The Use Read online

  Halidan's own knowledge of what was required from High Court families came from her unending reading of any book that came her way, and her father’s guidance. Before she was born, her father had been employed for many years by a High Court family and it was he who taught her by his own example those little mannerisms that would never be found in a text. He also provided books on High Court protocols and the lineage and responsibilities of each High Court family.

  Every time Halidan appeared before the Matriarch to report on the girls’ progress it was clear to the ambitious Elf that Halidan possessed a higher level of the graces, language, and skills than her daughters could ever aspire to. Halidan’s ash-white hair was an additional aggravation. To keep the peace her father decreed that Halidan’s hair should be kept cut a bare half inch from her skull and she should wear the headscarves so fashionable amongst mortal women. Halidan obediently read and taught, and felt more than a little sorry for the daughters of the House.

  They were not particularly pretty, especially considering Calisa’s unfortunate tendency to blush, nor were they talented to any extreme degree. They did have one virtue that gave their mother cause to hope and plan. They both had been born of an Elven woman of provable fertility. Netha, wife of Pitchuri, had given her husband a total of five children. Five! And when there were High Court Houses who counted themselves lucky to produce one child in the current generation – and some Houses having difficulty producing that single one – Netha was certain her girls would find some House desperate enough for children to overlook Low birth and lack of magic and welcome a match.

  Hadn’t Merchant Pitchuri been voted head of his local guild mostly as an acknowledgment of his wife’s fertility? Of that one skill envied by many– achievable by so very, very few. Impregnating his wife!

  Several of the local Low Court Houses had already approached Pitchuri about alliances even though the girls were far from marriageable age, but Netha would not consider any of them. She was seeking nothing less than a High Court match. That alone explained her obsession about the girls’ appearances.

  Joian’s hair was not sufficiently ash white for her mother’s liking, being more a dull silver grey. Consequently, it was washed twice daily in a succession of mixtures all promising to bleach any pigment from the strands. Despite everything they did the girl's hair grew back in that same distressing color and she went through the day wrapped in a cloud of bleach, her hair brittle and stiff. Calisa was subjected to hour-long insult sessions delivered by her own mother, intended to train her out of her regrettable tendency to blush.

  The poor girl would become flustered as the hour for her abuse approached and she ended each day red faced and in tears. Halidan could not persuade the Matriarch that her plan was flawed and could only wait with cool cloths and soothing teas to settle the girl each evening.

  In the center of the room Calisa waved her hands in what was supposed to be a gesture evoking clouds and uttered a phrase that, if she possessed the appropriate magic, would summon a rain of thin mud.

  “Stop. Stop,” cried Halidan, “Calisa. Please listen to the drum; it helps you. Let the rhythm shape the words in your mouth.” Halidan gave a triple tap with the drum to warn her of the change in rhythm and started the second phase of the Invocation when the thunder of feet in the hallway outside distracted her student.

  “Mother will have their heads if that’s my brothers again,” said Calisa, turning to face the door.

  Before Halidan could respond the classroom door was flung open. She rose to reprimand whoever was disturbing the serenity of the House when the Matriarch Netha herself entered, her face stiff and stern. Three servants charged into the room on her heels and before Halidan could speak, two of them had seized Calisa and Joian and dragged them from the room. The third one approached Halidan, but did not touch her.

  “Halidan tor Ephram, you are dismissed,” said Netha. “Rise and leave at once.”

  Halidan clutched the book and drum to her chest. As soon as she rose the servant began cleaning the chair on which she had been seated.

  “Matriarch, please, what is this?” cried Halidan. “What’s wrong?”

  “Were you or were you not informed of the rules when you were hired?” demanded the Elf as she directed her servants about the room. “You were to report all illnesses when they manifested and retreat to the Sanctuary until it was over. Are you merely ignorant or willfully disobedient?”

  “I am not ill,’ protested Halidan, confused.

  “No, not you. Your father! Impossible man. So inconsiderate as to die under my roof. I cannot tell you the inconvenience we shall suffer from his ill manners. Do you have any idea the expense of the Ritual Cleansing?”

  “I am sorry you were inconvenienced,” began Halidan automatically and then her mind understood what her ears had heard and her knees turned to sand. “Died? Died? My father has died?”

  “There is no need to say the word so many times,” relied the Matriarch absently, most of her attention on the servants who were wiping down all the furniture in the chamber. “If you are not careful you will bring the curse of mortality upon this House. Is that how you would repay us? Ungrateful child.”

  Netha threw a cloth covered bundle toward Halidan who moved too slowly to catch it. The fabric fluttered away dropping two thin books on the floor. The outer cover of the topmost proclaimed it to be the personal identification papers of Halidan tor Ephram. Underneath were her father’s papers, Ephram re Rathnin. Halidan ran her fingers over the two books, straightening the bent pages, and hers fell open. Across the center pages was scrawled the word “Dismissed!”

  “Netha,” Halidan cried, willing strength into her legs. “Matriarch, I don’t understand. How is this happening?”

  Halidan could not bring herself to move. Her legs and arms felt as if they were encased in mud and her lungs could not draw air. Her father, her beloved father, dead? Gone? How?

  “When? When? When did my father. . ?”

  “He is not yet passed from life,” said Netha. “No, Praise the Elements, that horror he spared us. Just a quarter hour past he collapsed while speaking to my dear sons – oh, the poor children. What had they ever done to him that he should do this before them? The worst he did not do, for your father still breathes. I have had him placed in a cart and he will be taken to the blessed Blue Waters Sanctuary. They will know what to do.”

  Then she turned away and calmly began directing her servants in their cleaning.

  “I must go with him,” Halidan took a step toward the door.

  “Yes, you must,” said Netha. “You and your mortal contamination must be gone before you do more harm. I should have listened to my friends. They warned me against having mortal servants inside the House. But, your father seemed so young when he came here. Well, time passes differently for mortals. It was only to be expected.”

  For several frozen seconds Halidan couldn’t move. Her father was dying. Dying! Or, at least, he was very ill. Only this morning she had sat across from him in the tiny suite in the back of the House. She’d joked with him about his lack of appetite. He’d joked about feeling as if a storm was coming – as if it were possible for it to rain without permission of the Elves. Then they’d both gone to their duties. Had she missed some sign of ill health? Had she failed her father?

  Halidan tried to gather her thoughts, her scattered wits. She had so much to do, to pack. No. Her father’s health must come first. She should go now and return for the belongings once her father was safe.

  The matriarch was not yet done with her.

  “This whole room must be stripped bare and Ritually cleansed before any of the Household enters it, again. Anything that cannot be cleansed must be burnt. Your father is proving to be quite expensive. The Sanctuaries exist for a good reason, girl, as a place for those suffering from illness to be kept away from those of us who do not. Make proper use of them in future.” Still scowling the matriarch turned to one of the servants commanding, “If she does
n’t leave in five seconds, throw her out the window.”

  With that she turned her back on Halidan and prepared to leave the room. Her cruel dismissal was enough to spur Halidan into action.

  “Would Matriarch Netha prefer that I fell and died of my injuries in her House's forecourt? I think not. You will not even grant me the courtesy of a dignified exit from your employment? You have not recorded my years of study, training, and service in your Household. Nor have you given me payment due for this year’s work. How exactly am I to pay for my father’s medicine or for the ritual you desire to prevent the contamination you fear falling on your House if you cast me out without a coin? Without even our books and possessions?”

  “You with all your flaunted training and High manners, should have known better than to permit your father to remain beneath my roof while ill! I am well within my rights to dismiss you for this reprehensible behavior. However,” Netha reached into the multicolored sash bound around her waist, drew out a small leather purse, and flung it across the chamber at Halidan. “Here is some money. Take it and be grateful. As for the rest, you’d best hurry. Your clothes are even now being gathered together to be part of the Ritual Cleansing. Be sure to say your prayers, girl. Pray for the protection of those benefactors that your father’s neglect may have irreparably wounded.” And with that the Elven woman vanished into the dim corridor.

  Halidan cast one worried glance toward the nearest servant whose attention was now on the bag in her hand. Given that she had just lost the protection of the House, she didn’t trust him not to snatch the purse from her if she ventured too close. To whom should she complain? The Matriarch?

  No.

  Even as the servant took a threatening step toward her, Halidan tucked her and her father’s personal papers into the bodice of her dress, a book of Ritual Poetry into her sash, and flinging the window shade up, leapt over the sill and jumped. She landed awkwardly despite it being only a few feet, but pulled herself together and ran as soon as she had her feet steady beneath her. It was good that she had, for the servant jumped through the window after her.

  Halidan ran through the garden, up beside the solid stone walls, and around to the front steps of the House. The mess that greeted her took what remained of her breath away and even served to stun her pursuer into immobility.

  At the bottom of the broad, polished stairs leading up into the main door was the dirty cart used for hauling foul trash from the House to the compost heap at the farm. One of the gardeners was harnessing the oldest of the Household horses to the cart, ignoring the mortal man who had been thrown onto the bare, filthy boards.

  Halidan didn’t notice the tears leaking down her face. For a frozen moment she saw nothing but her father, Ephram. His body was twisted onto his left side. His left arm was contortedand pressed close to his chest and his hand, claw-like, tucked under his chin. Spittle ran from his mouth and pooled on the dirty wood planks.

  A ball of fabric struck Halidan’s face, the embroidered hem of her festival dress scratching her skin. Halidan dragged the dress free and stared about, searching for her attacker.

  On the staircase stood most of the inside servants of the House, laughing as if they were at a festival. Some carried armloads of clothing; others were engaged in throwing books down the stairs. A few were near the pile of debris tearing wooden chairs to pieces and dumping them on top of Halidan’s possessions. One of the maids was empty handed and grinning widely, no doubt pleased with the success of her throw. The maid turned to the servant nearest her and snatched another wadded ball of fabric and threw, again. This time Halidan was able to catch the linens before they struck.

  “Stop. Please stop.”

  Most of the servants paid no attention to her. They continued throwing books, papers, cushions, and bed linens over the balustrade. Granted the Matriarch usually ran the House with a heavy hand and stern rules, giving little opportunity for levity, but that was no reason for the servants to take such joy in her pain! One of the servants appeared with a lit oil lantern and the shout of excitement that greeted him shook Halidan free of her paralysis.

  “Please, I beg you. Wait! This is all I have.”

  The servant with the light paused, laughing down at her.

  “Oh, come. You cannot refuse us our fun!”

  “Fun?” Halidan gasped. “How can you be so cruel?”

  A maid put her hand lightly on the servant’s arm.

  “Oh, give her five minutes, Grani. We’ll still have enough for a good bonfire!”

  Grani shrugged and lowered his arm.

  “You have five minutes,” he said. “No one will help you. We have no wish to foul our hands with your disease.”

  Halidan sniffed, but didn’t pause to point out that the servants had not had such qualms only moments before when they’d manhandled her belongings onto this pyre. Instead she ran, snatched up one of the bedsheets and shook it open. As fast as she could, she piled clothing and books into the sheet and dragged it back to heave it onto the filthy cart.

  While her back was turned, the servant dropped the lantern on what remained – to the cheers of those watching. With a cry Halidan ran back, snatching up her belongings before they could catch alight. But, with the broken wood and oil it wasn’t long before what remained was burning fiercely.

  Halidan watched as one of her festival head scarves twisted and curled inwards as it burned. Tears in her eyes, she raised her face to the gathered servants. She didn’t have to ask what had happened to her few pieces of jewelry, or the better pieces of her and her father’s wardrobes. The servants’ superstition would not stop them from taking advantage of the confusion to steal every mortal-contaminated valuable they could.

  Back straight, Halidan faced those she whose House and food she had shared until this moment.

  “May the Elements bless all present with what they earn by their actions,” she said and walked back to the cart with what dignity her soot-smeared face allowed and turned away before they recognized her words as the curse they were.

  She was barely onboard before the wagoner shook his reins. She staggered, falling to her knees on the piled debris. Her father rolled with the motion, coming to rest with his face pressed to the splintered side of the cart.

  Halidan seized a stray piece of fabric – she didn’t recognize it as an item of their clothing – and pulled Ephram straight, tucking some of the cloth under his head. Then she piled other pieces on either side of his body to keep him still. With a clean corner she wiped the spittle from his cheek and stared down at his contorted face. So many changes in such a short time. Only hours ago his face had held humor, his eyes love. His lips had spoken High and Low with wit and wisdom. Now his skin was grey tinged, one side of his face was slack, the other side drawn back in pain and all of it was smeared with dirt. Halidan ran one hand over his forehead. There was no fever. No flushed skin. As far as she could tell, when she rested her head against his chest, his heart was strong and lungs were clear, although his breathing was loud and ragged.

  Hiding the symptoms of winter flu was the limit of her medical knowledge and it was obvious that was not her father’s malady. Aside from making him as comfortable as she could in this stinking wagon there was nothing she could do for him until they reached the Sanctuary.

  She had tucked a few more folds of fabric under his head and was wishing the wagon would stop rocking so much so she could wrap him and make him more comfortable, when the wagon stopped completely.

  “Out,” shouted the driver.

  Halidan looked over her shoulder. They were barely past the fence posts marking the entrance to House Pitchuri. “What do you mean, out? We aren’t at the Sanctuary.”

  “Out,” repeated the driver. “Get out. You can walk the rest of the way.”

  “Six leis? And how, pray tell, am I to carry my father all that distance?”

  “Leave him on the side of the road. You can walk over and tell the priest where to find him. They’ll come fetch him in a w
heelbarrow.”

  Wheelbarrow? That was just one word – one uncaring insult too many for Halidan. She leapt to her feet and before the driver could dodge her, she slapped the back of his skull with enough force to set the wagon rocking.

  “You arrogant, unfeeling ass. May your wife tell you your children were fathered by another! How dare you say such a cruel thing to me . . . to us? When have we ever done you any harm?” Halidan put both hands on her hips and balanced as carefully as she could on the uneven boards. “You will take us to the Sanctuary. You will drive slowly and carefully, avoiding all bumps and shaking about. And you will do it now!”

  The driver glanced down at Ephram and frowned. “Not I. I’m not paid enough to transport the dead . . .”

  “He’s not dead,” cried Halidan, “and he might live if we get him to the healers soon.”

  He dropped the reins, folded his arms across his chest, and stared back at her.

  She considered slapping him again, but reconsidered. There were other ways to reach an unfeeling soul. She reached into her sash for the Matriarch’s money pouch. She didn’t bring the pouch into the light – it was too much of a risk. Instead her sensitive fingertips sifted through the coins until she found two with six sides. She drew them out and showed them to the driver. “Here, two silver. Drive us to the Sanctuary and they are yours.”

  “Pay over,” said the driver, holding out one dirty hand.

  “I’m no fool,” said Halidan, dropping the coins back into her sash. “Not until we are there and my belongings are safely unloaded.” She frowned at him. “I don’t want you driving away with what little I have left and going straight to the secondhand store.”

  “As if they’d take it,” the driver sneered, his eyes still on Halidan’s sash.

  After a pause he turned, took up the reins, and shook the horse into motion. Halidan sank to her knees and brushed her hand over Ephram’s forehead. His color, if anything, was worse, his breathing irregular, and he was covered in sweat.