Claim deridia book 5, p.1
Claim (Deridia Book 5), page 1
Copyright © 2021 Catherine Miller
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9798501835382
For Erin... the story you actually wanted.
Table of Contents
Intercede
1. Willing
2. Bound
3. Trust
4. March
5. Homeward
6. Bond
7. Talk
8. Rook
9. Sisters
10. Confess
11. Marzon
12. Test
13. Lost
14. Join
15. Trade
16. Kin
Also by Catherine Miller
“I was thinking of my sister,” Linora answered, heart heavy but not so mournful that she could allow him to worry, that a long night of sleep might have changed anything she felt for him.
“Cynestrine?” Remy queried, a tension in his shoulders relaxing at her confession, and he picked up a tendril of her hair and made little shapes in her skin with it, crosses and circles, and perhaps even letters she could not recognise.
“No,” she murmured, her voice too low but it would go no higher. “Vilya. She... she was nearest to my age, and with me the longest.”
His motions stilled, and his large, too-many fingered hand pressed warmly on her shoulder. “You have not mentioned her, I think.”
She tried to shrug, but it was a stilted thing, yet he seemed to understand it in any case. “She...” Linora closed her eyes, trying to blink back to the sting of confusion, the pain and hurt that came when she recalled just how her sister had been married off. “We did not always welcome foreigners,” she confessed, not quite able to look at him. His hand did not withdraw, so she did not think he was too deeply insulted by it. “But the births are low, and it... was decided...” she was not explain by who, but perhaps she did not need to. There were males, although she could not claim to know who or how they had come to be of such great distinction, that came together to make their laws, to solidify their ways upon parchment and see that they were enforced.
And when some comforts were beginning to be lost from lack of workers, the high walls that had shuttered them from the rest of the world were opened.
And others came amongst them, eager for trade, for barter, and even for coin when it became clear that some of the precious metals between them were the same....
“One that came,” Linora continued. “One kind, that is... they were knowledge seekers. Of other kinds and their customs. And they... they asked for an alliance to be sealed with a marriage.”
–Pledge, Chapter 15
Intercede
The wooden floor creaked beneath her feet, and she stilled, daring not even a breath lest her presence be betrayed further. It wasn’t her place to eavesdrop, she should be busying herself with all the work placed in tidy piles as she went from one project to the next, mending and crafting something new in turn, depending on what was requested of her steady hand as seamstress.
But she had been the one to open the door to the sombre-faced males, the elders that would have no business here unless...
She swallowed, willing her ears to better catch some warning of what might be coming. For them to censure her father for his mistreatment, for the funds he steadily poured into the gambling parties and strong-drink alike—that was too much to hope for.
And surely if that was so, there would not have been five of them, their faces lined with age and, as they were so often told, wisdom.
She grew frustrated that she could not hear more, their voices hushed. They could not have come to her father for council. From what she could tell, he was liked by his peers, but they joined him for revelry rather than guidance—not when their own trades flourished while his...
Guilt gnawed at her for the work she had yet to finish. Linora was becoming a far greater help, at last mastering some of the more difficult stitches that were so desired of their house. But she was young yet, and she tired more quickly, and the work still suffered since Arla had been settled into her new house.
“Accepted,” came through the thick wood of the door, and her heart quickened further.
“Willing, though,” came another voice. “Made.... clear.”
Her father must have said something in answer, but he was deepest into the room and she could not hear his reply.
A footstep, and panic came and she ran quickly from her spot beside the door, praying that none would catch sight of her lingering.
She hid within the dining hall, the door cracked open just enough that she could see the elders departure, her father escorting them himself rather than ordering her back to do so while he kept to the confines of his study.
The latch had barely caught before he grinned, turning on his heel and mouth opening to shout, for who exactly she could not be certain.
Dread made her open the door, uncertainty pushing her forward until she came into view, hoping that it was her he required rather than her sister.
She still had so much to learn, and he...
It was wrong to think poorly of a father’s qualities. But no matter how her upbringing had insisted that was so, she could not help the thoughts that pushed in, insistent and resolute.
He was not a patient man, her father. Nor was he a particularly kind one. And it was wrong to crave that he might be different.
“Vilya, bring me your sister,” he instructed, turning back to disappear into his study once more. It was called so because of the nature of the room rather than what occurred within its confines. But she was grateful for his preference for it, as it kept him from the main rooms, his attention only finding fault when one of his daughters was present.
He would expect her obedience to be immediate, but she could not bring herself to move. Not when rumours were still ringing in her ears.
Of a new people, come with intentions of trade.
Foreign-folk that believed that such alliances were best bound with...
It was a testament to his preoccupation that he did not seem to notice her hesitation, the grin still playing about his mouth. It did not resemble the one he had worn when he had arranged for her elder sisters to be wedded, their veils even now proudly displayed within the entrance hall, catching the draught of the room and fluttering gently. A reminder. Of his pride that his daughters had been found worthy of being brought upward to the place of wife.
For her, one of mourning and remembrance. For sisters lost, enmeshed in their husband’s houses.
He did not shut the door behind him, fully expecting Linora to be coming shortly, and long-ingrained obedience bid her climb the stairs and fetch her directly.
Her hand clenched tightly to her skirt. His smile was not one of a father bolstered in the pride of another daughter wedded well.
It held the cruel glint of one who had found another way to hurt the child he begrudged for the taking of his wife in her birthing.
She walked toward the study.
And could well imagine her father’s rage when she shut the door behind her, turning to face him, but keeping her eyes respectfully lowered, despite her blatant disregard for his instruction.
His chair pushed back sharply, and she could well imagine him standing there, fury coiling and wrath boiling to be so unashamedly disobeyed.
Inside she trembled. How often had she told Linora the importance of quiet submission, of minding her tongue and doing precisely what she was told?
Yet here she stood, and his feet stamped across the hard floor, but he did not touch her, not yet.
“Your ears broken?” he hissed, and she tilted her head slightly to the side, to acknowledge without provoking by looking at him directly without his explicit consent. “I said your sister. Not you.”
She swallowed thickly, fearful that her trepidation would make her voice too small. Always to be measured, always to be clear and audible, lest the male have to strain to hear or understand. Everything for his convenience, his preference.
Head of the house.
“Am I right in thinking you want to inform her that she will be married to one of the foreigners?” Vilya asked, and her voice did waver, her heart too near her throat to allow her to speak as she would have liked.
He did reach out then, hand gripping her arm too tightly. “You here to argue with me, girl? I thought you knew better than that.”
She nodded at that, because she certainly did. But her fear for her sister was greater than that for herself. “They say,” she began, gathering the last of her courage. Never mind that they were the elders themselves. Let it be rumour and gossip rather than eavesdropping, but true it would be all the same. “They say that the wife must be willing. That they will accept none who are forced.”
His grip tightened. “You suggesting Linora is too stupid to do as she is instructed? Not like you to speak ill of your sister.” He leaned in close, and for once there was no hint of stale spirits on his breath. “Look at me, girl. If this is to be your rebellion, let it be a grand one.” His voice was low and dangerous, and she wanted nothing more than to squeeze her eyes tightly closed and hide as best she could, but she did as she was bid.
Let him see that her heart was breaking. That it was not an angry spirit that made her come to him.
If he was capable of understanding that at all.
“She is young,” Vilya reminded him. “And the responsibility too great for her.”
His eyes narrowed. “So my judgement is flawed, in your eyes.”
Vilya shook her head. He knew very well what he was doing. He was taunting her, willing her to say the truth of it so he could punish her for it, could leave her bruised and battered both in heart and in body before she would be forced to see her sister married off regardless.
Too young. Too vulnerable.
She would bring shame upon their people. She often made mistakes in the home she had known since her birth, and Vilya could only imagine what might happen in an entirely new place, with none to help and guide her.
But her father wanted that. Wanted her gone from his house, satisfied in knowing she was frightened and miserable—while bringing further pride to himself as his daughter had been the one to secure greater wealth and prosperity for their people as a whole.
“Willing,” she said again. “A bride that agrees out of more than obedience to her father. So that they will not learn of her reluctance and blame the elders.” Who would, in turn, blame him.
She did not say it. She did not need to.
The angry grip on her arm was testament that he understood the truth of her words and was displeased by them.
There was nothing she could do about that. But she could suppress her whimpers as her fingers began to tingle, as she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep in her pleas that he release her.
“And what is it you are suggesting?” he asked at last, his voice low and dangerous. “That I rescind my house from accepting the honour it is due?”
Vilya did not blink. Did not hesitate. He had asked for her eyes and she gave them, open and earnest.
She would lose her sister regardless. Would not be there to help shield her, to teach her what she would need to know to navigate their world.
Would not be there to love her.
She was the elder of the two. And it was her privilege and her duty to do what she could to protect the younger, the more vulnerable.
Her right to claim, regardless of what it might mean for her instead.
She could not know what would happen to Linora. To herself.
But there would be hope for better things. And that...
That would have to be enough.
“Give me instead.”
1. Willing
Vilya had not expected it to all happen so quickly.
She had expected time, whether to pack up her belongings into some sort of order, or, far more importantly, to explain to her sister of her departure.
But a hand woke her, brusque and hurting as it trespassed too near to the bruise she had acquired by her father’s grip, the same now ordering her up with a quick jerk of his hand and a mouth twisted into a tight line of displeasure. “Dress, and hurry downstairs. You’ll be leaving soon,” he hissed low into her ear before swiftly retreating from the room once more.
She swallowed, nodding her head in compliance, toward the cot against the far wall, where her sister should have been sleeping.
A twist of fear knotted her stomach, although she could not have determined if it was born from her sister’s absence or her abrupt awakening, yet still, she did as she was told. Any misstep, she knew, might mean that her father would change his mind and rescind their tremulous accord, and it would be Linora that would be going in her stead.
Too young, even for a marriage by their own custom, but only just. Her heart clenched to think of it, and it made her slightly more sure of herself. He had given her no allowance to take anything with her, and she steeled herself against mourning for the loss of the few things that felt truly hers. Gifts from her elder sisters, practical, useful items that had been embroidered especially for her when the rest of the work was finished, the flowers and colours the ones she favoured—uncaring for the colours of their father’s banner, but pinks so soft they were nearly white, greens so pale they looked like fresh shoots in the beginning of the growing season, when the world was new again.
She took a steadying breath and fixed her veil to her hair with two thick combs, the dark sheets of hair mostly obscured. It was thicker than most, as she hoped for the warmth of it if they were to begin their travels when the mist hung heavy and not even the first sun had begun to rise.
She risked her father’s displeasure by going to the washroom, hopeful that perhaps her sister had simply woken in need of it. But the small room was empty, and with hurried movements, she risked her father’s displeasure by making us of it.
Her hands shook as she poured water into the basin, taking no time to light the oil and wait for it to heat. It was bracing, and cleansing all the same, and she prayed for peace, for calm, before rinsing her mouth and leaving the room once more.
A more obedient daughter might have rushed down the stairs immediately. But her heart gave a mournful clutch as she glanced at the stairs, and she stole toward the only other place where Linora might have hidden herself.
Her father would be made to wait. The elders even more so, if her suspicions were correct and they were gathered downstairs to collect her. But she wouldn’t—couldn’t—leave without a word.
She could not bear it.
She kept her steps as quiet as she could manage and slipped into the workroom. A low lamp flickered, threatening to extinguish itself entirely if it was not plied with more oil. It was poor light to work by, and she felt the first prickling of tears as she took in the sight of her sister, neck crooked against one arm, a bundle of fabric beneath her as she slumped against the worktable.
She had caught her here more than once. She allowed Vilya to shoo her to bed at a proper hour, only to wait until her sister at last went to bed before returning to the work herself—whether to practise, or to dare to work on a commission herself.
Vilya took a steadying breath and brushed at her eyes, telling herself firmly that there was no time for tears. Not now.
She came toward her, crouching down so she was nearer to her eye level. “L’ora,” she breathed, reaching out and stroking gently, the slick hair that was perhaps only a shade lighter than her own locks, deepening with age. Her skin was a similar hue, mottled with specks of green and brighter blues, as their mothers had been. Sleep-filled eyes opened, disbelieving that it was time to rise already, followed by a flash of guilt at being caught outside her bed.
And for a moment Vilya could not breathe, could not believe she was about to be parted from her for...
She could not bear to think of it.
“What’s wrong?”
So much. But it did not seem of such great importance. Not when what mattered was what was being left behind.
And L’ora cried, and Vilya could only clutch her into a fierce embrace as she tried to stem her own tears. For all the talk that a marriage was an honour, something to bring joy and purpose to an otherwise frail existence, neither could claim it to be so.
It meant parting and heartache, and the ever-present threat that another might be next.
Or, perhaps worse, that one would not.
“I love you,” Vilya managed to get out from the tightness in her throat. “Always. And you be good, and do your work, and try to keep out of trouble, yes?”
And grow and flourish, and should a husband be in her future, let him come when she was older, when she would not be crushed under the weight of responsibility, or torn apart by a newling that came when she was too small herself.
She kissed the top of her head, and she was afraid that Linora would cling too hard, would venture down the stairs with her and have to face a punishment alone.
Vilya closed her eyes tightly and forced herself to stand. Another promise between them. The only one they had any hope of keeping.
To think of each other often.
To love, even from afar.
And she swallowed back a sob as she walked from the workroom.
Where she had once toiled with her mother and sisters.
Where smiles and hushed laughter had punctuated the never ending stitches. Where they had huddled and commiserated when their father had been particularly harsh.
When their mother was no more, and there was a newling in a basket, miserable and lonesome if not within close proximity to her sisters.
Was she consigning her to a worse fate?
Vilya had no way of knowing.
She had not seen the foreigners herself, only heard talk of them in the marketplace. Giants, they were said to be, pale and strange in appearance. Without any females, if one was forced to guess, although their hair was longer than was customary for the male of the Yarrow.
