Hi all!! Today I'm thrilled to share with you THE BEAR HOUSE by Meaghan McIsaac Blog
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About
The Book:
Title: THE BEAR HOUSE (#1)
Author: Meaghan
McIsaac
Pub. Date: October
5, 2021
Publisher: Holiday
House
Formats: Hardcover,
eBook, Audiobook
Pages: 368Find it: Goodreads, Amazon, Kindle, Audible, B&N, iBooks, Kobo, TBD, Bookshop.org
Pre-Order The eBook now for 99 cents!
In a gritty medieval world where the ruling
houses are based on the constellations, betrayal, intrigue, and a king's murder
force the royal sisters of the Bear House on the run!
Moody Aster and her spoiled sister Ursula are the daughters of Jasper Lourdes,
Major of Bears and lord of all the realm. Rivals, both girls dream of becoming
the Bear queen someday, although neither really deserve to, having no
particular talent in... well, anything.
But when their Uncle Bram murders their father in a bid for the crown, the
girls are forced onto the run, along with lowly Dev the Bearkeeper and the
Lourdes's half-grown grizzly Alcor, symbol of their house. As a bitter struggle
for the throne consumes the kingdom in civil war, the sisters must rely on Dev,
the bear cub, and each other to survive--and find wells of courage, cunning,
and skill they never knew they had.
Reviews
"Weaves intrigue and adventure. . . . An
epic, complex narrative."—Publishers Weekly
"The stellar worldbuilding is both expansive and accessible, and the
action never falters. . . . Thrilling adventure set in an enchanting world
makes this an easy pick for high fantasy fans."—Kirkus Reviews
Excerpt for THE BEAR HOUSE by Meaghan MC Issac
AT
THE START OF ALL THINGS, THERE WERE ONLY THE STARS.
Many
different stars— light upon light upon light— but alone, they
were not enough.
To
cure their loneliness, their light combined, and of them were born
the High Beasts, each belonging to
their own quadrant of heaven.
To
the skies of the South were born the High Fly, the Glimmer Snake,
and more. And the stars of the
South became known as the Waters.
To
the skies of the East and West were born the Dust Ram, the
White Bull, the Star Twins, the
Prism Scorpion, and more. These traveled
together, one after the other, a
ring of High Beasts in a never- ending loop.
These
stars became the Ring.
To
the skies of the North were born the White Bear, the Shadow Dragon,
the Starhound, and more. But of
them all, the stars loved the firstborn Bear
best. And so the northern stars
became the stars of the Great Bear.
When
from the earth, Man emerged from the darkness, looking to
the sky for guidance, the stars
stretched out their light and sent these
beasts to lead him, bringing them
into the flesh.
And
Man worshipped the stars, and he worshipped the beasts, and
the beasts were sacred to him.
Thus,
beneath the heavenly sea of the Waters, the Highen of the
Waters was born.
Beneath
the Ring’s milky skies grew the Highen of the Ring.
And
beneath the crisp, dark skies of the Great Bear, the mighty
Bear Highen began.
— THE
WRITINGS OF BERN, On the Founding of Highens: The Fore,
Star Writ
PROLOGUE
THE
Shadow Dragons were screaming. Their cries rose out of the dark,
echoing over the peak of Mount Draccus.
Men
had come for their eggs.
Quintin
Wyvern crouched in the shadows of a rocky outcrop, watching the
retrieval party approach the nests. The young prince had promised his
father he would stay in the castle by his ailing mother’s bedside.
An outbreak of firelung had taken hold of the Kingdom of Dracogart,
and Mother was just one of many fighting to survive. But that night,
when the dragons began wailing, Lady Wyvern had squeezed Quintin’s
hand.
“Go,”
she told him, her breath ragged from the sickness. “Go and witness
their sacrifice.”
And
so Quintin left her. He had followed hidden paths so as not to be
seen, the mountain’s breath thick and fetid and burning his lungs.
From
his vantage point behind an outcrop of obsidian, Quintin saw the
lights of the city of Dracogart below, saw the men in impressive
armor walking up the main road, their horses sidestepping with
nerves.
The
mother dragons hissed at their approach, plumes of smoke billowing
from their gaping mouths in warning. Only three eggs had been laid
that year, each one a precious gift from the stars. They would take a
further two years to hatch.
One of them would never get that chance.
There
was a chirrup at his back, and Quintin startled. He turned and saw a
Shadow Dragon, a juvenile female, crouched on the stones above him.
She blinked at him, her yellow eyes anxious.
Umbra.
Quintin
pressed a finger to his lips and turned back to watch the soldiers.
The
mother dragons paced, encircling their nests. The light of the men’s
torches danced and glinted off their dark, stony scales.
Quintin
knew they would not give up an egg without a fight.
Shadow
Dragons did not abide the laws of men.
And
yet the law demanded an egg all the same. Word had reached Dracogart
a week ago from the Major: the Kingdom of the Shadow Dragon must
surrender one egg. And that egg would pay for the firelung cure that
could only be found in the land of their enemies, the Ring Highen.
“We
can’t!” his mother had said, fuming, when she had still been well
enough to stand. “There has to be another way!”
Chancellor
Furia, King Wyvern’s most trusted advisor, had agreed— even
though Furia and Queen Wyvern rarely agreed on anything. “Sire, it
is too sinful even to think of.”
The
eggs of the Shadow Dragon were sacred. Blessings from the holy stars
themselves. How could Dracogart allow anyone
to take what had been given by the stars?
“The
Major was chosen to be Major because he is favored by the stars,”
King Wyvern told them. “If the Major believes this is the way to
save our people, then we must trust that he is right.”
Save
the people, yes . And more
importantly now, thought
Quintin, save Mother.
Her condition was worsening by the hour.
But
still, he felt a nervousness in his gut. What if Father was wrong to
allow this?
Umbra
chirruped again, as if she could read his thoughts.
Quintin looked beyond Dracogart’s rocky
valley, over which the mountain’s shadow fell— Father was out
there, somewhere, hunting with his mount Draco, the largest dragon
alive, the dragon- king of the Shadow Dragons. When the Major’s men
had left the castle for the mountain path to retrieve the egg, Father
had left with Draco— the king of dragons would be angry to hear his
wives so distressed, he’d said.
But
Quintin knew the truth. Seeing the Major’s men take an egg from the
Shadow Dragons’ nest was too painful for even his father to bear.
There
were shouts from the men in armor, and when Quintin looked, one had
approached the edge of the nest. The man held a spear, its tip fitted
with a fat, dripping hearth weasel— as if a treat would be enough
to trade a dragon for her child.
One
of the mother dragons slunk toward him, a threatening hiss venting
from her smoking maw. The fins at the edge of her jaw fluttered. She
was eager to crunch bone.
“Courage,
men!” shouted someone.
“Hold!”
cried another. And still more were roaring orders as the man in armor
inched closer to the dragon.
Quintin
held his breath. The young soldier stepped across the line on the
ground where the rock had been scorched by dragon breath— the
threshold of the nest.
“Too
close,” Quintin whispered.
The
mother dragons reared up, all of them screaming in unison, black
wings flapping. The foremost dragon lunged, her powerful jaws
snapping with a thunderous clap just short of the young man’s
belly.
The
dragons’ screams built on one another, the noise folding onto
itself, lifting with a ferocious desperation. They were screaming for
Draco.
Draco,
whose size and power would protect them all.
Draco, their king.
Quintin’s
eyes burned with tears. Draco was with his father.
Draco
would not save them.
And
then a roar exploded from somewhere below the mountain.
It
was so loud and resonant, it was as if the earth itself had opened
up.
Draco?
No.
This roar was earthbound. Not of the sky.
Quintin
heard Umbra screech and skitter away, scurrying back to her family,
back into a nest farther up the mountain. She was only a little
dragon, after all, even if she was Draco’s daughter.
The
mother dragons’ mood shifted, their hissing and smoking replaced by
a quiet, nervous chirping, tiny sparks spitting from the sides of
their mouths. Quintin had never seen Shadow Dragons look like that—
tails wrapped close to their sides, bellies pressed low to the
ground, all huddled close together. They were frightened. Frightened
of what was making its way up the mountain road.
A
bear.
A
bear unlike any Quintin had ever seen before.
The
hulking beast stood heads above the horses, her girth so wide it took
up the entire path. Her long, grizzled fur looked like fire, a bright
amber color that gleamed in the torchlight. Her jaws looked powerful
enough to crush iron, her paws big enough to shake the earth. There
was no mistaking it— a Hemoth Bear.
She
was Mizar. The mightiest creature in all of the Bear Highen.
And
beside her stood a man, just as hulking and grizzled as she.
The
Bear Major himself: Jasper Lourdes.
They
approached the nest, the dragons clustered together in a quaking
mass. Mizar the Hemoth chuffed and snorted, her massive footfalls
causing the very earth to shake.
Quintin watched as the Major placed a
hand on the Hemoth’s flank and the bear stopped. The Major
continued to approach and, without hesitation, stepped over the
nest’s threshold. The dragons did not make a sound. He picked his
way over rocks and boulders until he was standing above an egg, its
black shell speckled with pinpricks of warm light.
One
of the mothers, the one who had snapped at the soldier, whined with
alarm, and the Hemoth roared again, dislodging rock and stone from
the mountainside and sending it tumbling down.
Quintin
threw his hands over his head to protect himself from the stony
shower; dust powdered his shoulders.
When
the rumble faded to nothing, the dragons were silent again.
Major
Jasper Lourdes bent down to the egg and took it gently in his hands.
Quintin
longed to know how it felt. Warm, he imagined. Like the stones that
lined the hearth fires in the castle.
Finally,
delicately, the High King of the Bear Highen fit the egg into the
crook of his arm, as if cradling a baby, and bowed to the frightened
flock of dragons.
And
just as suddenly as they’d arrived, the Major and the Hemoth left,
disappearing down the mountain road with the Major’s soldiers
following behind.
Quintin
was alone with the Shadow Dragons, trembling with his awe of the
Hemoth Bear, and with fear and sadness for the egg the men had taken
with them— the Shadow Dragon that would never be.
And
the Great Bear Lord Tawn saw inside the heart of the human Dov,
and saw in it that which pleased
him: courage
to face whatever threat might
meet him, love
for all the On-High’s children, and the
honor to
uphold the greatness of the stars
. . .
And
so it was that the Great Bear Lord Tawn chose the human
Dov to be protector of the realm.
And
so it was that the Highen had its first Major and its first
Hemoth Bear.
— THE WRITINGS OF BERN, The Crowning of
the First Major: The Age of Tawn, Star
Writ
ONE
BERNADINE
Lourdes was pouting. The only daughter of the House of the White Bear
was used to having her own way.
But
this was Aster
Lourdes’s house— and she’d be damned by Tawn if she let her
spoiled cousin dictate the afternoon.
“Pout
all you want,” Aster snapped, fishing through the drawers of her
father’s giant mahogany desk. “I told you, I’ve no interest in
board games today.”
The
girls sat in the high- ceilinged study of Aster’s father, where
heavy, deep- red curtains framing the bay windows blocked the
sun-shine of another beautiful summer day. Bernadine sulked, a Crowns
&
Stones board across her lap. The periwinkle damask of her petticoat
clashed with the rugged coldness of the room.
Aster
loved this room. She loved the dimness; loved the musty smell of the
old leather books in the towering shelves; loved the icy chill of the
dark tiles under her feet, painted with depictions of Hemoth Bears
from history. They reminded her of her family’s importance to the
Highen every time she took a step.
For
Aster Lourdes was the daughter of the Bear Major, the ruler of all
the Bear Highen— Jasper Lourdes, the Death Chaser.
Her fingers grazed the smooth, familiar
handle of the object she was looking for, and she grinned. Her
father’s ivory quill knife. She pulled it out and placed it gently
on the desktop.
Bernadine
let out a huff, folding her arms and narrowing her eyes. “And I
have no interest in your silly map.”
“It’s
not silly, and it’s not just any old map.”
“It’s
boring.”
“It’s
not.
I’m making a war map. ”
Aster
smoothed the giant map out on the surface of her father’s desk. The
parchment was wrinkled and bruised from con-stant folding and
unfolding, its sides and corners fraying. No matter how lovingly she
cared for her map, Aster could see she was loving it to death.
Picking
up the quill knife, she resolved to be gentler, then set about her
work, sharpening and shaping the tip of her quill. “Father and
Uncle Bram plan to meet the enemy’s forces near Kishtowel Pass,
where the Great Bear River meets the Celestial Sea. I have to draw
their route.”
“You
don’t know that that’s where they are. And it’s tool.
”
“What?”
“Tool,”
Bernadine said again. “Look”—
she hopped off the windowsill and stormed over, slamming her finger
down on the name under Aster’s quill—“K-i-s-h-t-o-u-l. It’s
pronounced Kish- tool.
Not
Kish- towel.”
Aster
slapped her cousin’s hand away and made a mental note to remember
Kish tool.
“I
do
know where they are,” she insisted, hoping the mispronun-ciation
would disappear from conversation.
“You
know they plan
to meet the Ring’s forces at the pass, but that’s all. There’s
no way to know where they are for certain— them or
the Ring. Your map is probably all wrong.”
“Of
course they’ll be there,” said Aster, gritting her teeth and
circling Kishtoul Pass to mark the end of her father’s path.
In truth, she didn’t know for certain.
They hadn’t heard from the Bear Highen’s armies in a fortnight.
The
day word reached her father that the Ring Highen had declared war,
there had been shock and fear. The Major had just traded the Ring the
egg of a Shadow Dragon— a deeply powerful and sacred object— for
the venom of the Prism Scorpion to cure the firelung plaguing
Dracogart. It was a mutually beneficial arrange-ment, one that
promised friendship and peace after many centuries of rivalry— and
often war. Two Highens, a sea apart, helping each other into a new
age.
Certainly,
there were voices that had cautioned against the trade.
Bah,
her father had said, waving an
unconcerned hand, men always
have opinions on matters as
delicate as this. All will be well.
But
now, with the egg delivered and the new alliance made, the Ring had
the gall to attack? It was a baffling move, one her father and the
other Heads of Houses were completely unprepared for.
The
Ring had attacked and burned several coastal cities quickly and
mercilessly, and Father had had no choice but to answer.
Jasper
Lourdes had mobilized his men. And as Minor of the Highen, first
among the lesser kings and the Major’s second, Uncle Bram had moved
the White Bear’s armies the very next day to join them. Both
Aster’s and Bernadine’s father were at war.
“Fine.
Do what you want,” said Bernadine. “I’m going to try on some
dresses.”
“Which
dresses do you think you’re trying on?”
“Ursula’s.”
“You
wouldn’t dare!”
Bernadine
peeked around the open door and looked back at Aster with a wrinkled
brow. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because
Ursula will kill
you if she catches you.”
Bernadine
waved an unconcerned hand. “She’s outside. She’ll never know.”
Aster looked over to the window, the
sunlight of a cloudless day fighting to invade the darkness of her
father’s office.
“She’s
harassing your bear boy again.” Bernadine shrugged, slipping out
the door. “She’ll be at it all afternoon.”
Aster
winced as the door slammed shut, and, alone in the quiet, she sighed.
Ursula, her big sister, had a wardrobe of at least two hundred
dresses. Aster wouldn’t see Bernadine again until dinner.
It
was funny, really, how much Bernadine had changed since coming to
live with the Major’s family four years ago. Uncle Bram had sent
her to Tawnshire from Whitlock after her mother, Aunt Gwynlin, became
very sick. And when poor Aunt Gwynlin had died, Uncle Bram thought it
best that Bernadine remain with her cousins, not only to keep her
from the sadness of his empty house, but to have her brought up a
proper lady at the Major’s court. Whitlock was a cold wasteland
compared to Tawnshire; Aster could still remember the Minor’s
little daughter arriving on horseback, wearing weasel furs and
coveralls like a peasant. Not even a carriage! Just her own white
horse and her father’s soldiers to escort her. She had been a
different girl then.
Aster
stared at the handle of the quill blade in her hand: heavy ox bone,
honey- stained, carved in the likeness of the Hemoth Bear.
A
simple instrument for a Major, humble, with no gemstones or precious
metals. And yet the bear had been so carefully carved, with so much
detail, that it was ornate in its own quiet way. It was a strange
thing for a Major to have— traditionally, his quills were kept
sharp by devoted attendants, and no Major bothered himself with such
a small, tedious task. Perhaps that was why she liked it so much—
because it made her father different. Keeper Rizlan had given it to
him when he was a boy not much older than her. To
help with
my studies, her father had
said.
Where
was Father now? How long until he would send word?
She walked her fingers along the trail
her father’s armies had marched for the past month. From Tawnshire
. . . southwest along the Great Bear River . . . and through the
Wellin Woods, a dangerous forest of dark shadows and hungry wolves—
or so her father always told her. She made a silent vow to see it
someday.
Someday,
when she
would lead the Bear Highen’s armies through the dangers of the
Wellin Woods.
It
could happen. It wouldn’t, but it could. Ursula was the heir, the
one expected to fill the role of Major, but sometimes Aster liked to
dream it would be her.
The
Lourdes had headed the House of the Hemoth Bear for centuries, and
her own father was the younger of two brothers, whom no one expected
to take the throne. And even though he had been chosen above her
uncle by the Hemoth Bear, it had never divided the brothers, as some
might expect. The White Bear, the second- most- powerful and - sacred
of High Beasts, chose Uncle Bram, and the Lourdes brothers brought
stability and prosperity to the Highen as no Major and his Minor had
ever done before. They were a team, united by blood and purpose. If
Aster became Major, she liked to imagine that Ursula would be just
like Uncle Bram and serve as Minor, the Lourdes legacy continued.
But
then, Aster doubted her big sister could even name the eight sacred
High Beasts of the Highen, let alone their kingdoms. Aster closed her
eyes and ran through them: Dracogart, the Kingdom of the Shadow
Dragon; Hundford, the Kingdom of the Hounds; Felis-brook, the Kingdom
of the Lynx; Roarque, the Kingdom of the Lion; Twigate, the Kingdom
of the Blue Giraffe; Härkädia, the Kingdom of the Ox. And, of
course, Whitlock, the Kingdom of the White Bear, where Bernadine and
Uncle Bram reigned. And most importantly, there was Tawnshire, the
Kingdom of the Hemoth Bear. Home.
A
roar, furious and deep, suddenly shook the windowpane. Ursula’s
familiar high- pitched shriek rang out next, and Aster ran to the
window.
There was her sister, racing across the
front green away from the stables and the Bear Holding. Her usual
train of six ladies-in-waiting was absent. What, Aster wondered, had
her sister been up to that she had to leave her lady’s maids
behind?
“Get
it away from me!” Ursula
screamed, tripping over the front of her rose- colored dress and
landing face- first in the grass.
Another
loud roar— and then the large, round, shaggy form of Alcor, Mizar’s
cub, exploded out of the Bear Holding, his white teeth glinting in a
terrifying snarl .
Ursula,
Aster thought, finally
understanding, why can’t you
just keep
your nose out of the Holding!
Her
big sister had been poking around the Bear Holding all season. Ursula
had never shown any interest in Mizar or Alcor before— in fact,
Aster had long suspected she was frightened of the monstrous war
bears. It was a strange thing for her vain, cosseted sister to do,
and Aster couldn’t quite figure what had started it.
All
she knew was this: it was a bad idea.
“Bear
boy!” Ursula shrieked,
Alcor closing the gap between them with raised hackles. The young
bear was getting big. Aster couldn’t believe how big. “Bear
boy! Bear boy!”
Aster’s
eyes scanned the grounds, her heart beginning to race.
Where
were the Hermans, the Manor’s guards?
Just
steps away from Ursula, Alcor stretched out his long neck, flabby
lips curling over razor teeth, and let out another roar. Aster’s
breath caught. She lifted a fist to the glass, about to bang on the
pane—
And
then she saw them: three Hermans, racing for Ursula, ready to throw
themselves between her and Alcor.
But
Alcor stopped. Just like that.
The
bear sat back on his rump, gargantuan paws folded daintily in front
of him. He’d forgotten Ursula completely. There was a sound, Aster
noticed now, like a quacking, whining duck.
She
unlatched the glass and leaned her head out the window.
There: it was Devin, the bear boy,
standing in the door of the Bear Holding. He was blowing into what
Aster knew to be his special kazoo.
The
young bear— now more like a stuffed toy than a monster—
leaned
his head back as far as he could to see his kazoo- playing servant,
then rolled happily in the grass, his fury completely dissolved.
Aster
couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose. She was relieved enough that
Ursula was unharmed, but the fact remained— Alcor was shaping up to
be a pretty lousy High Beast for the House of the Hemoth Bear. If it
had been Mizar that Ursula had offended, her sister would have been
flung in pieces all over the front green, the bear boy’s kazoo only
making matters worse.
The
Hermans rushed to help Ursula to her feet.
“A
monster!” she shrieked, pointing at the overgrown cub. “He’s
nothing but a killer!”
Aster
rolled her eyes. He certainly was not. Not yet.
“That’s
what your father needs me to make him!” the boy bellowed back.
Aster sat up. A servant, yelling at a daughter of the Major? That
took a lot of nerve . . . or lack of brains.
Ursula
straightened and stood in that dignified Lady-of-Lourdes pose she
saved for visiting princes and dignitaries— proud and regal, like
their father.
Aster
watched as the bear boy’s anger drained into his feet, his stiff,
accusing posture dissolving into slumped shoulders and a drooping
head.
“How
dare you speak to me that way?” Ursula spat. “What will my father
say when I tell him what an insolent wretch you are?”
Ursula
might have been beautiful, but at just sixteen she had a bite almost
as powerful as Mizar’s. “You are a servant of my house! My
servant!”
“I
am Alcor’s
servant!”
Aster watched the bear boy, surprised. He
had always lived at the Manor, as far back as her memory would go.
He’d grown up here, all thirteen years, just as she had. And in all
that time, Aster had barely heard him speak. He was apprenticed to
Master Rizlan, the High Keeper of the Hemoth Bears; maybe with all
the talking Master Rizlan did around the Manor, there wasn’t much
left for the boy to say.
Ursula
was less amused. “If you think for one minute that your first
loyalties are to that— that— that—
animal over there,” she
said,
“you’d
best think again! How dare you presume to put me and my family second
to that beast?”
The
boy said nothing, digging his knuckles into his eyes.
“Jumping
Juniper Bears!” Startled, Aster whirled around to see Gatch, her
nurse, standing in the door to the study. “Aster Lourdes!
You’re
in your war formals!”
Aster
gripped the leather pleats that made up the skirt of her war formals,
twisting it to the side as though she could hide it behind her back.
No use— she’d been caught. In her best dress for the festival
season, without a festival in sight.
“I
laid out your clothes for you this morning!” Gatch wrung her pudgy
hands, storming over. “And you go and dig out your finest garment,
again!
Ohhhhh, your mother’s gonna have a flying fit if she sees what I’ve
let you do!”
Aster
frowned, noticing the violet fabric of an evening gown draped across
her nurse’s arm. It was a fine frock, but nothing compared to the
ornate stitching of her war formals. In the purple dress, she looked
like a child. In the war formals, she looked like a queen.
Gatch
grabbed Aster by the shoulders, turned her away from the window, and
began undoing the back lacing of her dress. “I’ve been calling
you for an hour! You should be nose- deep in your Star
Writ studies by now. Not to
mention how behind you are on your Roarsh lessons. I might’ve known
you were up in this dank space! What in the name of Tawn do you get
up to here all day?”
Aster
pressed her palms against the dress’s hardened leather breastplate,
feeling the ridges of its embossed Hemoth Bear. Gatch was right, of
course: her mother would be horrified to see her wearing something so
precious outside the festival season. But it only came once a year,
which— to Aster’s mind— was entirely too infrequent.
“Honestly,
Gatch, I do love this dress,” Aster said, ignoring her nurse’s
question. “Please, can’t you just pretend you didn’t find me?
I’ll
change before dinner!”
“Pretend
you didn’t find me, she says! Do you know how many stairs I’ve
been climbing looking for you?”
Aster
could guess. Gatch’s brow was beaded with sweat and her palms were
hot and wet as they lifted Aster’s arms to the sky.
“Besides,
yer mum’s quite partial to the purple, as you well know, so’s
best to just—”
Another
bellow from Alcor rattled the windows and cut Gatch off.
“What?
What?” Gatch let go of Aster. “Stars above! What is Dev doing
with that bear now?”
“It’s
not what the boy is doing.” Aster sighed, watching Gatch wig-gle up
onto the bay window seat and peer out at the front green. “It’s
Ursula.”
Gatch
leaned out the window and screamed, “Ursula
Lourdes!”
The
sound bored a hole through Aster’s eardrums. “You get yerself
back in this house and get to yer studies this instant! Leave the boy
alone to do his blessed work, for the love of Tawn!”
Peeking
over Gatch’s shoulder, Aster could see her big sister, dagger eyes
trained on them. She could have sworn Ursula’s skin turned bright
red to match her hair— hair like their father’s. Aster bit back a
snigger.
Gatch
closed the window with a slam, so hard Aster worried she’d cracked
the glass.
“Arms
up,” the woman said, tugging Aster’s bodice up over her head, the
leather and metal clinging to her skin, refusing to let go easily.
“You’d think I’ve nothing better to do than chase you around
all day. And at your age, no less.”
Her
age. Thirteen and nearly grown— this time next year she’d have no
nurse, a retinue of lady’s maids tittering behind her instead. What
would that be like? Dainty young women who gossiped and whispered
behind thin fingers. Not like old Gatch. Her nurse was crude and
loud, big and determined and stubborn. Aster was very fond of her.
Gatch was the only person besides Aster’s father who could shut
Ursula’s mouth with a pointed finger, or silence Bernadine with a
snap of her sharp tongue.
The
idea of being without her struck Aster with a sudden pang of loss.
“There
now,” Gatch said, finishing up the laces on Aster’s purple dress.
The nurse gave one final tug. “Quite refined, if I do say so
m’self.
Now
scoot. Yer mum’ll be waiting on you to start supper.”
“Oh,
Gatch, don’t say mum. ”
Gatch
let out one of her explosive laughs that always sounded more like a
hacking cough. “Well, beg yer pardon, Miss Poppy Pro-priety.” And
with an affectionate tug of her hair, she sent Aster out the door.
It
is, by my estimation, not the Major who receives the highest
blessings from
the On-High, nor is it even the mystical Oracle. It is the humble
Keeper.
And
because of the On-High’s great blessings, it is the Keeper who
is doomed to suffer most.
— THE
WRITINGS OF THUBAN, On the Mysteries of the On-High: The Star Majors,
Star Writ
TWO
THE
night air nipped at Dev’s skin as he made his way to the back door
of the kitchens. He was glad of the chill— it cooled his boiling
blood.
The
Lourdes girls would be the death of him, he was sure. Spoiled Aster
and vain Ursula had been intolerable since the day he began his
service at Lourdes Manor. Today had pinched the young Keeper’s last
nerve.
“Stupid,
no-good, pampered princess brats!”
he growled to himself.
The
young Herman standing guard at the kitchen’s servants’
entrance
cast a downward glance at him. Dev glared back, flinging open the
rickety wooden door. A gust of warm, wet, savory air, the steam of a
dozen cooking pots, dampened his face.
“Eh!”
Gatch, the girls’ nanny- woman, stood over a large wooden table.
She held a bowl of oddgob, Chef Ingle’s usual stew of leftovers.
“What’s
all that about, little Dev?”
Little
Dev. He was nearly fourteen,
and taller than Gatch to boot. The little
she insisted on was another irritating part of life at Lourdes Manor.
He
ignored her and stormed up to the table— well, not even really a
table. The servants of the Lourdes’ house had no table. It was, in
actuality, a counter, one the cooks used for chopping, and dicing,
and rolling out dough. Dev always ate his dinner standing at that
counter, the occasional piece of onion or carrot flying into his
meal.
He
slammed his fist down, and Cook Darby looked up from her creamed
potatoes with a frown. Dev returned it. He’d dealt with enough
attitude for one day.
“Well,
well,” said Gatch, shoving a spoonful of stew into her mouth.
“Someone’s in a right sour mood this evening.”
“Chef
Ingle,” he barked, “can I get some oddgob here, or what?”
The
wiry chef raised an eyebrow and looked at Gatch. Gatch just shook her
head. Ingle grunted, but scooped a ladleful of stew into a wooden
bowl.
Dev
grabbed the hot bowl, burning both his hands, but he swal-lowed down
the pain.
The
crunchy, beady eyes of a particularly ugly crustacean stared up at
him from the brown gravy. Binger heads. He hated
binger heads.
He
slammed his fist on the counter for the second time. “Turds of
Tawn!”
“Jumpin’!”
shouted Gatch. “A very
sour mood!”
Dev
shouldn’t have been so blasphemous, especially as a Keeper.
But
he couldn’t hold it in any longer. All he could hear was Ursula’s
voice in his head— her arrogant, nasal voice. “She called me her
servant!”
“Who
did?”
“Me!”
he shouted. “Her servant!”
The
kitchen went silent, save for a quiet bubbling. Gatch, Chef Ingle,
and Cook Darby stopped what they were doing and stared at him, their
old foreheads folded in half with worry. The other kitchen helpers
looked anywhere but at Dev.
“Who
did?” ventured Gatch finally.
Dev
dropped his eyes to his bowl and shoved a crunchy, rubbery binger
head into his mouth, his face suddenly red. Chewing would keep him
from speaking; he’d already said too much. Keepers were supposed to
be mild and forbearing and . . . well, all the things he wasn’t
being.
“You
serve Alcor,” said Ingle, a confused look on her face. “No
other.”
Dev
shook his head.
“Is
this about Lady Ursula?” Gatch asked quietly.
Dev
kept chewing.
“Lady
Ursula?” said Chef Ingle. “What about
Lady Ursula?”
Dev
sighed. He’d opened this door, he might as well go through.
“She
said I was her
servant.
As though I were nothing but a stableboy.”
There
was a simultaneous gasp from Ingle and Darby, Ingle dropping her soup
ladle with a loud clatter onto the floor.
Dev
winced. He shouldn’t have spoken. Rizlan would not approve of him
venting his frustration to half the Manor like this.
It
wasn’t as if Ursula could be changed. Very little about Lourdes
Manor could be changed.
“ That—
that— that girl!”
The scrawny chef fingered the bear pen-dant around her neck, her face
contorted with fury. “Blasphemous!
Disrespectful!
Gatch, how dare
she speak to a Keeper that way?”
Here
it comes. Dev hated when
Ingle got on about faith— about the Chosen Keepers and all that.
Her piety sometimes embarrassed him. Yes, he had
been selected at birth by the
stars to be a Keeper of a High Beast— and not just any High Beast,
but the most powerful and beloved of all the stars’ children, the
Hemoth Bear— but it was Master Rizlan, Mizar’s Keeper, who led
the faith at Lourdes Manor.
Dev
was only an apprentice, and truth be told, he studied scripture less
than Riz would like.
Gatch
nodded understandingly at him, a kind smile on her face.
“Lady
Ursula can be thoughtless at times.” Dev didn’t answer. “You
have to understand, little Dev”— he shoved another disgusting
binger into his mouth—“that she hasn’t been raised with the
same . . .
vigilance
to scripture as you.”
“No
vigilance, more like!” growled Ingle. “Imagine! A noble demanding
service from a Keeper! It’s disgusting! He was chosen!
Chosen!
This boy is a servant of the
Hemoth
Bear!
Not of her spoiled behind!”
Exactly,
Dev thought. He was chosen
to dedicate his life to Tawn and his descendants. How could Ursula
Lourdes not understand that?
Sure,
Dev spent his days shoveling bear dung, washing Alcor’s stall, and
studying scripture until he fell asleep on his books. But that was
his duty. Keepers were not supposed to care for their own wealth and
comfort. Keepers cared only for their Beasts.
Gatch
put a hand on Dev’s shoulder. “Ursula doesn’t fully understand
that you work for a Higher Power than her father. To her, he
is the Highest Power.”
That
was ridiculous. A man with more power than the Hemoth Bear? More
power than the On-High?
“If
that mother of hers spent more time taking care of her spiri-tual
well- being instead of indulging her every
selfish whim—” shouted
Ingle.
Everyone
turned quickly to the kitchen door, terrified that Jasper Lourdes’s
wife would suddenly appear to punish them for speaking ill of her
older daughter.
With
a hand over her mouth, and in a hissing whisper, the chef finished:
“— she wouldn’t be the laughingstock of the Highen. Her
and
the little one.”
Dev
raised an eyebrow. As though the spoiled nature of Ursula and Aster
were entirely the fault of Lady Lourdes. Dev knew the Lourdes better
than he’d known any family of his own, and this was the truth:
Jasper Lourdes adored his daughters. He adored them so much that he
indulged them in everything. Oftentimes, that meant letting them
neglect their Star Writ
readings, or forgo a riding lesson, or sleep late— despite Lady
Lourdes’ objections.
And
the lack of discipline in the Major’s home was no secret to the
Highen, either. Most people had a low opinion of the Major’s
daughters. No one believed Alcor would choose Ursula for Major when
her father and Mizar came off the post. Not just because she was
unprepared, but— these whispers were increasingly common in
Tawnshire Town— because the On-High would reject her as punishment
for Jasper’s decision to hand a holy dragon egg to the Ring Highen,
something no Major had ever done before. Did not the On-High entrust
the Shadow Dragons to the Bear
Highen, and the Bear Highen
alone? Was it not sacrilege to trade their young like crops or
cattle?
But
if the girls weren’t chosen to succeed Jasper, oh, what a disaster
it would be. The Hemoth Bear had chosen a Lourdes for a millennium.
It was a thing that kept Dev up at night— if Aster and Ursula
proved to be the first Lourdes in a hundred generations to be
unworthy of the Hemoth Bear, who would
Alcor choose? What strange new lord or lady, Dev didn’t like to
wonder, would he and Alcor spend their lives alongside?
“Can
we stop talking about this?” he grumbled.
He
could feel the old women trading concerned looks over his head.
Perfect. No doubt Gatch would talk to Master Rizlan about this when
he returned from the front. Even if she didn’t, Ingle and Darby
were bound to gossip with every servant at the Manor; it was only a
matter of time before Dev’s complaint made its way to Lady Lourdes
herself. Either way, when his mentor returned from battle, Dev would
have to listen to another lesson on the importance of silence.
A
wise Keeper uses his words sparingly,
Riz always said. Consider
words your gold, young apprentice.
To keep them behind closed lips is
to stay a wealthy man.
If
that was true, then Riz was poor indeed.
He
never chattered or gossiped. But he did
lecture Dev nightly about the duties of a Keeper: offering counsel;
divining prophecies; fortelling the future; caring for the Highen’s
sacred beasts; and record-ing great events, that his writings might
someday be added to the holy Star
Writ. Most of their evenings
lately, though, had been devoted to training Dev to open his mind to
visions sent by the stars. Dev had yet to see anything, and he knew
that Riz was getting frustrated. He should have seen something
by now.
At
least Dev wouldn’t have to endure a lesson tonight. Though he
missed Master Rizlan desperately, he had to admit that he liked
having the Keepers’ quarters all to himself.
Eager
to enjoy some privacy, Dev lifted the hot stew of binger heads to his
mouth and slurped up what was left. No time for chewing— an evening
of peace and quiet was at the bottom of that bowl. With the last drop
drunk, he slammed the bowl down and let out a belch.
And
noticed everyone staring at him.
Including
Lady Lourdes.
The
Major’s beautiful wife stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring
down her nose at him. Her fancy gown glittering with precious Ursan
amber was almost laughable, it was so out of place in the kitchen.
“I
trust you enjoyed your meal, young Keeper.” Her voice was rough,
like the leathery bottoms of Alcor’s paws. All that Celeste root
she smoked had worn it out.
“Yes,
my lady,” he mumbled, adding a polite bow.
“I
am pleased to hear it.” She didn’t look pleased. She looked
downright disgusted, with frowning crimson- painted lips. Her dark
eyes kept him frozen to the spot, afraid to move. He could feel his
palms getting slick with sweat.
And
then she blinked and turned to Ingle. In an instant, she’d
forgotten Dev completely. “The girls are in low spirits tonight,
Chef Ingle. They miss their father, and I fear they’ve grown
restless. I’ve decided a change of menu is in order.”
Ingle curtsied, so low she nearly fell
over. “Of course, my lady.
What
did you have in mind?”
Dev
fought the urge to shake his head. Ingle spoke the worst of Lady
Lourdes, but she always bowed the lowest.
“Lamb
pies.” The words cracked from Lady Lourdes’ mouth like the snap
of a whip. “I don’t care for them, but I do believe my Aster is
fond of the ones you make. I should like an assortment of greens on
the side, of course.”
“Of
course, my lady,” said Ingle, already abandoning Darby’s creamed
potatoes.
Dev
pursed his lips. He would have preferred those potatoes to Binger
heads.
With
a curt nod, Lady Lourdes left them, the train of her dress floating
behind her, twinkling.
A
change of menu, Dev thought.
An entire meal tossed aside as though hundreds of Tawnshirians living
a few hundred tail- lengths down the hillside in Tawnshire Town
wouldn’t have loved just a taste.
It
had been a very dry summer, and the yields of good Tawnshirian crops—
lettuce, parsnips, chard, leeks, tomatoes— were low. The war was
not good for business in the city, either. The unwanted potatoes was
a true waste.
But
creamed potatoes was a rich man’s food, a king’s food, not fit
for the low and the humble. So Ingle had tossed it all, as was
expected.
Dev
left the counter and pushed open the kitchen door, the cool night
meeting him with the refreshing smell of cherry trees from the
Manor’s orchards.
Ingle
grabbed him by the shoulder. “Take this,” she said, smiling and
holding up a raw lamb shank wrapped in parchment. “For the little
prince.”
As
inappropriate as Gatch’s little
was for Dev, Ingle’s little
was even more ill- fitting for Alcor. Alcor was certainly not
little anymore. But still,
Ingle loved to sneak him treats. And Alcor was happy to eat them.
Dev
nodded and took the shank.
The
night’s quiet and the chill of the wind surrounded him as he
crossed the Manor’s grounds. He let out a sigh of relief: the day
was almost over. A quick stop in to Alcor with the shank, and then
the hours were his. He’d curl up in front of the fire and watch the
blaze until he fell asleep.
He
could think of nothing he’d enjoy more than doing absolutely
nothing at all.
About Meaghan McIsaac:
Meaghan McIsaac is the author of several books
for young readers, including The Boys of Fire and Ash, which was shortlisted
for the Manitoba Young Readers’ Choice Award; and Movers, which was a Shining
Willow Finalist for the Saskatchewan Young Readers’ Choice Awards. Meaghan
lives in Toronto, Ontario with her two dogs.
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