The Master (2 page)

There were other entertainments, too, in which she could still indulge. Wren loved pigeon-shooting, races, gambling and concerts. Of course, as a woman of mixed blood—they thought her part Egyptian— and as a courtesan, she was not welcome in the homes of the well-born white human ladies, but that did not bother her. She liked being thought one of the human demimonde. There was so much to do out of doors, and she wanted to embrace every activity before her pregnancy advanced to the point where she could not conceal it. When that happened, she would have to go to Qasim's home in Chatellerault and live quietly until giving birth. After that, she would have to care for their baby. It would be very special, she was sure.

But that was for later. Today was
now
. And society, all but one stratum, welcomed her. She had learned that wealth could open many doors. Her lover had encouraged her to be extravagant in her wardrobe, and she wore her gowns as badges of honor and a proclamation of her lover's status. At first she had worried, but Qasim seemed to have an endless supply of money, and he doted on her: supplying her with servants, seeing that she had every frippery her heart desired. She had clothes for balls, clothes for riding, clothes for hunting, clothes for singing and drawing and strolling. In all ways but one, she was part of the beau monde that surrounded her.

Some days she was lonely, of course, but she understood why Qasim could not often come. He was bodyguard to the great lutin, King Gofimbel, and could not be spared from his duties. He had told her that he would, when the moment was right, approach the king and seek permission to marry her. But that might not be for a while. The king had forbidden Qasim to marry—even a lutin—because he did not want to lose any of his guard's attention when there was so much unrest in the hives of Europe. And, of course, marriage to a human was absolutely out of the question. There was talk of war between the races, and King Gofimbel would risk no open antagonism with the human church.

There was something else, too—something about the Dark Queen and the politics of the Unseelie Court—but Qasim had told Wren not to worry about anything, to just go to Nice and forget that she had ever lived in Grasse. To forget that she was half-lutin. And to help her be less lonely, he had given her a cat—a sleek black feline he called Bastet. This was an amazing gift because Wren had never know any lutin who had a cat.

Wren and Bastet had gone, and obediently made human friends. The courtesans of Nice were very educated women, and kind to others of their class. They had offered her books and helped her engage tutors and coaches to teach her to read and sing and paint and dance. And she, in turn, sometimes acted as a go-between for interested but shy parties when well-born visitors did not feel they could approach her friends directly. Often she was entrusted with missives by these men, and though she knew it was a breach of privacy if the letters were not sealed, she read them aloud to Bastet, who also seemed to enjoy them.

There were two that she recalled vividly. One was from young de Sévigné. The letter had been sweet, almost shy, which was odd in a man who was such a bold sportsman and gambler.

 

Sweetest Clotilde of the Roses–

The other letter had been a letter of farewell. It was sterner, more passionate. A man suddenly plagued with impotence had written to his seemingly indifferent mistress with an impetuous hand, scattering ink carelessly over the parchment and in places tearing it with his quill.

 

Fair Louise—

Would Qasim ever write her a letter like that? One filled with so much emotion? Perhaps. If their child lived. When she was his wife.

A tiny fluttering touched Wren's belly, soft as butterfly wings. It told Wren that their child was still alive, that she was not pregnant with the dead as her mother feared when her condition was discovered. Her mother hadn't said anything then, but Wren had seen the terror in her eyes. Wren wished that she could write to her mother, but Qasim had forbidden it. Her mother wouldn't have been able to read Wren's letters anyway; she wasn't an educated woman. Neither were Wren's siblings or father. Perhaps Wren could teach them someday. She would like that.

She sighed happily and looked at the sky. Life was good. A brilliant future lay ahead of her. She was only fourteen, after all. There was so much she could do once she and Qasim married.

Qasim.

When would he come again? Wren sighed again, less happily.

If she were truthful, she would have to admit that he had frightened her a little when they first met. He was so fierce-looking, so much bigger and stronger than any goblin or human she had ever seen. And she had thought that maybe her family was in trouble when he was sent to their farmstead outside Grasse, arriving in the middle of the night during a terrible storm. She had been only twelve then, young but not naïve. The family had been ostracized for years. Not everyone was pleased that her father had married a human girl. Not every goblin had been understanding about them having children—especially when it turned out that the whelps favored their mother and had only two arms. And as for the humans who lived nearby . . .

Wren shivered and pulled her lace wrap tighter. She didn't like to think about that. There were terrifying rumors about goblins being burnt at the stake by the Church.

But her family had not been in trouble, and the stories of Qasim being a ruthless killer had proved untrue. He had instead been kind to her and arranged for her parents to have money for her education and clothes. He had visited twice in the two years that followed, paying court to Wren in the traditional way. Soon after her first molt, they had become lovers. And the instant he had heard of the conception, he had arranged for her to go away to Nice, where no one would hate her because the impossible had happened, because she was pregnant with a hobgoblin's child.

Wren felt herself smile again and tilted her face up to the sun. The lutins might hate her and she was far from her family, but she could be out in the morning air, walking in daylight for short periods without fear of burning. It was a legacy from her human mother. Her child would have this gift, too, and it was a good thing.

A part of her wanted to tell the world of this miracle inside her. It was widely believed that hobgoblins could not breed. There were physical bars, and also it was forbidden by law. But in spite of the risk of the king's potential displeasure, breeding had been attempted many times with lutin women and never succeeded. Qasim himself had been with lutin women before. Only a few had conceived, and those malformed infants had always aborted early in the pregnancy. That wouldn't happen with Wren; Qasim was certain she could have a healthy child because she was herself a half-breed. It was her human blood that would allow them to procreate and produce healthy offspring.

She had wanted to ask him why he thought this— if he had ever had a child with a human woman— but she did not. Some things were not to be spoken of. Hobgoblins and pureblood humans were a forbidden union. Even to speak of such was forbidden. And it would bring certain death upon both parties if they so much as attempted it.

It was rumored that the king feared a half-human, half-hobgoblin child because it would have all the powers of the hobgoblins and many more besides. There were wild stories about how such a child would be able to see into the past as well as the future, that it could call ghosts and even raise the dead.

That was nonsense, of course. No one really believed those stories any more than they believed that hobgoblins had been made by stolen Seelie magic.

Still, Wren had read in the human Bible about a king called Herod who seemed to her a bit like Gofimbel. She read the Bible sometimes because a few of the stories comforted her. Her favorites were the ones about the virgin, Mary. She thought she knew how the Virgin had felt, her terror and responsibility at carrying a piece of the human Heaven inside her womb. She had been forced to leave her family, too, just when she was ready to give birth. Wren had empathy for her. Probably she and Mary would have been friends.

But as much as she liked the stories of Mary, parts of the Bible disturbed Wren. The worst were the passages in a book called Matthew. She had only read them once but they stuck in her mind:

 

Wren shivered again. Not that King Gofimbel would do anything like that—he was a stern king, but surely he wouldn't kill innocent children. Still, she and Qasim were certainly fortunate that her father was lutin and therefore Wren was lutin, too.

Feeling suddenly tired, Wren seated herself on the rock wall and opened her journal. She had found herself feeling more emotional of late— more lonely, more frightened, more passionate— and her mood changed erratically. Since she could not share the truth of her situation even with her friends, she had taken to keeping a journal. Her writing was still imperfect, as was her French. But she was careful to follow Qasim's instructions and never use Lutin.

 

May 12:

A soft rumble interrupted her, and Wren felt Bastet curl about her ankles. She never let the cat out of the house for fear of a carriage hurting her, but somehow the beast always managed to turn up when Wren wanted her.

“Hello, beautiful puss,” Wren said softly. “Are you tired of waiting, too?”

Bastet gave a soft chuff and allowed Wren to caress her ears. The cat didn't relax, though; her vigilant eyes never stopped searching the shadows where someone might lurk. The beast always seemed expectant. Maybe she was waiting for Qasim, too.

“Soon, puss. He'll come soon.”

Wren came awake, nerves screaming that she wasn't alone. Even before her eyes opened, she felt the
others
in her room: lutins, three of them. She opened her mouth to call for help, but a cold hand slapped over it and she was dragged from her bed. The grip on her wrists was just short of bone crushing.

“Bring her to the window,” said the largest goblin, who turned toward the casement, pulled back the heavy drapes and then freed the shutter. At the sound of his voice, Wren stopped struggling. It was King Gofimbel. She had never seen him, never heard him, but still she knew his voice; every lutin in the empire had it whispering in their head.

The king turned back to her. In the moonlight, his eyes were black. A tongue that looked much like a yellow serpent flicked out quickly and dipped into a small pouch he had about his neck. It came out coated in a phosphorescent green powder that was rubbed quickly on Gofimbel's gums before the tongue snaked back inside the goblin's cavernous mouth. Cold, serpentine eyes watched Wren all the while.

She thought the king repellant and was ashamed.

“So, you are Qasim's little secret.” The voice reverberated in her brain just as Qasim's would. But this voice hurt and pried cruelly.

Her captor's hand dropped from her mouth so that Wren could answer. She resisted the voice in her mind, but the struggle was unequal. Unable to help herself, Wren finally nodded assent. The tendons in her neck popped as she fought the acknowledgment, and pain raced down her back and shoulders as the muscles tore, but she could not refuse to answer.

Gofimbel reached out one of his left hands, and Wren noticed that the rumors were true. The king had six fingers. It was said that several goblins in his family had grown extra limbs and digits. He laid his large palm against her belly and cocked his head, as though listening. Wren urged the baby to stillness, but like her, it felt compelled to answer the king's call. And like her, it felt pain.

“So it's true.” Gofimbel sounded almost baffled. “Mabigon was right. Qasim has disobeyed me and conceived a child with a human. How unacceptably bold of him.”

“I am lutin,” Wren answered, desperation forcing the words from her frozen throat. The sound was barely a whisper; terror had a stranglehold on her vocal chords. “My father is lutin, so I am, too.”

“Not lutin enough—not nearly enough. After all, your bastard child lives. That should not be.” The king nodded once to the goblin on Wren's left. “Finish it. I want to be gone before full light. I'll deal with Qasim later.”

Wren was spun about roughly. One lutin guard held her while another cut off a hank of her hair. She watched in horror as he began braiding it into a garrote.

So that is the sentence. It is to be strangulation,
she thought, numb with horror. How could this happen? It couldn't be real—she was asleep. In a moment she would awaken and go to the window and smell the orange blossoms and mimosa on the morning air. Those were her favorite scents.