Story #90 - Shadeborn

Shadeborn

Jennesen's full-armed slap caught him across the jaw and he went down in a heap in the corner of the room, the tray of assorted foodstuffs he carried tumbling from his grip. Charn knew there was no point in defending himself; raising a hand to the house Lord's favorite would mean his death.

“I said red toast, you incompetent oaf!” She screamed as Charn pulled himself off of the floor. She hadn't, of course, nor did such a thing exist, but that didn't stop her from sounding as though she had been massively wronged. Jennesen had come to the house two weeks ago, a prize from the Lord's recent conquest to the North, and while she had a physical beauty that Charn found striking, her vipered tongue more than made up for it, and he couldn't imagine anyone wanting to spend more than a moment in the same room with her.

Of course, the Lord probably didn't talk with her very often.

“Apologies, mistress,” he said as he found the tray and began cleaning food from the floor, “I could not find what you were asking for. Is there something else I may bring you?”

Her heel took him in the ribs, and he grunted in pain. Anger flared within; no other of the Lord's prizes had treated the housestaff so poorly, and while her time here was surely limited, Charn found it difficult to restrain himself.

Her boot or or the headsman's axe, he reminded himself, her boot or the axe. His rage subsided and he took a deep breath, then gathered the last of the food he could see and stood.

“I will send someone to clean the mess I have made, mistress. I beg forgiveness for my inability to properly serve.”

She sniffed loudly. “No matter, skrath, I expect so little of your kind that it hardly matters.”

Skrath. His blood boiled again – such terms were never used, even to describe servants. As well call him Shadeborn as that. Jennesen was a foul woman indeed.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get out of my sight!” Charn bowed quickly and withdrew, firmly shutting the door behind him and taking a deep, slow breath.

Ralo found him on the way to the kitchens; the other manservant had been assigned the Lord himself this week, and had a broad smile on his face.

“Heyo, Charn,” he said, raising his hand, and Charn returned the gesture and words, if with far less enthusiasm.

“I take it she's running you roughshod,” Ralo said, eyes sparkling. His friend had been in charge of the last prize the Lord brought him, one who also had a unique set of personal issues.

“You have no idea, Ral,” he moaned, holding out the mangled foodplate, “She wanted red toast. Red toast! Claimed she said it when I first asked – a lie – and then slapped me when I couldn't deliver. How, I ask you, does one make red fates-damned toast?”

“Tell it a dirty joke?” Ralo answered with a perfectly straight face, and Charn had to laugh. For the twenty years they'd been here, Ral had never once failed to make him smile, no matter the circumstance.

“Thanks, Ral, I needed that. I just hope he tries of this one soon.”

Ralo clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Me too.”

***

A runner at his door woke him before dawn; the mistress was demanding to see him – now.

Charn stood and pulled on his uniform, smoothing it to make the wrinkles appear less visible. She could call on him whenever she liked, but most nobles slept late into the morning, giving their servants the chance to prepare for another day.

At her door, he hesitated. Anything could happen inside, and he found himself scared of the possibility, scared of what he might do in another confrontation. Firming his resolve, he brought his hand to the oak. He would serve, and that would be all.

“Come in,” her voice called, and he stepped inside. Sitting in the same chair he had left her, Jennesen's face was calm and her eyes were soft, and Charn immediately felt a wave of suspicion. What now?

“Ah, Charn,” she said, not bothering to look in his direction, “thank you for coming so quickly.”

Thank you? He felt his suspicion slide toward fear. “Of course, mistress. I live to serve.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I am hungry, Charn. I require food.” There was no malice in her voice, just command.

“What -” he stumbled over the words, “what can I get you, mistress?” She had turned her head ever so slightly, and he could see it, plain as the breaking dawn – a black tinge at the edge of her eyes, concentrated near the bridge of her nose.

A Shadeborn had come for her.

Few were seen in these parts, but it was said those of the most vile temperament were likely to attract them, and he could think of no one more vile than Jennesen.

“Use your best judgment, Charn – I am sure whatever you choose will be acceptable.”

“I -”, Charn hesitated, “is there anything else I can bring for you mistress?”

She turned to look at him, dull eyes unblinking, perfect face unlined. “Only information, Charn. That is all I seek.”

He nodded, moving back into the hallway. Shadeborn could tell no lies, or so the legends said. In times of war, they had been fearsome assassins, but in times of relative calm their purpose was less clear. If this one told him it was here for information, then he had no reason to distrust it, and what it chose to do with Jennesen's body after it was through was none of his concern.

Charn would not be expected to recognize one in any case; his job was to serve, not to learn.

He strode quickly for the kitchens – his new mistress was hungry.

- D