CHAPTER 1
Birthday Present
The day before Alasha's eighteenth birthday, her life changed forever.
The Matriarch was ill again. Judging by the doctor's grave face and half-disguised warnings, she was even worse than the last time.
After a while, Alasha came to understand that her mother was dying.
It was plain that Lord Jarvin and her brother knew it too, but they didn't speak about it, as if they thought her still too young for such things. When she went to her mother's chamber in the south tower, the guard's words sounded kind enough, but that didn't stop him from turning her away.
"Your father's orders, young miss. I'm sorry."
It was one of the new men, otherwise she might have tried to wheedle her way around him. Otherwise, he'd have known her name.
It's not fair, she thought. It's a daughter's right to bid her mother farewell. If anything, it's the husband and the stepson that should be waiting out here.
Then the door opened, and Jarvo was there.
"It's all right, Hap. It's fitting that my sister should be here at the end."
"Very good, sir," said the guard, standing aside.
She went past him into the room, and walked towards the big four-poster that had been part of her world for as long as she could remember: she'd been born in that bed, conceived in that bed.
Her father had died in that bed, twelve years before.
She hardly recognized the old lady under the coverlet: her skin was parchment-thin and pale as candle-wax, her wisps of hair so translucent that it would have been flattery to call them white. The Matriarch's eyes were closed under trembling lids, and each breath was a painful straining for air.
Alasha knelt at her mother's bedside, next to her stepfather's chair. The doctor stood at the foot of the bed, his face grave.
There was an invalid's desk set across the covers, with a silver pen and an inkbottle, and a bundle of vellum that bore the Matriarch's unsteady but distinctive signature. Now, Lord Jarvin took the topmost leaf from the bundle and set it on the side table next to Alasha.
"You must countersign this, girl, in the presence of your mother."
"What is it?"
"It appoints me as your guardian until you are of an age to assume the Matriarchy. Until then, it will be my duty to protect you, to see to the running of the Malkenstorm estates, and to make sure that your holdings prosper."
Alasha studied the deed. Its purpose was unclear: it seemed to consist mainly of a bewildering number of schedules, appendices, and codicils.
"I should like to read the rest of the document first."
"It contains nothing but tedious legalities, girl, and there is little time. Your mother is satisfied with it, and our family advocates assure me that it's been drawn up most carefully. If you fail to sign in the presence of the Matriarch, the choice of guardian reverts to the King. That is the law."
Alasha had learned nothing of this law in her studies, but then she'd never expected to be orphaned before her coming of age. The Matriarch was not yet out of her middle-years and her illness and swift decline had seemed unthinkable when they began, less than twelve moons before.
The dying woman's lids flickered open for an instant, and Alasha saw her mother's dim eyes turn towards her. The Matriarch was looking at her, perhaps for the last time.
She's telling me to sign, before it's too late, decided Alasha. Anyway, better that Lord Jarvin should have the management of the estates, rather than a stranger.
She picked up the silver pen and signed her name in the place indicated.
"Don't date it," said Lord Jarvin quickly. "That will be done in the lawyers' chambers."
Once more, Alasha was confused: surely, the signature should be dated when it was made? Reluctantly, she deferred to her stepfather: this wasn't the place for argument, or the time to add to her mother's troubles.
Later, she came to realize how foolish that had been. Her mother's problems would soon be over forever, while her own were just beginning.
* * * *
Alasha dreamed of the Matriarch that night, and when she woke she remembered her loss before the fact of her own birthday.
Her mother had always been distant; stern rather than loving and more concerned with Matriarchal duty than maternal affection. The young Alasha had grown up with nurses and tutors as her true parents, and now she felt a sense of bereavement, but not of inconsolable sorrow.
At eighteen, she stood at the threshold of life. She was still three years away from her majority and the assumption of her position among the Xendrian nobility, but from today she could own land and gold, and deposit money with the silversmiths (or borrow, if she had the mind, and be held responsible for her debts). She could even embark on business ventures of her own.
She considered what to wear. For her birthday, she would normally have chosen her favorite gown: tailored from deep green silk with long rustling skirts and a flattering bodice, but today there was propriety to consider.
The mourning period must be observed, she thought. I will wear black.
She couldn't find her slippers, so she crossed the icy stone floor of her dressing room barefoot and on tiptoe.
She opened her wardrobe and confronted emptiness.
Her gowns, her undergarments, her shoes, her riding clothes and boots--all were gone. Someone had been in her room and taken everything away.
All that was left was a light shift, suitable perhaps as an underbodice for a serving girl, but in no way appropriate for the future Matriarch.
There was a folded note lying on the shift. It was too dark to make out the spidery writing, so Alasha took the parchment back to her bedchamber and drew the curtains back from the frost-rimed window. As the winter light streamed in, she saw that the trinkets, bottles and books from her dressing table were all gone as well.
She had to read the note through twice before her mind grasped its meaning, and then her hands started to tremble.
* * * *
Stepdaughter,
You will understand that the previous contents of the wardrobe were unsuitable for your new station. You are to clothe yourself in the garment provided and attend me in my rooms.
Leave the nightgown in the bedchamber; neither gown nor bed belong to you any more.
It would be best for you to attend me directly you wake up.
Lord Jarvin
* * * *
Alasha didn't even touch the shift. She threw the chamber door open and stormed off towards her stepfather's rooms in the south tower, the nightgown swishing around her ankles and the flag-stones cold against her bare feet.
* * * *
"It's too late to back out, girl. I saw you sign the document myself, and since you're eighteen now, you are bound by its terms."
"So that's why you told me not to date it."
"I don't know what you're talking about. You can't possibly expect anyone to believe that a girl of your breeding would sign a legal document and then fail to date it."
"The witnesses know when it was signed."
"The doctor and my son both checked the time carefully, and they agree that it was after midnight. No one will believe your fantasies. You are mine now, to dispose of as I will. Signed and delivered by your own hand. Your mother's castle and lands are mine, too, and Jarvo's after me."
"My brother would never agree to this. You won't get away with it."
"We already have, girl, and it was Jarvo who came up with the idea. He knows that you're only his stepsister, even if you seem to have forgotten. Now. You were instructed to leave the nightgown and to put on the shift provided. You may disrobe now, and then return to the chamber for one last time to collect the proper garment."
Alasha simply shook her head and pulled the warm gown closer about her body. She would die before she went through the castle unclothed.
Or would I? she wondered. Why is the idea of going naked through the torch-lit passages so enticing? Why have my loins become warm at the thought of it? Would I tremble and hurry, keeping to the shadows, or linger so that a passing guard or a servant might see me?
She felt her nipples stiffening and loosened her grip on her garment, letting the tightly stretched fabric fall away before her reaction could betray her, but Lord Jarvin was already staring at her chest with a knowing smile.
"I didn't expect you to be sensible, girl. I didn't expect you to accept what you so obviously desire. Perhaps what you really want is to learn the hard way, eh?"
He rang a small silver bell, summoning two of the new guards into the room.
"My new slave girl seems to be in need of some help with her clothes," he said. "Would you be so kind as to assist her? After that, I'd be grateful if you would accept her as a guest in your quarters for an hour or so. Entertain her as you will, but leave her intact."
One of the guards stood in front of Alasha, while his comrade seized her arms and twisted them behind her. She struggled until he jerked her elbows upward with cruel force, making her gasp with pain. After that, she stood still, glaring at the guard who was drawing the lacings out of her nightdress, not quite able to believe that someone could be doing such a thing. The garment went slack, held up by no more than the faint friction of silk on skin, and then he reached forwards and brushed the fabric away from her shoulders so that it fell away, catching at her twisted elbows.
Alasha was half-naked now. The guard smiled and licked his lips, making no effort to hide his lust. She looked down at her bared breasts, hating the way her traitorous nipples basked so proudly in the rosy flush that spread around them. She felt her cheeks burning, too--from the outrage and shame at being stripped, but also because of her other responses, and her inability to disguise them.
The man in front of her wrapped his fingers about her throat, tilting her face upwards. He squeezed--gently enough so that he didn't quite hurt her, firmly enough to leave her in no doubt that he would if she showed any fight. She held herself quite still, and his comrade released her elbows for a moment so that her garment dropped away completely.
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