The Catswold Portal by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

allowedto stay. The palace food is good, and this life is better than herding sheep.”
    Melissa wondered if that was true. At least herding sheep, you were your own boss.
    â€œWhat is your name?”
    â€œTerlis.”
    â€œWhat if I refuse to talk to the queen?”
    Terlis stared at her. “You wouldn’t dare to do that. No one would dare.”
    Â 
    A long time after Terlis left her, a woman soldier came for Melissa—a sturdy creature with a scar down her neck. She herded Melissa through passages and up two flights of stairs, then down a main passage to a black door. She knocked, pushed Melissa through, and shut the door behind her.
    The huge chamber was nearly dark. She could see quantities of black furniture that crouched like waiting beasts. Splinters of green light pushed in through the far shutters. Across the room, five spell-lights began to glow, circling a black throne. Within the throne’s dark embrace sat the queen of Affandar.
    At first all that was visible was the white oval of the queen’s face suspended in blackness, then slowly, as Melissa approached, she made out the queen’s elaborately coiled black hair against the black throne, her black robe. When suddenly the queen moved, she revealed white hands flashing with jewels. “Kneel! You are to kneel!”
    She knelt, feeling awe and fear. She thought that her own small powers of magic had likely been stripped away, that if she tried to use any spell to protect herself from this woman she would fail.
    â€œLook up at me.”
    She looked up into the queen’s black eyes, wary as a caged beast. The queen gave her a cold smile, but then her eyes widened, and her pale mouth twitched. She lifted her white hand and brought a spell-light bright across Melissa’s face.
    Queen Siddonie studied her for so long that Melissa, kneeling, felt her legs cramp. She could see no expression in the queen’s black eyes. The power of the woman’s stare made her weak and angry. Stories of Siddonie’s cruelty filled her. She felt her heart pounding, and only with great effort did she keep her face blank.
    At last the queen sat back and folded her hands. “You may rise. What is your name?”
    â€œI am Sarah.”
    Rage flashed in Siddonie’s eyes. “What village do you come from—Sarah? Tell me why you have come to Affandar.”
    â€œAppian is my village. My father could not keep us all. I came to find work in the palace.”
    â€œWhat work does your father do?”
    â€œHe mines a little,” Melissa said, forcing quiet into her voice, counting on Appian to be so far away and so crowded that the queen would not bother to investigate. And why should she? What difference where she came from? “He makes some jewelry, and grows barley and pigs.”
    Another long silence as the queen watched her, a look that made her stomach twist with fear. But then suddenly in the queen’s eyes something almost vulnerable shone: Siddonie’s face softened, for an instant her smile was almost gentle. “You will start in the kitchens, Sarah. You will report to Briccha. If you are a good worker there may be other chores.” Then suddenly her fists clenched and she half rose. “You are dismissed. Rise and get out. Now! ”
    Alarmed, Melissa backed quickly to the door. And her anger rose so fiercely she had to restrain herself from hissing curses or from striking out at the queen. She fled, enraged—and shocked at herself.
    Outside the door she stood, regaining her breath, almost more frightened of her own fierce reactions than of Queen Siddonie.

Chapter 7
    B raden was parking the station wagon after a pointless drive up the coast when he saw his neighbor, Olive Cleaver, come down the garden and go into the tool room carrying a camera and notebook. Olive was in her seventies, a skinny woman with parchment pale skin made more sallow by her garishly flowered house dresses: