Darkness Rising 1 - Chained

Chapter 7 - Cutting the Cord

Windstide 1920

At night the kitchen was a peaceful place, albeit only for the four hours in the smallest hours when even the bakers had to rest. The silvery moonlight from the waning Eerian moon mixed with the blue of the Aquatonian to give the interior the quality of frost. Two kitchen boys were curled together under a yarkel blanket for warmth. A small mouse nibbled at the crumbs that lay on their clay plates, the remnants of their supper.

Emelia crept across the cold flags, considering the fragments that remained of her own life at the Keep. She had been almost disappointed that Mother Gresham had not beaten her for her earlier affront; somehow the pain would have fired her fury all the more. Instead she had looked at her with eyes wracked by sorrow. In a flat voice she said that leaving the Keep would be punishment enough, and that if she tried such tomfoolery at the Enclave she’d be living on a lily pad in the Arch-mage’s garden. She had then told Captain Ris that one by one all her girls were going. Gresham had solemnly appraised Emelia, commenting that the girl she had raised had gone that day at the carnival, melting into the crowds never to return. Emelia had skulked to pack her scanty possessions in the girls’ dormitory, the bitter words stinging deeper than any birch.

Yet in a sense Gresham’s comment was true. After all, the old Emelia—a young girl obedient and courteous—would have never eased herself out of her cot at high moon and snuck through the kitchens with escape in mind. She had kissed Abila with tears in her eyes, hoping perhaps one day to see her again, but knowing in her soul that it was not going to be possible.

In the corner of the kitchen Torm was asleep, his head resting on a pile of rags. Emelia hesitated to take a final look at him. His bruised face was peaceful and his ankle was securely strapped.

His eyes flicked open and for several seconds Emelia and Torm just stared at one another.

“Heard what you did,” he said in a low voice. “I still think sticking him would have been better.”

“Perhaps, though my discretion has meant I’m still here to try escape and not in a deep cell in Iyrit Crag,” Emelia said. “One day we’ll get justice.”

“I’ll pray for that day. Perhaps he’ll get drunk and fall off a griffon.”

Emelia knelt by Torm. Her hand touched his swollen face.

“I’d take you with me if I could, I …”

“You’ll have a far better chance if I stay slumbering on this cold stone floor. I would slow you down and get you captured. Two servants on the run? No chance.”

“One day, I’ll come back for you.”

“You’ll do no such thing. I’ll be nipping at your heels like a guppy in no time. You keep checking over your shoulder, Emelia, and one day I’ll be there.”

Emelia stood and secured her satchel.

“I’ll look every day,” she said.

“About what I said earlier. I’m sorry.”

“I know. Bye, Torm.”

She turned and slipped across the kitchen towards the steps. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Torm roll towards the wall.

Emelia reached the stone stairs that led to the levels above and paused. A vision of her younger self, running under the wood tables with Sandila and Abila came to her, a warm orange spectre in the silver blue backdrop. A lump sprang into her throat and she had to choke back a tear as she turned and left that child behind forever.

Although little thought had gone into this beyond the encouraging tones of Emebaka there was no doubt in Emelia that it was her sole option. She could be a servant no more; something had switched inside her. There had been an awakening, an epiphany that something about her was different, destined for another path in life. She could not sit around counting the wasted days until she came of age.