3. N #5
She recalled being terrified of her father, who never made any attempt at humor whatsoever, and how she had felt impelled to never put a foot wrong, even when his back was turned.
“Get room ready. You rest. Speak later. Wait short time here.”
She nodded, and closed her eyes to block out the green sky, the creature outside, and even the tower room. She couldn’t block out the sounds coming from outside that tower, which didn’t leave much to the imagination. The nightmare continued, though this time she knew she was awake.
After what seemed an eternity the guard returned, and nodded to the Hearthmaster. The Hearthmaster made a gesture to Triana, and spoke in the same stilted way he had before. “Pass with Gillon. He take you room. You rest. You hunger, thirst, ring bell. Sleep. Wake morning. We talk.”
Triana nodded, and made to follow.
“Trey’ana,” he said from behind her. “No guard be placed on thee. Remind. Thee hath no place to flee. Abide. Rest. We talk.”
She froze a moment, hearing the threat baked inside the soft words, then nodded, and followed the guard.
Gillon preceded her down the stairs, a foolish position, allowing a …
prisoner, detainee, a whatever she was …
to be above and behind him, where she could simply push him and let his body weight do the rest.
Maybe. Maybe he knew that, and dismissed her as inconsequential.
Perhaps no mere female could be taken to be a threat.
Or maybe he just knew that after the display in the tower, she was sufficiently cowed not to be a danger to him.
His casualness added a bitterness to the Hearthmaster’s last words …
wherever she was, there was no place to run.
At the bottom of the stair, Gillon gestured for her to pass, then pointed her across a courtyard and towards a low building that screamed dormitory … but most thankfully, not gaol.
Triana saw no further members of the household, and suspected that the Hearthmaster’s instructions had included clearing the ways for her.
Gillon pantomimed where she should go, and with only a single wrong turn led her to a stone portico lined with heavy doors.
He opened the door and motioned for her to enter.
She obeyed, and heard the door close behind her, followed by a heavy snap of a lock turning.
She quite expected the lock, but the harsh finality of it still made her jump.
She looked around the room. It had been painted a pleasant yellow, with a bed larger and softer than strictly necessary, and with a comforter with a flower print.
Not exactly prison, not exactly “guest room,” at least, not by her standards.
The room had one smallish window made of frosted glass set high on the wall.
It had stout filigree metalwork that she was certain would be made of something tough, or perhaps even iron, and would stand in just fine for bars.
The window would let in light, without letting her see outside.
She wasn’t about to touch it to see if it burned her.
She went and looked behind a light screen to see a small alcove with what looked something like an oversized chamberpot, but which had the distinct sound of running water gurgling in it. Neat trick.
The final exploration revealed a shelf with a wash basin and an ewer of steaming water, next to a folded pile of cloth.
She sorted through the pile. Hand-towel, drying towel, some type of simple smallclothes, a set of light gray trousers, and a loose blouse with a type of quilted pattern.
A pair of open-topped shoes had been placed under the pile of cloth.
She quickly stripped and washed herself, smelling the stink of her clothes as she pulled them off and piled them on the floor.
She used the hand-towel and the small bar of soap to wash, smelling the same scent Andaleisia used.
She laved away the sweat and dirt, and the acrid smell of fear.
The rough hand-towel found a few injuries that the earlier dressings had missed; skinned knees, and scraped elbows …
and she hissed with pain as she washed them out with the soap and water.
The towel left a bit of blood in the washing bowl when she was done, but that was what it was for, after all.
Once she finished, she toweled herself dry.
There hadn’t been enough water for a proper bath, and her hair needed a good wash, but she could ask for that once she had a better idea where she stood. And when she had a better grasp on what, she had come to accept, was an ancient version of her own tongue.
The simple act of washing made her feel better.
It was the first thing she had done that was fully under her control since well this entire nightmare began.
Once she was finished with her ablutions, she left the drying towel piled on the floor, alongside the dirty, smelly clothes, waiting for the maid to tidy them.
She sat on the bed. She gave it a test bounce, verifying its softness. She crossed her ankles, looking at the bare wall with its pleasant yellow paint. Then, she raised her fingers to touch the reality of the collar around her neck.
Then V’dann Triana er-Lord Falcion’s carefully sustained facade utterly collapsed and she wept, like a helpless, terrified child.