The Boy with the Porcelain Ears – Chapter 1
The Antechamber
The Antechamber
Lucien ‘Sinistra’ de Fontein stood in the antechamber waiting, feeling his pulse quicken and his mouth go dry. It was always the same before a testing and this time was no different. This part of the castle lacked heating, and he was grateful for his vest, dress shirt and frock coat. His breath steamed on the air in front of him. He clenched, stretched and clenched again his nearly-numb fingers, chiding himself for not requesting gloves. He made a mental note to obtain calf-skin fingerless ones. Assuming of course he lived out the rest of the day.
The room was a simple affair. Behind him stood tall double doors. Ornate black iron hinges lent the aged wood a severe and solemn timbre. A pair of matching doors loomed ahead, a portal to the training room beyond. Two pews, narrow and uncomfortable, ran down either side of the chamber. Latticed windows let in pale autumnal light, throwing a diffuse net shadow over the interior. Lucien released a breath, duty and expectation pressing down on him.
A lone pot plant grown monstrous and a full length looking-glass were the only other decorations. It hadn’t taken him long to give up on his inspection of the flora. Biology was not his forte, although he did suspect the growth was poisonous in some way.
A man-child of eighteen summers stared back from the looking glass with a grave expression. He had polished his knee-length boots to an impressive shine, the deep brown leather worn but sturdy. The buckles had been buffed to a honey-coloured gleam, but he’d not fastened the straps loosely. He knew some thought this slovenly, which made him adopt the affectation more keenly. The boots were worn, true; had even been re-heeled. But he was damned if he’d stand the trials whilst breaking in new leather.
His trousers and frock coat were of a blue so deep as to be mistaken for black in poor light. He was particularly taken with the embroidery on the lapels, which was exceptionally fine. The buttons had been made from shark teeth on his insistence. Master Virmyre had told him the creatures re-grew their teeth many times over the course of their lives. The idea of renewal had appealed to Lucien, the possibility of growing something once lost. He had requested the teeth specifically for this jacket and imagined the Butner cutting his fingers to shreds on the awful things. Filling down the triangular shards into round ivory discs must have been an unpleasant ordeal. Hoops of copper run to verdigris decorated the epaulettes of the jacket, just as he’d requested. Being Orfano he was expected to present a certain profile, and had taken a fancy to sketching unlikely outfits when his tutors bored him. A scrap of silk covered his throat, almost careless, making it look like he’d finished the day’s work and had loosened his finery. All in all he rather liked his new wardrobe, it suited his mien. Too bad it would likely be cut by his opponents weapons. Worst yet, it might be the outfit he died in.
The ceramic blade rested in its sheath on his right hip. He’d broken just two during his decade of training. Master Giancarlo took this as a sign of physical weakness, that Lucien lacked heart. How can you trust a novice who doesn’t strike so furiously he could shatter his own blade? he would mutter on the rare occasions Lucien found himself assigned to the teacher. Master D’arzenta on the other hand put forward another theory. Lucien was a mindful, graceful student, not some clumsy, fisherman’s son swinging a gaff in a brawl. Master Ruggeri didn’t waste time on opinions if indeed he had any. Ruggeri simply taught, being the most close-mouthed of the Instructors. Lucien hoped D’arzenta was right. He was not so arrogant to think he had mastered the blade. Narcissistic certainly, aloof undoubtedly, but he could ill afford the sin of pride. He knew his foot work could be shoddy, that he was easily flustered; drawn off guard by feints and distractions.
His palms began to sweat in anticipation of the assessment. He still didn’t know what awaited him beyond the doors of the training chamber, whether it was to be a fight to first blood or to the death. Rumours of his intended opponent had been scarce, unusually so considering gossip was currency in Demesne. And there was the issue of style. He might be asked to fight blade and buckler, blade and cloak or blade and dagger. Each Master had his own preference and students were expected to be proficient in all of them.
His palms began to sweat in anticipation of the assessment. He still didn’t know what awaited him beyond the doors of the training chamber, whether it was to be a fight to first blood or to the death. Rumours of his intended opponent had been scarce, unusually so considering gossip was currency in Demesne. And there was the issue of style. He might be asked to fight blade and buckler, blade and cloak or blade and dagger. Each Master had his own preference and students were expected to be proficient in all of them.
Lucien drew the weapon and held it out in front of himself, the tip just inches from the floor, looking almost casual. Almost. He held the blade up to his face, vertical, in a fencer’s salute. None of the Orfano were allowed to carry metal blades, it was tradition, so they said. Only proven men or women, could be trusted to carry such an expensive weapon. Metal cost time and money; could not be squandered on the young. Lucien didn’t believe any of it. He’d been told ceramic blades were just as difficult to produce, if not more so. Still, this blade was his and he was never without it. The weapon bore the smallest of crosspieces, the hilt bound in taut scarlet leather at the grip, and had three notches along the leading edge, almost too small to see. The blade was the colour of bone and it pleased him, he’d chosen it especially.
He hummed to himself contentedly in that moment. Of course, he was aware enough by now to know the obsession with finery and unusual blades was simply compensation. He couldn’t change the way he looked. He raised his right hand to his hair. Thick, black, course hair that he’d let grow long against Master Giancarlo’s wishes. And Mistress Corvo and a number of other teachers. He hesitated from lifting the swathe of black. Not wanting to see the disfigurement beneath.
And his nails. The newer staff thought him effete, or affected, or both. His nails matched his hair, shiny and black, but he’d never once painted them. His toe nails were black as pitch too. Doctor Angelicola had never been able to tell him why. Nor had the Doctor managed to decipher why his blood was clear or ran blue when he was cut.
It was the same for all of the Orfano. They all had disfigurements and hid their strangeness as best they could. The deformities were an open secret among the subjects of Demesne, in spite of the Orfano’s attempts to appear normal. Lucien knew full well the more suspicious members of the populace branded them Witchlings, or Strega in the old tongue.
He turned his attention to the mirror once more, his pale blue eyes looking back. He clung to the hope he might yet grow into a more aristocratic-looking young man. His brow was too heavy for his tastes, his eyes too deeply sunken, lips too narrow. He felt rather stocky and squat, and had sulked for a month when he realised he would never be as tall as Golia. No matter. He’d be the better of Golia in other ways, ways that mattered. And his frock coat was rather splendid after all. He fingered the shark tooth buttons and a sly smile crept back onto his face.
The doors behind him opened and he flinched in surprise, nearly drawing his blade on instinct. The Orfano were not above sabotaging each other, testing each other, although it was greatly frowned upon. The history books of Demesne were littered with feuds between the discarded children. Assassination was more common than the tutors cared to admit.
Anea slipped into the room and Lucien felt a shiver run up his spine. As ever she wore her veil, midnight blue fabric covering the bottom half of her face. Tiny bronze discs and tassels decorated her forehead, suspended from a headscarf of white. Her dress, a matching midnight blue, was tightly fitted. Lucien wondered how long her corset must take to lace each morning. He imagined a team of seamstresses and maids drawing the strings tight. Her skirts were of an impressive volume, in keeping with the fashion. Lucien noted with relief that she was unarmed and released his grip on the hilt of his blade. At least she appeared unarmed. She nearly matched him in height, he guessed she was wearing her heeled boots, buttons running to the ankle in neat precision. Without raising a hand in greeting she opened the leather bound journal she always carried and began to scribble.
Her blonde hair had enchanted the Houses when she had been found on the steps of House Contadino. How they adored this fair-haired infant. Such a prize. Lucien knew there was trickery involving lemon juice and other chemicals, but acknowledged her hair was a delight among a population trending to deep brown colourings. The bidding to be the first house to train her had been fierce, the Major Domo had held meetings late into the night so they said. In the end Anea spent most of her life with House Erudito, appropriate to her talents. She looked up, caught him with her piercing green eyes, and proffered the book to him. He took it hesitantly.
Good luck today. Keep your wits and your feet. Don’t let him talk down to you. Remember, you could have his job next year.
Lucien nodded mutely, as mute as she was. No words had ever ventured out from behind that veil. Everyone knew Anea, the silent Orfano. Araneae Oscuro Contadino, Anea for short, she hated her full name and insisted on taking the House name of those who found her. It was tradition for Orfano to petition a house for adoption at sixteen. They took the name of whoever they lodged with in the interim. Anea was three years his junior, and if rumour were to be believed, the most fiercely intelligent Orfano in a hundred and fifty years.
And here she was wishing him luck, entirely unarmed and seemingly setting herself at his mercy. It made no sense. They were in competition with each other, all the Orfano were. Golia would not hesitate to give Lucien some bruises at the very least had he been here now.
Anea had always been different, and not just because she was a girl. Lucien had seen her at practice with D’arzenta more than once and knew her to be a capable, if not particularly gifted, student. Their talents lay in such different directions they would always outclass each other. Her gifts political, logical, philosophical. Lucien favoured the more martial arts, and had improved at public speaking of late. He’d finally put aside his petulant and truculent youth to show occasional flourishes of charm. He was also a mean cook, not that he was allowed near the kitchens half as much as he liked. Lucien gestured for the pencil, reached out for it, his fingers brushing hers as he took it from her. Her hands were much warmer. He scratched out a message, taking care to keep his handwriting legible.
Thank you for this. Maybe after this is over we can converse some more. I’d like that. There’s a lot to discuss.
He handed the book back. He’d not needed to write it, she was mute, not deaf, but somehow it felt more poignant like this. A message to her on her own terms, in her own medium. And there was always the possibility of eavesdroppers, even here.
Anea read the message and snapped the book shut before glaring at him and swept out of the room, not bothering to close the doors behind her. Lucien let out a sigh. He was glad she was gone, truth be told. Anea’s duality disquieted him. Like him as Orfano and yet not, being as other and distant as anyone in Demesne. He made to close the doors and paused a second to watch her marching down the hall, her heels ringing out on the stone floor. They faded into the distance, her feet carrying her into the bulk of the castle, back to House Erudito no doubt.
The ante-chamber was silent again. Now he could get on with the business of clearing his mind and letting the noise and confusion of the day quieten. Thoughts came to him. And there was the anxiety in his stomach, he felt the tension relax there as he continued breathing slow and steady. Master Giancarlo was on the other side of the doors, waiting for him in the training chamber. He pushed the thought away and kept breathing. Masters D’arzenta and Ruggeri would also be there. This was a more welcome thought but he turned it to one side all the same. Quite why Anea had suddenly appeared was a mystery to him, her journal of messages and angry green eyes… he reigned his concentration back in again and set aside the curious visitation. Now it was Rafaela’s turn to appear in his mind. He’d not seen her for a few days, had no business to. Their paths crossed less and less these days. He happily took the thought of her and let go of it, even as he noticed the spark of warmth lit within himself.
Rafaela.
Back to concentration, back to a clear mind. The tension moved out of his gut now, was lurking in his shoulders. That was to be expected. He remained standing, kept breathing. The doors to the training chamber opened.
“Are you ready to be received?” said a deep voice.
“I am ready to be received.”
Lucien stepped into the chamber beyond, chin pulled in tightly, staring out from under his brow. His fingertips rested lightly on the hilt of his blade. His mind flickered to two final diversions before the testing began. The first was of gloves for his icy fingers, the second was of Rafaela.
“And Professore Virmyre is teaching you well I trust?”
When the hooded official finally left Lucien found himself a blanket to nestle under, snug in the high backed armchair. The life of an Orfano was a lonely one, and he’d nearly finished the book of fairy stories when she’d arrived.
She leant on the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. Her hair was untied, thick corkscrews of rich, dark brown falling about her heart-shaped face. Hazel eyes were filled with what Lucien had thought at the time amusement, but he would come to realise was tenderness. It was Rafaela’s day off, but she looked much as she always did. She wore a dirndl, her cream blouse rucked and ruffled where it met her black bodice, tightly laced. Her skirt was a rare shade of scarlet, the colour of cheap wine, and her lips. Buttoned boots peeked out from the demarcation of her hemline, the heels adding inches to her height. At that time Rafaela was thirteen or there abouts, the first blush of womanhood had taken well to her. She had neglected to wear her apron, sending out a clear signal she was not present at Demesne to perform duty.
“Ella. I wasn’t expecting to see you today. What are you doing here?” He set the book aside and kicked off the blanket, becoming tangled in it a moment before finding his feet and standing up.
They left Demesne and Lucien was wide-eyed with excitement and more than a little fear. He’d not set foot out side the brooding collection of stone keeps before. The towers looked down on them somberly as they retreated into the countryside. The squat bulk of the sanataria stood apart from the castle proper, with gargoyles flocking the roof, staring out at the countryside.
Rafaela had dressed him up in peasant’s attire when they’d reached the kitchens of House Contadino.
The wind whipped about them and Rafaela was concentrating on driving the cart, the mule moved slowly, perhaps less than walking speed. Lucien pulled the knitted skull cap down, shivering. The countryside stretched away in front, orderly hedgerows and dry stone walls. In the distance a copse of cedar trees clustered together and moved at the summons of the weather.
“Where are we going?”
They continued onwards, the cart creaking and rocking on the road, which was in good repair. They passed a small huddle of buildings that were all shuttered against the wind and Lucien spotted some boys playing outside. They were ragged looking things, pinched and dirty. Their clothes were a uniform blend of dark grey and smudged brown. They wore no shoes, their feet pale underneath the mud that clung to them. Lucien said nothing and looked down at his boots, grateful for the thick socks he wore.
Finally they came to a building, Lucien guessed it was a barn, purely based on its size. Moss had grown up one side of the structure, creeping across the stacked stones and feeble mortar of the bottom half. The top part was constructed entirely of wood, caulked in white plaster that had long since begun to flake off.
They entered the building and Lucien felt himself go tense. Inside were close to thirty children, ranging from six to twelve years old. He’d not seen so many before, certainly not children who were anything but scullions or pages. Even in the training rooms of House Fontein the number rarely rose above fifteen of Demesne’s privileged noble young. The children in the barn sat at small tables, chatting to each other and reading aloud from books. Some noted down single words on scraps of parchment and took them to a wooden board where they pinned them up. Most of these children had shoes, but their clothes were well-worn and more than a few were threadbare.
Rafaela rested a hand on his shoulder, holding him against her. She was taller than he back then, he looked up at her and smiled nervously.
A woman attired all in black clapped her hands twice. The children became hushed and folded their hands neatly in front of them. Some couldn’t quite marshal their attention for their teacher, and instead stared at the girl and the shivering boy who had just arrived.
“Today we have a special treat. Mistress Rafaela has come to speak to you. As many of you know, Mistress Rafaela works at Demesne, but once she came to this very school and learned her words just as you now are learning yours.”
Rafaela ushered the children to one end of the school house where they variously wriggled and bumbled about, managing to cram onto a broad, slightly mangy rug. Lucien perched on a corner near the front, not straying far from Ella. The children sat beside him and said nothing. They stared with owlish expressions, or ignored him altogether, some more interested in the contents of their noses.
“Hello, my name is Rafaela, and this is my little friend, Luc.” She indicated Lucien and he swallowed, felt himself blush.
“All we have is the story, and I will recount it as best I can. Are you all comfortable?” Ella smiled as thirty heads nodded and there were a few excited squeals in anticipation of what was to come. Outside it began to rain, the drops drummed lightly on the wooden shingles above, providing a pattering backdrop of sound.
“A long time ago, perhaps three hundred years ago now, there were three great ships. They set out from a land a long way from here. Many, many miles. The ships carried people, dozens of people, even hundreds, and these people came looking for a new home. However the ships were undone with bad luck. The captains, who were very old when the voyage began, died one by one. The first died in his sleep, the second had a heart attack whilst checking the maps, until the last remained. This captain despaired. The ships had stumbled into a great storm, and it seemed as if it had been many days since anyone had seen the sun. In fact, many crew members on the ships were beginning to believe they were shrouded in constant night. When the storm reached its worst and the winds howled and shrieked like hungry ghosts, the last captain died. The crews of the three great ships were distraught, but the captain had seen a glimmer in the darkness before he died. With his dying words the last captain gave orders to sail towards the blinking light. The glimmer was in fact a lighthouse, made to warn sailors that the coast was unforgiving and rocky, but the crews did not know this. Due to the storm’s great power, and the fact the crews were much diminished without their captains, the ships crashed.”
Rafaela paused, outside the school house the winds had picked up and Lucien could well imagine how frightening it must have been to hear that dire sound under darkness. Perhaps feeling the ocean crashing against the cliffs. Behind him the children were in rapt silence.
“All was not lost. By some great stroke of providence, the ships were not sundered on the cliffs, but instead washed up on the beaches. Almost all of the people on the three ships had been asleep, lulled to their beds by the constant night of the voyage. When the ships came aground on the shore of the island many of the sleeping travelers were saved by soft blankets. The crews however were not so lucky.”
Rafaela raised an eyebrow at this, before giving a sly wink to Lucien. A few of the children mumbled to each other about the fate of the crew and shivered at the thought.
“Eventually the storm blew itself out, exhausted and spent. Gradually blue skies revealed themselves, but the people in the ships slept on, because there was no one to wake them.
By chance a clever and powerful man was out walking along the coast that day and spotted the three ships, now wrecked on the beach, and he took it upon himself to wake people.”
Lucien fidgeted. The press of bodies behind had made him hot, and he noted the school mistress had built up the fire. Sweat prickled under his woolen cap. He did his best to sit still for Rafaela, not wanting to be a nuisance.
“The clever man did not wake everyone all at once, for he only had so much food to share. He woke some and they made the first farms together. After this he woke some more of the slumbering travelers and they built the castle we now call Demesne. The clever man worked ceaselessly, until all the people on the ships were awoken and then he declared to them, ‘I am your King. You would not be alive if it was not for me, would not have farms to tend nor shelter from the rains. I am your King and I ask for your loyalty’.”
A few of the children on the rug smiled, others looked smug. They were beginning to understand what they were being told, and making sure their piers knew they had made the leap of logic.
“Of course the people could not argue with such a thing. They divided themselves by function, the most talented with wood and metal formed House Prospero, the fiercest became House Fontein, the most skilled with the land, House Contadino, and life went on. Eventually the clever man, whom everyone now called the King, became sick and retreated into the castle. He couldn’t tell the people his clever secrets, or share with them his wisdom, so he created House Erudito.”
Rafaela smiled again at her audience and Lucien smiled along with her. He was at once entranced by her storytelling and unbearably hot. He slipped the woolen cap down from his head and balled the material up in his fist.
“And that is how we come today to live around the great walls of Demesne, and why the King never shows himself at La Festa, or at parades. Now, who has questions?”
Lucien felt someone shift behind him, a knee on the back, not hard, but it surprised him all the same. He turned, coming face to face with a boy his own age holding up his hand limply. The boy had sandy hair and dull green eyes. He needed his nose wiped. The boy stared at Lucien with an expression of absolute horror. Lucien looked around, noticing the same look seep through the crowd. Each face was caught up in it, like some rictus contagion. It was at this point Lucien became painfully aware all the children on the rug were staring at him, and had drawn back, reviled.
Chapter 2
The Schoolhouse
It was a day of many firsts, but Lucien always looked back on it with a feeling of sickness and disquiet. He’d started his physical training just after his eighth birthday. The Major Domo had taken to visiting his rooms once a week, although the small talk was always strained, sparse and dry. The seasons were on the change, ushering in winter with the shrieks of night-time storms and the susurrus of leaves caught in autumnal winds. Lucien wondered if the castle would ever be warm again. He’d have happily stayed in his bed until spring, nestled among sheepskins with the fire banked up. He’d not thought it strange to have his own apartment back then. It was all he had ever known.
The Major Domo entered the sitting room without knocking as he always did. Lucien glowered at him and set aside the oversized book of fairy tales he was reading in the comfort of his arm chair. He stood up and immediately wished he hadn’t. The Domo was tall in a way that was uncanny in Demesne, perhaps seven feet of ashen robes. His deeply-lined face hidden under a heavy cowl, only his great chin jutted out, like some work of masonry. A purple rope served as a belt, holding together the many folds of fabric that comprised his attire. Skeletal hands extended from voluminous sleeves and busied themselves banking up the fire. Lucien stood, rooted to the spot, unsure of etiquette and feeling dread seep into him for no discernible reason. The Major Domo spoke in a tired drone, like the buzzing of insects, enquiring about Lucien’s studies. He looked ridiculous, hunched down at the hearth, slowly adding firewood a stick at a time. Lucien answered in single, stunted syllables and chewed his lip.
“And Professore Virmyre is teaching you well I trust?”
“Yes,” and Professore Russo too, who was by far easier to talk to than the stern and unreadable Virmyre, but he dare not utter that to any adult.
“And Master of Swords D’Arzenta speaks very highly of you,” just for a second there was the shadow of an inflection, and Lucien wondered if this was some slight or sarcasm.
“That’s good,” he breathed, willing the gaunt collection of rags out of his apartment.
When the hooded official finally left Lucien found himself a blanket to nestle under, snug in the high backed armchair. The life of an Orfano was a lonely one, and he’d nearly finished the book of fairy stories when she’d arrived.
She leant on the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. Her hair was untied, thick corkscrews of rich, dark brown falling about her heart-shaped face. Hazel eyes were filled with what Lucien had thought at the time amusement, but he would come to realise was tenderness. It was Rafaela’s day off, but she looked much as she always did. She wore a dirndl, her cream blouse rucked and ruffled where it met her black bodice, tightly laced. Her skirt was a rare shade of scarlet, the colour of cheap wine, and her lips. Buttoned boots peeked out from the demarcation of her hemline, the heels adding inches to her height. At that time Rafaela was thirteen or there abouts, the first blush of womanhood had taken well to her. She had neglected to wear her apron, sending out a clear signal she was not present at Demesne to perform duty.
“Ella. I wasn’t expecting to see you today. What are you doing here?” He set the book aside and kicked off the blanket, becoming tangled in it a moment before finding his feet and standing up.
“Come to find my charming Prince, of course. What are you reading?”
“Oh, just some nonsense for children,” he made moue and indicated the discarded book. Rafaela laughed and shook her head.
“You are funny. The things you say. Come on, I’ll take you on an adventure and you can hear a much better story. How about that?”
“Won’t we get into trouble?”
“Not much. It’ll be fine.” She smiled at him.
They left Demesne and Lucien was wide-eyed with excitement and more than a little fear. He’d not set foot out side the brooding collection of stone keeps before. The towers looked down on them somberly as they retreated into the countryside. The squat bulk of the sanataria stood apart from the castle proper, with gargoyles flocking the roof, staring out at the countryside.
Rafaela had dressed him up in peasant’s attire when they’d reached the kitchens of House Contadino.
“It’s a disguise,” she explained, “Today you are not Orfano, today you can be a normal little boy. We’ll call you Luc.”
“I’m not a little boy, I’m eight,” he replied affronted, and wishing he were already nine, or even ten. He couldn’t even imagine what it must like to be ten. Incredible most likely. He probably have to start shaving when he reached ten.
Cook Camelia gave them apples, watered down wine, a good cheese and some bread past its best. She spoke quietly to Rafaela in that voice the teachers used, seemingly below the range of children’s hearing. Perhaps he’d learn how to talk like that too when he grew up.
Cook Camelia gave them apples, watered down wine, a good cheese and some bread past its best. She spoke quietly to Rafaela in that voice the teachers used, seemingly below the range of children’s hearing. Perhaps he’d learn how to talk like that too when he grew up.
The wind whipped about them and Rafaela was concentrating on driving the cart, the mule moved slowly, perhaps less than walking speed. Lucien pulled the knitted skull cap down, shivering. The countryside stretched away in front, orderly hedgerows and dry stone walls. In the distance a copse of cedar trees clustered together and moved at the summons of the weather.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to the Contadino Estate. It’s where I grew up, where my family live.”
“Is your father a farmer?”
“No. Not everyone that lives on the Contadino Estate works the land, or fishes the sea, anymore than everyone who lives on the Fontein Estate spends all day fighting.”
“That’s what I want to be. I want to be adopted by House Fontein when I’m sixteen.”
Rafaela laughed, her hazel eyes twinkling, “And I’m sure you will be, if you practice with your blade and don’t spend windy days reading fairy stories.”
Lucien blinked a few times, not sure if he was being chided on not.
They continued onwards, the cart creaking and rocking on the road, which was in good repair. They passed a small huddle of buildings that were all shuttered against the wind and Lucien spotted some boys playing outside. They were ragged looking things, pinched and dirty. Their clothes were a uniform blend of dark grey and smudged brown. They wore no shoes, their feet pale underneath the mud that clung to them. Lucien said nothing and looked down at his boots, grateful for the thick socks he wore.
Finally they came to a building, Lucien guessed it was a barn, purely based on its size. Moss had grown up one side of the structure, creeping across the stacked stones and feeble mortar of the bottom half. The top part was constructed entirely of wood, caulked in white plaster that had long since begun to flake off.
“This is a strange building,” whispered Lucien, not knowing why. Rafaela smiled at him and jumped down from the cart, unhitching it from the mule.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, half of it is made from wood.”
“Not everyone can afford a castle made out of stone, little Prince.” She tied the mule up and made sure it had access to water, then held out her hands to him.
“Come now, jump down. I wanted you to hear this.”
They entered the building and Lucien felt himself go tense. Inside were close to thirty children, ranging from six to twelve years old. He’d not seen so many before, certainly not children who were anything but scullions or pages. Even in the training rooms of House Fontein the number rarely rose above fifteen of Demesne’s privileged noble young. The children in the barn sat at small tables, chatting to each other and reading aloud from books. Some noted down single words on scraps of parchment and took them to a wooden board where they pinned them up. Most of these children had shoes, but their clothes were well-worn and more than a few were threadbare.
Rafaela rested a hand on his shoulder, holding him against her. She was taller than he back then, he looked up at her and smiled nervously.
A woman attired all in black clapped her hands twice. The children became hushed and folded their hands neatly in front of them. Some couldn’t quite marshal their attention for their teacher, and instead stared at the girl and the shivering boy who had just arrived.
“Today we have a special treat. Mistress Rafaela has come to speak to you. As many of you know, Mistress Rafaela works at Demesne, but once she came to this very school and learned her words just as you now are learning yours.”
The school teacher nodded politely to Rafaela and a small smile stole over her thin lips. She was a severe looking woman, her black hair scraped back into an unflattering bun. She had an abundance of forehead and rather beady eyes. Lucien decided she was unnatural looking and that he was glad she wasn’t his tutor.
Rafaela ushered the children to one end of the school house where they variously wriggled and bumbled about, managing to cram onto a broad, slightly mangy rug. Lucien perched on a corner near the front, not straying far from Ella. The children sat beside him and said nothing. They stared with owlish expressions, or ignored him altogether, some more interested in the contents of their noses.
“Hello, my name is Rafaela, and this is my little friend, Luc.” She indicated Lucien and he swallowed, felt himself blush.
“I’ve come to tell you a folk story today and perhaps a little history too. The problem is this all happened so long ago no one quite knows what happened for sure.” When she spoke loudly Lucien became aware a pleasant timbre to her voice he’d not been aware of before. Usually when she was about her work at Demesne she spoke in a respectful hush.
“All we have is the story, and I will recount it as best I can. Are you all comfortable?” Ella smiled as thirty heads nodded and there were a few excited squeals in anticipation of what was to come. Outside it began to rain, the drops drummed lightly on the wooden shingles above, providing a pattering backdrop of sound.
“A long time ago, perhaps three hundred years ago now, there were three great ships. They set out from a land a long way from here. Many, many miles. The ships carried people, dozens of people, even hundreds, and these people came looking for a new home. However the ships were undone with bad luck. The captains, who were very old when the voyage began, died one by one. The first died in his sleep, the second had a heart attack whilst checking the maps, until the last remained. This captain despaired. The ships had stumbled into a great storm, and it seemed as if it had been many days since anyone had seen the sun. In fact, many crew members on the ships were beginning to believe they were shrouded in constant night. When the storm reached its worst and the winds howled and shrieked like hungry ghosts, the last captain died. The crews of the three great ships were distraught, but the captain had seen a glimmer in the darkness before he died. With his dying words the last captain gave orders to sail towards the blinking light. The glimmer was in fact a lighthouse, made to warn sailors that the coast was unforgiving and rocky, but the crews did not know this. Due to the storm’s great power, and the fact the crews were much diminished without their captains, the ships crashed.”
Rafaela paused, outside the school house the winds had picked up and Lucien could well imagine how frightening it must have been to hear that dire sound under darkness. Perhaps feeling the ocean crashing against the cliffs. Behind him the children were in rapt silence.
“All was not lost. By some great stroke of providence, the ships were not sundered on the cliffs, but instead washed up on the beaches. Almost all of the people on the three ships had been asleep, lulled to their beds by the constant night of the voyage. When the ships came aground on the shore of the island many of the sleeping travelers were saved by soft blankets. The crews however were not so lucky.”
Rafaela raised an eyebrow at this, before giving a sly wink to Lucien. A few of the children mumbled to each other about the fate of the crew and shivered at the thought.
“Eventually the storm blew itself out, exhausted and spent. Gradually blue skies revealed themselves, but the people in the ships slept on, because there was no one to wake them.
By chance a clever and powerful man was out walking along the coast that day and spotted the three ships, now wrecked on the beach, and he took it upon himself to wake people.”
Lucien fidgeted. The press of bodies behind had made him hot, and he noted the school mistress had built up the fire. Sweat prickled under his woolen cap. He did his best to sit still for Rafaela, not wanting to be a nuisance.
“The clever man did not wake everyone all at once, for he only had so much food to share. He woke some and they made the first farms together. After this he woke some more of the slumbering travelers and they built the castle we now call Demesne. The clever man worked ceaselessly, until all the people on the ships were awoken and then he declared to them, ‘I am your King. You would not be alive if it was not for me, would not have farms to tend nor shelter from the rains. I am your King and I ask for your loyalty’.”
A few of the children on the rug smiled, others looked smug. They were beginning to understand what they were being told, and making sure their piers knew they had made the leap of logic.
“Of course the people could not argue with such a thing. They divided themselves by function, the most talented with wood and metal formed House Prospero, the fiercest became House Fontein, the most skilled with the land, House Contadino, and life went on. Eventually the clever man, whom everyone now called the King, became sick and retreated into the castle. He couldn’t tell the people his clever secrets, or share with them his wisdom, so he created House Erudito.”
Rafaela smiled again at her audience and Lucien smiled along with her. He was at once entranced by her storytelling and unbearably hot. He slipped the woolen cap down from his head and balled the material up in his fist.
“And that is how we come today to live around the great walls of Demesne, and why the King never shows himself at La Festa, or at parades. Now, who has questions?”
Lucien felt someone shift behind him, a knee on the back, not hard, but it surprised him all the same. He turned, coming face to face with a boy his own age holding up his hand limply. The boy had sandy hair and dull green eyes. He needed his nose wiped. The boy stared at Lucien with an expression of absolute horror. Lucien looked around, noticing the same look seep through the crowd. Each face was caught up in it, like some rictus contagion. It was at this point Lucien became painfully aware all the children on the rug were staring at him, and had drawn back, reviled.
“Yes,” said Rafaela, uncertainly. The sandy haired boy flinched and his eyes flickered to her.
“I have a question.”
“Please.”
“Why doesn’t your friend Luc have any ears?”
