Poisoned Truths
Book 2
2. Minnha
Rating: G (K)
Warnings: everyday drama
Genres: Action, Character Study, Drama, Framed Story, Friendship
Word Count: 1,813
Morning, Day 24 of Summer, Year 74 of Second Age, Year 874 of Human Age
Kitchens at Morzan's Stronghold, Northwest of Leona lake, Foothills of the Spine
I do not like it. People stare strangely at me now; they no longer like me, care for me. People liked me, and I liked them back. Even Lord Morzan liked me, taught me to read and write, taught me to "exercise the brain" he said, asked me to do important things and many of them to be done in his secret wing no less. And then in turn I taught Írill, my best friend and only age-peer at once all that I had learnt from him, for he never said I could not share the knowledge with anybody else.
But now Írill does not want to speak with me, just glares at me and gives me dirty looks whenever Mother Brinn is not looking; and unfortunately the both of us have been tasked to wash the dishes left from breakfast time, and there is only one sink available as the other is still stuffed up, so we are forced to work side-by-side. I am feeling quite lonely and lost now, and I do not like it either.
And it is all because of her, that weird woman-girl Lord Morzan brought home from nowhere injured and all-passed-out three days ago. To think that I was so glad and eager when he put me in charge of taking care of her when he was gone afterwards! She must have put some magic on him, for he did not seem pleased that I was there, while he had ordered me to be there before she woke up and messed it all up. Perhaps she had her filthy unnatural friends ambush him too, for he went home all battered and bruised and broken, quite unlike when he had bidden me farewell and set out to wherever he had gone. That evil witch –
Írill nudges my foot with her own without looking at me, still busy washing an apparently-stubborn smudge on the underside of our only one, huge, iron pot for making soups and stews. Then I hear it myself.
"Minnha! How many more moments shall I lose just calling for you, brat?"
Mother Brinn, and she is quite cross with me, and seems like she has been calling me for a while now. (She does not boast or lie or make up things usually, sometimes too direct and honest and strict that she scares me silly; like right now, in fact.) I wince.
"Yes, Mother Brinn?" I reply meekly, turning around from the plate I have been drying – the already-dry plate I have been drying …
She glowers at me, mitten-clad hands akimbo on her apron-clad hips. She just glares for a long moment, and I cannot help but fidget.
People are so hostile to me now, yes, and I hate it. They blame me for why Lord Morzan was furious at us, for why Keyl and Rodyth and Narlin and Kile and Daimur and Onid and Solothin and Elwyn and Sean and Damus were nearly gutted by him, for why he forced us to swear in that weird shivery, unnatural language. But he threw me out and it was all because of her! I must save him from her and the only way was by asking for them to check in on him and spirit him away from her if necessary. I do not know how to wield a blade after all; Lord Morzan only taught me to fight with a stick, and I doubt a tree-branch would do harm to her. (She could just burn it with magic or something else of that sort.) Why cannot people understand that? It was not my fault too that they just barged in to the chamber like that! Of course Lord Morzan would be furious with them; he seems to prize it that nearly nobody knows anything about his wing, let alone that chamber, and those fools just barged in. (I bet they did not even knock at the door before entering the chamber.)
They made him mad, and he hurt Grandma Eva because of them, and now I do not even know if she is alive or not, and I do not know if Lord Morzan still likes me because he did not even spare me – or anybody else for that matter – a glance when he went out in his fine, polished armour and with the scary red sword belted at his side to the hill just now. And it is all –
"Minnha!" Mother Brinn snaps out my name. I flinch, look up, step back, bump the hard wet edge of the sink – a mitten-clad hand grasps at the collar of my blous and yanks at it, shakes me, chokes me.
I squeak. She is terrifying now.
"Hear me girl," she hisses close to my face, cannot duck away, step back – "whatever you do, wherever you do it, don't create any problem that the Master will sniff at. Do you wish to get us all killed?"
My eyes go blurry: warm, heavy, squeezing. "I didn't!" I cry out. "I swear I didn't! Can't you see? She's evil! We need to get rid of her. She's poisoning the Master! I was just – "
The other mitten-clad hand slaps at my mouth. I yip in protest.
But now I notice how silent it is here: no sound of people talking, no noise of cleaning and washing, no footsteps: too silent.
Shocked silence, terrified silence.
And now I see how wide Mother Brinn's eyes are, staring horrified at the middle space.
"Mother Brinn?" I whisper: squeaking, panicky, trembling.
She lets go of me abruptly, trembling herself, now I realise. But why?
I look around, afraid of what I may find soon, but cannot help it, cannot help try to find out, try to see what has gotten everyone so mute and frightened.
Something – someone – is not supposed to be here; there is a face I do not recog –
Her face! It must be her face that I am staring at! She must have changed a few of her features, but I know that it is she, standing at the doors to here, the 'clean kitchen'. The runty woman-girl is here – but since when? Did she hear – no no no no no no no! If she tells Lord Morzan or bewitches me into a toad or something without his ever knowing before he ever comes home –
She is staring back: small wicked green eyes looking into my own, perhaps reading my mind, reading my thoughts – I look away, a bunch of curse-words running through my mind, towards her, towards myself, towards Mother Brinn, towards my dolt friend Írill, towards – no no no no no, I cannot curse him; he is my master!
And then she smiles – she dares – the witchy woman-girl!
"Might we know who you are and why you are here, good mistress?" Mother Brinn asks. The head of the kitchens; she has got the right and responsibility to ask, to question, to throw the trouble-making, unnatural woman-girl out of here and perhaps even out of this place.
"I am much acquainted with the master of this place," she – that witch – replies so easily, so confidently, and I cannot even hear any smidgen of a bragging tone in her low voice. "But as for my name and relation to him, you should ask the Lord himself, not me. It is on his discretion that I am here, and it is on his discretion whether you shall know of me or not."
Arrog –
"May I please speak with Minnha, though?" she continues I gasp and flinch. What does she want with me? Will she really be changing me into a pest or a termite even?
"Might I please know what for?" Mother Brinn, thank all the gods, does not appear too thrilled about it –
"If you wish to be guided in a tour, good mistress, could you please wait until some time before lunch? Because I shall be needing her for lunch preparation soon. We have so many mouths to feed, good mistress, if you could understand my meaning."
– Oh, I have spoken – thought – too soon. But why does she say that? Surely she knows that woman-girl is evil? Why is she betraying me, selling me away to that solceress?
And the woman-girl is nodding, consenting, asking Mother Brinn to send me to outside Lord Morzan's wing when I am done with my chores. And she is agreeing with her.
I gulp, swallow, gag. Feeling so wretched, so scared, so lost, so alone. Wish Lord Morzan were back here, seeing this, saving me, telling me I should not comply with that woman-girl, taking me somewhere else, even for one of those tideous writing exercises with Tornac.
But Lord Morzan is not here, and the woman-girl is temporarily gone, and Mother Brinn is staring sharply at me – sharp as the row of knives Lobinn and Regis used to slaughter and dice up that cow that we had four days ago.
"Don't be fooled, girl," she says lowly to me, but her words seem to be directed to all of us that are gathered here, still silent and stiff like statues. "She said nothing of it, yes she did, but I've got a sense there's something old and special between her and the Master. I'd give my right hand for that. So whatever she wants you to do and wherever she wants you to go, keep your runaway mouth shut and keep that saucy tongue of yours tied up, or the Master'll skin you alive. Now just pray she won't tell him about all those things you shrieked about her just now, eh? At least now don't involve us in one of your schemes. The Master knows what he's doing; don't meddle in what you don't know. Didn't that grandmum of yours ever teach you that, girl?"
My cheeks warm up rapidly. Angry, just so angry, so humiliated, so betrayed. But she is turning away, barking out orders, and Írill is dragging me back to washing the endless dishes.
Hurt, it hurts so much; so lost, so alone. Wish Grandma Eva would be here: she would defend me … perhaps … but she is not here and probably – no!
My hands are trembling too much. The wet ceramic plate slips from my left hand, struck unintentionally by my rag-wrapped right hand, falling to the damp floor, shattering –
"Minnha!"
She is so angry now, Mother Brinn is so angry. Must go, cannot be here, they do not want me here. Mother Brinn does not want me here. Írill probably wishes I had been skinned alive by Lord Morzan, and the others –
Rushing behind me, hands scrape at my back lightly – I shake off the damp rag, dodge the hands, lope over the shattered plate, dash towards the doors to the kitchen, go, run, just run, do not know where.
Just … away …