Griffin's Daughter (7 page)

“
Your uncle described you to me in great detail, Jelena. I must say, though, that his description did not do you justice.”

Jelena kept her eyes lowered, studiously avoiding the duke’s gaze. “I was not aware that my uncle cared enough about me to describe me to anyone, let alone to a person of your high station, my lord,” she replied softly.

“
Your uncle has sent me several correspondences concerning you, Jelena. It has been almost a year since my wife died. I’ve lived the monastic life for long enough and now it’s time to move forward.”

Jelena felt awash in confusion. Why would Duke Teodorus write to one of his noble peers about her, his half-breed bastard niece whom he barely acknowledged? It just didn’t make any sense. “I…I don’t understand, Your Grace. I count for little or nothing in my uncle’s eyes. Why would he wish to bring me to your attention?”

“
You really have no idea why I’ve come to Amsara, do you?” Duke Sebastianus asked, his voice more thoughtful than puzzled.

Why do I feel like I’m walking through quicksand, and any moment, I’ll be swallowed up whole?
Jelena wondered.

“
The Sansa Feast, of course. Other than that, I know of no other reason you might have to come here, my lord.”

The duke leaned back in his chair, silently stroking his close-cropped, gray-shot beard. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but at that exact moment, the Sansa Cake arrived, to a tumultuous response.

Cheers, clapping, and raucous shouts accompanied the magnificent confection as it made its way up the center aisle, borne on a pallet hoisted upon the burly shoulders of four male kitchen drudges. It wasn’t so much a cake as an edible sculpture. It was molded to look like a large basket filled up with fruits, nuts and grains—a promise of the harvest to come, if the goddess San bestowed her blessings on the spring plantings.  Sheathed in gold leaf, the cake gleamed softly in the lamplight. Common folk jammed the door of the great hall, pushing and shoving each other in an effort to catch a glimpse of the beautiful creation.

Duke Teodorus stood up from his chair as the drudges set the cake down at the center of the high table. The room fell silent in anticipation of the duke’s invocation. Even the common folk in the door quieted down to listen.

“
Gentle San, goddess of renewal, new life, new beginnings, bestow your blessings upon us, your children. We ask that you quicken our fields, orchards, our livestock, and our women, so that the cycle of life may continue. Amen.”

The muted response rippled through the crowd, followed by loud shouts for more beer and wine.

“
Happy Sansa, Cousin,” Magnes said brightly, but the melancholia Jelena could sense in him belied the cheerful smile on his lips.

Several tables were moved aside to clear an area for dancing. The musicians struck up a high-spirited country tune, and the floor filled with happy revelers, skipping and spinning to the melodic notes of harp, lute, and recorder. The Sansa cake would sit for a while on display before being cut and served. The festivities were only just beginning.

This was the time, in years past, when Claudia brought out a little Sansa cake for Jelena and her to share. They would find a corner somewhere, either in the kitchen or the pantry, and eagerly gobble down the special treat. It was not the cake that mattered to Jelena, although she certainly looked forward to it. It was the special quiet time she’d shared with Claudia, a time when they could just be mother and daughter, sharing a cake together in perfect love and trust.

How I wish I were with you now, Heartmother,
Jelena thought. She dared to sneak a look at Duke Sebastianus. He sat watching the dancing with hooded eyes, his face unreadable. Abruptly, she had had enough.

She pushed back her chair and stood up. Magnes, who had been having a rather tense, but muted, conversation with his father, turned in his chair and looked up at her. “You’re not leaving already, are you, Jelena?” he asked. His eyes seemed to beg her to stay. “The cake hasn’t even been cut yet. You’ll miss out on the best part of the feast.”

“
Yes, Jelena, do stay awhile longer,” Duke Sebastianus drawled. The hunger in his eyes now was unmistakable, and it had nothing to do with food.

“
Perhaps she’s tired of trying to fit in where she doesn’t belong,” the blonde girl said. “Someone should have told her that dress is all wrong.”

“
Jelena, don’t listen to her. Please stay,” Magnes pleaded. The girl shot him a venomous look.

“
I’m sorry. I suddenly don’t feel well. I must go.” She dropped a short curtsy to the duke. As she turned to leave, he reached out and grabbed her hand. She could feel the calluses on his fingertips and palm—put there, no doubt, by many hours of sword practice.

“
We will see each other again, my lady,” he said, his voice full of unfathomable implications.

Jelena pulled her hand free and bolted.

“
Where is she going? Tell her to get back here this instant!”

Her uncle’s angry voice carried well over the noise of the reveling, but Jelena had no intention of returning. She had to get as far away as she could from Duke Sebastianus and his dark, hungry eyes. She pushed her way through the dancers, curses and insults following in her wake. The last thing she heard as she fled through the open doorway into the yard was the throaty, arrogant laughter of Thessalina.

Jelena fled into the shadows at the fringes of the yard, running until she reached the wall of the keep, where she stopped to catch her breath. Her heart hammered against her ribs, and the clammy sweat of fear soaked the armpits of Thessalina’s castoff gown. She crouched in the darkness, breathing deeply to calm herself. The public feast was still going strong, and watching the revelers had a soothing effect on her panicky brain.

I’ll just go back to the room and go to bed,
she thought, suddenly very weary. Rising to her feet, she began heading slowly towards the servants’ hall. A cool breeze stirred the hair at the nape of her neck. She reached up and wiped her sweaty brow with the back of her hand.

As she approached the door to the servants’ quarters, she heard noises coming from behind a nearby tool shed. It sounded like a girl crying. Thinking that someone might be hurt, she started towards the shed to investigate, then hesitated. Why should she care what happened to anyone here at the castle, other than Claudia or Magnes? When she had been hurt or crying, not a one among them had ever reached out to her, other than to further her pain.

Stop it, Jelena. Do you wish to sink to their level? Someone may need help.

She hurried toward the shed, but the two people she found behind the small wooden structure were in no need of her, or anyone else’s, help.

The Festival of Sansa had always been about the celebration of fertility. With liquor freely flowing and sexual energy rampant, expectations were that there would be much merry-making of the carnal kind.

The girl sprawled on her back in a pile of straw, her skirt hiked up around her waist, legs in the air. The pale, naked buttocks of her lover pumped vigorously between her plump thighs. It was her cries, not of pain, but of pleasure, that Jelena had heard. The heat of embarrassment warmed Jelena’s cheeks as she hastily backed away, certain that the lovers were too far gone in the throes of their passion to have seen her.

Jelena was no innocent. Growing up in the insular world of the servants’ hall, where men and women spent most of their time living and working in close proximity, she had seen her fair share of couplings. However, at age eighteen, when most castle girls were already sexually active, Jelena was still a virgin. She had remained so partly because of her status as an outcast, but mostly by choice. No castle man, no matter how lowly his own status, would ever consider her anything more than an object upon which to relieve his sexual needs. Jelena had decided long ago that she would rather remain untouched for life than submit to the use of her body in such a demeaning way. She already endured enough debasement as it was.

Sometimes, while lost in the realm of dreams, Jelena met a faceless man who folded her into a lover’s embrace. The touch of his hands upon her body would awaken a fire within her so intense that she would start up from sleep, her entire being aflame with ecstasy. After the sensations had subsided, she sometimes cried, knowing that there was almost no chance of her ever experiencing such bliss in the real world.

Slowly, Jelena made her way back toward the room she shared with Claudia. Her foster mother was most likely still be down in the kitchen lending a hand, and wouldn’t be back until very late.

Their room stood empty, as Jelena had expected, but Claudia had left some burning charcoals on the grate to ward off the chill of the spring night. As the door shut behind her, all of the stress of the ordeal she had just endured drained from her body, leaving exhaustion in its wake. She put a splinter into the fire, and with its glowing tip, lit the little oil lamp next to her cot.

With a deep sigh, Jelena began to undress. Even without Claudia to help, she still managed to undo the laces at the back of the overdress and loosen them enough to pull the garment down off her shoulders, allowing it to fall in a heap at her feet. She gathered up the crisply rustling silk and laid the dress out on her cot.

She traced the delicate line of embroidery around the neckline with a fingertip, admiring the artistry of the work. Never again would she wear such a splendid gown, of that she was certain. After her embarrassingly abrupt exit, she imagined that there would be no more invitations forthcoming to any future feasts in the great hall.

It doesn’t matter anyway. As beautiful as this dress is, I’m still lower than dirt to them.

She stepped over to the small mirror nailed into the wall by the door and stood staring at the image reflected in its hazy surface. She pulled her mother’s circlet from her head and pushed back her mass of dark coils to reveal her ears.

Jelena had never seen a full-blooded elf, but all her life she had been told that they were beautiful, soulless creatures, completely vicious and amoral, incapable of any of the higher emotions like love and compassion. The priests always taught that the elves were the spawn of demons that had escaped from the Abyss to procreate on Earth with human women, many thousands of years ago. All manners of crimes, both high and low, were attributed to them. They soured fresh milk, caused miscarriages, brought the ague and the flux, stole human babies for their dark rites of magic—all because they were jealous of the souls of humanity. They knew that death meant oblivion for them, and that those of their race could never enter into the presence of the gods, and dwell in Paradise for all eternity.

Claudia had always told her that her mother had loved her father.

How could my mother fall in love with such a man, believing everything she’d always been told about elves? She must not have believed any of it at all. I’m living proof that none of it is true.

I’m sick to death of all of this. I’m leaving.

Jelena slipped out of the underdress, and gathering up the gown from her cot, she folded both garments and laid them in a neat pile atop her chest. She pulled the embroidered slippers from her feet and laid them, together with the silver circlet, in the center of the pile. The last thing to come off was Claudia’s necklace, which she laid in the center of her foster mother’s cot. Tomorrow, she would return the borrowed ensemble to Fania and the circlet to her uncle.

She felt so tired, she barely had the energy to pull on her nightgown and extinguish the lamp. She slipped into bed and pulled the rough blankets over herself with a heartfelt sigh. As she lay waiting for sleep to come, she wondered again just why she had been invited to the nobles’ feast, and why she had been seated next to Duke Sebasianus. The mere memory of the way he had looked at her was enough to send a shiver of fear coursing through her.

None of it mattered anymore. She had made up her mind. Amsara was a border duchy. Just north of the Janica River lay elven territory—the southeastern-most province of the Western Lands. Chances were good that her father or his family lived in the area. As soon as the spring rains stopped, she would leave Amsara for good. She would seek out the man who had sired her, and cast her lot with him. And if she could not find him… well, she would think about that when and if she had to. Life couldn’t possibly be any worse among the elves than it was among humans.

By the time Claudia returned in the wee hours of the morning, Jelena slept deeply, dreaming of a man she called Father and of pale, blue fire.

Her Intolerable Fate

"Jelena! Jelena, wake up, girl. You’ve gone an’ overslept!” Jelena groaned and scrubbed her sleep-heavy eyes with closed fists. Blinking like a hapless mole torn from its burrow, she reluctantly crawled from her warm nest of blankets and groped under the bed for the chamber pot. Claudia stood in the center of the small room, fully clothed, hands on hips.

“
Must ‘ave been quite a time y’had at the feast. Too much wine, I reckon,” she said, a little smile playing about her lips.

Jelena shook her head. “No,” she replied, and her stomach knotted up with the pain of remembering. “I left early, actually.” She set the chamber pot by the door so she’d remember to empty it later, then went to her chest. She moved aside Thessalina’s gown, lifted the lid, and began pulling out her work clothes.
No time for a wash,
she thought ruefully.