At first Layla had struggled. She had fought the brute tooth and nail even though he terrified her to the core. When faced with fight or flight options, Layla almost always chose to stand and fight, what Brian called her ‘too stupid to run’ reflex. She had fought this man in boiled leather armor and his monster of a horse even as the beast attacked the truck, biting off the CB antenna when it had whipped back and struck him in the wake of his passing. The horse itself was a brute, devilish black eyes in a sunken face, with sharp ears that had little tufts at the tips and it had a line of long hairs that began at the back of the knees and trailed down to spread out over the foot in heavy feathers. And when the split hoof had struck the hood, there had been sparks and a dent the size of a plate and as deep as a soup bowl. Its mane was tied so that it stood straight up for about four inches before spilling over the top in long bunches. It wasn’t until the man had pulled her in front of him on the saddle that she discovered the mane wasn’t plaited, it grew out of a ridge of hollow spines. The back was bony and the saddle only slightly less so. The tail that whipped back and forth as a cat would lash it in anger was ridged along the top with spines as well, with the normal hair one expected flowing down from the bottom and sides. It was almost as if the creature were half dragon, and she would not have been shocked if it had suddenly spread great leathery wings.
The rider said nothing. He had merely reached down and grabbed her, screaming, and hauled her into the saddle before it. There was not an inch of skin showing. His helmet was of black metal and very angular, leaving his face in a shadowed recess within which all she could see were two red lights where eyes should be. Snarling, she had flung every curse she could think of at him as she reached to his face to claw out those infernal eyes. That was when the horse had reached back and bitten her.
Before she could react the animal had reared and the world had gone dark purple and suddenly she felt no desire whatever to fight any more, she had no strength to do so. Looking placidly around, she saw they were on a strange, rocky plateau where the wind raged and all was darkness. The horse began moving swiftly across the ground, head held low as if to watch its footing, the flinty sound of its hooves striking the ground the only sound over the raging wind.
It was then that she noticed that the man was holding on to her with both arm, locked like iron bands about her body. There were no reins, no saddle horn that he held on to, just the leather bound man and his sure seat and iron grip. She could feel the fear rising dully within her, but could not, somehow, bring herself to do anything about it.
Something dark and fetid flapped at them out of the night. She could not see what it was, only that it was large and rank. The horse and the man both turned to stare at it, and her fear intensified as the unknown thing screeched and flew off in terror.
Just when the silence was ready to drive her mad, she saw a glint of light ahead. Staring, she could make out the shape of a black keep on a precipice lit by numerous torches. Off to what she took to be the East, she began to see a glimmer of dawn. The beast raised its head now as the man glanced towards the predawn light and threw itself into a headlong gallop.
As they neared the precipice, Layla realized with a jolt of horror that there was no drawbridge, only a gaping, black, jagged hole before a well guarded gate that was easily a hundred feet higher than the ground she was on. It was too far for even the most agile horse to leap, as it seemed this one was going to do. Her heart jumped in her chest as the beast gathered and leapt, unfolding a pair of black leathery wings from beneath the saddle that seemed far too big to have remained hidden. Buffeted by the strong updraft, the beast glided on the air currents with an easy grace that both thrilled and terrified her at the same time.
They landed as light as a cat on the far side and the wings vanished even as they had appeared. As the beast strode proudly beneath the archway, the guards nodded to it, not, as Layla noticed, to the man on its back. “Cutting it close, aren’t we, Hunter? Dawn’s less than an hour. The keep has been alerted to receive your prey.” The animal nodded and moved on, down the wide, high walled passage that led to the keep proper.
A hundred yards in they passed beneath another portcullis, this one with an iron gate above it, from which hung jagged spikes that would plunge deep into the ground and anyone caught beneath it when it was released. The courtyard beyond it was large and teeming with life: men, woman and animals which looked nothing like the beast she was on, bustled about hurrying to whatever duties had them up and about that early in the morning. The beast finally stopped in front of a large pair of heavy wood doors before which stood four gaunt women in plain grey dresses and four soldiers in the same armor as her captor, though their helms were different and showed their faces clearly. The front pair bowed to the creature and the one on the left spoke, saluting with a fist over his heart as he bowed.
“Hunting was good,” he observed.
An eerie, almost disembodied voice came from the man holding her, echoing as if the armor were hollow and the deep voice came from some hidden speaker. “Yes. Hunting was good. And swift. The venom will wear off soon. Act with haste. I will see the Master tonight, just after twilight. Good day, Captain.”
“And to you, Hunter. There is fresh meet awaiting you. If you hurry you may still have time to eat before dawn.”
The man on the Captain’s left immediately approached the beast and took Layla from the armored man. He held her up as if he knew she was too weak to stand on her own. Unable to resist or do much of anything, she noticed things instead; like the man was mortally afraid of the creature, though he tried not to show it. He moved them swiftly away from it and turned to face it once more as at attention as he could while holding her up. Layla then witnessed the armored man on the beast’s back vanish into a cloud of purple-black smoke and the fierce light of his eyes flow into the animal to settle it its own sockets. Layla promptly fainted.
When she came to, she was seated on a bench in front of a pool of water inset into the floor surrounded by the four women with no sign of the soldiers at all. Someone was brushing her hair, and another murmuring ‘quickly now’.
Cold hands brushed her cheeks as they gathered her hair at her back and plaited it, tying it with something at the top and the bottom. The girl at her feet was taking off her shoes. Someone else was pouring something scented into the steaming water.
Ah, they’re going to give me a bath, she thought.
That’s it. I’ve been kidnapped to be one of them, a harem girl. Great. Brian is never going to let me live this down. And this ‘Master’ is going to get a nasty surprise. Suddenly, she heard the sharp cold SNIP of a large pair of sheers and an absence of weight at her back. Her reaction was instant. Her right hand flew to her hair, found it shorn off at the nape of her neck. Her left hand seized the wrist of the girl still holding both scissors and the foot long braid in her fist and bent her sideways over the bench so that she could see her eye to eye,. Her foot kicked the girl marveling over her toenail polish into the pool.
“Why the hell would you do something like that?” she spat in her rage.
“Forgive me, your Highness. I have my orders,” she fawned, wincing in the tight grip and awkward position. “Please, your Highness. I must get this to the Master. It is worth my life…” she begged.
Layla saw the stark terror in the girl’s watery blue eyes and rage warred against pity in her heart. Neither really won. She thrust the girl away from her. “Your master and I will be having words,” she ground out.
Another of the girls, this one a little older, but no less haggard, approached, picking up the scissors and setting them aside. “We can work with it later, if you like. Find a way to trim it to something more pleasing to your eye. But after you escaped the Master insisted you be… shorn. I understand how this could feel, being ripped away from your power like that, but it will grow back within a few months, and with it, your magic. Now please. You must let us bathe and change you, lest the Master treat ill with us for bringing you to him tonight at less than your noble best. Please?” she asked gently, gesturing to the pool.
Layla realized that these women would probably suffer greatly if they failed in their duties. She did not understand half of what the girl was talking about, obviously they mistook her for some princess and there would likely be trouble enough when that happened. She would far rather this ‘Master’s’ rage fell on his fiendish hunter than these poor souls. “Fine,” she said defiantly. “But I am not wearing some skimpy little harem outfit or a veil over my face.”
“Skimpy…” the girl frowned. “We would not dream of it! As for a veil… are you sure you would not like one to cover your beautiful hair?” she asked, touching the shorn locks with pity. “I know I would.”
Layla shook her head. “No, I want the evidence right in his face when I chew his foul head off.”
They seemed even more horrified by this remark, but held their silence and began to help her out of her clothes. She felt a little embarrassed as one of them examined her skin carefully as it was exposed layer by layer.
“So much blood,” one exclaimed, holding up her now crimson corset. “And yet not a mark on her!”
“Rya!” cried another. “Look, she is not of one color!” She ran her hand over the tops of Layla’s ample breast and exposed the tanned skin below it. “See! Here she is pale as the moon, but here she is brown like her brother!”
She felt a sick twinge when the word brother was mentioned. Having had other things to concern her, she had overlooked the hollow, cut-off feeling in her belly. The exclamations of the others as they crowded around to look more closely, reminded her she was still in a world of trouble. Her brother was not. He might be worried sick, but he was safe in another world, tending to an injured wolf. “It’s just make-up!” she growled and pulled away from them. Stepping into the four foot deep pool, she began to scrub at her face and arms in the water which turned a cloudy white around her. “See! It comes off.”
The older one kept her eyes locked on Layla with a curious expression and began giving orders. She sent everyone into the pool with sponges and soaps to bathe her except for the youngest of them. “Se’zah,” she said softly, said something that Layla could not hear in her efforts to be allowed to tend to her own body.
It was a fight she partially lost. A friend at school had put makeup on her back too, so where the shoulders of the dress fell down she still had the same pallor. They had even done her feet to the calf. One of them had to scrub her back for her. The same girl insisted on doing her hair. Once Layla submitted to the hair washing, she was content to lay back in the water and let the one girl massage her scalp with expert fingers and another tend to the last traces of makeup between her pedicured toes.
Rya, the older one stood beside her in the water, making sure she did not sink too deep as she lay back, admiring the blood red metallic polish on her immaculate nails. “Why do you this? How do you do this?”
Layla laughed. “What, you don’t have nail polish here? Wherever that is,” she added.
“Nay, Lady. And here is Kerowain, in the Keep of Lord Ranish. Why did you paint your skin white? Did Sister Moon actually get away and send you in her stead?” the others gasped and pulled away. “Or were you just unlucky? How did you fool the Hunter?”
“That will be enough Rya,” came a much older voice from the far edge of the pool.
Rya bowed and backed to the edge of the pool, as did the others, leaving Layla to set her feet on the tiled bottom and look up at the newcomer.
It was an older woman, maybe in her sixties and bent with age or osteoporosis or both. Her grey streaked hair was tightly bound in a braid down her back though her lined face was temperate, and, if not exactly kind, at least sympathetic. Her dress was a bit different from the girls, being a darker, richer grey, in better condition and hemmed with black crocheted lace. She also wore a white tabard-like apron belted with a black silk cord from the short end of which hung a ring of keys. In her hands she carried a large, thick cotton-like blanket. Her dark eyes watched Layla’s every move and seemed to pierce through to her soul.
Layla suddenly felt more naked than she ever had in her life. She honestly believed it would not have mattered if she were shrouded like an Arab woman, she would have felt the same. However, she held the woman’s gaze bravely, showing a much braver front than she suddenly felt. Perhaps the Hunter’s poison still flowed weakly in her system, she thought.
The woman’s did not take her eyes off of Layla’s as she ordered in a level tone, “Out, all of you.”
The girls scrambled to obey, running, dripping out of the room, past the guards at the door who snickered at them before closing the door behind them.
The old woman snapped open the blanket, which turned out to be a large towel. “Come on, out with you.”
Strangely unwilling to disobey, Layla climbed out and let the much shorter woman wrap the towel around her. The woman began vigorously rubbing her dry before she allowed Layla to wrap and tuck. The towel fell almost to her ankles. Layla was guided to sit on the bench as she took another towel and dried her hair. “Not your natural hair color,” she commented dryly.
“No, ma’am. I had it bleached a couple days ago.”
“Polite. That’s good.”
Layla grimaced. “When it matters.”
The old woman straddled the bench beside her. “See that it does,” she said firmly. “Now, you gonna tell me how a Man fooled the Hunter?”
Layla scowled. “I am a not a man, I’m a woman! Unless this crazy world has those backwards!”
“I’m going to give you some free advice, my little chickadee. Never say that again. You see, you were taken because the Hunter thought you were Sister Moon. He’s never seen her, he follows his nose. Unless some powerful magic was cast upon you, I don’t know anyway to fool that.” Layla started to interrupt, but the old woman held up her hand. “Ah! Now, I don’t see that as a deliberate mislead on the Princess’s part, she’s just not that kind of girl. And you… you just don’t have the power. Be that as it may, when the Master finds out there was an error, you are going to be in a right pickle. He’s going to be furious, not knowing if you deliberately mislead his Hunter, but torn by the laws of Hospitality, which he engendered to you even though it was by force. He will hold himself to that, if nothing else but to prove he isn’t his father. However, if he even
suspects you are a Man and not an Ord, your life won’t be worth fish spit. Am I clear?”
Layla sank into herself a little. “Kinda?”
“Now. Before you ask your questions, tell me your story.” She folded her arms over her chest and leaned back a little, even though there was nothing to rest against, prepared to listen.
Layla told her everything, about her life on the farm with her twin brother, going away to Chicago University and coming home one fateful night dressed as a vampire’s bride for Halloween. (Here she had to pause and explain what Halloween was.) About startling her brother at the party, then coming home and hitting the white wolf, then the attack by the hollow man and his horrid demon horse who carried her off in a flash of purple light. “And I suppose the rest you know.”
“I see now how a girl of no power fooled the Hunter,” she nodded. “The blood on your clothes was that of Sister Moon. Tell me, do you think she will survive her injuries?”
“The wolf? Yeah, I guess. Wait, you’re trying to tell me that wolf was a Princess?”
“I am. Sister Moon, Princess Royale of Kerowain, is a lycanthrope, as is befitting her mantle. Now, your questions.”
Layla jumped in with both feet. “Why did they cut my hair?”
“They thought you were Sister Moon. I’ve told you that.”
She shook her head. “Ok, why would they cut
her hair? Is this Lord Radish that mad at her?”
“RaNish, dear. Getting it right will save your life. Well… maybe not, but getting it wrong could kill you. Lord Ranish desires the power that marriage to Sister Moon will provide him. She objects to the match. He seeks to persuade her otherwise.”
Layla snorted. “Oh yeah, kidnapping, hair chopping and incarceration works every time.”
The old woman took the sarcasm with grace.
“Perhaps I should explain to you what a Mandayn is. And what an Ordayn is and why it is so important for you to pass as the latter. Which should be easy with your hair cut.”
“Ok. Shoot.”
She tipped her head slightly, trying to make sense of the odd use of words, then just accepted it and moved on and explained to her the difference between Man and Ord in her unhurried, deliberate manner. “Mandayns are called, collectively: Man or Men; individually: Men or Women. Ordayns are called, collectively: Ord; individually: Lord or Lady, no matter their rank.”
Layla thought back to the way Rya had addressed her. At first they had called her Your Highness, but when she began to suspect Layla was not the princess, she had called her simply ‘my lady’. She nodded. “And the hair?”
“That depends upon what the Lady is made of,” she answered, with a knowing spark in her ancient eye.
Layla shook her head. “No, a woman… or a Lady, is made up of flesh and bone, like any other.”
“Not so. Some females are made up of fire. They are raw, passionate, quick to temper and to love both, just as apt to destroy as to nurture life. Some are made of water; cool and soothing and mercurial, their surfaces rarely showing the turmoil beneath their waters if they run deep. Which some don’t. I know a few, Man and Ord alike who are as shallow as puddles, and just as muddy,” she added, raising her finger to make her point.
Layla laughed. She was beginning to like this woman a great deal. “Now, still others are as light and as empty as air, and as forceful if they don’t get their way. What a Lady is made of dictates the wellspring of her power, and her focus. A fire-Lady gets all her power from within. Her hair is little more than pride. They often use fire as a conduit or a focus for increased strength when they need a boost, but more often than not, they boil it up from their own depths, unwilling to rely on outside forces. Kind of like you, I think. Water-Ladies use water in their magic, for purification, amplification, any number of things, and her hair is a conduit to that power. Or so they tell us. An air-Lady even more so. Cut their hair and you weaken them. Watch how an air-Lady casts her spells, you’ll see. Even a water- Lady’s hair moves as if caught in a current. It is this movement which unconsciously aids them in the weaving of their will. Cut it and it’s like having cut their fingers off.”
“Am I then to understand that this Sister Moon is an air-Lady?”
“No, she is water. It is the moon which controls the tides, remember.”
“And men… the males,” Layla corrected herself. “Do they grow their hair too?”
The woman’s smile was mischievous this time. “Mercy, no, child. Though some have and some do. The great Samsang was one such Ord. Males have too much… well, I should say
most males, have too much fire in the belly to rely on such things. But where they are subtle… they use everything, some even the earth beneath their feet, so beware the barefoot Ord,” she chuckled. “No, with males you can never tell. Take my son for instance, his father was all fire, every bit, and a nasty bit of work, let me tell you. If you even think you detect the slightest hint of adoration or gratitude toward Lord Ranish, it is because his father was a damned sight worse!”
Layla blanched. “You’re… you’re the Master’s mother?”
She nodded, a mixture of pride and guilt in her manner. “Aye. But there’ll be time enough for my tale while we get you dressed. Right now, I must school you and quickly how to protect yourself. This room is the only one where we can be guaranteed to have the privacy and not be overheard. Now listen. As long as your hair is short,” she paused to chuckle at her own inadvertent joke, “they will not think twice about you not casting spells. You are from another world, use that. If you have to ask a question, play it off as being different in your world, not that you are completely ignorant. If you can help it, save your questions for bath time. I’ll answer you here and in private. Now, he is going to ask why you substituted yourself for Sister Moon, why you would cast such a spell, how are you going to answer that? Eh?”
Layla thought a long moment, then shrugged. “I’m not sure. If I tell him the truth, that we had a violent run-in with Sister Moon and in helping her, I got her blood all over me. But then he will want to know where she is, and that will lead him to my brother who, whether she’s revealed herself to him or not, he’ll stand and fight to protect her. I won’t have him killed. I could lie and say she escaped us, but he may be able to tell truth from lies. Which would mean telling him some wild, noble fib wouldn’t work either,” she groaned, taking the woman’s expression to mean he
could discern truth. “And I’m not sure I can get away with simply telling him his precious Hunter made a mistake.”
The woman nodded, pleased. “He is going to make a
lot of assumptions, take a great deal for granted, and that is his weakness. He may cast on you, to make you tell only the truth. But the spell cannot make you talk or tell you what to say, only keep you from telling falsehoods. Use that. Tell only what you have to, let him interpret the information. Now let’s get you into some proper clothes. Well, what we call proper anyway. I don’t know what you’re going to think of it,” she groaned, standing up with some effort.
Obediently, Layla followed her deeper into the bathing room. “Just remember, you are a Lady. Act like it.” Then added as a final admonition, “And unless I tell you otherwise, always speak as if you are being overheard.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
The room she was led to was just off a back staircase, several flights up the tower. They encountered no one on their way and the old woman pointed out that this tower was the female’s quarters. “Women on the lower levels, Ladies on the upper. So if you ever need anything, assistance is only a shout away. My son is very adamant about no female being forced into sexual acts against her will, so if a male so much as touches you in an inappropriate manner feel free to slap him or raise as much fuss as you like. If the captain hears of it, the Master will hear of it and life will be most unpleasant for your unwanted admirer. I can promise you that.”
“So, your son resorts to kidnapping, but stops at rape?”
She gave her an impish grin. “That is a story I shall tell you as I dress you,” she said, throwing open the final door. Layla noted, with a sinking feeling, that there were external locks on the heavy, iron-bound frame. The woman followed her gaze and chuckled. “Locks inside too, my dear.”
Anything else the woman said was drowned out by the staggering opulence of the room. The flagstone floor was covered in rich, thick carpets, and the walls hung in vivid tapestries depicting elegant creatures she could not identify, capering lovers and breathtaking vistas. If there were any windows, they had been sealed and hidden, but otherwise the room was quite snug. There was a deep hearth where a fire was already laid, a few figurines of wolves and unicorns on the mantle and a porcelain shepherdess holding the young of something that
might have been a lamb. The bed was enormous and hung with heavy velvet curtains of midnight blue sewn with silver stars, and not geometric, five pointed stars. These were tiny pinpoints of varying sizes as they might appear in the night sky. The curtains were currently closed, but she imagined they were smothered in pillows.
I know why the caged bird sings, she thought.
I could get used to this. …though not at this price. The woman led her to a scroll armed settee that sat at the foot of the bed across from a massive ebony wardrobe and bade her sit. The inside of the doors had full length mirrors of superb clarity, but it was the clothes which drew her attention. Nearly everything was either white or pale blue, though there were a black dress or two and a few in royal blue and midnight. The one that really called to her was black.
As the woman began rummaging in the drawers for underthings, Layla reached over her and took down the object of her attention, turned to the mirror and held it up to herself. Unlike the other dresses which were tight at the bodice and gathered at the waist and threatened mountains of petticoats or hoops, this dress was a simple A-line princess cut. The velvet clung at the bodice and flowed downward and outward to spill onto the floor, longer in the back than the front. The neckline was low cut, would show ample cleavage, and the fabric was heavy enough to support her without additional and painful boning. The slim sleeves were black velvet, though they were cut from elbow to wrist and laced up again with eyelets and a silk cord and a second, angel styled sleeve of heavy, black, embroidered lace spilled out. The scalloped edges of similar lace gracefully peered from beneath the hem. It was perfect.
And best of all was the color. It wasn’t black, more of a midnight blue, but… as she turned to a different light, it seemed more purple, no, it was definitely blue… she wasn’t really sure, and loved it.
The old woman’s voice came soft by her ear. “Yes, that is an excellent choice. With your tone I would have gone dark russets, bright jewel tones, not really black, and white… would only make you darker, though that would be lovely too. This… this lights up your eyes,” she grinned.
Layla looked at her reflection. “What is your name? Or… what may I call you?”
“Most just call me Mother. But my name, since you asked, is Eighfa. And you, my Lady?”
“Layla Valentine.” Eighfa smiled. “What?” Layla demanded, facing her, fighting the urge to grin herself without first knowing the joke.
“Your name. Here it means Dark Beauty. While Valantyne is a noble name in itself. There may be more to your coming here than a mere mistake of identity, Lady.”
“Lady Eighfa,” she began.
The old woman immediately cut her off. “I ain’t no Lady. So get that out of your head. Just Eighfa, Mother or Ma’am if you please, thank you,” she snapped curtly, began handing Layla under things. “I trust you know what to do with these? They ain’t as skimpy as the ones you were wearing.”
Layla hung the dress on the door hook and held up the very old fashioned silk bloomers. “Mine were comfortable, thank you, but I think I can figure these out.” She sat down and began to step into them.
“Bow goes in the front,” she corrected, bustling about the room choosing among things for fit and turning up several flameless lamps.
Layla made the correction and slipped them on under the towel. Eighfa approached with a strange band of white fabric. She pulled the towel off and threw it on the seat, reaching under Layla’s arms and bringing the band around from the back. She brought it across Layla’s breasts. “Arms up.” As Layla obeyed, she fastened it with two hooks and then plumped and tugged to make sure it fit well and was secure and supportive. Layla ran her hand along the fabric. It felt like suede, but ultra light and presented her assets better than any pushup underwire she had ever owned.
“Wow, that’s… nice. Ok. Next question,” she began as Eighfa took the dress from its hanger and helped her into it.
“Fire at will.”
“If Ords are born only from Ords, and all Ords are called Lady, why are you not called Lady? Not to mention, act like a servant when your son is the Lord of the realm?”
She explained while she pinched and plucked and smoothed and laced. “I was not born an Ord, so I can’t really be one. I am a Man. Occasionally, very rarely mind you, a woman can granted power through outside means. In my case, carrying the child of an Ord. As for my servant manner and dress… I’d have to tell you my story. Which I won’t do until we are sitting down for breakfast. There,” she said, addressing Layla’s reflection. “What do you think?”
“Fabulous,” she purred, running her hands over her sleek torso. The dress had turned out to have three skirts, the outer velvet, an inner, slightly gathered lace one, and an inner sheath like the bra band to protect her legs from the lace. “The only thing that remains is to do something with this hair. … But not, I think, until
after I’ve had words with your darling son. Ammunition,” she said, half to herself. Suddenly she turned from admiring her reflection to face the smaller woman. “Why are you helping me against him, anyway? He
is your son, for good or ill.”
“Aye. But you’ll not hurt him. This I know. This too I shall tell, in its own time. Come, sit,” she insisted, guiding her to the chairs by the fireplace as Rya first knocked, then entered bearing a well laden tray. Eighfa closed the wardrobe and came to join her.
Layla noted that Rya seemed a little put out to be serving breakfast for both her and the old woman, but she could not tell if the stern silence were caused by jealousy, dislike or suspicion. “Thank you, Rya,” Layla said graciously as she set the plates on a small, high table between the two chairs.
Done, Rya bowed. “Is there anything else I can do for you today, my Lady? Mother?”
“None, thank you.”
“I’m sure we know where the bell pull is, Rya. Shoo. You have things to attend to this morning.”
Rya bowed again and left without another sound.
Layla was suddenly very hungry and was ready to do full justice to the eggs and sausages they had been brought. She noticed the old woman too had a healthy appetite, which was all too evident around her thick waist. Whilst they ate and sipped tea, the old woman spun her tale.
“As I said, I was born a Man. And let me tell you, life as a Man in this county in those days was more than difficult. It was dangerous. The old Lord believed that Power was Law. You could claim only what you could defend. This is, to some smaller extent, what Lord Ranish believes, but he is far more honorable. His father also believed that women were made to be used.”
Layla frowned, interrupting the woman’s narrative with a shrewd observation. “Women but not Ladies?”
Eighfa laughed, “No Lord and certainly no man would ever make
that mistake. Not twice anyway. Ords have ways, if not of defending themselves directly against such attacks, but of getting even in ways that not even Lords of Torment can imagine. Lord Ahrimon would see a woman, either in the city or villages or working in his keep and mark them as his own. They might not even be aware of it. But after that mark was laid, no male could touch them in that way, not even their own husbands if they had the misfortune to be married. And when he summoned them through that mark, they had to come. He didn’t care if they were willing or not. In fact, sometimes he looked forward to the battle. It was so bad that the styles of women and girls became this shapeless sack you see me wearing, designed to make one look as plain and uninviting as possible. Some families even took to scarring their daughters’ faces to hide inherent beauty. One day you may see Daeva, from the kitchens. She wears her scars proudly.”
“Wouldn’t that keep men away as well as the Lord? After all, what man would want a scarred bride?”
“Ah, but on the other side they could be guaranteed she would not be taken from them, and they perhaps left to raise the Lord’s bastard whilst they cannot touch their own wives. After a time, they would learn to see the beauty behind the disfigurement and call it a mark of security. Ask Daeva one day if she regrets it. You will be surprised.”
“But none of the girls in the bath…” she began pointedly.
“It is not done any more, has not been since a year after Ahrimon’s death, when it became apparent things had changed for the better. Things are still not
good,” Eighfa added, setting down her empty teacup. “But they are
better. For women at least.”
Without considering significance or consequence, Layla automatically refilled her cup. The old woman’s eyebrow went up. “Never do that again,” she advised calmly. Layla looked up, shocked, nodded. “But thank you.”
Reassured, Layla asked a question. “So how did you end up here?”
“Oh, the usual way of things. I lived with my mother in the neighboring county, in the woods on that side of the boundary. One of Ahrimon’s Lords was out hunting, and it is not uncommon for one to continue the pursuit of deer beyond the border, though one should break off if encountered. My mother was a wise woman, an herbalist. She had sent me into the wood that morning to gather herbs, where I encountered the Lord headed homeward in a bad temper for his had lost his deer. He took one look at my lush young body and snatched me up as a gift for his Master.
“As often happened with his women, after my first, horrific night with him, I was put to work. For me it was the kitchens. I learned quickly that things in this county were far worse than the rumors had whispered. I adapted. One day one of the cooks nearly lopped off her hand when one of the lower Lords, hardly more than a guardsman actually, had come in, pushed her flat on her belly over the table and the onions she was cutting and had his way of her right there.” Layla gasped in horror. “And no, not one of us moved to interfere, but got on with our work as if it weren’t happening. We knew it could very well happen to any one of us or worse. And they’ve told me, ‘cause I asked after the first time it happened, that it is better for the victim that way, leaves her at least a shred of dignity. The moment he had sated himself and left, I seized her hand in a towel and began to minister to the wound as my mother had trained me. I had nothing but cooking herbs to hand, but I cleaned it, pressed the skin together and smeared it with honey, then wrapped it tightly and told her I’d do her cutting and washing if she’d do my stirring and spicing.
“They stared at me in wonder, were firmly convinced she’d lose dexterity in that hand or worse, fester and lose the hand entire. When she had nothing to show for the injury a week or so later, not even a scar, they quickly spread the word. Soon the seneschal heard and had words with the Master.”
“You make it sound like healing is alien here. If the Ord wield magic, can they not use it to heal?”
Eighfa gave a derisive snort. “Where I was from, aye. There were things you went to a wise woman for and things you went to the Healer for, and usually it was the wise woman who told you or took you, if the illness or injury were beyond her pale. Here? The Lord did not waste magic upon mere men. If they could no longer serve, he cast them out. If he found them as beggars later, he fed them to his drakes.”
“Drakes?” she asked, perking up. “There are dragons? Surely you don’t mean man-eating ducks.”
She laughed. “Now that would be something. Go to wring a drake’s neck to pluck him for dinner and he ends up taking a bite out of you. No, the drakes are horrible abominations created by Ahrimon himself, crossing horses with sting-tailed wyverns from the high mountains. You were brought in by one. The Hunter is a drake. Now, where was I?”
“Um… the seneschal had told the Lord you were a healer of men.”
“Oh, right. Aye. My duties changed immediately. I was even permitted to go into the forests to collect the things I would need, as he knew I could not escape him. I was given my own room, though it was only a cot in the back of the still room where I could mix my potions. It also meant I shared his bed a little more often for a time, as it had called his attention to me.
“It was not long, however, before some of the other marked noticed that though I was in his bed nearly as often as out of it, I failed to get pregnant. One grew brave enough to ask me. That was when I took her to the still room and shared a pot of tea with her,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I told her I had this tea every morning, with that knowing look that said without speaking the words what she wanted, needed to hear. The next morning she brought a friend. And so on. Finally I just began making a huge kettle of it first thing in the morning, making sure all the women of the keep came in for a cup.”
“What if they
wanted a child?”
“Then you left the castle and worked in the village. It was the only way you could be sure the child belonged to your husband. One could not just leave or quit though, or all of us would have. But if we were clever, we could arrange injuries or accidents or illnesses which made you useless and got you sent away. Out of reach, many were ‘miraculously’ cured,” she winked. Layla giggled, enthralled by the story in spite of the horror of it. “Then one day the Great Lady came to me, Sariya, the Lord’s wife.
“Sariya’s story was not so far from most of the marked, as we called ourselves. She had once been the wife of one of Ahrimon’s own vassals, to whom she had born a daughter. Since Ahrimon’s first wife’s only child to him had turned out to be a Man, he had slain both in a fit of rage, claiming she could not have been pure or strong enough of blood or had somehow cuckolded him with a mere man. Not something he could or would tolerate. Since none of his women were bearing him brats of any kind it had begun to wear on him that other Lords were whispering of his infertility, and by that his weakness. So he had set his eyes on a woman proven fertile and managed to do away with her husband and politically coerce her into marrying him. Not the wisest of his ideas, but by then his mind was already beginning to fray.
“The Great Lady knew why he had done it, and resented him for it and so sought me out.” Her admiration for the Lady was obvious in the way she spoke of her, her eyes gleaming with pride. “Ah, but she knew how to hurt a man. Especially one so desperate to prove his virility,” she chuckled. “It had not taken her long to see what he had failed to see and so she came to me. Soon, she too was slipping into the kitchen under pretense of surveying the work and shared our morning pot.
“Two years went by before he confronted her. And she had the absolute, solid gold balls, to tell him, ‘But my Lord, I am well past my prime’, (she weren’t a day over thirty-two) ‘and my little Samar took so much out of me in her bearing. Perhaps she injured me in some way?’,” the old woman cackled with remembered glee.
“He didn’t take it well, as you can expect. In fact, he went out and got himself a second wife, a younger Lady barely old enough to even
be married. Did Sariya resent it? Oh yes! Was she relieved to be out of his bedroom? Yes to that too. She remained kind to the young Lady though, began taking her tea to her room and sharing it with her over friendly chats. The empty-headed little mop never suspected a thing, since they drank from the same pot. She couldn’t conceive of why anyone would
not want children. You see, it was in her marriage contract. Ahrimon got smart after the last one and put it in the contract that she had to bear him an Ord child within three years or he could set her aside and not only keep her dower, but reclaim the bride-price he paid her family. It would be a disgrace upon her and her family they might never recover from.”
“Wait, I’m sorry,” Layla interrupted. “You have both dowry and bride-price in the same union?”
Eighfa frowned, sipping her tea. “Don’t you? It ensures an even arrangement. Only one of the two may be money, but they are usually exchanges of land or vassals or something else that has non-material value. It guarantees the well treatment of the bride. If you only do one or the other, you’re just buying a broodmare, not a wife.”
Layla nodded. “Yeah, that’s how it usually ended up in our world. So basically it’s a hostage issue.”
“Yes. So you can see why she was so desperate. Eventually, she came to me directly, having heard from one of her women what I do,” she continued, barely able to keep from chuckling.
“And you naturally gave her the exact opposite of what she wanted,” Layla beamed.
“Oh, I even added a bitter oil to it to make certain it did not taste the same as what she’d been drinking every morning. Made it more ‘mediciny’. Me an’ the Great Lady had ourselves a ripe old laugh in the bath over that one, let me tell you.
“Time passed. The Lord was getting more difficult to live with, even for his vassals. He was bringing in more women and getting more and more violent. Some of them we didn’t even tell what the morning tea was for beyond a kindness. The Great Lady agreed with us that the dynasty must end. So I was spent most of my time making the tea and patching up the girls when he was done with them. Then came the day when I ran out of herbs. There hadn’t been time to collect more and there was only enough for his favorites. Since I had not been summoned in years, and I had, well frankly life had been hard on my body, not enough sunlight I suppose, and wasn’t the fair thing I had begun, I did not expect to be called any time soon. So I opted to forego, confident I was the least in need.
“Fortune, however, will have her say in things,” she sighed. “I had just come in from the forest and had lain the green herbs out on the drying racks when I felt it. Horror filled me. I resisted as much as I could, long enough to give orders to another woman to tend the drying fires for me, before I dragged myself up to him. The results of that night were predictable. I had found nothing in the area in the way of abortives. Not a sprig of pennyroyal, tansy or evening primrose to be found.
“Before the teas were ready I was summoned again, this time to the hall itself. Unbeknownst to anyone, not even the Great Lady, the Lord had brought in a minor Lord who had the ability to look at any female and tell if they were fertile, sterile or just not ‘in season’. He could also note the instant pregnancy began. Claimed he had experimented a great deal and had learned to tell the subtle differences in a female’s light, or some such nonsense.”
“Auras? You mean they’re real?”
Eighfa leveled her gaze at her, “You mean you’ve heard of them?” she said, parroting back her tone. “Apparently. He took me into a private chamber and questioned me. ‘Why was I the only woman in the keep to have a child? Why were all the women he brought in infertile?’ I suggested it might be something in the keep itself, perhaps the drakes gave off some fume that worked against such things. Or that he was taking them too old or too young. I made vague excuses, offering no real answers. It was worth my life to keep
that secret.
“From that moment on there was no chance for me to leave the keep. I was even coddled, given non-strenuous tasks, forbidden to tend the sick only the wounded. The Great Lady took me into her service, had me mending and other things. The young Lady was jealous and vicious beyond imagining. She was convinced that I had somehow done something to her. She never told the Lord this, as he had precious little time for her these days. She tried to convince the Great Lady that I had conspired to set myself above my station to have her thrown out and take her place. The Great Lady merely laughed at the idea. Explained to her very patiently over their usual morning tea,” here she coughed, to leave no doubt as to which tea that was, “since she had stopped taking the ‘medicine’ I had given her, that it would never happen. The Lord would protect her until she birthed, been pleased with the proof of his virility and forget about her. She then whispered that the only child the Lord had so far made was a man-child on an Ord wife. What did she really think the odds were that he would whelp an Ord child on a mere Man? This seemed to placate her, but she was ever after hostile and cold to me.
“One day it just wasn’t enough. Perhaps the Lord had said something to her, or done something during their evening together, I don’t know. I only know that she went from the Lord’s bed to the Healer’s chamber to mine, where she tried to weave some spell over my unborn. That, I think, is what did it. The child rebelled. The spell rebounded upon her, leaving no doubt to any what she had just tried to do. There had been witnesses. Daeva had been coming to see me for some instruction. (I had been teaching her to harvest and make the special tea herself. It seems that, so long as the women had drunk the tea within a day or so, the fertility Lord would see them as infertile. Not sterile, mind, just not presently fertile.) Daeva braved running directly to the Lord himself to tell him.
“He was in a fury. The Lady fled in terror and I am not sure what vengeance he exacted upon her for that, but I know he and her family went tit for tat over it for years. And with myself… I
knew something was different. All Dayns began to look different to me. Men were dull and empty in a way I could not explain. Even now, even the most lively and happy man appears this way to me. Ords on the other hand were vibrant and alive and brimming with something that was never still. And the more I studied one the more I could see into him. That was how I learned what Ladies are made of. The Great Lady was an earth-Lady, still and calm and steady. The Lord… heh heh, was one of those kinds of men that, if you castrated him would be utterly powerless.
“I told the Great Lady this one day in the bath. But she agreed that to do so would cause a great deal of destruction and death in its wake. Unable to lash out magically, he would rage physically and he would still be a powerful man. That and the drakes would ravage out of control. In fact, she expressed concern to me of them then. Said they were growing more and more dangerous and only Ahrimon kept them in check. ‘When nature takes her course,’ she said, ‘and he dies, I despair of what they will do unchecked.’ This of course peaked my curiosity about them and with my new sight I stole a glimpse of one in the courtyard one night.” Eighfa shuddered. “I still despise the things. They are abominations. And they had gone from being mere animals to being something innately magical and
aware. The thrice damned things were sentient! Actively learning to work their will… to use magic.
“Naturally I asked the Lord if he knew. Apparently he hadn’t, because they stopped growing stronger after that. Though they would look up at my window at night with a look of pure evil and hate…”
Realizing the memory was unsettling her new friend, Layla interrupted her, shifting the subject a little. “Didn’t the Lord want to know how you had known?”
She shook her head. “Not then he didn’t. Perhaps he assumed I had seen them casting spells, I never knew. He didn’t much trouble himself with me until I birthed. He came into the room after, examined the child, pleased it was a son and walked out again. Though after that I noticed I was guarded, or, more correctly, my son was. He never came to my bed again. His fertility Lord… I can never remember his name, it was something like Marchare or Marchane or… oh, it’s irrelevant. The women called him the rabbit Lord and left it at that. He had apparently been asked to watch me, to see when I would be ripe again, but he told the Lord that something had happened during the birthing. I would never bear again.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Ah, don’t be. I didn’t really want another,” her bones creaked as she leaned forward to put her cup down, then sank back against the cushions of the chair. “I think Ranish himself made sure he would have no other competition. And in any case it meant I never had to suffer his father’s paws on me again. Now normally, you can’t really tell if a child is a man or an ord until they’re about five, when they begin to figure out what to do with all of this power building up inside them and begin to actively work their will on the world.”
“Really? I would think once they hit the terrible twos that would start.”
She gave a dry laugh. “Oh, nature knew what she was doing. That would be like placing a delicate glass bottle full of alchemical fire to a toddler and not expect it to eventually break and engulf the room. The Ord would not have survived. It’s a defense mechanism. If their power is passive, that’s different, it’s protective and proactive. They can’t consciously do anything active until they’re about five or so. I had told the Lord that his child was an Ord as I served him and the Great Lady at dinner one night. He scoffed, naturally.
“He said to me, laughing, ‘and how is it that you, a mere woman, managed to birth me what an Ord Lady could not?’ ‘Nonetheless, my Lord,’ I said. ‘It does happen, and it
has happened.’ At this point he frowned, grew serious. I could smell the anger rising that I would dare beyond my place and could see the magic swelling in him. Sariya gave me a warning look, worried for me. I cast a glance around the room and noticed something out of place. I looked back at him and met him eye for eye, which was something few could do, and said, ‘The same way I know that dayn serving wine at your lower table is not a Man. I see it.’
“Those nearest us gasped and he glanced from me to the dayn in question. He determined to put it to the test. ‘You there, with the pitcher!’ he bellowed. Naturally everyone holding pitchers turned, but seeing his gaze not on them made themselves scarce. When ordered to the high table, the Ord knew he had somehow been discovered. He made a last ditch effort to complete his task: to assassinate Lord Ahrimon. Naturally he failed, but the display of magic was unmistakable. He was captured, tortured, revealed that he had fallen in love with the Lady he had cast aside and was here seeking vengeance for the wrongs committed upon her.
“From then on I was forced to attend him any time he was in the hall greeting people, to serve all parties he threw, to inspect every person who entered the gate… ad nausem. He would summon me at all hours. I suddenly held respect, granted I was not treated as an Ord, by no means. I wasn’t one. But neither was I treated like a Man, either.”
“So what are you? Had this sort of thing ever happened before?”
She laughed. “Rarely, but yes. You see, while there are only two races here, there are three …stations?” she said, fishing for a fitting word. “You have the Mandayn who have no magic, hence they appear empty to my eyes. There are the Ordayn, who are born to magic and appear as wellsprings of it. And then there are those like me, who are… I guess you could say ‘infected’ by it. I am a Wytch. I can affect magic because it was worked upon me from within as well as without. I know just about everything the scholars know on the phenomenon, as Ahrimon summoned every learned man he could find on the subject, to find out how this could be. It happens occasionally. Some poor man or woman either is affected by magic at a critical point in their lives, in my case carrying an Ord child, or they actively seek it out, find some secret way of being able to tap into magic for themselves. They become Wytches, both feared and respected by both races.”
“So this is how he knew his son was an Ord?”
She laughed, “He
knew nothing of the sort. Oh, he watched the boy closely, ready for any sign to manifest itself, but he was willing to wait until he was five, maybe even later, to test him. He never got the chance. Nor did he ever take any real time with the boy. One day when he was three, I was sitting in the solar reading to him when I felt the summons. I was one of few women in the county who could read, having been brought up elsewhere, so I was teaching him his letters. With a sigh, I started to close the book and get up, when he reached up and touched my forehead and I felt something snap. He pointed back to the book and said, ‘More.’ I couldn’t refuse him. So I sat there, teaching, horrified and wondering at the same time what had just happened when his father darkened our door. And I mean that literally. He was a cloud of rage and leaking off building magic like steam off a kettle. ‘How dare you ignore my summons?’ he roared. ‘How
can you?’
“Ranish looked up at him, calm and unafraid and told him to be quiet, ‘Mother reading.’ This startled him so much it actually checked him. The black cloud which I could see began to fizzle. He stalked in, now looking at the boy, but speaking to me. ‘I summoned you,’ he said flatly. And just as emotionlessly, Ranish said, without looking up from the book, ‘And I said no.’
“At that point he looked more closely at me, noticed the mark was gone and glanced back at the boy. I was terrified what I had been told happened to the first wife was about to happen again but suddenly he laughed.”
“He laughed?” she asked, incredulous.
“He laughed! Said it was his son all right and left us. Even the Great Lady was confused by what had come over him. He made Ranish his heir and proceeded to actually take an interest in his education. He tried to mold him into himself, naturally, but he had made one critical mistake very early on. He let me raise his son. As the years passed, he learned what lessons he wanted to learn from his father, very often
not what Ahrimon had intended for him to learn. Against my wishes, though, he managed to tame the drakes. They were fiercely loyal to him and in some ways feared him as they had never truly feared their maker. Because I was the only love he had ever known, the only one who accepted him wholly as he was and not trying to mold him into something they wanted him to be; because I was unconditional and accepting, though I did try to teach him right from wrong, he formed a close attachment to me. His view of the female sex was very different from his father.
“Do not misinterpret this,” she warned with raised finger. “He is aggressive about pursuing what he wants. His sense of honor is somewhat twisted, but his word he lives by. There are things he takes from women, without regard to their feelings or wishes. Try as I might, I could not convince him otherwise. In his mind I am not a ‘mere man’, but a Wytch and that to him is almost Ord. But sex… having seen what that does to the victims, …and more importantly their productivity and prolonged usefulness, that he never takes. No matter how it may appear. I think it may be more what it did to me and how that affected how I dealt with him than in any sense of real empathy.”
“So eventually the old Lord died and Ranish became the Lord?” Layla asked, stifling a yawn. She desperately wanted to hear more but was beginning to lose the fight with her body to stay awake.
Eighfa got up with a grunt and moved to attend the fire, building it up more and banking it. “Oh heavens, no. Ahrimon was
helped out of his mortal coil. It was proclaimed an accident, but the Great Lady and I knew better. We had seen Ranish speaking with the drakes the night before Ahrimon went riding. In his arrogance, he demanded of them something Ranish never did, to ride them. And for that they loved him. He rode out the next morning and the flock followed not far after. It was said by some peasant who witnessed part of the ‘accident’ that something spooked the monster, and a fight between mount and mounted ensued. The monster screamed and the flock descended upon him. They found parts of him later, barely enough to bury in a jewelry box,” she chuckled fondly. “A fitting end, eaten by his own creations. Ranish sought his own ways to power, not that I approved of them, but I don’t really have a say.” She glanced back at Layla as she was forced to submit to a yawn. “Are you tired, child?” she asked. “Your capture must have taken more out of you than I suspected. That or cutting your hair sapped more of your energy reserves.”
Layla shook her head. “I’ve been up since yesterday morning,” she explained. “I had an early class, and I mean a crack of dawn class, then drove three hundred or so miles to home and went to a party to surprise my brother. I danced all night and then… well, I dealt with the drake. I’m exhausted.”
“That’s it, then. Let’s get you into bed! No. No, I won’t take that as an answer,” she snapped, cutting off any protest and leading Layla back to the huge bed and began unlacing her dress. “You’ve been cleaned and fed, now you get some rest.” She let the dress fall in a pool at her feet and threw a black silk gown over her head before Layla could step out of it.
Layla pushed her arms through the long, gathered sleeves and paused to admire the nightgown. It was old-fashioned to her world, billowy with ruffled lace edges that tickled her ankles but not so high at the neck as to be an irritant. It was very pretty, even if it was a rich black, and warm in spite of the apparent thinness of the material. Eighfa pulled aside one of the heavy velvet curtains and coaxed her in. “But what if Ranish calls for me? I don’t want to be at the disadvantage when I attempt to take him down a peg,” she protested.
Eighfa was nonplussed. “You’d have to take him down a whole shelf or too to do him any good. Which you won’t do if you don’t have enough rest to confront him. In any case he won’t be out of bed before twilight, so get in!”
A little reluctantly, Layla climbed into the enormous bed. The blankets were thick and heavy; rich quilts of silk and velvet, patterned into a crescent moon on a starry sky. The sheets were white silk and the pillows numerous clouds of down stuffed luxury. Layla let the old woman tuck her in as she sank into the softness of the feather bed. “Don’t you worry, my little chickpea,” Eighfa clucked, “I’ll get you up in time to have you fed and glorified for your audience. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“You still haven’t told me why you’re a servant in your own son’s house,” Layla murmured.
Eighfa laughed softly. “Tomorrow. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
The heavy curtain blocked out the light, leaving her in pitch darkness, though she could sense the curtains rippling in the dark as they were adjusted in place. Before Layla could form another semi-coherent thought, she drifted off to sleep.
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Oh and I still really like Layla and Eighfa 
