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A frustrated scream pierced the air, and she slumped against one of the colossal trees. She had promised Stephen, as well as herself, she would find a way out of Marindal, and she was unwilling to give up. The lowest branch of the tree jutted only a few feet off the ground. She leaned on it, resting her head on her forearm as she willed the first seeds of a plan, any plan, to blossom in her mind.
The bark scratched against her skin, yet the dark green needles weren’t too sharp. She inhaled, taking in their heady scent, and ran her fingers over the sturdy wood. When she looked up, she saw the uppermost branches extending outward, their thickness remaining constant from the ones near the bottom.
The spark she had been waiting for made itself known, and she smiled as the embers of her idea smoldered and grew. She wasn’t sure if it was going to work, but she needed to try. If this plan failed, she was certain something else would come to her, and she prepared to work her way through dozens of strategies. All that mattered was getting out.
Part Four:
The Edge of the Sphere
Chapter Twenty-Three
The castle’s kitchen buzzed with activity as the servants prepared the evening meal. Thirvar had returned from his most recent conquest, and the members of the staff strove to please their master. Stephen was frequently assigned to outdoor tasks, solitary work which suited him well, but tonight he was enlisted to aid in the necessary duties inside.
The long, yellow vegetables he had been cultivating fell to his paring knife as he arranged a salad. His associates bustled about the open workroom, putting the finishing touches on a wide array of other dishes whose delectable aromas wafted through the air. To celebrate their homecoming, the armies would be treated to a vast buffet. While there were dining areas in the castle large enough to seat such numbers, Stephen learned Thirvar preferred to eat alone, regardless of the outcome of his last battle.
A short, birdlike woman was responsible for overseeing the kitchen’s functions. Once the preparations neared completion, she grabbed a box of toothpicks from a shelf near Stephen’s shoulder. He expected her to apply them to chunks of meat on a nearby tray and was surprised when she dumped them onto the tabletop and began counting them out with her talons. She snapped one in half, discarded one of the broken pieces, and scooped up her pile to drop into an empty pot.
“What’s she doing?” he whispered to the man next to him.
“Someone has to bring Lord Thirvar his meal. I hope he’s not in an unpleasant mood tonight.”
Stephen winced when the broken toothpick wound up in his hand. Clammy sweat washed over him as he questioned his ability to conceal all he knew and all he had done from the man who could allegedly end his entire existence with a flick of one finger. While he waited for someone to arrange smaller trays of food on a wheeled cart, he hoped he would be able to maintain a blank façade and not let any secretive information slip.
His stomach twisted in uncomfortable knots. He gripped the handle of the cart in an effort to avoid shaking. Though he harbored a seething anger toward Thirvar for everything he had done to his precious Liora, showing his disdain would solve no problems and could endanger one or both of them. If the harsh ruler’s mood was as volatile as the others had suggested, his best plan was to speak as little as possible and make a quick exit.
Flickering candelabras lit the sole table. Thirvar sat at one end, his gaze fixed on some unknown point beyond the dancing flames. Stephen was unsure if his presence had been heard, and he wheeled the plates of food toward the single place setting. His original goal was to enter and leave swiftly, but he assumed a complete lack of a greeting could be perceived as a slight. “I’ve brought your dinner, sir,” he said.
Immobile as a solid marble statue, Thirvar said nothing.
He set out the various courses, arranging them on the table so each dish was accessible. By the time he emptied his cart, the hulking warrior had not moved. Stephen had no desire to be alone with him for longer than necessary, and he addressed him once more. “If there will be nothing else, sir…”
Silence.
Turning the cart around, he pushed it back toward the door. He had nearly escaped when the quiet was broken by a low rumble. “Stephen MacClare.”
The sound of his name in little more than a growl made his shoulders tense and his hair stand on end. His instincts told him to run out the door, but he willed himself to stand his ground. “Yes?”
There was no immediate response. He abandoned his cart and returned to the table, trying not to tremble or otherwise show fear. Thirvar looked him over from head to toe before speaking again. “How have you been finding our fair Marindal?”
He racked his brain for a suitable truth. “Very well, sir.”
“I have been told you are performing your duties as expected.”
“Yes, sir.”
The inquisitive stare never wavered. “I was glad to learn you have not been a nuisance. However, a necessary question remains.”
The shadow of dread hanging over Stephen was further magnified, as he was sure his nighttime encounters with Liora had been discovered. Prepared to face whatever consequences Thirvar would dole out, he set his jaw and tried to convey an air of bravery that was a far cry from how he felt. “Yes?”
“Before I assigned you to work at the castle, I neglected to ask you your actual vocation.”
He let out the breath he’d been holding, his knees on the verge of giving out. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your profession. Your skills. What did you do before you arrived here?”
“I…I’m an artist. A painter,” he choked out.
“I see.” Thirvar toyed with the ends of his beard. “I don’t believe I’ve seen anyone here paint in quite some time. It’s not the most useful of skills, is it?”
