A Promise of Iron by Brandon McCoy (the reading list .txt) 📕

me. “I have been letting it grow out, but I suppose I could do for a…”

“Shh!” She scolded. “Margarette told to cut you. Not boy cut, boy.” She snapped her sheers, and I closed my mouth.

I looked at the table to my right. A leather case was full to the brim with silver instruments. I considered the value of all that silver. The estate was as safe a place as any, but plenty of pickpockets still worked the grounds. They wouldn’t think twice about lifting a pound of silver from a foreigner. Regardless of how formidable Margarette looked, I grew concerned for her safety, that is, until she began to work.

Margarette was more an artist with her metal than Crylwin was with a sword. She worked her shears with purpose, occasionally stopping to frame my face with her hands. Click, click, click went the sound of her tools as small locks of brown hair fell to the ground. Then silence as she set down her tools.

Margarette reached for a jar on the table, unscrewed the lid, and poured a clear oil into her hands. She clapped them together, rubbed vigorously, then worked the oil into the stubble on my face. It smelled of mint and eucalyptus. I closed my eyes and breathed it in. I felt her curved blade on my skin. It was sharp, but her touch was smooth and steady. She hooked her wrist as she carved around and under my chin, then paused to wipe the blade clean on the back of her hand. The heat from the oil tingled on my fresh skin. It burned, but not unpleasantly. When she finished, she placed the knife back on the table and stepped behind me.

She placed her hands on the side of my face, tilting me towards the mirror. She ran her thick fingers through my hair, working it into a knot as Patricia had done. She dropped a few lengths of colored cord in my lap. “For hair,” she explained. “Match shirt. Match shirt with lady dress.” She drew a circle in the air with her hands. “This is done in Seveli Court. It has—”

“No equal. Yes, I got it.”

She forced out a smile that could best be described as handsome then folded up her case.

I never found much importance in appearances, but after today it was clear that lords and ladies, regardless of country, put considerable thought into such things. I was one of them now, if only by name. I looked at myself again in the mirror; a new face starred back at me.

“My man will be done with gem soon,” she declared as she closed her leather case and tucked the mirror under her arm, “Wash hair, then soak.”

With the kind of efficiency reserved for paid companionship upon the dawn, she grabbed her bag, propped the easel over her shoulder, and carted everything off towards the exit.

I did as instructed and stepped back into the wading pool with soap in hand. Stares and whispers returned, not that they likely ceased. I paid them no attention. I wanted this no more than they did. I wouldn’t let it get to me. My name may have changed—my clothes, my boots, my hair—but not me. I was still Ruk.

Once clean, again, I grabbed my clothes, threw a towel over my shoulder, and proceeded to the hot baths, stopping only to pluck a single orange from the grove as I passed. The tubs were just as crowded, everyone taking advantage of an afternoon of leisure before the festivities. I found a suitable pool towards the back that only had two others in it, a couple, perhaps. They were giggling with each other as I approached.

“May I join you?” I asked, placing my belongings on the bench outside the tub.

They both turned to me. Surprise was written across their faces, but not from the sight of my nakedness—only Cyllians were so prudish that they wore bathing clothes.

“Our apologies, my lord. You may have the bath,” the young woman said. Her eyes were bright blue. She did her best to cover her breasts with the strands of her long blonde hair.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” I said as I hauled a leg over the edge and lowered myself in, “we’re all Ruks here.”

They turned to each other, then back to me.

I tossed an orange peel on the vent, smiled, then held the plump fruit out to them. “Care for some orange?”

Chapter Twenty and Four

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

Richard arrived a few moments after the couple departed, spoiling my chance to soak in peace yet again. “The Master is awaiting you in the study,” he said.

“Perfect timing as usual,” I replied.

Richard snorted, then handed me my towel. After a few moments, we were back in the study where a small team was breaking down the racks of weapons and storing them in large wooden crates. At the center of the room stood Crylwin and my lord father. Old Monroe stood with his hands behind his back, reviewing the altered garments.

Patricia waited at the door. She gave Richard a dismissive wave then wrapped her sleeveless arm through my own. She patted my arm delicately as she led me to where my family stood.

“Good afternoon,” Monroe said as we approached. “I trust the ladies Delacroix have been of assistance to you?”

“My lord,” Patricia interrupted, placing her hand to her chest, “art flatters the subject, not the hand. Now we have two handsome princes.”

“Your art flatters my house,” Monroe said with a gracious bow. “Will you be joining us this evening? You and your entourage.”

“Of course,” Patricia said. “Dress,” she instructed, pointing to the clothes, “so we might see our triumph.”

I did as commanded and stepped behind the racks. A pile of fresh linens awaited me. I tried them on. The shorts were not the typical linens I might wear. They fit snuggly and were long in the leg. A thin shirt with silver brocade down the front accompanied it. I didn’t own