Beautys Justice – By Alexa Santi #3
Her suppressed chuckle at the thought caused the people sitting closest to glance her way, though they did not speak.
She was not comfortable beginning a conversation with anyone when her position was so tenuous.
For all she knew, she and Mother would be thrown out of the palace tomorrow when the god tired of her.
Best to keep to herself and fulfill her purpose.
She took another bite of meat and barely restrained herself from making a face.
“Is the meal not to your liking?”
She turned and looked up at Ulfjadir, who was frowning down at her. She searched her mind for something polite to say that would not be a lie, even as the golden sheen of his eyes held hers in a mesmerizing gaze.
“I require the truth from you, little mortal. In all things.”
“Very well,” she said. “Your cook lacks skill. The vegetables are bland and the meat tough.”
“I did ask for honesty,” he murmured with an edge of humor.
She looked down at her plate, unsure what to make of his mood. He contemplated her for a long moment before he said, “What do you expect me to do about it?”
Here was another chance to make herself useful, handed to him by the god himself. “My mother managed the Mochain keep for decades. She could supervise and make changes, if you allow it.” And it might make him think more kindly of Mother when it came time for him to hear her plea.
“Is she well enough?”
Firchara hesitated. “I think she will be, in a few days.”
“Very well.” He turned away again, and she allowed herself to relax.
She had bought them a few more days, and more easily than she had expected.
Which only set her back to worrying.
When Firchara returned to their room after supper, she halted on the doorstep and blinked.
“Was that rug here earlier?”
Mother peered back at it from her cozy seat before the fireplace, now roaring with a welcoming fire. “No,” she said.
Firchara poked the deep blue rug with her toe, but it seemed substantial enough.
Likely not an illusion. The pile was warm and deep, with a pleasing pattern of multicolored vines and flowers around the edge.
When Lady Mirade and Lord Lorien had returned from their trading voyage to the Southern Seas, they had brought back several fine rugs, but none had equaled this.
“How was your meal?” Mother asked.
“Underseasoned and overcooked.”
“As was mine.”
Firchara hesitated, then said, “My lord said that, when you feel well, you may supervise the kitchens. If you like.”
As she had feared, her mother’s face lit up. “How kind of him! I will go down tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow,” Firchara protested. “You need more rest. You are not well.”
“Tomorrow,” Mother said firmly, and Firchara sighed, knowing that further argument was useless.
Even with her increasing age, Mother had never been one to sit idle or allow others to do for her what she could do herself.
Now that she had leave to fix the kitchens, she would dive in without hesitation.
“A bathing tub has appeared, as well as a vessel to heat the water,” Mother said cheerfully. “Shall I use it first?”
“Yes, of course,” Firchara said absently, and took Mother’s seat by the fireplace as the older woman removed herself to the bathing room.
First the god demanded that Firchara stay at his side and use her magic to assist his judgments. Then he quickly agreed to allow Mother to supervise the kitchens. And now gifts magically arrived, nearly hour by hour.
Firchara knew Ulfjadir must be pleased with her.
A god had no need to be so generous with a mere mortal who was more servant than guest. Still, she could not help but wonder what price his generosity might have, and how much of it she would be willing to pay for her mother to receive the justice she deserved.
The next morning, Firchara shook off her misgivings as she ascended the stairs from the kitchens to the Great Hall.
She and Mother had each been able to bathe and help one another unbraid their hair to wash it and comb out the knots until each coil lay peacefully with its neighbors.
She had also been able to wash a chemise for each of them and dry them by the fire while they slept.
She might not be fashionable, but her spare kirtle was freshly steamed and pressed by the palace’s laundress and her hair back in order. Clothing was its own armor, and she felt far better-protected today than she had in yesterday's travel dirt.
The doors of the Great Hall stood open to chaos… and no god.
She turned as an armsman puffed up to her, seeming to have run from the other end of the palace. “Mistress Firchara! I was in search of you.”
“I took my mother down to the kitchens first to get her settled.” Despite her reservations, she had yielded to Mother’s stubborn insistence on being useful.
Firchara had left strict instructions for the cooks to bring dishes to her mother for critiques as they made them.
Firchara had also left strict instructions for Mother to remain in her chair and not overtax herself.
She feared she would not be obeyed on either score.
“You must come with me. The god awaits.”
“Oh!” Firchara hurried her steps to match his as he led her through a labyrinth of corridors. “You ought to have fetched me from my room.”
“I tried, mistress,” he said a little sourly. “I have been pursuing you around the palace all morning.”
At last, they came to a door, upon which the armsman rapped sharply. It swung open and Firchara found herself peering into an antechamber behind the Great Hall itself. She realized it must be the one she had seen the god and his men disappear into the evening before.
Ulfjadir turned to glare at her, but she found his glares less frightening the more he used them on her. She ignored the little skip her heart made at seeing him, even with his irritation.
“You are late.”
Firchara curtsied, an acknowledgment of his words without accepting fault. “I was settling Mother in the kitchen so she can supervise the midday and evening meals. As we discussed.” She rose from her curtsy and met his gaze straight on. It was unexpectedly exhilarating to poke at a god.
His brows drew together, but all he said was, “Oh.” He paused for a long moment, seeming as though he were about to say more, but instead squared his shoulders. “Come along.”
Two armsmen took up their positions in front of the god, and he waved her to a place two paces behind him, where she was followed by two more armsmen. Had she not seen the chaos that awaited them for herself, she might have been more uneasy with the guards’ presence.
The doors on the opposite wall opened, and a hubbub arose in the room as the god entered.
Firchara tried to remain unobtrusive, as befitted her role, but the crowd buzzed and murmured as she passed. A few of the bolder petitioners reached out in supplication, but she followed Ulfjadir’s lead and ignored them. He mounted the stairs to his throne, and she followed.
Beside his throne was a chair—a proper chair today, not the stool that had set her back to aching the day before. She waited for Ulfjadir to seat himself before she took her own seat.
The first petitioner approached, and she took a deep breath to gather her magic.
To her surprise, it flowed more freely today.
She had expected to feel depleted after using so much, but instead she felt more energetic than she had since she was a child first learning to use her abilities.
After years of having to hide her talents, she now had a purpose: to be consistent, quick with her answers, useful in the task she had been set.
To please Ulfjadir and see him grant her one of his rare half-smiles of approval.
Only to ensure he gave Mother’s plea a fair hearing , she reassured herself. There was no other reason for her to feel warmed by those smiles.
The first petitioner stepped forward, and Firchara allowed her magic to flow.
At midday, the armsmen stood at attention as the god rose to his feet, and Firchara scrambled to hers, disoriented by the sudden change.
She joined their procession back to the antechamber they had started in, where a meal was laid out.
Not until the door to the smaller, quieter room closed did Firchara realize how exhausted she was.
She sank into a chair, willing herself to stay upright.
She looked up to see the god watching her closely.
“You use your magic too freely,” he said.
“I will be fine after some food.” She looked around the table to avoid his gaze. She felt a pride of ownership, knowing that she and Mother had planned the dishes together.
“You must learn to pace yourself.”
“I am still learning to use my magic at all,” she blurted out, and then looked at him. He did not seem shocked or surprised.
“A truth-teller’s magic is dangerous to those insecure on their thrones.”
Firchara was not prepared to discuss a subject as intimate as her magic in a room filled with the god’s armsmen. Instead, she pulled a trencher filled with food towards herself and began to eat.
The midday meal was simple by necessity, but a covert glance around the room told Firchara that the armsmen were relishing the changes she and Mother had made, adding fresh herbs from the garden and more generous helpings of salt.
The meat of the roasted chicken was plump and juicy, as it should be, and Firchara discreetly licked her finger with the last bite.
Feeling his gaze on her, she looked up to see the god watching her intently.
“Was this your doing?” he asked.
She quaked a little, but tilted her chin up to say, “Mine and Mother’s, yes. We planned together.”
“It’s good,” he said, and she tilted her head to acknowledge the compliment, feeling a little shy at the praise.
“Only a few small changes were needed to use what you already had.”
“It is a skill in itself to know what to change.”
“Thank you,” she said, hoping her voice was not as breathless as she felt under his warm gaze.