Author Games: Dawn of Nameless Desires

Task One Entries: Trokya

William Pernelle

Wyatt pressed himself against the wall as the maid's footsteps came closer and closer to his bedroom. His hands shook, and he clenched them into fists. He'd tried so many times before. Somehow, Jelenneth still didn't want his help.

Yet.

Her footsteps came to a stop. The door opened, revealing an elven woman in a plain dress and white apron. Wyatt edged away, but it was too late. She'd seen him.

The maid stopped short, her expression hardening. Her grip tightened on her feather duster, as if she expected him to rip it out of her hands. "What," she pronounced, "are you doing here?"

"Helping you," he said, letting go of his disappointment at being found. He gave her a rueful smile. "Actually, trying to help. I still don't know where the cleaning supplies are."

"I've told you I don't need help." She dropped to her knees, starting to dust the wooden carvings that decorated his bed.

Wyatt grabbed the other end of the duster, forcing her to stop. "No, you do. I've seen how much work this place takes, and it's more than you'd think." He searched her expression for any sign she was listening to him. Her expression was flat; it was clear she just wanted him to get on with it. "I have nothing better to do. Just, please, let me help."

"I'm not interested," she said stiffly. She glanced down at the duster—which he still held—and then glared at him. "If you really wanted to help, you'd leave me to my job."

Wyatt bristled. Before she could do anything, he yanked the feather duster out of her grasp, then tossed it out of her reach. "You realize I'm trying to help you, right? That most people would be glad for someone to do their work with? That if you'd stop being so arrogant we could've had this room done in only a few minutes?"

Her gaze was ice. "Give me back my duster."

Wyatt held her gaze for several seconds before his eyes fell away. Fine, then. What did he care if her job took longer? Without another word, he handed the duster back to her. She took it and continued dusting as if nothing had happened.

Wyatt stood, surreptitiously looking around for anything else he could do. Behind him, he heard Jelenneth clear her throat, and he flinched. "You can go now," she said.

Moments later, he found himself in the hall, directly outside his bedroom. A key rattled in the door's lock, driving home the fact. He would not be returning until long after she had finished. Exactly like every other time he'd tried.

Wyatt let out a long breath. Maybe he could ask one of the other servants to talk to her . . .

"Excuse me? Sir?" A servant boy several years younger than he stood by the side of the hallway, looking up at Wyatt with undisguised curiosity. "Sir, your father wants to speak with you. In the Great Hall." He hesitated, then added in an awed whisper, "There's a man with him who came right from the queen's own court. Said he wanted to talk with you."

Wyatt's mouth fell open. He couldn't think of any reason a messenger from Queen Clemathia would travel to this far corner of Trokya, let alone to speak with him. For a moment, he wondered if he had gotten into trouble with the Crown. It was true that he tended to take the law as more of a suggestion than the rule.

The boy fidgeted. "You probably shouldn't keep him waiting."

Wyatt blinked and closed his mouth. "Right."

The great hall always made Wyatt feel like an ant. It didn't help that it was intended to do just that. His father had gone all out on it, and everything from the patterns on the tapestries to the arches of the ceiling were designed to impress. Oh, he knew how important it was to keep the commoners in awe and respect of Lord Roland Pernelle. He knew a revolt would be truly disastrous, and that they were too far from the queen for her to be able to respond in time.