The assays of ata the ch.., p.1
The Assays of Ata (The Chronicles of Áitarbith Book 1), page 1
THE ASSAYS OF ATA
THE CHRONICLES OF ÁITARBITH
K. I. S.
Copyright © 2024 by K. Schultz
All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-0-7961-4183-5
Cover design by: K.I.S.
Created with Vellum
For my sisters, who wouldn’t stop nagging for the next episode.
MAP OF ÁITARBITH
CONTENTS
1. A tempestuous introduction
2. The game continues
3. The enemy of my enemy
4. Butterfly on a wheel
5. Here be monsters
6. … you can’t scratch
7. A bat out of hell
8. And then there were three
9. Dead to the world
10. Paying the Piper
11. Castles in the air
12. The scales fall away
13. An itch…
14. … you can’t scratch
15. Under one’s skin
16. The best-laid plans
17. Pawns and princes
18. Spell binding
19. Tied in knots
20. Ties that bind
21. The other half
22. Descent into darkness
23. Revenant revelations
24. To break a spell
25. Birth and rebirth
Glossary*
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by K. I. S.
1
A TEMPESTUOUS INTRODUCTION
I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody too?
Emily Dickinson
The fire in the oven jumped and danced wildly in tandem with the howling winds outside, the head cook swearing and sweating as he tried to save the baking delicacies from the consequences of the gales – whether by being burnt or sprinkled with ash swirling around within the massive hearth.
One would think the kitchens ideally warm and cosy, the only such place in a glass-encased palace currently being battered and bombarded by the elements – but this was sadly not the case. It was true none of the unseasonably cold breezes could rake their frozen claws past the heavy, scarred door, but the sweltering space still fell prey to wafts of sooty ash and debris barrelling down the chimney.
Ata gagged at the overwhelming smell of charred fat but had the good sense to do so behind her hand as she pretended to adjust her headdress. If the head cook caught sight of her actions, the implied disgust would be akin to sacrilege and his reaction would be uncomfortable to bear. It wouldn’t be anything serious, but discomfort came in many forms for a lowly servant – think ‘lavatory-related’ and you’d be getting warm…
She had to remember: she was an obedient, hardworking servant girl. A good girl, who recited her prayers and catechisms according to the beads hanging from her waistband and the tomes of the Holy Sacrament of the Benevolent Order of the Gods. At least for now. Ata privately suppressed a smirk, maintaining her earnest, slightly vacant facial expression whilst everyone scurried around in a frenzy. She continued to assiduously chop away at the parsnips, as it behoved a lowly kitchen grunt.
The persona she had assumed was that of Anita: eager to please, slightly stupid, and easily managed. She tried to maintain a light touch with her character; it was so easy to overplay the wide-eyed ingénue or the half-witted country bumpkin and lay it on too thickly. She prided herself on her final incarnation – pretty, but vacant; eye-catching, but forgettable. In short: the perfect person to snoop under the auspices of fetching, carrying, and cleaning, whilst also being able to wheedle titbits of information from young and old with mild, if somewhat inept, flirtation. A wolf in petticoats, the perfect spy.
“You! Parsnip girl. Come here and take these capons up to the service area!” the head cook’s slightly crazed glare fell on her as he motioned imperiously. She scurried forward – slightly awkwardly but plenty enthusiastically – this was her greatest wish and pleasure: to serve the Glorious House of Hårbørgen. If she truly believed it, then others would too.
He muttered to himself about incompetent lackeys, disdainfully gesturing to the little browned birds artfully displayed on a shining silver plate. “Don’t you dare drop them. And don’t enter the dining area – be sure to hand it over to a senior server,” he threatened as she haphazardly lifted the massive platter to her shoulder; only years of physical training and exertion rendered her arms and shoulders capable of taking the strain.
She didn’t know how a nobody serf from the provinces, as many of the other kitchen and serving maids were, would manage the sheer weight of the plate. That said, there was sturdy stock from the countryside, so perhaps her assessment was overly pessimistic.
She heaved her load up the steep stone stairs, her momentum rushing her through the narrow servants’ passages until she hurtled into the one exactly parallel with the formal dining room. The bustling back and forth of servers made the space congested, but her overlarge burden ensured that she barrelled onward and everyone dodged from her path. The wood panelling and carpeted floors muffled their passing, mitigating the cold seeping in from the outdoors along with the body heat generated by the throng of servants in constant motion. Hushed murmurs and quiet footfalls seemed to be at odds with the frantic busyness abounding in the limited space of the narrow corridor.
Ata looked amongst the throng of servers for the rangy frame of her superior – the senior server whose group she had been assigned to here for the past two weeks at Hårbørgen Palace. She had been ordered to stick to her superior’s side at all times till instructed otherwise, thereby being able to witness the day-to-day workings as well as receive constant instruction on pleasing the powers that be.
Famenke had gimlet eyes that missed nothing and a perpetually sour face that matched her disposition in every way. Ata liked her immensely, if for no other reason than she was abominably rude and shockingly blunt – ideal at alienating all those around her through the sheer awfulness of her personality, thereby offsetting ‘Anita’s’ somewhat dubiously mediocre charms, rendering her significantly more likable and attractive to the others. All of this, with little to no effort expended by Ata.
However, very inconveniently at that moment, Ata could not detect the curly golden-red wisps escaping a sombre-grey head scarf (although, Hanson, the gardener’s helper called it “carrot frizz”) that denoted ‘Mistress’ Famenke’s managerial presence, even with said girl’s towering height. Another appreciable feature of her current mentor in the art of service was the fact that she was almost a head taller than Ata, who, due to her own notable height (at least in Cinnae) worried about standing out, but could now “hide in plain sight”, avoiding notice in her overseer’s shadow – even literally. Famenke had been a boon to her mission, really, if completely unwittingly.
Ata frantically looked around for any server to take her burden and enter the exclusive sanctum known as the formal dining hall, where a nobody like herself would never so much as set foot without extensive training as a server. Not that she’d actually be in service here that long, but that was beside the point.
The damned birds on her platter were cooling fast and she couldn’t face the inevitable haranguing she would receive as vacantly sweet Anita should she return to the kitchens to have them reheated (or – heaven forfend – a ducal complaint be received). But none of the currently bustling servers could or would set aside their tasks and deliver the grilled geldings to the royal table and she had no time to wait for another.
Thus, without thinking too much on the possible consequences the lack of protocol of her entrance would elicit, Ata glided through the servers’ door into the dining area with a straight back, sure hands, and eyes lowered deferentially.
At the massively ornate dining table, set with a forest of crystal glasses, silver candlesticks, and bouquets of multi-hued blooms, sat the Cinnaen royal family – the self-styled ‘Glorious House of Hårbørgen’ – and a few important officials. All were stereotypically fair, ranging from bright golds to palest whites, lacklustre straw pates to tow heads.
Even though she kept her eyes downcast, Ata knew to the smallest detail who all attended the dinner. She had, naturally, been briefed on and studied every person of significance, whether peripheral or central, to said dynastic monarchy. She therefore deduced enough about this handful of figures to identify them from a glance alone based on their appearances, mannerisms, seats at the table, or any combination of these elements.
She breathed evenly, shored up her defences, strengthening her facade of a bumbling servant girl out of her depth but trying her darnedest to pass muster. She just needed to carry the gods-heavy platter around the table while the footman (who had appeared magically at her side gripping a pair of shining silver tongs in his white-gloved fingers) deposited the birds to each individual’s plate. Simple.
They approached the table together; she took her lead from the footman on whom to approach and pause next to first – a rotund, middle-a
Lord Svensso, general of Cinnae’s eastern armies, illegitimate son of the late King Olefso, elder half-brother to the crown prince. She rolled her eyes inwardly – one would think she’d feel an affinity for one of her kind, but she didn’t. Honestly, there were too many of them to feel any kind of situational kinship… His head was bent slightly as he appeared to listen respectfully to Hjarl Janssen’s soliloquy. He was tall, as even hunched he dwarfed his two neighbours and made the outlandishly ornate chair he sat in seem proportionate. He gave a slight nod of his head in thanks when he was served.
Their next diner was a petite female. Princess Lenna, only daughter of King Olefso and Queen Nelni, twin sister to the crown prince. She was only sixteen, Ata knew, and based on her posture, supremely disinterested in the entire dinner and accompanying conversation. Surprisingly, she turned her head and gave a swift smile of thanks to both her servers, although her eye contact was fleeting.
Next were two minor officials whose names Ata knew, as well as the fact that one had a serious gambling problem and the other a fondness for hunting, doting on his hounds and his horses in equal measure. Neither acknowledged their servers.
Strangely enough, it hadn’t been Ata’s entry into the serving class that made her take note of the lack of basic courtesy shown to the lower echelons; her childhood as a half-caste bastard had seen to that. The fact that she was of royal heritage only meant she was able to experience the full range of discrimination first hand, as well as through a lifetime of observation of “the greats” and their “lessers”. Thus, it had become the standard measure by which she judged all men and women; a watershed tally. It had not steered her wrong thus far.
The next seat, immediately to the left of the head of the table, was occupied by a tall man with a sense of calm and control, his eyes constantly gauging those around him but never appearing to do so. Lord Haaviso, Duke of Delftnör, first cousin of and chief adviser to the crown prince. Co-regent.
His stiff gesture with long fingers indicated he declined this particular dish, so they passed him by and moved on to the head of the table, occupied by a beautiful but sullen boy of sixteen. Prince Tensso, eldest son of King Olefso and Queen Nelni, crown prince of Cinnae and heir to the throne. He accepted the bird onto his plate, at which he was staring moodily apparently unaware of the servers’ presence, never mind acknowledging them.
To his right sat a woman whose golden loveliness did not accurately represent her age nor her character – Queen Nelni, mother of Prince Tensso, Princess Lenna, Prince Jansso, and Prince Elsso, co-regent of Cinnae. She was supremely unaware and uncaring of the servers as they filled her plate.
Two more lords and a lady followed, none of them of particular interest to Ata (she had their vices memorized and catalogued already); she was unsurprised when none of them expressed thanks for their dinner service. Last to be served was an interesting figure whom Ata realized with a start she had misjudged earlier. She had thought him another lord, but he was not known to her – a disconcerting experience, and one she tried to mask her face from revealing while taking in as much evidence as she could about him to dissect later.
He was a slight man with a head of silver hair styled in an elegant bowl-cut (if such a thing existed). She surmised he was not naturally of small stature but had probably been robust in his earlier life and then withered due to old age – attested to by his soft, wrinkled skin and slight jowl. His eyes, however, were a bright, jewel-blue with a crystal-like quality. And they were peering back at her with as much earnest interest as she was hiding on her part. Highly disconcerting to be viewed so minutely at close range, so she fought to maintain her slightly ditzy but well-meaning facade, half-smiling at him vacantly as he thanked her in a bygone accent with a high inflection mid-phrase and a low-toned ending. A genuine surprise, his obvious wit and intelligence brimming over in this minuscule interaction with an invisible servant.
Ata dipped a slight curtsey in response, desperately averting her eyes when they alighted upon the diner exactly opposite them… General Svensso was looking straight at her, having observed her and the old man’s passing interaction with undue interest. Worse – his sharply perceptive look seemed to cleave through all her layers of subterfuge, and she sensed he could truly see her, for recognition appeared to flair in his gaze. She panicked, snapped her eyes downward, pretending obeisance, then beating a hasty retreat from the table of power, her covert mission potentially compromised.
Once on the other side of the wood-lined wall, she sagged against its sturdy support and breathed deeply. Even in her semi-hysterical abstraction, she considered her cover and how it would appear perfectly right for the little provincial nobody, Anita, to be completely overwhelmed emotionally and physically by the daunting act of serving Cinnaen royals. Thus, her pathetic, panting interlude against the wall would make perfect sense to the other servers in the vicinity. The entire service had lasted all of 10 minutes, if that, but Ata had lived a dozen lives in that short time.
Hopefully, she hadn’t compromised her character and by extension her mission with this little fiasco. Her mind skipped back to the dining hall. The policy that had been assiduously discussed throughout their serving turn was about a new taxation law – Ata snorted silently at the stupidity. These people dined in style, in a blizzard-encased glass palace that could not truly withstand the cold nor gales, debating arcane laws related to an insignificant tax portion while the continent was quietly being overrun by armies of dark creatures… A house of cards about to crash down, the inhabitants blithely and wilfully ignorant of the imminent collapse.
“What. Did. You. Do?” a nasally voice whisper-hissed next to Ata, so she immediately shelved her inner turmoil to deal with its manifestation in the shape of a gangly, glaring gorgon. It seemed she had found Famenke – or more accurately, Famenke had found her. Now she was in for a monumental scolding, so she affixed a wide-eyed look of vacant consternation on her face and proceeded to breathlessly (and witlessly) defend her breach of decorum.
The footman who had wielded the tongs came in at one point, passed them, winking flirtatiously at her behind Famenke’s back. She widened her eyes slightly in mock plea and he laughed soundlessly at her predicament before hurrying off. His name was Henkel, if she remembered correctly; she would keep his taunting overture in mind for future use.
Thus far, she had only half-befriended the scrawny Hanson who minded the kitchen gardens as well as cementing a love-hate relationship with Famenke (the “love” was all on her side, but she was in no doubt of the loathing with which the other woman regarded her very existence). More servant allies – or pawns – would be welcome here; ideal sources of gossip and conduits of rumour.
Everything she had gathered thus far as well as engineered had been through sheer luck and by playing the hapless, pretty thing who didn’t guard her words amongst strangers. It was getting tiring not being able to launch focused assaults with direct and anticipatable paths of influence; randomly casting lures and heckles into the ether and hoping they’d eventually have the desired effect had never been Ata’s way. She had always been direct and unconstrained in her actions and thoughts, knocking down childhood bullies without preamble, speaking unvarnished (and usually unpalatable) truths in public, generally making herself the clear target of courtiers at her uncle’s court throughout her youth. Until Lord Danai had taken her “under his wing” as he put it, but more accurately had honed her bluntness into a sharp tool – a talon he could wield in court intrigues.
“You are too direct, Lady Atiyah,” he had lectured, “It is in nature’s subtleties that life can be found. And death. A well-placed needle can wreak as much damage on a body as a hammer – with the added benefit of allowing the possibility of subterfuge by the killer, and escape. Use your skills as a needle and do not be a dull object easily wielded by others.”
