Nineteen

Close Call

Gratia’s awareness began to seep back. There was a feeling in her stomach as though a thousand butterflies were swirling around it. She felt as though she were floating downwards. She wanted to be sick.

“Kibarl’kng!”

She suddenly felt very clear headed. Her eyes snapped open. She was indeed floating, but not downwards. A cushion of air was beneath her and someone was standing by her side. Turning her head slowly, she allowed a slight smile to spread across her lips.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

The wrinkled man with large red scars framing his eyes, chuckled. “Of course, what were you expecting?” He smiled kindly.

“You really wouldn’t want to know.”

He laughed. “You didn’t think I’d let you hang when you’d asked for my help?”

Gratia tried to shrug. “I thought perhaps I’d left it a little late.”  The man grinned and she was sure there was a hint of pride in his expression.

“You have grown somewhat since last we met.”

“Somewhat,” she smiled. Sitting up on the feathery soft four poster bed, she asked, “Where am I now?”

“Ah, the guest chambers of Sire Quathrobe of Imandilas. I am here on business.”

“Business?” Gratia raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, his son is rather sick. Ill beyond the healing capabilities of the usual town warlocks, so he called for someone with greater powers. Hence I was in my quarters when I felt your summoning. It was not entirely unexpected, however. The soothsayer warned me a friend would need my help. I was prepared, shall we say.”

Gratia nodded, satisfied for the present. She cast a wary eye around the room. It was lavishly furnished. “How far are we from Lariaan?” Tones of concern tinted her voice.

“Oh, far enough.”

“So they shall not pursue me?”

The aged mage chuckled. “Not unless they ride a flying mule my dear, they’d have to cross the Capulan Sea to reach you.”

Gratia’s jaw hung open. A glint of amusement shone in the old man’s blind eyes. “Now, you must be tired. You should rest. I have to return to my work, but you have free reign of these quarters and there is a servant’s rope in the corner should you desire anything. I shall inform Sire that you are here and to be treated with the same courtesy I am shown. If you shall excuse me, I shall return come evening.” He gave a warm smile, bowed, and left the room.

Gratia sat for a while contemplating the enormity of her journey across the Capulan sea. It was unimaginable. She did not feel like sleeping. The water clock in the corner of the room stated that it was half-past noon, and the sun flared brightly outside the open window. It was humid here, almost uncomfortably so. A harsh change from the nipping winter frosts of Lariaan. 

Swinging her legs from the bed, she stood up shakily. Surprisingly, she was trembling, and a sudden bout of dizziness caused her to sit back down again. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she propped herself up on her elbows and began admiring the richly gilded chairs and hand-painted paper walls. Sire Quathrobe must be a very wealthy ruler she decided. 

Gratia felt her cheeks burn slightly as she realised how out of place she looked in tattered, grubby silks smelling of dungeon cells and make-shift cesspits. After a moment of hesitation, she gave the servant’s rope a nervous yank and waited patiently for whoever might answer.

A plump maid answered the call a minute later, dressed in light cottons and a housewife’s bonnet. She looked remarkably cooler then Gratia felt. A puzzled look crossed the woman’s face for a split second before being masked with one of lowly readiness to comply.

“Yes, m’lady?” She gave a half curtsey.

“Oh, I was wondering if I might be permitted to bathe?”

It was clear that the maid had picked up on Gratia’s unease. “Are you an acquaintance, of Mage Sharloss?” She raised a querying eyebrow, which Gratia found rather offensive considering the maid’s status in comparison to her own. But the gypsy also realised, hotly, how the scene must have looked.

“I am not his whore, if that is what you are implying.”

The maid looked shocked at the bluntness of the woman’s reply, yet her acute embarrassment showed that this had been what she was implying. “M’lady. I– it...”

“Well?”

The maid looked dazed for a moment, stood there with the look of one who has just been confronted with a square box and ordered to fit it inside a circular one. Her jaw gaped slightly as she tried to prompt her memory back to the woman’s first request.

Gratia sighed. “A bath. May I take a bath?”

“Oh, yes, certainly m’lady. Right away, m’lady. That is, I shall go and prepare it for m’lady right this instant, m’lady.” She gave a series of awkward half curtsies as she fumbled behind for the door handle. “Is that all, m’lady?”

“No. I should like something to eat, too.”

“Oh, yes, certainly m’lady. What had you in mind?”

Gratia shrugged and turned to the window. “You decide.” She could sense the maid’s unease from where she stood. She was clearly not a woman used to making her own decisions. Once the maid had bobbed along the corridor, Gratia leaned out of the window and looked with amazement at her new surroundings.

She saw a huge lawn that stretched for acres. Here and there were herb gardens shaped in ornate maze patterns. A white gravel path wound out across the grounds and a large gilded carriage stood on it, driverless. The air was delightfully scented with jasmine and begonia. Above, the sky was as blue as a huge sapphire, unmarked by even a wispy smudge of cloud. Children’s laughter came from a grassy bank to the west. A boy with a hoop and stick raced across the expanse of green, pursued by other young boys and girls.

She turned away from the window. Hot tears trickling down her cheeks. She hadn’t meant to cry, but she couldn’t help it. It just happened. Walking to the bed, she sat down and hugged her knees. The salty gems kept falling from her eyes and her body shook with the effort of despair. Those children, they should have been hers. They should have belonged to her and Gale. Why had it happened to them? What had they done so wrong that their bliss had to end? She rolled over and buried her head in the pillows.

Half an hour later, the maid returned with a large steaming plate of thick, creamy soup, laced with herbs and white, crustless bread.

“Your tea, m’lady. Your bath shall be ready once you have finished.”

Gratia was sitting in a teak chair looking out through the window. Her tears had dried and she felt inexplicably calm. The maid placed the tray on a side table and left without another word. The gypsy ate hungrily and pulled the rope; she was ready for her bath.