Tide

by Alydia Rackham

  Meira gave Galahad a startled look.

  “This is what you do,” Galahad said. “This is a spoon.” He picked his up. “We pick up some soup in the spoon like this. Then, we lift it up and blow on it.”

  “Gently,” Little Emblyn added. She scooped up some soup too, and blew on it. Meira stared at both of them for a long time, then picked up her own spoon—trying to hold it as they did—and scooped up a little soup. She brought it to her lips, and blew on it a little.

  “Then, if you think it may be cool enough to put in your mouth, you do,” Galahad said, and put the spoon in his mouth.

  “Mm!” Little Emblyn exclaimed, licked her lips, then looked at him with wide eyes. “You made this, sir?”

  “You’re surprised,” he remarked.

  “I…Erm, well, you’re…you’re a man, sir.”

  Meira snorted—and Galahad looked up at her to see her giving an amused but bewildered expression to both of them over her suspended spoon.

  “Men cannot…always…cook well,” Little Emblyn said, shooting sideways looks at Galahad.

  “No one else accompanies me on the road,” Galahad said, taking another spoonful. “If I didn’t know how to cook for myself, I’d be eating hard tack, or starving.”

  “Yes, sir,” Little Emblyn murmured, taking another spoonful of soup.

  Meira opened her mouth, and put the spoon in, and carefully closed her lips around it, and then drew it out. She chewed the potato, and then swallowed. Then she froze.

  “Good,” Galahad said, realizing she was waiting. “Now, keep doing that until the bowl is empty, or you feel full.”

  “Shall I pour the tea?” Little Emblyn asked.

  “Yes,” Galahad said. So Little Emblyn stood up, and poured the tea into each cup.

  “A noblewoman who is hosting you will do this for you, or her servant will,” Galahad said to Meira. “Never pour your own tea when you are a guest.”

  Meira nodded—and watched, fascinated, as the brown, sparkling liquid tumbled into the cups.

  “It is the same with the tea,” Little Emblyn said. “If you see it steaming, it is hot. You ought to be careful.”

  Meira nodded again, frowning down at the tea.

  “Remember what I said about teacups,” Galahad murmured. Her grey eyes met his, and she halfway smiled.

  “We have drinks with our meals to help us swallow,” Galahad took up his wine and sipped it. “If your throat feels thick with food, take a drink.”

  Meira’s frown deepened as she bypassed the teacup, and picked up her own wine.

  “Be careful with that, too,” Little Emblyn said, with a cheeky little smile. “Too much of it and it’ll muddle your head, and you might fall over.”

  Meira stopped with the glass halfway to her mouth, and gaped at Little Emblyn.

  “The idea is to keep her from being afraid of food,” Galahad muttered, with a glare at Little Emblyn. Then, he shook his head at Meira. “Look. I am drinking it and I haven’t collapsed. Just take small swallows and you’ll be fine.”

  Meira hesitated a long moment. But Galahad kept eating his soup, and so did Little Emblyn, so Meira risked a sip of the wine.

  Immediately, she grimaced and put the glass down, then gulped and coughed.

  Little Emblyn giggled.

  “I told you to be careful!”

  Meira reached for her teacup then, and took a drink from it.

  “Her eyes are watering,” Little Emblyn noted, still trying to stifle a smile. Meira gave a choked laugh and wiped at her eyes, then looked down at her hand.

  “Those are tears,” Galahad said quietly. “They come to your eyes when you taste something strong, or sour, or when you cough or sneeze.”

  Meira gazed at him, her nose wrinkled and her eyes still shining, visibly confused.

  “Or when something makes you sad,” Little Emblyn added quietly. “Or… unspeakably happy.”

  Meira turned to consider Little Emblyn, and when she did, Galahad saw some of the confusion fade from her features. Galahad shifted in his seat.

  “Come, let’s finish the soup,” he said. “It’s getting cold.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Put one foot behind the other, Miss. And then lift your skirts and bend your knees a bit—careful not to lean forward.” Little Emblyn followed the motions she herself described, watching Meira beside her. Meira studied Little Emblyn…

  Then effortlessly curtseyed, even more gracefully than Little Emblyn, her green skirts swirling around her.

  Galahad stared at her for a moment, then buried his surprise, drew himself up and nodded.

  “Good. Now, hold out your hand to the gentleman.”

  Meira straightened, and held out her slender hand to him. He took it, then bent at the waist and brought her hand halfway to his mouth, his eyes down, and then straightened and released her. Then, he turned sideways to her, and proffered his arm, which she smoothly took, and together the three of them entered the dining room.

  They followed the same routine as the night before—Galahad pulled out the benches for both women, Little Emblyn poured the tea, and both Little Emblyn and Galahad explained the proper way to eat fried eggs, toast, and porridge. Meira drank from the teacup with more confidence this time, and as Galahad watched, she gained a little more dexterity with the fork and spoon. And whenever Little Emblyn laughed, Meira chuckled also, as if the mingled sounds pleased her.

  Then, the creaky front door opened, and heavy footsteps rang through the entryway. Little Emblyn instantly stood up and hurried to see—

  An old man with a short, grizzled beard and weathered face, wearing beaten brown clothes and a flat cap, came in and smiled. Well-worn grin lines deepened, and his blue eyes sparkled like a boy’s.

  “Hullo, Ben!” Little Emblyn greeted him brightly. “Ben, this is Galahad Stormcrane, the Curse-Breaker staying at the behest of the prince.”

  Galahad stood up, put his napkin on the table, and rounded the benches to hold out his hand to the old man.

  “This is Ben Glennon, the groundskeeper here,” Little Emblyn said.

  “I know who this one is,” Ben grinned, shaking Galahad’s hand—and Galahad could feel every knobby joint and scar left behind by a lifetime of hard work.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” Galahad replied.

  “Nay, but all me friends work down at the wharf, and they told me of a great, tall young man on a giant black beast, with a raven on his arm,” Ben laughed. “Everyone in Edel knows who that must be!”

  “Mr. Glennon, this is Miss Meira, another Curse-Breaker from Maith,” Galahad gestured to her. Ben did a double-take, then instantly pulled off his hat.

  “My pleasure, ma’am, tis an honor,” he said, and made a stiff bow. Meira smiled beautifully back at him, easily stood up, stepped closer and held out her hand to him.

  “Oh! Thankee,” Ben said, grasping her fingers and hurriedly kissing them. Meira blinked, glanced at Galahad in question—

  But Galahad looked away, and addressed Ben again.

  “Have you had breakfast, Mr. Glennon?”

  “Oh, thankee sir, but yes, I have,” Ben beamed, gripping his hat in both hands. “Me wife feeds me quite a lot in the mornings. But I’ve come to look after the back shrubberies, and to bring you this, sir. The prince’s herald gave it to me when he saw I was heading this way.” Ben reached in his coat pocket and pulled out a beautifully-ornamented folded piece of paper, sealed with the royal coat of arms.

  “Thank you,” Galahad took it, broke the red seal, and unfolded the paper.

  “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll get to work now,” Ben bowed at the waist again.

  “Thank you, Mr. Glennon,” Galahad said absently, still reading as the old man turned and left the house, and Little Emblyn shut the door behind him.

  “Are you…needing my assistance, sir?” Little Emblyn asked Galahad cautiously.

  “Little Emblyn, make yourself ready,” Galahad said, briskly folding the letter
and putting it in his pocket. “You’re coming with us into town.”

  Both women’s heads came around, and Meira lost some of her color.

  “We’re going to have dresses made for the princess,” Galahad looked over at her. “She and I have been invited to a banquet at the palace three days from now.”

  “Will we be…taking the cart, sir?” Little Emblyn risked a look at Meira, who had gone paler.

  “Thondorfax never pulls a cart,” Galahad replied flatly, crossing into the parlor. “We will walk.”

  “Tom, he was a piper's son,

  He learnt to play when he was young,

  And all the tune that he could play

  Was 'Over the Hills and Far Away'!”

  Little Emblyn sang into the lusty wind as it blew her hair all around her head.

  Together, Little Emblyn, Meira and Galahad hiked up the road across the hills, back toward Euryor house. Little Emblyn had a plain, strident voice, but it cut through the gust of the wind, and she cheerfully skipped on ahead of them, swinging her arms. Scraw floated far above them like a shadow against the sun.

  Meira kept pace beside Galahad, gazing out over the rolling green hills, the heath, and beyond that at the sparkling channel, and the mainland of Mhuirlan. Their shoes scraped on the dirt road, and their flowing garments flapped in the wind. Galahad watched as Meira’s long hair roiled out behind her like a feathery banner, so different from the messy way Little Emblyn’s did. As if Meira’s hair refused to tangle, now that it had been persuaded that the wind was friendly.

  “Over the hills and a great way off,

  The wind shall blow my top-knot off!

  Tom with his pipe made such a noise,

  That he pleased both the girls and boys,

  They all stopped to hear him play,

  'Over the hills and far away'!” Little Emblyn sang

  brightly, bending to pick some white flowers from the side of the road.

  “Do you approve of the dresses and fabric Little Emblyn chose for you?” Galahad asked.

  Meira turned to him as if surprised by the sound of his voice. Then, she nodded.

  “And the shoes? Are they comfortable?” he wondered.

  She stopped, and so did Galahad. Meira took hold of her skirts and lifted them to reveal the new plain leather shoes with black cotton laces. She went up on her toes twice, then smiled at him.

  “Good,” he said, starting to walk again. She kept up with him.

  “The dresses should be ready in time for the banquet,” Galahad said. “I’ll ride in to town to fetch them when they are. Which do you think you ought to wear?”

  She let out a short laugh, and then shrugged helplessly.

  “Which do you like?” he clarified.

  She tipped her head to the side, then kicked a stone ahead of her.

  “The red one!” Little Emblyn called back. “The prince will see you and faint dead away!”

  “Emblyn,” Galahad warned.

  “Sorry, sir,” Little Emblyn blushed, twisting her flower stems together.

  Galahad glanced over at Meira.

  “The red one?”

  Meira suppressed a smile, ducked her head, then drew in a deep breath and looked out over the ocean again, where the whitecaps rolled, and the fishermen’s boats tumbled over the waves.

  “Tom with his pipe did play with such skill,” Little Emblyn sang

  again.

  “That those who heard could not keep still;

  As soon as he played they began to dance,

  Even the pigs on their hind legs would prance!

  Over the hills and a great way off

  The wind shall blow my topknot off!”

  Meira listened, and Galahad studied her profile, and

  for just a moment, as Little Emblyn’s girlish tones washed over them, he thought he glimpsed a deep sorrow pass over Meira’s face.

  The fire muttered and glowed in the library hearth. Galahad sat on the couch, facing the flames, his left elbow on the armrest. The same large book lay spread open in his lap, lit by the lamp on the table to his left. The wind had picked up as night fell, wuthering round the old walls of Euryor House, and whistling down the chimney. Galahad had drawn the curtains and lit the lamps, but the corners and heights of the library still stood in deep darkness. Scraw perched on the edge of the mantelpiece on one foot, his head tucked low, one eye open. Occasionally, he would utter low chuffing sounds to himself, and fluff his breast feathers. Galahad let out a low sigh, resting his left ankle on his right knee, and turning the page.

  Soft footsteps near the doorway.

  He looked up to see Meira silhouetted on the threshold. When she saw him, she stopped. He could make out some of her features in the dimness: her vivid grey eyes, and the shimmer in her hair.

  Galahad held her gaze for a moment, then tilted his head to the right briefly, before returning his attention to his book. She didn’t move for several minutes, then ventured in. The boards creaked beneath her careful tread, and she gave his couch a wide berth. She moved around behind the nearby armchair, then paused, captivated by the painting of the ship which was lit by two lamps. Inadvertently, Galahad’s attention was drawn there, too. In the eerie flickering of the light, the huge waves seemed to stir, and the black clouds appeared to roll around the torn, desolate hulk.

  Meira stood there in front of the painting for several minutes, and in the silence, Galahad finally turned back to his book. At last, he sensed her drift away, into the corner near one of the lit sconces, reach out and run her fingers across the spines of the books. Without moving his head, he lifted his eyes, and watched her. Her graceful fingers traced the gold-inlaid titles and colorful bindings, and she drew in deep breaths, as if tasting the scent of the old pages. In this way, she slowly made her way around the room, touching every single book, but making no move to take one down. When she passed behind him, Galahad tried to read, but instead was lulled by the quiet rhythm of her steps, the rustle of her fingers against the books, and the crackle of the fire.

  Then, like a ghost, she slipped out of the library, and was gone.

  Galahad’s head came up and he searched for her shadow—but she had already gone up the stairs. For a moment, he studied the empty doorway, then at last turned back to the open pages before him.

  Galahad glanced at himself in the full-length mirror in his room, adjusting his cuff. He wore black riding trousers and polished black boots, a military-style black jacket with ornate brocade clasps down the front. Over that, he’d donned an ankle-length velvet riding coat with a high collar and embroidery across the cuffs and lapels. He’d cleaned his sword, and wore it from his silver-buckled belt.

  He straightened his collar, then strode out of his room, his hand on the butt of his sword. His heels tapped more loudly on the wood than his other boots, so he didn’t hear the rattle of the carriage outside until he’d finished descending the steps.

  “It’s here!” Little Emblyn gasped, her hair in disarray as she flew past him to the door and heaved it open. Galahad peered through.

  A royal carriage, sent by the prince, waited outside. It gleamed black, with gold trim, and four flawless white horses champed at the bits and stamped their feet. Laced and flounced and feathered footmen hopped down from the back of the carriage.

  “We’ll just be a moment,” Galahad called through to them. They both inclined their heads.

  A stair squeaked.

  Galahad turned and looked back up the steps.

  Meira stood on the landing, her hair done up in an elegant roll bound by a gold headband. Gold earrings twinkled by her cheeks, and she wore a scarlet dress with bell sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, and shimmering skirts embroidered with gold lilies. Little Emblyn had heightened Meira’s features with a touch of makeup, which made her lips look just as red as her dress, and her eyes bright as the sky.

  “Thank you for getting her ready, Little Emblyn,” Galahad said, glancing at the little maid. Little Emblyn couldn’t do
anything more than breathlessly curtsey, then she turned and grinned up at Meira.

  “Don’t you just feel like the little cinder girl who went to the ball and married the prince?”

  Meira laughed, then shrugged.

  “I’ll tell you the story later,” Little Emblyn said, hurrying to the foot of the stairs. “Come on! The coach is waiting for you!”

  Meira hesitated, then started forward—and glided down the stairs, without any help. Galahad watched her until she drew up beside him—then, he held out his arm to her. She smiled up at him, and took it. And he led her over the threshold and out into the warm evening air.

  The footmen immediately opened the door and pulled down the steps for her. Meira bent and gathered her skirt, and Galahad guided her up into the coach. She sat down on the scarlet padded bench, and Galahad backed away.

  Meira’s eyes flashed and she started to get up again.

  “I’m riding,” Galahad told her. “I’ll meet you at the palace.”

  Meira’s brow furrowed, but she nodded and sat back. The footman replaced the steps and shut the door, and Galahad strode across the yard and into the barn where he found Thondorfax, all saddled and bridled—for Galahad had gotten him ready before he dressed. He led the horse out into the yard as the footmen mounted and the driver urged the horses to pull the coach round. Galahad put on his gloves, then mounted and settled himself in the saddle. And as the coach started out onto the road, blending in with the purple twilight, Galahad followed them at an easy clip toward Perlkastel.

  Chapter Eight

  As the light faded from the sky and the summer stars appeared, Galahad and Thondorfax followed the bright lamps of the carriage across the hills toward the palace woods. The coach wheels rattled on the gravel road, and Thondorfax’s easy gait beat a rhythm.

  They passed into the shelter of the woods, and the shadows of the great trees flashed past them, seeming to move and shift like dryads. Curious yellow eyes peered out at the procession, and an owl hooted afar off. Quiet breezes rustled the tresses of the beeches, making music along with the roll of the carriage.