By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) Page 4

  What Cinder could not possibly realize was that her father had gained the gratitude of many powerful people by using his art to their benefit. One such gift he received from a noted mage was a magical elixir that restored much of the Quill’s youth. This elixir was limited in the years it reversed and also in its safety: unbeknownst to Rovair, the formula failed, killing its imbiber, more often than it worked, which is why the rich and influential rarely took such a risk. For Rovair, the elixir worked, so, wanted by the authorities at the time, the Quill’s new age allowed him a new identity as well, forever clearing him of all past crimes. With this new ‘gift’ he began a new life, performing even more daring forgeries. Since the Quill had been forging for decades, no court could convict a man clearly only in his twenties for crimes committed before he would have even been born. Fifteen years had passed since, and Valmar, now going by the name Rovair Shingleshod, was nearing age forty for his second time.

  Against these obstacles, Cinder entered the city and began her search. Against these obstacles, Cinder met her father in the same tavern as had her mother, and yet did not know he was her father, and he did not know that he had even created a daughter. Just like her mother, Cinder was attracted to the man’s charm and sly smile when he approached her in the inn. When she asked him if he knew an elderly man named Valmar, Rovair thought nothing of it. He had not been Valmar in fifteen years and he certainly was not the only man to ever be called by that name in a city so vast.

  Though Rovair cared very little for Cinder’s quest and thought it hopeless, he did promise to help her in her search, wanting only to bed the beautiful woman. He carried her single bag of belongings from the inn where she was staying to his home. Cinder had been in the city only two weeks and that night was the first time she had ever been alone with a man not chaperoned, and the first time she had been in a man’s bedroom, ever. Cinder was enthralled by her first kiss, and a dangerous fire was started deep inside her. It was not until after Rovair had laid her on his bed that she again remembered her quest, thinking their actions queer to be performing while in the midst of such an important conversation.

  “Do you think we will find him?” she asked with a giggle as he kissed her neck.

  “Of course,” Rovair said. Again Cinder giggled playfully, trying her own hand at passionate kissing. It was not a very skilled effort, but Rovair could not deny the pleasure he received from it.

  “I have come such a long way. My mother said that I should stay away from humans. She said that they were bad, but you make me feel good. She said forty-seven was too young to go out on my own.”

  “I don’t think you’re forty-seven,” he chuckled, sliding his hand farther up Cinder’s thigh.

  “Oh I am. I did not tell you, but I am half-elven. I fooled you, did I not?”

  “Oh?” Rovair said inattentively, humoring Cinder as he nibbled on the bare skin of her shoulder.

  “Yes. My mother is an elf. A Faerie.”

  “I knew an elf long ago,” he said absently. “She tasted very much like you.” Cinder laughed.

  “I do not taste,” Cinder giggled, rubbing his hair, hair that felt very coarse to one who had only ever touched silken elven tresses.

  “Shayna was her name,” he said, nibbling down the front of Cinder’s shoulder and nearing her still covered breast.

  “What!” Cinder screamed, shoving Rovair back. “Maybe you knew my mother. Her name is Shayna. Shayna Starshine. Do you think it was she? Do you think it was she that you met? Maybe you know my father too!” Rovair stopped his hand and gently held the soft skin of her shoulder between his teeth. “What?” she asked as Rovair lay motionless, all the clues slowly falling together in his mind. With a great heave he leapt off the bed and paced quickly around the room, fixing his hair and clearing his throat nervously. “Don’t stop,” Cinder whined, but he ignored her pleading.

  “How old are you?” he asked, not looking at Cinder.

  “Forty-seven.”

  “Your mother’s name?”

  “Shayna Starshine, Witch of Darkwood.”

  “Great gods!” Rovair exclaimed, looking at Cinder’s incredibly beautiful body. Rovair was bent over, hands on his knees, the wind sucked from his chest in utter shock. “My name was Valmar...forty-seven years ago. You’re my daughter,” he murmured, nearly falling over. Not only was he shocked by the fact that he just learned that he had had a daughter nearly half a century ago, but this daughter was arguably the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he had nearly made love to her.

  “Daddy!” she screamed, leaping into his arms. Rovair nearly dropped Cinder in his self-disgust.

  “I kissed you!” he said.

  “It was very nice, Daddy,” she said, squeezing his neck as he cradled her, an arm around her back, one under her legs. “Do it again.”

  “Don’t call me that,” he said, his face pale and white.

  “What’s wrong Daddy? Is that not the correct human term?”

  “Get dressed,” Rovair said, setting Cinder on the bed, his eyes closed tightly.

  “Are we done?” she asked.

  “I need to explain some things to you, my dear,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Come downstairs when you’re dressed.” Rovair gingerly walked out, hands thrust out before him, his eyes closed. He shut the door softly behind him.

  Cinder hurried downstairs to where her father waited in his posh, well-furnished parlor, only to find him fully dressed and unable, or unwilling, to look at her. Rovair had done many things in his life that most would call sick, mean, base, even disgusting, but none matched his feat that night in his mind. There, then, in his house stood a woman just slightly less beautiful to him than the maiden to whom he had lost his heart, the only maid in his seventy-two years he had actually loved and pined for in all the years since. He desired Cinder, but his sense of morality, the sense Rovair thought long ago burnt out, kept him from her. He explained to Cinder that what they had done was a mistake, but she had by then forgotten about it, so happy that her father had been found. It seemed impossible, but Cinder felt, she just knew, that she was this man’s daughter.

  Their relationship grew into a diverse one. They began nearly as lovers, then tried being father and daughter, but found that uncomfortable as well. Rovair noted his daughter’s many gifts however. Most important to him were her keen mind, deft touch, exquisite penmanship, and undeniable charm. If Cinder would have had the desire, coupled with his expertise, she could have been an even greater con artist than her father, but she was interested in it only enough to become very good. She did possess a massive curiosity about humans: what they did, what they liked, what they carried in their pockets...so Rovair taught her slight of hand through which she soon became the best he had ever seen. Cinder could pick locks, filch items from a person’s pockets, palm objects without notice, etc. So she could do things like lift a few more gold crowns when she accepted bribes or steal back a document she had just handed over to a client when he turned his back to leave, whereupon Rovair could ostensibly recopy it for the client who had ‘misplaced’ it, for an extra fee of course.

  Cinder had come to the city raised as an elven maid, as pure as a six year-old child, but Rovair saw no harm in teaching his only heir the knack of how to survive in the vicious world of humanity. This meant using her brains and beauty to manipulate people to serve her needs; and his. Cinder was naturally good at it, but being basically a sweet creature Rovair could not seem to instill a vindictive attitude into her nature: Cinder was simply incapable of believing that people were intrinsically manipulative themselves.

  Cinder trusted everyone; Rovair no one. He kept Cinder under lock and key, forbidding her to leave the house unless working. Not only did he want to keep her safe but he wanted to keep her to himself. While their relationship was never a sexual one, it was intense and Rovair was as jealous as any lover, or father, and guarded his Cinder with the combined determination of both.

  Thus, Rovair did not put too much trust i
n Cinder to carry out complex scams and he used her simply as a go-between. She would bat her lashes and play a brainless messenger while actually gathering great deals of information in her pretty, yet brilliant head. This arrangement would also be safer for her; if caught Cinder would most certainly be let go with simply warning not to do whatever crime she had been accused of again. Once. After that, Rovair would have to cease using Cinder. But so very confident, Rovair never worried about her being apprehended. To aid in their plans, they pretended to be lovers; Cinder was never allowed to tell anyone that he was her father. The greatest reason was if Rovair were arrested, she, as his heir, would be responsible for his debts and fines, and he would not burden his only child with such a loss.

  Though Cinder found most of his skullduggery rather simple and less than interesting, she did find the humans of Andrelia fascinating. Simply by altering the style of her hair and the way she dressed, Cinder could pass as a human, an elf maid, or, of course, as half-elven. But she loved to imitate humans, wishing desperately that she was, and had been raised as, one. She soon cast off her dainty elven slippers, wholesome dresses and conservative undergarments, for clothing flattering her shapely long-legged form: four-inch high heels, dresses either slit high, low cut or both, and silk corsets and garter belts. She styled her hair like the women around her and loved to, through incantations she had learned from her mother, change her hair color to platinum blonde, dark red, or any other shade she desired.

  But now, her father was gone. Cinder had lived with him several months and now was alone. Rovair had offered to take Cinder with him, but they both knew that she would only slow his escape. He had to leave the city for at least several years before his fifty odd years of crimes would be forgotten, as well as the 20,000 gold crown price on his head, the fourth highest bounty ever offered. Cinder wanted to stay and Rovair could only hope that his daughter had learned more street smarts than she had openly shown.

  Cinder walked down from the porch and, without looking back, headed off toward the city market where she hoped she would be picked up by a profitable employer. While she had inherited a goodly sum of monies, finding employment would aid her in assuming a truly human life and help her to interact with them without raising suspicion as to her motives.

  After strolling only a block, a group of soldiers, the city guard, ran past her, their weapons drawn as they battered down the door to her former home and ran inside. She turned and walked on, careful not to appear, but really unconcerned if she was, associated with the Quill. Cinder began whistling a tune, a human tune, as she swung her purse happily: now thrust amongst all those humans, alone without anyone to tell her how she could perform her studies. Cinder could learn what she wanted, how she wanted, and from whom she wanted without anyone to tell her “no” anymore.

  The party had gone well for Selric and as a bonus to his pleasure, Angelique was resplendent as she stood on the balcony overlooking the city down the hill and away towards the waterfront. Street lanterns burned a golden-orange light around the villa and throughout the other more affluent parts of the city, appearing as glowing orbs here and there to the observer’s view. Angelique wore a white gown trimmed with thread of gold and platinum: diamonds and golden jewels adorned her neck, wrists, and sat perched in the form of a tiara atop her flaxen hair. Her face lit up and her posture straightened, if possible for such a pert figure, as she watched Selric walk out to her. In the torchlight, she sparkled like a million twinkling stars; her hair, lips, skin, jewels, and especially her hopeful eyes. It broke Selric’s heart.

  Normally oblivious to the hurt of women, Selric now felt that to which he had long known ignorance. It was not that Selric did not care, he had simply seldom noticed. Selric was always breaking hearts when he could no longer carry on a relationship for whatever reason. He had grown used to it. But now...now it was different. Selric really did not want to hurt Angelique. He had always felt, in a vain manner, that by loving a woman she received a gift, and when he left her she was better from the encounter even if saddened by its demise. But he had not loved-and-left Angelique. She liked him not for the physical or monetary reasons that most of the other women did, and for that he hurt. Angelique loved Selric only because of who she thought he was.

  “Hello, Jewel-of-the-Heavens,” Selric said. Angelique simply smiled; enchanted. Selric licked his lips and took a deep breath.

  “Is something wrong Selric?” Angelique asked sweetly; sprightly. She smiled an innocent and charming smile: her teeth beautiful, nose a button, mouth narrow with the lips in a permanent glistening pout, hair golden and feathery, and her emerald eyes reflecting the torchlight as vividly as the jewels around her neck.

  “No, nothing’s wrong Angelique. Nothing at all.” Selric took Angelique by the hand and led her to the balcony’s edge where he leaned against the rail. “Did you realize that my parents are very fond of you?” Selric asked, looking out over the city, his eye caught by a painted lady standing under a lamp post several blocks away, the city darker and seedier the closer it slid down the hill to the docks.

  “And my mother, of you,” Angelique said with a smile, her eyes locked curiously on Selric’s pained face. Selric looked over at Angelique: she was watching him, intently, waiting for him to say what troubled him, her brows raised. Selric bit his lip, a perplexed look crossing his face. “Just say it Selric. We have known each other for over twenty years, meeting at these parties and such; my family, your family. I remember you wanting to pretend that we were married when we were eleven. You wanted me to kiss you.” She smiled proudly, her face longing from the sweet memory of a dear childhood friend.

  “You wouldn’t,” Selric said pleasantly.

  “Things change.”

  “Yes, they do,” Selric said nervously. “You know, my parents think you would make me the best bride.”

  “That is very sweet of them,” Angelique said, still waiting patiently.

  “What do you think?”

  “Is that a proposal?” Angelique asked, then paused, but when Selric opened his mouth nervously to answer, she began again. “I am merely jesting with you.” She turned Selric to face her, taking both his hands in hers. “Selric, I know that you are not ready to marry. And even when you are, it probably will not be me who you want to wed, though I admit I have often wondered why.”

  “That’s not true,” he insisted, lifting her hands to his lips, his eyes sad and lying.

  “What is not?” she followed.

  “That it won’t be you...necessarily. But no, I am not ready. I’m sorry. That much is true.”

  “Do not be sorry,” Angelique scoffed with a giggle. “You must do what is best for you. What if I said that I would do what you wanted, to show you how I felt about you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To be frank, I have heard about your reputation. It is not ladylike or proper to listen to gossip, I know, but I am pretty sure that this is true. Is it not?” Angelique smiled, cocking her head at a confirmatory angle.

  “I would never want that,” Selric said. “What am I saying?” he thought to himself, “that’s all I’ve wanted from her since we were twelve.” But at that moment, he did not want to lie with her in love, not when she offered in that way; that unselfish, self-sacrificial way.

  “I know. You are a gentleman. But I wanted you to know that I think I could really come to love you...as a husband. I already do as a friend.”

  “But we’re so different. You really need someone who’s at home at these functions. I’m uncomfortable,” he said, looking around, as if waiting for someone to pounce on him. “You’re at home, you shine. You’re patient. I lose control with the pomposity and the condescending tone whenever the ‘commoners’ are mentioned. You wouldn’t like, or fit in at, the places in which I am comfortable. Take the Dragon’s Jaw...”

  Angelique gasped. “You go there?” she asked, her eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar in an innocent and sweet manner of shock. “I have heard that people hav
e been killed there...and...and that they have prostitutes...and...and that it is dirty...” She looked aghast, losing her tongue and ability to go on speaking.

  “But it isn’t, you see. It’s all right when you’ve been there a few times.”

  “Then I could go?”

  “No...no,” Selric stuttered quickly. “It’s not a nice place. It’s not a tea party or something like that. It’s only okay if you can handle yourself...and if you fit in. You wouldn’t. You’re...well, too sweet. They’d be jealous or hate you because you’re noble or something. I can’t explain, but it’s the truth. I’m not trying to discourage you, honestly I’m not.” Selric looked at Angelique pleadingly, wishing he could find the exact words to make his pain clear. Normally well-spoken—more glib the less important the topic—Selric now could not form sentences to explain what his heart yearned to share with explicit clarity.

  “It is all right, I believe you. I know what they can be like.”

  “See? You’re doing it now. You’re being snobby. What do you mean they? On the whole, the rabble is no worse than the snobs. Each group just does things in its own way. Neither is superior, but they undoubtedly cannot get along with one another. And I feel better with them.”

  “Yet you said they would hate me for being noble. So are they not as prejudiced as I?”

  “I guess you are right,” he said softly.

  “So what are you saying?” she asked as if mildly frustrated; betrayed.

  “I don’t know,” Selric said dejectedly. “Just that people should be judged individually, not because of his or her social class. Someone is not a bad person because they have less manners than another…or…or because he doesn’t have the blood of a particular family in his veins.”

  “I see,” Angelique said. “Well, if you ever want to settle down to your inheritance and a refined life, I may want to mix my family blood with yours.” She looked slyly at him, smiling slightly, compassionately. “Our son would be the most handsome, sophisticated lad,” she added with a winsome sigh.