CHAPTER 6
Two months passed before word came from the party sent to capture a troll. The mission had failed. All but one of the party had been killed, and he didn't last much longer than the time it took him to return to Moonbrook and deliver the bad news. Fourteen men, lost.
The night he arrived, Myra, VanCleef and Idira were taking their evening meal in the big dining room. He came in, his injuries wrapped in stiff, blood-stained linens, reeking of infection. He pulled off his grimy red bandana and mopped his face, his hand shaking as he told them how their party had been taken by surprise almost as soon as they entered the vine-infested jungle of Stranglethorn Vale. It had been a massacre. The machete wielding trolls had made quick work of the others, their hunting tigers growling as they fed on the fallen, oblivious to the agonised screams of those still living. He had managed to survive by throwing himself into a deep, rocky ravine before the tigers got to him. The trolls had left him for dead.
VanCleef said nothing, but Idira could tell he was very angry. He put his wine glass down with great care, got up and walked out of the room, leaving his unfinished dinner behind; his silver cutlery askew on his plate, a piece of meat still speared on his fork. He went up the stairs, his booted feet hard against the wooden steps. A heartbeat later a door slammed.
Waiting at the dining room's arched doorway, their arms crossed over their chests, Myra's guards eyed each other, their thoughts difficult to read, but it didn't look like they approved of VanCleef's plan to capture a troll. No gold in it, Idira had heard one of his men mutter earlier that day when she was in the kitchen collecting apples for the horses.
She put down her fork, her appetite gone. Even if they were bad men, they had died because of her. It was her fault. Before she could stop herself, she imagined them being eaten by tigers. She looked at Myra, hoping for reassurance.
Her sister returned to her food, unconcerned.
"Fourteen less of them," she said, smug. Only a little of the country dialect still clung to her words, softening the sharpest edges of her now unmistakably noble accent. She looked up at Idira, her eyes cold. "That's a good girl."
Despite her hatefulness, Myra sounded terribly elegant, like a real lady. At first, Idira thought Myra looked even prettier when she spoke with her new accent, it was like her words finally matched the rest of her. But as the number of days until the six month deadline shortened, and her hopes of being reunited with Benny dwindled, Myra changed.
Her beautiful words became weapons, used to inflict injury. She changed from melancholic and withdrawn to angry and bitter, prone to temper tantrums. She ordered gowns by the dozen from Stormwind, wearing them once before tossing them into her fireplace to watch them burn. Idira couldn't bear it. She would cry as Myra paced the sumptuous bedroom, barefoot, a glass of wine in her hand, wearing nothing more than her corset and knickers, laughing, vindictive, as the poor gown succumbed to the hungry flames.
Her dinner finished, Myra stood up. She raised her glass to her mouth, her gaze drifting down her guards' bodies, lingering on their crotches. She sipped her wine and licked her lips, slow and seductive. "Perhaps you shall be chosen next for this fool's errand of his. If I was a tiger, I would eat you." She laughed, brittle, amused by her little joke. Her guards glared at back her, their hatred tangible. Ignoring them, she poured herself another glass of wine and sank down onto VanCleef's chair, gesturing to the waiting manservant to serve her dessert there.
Idira pushed her chair back and left. Myra was getting drunk again, things would only get worse from now on. When she passed out, VanCleef would have to carry her to bed. He didn't want anyone else to touch her. Although lately, almost every night went the same: after a drunken dinner filled with Myra's angry words and accusations, VanCleef would drag her from her chair up to her room, his face black like a thundercloud before the storm. Even with her hands over her ears, Idira could still hear the sounds of their fighting; the crash of porcelain against the walls, the heavy thuds of furniture toppling over. It was just like living with Papa again, only this time Myra was Papa.
VanCleef's voice would carry, loud, angry and fraught with frustration as he cursed, bellowing if he wasn't a man of honour he would take her there and then and teach her a lesson she wouldn't soon forget. Idira wished he would just teach her that lesson, whatever it was. She just wanted the fighting to stop.
Once when Idira was playing in the stable yard she heard VanCleef's men talking about Myra as they carried broken furniture from her room to a waiting wagon, shaking their heads as they threw the splintered pieces away, calling her a demon woman. Later, while they played cards in the tack room she heard them laying bets whether VanCleef would crack and take Myra to his bed before the six months was up. One scoffed and said the only thing wrong with her was she needed a good, hard fucking. The others nodded, grim and threw their gold down, betting VanCleef would do it that week. He didn't.
Two weeks after the failed attempt to catch a troll, Idira sat on Myra's bed, watching Lanira help her sister get ready for dinner. Clad in an ivory corset and loose silk knickers, Myra trailed her fingers through the gowns in her wardrobe, bored. Lanira pulled out a gorgeous emerald green one and held it up, an eyebrow raised questioningly. Myra's lips curved into a sneer. Quick as a cat, she snatched it from Lanira and strode to the fireplace, wadding it up to throw into the flames. Lanira cried out and caught it just in time. She sheltered it against her chest, her eyes sparking, furious.
"Good people are going without food to pay for these gowns," she snapped, her body shaking, betraying the depth of her outrage. "After all this time, how can you still believe the gold for them comes from VanCleef's purse?"
Myra shrugged, uncaring. "So they suffer, what is it to me? I suffer too. If they are paying for these gowns, then less gold is pouring into his cause. Sooner or later it hurts him."
Lanira glared at Myra, she shoved the dress down onto the chaise beside her and went to Myra, her jaw clenched. She waved her hand around the opulent room "You call this suffering? Even if he is the most depraved creature in bed, whatever VanCleef could do to you pales in comparison to what others must endure under his iron fist. Stop burning the dresses, you stupid, stubborn girl."
"You dare speak to me so?" Myra seethed, hectic spots of colour blossoming on her cheeks. She went to the chaise and ran her fingers over the dress, her eyes narrow, taunting Lanira. She grabbed it and bolted to the fireplace, the gown's train trailing behind her. Lanira lunged and caught hold of the train, pulling Myra back. A loud rip filled the room as the bodice tore free of the skirt. Lanira looked down at the ruined gown, her chest rising and falling.
"No," she whispered, her eyes bright with tears. Myra shot her a look of triumph. Lanira screamed, furious and slapped Myra so hard, Myra stumbled backwards, her back slamming against the fireplace pillar.
Stunned, Myra's eyes flitted back and forth, seeing but not seeing. Her whole body trembled. Lanira went after her, reaching out to her, trying to calm her. Myra began to quake, her fingers writhed up into her hair. She took hold of her head and screamed. Her cry agonised, despairing, hopeless. The scream stopped. She stood there, panting, like a hunted animal. Her eyes went to her dressing table, she ran to it, frantic and swept its contents onto the floor. The little crystal jars of ointments, oils and perfumes tumbled onto the tiles in front of the fireplace, smashing into hundreds of tiny shards. The sweet scent of roses overwhelmed the room.
She started screaming again, incoherent, throwing chairs and cushions at the walls. Even though the dressing table must have weighed a great deal, she lifted it and heaved it across the room. It smashed against the door, gouging a hole into the bottom panel. Shouts and bellows came from outside. Pounding feet ran down the hallway. Barefoot, she stumbled over the broken jars, oblivious to the blood coming from her feet, her eyes wild, yelling King Wrynn was coming to rescue her. She clawed at the curtains, jerking on them, trying to pull them down, hysterical.
Idira ran to the corner, terrified. Lanira huddled over her, her arms around her, trying to protect her. Someone was at the door, shouting, trying to get it to open. A heavy thud hit the door, making it wobble. Another followed, then another. The door burst open, snapping off its hinges. The broken table scudded free. VanCleef stormed in wearing nothing but breeches, boots and a long red robe that hung open, revealing his bare chest. He must have been in his study, working on one of his engineering designs, as was his usual habit in the evenings. His face black with rage, he strode across the room and grabbed hold of Myra's arms, restraining her. She struggled against him, panting, her breasts straining to escape the confines of her corset. His hands tightened on her, digging into her flesh. She bellowed as the pain hit her. He shook her, hard, making her hair tumble free from its clips and pins. It cascaded down her back, a riot of curled, messy tresses. She looked beautiful in a completely different way, like a wild thing, desperate to be tamed.
"Enough!" he roared. "This ends now." He turned and threw her onto the bed so hard she bounced. She scuttled away from him, her feet leaving smears of blood across the white linen cover. He came after her and climbed over her, menacing. His fingers wrapped around her wrists, pinning her arms above her head.
"I still have six weeks," she plead, squealing and kicking as he gathered her wrists together in one hand, and began unfastening the front of her corset with the other. "You promised!"
"To the Void with my promise," he said, dangerous. His fingers finished their work, her corset popped open, setting her breasts free. He groaned and took hold of her jaw, his eyes capturing hers, filled with warning. Holding her still, he kissed her, fierce, possessive. Her struggles slowed, then stopped altogether. She moaned. Still restrained by him, she lifted her head and kissed him back, hungry, her hips arching towards his.
He broke off the kiss, and looked up at Lanira, his eyes hotter than a blacksmith's forge. "Get out."
Lanira scrambled to her feet and hurried out the gaping, destroyed doorway, Idira trotting after her to keep up. Once in the hallway, Idira looked back, Myra's guards moved into place, their big bodies barricading the view. Idira expected to hear her sister start fighting again with VanCleef, but all she heard was soft moans and sighs.
Later, as Idira coloured in her new colouring book, she heard muted cries that didn't sound like fighting at all. And later, as she ate her dinner on a tray in her room, their soft voices drifted up from the stairwell as they moved from Myra's ruined bedroom to VanCleef's. His door slammed. Quiet fell. In the night she woke to the sound of their cries again, louder this time. Definitely not fighting. She smiled and turned over onto her side, watching the moon give way to the coming dawn. Silence fell. VanCleef must have finished the lesson. Peace had finally come to the big house. Idira closed her eyes, relieved. She slept, and dreamed of nothing.
The next morning was the holy day, Idira went down to the dining room for breakfast. VanCleef and Myra didn't come down, nor did they come down to take the carriage to the cathedral. Idira went alone and sat with Lanira instead. When Idira came back full of stories about the fish she had finally seen in the fountain, no one was there to talk to her. The door to VanCleef's room remained closed, with two of his henchmen standing outside, trying not to smirk. Lanira hurried her past and up to her room where she stayed with her for the afternoon, colouring with her and playing Idira's favourite game, Hearthstone.
At high tea, Nin arrived for a visit. She opened the door and peered in, wearing a wide-brimmed hat decorated with purple and green feathers. Her dark blue gown rustled as she came in and took a seat by the window. She made small talk about the unseasonable cool weather as she pulled the pins from her hat and lifted it off. Idira could feel Nin's eyes on her. She continued with her colouring, trying her best to look uninterested in them, while secretly wondering what Nin wanted to say.
Tea and cake arrived. The women sat in the window seat sipping their tea, looking down at the square in companionable silence. Nin sighed and set her teacup back into its saucer.
"Edwin's absence at the service was noted today," she murmured. "You know how people like to talk. I do hope he is not unwell."
"According to the servants, he has not left his bed all day," Lanira answered, vague.
"Indeed? How unlike him. Perhaps I should call on him." Nin set aside her saucer, making to leave. Lanira took hold of her wrist and shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. Nin drew in a sharp breath.
"Is it . . . No! Can it be? Have they . . . finally come to an understanding?"
Lanira nodded, her cheeks colouring. "Something like that."
Nin clasped her hands together in front of her, pleased. "Oh thank the Light, I had almost given up hope for him. I rather suspected Myra would hold out to the bitter end. How did he ever change her mind?"
Lanira looked out the window, her face hardening a little. "She drove them both to their wit's end, and it just came about, as these things tend to do."
Nin leaned forward, perplexed. "I don't understand."
Lanira met Nin's eyes. "Let's just say, I rather think VanCleef has met his match in Myra. That girl is going to break his heart one day."
Nin fell silent, disapproval emanating from her. Lanira cleared her throat and lifted up the teapot, pouring them both more tea. "I have been hearing rumors from Stormwind," she said, lowering her voice. "That the King has not recovered from the Queen's death and the city is being run by another, the Lady Katrana Prestor."
Nin nodded, brusque, stirring milk into her tea. "I have heard the same. My contacts within the palace have confirmed the truth of it. King Varian remains in his apartments surrounded by Tiffin's belongings. He doesn't wash or take exercise, neither will he see their infant son, Anduin. He simply broods." She tapped her spoon against the side of the tea cup and set it aside. "I heard he sleeps with Tiffin's dress on the bed beside him, holding it as though she is still there." She tutted and shook her head. "So tragic, for one so young."
Neither of them said anything for awhile. Idira kept colouring thinking about the poor King, holding the dress of his dead Queen in his arms as he slept. It made her think of her fairytales. So many of them were sad. From the corner of her eye she saw Lanira rise up to check on her. Idira kept colouring, studiously feigning her interest in her work. Lanira sank back down, satisfied.
"And his advisor," Lanira asked, cautious. "This Lady Prestor, can she be trusted in his stead?"
"For what?" Nin asked, sharp.
Lanira lifted her teacup to her lips. "Many in Westfall are simple folk who have become caught in the crosshairs of VanCleef's disagreement with Stormwind," she answered, careful. "Certainly there are more than a few who fear reprisals from the King's army. Not all were masons or owed money."
Nin scoffed. "Then they can put their minds at ease, for so long as the King is in this state, Westfall is of no interest to Stormwind. Which is of course to Edwin's favour, granting him much needed time to organise and gather resources."
"Hmm," Lanira murmured, noncommittal. She touched one of the feathers of Nin's hat, full of admiration, enquiring where she had purchased it. Diverted, Nin described her recent visit to the magical city of Dalaran far to the north, where the most famous milliner of all Azeroth kept his boutique. Idira almost stopped colouring as she listened, fascinated, to Nin's vivid descriptions of the city's soaring spires and fashionable shopping district where only the incredibly wealthy and privileged could enter.
Warming to the conversation, Nin opened her tasselled pouch and pulled out a flask of alcohol, tipping a little into both Lanira's teacup and her own before adding more tea. She talked of Dalaran's fashions, comparing them to the current styles in Stormwind. They emptied the flask little by little, whiling away the afternoon, companionable. The sun was low in the sky when Nin clapped her hands together declaring she had just remembered a delicious tale she had been told by her milliner in Dalaran of a young mage cursed by his mentor with the looks of an old man. Apparently this young man had saved the world by closing a magical dark portal that led to Azeroth from the world of the orcs, called Draenor. But in an interesting twist, he had been forced to remain on the other side, never to return. An incredible sacrifice. She had since found out when VanCleef had been given the work to rebuild Stormwind, he had received an order to erect a statue to the heroic mage in Stormwind's Valley of Heroes, to commemorate him for all time.
She paused, tapping her fingers against her chin. "Oh, what was his name again? Ah yes, there it is," she snapped her fingers. "Khadgar. By all accounts a charismatic, powerful man. I should rather liked to have met him."
She left soon after, smiling and stumbling a little from having emptied her little silver flask. Lanira went to fetch dinner for Idira, since it didn't look like she would be summoned to eat in the dining room. Once she was alone, Idira opened her notebook and wrote down the name of the heroic mage. Khadgar. She stared at the letters of his name, sensing the vast distance that separated them. He was living on another world, right now. Up until today Stormwind seemed an impossible distance, now she realised she would have adjust her perceptions. She wished she could understand the bigness of it, but she couldn't. He was out there somewhere beyond the sea, the sky and the sun, beyond even the night and the stars. She felt crushed by the immensity of it and sad at the same time. She would never meet him, the man who saved Azeroth. She sighed and picked out a new picture. She would colour it in for him. Maybe one day she would get to visit Stormwind and she could leave it by his statue. Maybe in his heart, from far away he would sense her gratitude. She hoped so.
That evening at bedtime, VanCleef came to see her. She was sitting up in her bed, reading the fairytale of the King who lost his Queen to the sea, where an evil sea sorceress cursed the queen to live forever without love because she was jealous of the queen's beauty. Every night the queen would sing to her king from the sea's rocks outside his castle, hoping he would come to her and hold her in his arms, breaking the terrible spell. But he was cursed too, and he couldn't hear her. Years passed, but she never gave up hope he would hear her plaintive song. One evening he appeared on his balcony with his new queen, kissing her. Broken-hearted, the cursed queen slipped down from the rocks and swam away to the end of world where she found a deserted island. Long after he died, she continued to sing to him, dreaming of the days when he had once been hers, until the sorceress had mercy on her and cut out the queen's heart, killing her forever. It was the saddest story Idira knew and she loved it. She was on the last page when VanCleef came in.
He came to her, smiling and relaxed, wearing his red robe tied closed over his breeches. He pulled up a chair and took the book from her. Fishing a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of his robe, he read the rest of the story aloud. He was very quiet when he finished. He set the book aside.
"Is this your favourite story?" he asked.
Idira considered. "It's one of them, I like a lot of them."
"It's a very sad story," he said as he helped Idira to settle down under the covers. He glanced back at the leather-bound tome. "These are fairytales meant for grown ups. They are meant to teach us about important things like love, fidelity and honour through the art of storytelling."
"I know, but I like them anyway. Is Myra better now?"
VanCleef smiled, his eyes softening as his thoughts turned inward. "She is."
"I guess your lesson worked."
VanCleef stared at her, uncomprehending.
"You told her you were going to teach her a lesson she wouldn't forget, you know, when you were shouting at her?" Idira prompted.
Realisation flickered across his face. He burst out laughing. Pulling his glasses off, he wiped the tears from his eyes. He shook his head, bent over and kissed her forehead.
"Indeed it did. Sleep well, little one." He tucked the blankets up tight under her chin and gave Blackie an affectionate pat on the head. The cat ignored him.
Smiling, he snuffed out the candles and closed the door, soft. She heard him start laughing again as he went down the stairs. She wondered what was so funny. Adults were so strange sometimes. His door opened and closed, soon after she heard her sister laughing with him, they both sounded happy. Idira snuggled down into her pillows, warm and cosy. Never in her life had she heard Myra laugh like that. It must have been a really good lesson.
The next day, after her own lessons with Nin were finished, Idira went to see Myra. For the first time in months, no guards stood outside her sister's room. Idira peeked inside, curious. The ruined door and dressing table had been taken away. A new dressing table stood where the old one had been, though its surface lay bare of the usual toiletries and perfumes. The bloodstained bed cover had been changed, too. Apart from the missing door and the toiletries, it was as if the horrible events of two evenings ago had never happened. She left and went to VanCleef's room hoping to find Myra there.
Two of VanCleef's men stood outside, looking mean as usual. Blades on their hips, arms and thighs reflected the light from the candlelit chandelier. Idira hung back by the landing's banister and pointed at the door. One of them turned and knocked.
"Yes?" Myra answered.
"Kid wants in," VanCleef's henchman said, eyeing Idira.
Several moments passed. The door opened. Myra wore a lavender dressing gown, tied loose at the waist, her hair only half pinned up. She smiled and beckoned Idira inside. Idira took a deep breath and bolted past the two men into the room.
"We ain't that scary, kid," the one who had knocked scoffed.
Myra leaned against the door, giving the men an eyeful of her silken undergarments.
"Yes, you are," she said as her eyes slid over his array of blades. "Next time, give her more space to pass."
"Aye, whatever the Lady wishes," he answered, his eyes dark as they took in the curve of her breasts.
She smirked at him and closed the door, rolling her eyes as she turned the key. Idira followed her sister across the enormous, opulent room to a pair of wooden sliding doors, painted white. Myra pushed them open. They slid into the walls. Idira went in and turned around, astonished. It was a room just for clothes. A grand window faced onto the square, its wooden shutters folded back, illuminating the space in soft evening light. Along the walls, sections of rails held VanCleef's jackets, breeches and shirts. Another wall contained shelves holding his collection of polished leather boots, held upright with wooden boot shapers. Beneath the rails, drawers held his scarves, handkerchiefs, and undergarments. In between the sections, mirrors stretched from the floor to the ceiling. In the middle stood a large square divan covered in dark blue velvet. A pile of Myra's dresses lay strewn over it. Idira found a corner free of the cascading garments. She sat, and looked around, enchanted.
"Nice, isn't it," Myra said as she held up one of the dresses and gazed at herself in the mirror.
Idira nodded. "It's like a fairytale, and VanCleef's the prince."
Myra turned from the mirror and chose another gown, a dark blue one with gold embroidery. She held it up, turning from side to side. "What about this one?" she asked.
Idira eyed it, she hadn't seen that one before. It was very nice. Myra glanced into the bedroom. Idira looked back. Maybe her sister was thinking of destroying it. She stood up, wary, and edged towards the door. "Why? Are you going to burn it?"
Myra cheeks coloured a little. She shook her head. "No. My dress burning days are done."
"Oh? That's good." Idira sat back down. "Why?"
Myra sank down onto the divan and toyed with one of the golden tassels on her dressing gown. She sighed. "All those days and nights I waited—longed—for my old life to return, to go back to Benny and fulfill our dream of living on our little farm. All those nights spent holding out on the hope King Wrynn would come and make everything right before the six months ended. Benny asked me to live, but he left me here knowing if the King didn't come I would become VanCleef's lover."
"Benny didn't have a choice," Idira said, quiet, unwilling to let her sister blame him for her tantrums.
Myra stood up, agitated, and began to pace, her beautiful reflection following her in the half dozen mirrors. "I thought if I could push VanCleef away by being difficult this would end, but all I did was make him want me more. Every fight we had made me feel something for him too, something I can't explain. I started to want him. It's not love, but now that it's finally happened, I can't bring myself to say I regret what we've begun." She stopped pacing and glanced at Idira, shamefaced.
"I still love Benny, but he is far away and VanCleef is here. It's just easier this way, to go along with him, instead of fighting and being angry all the time. And . . . it's not so bad after all. He's . . . very attentive." Her blush deepened and she bit her lip. A little secretive smile crept across her lips.
Idira raised her eyebrows. She really had no idea what her sister was talking about. She loved Benny but she liked letting VanCleef kiss her? Adults made no sense at all.
She pointed at a dark green gown, near the bottom of the pile. "That one is my favourite."
Myra blinked and shook her head, pulling her attention back to the present. She slid the dress out from under the others and held it up in front of the mirror. She smiled, wearing faraway look in her eyes. "This one it is then," she whispered as she let her robe fall to the floor.
That night, when they went down to dinner, it was like they were a real family. Myra her Mama and VanCleef her Papa, they drank wine together, their foreheads touching as they laughed and talked. Even after two bottles of wine they never fought once.
After dessert, VanCleef played a game of Hearthstone with Idira. She suspected he let her win, but she didn't complain, she liked to win. Afterwards, Myra helped her get ready for bed. Her sister lay down beside her, as beautiful as a princess. She looked up at the canopy as VanCleef read a bedtime story from Idira's book of grown-up fairytales, his dark eyes catching Myra's as he turned the pages.
As they left, VanCleef wrapped his arm around Myra's waist and pulled her back against him, his dark eyes smouldering as he brushed his lips against the nape of her neck. Myra made a little sound, filled with longing, and clung to him. They slipped out. The door closed. A pause. Myra's gown rustled. She gave a little cry of delight.
"Don't drop me," she said in a teasing tone.
"Never," VanCleef returned, his voice low. He strode away. His booted footsteps moving down the stairs, determined.
Idira sat up and dragged her fairytale book from the bedside table, the full moon granting more than enough light.
"The next picture I see is what is going to happen to Myra and VanCleef," she whispered as she opened the book.
It was the King on his sinking ship, desperately trying to save his drowning queen, his face filled with anguish as she slipped free of his fingers into the ocean's depths. Idira slammed the book closed and tried again. The pages fell open to the same picture.
She put the book back.
"It's just a stupid book, it doesn't mean anything," she told Blackie, who sat watching her, swishing her tail back and forth. Idira lay back down and stared at the bed's canopy. It would be ok. Everything would be ok. The book didn't know. She closed her eyes and tried not to think of the vision she had had at the birthday dinner of Myra drowning.
It took a long time to fall asleep.
After the first failed attempt to capture a troll, Idira found out VanCleef had sent Papa to lead the second party. Papa had chosen trackers, hunters and a half dozen rogues expert at using stealth and paralysing poisons. Lanira said to Nin the men were probably more afraid of Jac than the trolls. They laughed a little, but neither of them sounded amused.
Two weeks later the message arrived. Papa had been successful. A captured troll waited for them at Klaven's Tower. A few days passed and nothing more was said, although VanCleef was absent from dinner for two nights. The day before the holy day, Idira woke to be told her lessons had been cancelled. After taking breakfast in her room, Lanira took Idira down the stairs to the entrance hall, holding her hand tighter than usual. Outside the open front door, a closed coach drawn by four sturdy black horses stood waiting on the cobbled stones of the square. One of the horses shook its mane and pawed the cobbles, restless.
Arinna waited by the table in the entrance hall, wearing a dark cloak over her white dress, its hood pulled up over her hair. A leather satchel filled with books sat on the floor by her feet. From within the shadows of her hood, she smiled as Idira arrived, though her smile did nothing to conceal the anxiety tingeing her features.
Booted footsteps approached from the inner courtyard. VanCleef came into view, his black leather armour gleaming in the morning light, a red silk scarf tied tight against his neck. A pair of curved swords hung from the belt strapped to his hips, the swords' grips wrapped in strips of red leather. Four men followed him, covered head to toe in leather armour, their arms, legs, backs and hips bristling with bladed weapons.
"Let's go," he said, gesturing to his men to move out. Upstairs, a door opened. Myra came halfway down the stairs, watching him leave, her expression enigmatic. He glanced up at her as he passed, his eyes losing their hardness just for a heartbeat. He turned and swept out the open door, his men filing out after him, silent but for the soft creak of their leather armour.
Lanira knelt beside Idira, her face tight. "You are in good hands," she said, tucking away a stray hair from Idira's ponytail. "Go with Arinna. I will see you at dinner."
Idira trailed after the priestess into the carriage, uneasy. She still didn't know what was happening. She thought about asking Arinna, but the priestess had withdrawn into the shadows of her hood, her lips moving as she whispered prayers for protection. VanCleef remained outside for several moments conferring with his men and the driver before joining them in the coach, his face hard as he looked out the window, surveying the quiet square.
Two of his men climbed up with the driver, the other two jumped up onto the ledge at the back of the coach as it pulled away. The horses moved at a smart trot until they cleared the outer limits of Moonbrook. The driver cracked his whip and the horses surged forward, cantering, the coach rocking rhythmically, like a doll's cradle. VanCleef sat on the edge of the facing seat, his hands on the grips of his swords, vigilant. Idira looked over his shoulder out the back window. The road's dust mushroomed out in thick billows, obscuring what was left of the town's skyline. No one spoke. Idira sat back and gazed out the window beside her for awhile, curious, but there wasn't much to see. The landscape was much the same as at the farm, desiccated, barren. Boring. She leaned her head against the cushioned head rest and tried to sleep. She must have dozed, because when the horses slowed it felt as though only minutes had passed. When she asked, Arinna murmured they had been travelling for just over two hours.
Idira rubbed the sleep from her eyes and peered out the window. Looming over a dusty plain, in front of a range of steep, dry hills, a great solitary tower stood, constructed of massive blocks of stone. Octagonal in shape, it looked to be at least three stories high, the eaves of its sloping tiled roof crammed with deserted rooks nests. Outside the stone steps to its narrow entrance, wagons, stacks of supplies, tents and fires betrayed the evidence of a large camp. The coach pulled to a halt. VanCleef's men jumped down, prowling beside the coach, alert, defensive. A tall, lean man came out of the tower's doorway, dressed in black. Papa. Idira began to shake, terror taking hold of her.
VanCleef opened the door and stepped out, murmuring to Arinna to wait with Idira as he closed the door. He made his way through the camp, moving like a cat, his hands resting on the grips of his swords. His movements reminded Idira of the first time she had seen him, when she had come upon him sparring in the inner courtyard, his swords moving so fast they blurred. She was glad he was on her side. He would protect her from Papa.
Arinna's fingers came around her hand. The priestess gave Idira a reassuring squeeze, though her eyes remained fixed on the two men conversing at the bottom of the stairs.
Idira couldn't hear what they were saying over the conversations of the men lounging by their campfires, but Papa looked at ease, his hands resting on his hips. He nodded and jerked his head at the tower. They talked a little more, both of them calm, they even laughed once. VanCleef half-turned toward the coach, indicating who was waiting within. Papa looked up, sharp, his eyes narrowing. Anger flashed across his lean face. He spat and took a step forward, his hands curling into fists.
VanCleef's gloved hand came up, rough against Papa's chest, holding him back. Papa pushed against him, shouting that Idira was his daughter, not VanCleef's. He shoved himself free and strode towards the coach, murder in his eyes. Idira cried out, scrabbling at the handle of the door, trying to open it. It was locked. Panicking, she looked back. VanCleef lunged after Papa and grabbed his tunic in his fist, a stiletto's blade flashed out from within VanCleef's tunic. He pressed its point against Papa's neck. A spot of blood blossomed outward. The men in the camp fell silent. One by one they came to their feet. Papa scoffed and lifted up his hands, surrendering. VanCleef stepped back and sheathed the slim weapon into the front of his leather tunic, his eyes dark, angry.
He nodded at two of his men, sending them with Papa to the other side of the camp. Papa threw himself down onto a supply crate, rigid. His eyes moved back to the coach. He glared at it, waiting.
VanCleef strode to the coach, unlocked the door and jerked it open. He held out his hand.
"Idira, stay close to me. Arinna, leave the books. We may need to leave quickly."
"But—" Arinna protested, as she pulled the satchel to her.
VanCleef reached in and took hold of Arinna's wrist, pulling her out, rough. "Leave the damn books. Those men are loyal to Jac. If he decides to stir things up, I want you both to run to the coach and return to Moonbrook without me." He shot a look at the driver, who nodded, grim.
Arinna left the coach, trembling and clutching her cloak tight shut, defensive. VanCleef lifted Idira out, positioning her to his left side. Arinna huddled up against his right. His other two men moved forward to flank them.
"Don't look at them, and don't listen to them," he said to Arinna, who had begun to quake in terror. "I won't let them hurt you."
He led them to the tower, ignoring Papa's thugs as they inched closer to him, fingering their knives, watching them, menacing. They leered at Arinna, making indecent remarks about her body and what they would like to do to her. Idira wished she could cover her ears. Is that what grown ups did to each other? It sounded horrible. She heard Arinna stifling a sob.
"Steady Arinna," VanCleef said, low, "don't let them see your fear. We're almost there."
Idira kept her eyes on Papa. He lounged back against the stack of supplies, watching her with hooded eyes as she entered the tower. As she went up the stone steps he smiled, slow, like he knew a secret. Idira shuddered. Malevolence emanated from him. She hurried into the tower's shadows tripping on the hem of her dress in her haste to escape his stare.
Once through the narrow passage and inside the tower, a thick gloom descended upon them. A single smelly tallow candle flickered in the draught, sending up little gouts of black smoke. A large cage stood in the middle of the room, made of iron. It looked old, like it had been there a long time. Cobwebs drifted, loose between its bars, rippling in the dry air. Something big hunched down inside the cage, its breathing ragged. It sounded like it was in pain.
VanCleef pulled his swords from their scabbards and approached the cage, wary.
"Can you understand me?" he asked, eyeing the thing. Arinna crept forward, pulling her hood back, her curiosity overcoming her fear of the men outside.
The creature shifted, groaning. VanCleef raised his swords, preparing to strike. It lifted its head. Idira stared at it, incredulous. She had no idea such a creature could exist. It had huge tusks coming out of its mouth, curving upwards, like a boar's. Its yellow eyes roamed over VanCleef, then Arinna, inspecting them, unimpressed. It snorted and turned its head sharp, to look straight at Idira. It came to its feet, slow. Its muscled pale blue skin shone with sweat. It turned back to VanCleef, a wry smile curved its lips.
"Dere be tings ya be wantin' from Unambi. Dis much I be knowin'," he answered, his voice deep and musical.
Idira stepped forward, noticing he wore nothing apart from a tattered leather loincloth. Dozens of injuries covered his body, some of them crusted over, others looked new and still seeped blood.
"He's hurt," she said. She touched Arinna's hand. "Help him. Please."
Arinna looked at VanCleef, uncertain. He shook his head, terse. "Not yet."
Unambi chuckled, and edged closer to the bars, wrapping his strange hands around them. Just two fat fingers and a thumb. Thick, nasty bruises covered them. "Ya don' be trustin' me? I be da one in dis cage, mon."
"How is it you can speak our language?" VanCleef asked, suspicious. He gestured at Arinna. "She has been studying your language for months in preparation."
Unambi shrugged and tilted his head at the doorway. "Dey like ta talk. Unambi be listenin' all da time. Dere been plenty a time ta be learnin'."
VanCleef took a step closer, intrigued. "Do they know you can understand them?"
The troll lifted his upper lip, sneering. "Nah, mon. I been waitin' for da boss. Da one who likes ta capture trolls. And dere ya be, da reason for Unambi's sufferin'. Ya should know dat man out dere in black intends ta kill ya. I wanted ta be da one ta tell ya."
VanCleef's eyes darted to the doorway. "I can handle him."
"But can ya be handlin' dem others dat be waitin' up dere?" Unambi hissed, raising his eyes to the floors above.
VanCleef nodded at one of his men keeping guard at the doorway, indicating to check the upper floors. The man crouched and stealthed. VanCleef waited, tense. No one said anything. Only a minute passed, but it felt like forever. The man returned, his face ashen.
"How many?" VanCleef asked, low.
"Twelve," came the reply, "but I sensed more, stealthed."
VanCleef clenched his jaw, his gaze moved to Arinna and Idira, his expression bleak. "They won't have you, I swear it."
Arinna sank down onto her knees, her eyes glassy. Idira didn't understand, what did he mean? It sounded both good and bad at the same time.
"Unambi can help ya, if ya be in da mood ta be makin' a deal," Unambi said, quiet.
"What do you want?" VanCleef asked, taut.
"Ya let Unambi out and I be makin' sure ya get out alive. Dere be a few a dem I been longin' ta hurt. Wit dat woman's healin' on me, ya chances be real good."
VanCleef looked at Arinna. "Do it."
She came to her feet, shaking, but she obeyed him. She whispered the words of healing, the light building within her hands. It shot out her, chaotic and messy, her panic and fear amplifying the flow of her healing light.
VanCleef kept his eyes on the bottom of the ramp leading to the upper floors, flexing his fingers on the grips of his swords. He gestured to his men to hold their positions at the door. Idira didn't know where to go, or what to do. She sensed death surrounding her, enclosing her, covering her like a blanket. She could feel the violet light coming again, building up within her. She shook her head, trying to fight it. It couldn't happen now. Not now, when it would ruin everything.
Arinna slumped over, the light fading, her work finished.
A shout came from outside. Papa's men burst through the doorway, VanCleef's men cut them down, one by one, efficient. Their backs turned, they spasmed as wires snapped around their necks, garrotting them, ambushed by stealthed rogues. The rest leapt down the ramp, brandishing their weapons. VanCleef fought, grim, protecting her and Arinna, his swords a blur as he cut his way through the men.
"Da key be dere!" Unambi bellowed at Idira, pointing at a key ring hanging from a hook on the wall. Choking back her terror, she scrambled over Arinna and grabbed the keys. She threw them at the troll, who caught them and opened the lock. He burst free, laughing, triumphant. He leapt into the fray, swinging his massive arm back and forth, flinging the men against the walls, their bones shattering from the force of impact.
Violence and death surrounded her. The shrieks of the dying filled her ears. She couldn't get away. She was trapped and was going to die. She felt the violet light surging through her. The bad magic was coming, and she couldn't stop it. She screamed, holding her hands to her head, closing her eyes tight shut, resisting as hard as she could.
"By da blood o' Hakkar!" Unambi roared, invigorated. "Da power comin' from dat girl. She be pure mojo!"
Idira kept her eyes closed, if she didn't look at the light, maybe it would go away. Her whole body vibrated. Tingling sensations rippled through her. Something was happening. Something big. Pain scorched through her, she felt as though she was being torn apart.
She opened her eyes. Darkness. She had gone blind again.
"Arinna!" she wailed, reaching out, terrified. She felt the priestess's hands come around her torso, holding her tight. The fighting drew closer. VanCleef and the troll shouted warnings to each other as they backed up, overwhelmed by the press of their attackers. Someone screamed, agonised. Blood sprayed over Idira, hot and sticky. The metallic stink of it filled her nostrils. She clung to Arinna, who wept, begging the Light to save them.
A deep throbbing pulse rose inside Idira, rising in sickening waves until she couldn't hear anything except its deep resonating thrum. She felt like she was dying, she couldn't breathe, she couldn't see, she didn't even feel real anymore. The thrum escalated to a deafening roar. Violet light consumed her. She felt her body lurch, tugged forward at a great speed. A snapping sensation burned through her. Her sight returned. She sat up, disoriented, finding herself outside the tower, halfway between the coach and the tower. VanCleef and Unambi turned around, astonished, lowering their weapons. Arinna recovered first. She scrambled to her feet.
"The coach! Run!"
Papa's men staggered out of the tower, hollering with pain, clawing at their eyes. Papa came out last, blood streaming from his eyes, his face black with rage.
They ran. Idira couldn't keep up. She stumbled over a rock and fell, skinning her knees. Unambi turned back and hauled her up, carrying her in the crook of his arm. "Don' ya be worryin', Unambi's got ya."
The coach driver lay sprawled across the bench, his throat slit, soaked in blood. VanCleef jumped up and grabbed reins. Shoving the dead man over the side, he kicked off the brake.
Arinna bolted into the coach, her gown catching and tearing against the door's handle. Unambi tossed Idira inside, she scrambled up beside Arinna, panting, and looked out the window. Papa bellowed in frustration, waving his weapons, giving orders as he stormed towards the coach, his men running ahead, throwing their knives. Their blades slammed into the coach, the points piercing the solid wood. Arinna cried out, begging VanCleef to hurry.
The horses didn't need any encouragement. VanCleef yelled at them anyway. They burst forward, breaking into a gallop. Her heart pounding, Idira watched the distance between them and Papa's men increase. A blur of blue barrelled through the dust towards them. The coach juddered, its back end lowering under the troll's weight as he landed on the back ledge. Unambi looked in through the back window at Idira, his yellow eyes glowing.
"Now Unambi knows why he be here," he roared over the thunder of the horses' hooves. "He been chosen by da gods ta protect ya Light! From now on, where ya go, Unambi goes!"