These headaches had plagued Tariel since she was a small child. She gritted her teeth as a vicious headache pummeled her temples, and braced her hand against the stone wall to keep from reeling. She had to act like a proper Fjordland lady at all times, or suffer Lady Tyrook’s wrath.Īs she shut the door to the stillroom behind her, the magic turned in on Tariel, punishing her for refusing to release it. It did not matter that she was so clearly different from the others. She wanted to lash out at them with the power bubbling in her veins, but instead she merely inclined her head, then turned and gracefully walked out of the room, keeping her steps unhurried as she had been taught to do from a young age. Rage bloomed in Tariel’s heart, and it grew even stronger when Buloma and Willa, two tall blondes who had always had it in for Tariel, snickered from across the table. “Since you seem to know this recipe so well, I see no reason why you should waste your precious time here with the rest of us.” She sneered and flicked a spindly hand. Mistress Ellarta’s dark gray eyes flashed. It would be a shame if one of us accidentally killed someone due to an avoidable error.” “And depending on the age, the patient might never wake up.
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“Two spoonfuls will put the patient into a deep sleep,” Tariel went on, ignoring the prickle of discomfort at having the room’s full attention. The girl who stood next to her was nearly a head taller despite being barely fifteen. She was the oldest in the room at eighteen, though far from the tallest. The stillroom mistress paused, and all eyes turned to Tariel. “Don’t you mean one spoonful?” Tariel interrupted. “And now, we add two spoonfuls of ground mellowroot into your bowl,” Mistress Ellarta instructed the class. In fact, she had been far too young to witness such a horrific thing, and if not for Lady Tyrook’s wish to impress upon her what happened to girls who were not good and obedient, she would have never suffered the horrific memories that had plagued her for years afterward. But Tariel had been too young to know that at the time. Her beloved’s mother had wanted him to marry a rich merchant girl, and when he’d refused to bow to her wishes, she’d taken care of the problem herself. She’d merely fallen in love with the wrong man. Of course, everyone in the town knew that the girl hadn’t really been a witch. The charge had come from the young man’s mother, and as Sir Jerrold the Relentless, Fjordland’s Prime Witch Hunter, had been visiting, it wasn’t long before the poor girl was tied to a pyre in the middle of the village, her screams scorching the heavens as she burned for her sins. A village girl had been accused of bespelling a young man into falling in love with her. She’d only seen a witch burning once, when she was nine years old. If anyone caught me speaking to ghosts, I would be burned at the stake as a witch.
The pestle made a scraping sound against the gray stone as she worked on grinding the root into a fine powder that would later be mixed with several other ingredients, then steeped in boiling water. Lady Tyrook won’t see it that way, she thought mulishly as she watched the stillroom mistress place a few slices of dried mellowroot in her mortar. She merely wanted to know where she had come from.
Unlike some, Tariel’s desires were rather simple in nature. She would not raise an army of undead to march across Fjordland and storm the capital, nor raze the lands and plunder the villages. Not that she had any intention of using such a potion for evil, she thought idly as she spun a stem between her thumb and forefinger. As Tariel stood around the large, round table, only half listening to the stillroom mistress’s lecture, she wondered if it was possible to mix up a potion that could summon the dead.
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