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CHAPTER ONE ; Childhood is When the Mouth Tastes Earth.
She was born in the summer country. In the hills there were flowers and wheat fields, and in the forests there were bright-eyed stags and chirruping birds. Even the smallest fishing vessel could take her down the river into the Sunset Sea where the sun kissed the water and the waves were cool and clear. She would run along the beach alongside the salt breeze. Her father died when she was too young to know who he was, or remember him for very long. All she knew of those days was that in fourteen years time when she came of age, Vassehall would be hers. She was Carys Vasseton, after all; the only heir her father would ever have. And she knew, too, that Mother was very worried all the time.
There was a girl who washed her hair every other night, a young maiden of her father's service, who would cry sometimes. Carys watched through an open door when Mother whipped the girl across the face with her open hand, which provided an explanation, if nothing else.
Mother was perfectly docile with Carys, though, if a bit too calm, almost to the point where it could become unnerving. Many a meal over the next several years were spent in tense silence, where simply the clatter of cutlery was enough to set little Carys's teeth on edge. Mother never drank wine, but the nighttime seemed to put her in a strange mood, and she would beckon for Carys to join her in Father's old study and sit in chairs that faced one another in front of the fire, and old letters signed by unrecognizable names were brought out, and Carys looked at them, and read them, and handed them back to Mother. The first time, she was surprised when Mother balled them up in her fists and threw them into the fire. After that, it stopped being surprising. Mother liked to destroy things in memory of Father. For him, or because of him, she could never be sure.
Carys was not a sentimental child. She never really had the chance to be. But she enjoyed certain things, and disliked them being pulled to a halt. When she was four she discovered the magic of the hounds, and often slipped away to find herself in the kennels; it wasn't hard, as there were no rules of staying indoors or any rules at all, except that she was not to wander beyond the walls. Her favorite was an old russet mastiff who was always nipping at the sleeves of her dress, making her giggle. She liked to imagine that she was the only one he liked to play with, and that made it more special. It was more fun that way. But when Mother found her drawing a charcoal flower on the stone floor with the hound tucked against her side, she wasn't happy.
"You've soiled your dress," she said stiffly, her mouth pursed with annoyance.
Carys sat up, the mastiff's head resting in her lap. "It can be washed."
"Get up."
"I'll wear a different dress next time," she argued dubiously. It wasn't anything magnificent, after all; just a simple green day dress with loose sleeves. She had dirtied it hundreds of times.
