in pride to respond, too angry to face anyone, the young man scrambled up to his feet and ran off.
"Strange bird, that one," the dwarf remarked, and those around him nodded.
Much later that morning, when his clothes had dried and with the chill of the night's wind and rain still deep under his skin, Jaka returned to the fields for his workday, suffering the berating of the field boss and the teasing of the other workers. He fought hard to tend to his work properly but it was a struggle, for his thoughts remained jumbled, his spirit sagged, and his skin felt clammy under the relentless sun.
It only got worse for him when he saw Lord Feringal's coach roll by on the road below, first heading toward Meralda's house, then back again, loaded with more than one passenger.
They were all against him.
*****
Meralda enjoyed that day at Castle Auck more than any of her previous visits, though Lord Feringal did little to hide his disappointment that he would not have Meralda to himself. Priscilla boiled at the thought of three peasants in her wondrous garden.
Still, Feringal got over it soon enough, and Priscilla, with some coughing reminders from Steward Temigast, remained outwardly polite. All that mattered to Meralda was to see her mother smiling and holding her frail face up to the sunlight, basking in the warmth and the sweet scents. The scene only strengthened Meralda's resolve and gave her hope for the future.
They didn't remain at the castle for long, just an hour in the garden, a light lunch, then another short stroll around the flowers. At Meralda's bidding, an apology of sorts to Lord Feringal for the unexpected additions, the young lord rode in the coach back to the Ganderlay house, leaving a sour Priscilla and Temigast at the castle door.
"Peasants," Priscilla muttered. "I should batter that brother of mine about the head for bringing such folk to Castle Auck."
Temigast chuckled at the woman's predictability. "They are uncultured, indeed," the steward admitted. "Not unpleasant, though."
"Mud-eaters," said Priscilla.
"Perhaps you view this situation from an errant perspective," Temigast said, turning a wry smile on the woman.
"There is but one way to view peasants," Priscilla retorted. "One must look down upon them."
"But the Ganderlays are to be peasants no more," Temigast couldn't resist reminding her.
Priscilla scoffed doubtfully.
"Perhaps you should view this as a challenge," suggested Temigast. He paused until Priscilla turned a curious eye upon him. "Like coaxing a delicate flower from a bulb."
"Ganderlays? Delicate?" Priscilla remarked incredulously.
"Perhaps they could be with the help of Lady Priscilla Auck," said Temigast. "What a grand accomplishment it would be for Priscilla to enlighten them so, a feat that would make her brother brag to every merchant who passed through, an amazing accomplishment that would no doubt reach the ears of Luskan society. A plume in Priscilla's bonnet."
Priscilla snorted again, her expression unconvinced, but she said no more, not even her usual muttered insults. As she walked away, her expression changed to one of thoughtful curiosity, in the midst of some planning, perhaps.
Temigast recognized that she had taken his bait, or nibbled it, at least. The old steward shook his head. It never ceased to amaze him how most nobles considered themselves so much better than the people they ruled, even though that rule was always no more than an accident of birth.
Chapter 13 PRISONER'S CARNIVAL
It was an hour of beatings and taunting, of eager peasants throwing rotten food and spitting in their faces.
It was an hour that Wulfgar didn't even register. The man was so far removed from the spectacle of Prisoner's Carnival, so well hidden within a private emotional place, a place created through the mental discipline that had allowed him to survive the torments of Errtu, that he didn't even see the twisted, perverted faces of the peasants or hear the magistrate's assistant stirring up the mob for the real show when Jharkheld joined them on the huge stage. The barbarian was bound, as were the other three, with his hands behind his back and secured to a strong wooden post. Weights were chained about his ankles and another one around his neck, heavy enough to bow the head of powerful Wulfgar.
He had recognized the crowd with crystalline clarity. The drooling peasants, screaming for blood and torture, the excited, almost elated, ogre guards working the crowd, and the unfortunate prisoners. He'd seen them for what they were, and his mind had transformed them into something else, something demonic, the twisted, leering faces