Destiny: Child of the Sky

37

Gerald Owen, the chamberlain of Haguefort, was on his way to his bedchamber to retire for the evening when he passed the library doors.

Though the double doors were closed, an icy gust of wind blasted from beneath them. Gerald stopped, surprised, and rested his hand against a mahogany panel; it was cold to the touch.

Perhaps the duke is up late, he mused, but discarded the thought as soon as it occurred. Lord Stephen had turned in for the night a few hours before, citing a need for rest in order to be ready to review the rebuilt barracks and the wall guard posts in the early morning hours with the master of his regiment. Gerald opened the door.

The shock of the cold air stung against his face and exposed skin. While not an elderly man, Gerald was long past youth’s prime, and was more vulnerable to the aches and pains he had remembered plaguing his father in his later years. Like his father, Gerald never complained, seeing each twinge and spasm as something to be endured silently, with grace, so as not to distract the duke or the household staff who served under him in any way. He expected as much from the staff as well.

The vast, dark room was filled with shadows and slashes of white light reflecting through the towering windows from the sheets of snow that were writhing outside them. Those billowing shadows danced across the furniture in time to the music of the breeze. A discordant wail rose and fell as the wind whipped around the keep, fluttering the drapes of the open balcony door wildly. The fireplace was cold and dark; the ashes were lifeless.

Gerald entered the library and quietly closed the doors. The howl of the wind diminished somewhat, and the drapes settled back, rustling now instead of flapping. His footsteps were swallowed by the moaning wind as he crossed the enormous room to the balcony doors, passing through wide fields of snow shadows flickering on the polished marble floors and thick silk rugs.

When he reached the doorway he looked out onto the balcony. The stone benches were crowned with several inches of pristine snow, as was the wide stone railing, ornately sculpted, that ringed the semicircular balcony. The carpet of snow on the balcony floor, however, had been marred by numerous small footprints, not much larger than those of a child, dimpled impressions of toes that put him in mind of a distracted kitten’s, leading to the edge and back again several times. There was no one on the balcony.

Gerald hurried out into the bitter night, covering his ears with his hands, and looked down at the ground below the balcony. The snow of the evergreen trees and the courtyard below was unmarred; an ice crust had formed, smooth and serene, dusted by crystals scattering before the insistent gale. Satisfied that no one had fallen, the chamberlain hastened back into the library, pushed the doors shut, and locked them. The cries of the wind softened to a distant keen.

Gerald Owen took out his handkerchief. He bent slowly and wiped up the crystals of snow that had accumulated on the library floor while the door was open.

He was rubbing his hands and halfway across the room again on his way back to the hallway when a white shadow, slightly more solid and stationary than the others, caught his eye. It was huddled amid the dancing shades on the floor next to the sideboard, trembling.

Gerald walked slowly over toward the figure. In the darkness her enormous eyes were even larger, her light brown hair hung in loose waves over her thin shoulders. Her hands were clutching a small cloth sack; the duke’s decanter of after-dinner brandy was sitting on the floor beside her, the glass stopper in her lap.

-

“Rosella?”

Upon hearing her name the woman in the white dressing gown looked up sharply. Her eyes darted around the room madly, resting momentarily on Gerald’s face, then dashed off again, as if pursuing flying objects only she could see. Gerald slowed his steps even more.

When he was within an armspan of her, the governess began whispering wildly.

“I do, I love the children, sir, I love them, and the duke, of course, the duke has my undying devotion as well. He does. I do, I love them all, would die for any one of them, you have to believe me, sir, I would, I would die for any of them. I love them.”

Gerald crouched down before her and reached out his hand, but the girl shrank away. He withdrew it and spoke as gently as he could.

“Of course you do, Rosella, as do we all. No one would ever doubt your loyalty to Lord Stephen or the children.”

Rosella’s gaze came to rest on his face and remained there; within her eyes Gerald could see madness burning.

“I do, sir, I love them all.”

“Yes, yes, of course you do.”

“I love them.”

“I know.”

Outside the windows the wind picked up, howling furiously. Rosella’s dark eyes darted away again, and she began to whimper like a frightened child.

Gerald reached out to her once more, and once again she reared away. “It’s all right, Rosella,” the chamberlain said soothingly. “It’s all right.” The governess began to mutter to herself, incoherently now. When Gerald caught her eye again, it had clouded over, reflecting the light of the snow.

“The duke,” she whispered repeatedly. “The duke.”

Gerald Owen remained crouched for a long time, ignoring the screaming protest of his knees and back, not moving, until her muttering finally ceased. Afraid what she might do if he were to frighten her, he stood slowly and backed away. He put out his hand again.

“Rosella?”

“The duke,” she whispered. The terror on her face resonated in Gerald’s soul.

“I’ll get him,” he said. “Don’t move, Rosella.”

_As the door closed behind the chamberlain, the voice in the wind grew louder.

Now, Rosella.

It had been howling at her for hours, directing her to its will, berating her incompetence, her stupidity. It no longer threatened, no longer growled, only whispered softly in the darkness past the closed windows.

Now, Rosella.

The governess’s face hardened, and her trembling stopped. The pain in her frozen feet from when she had stood at the balcony edge in the snow ebbed until it vanished.

Slowly she rose and went to the sideboard. The heavy stopper of the decanter tumbled smoothly down the skirt of her dressing gown and onto the floor, where it spun in rolling circles under the table. The small shard of glass from where the fall chipped it twinkled in the reflected light.

She took a crystal snifter and righted it, then held it up in the dancing light of the snow. The curved bowl caught the illumination and held it in the glass like liquid moonlight.

Now, Rosella.

Rosella set the snifter on the sideboard, then opened the tiny drawstring of the cloth sack, damp and deeply wrinkled from the clutching of her hands. She upended the sack into the snifter, then took the decanter of brandy from the floor and splashed a finger of the liquid into the glass. She swirled the snifter slowly, watching the fine powder catch the currents in the brandy and vanish into them, then held the glass up to the snowy light again.

Now, Rosella.

She put the glass to her lips.

“If you love me, or my children, you won’t drink it.”

Rosella spun around. Lord Stephen stood before her in his nightshirt; in the light spilling from the hallway she could see Gerald Owen as well at the door.

“Give me the glass.”

“M’lord—”

“Now, Rosella.”

The words of her beloved master shattered the grasp of the voice in the wind that had wound around her mind. She reached out her hand with the glass; it was shaking violently.

Stephen took the snifter, gently prying her fingers from around the bowl. He walked to the cold fireplace and hurled it into the dark stones at the back, then returned to the sideboard.

“Who gave you the adder-flower extract?”

Rosella’s lip was trembling, but her gaze was clear.

“I don’t know, m’lord.”

“You don’t know?”

“Forgive me, m’lord,” she whispered. “I can’t remember.”

Stephen felt his heart lurch. The words were the same; he had heard them spoken before. They came from the lips of a Lirin soldier, just before the hangman slipped the noose around his neck. The man had been caught, along with the rest of his party, slitting the throat of Stephen’s wife. He had continued to saw at Lydia’s neck, decapitating her, even as Stephen’s soldiers dragged at him, choosing to remain focused on his grisly task rather than to fight or escape.

Why? Stephen had demanded, his voice breaking along with his heart, as he stood face-to-face with the man on the gallows. At least tell me why.

I don’t know, m’lord.

Who gave you the order?

I—can’t remember.

It had been the same with each of the soldiers executed that day, even to the last, whose sentence he had offered to commute in exchange for the information.

I can’t remember. I am sorry, m’lord.

The soldiers of the Sorbold column that had attacked the winter carnival had stood, staring blankly at the smoking ruins of the holiday festival.

Why?

I—don’t know, m’lord.

Who gave the order?

I can’t remember.

The woman standing before him was trembling violently. Stephen stared into her eyes, which were filled with dark terror and uncertainty, and felt for a moment he could see straight into her heart. He took her into his arms.

“All right, Rosella,” he said finally. “All right.” He gestured at Gerald Owen, who in turn opened the door and allowed the two guards who had been waiting outside in the hall at Stephen’s command to enter the library.

“Take her to the tower,” he said quietly to the chamberlain as the guards led her away. “Make her comfortable; do not treat her like a prisoner. She’s ill.”

“Shall I send word to Llauron, m’lord? Perhaps Khaddyr could do something for her.”

Stephen shook his head. “No. I have to think about this, Owen. Until I decide what to do, I’m not going to involve anyone else, not even Llauron.”

“I understand, m’lord.” Gerald Owen picked up the decanter and the small empty bag, bowed, and left the library.

Stephen sighed as the door closed.

“I wish I did.”