Beautys Justice – By Alexa Santi #2
Firchara had anxiously watched her mother’s slow decline in health through their lengthy journey.
Mother had seemed robust enough living first at the Mochain keep and then at Lord Ohrean’s castle, but her nearly seventy years had weighed more and more heavily on her the further they traveled.
At the last, Firchara had been forced to leave her mother behind in a protected hollow and travel the final distance to Ulfjadir’s castle alone.
The armsmen successfully negotiated the stairs to the second level with Firchara’s fretful assistance and began walking down the corridor.
Even as she watched, a wooden door materialized in the corridor’s wall just ahead of them.
The armsmen drew to a halt. Glancing at them, Firchara pushed at the door with a tentative finger, and it readily swung open.
Half-expecting the floor to vanish from beneath her feet at any moment, Firchara moved to the small round window in the center of the wall to gaze out.
The mountains lay above and beneath her, covered with evergreen trees and shrubs and dotted here and there with colorful wildflowers.
Just at the center of the view, a distant waterfall sparkled, drawing one’s eye to trace its path through the rocks.
“Whose room is this?” she asked.
The armsmen looked at each other, shrugged, and set her mother’s litter down.
“It looks to be yours, mistress,” the taller one said. “None else would have been able to open the door.”
Dazed, Firchara moved to help her mother stand and they moved about the room together, Mother leaning on Firchara’s arm. At one end was a huge bed with more than enough room for both of them, surrounded by heavy curtains to keep it warm at night.
“Do you need to lie down?” Firchara asked.
Her mother snorted. “I’ve been lying about all day like an empress. I need to move.”
The armsmen bowed their way out, leaving the women to explore. A door on the opposite side of the main room led to a washing-room, with a clever mechanism that pumped water directly to the basin rather than having to be carried from the kitchens.
Her strength returning now that she had reached warmth and safety, Mother soon busied herself with placing their meager belongings in the cupboard provided.
Lord Ohrean had allowed them to leave with only the possessions they could carry, which was a few kirtles and shifts in their rush.
Firchara had chosen sturdy, warm clothing for both of them on their journey to the northern realm of the gods, but it now looked shabby contrasted against the quietly elegant room.
With reverent hands, Firchara carefully unwrapped the single impractical item she had allowed herself to bring on their long journey: the book of poetry her father would read to her when she was a child.
When she turned the pages, she could still hear his deep, patient voice reciting the familiar words.
She regretted losing her easy access to the library at the Mochain keep, and the more limited access she had been allowed to Lord Ohrean’s library, but to leave her father’s book behind would have been the same as leaving her own heart behind.
Mother took the book from her and placed it on a shelf in the cupboard with equal reverence before looking around expectantly. “I wonder how they alert us when supper is served.”
“Are you hungry?” Relief flooded Firchara; her mother’s appetite had been poor on their journey. Firchara suspected it had been to preserve as much of their limited provisions as they could, but had also worried it was a sign of her mother’s low mood in their exile.
There was a knock at the door, and Firchara opened it to find a young woman standing there bearing a tray filled with covered dishes. “Himself sent me, mistress.”
Firchara stepped back to allow the woman to place the tray on a small table set between a pair of padded chairs in front of the unlit fireplace. She lifted the covers on the dishes to find custards, soft breads, and ripe fruit, all dishes suitable for an invalid like Mother.
“Thank you,” she said, and the young woman curtsied.
“Himself said you are to come down for supper.”
“We are?”
“Not your mother. Just you.”
Firchara turned to Mother, puzzled, only to find her already settling into a chair and sniffing at the dishes. “Mother, do you wish to have supper downstairs?”
“No,” Mother said decisively. “I am more than happy to stay up here.”
“Then I should stay, too.”
Mother rolled her eyes. “If the god himself has invited you to dinner, Firchara, you must say yes.”
“But… but… what do I wear?” She had been wearing her last clean shift and kirtle since early that morning, with her only other kirtle needing washing and mending.
The servingwoman’s eyes widened. “Do you need another kirtle, mistress? I can borrow one for you.”
Firchara flushed. “I don’t wish to put anyone to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble, mistress.” The woman looked her up and down as Firchara tried not to squirm. She was taller than most women, and curvier as well. Her plumpness had served her well on the long journey, helping her stay warm in the harsh conditions and reserve most of their scanty food for Mother.
“I’ll be back shortly,” the servingwoman said, and scurried off before Firchara could protest.
Mother was already picking at the custard, making a small face but continuing to eat it. Being warm and safe and comfortable seemed to already be bringing her appetite back.
“You should wash before she returns,” Mother said.
Firchara’s hand flew to her hair, still braided and covered by the same headwrap she had tied over it at the last leg of their journey. “What about my hair?”
Mother frowned. “There’s no time to wash it. You will have to go as you are. Go, now. Don’t keep a god waiting.”
Resigned, Firchara removed herself to the washing-room.
There was not enough time to seek out the palace’s bathing room, but a basin wash would make her fresh enough for the meal.
If the god wished to demand her presence on such short notice, he must take her as she was.
And she must try not to worry too much about what his abrupt summons might mean for herself and her mother.
Firchara paused before the door of the Great Hall and took a fortifying breath.
She looked as well as she could manage, given the short amount of time allowed for her to get ready, but she was self-conscious in her borrowed kirtle and hastily re-tied headwrap.
She braced herself and nodded at the two armsmen on either side of the doors.
The doors swung open. Despite the crowd milling around the tables, her eyes were once again drawn directly to him . He sat at the head table, his chair raised slightly above the rest, his presence an oasis of calm at the center of the chaotic room.
It was a strange relief to see him, a sense of comfort she did not understand even after their hours together. The truth of his loneliness reached out to her again as he observed the crowd with seeming dispassion.
His eyes lighted on her, and he nodded for her to join him.
The tables that lined the walls during the day had been pulled forward into a U-shape, with Ulfjadir at the center. A smaller chair stood empty beside his, and Firchara realized she would be required to walk the entire length of the hall to reach it—and him—with all eyes on her.
Suppressing a desire to turn tail and flee, she instead tilted her chin up and marched to her seat with as much dignity as she could muster, pasting a serene smile on her face while the rest of the gathering whispered and nudged each other, slowly taking their seats as she passed.
She reached her seat and stood beside it for a long moment as the god continued his conversation with a man sitting on his other side. At last, he glanced over at her.
“Why are you not in your seat?”
“I was not invited to take it by my host, who left me to wait.”
He frowned at her impertinence, but it made her knees wobble less each time he did so. “Then be seated.”
Resigned to his abruptness, she sat as gracefully as she could, still aware of the other guests watching her. A trumpet blew, and her face grew hot as she realized they had been waiting for her arrival to begin the meal.
Almost immediately, the doors at the back of the hall opened and lines of servitors entered, carrying trays laden with food.
The buzz of conversation increased as the food was laid out in a dizzying array of dishes, roasted meats and pasties and vegetables and breads, some familiar, others strange to her.
After weeks of privation during their travels, the sight of so much food at one time nearly overwhelmed her.
A servitor set a platter of roasted fowl between herself and Ulfjadir, and she leaned forward, knife in hand, to carve it, as was only proper given his status as a god.
To her surprise, he reached for it first, deftly cutting off slices that he placed on her trencher before serving himself.
“Do you like your room?” His voice was pitched intimately low, his words only for her, not for the gaping crowd that covertly watched them as they ate. It sent a small quiver up her spine, somehow soothing and exciting all at the same time.
“Yes. Thank you,” she murmured.
The god nodded and turned away, but Firchara could not prevent herself from watching him from the corner of her eye as she ate.
It was a good thing she was hungry, for the vegetables were under-seasoned and the meats overcooked and tough.
No one else seemed to notice, including the god, which made her think they were accustomed to it.
It would be dreadful to be given the gift of immortality, only to be forced to eat poorly seasoned food for eternity!