Prepare the carriage. I’ll meet them myself.”
----------------------------------------
By the time the Dragon’s Crossing came into view halfway down the street, stalls had lined the wayside and shops were busy with their first wave of customers.
Women waved as they rushed to join their similarly-dressed friends grouped under streetlamps and signposts, giggling behind their hands as they cast their eyes surreptitiously to the object of gossip.
Did some of them freeze and eye her carriage as it sailed past, then fell into hushed, solemn discussions?
Meya’s cheeks burned. Her trembling hands clenched into fists as she reached for the curtains, but if she slammed them shut, wouldn’t that give them scolds free rein? Wouldn’t word spread faster of the new Baroness Graye?
Wouldn’t you want that?
Her head challenged, snide, brazen. Her heart seethed, but then the wheels slowed to a stop and the door swung open. Meya roused herself, took Icari’s hand and descended.
Three handsome carriages were out on the courtyard. Whips prepped their horses as servants loaded chests onto the back and tied them tight. Maids streamed after a noble lady through the inn’s double doors. A plump, gold-encrusted merchant stood consulting his books beside his ride. At the sound of her boot clapping onto stone, they glanced around, then away too quickly to have been disinterest.
Meya surveyed the scene, pausing at each of them, but all that did was prompt them to plunge with fervor deeper into whatever they were doing. As if they knew something she didn’t, like someone had died and she had stumbled in wearing blazing Hadrian Red.
She glared at Icari, but he’d scrambled onto his seat. He slashed his whip and the horses trotted off, leaving Meya alone in the ray of sunlight, as shadows scurried and whispered around her.
Mum. Dad.
Meya shook herself back to focus. She marched through the thick silence, up the stone steps, onto the landing. Something on the white marble seized her feet.
A smudge of brownish-red. A puddle of blood, trampled dry in the chaos.
Whose?
She bulled through the doors and up the stairs. The hallway echoed her footsteps back to her. She raised her fist to knock, then realized she hadn’t thought of a word to say. What had Graye told them? How had they reacted? Such that everyone knew her just from the gray carriage rolling in a second time, that much was certain. Did that blood had anything to do with her? Was it Mum? or Dad? How in these three rotten lands would she know what to do with it if she didn’t know what ‘it’ was?
Her pulse pounding in her head, her fevered breaths burning her nostrils, Meya squeezed her eyes shut and rapped on the wood. A pause, then a familiar voice answered,
“Come in.”
Jason?
Why didn’t Mum or Dad answer themselves? Why can’t they?
She entered. Dad sat by the bed, back to her. Behind him, a sliver of copper hair, and a pair of blanketed legs. He pressed a white cloth to her forehead, then wrung it in a basin of water. It was soaked red.
Mum?
Jason sat across from Dad, his bald patch reflecting the sunlight. His eyes widened, then he shot a look at Dad. Dad didn’t seem to notice. He rinsed the cloth and dabbed Mum’s forehead again.
How hard did she hit her head against that marble? How many times?
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Horror chilled her blood to ice. Yet the teardrop burned as it sped down her cheek. Just tell them you’re fine. Everyone will be fine. She wetted her lips.
“Mum? Dad? I’m back,” she called, shrill and unsure. No reaction. Jason sat back and lowered his eyes, listening. Step by step, she toddled further inside. It was like walking against a wall of thorns. It was clear what they heard, how they took it.
“Dad, we need his gold.” She was right behind him now, just a reach apart. She couldn’t bring herself to touch him. “Please, you gotta take it.”
Dad picked up a bandage, wound it around Mum’s head. Jason shook his head, but she couldn’t surrender here. Not ever. Not in the face of what was at stake. Not after what she sacrificed.
“Dad, all my life, you told me we gotta work hard, be honest, dun take no easy money. Look where’s it got us, what good it’s done us.” Her voice grew, sharp and harsh with frustration. She folded to her knees, crying in plea. “Please. For once. We can’t always do what’s right.”
Dad had secured the bandage. He took Mum’s hand with his bloodied ones, his head bowed.
“Dad!” Meya screamed. Jason met her eyes, frowned and shook his head. But how long must she wait? How would time help?
Panting, Meya returned to Dad, waiting. He raised his head, and her heart lifted.
“Me wife needs rest,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse. “Leave us.”
No! Please!
Her breathing quickened at her impending defeat, as her gamble was turning to waste. No, it couldn’t end like this. She’d come too far. She must salvage something. She whipped around to Mum, saw her pale, empty face and glassy blue eyes through Dad’s hunched form.
“Mum!” she cried. Alanna didn’t twitch a toe. Jason stood and circled the bed to her, hand outstretched.
“Come, lass.” He took her arm and pulled her along. She shook it free. He caught it again, clung tight.
“They need time.”
There was such fierceness, such finality in Jason’s voice, such that she’d never heard in her life. He’d clamp her mouth shut and throw her out if need be. She twisted and tugged, craned her neck, struggling for anything, any argument at all. She took too long. The door had closed in her face, and she was back in the hall.
Jason released her, but planted himself before the door. Meya showed him her cold shoulder as she caught her breath, her heart racing in her ears. After a moment, he reached out and took her arm gently.
“Are you hurt, lass?” he whispered. “Did he—”
He broke off, gulped then spoke no more. Meya’s heart melted. Jason had Jezia. She knew what he feared.
“No!” She rushed to clasp his hand in both of hers. His beady black eyes swam with tears. She shook her head. “No, I-I was willing. I’m fine.”
Somehow, that was just as bad. Jason gawked, unblinking, heartbreak in his eyes. Then, his face hardened. His eyebrows lowered over his narrowed eyes.
“Meya, do you realize what you’ve done?” he rasped. His words sank like needles into her heart. A small voice inside her head echoed him, a voice she often heeded above all else yet now strove to ignore. Meya hitched a wry smirk as she shrugged.
“What’s best? My best?” She pressed her hand to her chest, as if Jason was being laughably dumb. Jason flushed deep red.
“Best?” he spat, incredulous, a pudgy hand jabbing behind him, underlining each word. “Selling your body for gold? That’s what’s best for you?”
“For them!” Meya cried, stabbing her finger at the door in kind. “For me brothers! Me sisters!”
“AND THEY DON’T WANT IT!” Jason roared. Meya staggered, heart pounding. She’d never seen him so livid, never heard him even shout. Catching himself, Jason spun away and covered his face, sighing wearily.
“Why, Meya?” he moaned. He shook his head, then surfaced and clamped his hands on her shoulders, rattling her. “Why do you always need to give them what you want them to want? What you think they should need?”
Meya frowned at his bizarre question. She didn’t understand. No, she understood. She didn’t know the answer. Jason freed her then paced, rambling, arms flailing as he went.
“Can you imagine what Mirram’s thinking now? That he failed so completely as a father, he forced his daughter to sell herself to save the family? What would folks think when they see you like this? When they see your father, your mother, your brothers, your sisters? Living in comfort off your torture—”
“I DUN GIVE SHITE WHAT THEY THINK SO LONG AS—” Meya screeched over the thundering voice of conscience in her head.
“WELL, THEY DO!” bellowed Jason, a finger pointed at the door. “AND YOU CAN’T MAKE THEM THINK OTHERWISE!”
The door next to Dad’s banged open. A familiar face hung from the doorframe, adorned with wide blue eyes rimmed in red and a long, black ponytail, likely startled by her father’s voice. Jason whirled around.
“Jezia?” Meya breathed, on pure impulse. She’d no idea what to say next. Fortunately, Jezia saved her the misery. After a blink of surprise, her face darkened and her eyes flashed with rage.
“Don’t talk to me, you whore!” she snarled.
“JEZIA!” Jason yelled, but Jezia had already disappeared and slammed the door. And with her went the strength in Meya’s legs. She crumpled to the floor.
“Meya—!”
Jason swooped down, a light hand on her shoulder. Meya shook her head to reassure him, eyes still staring, reeling. Of all people, she’d expected Jezia would understand, would say she’d chosen right. Jezia, who’d always declared women were as good as men, and they could do anything they set their mind to. Who’d always decried the unfair rules and morals women were bound by. Who’d cheer and laugh and egg her on no matter what mischief, what scheme. Rebellious, fearless, loyal Jezia. Why? What was different this time? When all she did was still for Mum and Dad, for her family?
Why, Meya?
Jason’s question rang in her head. Silk lay cold against her skin. Smooth, airy. Cold as ice. Meya shook her head, tears falling pitter-patter onto her lap, lingering in dew-like drops.
“I just want Mum and Dad to have nice things, like I have,” she whimpered, tugging at her dress. “I took everything when I came. Took Mum’s Song. Gave everyone Greeneye blood. Took May Fest. Gave Crosset famine. I just wanna give something good. But Dad never takes nothing.”
She curled in on herself, her head on her knees, rocking from the force of her stifled sobs. She was empty, hollow, drained. She’d given everything, had nothing left to give. A smile would’ve been enough to fill her to the brim. A father’s pride, a mother’s joy, a village’s welcome—love. The one permission she needed for her very existence.
Jason settled beside her, his hand warm on her frozen skin.
“Meya, parents are meant to give to their children, never take.” His grip tightened. “They gave you life, and that is for life.”
He shook her shoulder, emphasizing each word. Meya met his eyes, uncomprehending, disbelieving. He sighed and leaned closer.
“You were never a burden to them.” He shook his head as he cradled her cheeks, his hands trembling. “They brought you here. They made you. Their flesh, their blood. They decided. Jezia took her mother’s life to come here, and I would never dream of ever once blaming her one whit, and so would my wife!”
His voice grew to a cry, hoarse from the salt of tears burning his throat. Meya gaped as her tears resumed, but not out of grief. Jason’s eyes traveled.
“Mirram came to me that night, once you cried yourself to sleep.” He shook his head. “You should’ve seen. He was proud, so proud of you. Talked on and on of all the great good you did in every town you set foot into. He was so happy you’re becoming a mama, and you found a good man to love you. Never seen him smile like that since—”
He started, swallowed. The words on the tip of his tongue carved her heart out like a red-hot metal ladle. As if he knew, he laid his comforting hands on her shoulders again.
“That was enough, Meya. More than he’d ever think to ask of you. You don’t have to put yourself through this.”
His voice echoed in tandem with the past, reminding her of who she once was, what she’d been, what she’d become. Jason hadn’t changed, Dad hadn’t changed, making the contrast all the more stark. She’d once been so young, so innocent, so lively, so brave. Grew from sworn enemies to best friends with a haughty ice lady. Fell madly in love with a boy who left her for three years then found him again and he gave her a babe in her belly. She foiled evil schemes, saved people, learned to fly, made friends and allies across the west. She danced with her prince in the royal garden with porridge down her front, singing tales from centuries past. And now, now she—
The girl in Graye’s mirror flashed before her eyes. And she shattered like glass.
“JASON—!”
Jason held her, rocked her, patted her hair as she crumbled against his chest. And the emptiness filled up a little. He was always wise, always kind, always forgiving, always there when Dad wasn’t, always would be. Just because she was his daughter’s friend. That was enough for him.
“You have a good heart, Meya. Too good for your own good,” he sniffed, then drew apart and locked her eyes with his, solemn. “It’s not too late. You’ve lost nothing. He is nothing. He can’t take anything from you. Call off the marriage. Return all his treasures. Tell them what happened, everything. Then apologize.”
He motioned towards the door. He made it sound so simple, so sure. Meya shivered, fear coursing down her spine.
“Dad wouldn’t forgive me never. Coris won’t take me back. Me babe won’t have a father, and now I might have Graye’s babe, too, and he won’t have a father, neither!” She rattled Jason, panting in rising dread. Jason smoothed his hand down her back, calming her, his eyes kind and true.
“They’ll still have you. And all of us. All will be well, Meya.”
Meya didn’t believe him, but if the worst came to pass, she’d still have Jason. She could take it. She could endure. She could survive. She must, for her babies.
She closed her eyes and chanted to herself, as tears flowed down her cheeks. A door opened again, far away this time, followed by light, steady footsteps. Meya surfaced to find the willowy form of Lady Crosset gliding down the hallway towards them.
“Milady?” she sputtered as Arinel drew near. “You’re still here?”
Arinel gave a small shrug, the amount allowed for a noble lady.
“We all are,” she corrected, tilting her head at the hallway behind her. “They won’t leave without their Lady Hadrian.”
An aching warmth swelled up her throat, choking Meya. Sir Jarl. Philema. Dorsea. Tissa. Cleygar. They’d journeyed with her this far. She didn’t think she meant anything to them, so much so they’d wait for her. For her to come back. After what she did to their lord. To herself.
Arinel reached into her sleeve and produced a scroll of parchment.
“I found this in Coris’s chests.” She extended it to her. “I took the liberty of cracking the seal. When I saw the heading, I dared not pry further, but your signature’s on it. Do you know of this?”
Jason raised his eyebrows at Meya, and she started from her trance.
The contract! She’d almost forgotten Coris’s parting remarks. The deal was struck back when she was his servant, and he her liege. He couldn’t have promised a grand reward, not enough to lift her entire family into wealth and keep them there at least, considering her job was simply to be Arinel’s decoy. It was the opportunity she was after, then. The chance to rise above the station she was born into.
If only that remained her one concern in life.
Memories of carefree times brought tears to her eyes again. Meya gritted her teeth to staunch them.
“Yea…yea, must be our contract,” she croaked, cocking her head. “His copy. I got one, too. Coris said I should have you look at it once he’s gone. Summat about my rewards for services rendered.”
Arinel paused, blinking, then her eyes bulged like hatching quail eggs.
“Contract?” she repeated, her voice climbing the octaves. Meya nodded gingerly, bowels churning. Arinel stormed over, shaking the parchment under her nose. “Meya, have you ever bothered to read it since?”
Meya gawked at the unfurling scroll. What trick had Coris hidden between the lines this time? Was there no reward, after all? Had he swindled her into doing his bidding? Was that the lie he felt compelled to confess before he left?
What more can you do to ruin my life for loving you, Coris Hadrian?
Fury and fear blasting within, she took the parchment with numb hands and unraveled it.
Lines of his familiar neat handwriting, in familiar blood-red ink, yet the words weaved a tale entirely foreign to her.
This wasn’t what they’d agreed on. This wasn’t even a contract.
Last Will and Testament of Corien Alexis, Lord of Hadrian
I, Corien Alexis, Lord of Hadrian, being of sound mind and memory, declare this to be my will, and thereby revoke any and all wills and codicils I previously made.
To Zieren, Lord of Hadrian, I leave what little of my personal effects he will see value in—my trusty mare Jetta, my sword, bow, shield and armor, and my collection of precious stones.
To Simon, Lord of Amplevale, I leave my collection of rare toys, to be distributed in due course as seen fit to his siblings. I also leave him my wardrobe.
To Christopher, Lord of Merilith, I leave my beloved hounds, in hopes he will maintain them to the best of his ability. I also leave him my collection of quills.
To Bishop Vectare Frey, I leave my gallery of prized paintings.
To Bailiff Frentis Mansfuld, I leave the cache of Damerelli wine bottled on the day of my birth, which shall be ready on my day of majority, this coming thirteenth of July.
To Sir Grenveld Apollon, I leave the Book of Recipes compiled by my grandmother, the late Lady Elnara of Noxx, in hopes he will continue to cook scrumptious meals my family so enjoy.
To Maelaith Hild of Crosset, my ward and savior, I leave the contents of my vault at the Church of Hadrian. I also leave her my library of books and writings, and my collection of jewelry, excluding the wedding ring, which is to be returned to my mother, Sylvia, Baroness of Hadrian. Should my mother predecease me, the ring shall pass to my brother, Zieren, to be given to his future bride.
Upon coming into possession of these properties, all beneficiaries are entitled to trade or dispose of them as they see fit unless otherwise stipulated.
I sign my name to this instrument as my last will, this twenty-first day of April, Latakian Year 1100, at Hadrian Castle.
Signed, Corien Alexis Hadrian
Witnessed, MAELAITH AINE HILD
Her own name, her own handwriting, scrawled at the end. His nonchalant voice rang in her head over the scratch of his quill,
“I’ll write down two copies of everything I said, and we each keep one. This should prevent both of us from reneging on our deal.”
“Once we sign our names, the contract will become official. Anything you’d like to add or set straight?”
All this time, he had lied. Lied through his teeth with a smiling face as he wrote. The one lie he’d made no attempt to hide, and yet the one she’d never caught a whiff of. She’d only need to read the damned thing once, then all his secrets would be bared.
Yet, he knew her well. He knew she’d trust him like a fool. He knew she was above such heartless negotiations. So he waited, and prayed. Cursed her, thanked her. He half wanted her to know, half wanted to die with the truth. That he loved her, had since that day she swept him into the sky. That all he wanted was to hear her sing, see her fly, once more before he died. He was too scared to let her know as he lived. Too scared she would leave if she ever learned just how much he loved her.
You bastard. You idiot. You monster. You angel.
My lord. My friend. My love. My Lexi.
I’m sorry. What have I done? I’m sorry, Lexi. I’m so sorry.
It was too late. There was nothing she could do. He’d never forgive her. He shouldn’t. This was her life now. A life without the man who loved her above all else.
Against her heart she crushed their so-called contract. Tears spilled from her eyes, screams of despair from her throat. Arms embraced her from Arinel and Jason, but nothing would ever fill the gaping void he left. There’d never be another like him, nor another heart to replace the one she’d given him.
Lady Hadrian had died.