'"From all that I'm losing, much more will I gain."
'--Martina McBride, "From the Ashes"
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'"Lord Clearwater has taken quite an interest in you."
An interest. What a word to describe the lessons. He titled his spoon and watched vaguely as the stew dribbled back into his bowl. "Lord Clearwater likes me, Father."
Siyth made a gruff, intelligible reply, the most to be expected from him. At times. Nearly thirteen years and Salazar could not claim to completely understand his father. There were times of remarkable eloquence followed by the speech of bears, but translating could be done.
He thought of offering to stop if it took away from necessary chores, but deciding against it; he knew it would be a lie.
Siyth took another bite of stew, then let his spoon drop to the table. "Lord Clearwater is our master, and I have no desire to go against his wishes. And he is a fine wizard. A notable one. Might even be able to put himself with them Fighters, if he wished."
Salazar had never heard his father speak of the Order. Not wishing to show surprise, he turned his gaze on the flickering hearth. It was smaller than the one in the lesson room, and in many ways much cozier. Or it had once seemed. He still preferred this little fire with it's warmth and the cluttered snugness of the cottage.
"Whatever Clearwater calls you to do, Salazar, you will do."
"He admires my talent." A truth, and a full truth at that. No sense to bring up the lessons. Terminus had said nothing against sharing them, but Salazar saw little reason that his father should have to know. They lived in the swamp, the dusky fenland stretching from the murkier fringes of the lake. The place of swamp magic, the Muggles said, and they would steer the horses away. It was too late to bring forth what was to be kept secret. And there was no harm in it. If Salazar was not to know his father, his father did not have to know him.
"He has said nothing to me of what he does with you," Siyth continued, his rough fingers tracing shapes into the table's grainy surface. "And it does not matter what he does, for he is your master and mine."
Salazar said nothing.
"I do like to imagine he teaches you something, or puts you to some use." Behind him, the flames bit into a log, and it fell with a fountain of ashes.
Sometimes the flames looked like snakes.
Salazar gave a laugh, perfected to feign comfort. Which he did feel, when he thought about it. It was a game, suddenly. A game to see how long he could keep his father in the dark. Wouldn't Godric be pleased to hear about it. "Of course the time is useful! Do you think Lord Clearwater would let his servants lounge about?"
A thoughtful smile curved behind Siyth's beard. "True. Though I wish he would. For me, anyway. You're still considered a child for a few years yet—more time is yours."
"I can work longer." He bit into the stew, tasting the spicy meat of the hare Ethelinda had caught. He could still see the fight in his mind, the way Ethelinda's lithe green body had coiled so about the rabbit's quivering body. It was sickening, he supposed—death always was. But he himself had killed hares before, and she had owed him a favor besides. He might ask her to catch another one, but not kill it. A baby one, brown and furry. A pet for Rowena.
Siyth laughed, echoing through the cottage. "You could, but we both know perfectly well that you won't. Isn't that right? There'll be plenty of time for that later, unless, of course, Lord Clearwater makes some sort of grand wizard from you. A regular member of the Fighters."
"I would hate to join them."
The laugh stopped, seemingly cut off as Siyth's stern gaze fell on him. "They do what they feel is necessary, be it good or bad in the end. I'd hate just as much to see you join them."
The fire wasn't warm enough.
"Besides, there is only so much I can teach you. If Lord Clearwater is instructing you, I bless you both."
A blessing. A blessing toward what he didn't know. Salazar couldn't imagine what his father would think of the lessons. How dare he allude to such, dare think that there was anything more than private service between servant and master. For a moment Salazar considering telling everything. But the moment passed.
"Are you alone, in these?"
Four students, Salazar thought. Four students and one eccentric Muggle woman. And Godric Gryffindor. A wizard, hardly the brat of a Muggle nobleman. Salazar couldn't help but liking him for coming off as such. "Yes." He finished his stew in a few hurried bites and stood up. The cottage was much too confining. "I'm going outside."
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The window was open, the expensive glass panes flung wide until they were caught by the grabbing trees. Her father would be furious, if he saw. Naira would also be, though more for fear of a sudden attack upon Helga's health than any damage to Lord Hufflepuff's silly windows. The latter was more comforting, a loving thought that someone might care more about a living girl than what any highly paid artisan could churn out. But neither mattered; they weren't there, but across the house in the hall, where Naira was certainly trying to calm Lord Hufflepuff's temper. They couldn't see, and Helga preferred the windows open. They were enchanted in themselves, from their placement in the tower, painting nearly the entire valley before her. And it was real magic of a real valley, not some silly illusion. It seemed all so close from the window, so much that she could almost spread out her arms and leap into the window and go through it all and never have to see her father again.
She hadn't intended what had happened at dinner. Not with any intensions she felt, at least, for she hated to upset him and despite everything else she supposed she did love him. And he was good to her, mostly. She was his pet and he could shower her with pretty things and sweet names, but with a sudden twist of the day it would all be over with a plunge in her potential. What did it take for her to please him?
'She crossed the room to her bed and punched the pillow, wishing it might be his head. Then she threw it back, shocked at herself. What reality was she trying to bring upon herself? It all came from within her, those moments, from a well deep inside that she fought so hard to keep covered. It was a small one, nothing damaging. But she hated it even more than she hated him.
Perhaps that's what made it all the worse.
She looked sadly at the pillow before smoothing out its wrinkled coverings, then returned to the window. Night was coming, and with it the cold hair that slid from the mountains. Carefully, she climbed into the frame. How easy it would be to jump. Transform and jump into the tree and scurry down it and into the trees and wherever else she might like to go. It'd be so simple. She could vent everything that night and return to Lord Clearwater's the next afternoon, just as her father wished.
She did want to please him.
And she liked the lessons. She liked learning, liked the way she worked so hard for the new spells and how good they then were. The challenge was the best part. And she liked the others. Rowena the pest. Godric. Salazar. . . the strangest one of them. So much like any other peasant boy. But then he would pause after a game, and his face would grow thoughtful. . . she wondered about that. What did he think about? Terminus?
Despite what she liked, she still didn't trust the man.
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"Heather!" Malak's voice cut through the garden into Heather's thoughts like a knife. She lifted her head in time to see him dart between the trees of the garden, unbound hair flailing behind him like a horse's tail. A horse's tale, all dirty and sweaty. She smiled at that thought, though she knew Malak would be sure to keep his hair very clean. Like his face. Too clean, she decided, gleaming like too much water in the moonlight.
She forced a smile and crumpled the letter into her fist. The parchment near burned at her skin. It should be out and read again. She wanted to so much, though she had all but memorized each word. "Hello, Malak. I wasn't aware of your arrival."
He stopped before her, panting for breath. His shirt clung to his body. How long had he been running?
She frowned and with one hand tilted his chin up. "You poor thing," she murmured. "You should sit down. Though I admit I'm quite flattered to have one chasing after me."
"I'd chase you to the moon, Heather."
She glanced up at it, waning and pale. If only he would go there. She sat down in the grass beneath the laurel, spreading her skirt around her so the folds would rise and fall like mountains. The letter could easily be tucked between them, hidden from Malak's eyes. "You don't have to do that. The marriage ceremony is approaching soon. The betrothal was made years ago."
"Heather," he began, reaching for her hand. She let him take, though his might as well have been that of a leper. "Surely you don't think of it as just a betrothal."
"I'm sure you're perfectly aware of my feelings for you," she said bitterly. He held her hand, wasn't that enough? "And I'm also perfectly happy to marry you, once I feel that Rowena is settled." A lie. A lie a thousand times over.
"Rowena." Malak sighed deeply. "To think of your sweet cousin trapped in the confines of that demon."
"Demon?" Without thinking she drew back her hand.
He didn't reach for it again. "It's much too dark for you to be out here. We should go inside."
"I can see fine, Malak. Since when do you refer to those people as demons?"
He sighed again, a sound like a covering over steam. "You know I don't stand with the Christians on this, but my family has never been kind toward them. Since when do you sympathize with them? I'm aware of your aunt's choice. . . ."
"I'm not sympathizing with them." She stared at where she had hidden the note; the faintest shadow of a corner spilled forward onto her skirt. "But you know I adore Rowena, and her mother and father feel safe when I take her to the lake manor."
"Don't you remember why you agreed in the first place?"
She did, of course, yet it was a grey memory. Did she really remember?
"It's your task, Heather." His tone had changed, from the simpering betrothed to her master. Again. "You've heard the rumors. The Phoenix people. The Fighters, they call themselves. Burning villages with that magical fire that can't be put out."
She studied his face, trying to decide if he were serious. "That isn't true! You can't prove heresay!"
"And I can't prove it otherwise. I understand they have a certain name for us."
"Muggle." She suppressed a giggle as she said it. "I find it a sweet name."
"Sweet." He gave a dry laugh. She could now barely see his face. "Heather, I am still counting on you to do this. To tell me."
The night was growing colder. She breathed it in, relishing the coolness. "Nothing is happening. I'd tell you if something was."
"Would you?" Another laugh, like bitter smoke. "And I await the day you do."
In a flash she saw it. The slit of metal above his boot, lit up for a moment by what moon there was.
No, she thought. No, no, no. But she couldn't speak it aloud.
He looked at her, and knew what she saw. She could hear it in his mind. "You like it?" he asked, once again the devoted lover. "I could give you one, instruct you how to use it. You could make my job so much easier."
"I'd never touch a weapon," she managed.
"Hm." Then he reached over and pressed his lips against hers. Painful. The hardness of his teeth crushed into her.
"Malak!" She shoved him away, nearly falling herself into the laurel. "How dare you! My father. . ."
"You wouldn't tell him. Not when there is so much more I can do."
She was on her feet, the letter once again in her fist. "Wait until the wedding," she snapped. "Then I'm yours entirely."
He stood up next to her, safely distant. "I await that as well, then."
Perhaps she should have accepted a knife. . .
"Come inside," he said gruffly. "It isn't proper that we be out here." Without waiting for her, he started toward the manor.
She wasted a moment watching him go, then quickly flipped the letter out before her.
My Beloved Heather,
Jonas laughs at our game, but he loves to play the messenger.. . .
She read the rest of it, feeling the laughter bubble up inside her. She was but a silly child, and she didn't care. She pressed the parchment to her breast, loving its strange warmth.
"Caspian," she whispered.