Kyprosa had never been given a role in the rituals or services presided over by Rosia. She had long accepted that as natural. Jaeim was Rosia’s precious grandson, her designated heir, while Kyprosa was a lowborn servant girl, a kitchen hand, a detestable thorn in her eye. And yet, she was still required to attend this ceremony, one a mere servant would never otherwise be allowed to enter. Even if she stood only between the steward and the head maid. Still, Kyprosa was the daughter of Rosia’s eldest son, and one of only two living descendants Rosia had.
Holding the bowl, Kyprosa looked at Rosia. When their eyes met, Kyprosa was the first to look away. Then, she drank the blood. She emptied the remaining three or four sips cleanly, stepped forward, and placed the empty bowl on the altar. As she returned to her place, the priest concluded the ritual. When the service ended, Rosia called for her.
“Kyprosa.”
As Kyprosa stepped forward again, Rosia struck her across the cheek. She fell to the floor, and Rosia turned and walked out of the chapel. There was no word on what she had done wrong, no instruction on what to do going forward. Though nearly sixty, Rosia’s hand, hardened by years of war, was still sharp. Kyprosa’s cheek immediately swelled red. She touched it once, then stood. She didn’t ask why she had been struck. She didn’t say she would be careful next time. As the captains and lieutenants followed Rosia out, Jaeim approached her.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
When he tried to wipe the blood from her lips, Kyprosa shook her head and stepped back.
“It’s not my blood. It’s the animals’.”
“You drank it easily. Even though I’ve done it many times, it’s still hard.”
“It doesn’t really taste like anything.”
Just then, Elma approached and placed a hand on Jaeim’s shoulder.
“Come, Jaeim. Your tutor is waiting. Rosa, go to the sewing room. The old woman said she’d be laying thread. Isn’t the sun nice today?”
Kyprosa left without a word. Elma watched her go and shook her head.
“Why doesn’t she know how to answer? I never taught her to be that way.”
Jaeim thought that anyone who’d been slapped for no reason and then sent to do exhausting work for half the day would find it hard to respond cheerfully, but he didn’t say that to his mother. Though he pitied his cousin, there wasn’t much he could do. Everything in the castle was in their grandmother’s hands, and she had filled Jaeim’s days with constant education. There was hardly time to speak to his cousin, who spent her days between the sewing room, the laundry, and the kitchen. And like most who lived in the castle, Jaeim didn’t have the courage to question Rosia’s decisions.
There was only one person who did. He lounged near the chapel entrance, and when Rosia emerged, he took off his hat, bowed, and whistled.
“Wheee! Still lovely as ever, my sweet lady!”
If anyone else had said that, the spearmen behind Rosia would’ve split his skull open then and there. But it was Denistrios, commonly known as the Mad Mage. Those who didn’t believe he was a mage simply called him Mad Deni.
To everyone’s surprise, Rosia actually responded.
“Instead of loitering here, why don’t you go make bird feed.”
“My lady, are you really concerned about bird feed? But to make feed, I need ingredients. If you permit me, the heads of those fine men behind you would do nicely.”
“That won’t do.”
The officers frowned. They were the castle’s feared spearmen, but the only one who didn’t fear them was also Mad Deni. And Rosia let him do as he pleased. Whether he danced atop the snowy tower or sat in the council chamber tearing into a drumstick, things that would get anyone else beaten and tied in the square were nothing for Deni. Even blasphemy and crude jokes were ignored. Many wondered why the frost-cold Rosia treated Deni so leniently, but though rumors abounded, no one really knew.
Deni had come to Fir Castle during the days when Rosia’s late husband, Jaeim, was still lord. He called himself a mage, but no one could recall him ever showing any real magic. At most, he lit a shepherd’s pipe when they forgot their tinderbox or located a rat’s nest in the barn. Not enough to say he wasn’t a mage, but hardly enough to deserve the title. He couldn’t be called “still in training” either, he was older than Rosia. The only one in the castle older than Deni was the mute old woman in the sewing room.
Thanks to Rosia’s attitude, the spearmen, who listened to no one but her, also never touched Deni. Those who hated him said there were two freeloaders in the castle: one was the bird in the backyard, the other was Mad Deni. Some claimed he was more clown than mage. After all, clowns aren’t blamed for anything they do. Granted, Deni was a bit extreme.
“If the lady says no, then I suppose I have no choice.”
Deni sidestepped in a crabwalk to let Rosia pass. As she began to walk, the officers followed. Deni snickered at the young lieutenants with rigid posture.
“What, did someone shove a spear shaft up their backs? Look at that stiff stance. Bet they’re just as stiff in bed. Careful now, you’ll snap. Hehehe.”
Even with clenched fists, they couldn’t lay a hand on Deni. After the spearmen passed, Jaeim and Elma emerged. Deni didn’t miss them either.
“Well, look at this cute little chick. Did mama’s milk flow well this morning?”
Elma loathed Deni, but she didn’t have the courage to cross the invisible line Rosia had drawn. She pulled Jaeim along, quickening her pace. Deni leaned in, his wrinkled face close to Jaeim’s cheek.
“You’re so pretty I want to squeeze you until you pop.”
Once they were gone, Kyprosa finally came out. At the sight of her, Deni burst into laughter.
“What happened to your face? You look like a half-ripened apple.”
“And Deni’s scruffy mess looks just like a giant jellyfish.”
Kyprosa had never seen a jellyfish. Likely, no one in Fir Castle had. The nearest sea was frozen three months out of the year. No jellyfish would live in such a place.
“You read Birgion’s book in the library, didn’t you?”
“It was interesting.”
“You only looked at the pictures, didn’t you?”
“You think I can’t read?”
Deni scratched his graying scalp, sending dandruff flying.
“If you’re not illiterate, then are you saying you can read Southern?”
Kyprosa just shrugged. As she started walking, Deni followed.
“You studied Southern?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“To read my father’s books.”
Deni fell silent. Kyprosa had likely replied so easily only because it was Deni. Her father, Raeven, Rosia’s eldest son, was a living ghost. Said to have gone mad from strange books, he’d fled the castle without looking back at his wife or newborn daughter. Rosia was so disappointed that she not only declared she’d never forgive him, even if he returned, but also forbade anyone to speak of him in her presence. His wife, disgusted by what he had become, left the child behind and returned to her family. It was only natural that Kyprosa, left alone, became an outcast.
Had Rosia heard her say “father,” she would’ve slapped her on the spot. Kyprosa wasn’t foolish enough to invite such a beating. Because of that, people assumed she had no interest in her father. In truth, no one really knew what Kyprosa thought or how she lived.
“Don’t read those books.”
“It’s my business.”
“If your grandmother finds out, she’ll strip you naked and toss you into the snow.”
“Since when has Deni feared Grandmother?”
“Even if I don’t, you should.”
“I do. That’s why I only told you.”
She spoke flatly, as if it meant nothing. Whether she was brave or just oblivious was hard to tell. One thing was certain, this girl’s way of expressing emotion was twisted. She said she was scared, and likely was, but not a hint of it showed in her face or manner.
“Why did you get hit today?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because I drank the blood?”
“Who gave it to you?”
“Aller.”
“Aller drank and there was still blood left?”
“Apparently.”
Deni quickly pieced things together. But rather than explain it to her, he just said,
“Well, strange things do happen.”
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