CHAPTER ONE
Wrapped in concealing wool and tight gloves, Imogen slumped in her chair by the bedside and waited for her mother to die.
The air stank of old blood and sickness, made even more pungent by the sweltering heat generated by the fire in the hearth. She gazed at the room’s single window edged in an early spring frost. The small hours before dawn passed in quiet darkness, and she imagined the coolness outside, the crisp scent of pine and the first hint of perfume from the white daffodils rising from lingering ribbons of snow on the low hillocks surrounding the dale.
Niamh loved daffodils, not for their herbal properties but simply for their beauty. Even now a generous spray of them stood in a pint mug on the rough-hewn table. Imogen had gathered them the previous day after chopping wood for the fire. She’d marveled at their pale petals against her black gloves. The few times Niamh had awakened from a pained sleep, she’d looked to the flowers and smiled weakly. Imogen swore she’d harvest every daffodil in the surrounding county if it meant her mother might forget, for just a moment, the agony wracking her wasted body.
A rattling exhalation signaled Niamh had woken. Light from a low candle standing on a nearby table cast dancing shadows across the bed and illuminated the sick woman’s features.
Even now, after months of watching her mother waste away with illness, Imogen's shock at the ghastly change didn't diminish. Once tall and vibrant, with lush curves and a face so beautiful the local bards crafted poems in her honor, Niamh had withered to a shrunken wraith. The long red hair had whitened and thinned. Her sun-browned hands, so capable of brewing elixirs, wielding spells and comforting a small child, now clutched her blankets with claw-like fingers.
She gazed at Imogen, her eyes dull and dark with pain. “Imogen, get the locked box on the shelf,” she commanded in a harsh whisper.
Imogen caressed Niamh’s forehead with a gloved hand. “Your tea’s ready, Mother. That first.”
Niamh captured her hand in an unyielding clasp, and her eyes, dim just a moment before, glittered feverishly in the candle’s light. “Later. Now do what I say. Bring me the box.” Desperation lent strength to her voice.
Puzzled by Niamh’s sudden obsession with a forgotten box, Imogen gently pried her hand loose. “All right. Calm down. I’ll get the box. Then tea, yes?”
Exhausted by the small exertion, Niamh nodded weakly and plucked restlessly at her blankets. Imogen fluffed her pillows and eased her patient into a sitting position. She inhaled at the sight of small blood spots blossoming on the blanket covering Niamh’s thighs.
This was no woman’s monthly moon but another manifestation of the illness consuming Niamh from the inside. Last week her gums had started bleeding.
“Imogen.” Niamh’s eyes held a gallows’ humor. “You keep getting distracted. The box. Please.”
The item creating such a stir sat on the shelf near the frosted window, its lid coated in dust. Imogen lifted it from the shelf and wiped the surface with the hem of her shift, leaving a gritty smear on the delicate trim.
A plain container made of old oak, the box held no visual interest save a lock with no key. She returned to Niamh’s bedside and placed it in her trembling hands.
“I didn’t see a key on the shelf.”
“That’s because I’m the key.” Niamh's thin fingers traced the lock’s outline, and she murmured arcane words of spellwork.
Her whispers worked their magic. The lock clicked twice before springing open. Seeing Niamh didn’t need any help with the box, Imogen quickly lost interest and turned her attention to the kettle and cup waiting on the table.
Niamh’s pain was almost constant now and growing more severe by the day. Imogen had used up their supply of crushed valerian root and was fast working her way through the skullcap and St. John’s wort to make the teas Niamh consumed by the kettle full. She took little else, despite Imogen’s combined tactics of threats and coaxing to eat a little chicken broth.
“Ah, there it is! The key to unlock the greatest of gates.”
Imogen didn’t look up from pouring the hot water in the cup so the leaves might steep. “I hope it was worth waiting for your tea. This will take a few minutes to cool.”
“Don’t be such a shrew, girl. Come here and see what I have for you.”
When Imogen resumed her seat by the bed, Niamh handed her a finely stitched book made of supple leather and expensive parchment yellowed with age. A sheen of tears brightened her eyes, and Imogen’s heart jumped in her chest.
“What’s wrong?”
Niamh’s melancholy smile matched her teary gaze. She curled her fingers around Imogen’s gloved ones. “Nothing that time and a little reading can’t fix.” She released her daughter’s hand to stroke the book’s cover. “You are my child in every way save blood and birthright.”
Imogen’s heart continued to thump hard against her ribs. The sickness had changed Niamh physically, almost beyond recognition, but not her mind. Until now. Imogen didn’t know what to make of the suddenly maudlin creature clutching her hands despite the danger, and her grief grew a hundred fold. Time was growing very short for Niamh of Leids.
“When you were small, I told you all the stories of the Berberi kingdom. Do you remember?”
Imogen nodded. She’d been raised on tales of King Varn and his court, the great markets in the capital city, the library and theaters, the grand avenues on which the aristocracy strolled to see and be seen. It was another world, as far away and inaccessible as the moon. As a young child, Imogen had listened to Niamh’s recounting of such things with wide eyes and gone to bed dreaming of lavish courts and beautiful princesses courted by noble princes.
Those dreams had gone the way of other childhood fascinations as she grew to womanhood. Burdened as she was with a curse she’d carried since birth, she would never marry or be courted by either prince or nobleman. Not even a farmer or swineherd.
Like Imogen, Niamh had put aside those tales and concentrated on teaching the things that guaranteed survival—the knowledge of herbs, the brewing of draughts and elixirs, the harvesting of wild roots and berries, and the construction and placements of traps. Even those things came second to grueling lessons in languages, with letters learned by scratching in the dirt and reading the same six books Niamh owned until Imogen had memorized them from cover to cover.
