The Catswold Portal

The big woman inspected her without expression. She had a fat, lined face. “I am Briccha. I am the Scullery Mistress. If you are allowed to stay, you will answer to me.” Her braids were so tight they pulled her scalp. Her bodice clung tightly over ample breasts and belly. When Melissa didn’t answer, Briccha grabbed her shoulder and jerked her through the scullery, shoving other girls aside.

They entered a small chamber with whitewashed stone walls. It held a chair, a table, a pitcher of water and a bowl, a towel and a crock of soap. “Wash yourself. Comb your hair. You do have a comb?”

“No.”

The woman fished in her pocket and handed her a dirty comb. “And sponge your dress. Make yourself acceptable for the queen.”

“I do not seek audience with the queen. I want only to work in the scullery.”

“The queen sees all who seek scullery work. Don’t dawdle.” Briccha gave her a harsh stare, and left her.

Angrily Melissa spell-locked the door, then dropped her dress and scrubbed thoroughly and slowly, luxuriating in the soap and clean washcloth and clean towel.

Soon, refreshed, she washed the comb, scrubbing it with the washcloth then the towel, then she combed her hair.

She was left in the room for hours. She paced, then sat down and closed her eyes, trying to keep her temper in check. She loved idleness on her own terms. She detested idleness enforced by others. She was nearly asleep when the door rattled but didn’t open. Hastily she removed the spell that locked it.

A thin serving girl entered bearing a plate of bread and a mug of milk—a bone-thin girl, maybe thirteen, with a bluish cast to her skin. She looked Melissa over shyly. “You are another,” she said softly. “Do you know why you were brought here?”

“I wasn’t brought. I came on my own. To work.”

“But I saw you ride in behind the captain.”

“I met the soldiers on the way. What do you mean, brought? Were you brought here by soldiers?”

The girl had gray smudges under her eyes. Her hair was lank, her eyes the color of mud. She was a valley elven child. “We all were brought here or summoned. Surely the soldiers brought you at the queen’s orders.”

“I told you, I met them by chance. Why would anyone want to bring me here?”

“The queen summons many girls. Some stay to work. Most are sent home again.”

“Why would she summon them then send them home again?”

“I don’t know why. But many of us are glad to be allowed to stay. The palace food is good, and this life is better than herding sheep.”

Melissa wondered if that was true. At least herding sheep, you were your own boss.

“What is your name?”

“Terlis.”

“What if I refuse to talk to the queen?”

Terlis stared at her. “You wouldn’t dare to do that. No one would dare.”

A long time after Terlis left her, a woman soldier came for Melissa—a sturdy creature with a scar down her neck. She herded Melissa through passages and up two flights of stairs, then down a main passage to a black door. She knocked, pushed Melissa through, and shut the door behind her.

The huge chamber was nearly dark. She could see quantities of black furniture that crouched like waiting beasts. Splinters of green light pushed in through the far shutters. Across the room, five spell-lights began to glow, circling a black throne. Within the throne’s dark embrace sat the queen of Affandar.

At first all that was visible was the white oval of the queen’s face suspended in blackness, then slowly, as Melissa approached, she made out the queen’s elaborately coiled black hair against the black throne, her black robe. When suddenly the queen moved, she revealed white hands flashing with jewels. “Kneel! You are to kneel!”

She knelt, feeling awe and fear. She thought that her own small powers of magic had likely been stripped away, that if she tried to use any spell to protect herself from this woman she would fail.

“Look up at me.”

She looked up into the queen’s black eyes, wary as a caged beast. The queen gave her a cold smile, but then her eyes widened, and her pale mouth twitched. She lifted her white hand and brought a spell-light bright across Melissa’s face.

Queen Siddonie studied her for so long that Melissa, kneeling, felt her legs cramp. She could see no expression in the queen’s black eyes. The power of the woman’s stare made her weak and angry. Stories of Siddonie’s cruelty filled her. She felt her heart pounding, and only with great effort did she keep her face blank.

At last the queen sat back and folded her hands. “You may rise. What is your name?”

“I am Sarah.”

Rage flashed in Siddonie’s eyes. “What village do you come from—Sarah? Tell me why you have come to Affandar.”

“Appian is my village. My father could not keep us all. I came to find work in the palace.”

“What work does your father do?”

“He mines a little,” Melissa said, forcing quiet into her voice, counting on Appian to be so far away and so crowded that the queen would not bother to investigate. And why should she? What difference where she came from? “He makes some jewelry, and grows barley and pigs.”