Rochelle Botelli
STAG FALL WAS MORE BEAUTIFUL than any description
she’d had of it.
The palais sat in the
center of hundreds of acres of mountainous forest, clinging to the
side of one of the tallest slopes like a limpet, with arms of
thick-hewn timbers that supported its many balconies and wings. The
approach to the villa was long and arduous, the road winding back
and forth across the face of the heavily-wooded and ancient
mountains of the range. The switchbacks would have drawn any enemy
laying siege to Stag Fall into long, vulnerable lines, and there
were cliffs above many of the sections where defenders could easily
send boulders, arrows, and spells down upon hapless attackers.
Morning and night, thick, white mists rose from the valleys, so
dense that they muffled all sound and confused any sense of
direction.
The palais itself was
built from rich oak and adorned with other precious hardwoods. It
was polished and gleaming, its dark-paneled rooms large with huge
inviting hearths that were used year-round; even in summer when
Brezno would be sweltering, the nights here still held a chill.
Rochelle had thought Brezno Palais foreboding: a fortress of cold
stone. Stag Fall was a glimpse into another world, a forest world.
Stag Fall was softer and more inviting than Brezno Palais, but it
was no less formidable and no less a fortress.
A caretaker staff
remained permanently at Stag Fall to care for the villa when the
Hïrzg or other notables were not there, but with the Hïrzg and his
family arriving, the permanent staff was placed under the control
of the Hïrzg’s personal staff. Paulus ci’Simone was no Rance
ci’Lawli, and it showed in his rough and almost territorial
interaction with the two staffs. Rochelle had seen Rance’s ability
to smooth ruffled feathers between staffs; Pauli was far less
polished, and tended to bark orders rather than listen to
explanations. Rochelle witnessed it daily.
“Damn it, woman, the
Hïrzgin won’t eat the venison cooked that lightly. Do you know
absolutely nothing about how your mistress prefers her meat?
Another half-mark of the glass on the fire, at least! There should
be no red left in it.”
Paulus glared at the
cook, who slapped the cut of meat back onto a spit and thrust it
over the open fire again. Paulus made a sound of disgust.
“Rhianna!” he barked. “As soon as this incompetent has the meat
acceptably cooked, make certain the meal gets up to the Hïrzgin’s
room while it’s still hot. She’s been waiting too long already. I
can’t waste my time here any longer—I have to see to the Hïrzg’s
attendants now; they seem to have misplaced his riding
leathers.”
Rochelle curtsied,
and Paulus stalked away from the kitchen. “Bastardo!” she heard the
cook mutter as soon as he was safely out of earshot. She was a
stout woman of middle years, the skin hanging under her arms
wobbling as she moved. “He thinks he’s already ca’-and-cu’. I’ll
spit in his food tonight—see how he likes that.” The rest of the
kitchen staff chuckled.
“He’s just scared,”
Rochelle told her. “He knows he’s swimming out of his
depth.”
“Well, he’s no Rance
ci’Lawli, that’s certain, may Cénzi rest his soul,” the cook
responded. She shook her head and turned the spit. Grease hissed
and crackled as it dripped into the cook fire. “That was a terrible
thing, his murder. The White Stone, they say. Wouldn’t surprise me
if that worm Paulus was the one who hired her, just to take old
Rance’s position.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial husk.
“They say Rance was laid open from throat to cock like a filleted
fish, and every wall of his bedroom was covered in his blood.” The
skin under the cook’s chin was as loose as that under her arms; it
swayed as she glanced back at Rochelle. She pushed back the red
turban wrapped around her head to absorb the sweat from the kitchen
fires. “Did you see any of that, girl?”
The image of Rance
open-eyed in death came back to Rochelle, and she shivered. She
touched the pebble in its pouch under her tashta. At least I don’t hear his voice . . . “No,” she
said, then shook her head. “I mean, I saw the body, and it was
nothing like that. There was very little blood. I was told that he
was killed by a poisoned blade.”
Eyebrows clambered
toward red cloth. “You saw his body? Truly? Well, I suppose you
would know then.” The way she said it, Rochelle was fairly certain
that no one in the kitchen staff preferred the image of Rance’s
actual death to the cook’s more gory and visceral one. She
suspected that the blood-bathed version was the one that would
prevail in staff gossip. “Well, this meat should be done enough for
the delicate tongue of the Hïrzgin, eh?” The cook lifted the skewer
from over the fire, the thick sleeve of her soiled tashta around
the iron bar, and slid the meat onto a plate with a large fork.
“There you go, girl. You’d better hurry. You’ve a bit of a climb to
the Hïrzgin’s quarters . . .”
Rochelle nodded and
placed the plate on the tray with the rest of the Hïrzgin’s meal,
covered it, and left the close heat of the kitchen. The servants’
corridors of Stag Fall were narrower than those in the Brezno
Palais, and cold after the kitchen. She moved quickly up several
flights of stairs, occasionally passing another of the staff with a
nod or a quick greeting, until she reached the royal family’s
level. There were a pair of gardai there, of the Brezno Garde
Hïrzg, and one of them examined her tray while the other watched
with a hand on the pommel of his sword. Finally, the garda nodded
toward the door and, with a clatter of plates, Rochelle moved
on.
She wasn’t happy that
Paulus had assigned her to the Hïrzgin. She still wasn’t certain
whether the Hïrzgin entirely trusted her. It was almost as if she
knew the connection between Rochelle and her husband. And the
Hïrzg—for all the interest he’d shown in her at first, now he acted
cold and distant toward her. He ignored her if she were in the same
room with him, and a few times she’d caught him staring at her with
an appraising look on his face.
He knows who you are. He knows, and the knowledge
terrifies him. The thought seemed to come to her wrapped in
the voice of her matarh.
She knocked on the
door to the Hïrzgin’s chambers. The door opened a moment later, and
Rochelle was looking down at Elissa. “Hello, Rhianna,” the girl
said. “Matarh has gone to see Vatarh. She said for you to put the
dinner on the table in the outer room and leave it.”
Rochelle felt muscles
relax in her back and abdomen, and she realized that she’d tensed
without realizing it. She smiled at Elissa. “Then that’s what I’ll
do,” she said. Elissa opened the door wider, and Rochelle entered,
moving through the bedroom and into the outer reception chamber.
She placed the tray on the table there and arranged the cloth over
it to keep it warm and any ambitious flies away. She started back
toward the servants’ door.
“Matarh is going with
Vatarh to see the troops, then come back here later to be with us,”
Elissa said. “I heard Vatarh tell Paulus that he wanted you to be
on the staff that goes with them.”
“Ah . . .” Rochelle
smiled at Elissa, though she wasn’t certain how she felt about the
news. “And what did your matarh say to that?”
“She wasn’t there,”
Elissa answered.
Rochelle nodded.
He wants me to go with
him.
“I’ll miss you,
Rhianna,” Elissa said. “So will Kriege and Caelor, even if they
wouldn’t say so. Eria won’t, though.” Elissa’s face twisted into a
frown. “She’s too little and stupid.”
Rochelle laughed.
“Don’t say that about your sister,” she said gently. “She’s still
learning, that’s all. You should teach her—she looks up to
you.”
“I’d rather have a
sister like you,” Elissa said.
Rochelle caught her
breath. In that moment, she could have blurted it all out. The
words burned in her throat. I am
your sister, Elissa . . . But instead,
she nodded. “Thank you, dear one,” she said instead. “That would be
wonderful if it could be that way, and I’d be the best big sister
you could have. But Eria is growing up—and walking and talking and
getting into things—and you’ll need to be the big sister for her.
You’ll need to show her everything, and help her so that she learns
what she needs to learn. She’ll be watching you, and wanting to do
what you do, just as you do it.”
“Did you have a big
sister?” Elissa asked her.
“No. I had a big
brother, though he was much older than me, and he left before I was
very old. And I didn’t have a little sister—or
brother.”
“You would be a good
big sister, Rhianna. You would teach her everything you
know.”
Rochelle touched the
stones under her tashta. “No,” she said. “I don’t think I could.”
She curtsied to the girl then, hurrying to finish before the girl
asked any more questions. “I have to go now, Elissa, or Paulus will
be wondering where I am. Is your matarh coming right back, or
should I send one of the other maids up to be with
you?”
“She’ll be right
back,” Elissa said, and they both heard the outer door begin to
open in the same moment. “Oh, there she is now,” the girl said,
running to the door. “Matarh, Rhianna has brought your supper . .
.”
But that was all
Rochelle heard. She hurried to the servants’ door, closing it
quickly behind her before Brie could see her or call out after her.
In the dimness of the corridor beyond, she leaned against the door,
and her fingers caressed the stone in its pouch.
