Tide

by Alydia Rackham

  “Where’s Meira?” Galahad asked.

  “Still asleep, sir,” Little Emblyn answered, wiping her hands on her apron. “I thought it best, after dancing all night.”

  Galahad nodded and buttered his other piece.

  “She thinks you are displeased with her, sir.”

  Galahad stopped, and looked up to see Little Emblyn standing back uncertainly. He considered her a moment, then shook his head once.

  “Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  “Oh, I’m glad, sir,” Little Emblyn said in a rush, beaming. “Did they think she was very beautiful?”

  He cleared his throat.

  “They did.”

  “And what about the prince?”

  “What about him?” Galahad picked up the first piece and took a bite.

  “Did he dance with her all night? Did he fall in love with her?” she pressed in hushed excitement, stepping closer to the table. “Are they going to be married?”

  Galahad put half the bread down and took a drink of beer.

  “He danced with her, though I don’t know if he danced every dance, since I left and sat in the coach,” Galahad said, not looking at her. “I have no insight at all into the workings of his heart. But there is talk…” he paused whilst lifting the bread to his mouth again. “…amongst the members of the court, at least…that he may consider marrying her.”

  Emblyn suddenly jumped in the air, clapped her hands and squealed, then dashed back into the kitchen. Soon, the sound of clanging pots issued, and she triumphantly started to sing as she worked.

  Galahad glared down at the bread—but he made himself finish it, and half the beer, before he arose and left the house to saddle Thondorfax.

  The roar of the sea echoed up and down the central lane of Megipesk, with its whitewashed houses and well-dressed inhabitants. Still, the fishermen plied their wares near the docks, and the shouts from the market stalls bounced against the stone of the streets and the buildings.

  Galahad tied Thondorfax outside the door of the milliner—a beautifully-appointed shop with lace curtains in the windows. Galahad hopped up the steps and pushed through the door.

  All the walls had been whitewashed inside, also, and the broad windows let in vast amounts of daylight, which poured over the work tables where several young ladies, all wearing starched dresses and white caps, busily sewed by hand. And, in one corner with a table and window all to herself, another young lady worked with snow-white cotton upon a reeling, rattling sewing machine.

  All around the back half of the shop stood floor-to-ceiling open shelves that held bolts of colorful fabric. Upon stands in the several corners, extravagant gowns stood there on display.

  None of the young women looked up from their work as he entered—which he could understand—but a middle-aged woman in a similar white cap emerged through a door that led to a large back room, clasped her hands and smiled at him.

  “Hello, Curse-Breaker,” she greeted him. “Has Lady Meira enjoyed the dresses she has worn thus far?”

  “Yes, they fit her well,” he answered.

  “Which did she wear to the king’s birthday?” the shop mistress asked.

  Galahad realized that the other girls had finally stopped sewing and had lifted their heads to listen.

  “She wore the pink, with roses,” he replied.

  “Ah, a perfect choice!” the shopkeeper beamed. “How did she look?”

  Galahad now heard the girls lean forward in their chairs. He glanced around at them, then managed an answer.

  “Quite…beautiful.”

  The shopkeeper laughed.

  “She must have done, to win such praise from you!”

  The girls stifled giggles.

  “I would like to commission two more dresses,” Galahad cut in, ignoring them. “For day dresses at court. And one more that’s suited to a ball.”

  “Of course,” the shopkeeper replied. “Which colors?”

  “She doesn’t have yellow yet, or green,” he answered, glancing around at the bolts of fabric.

  “What about the gown?” the shopkeeper wondered.

  Galahad didn’t answer.

  His attention had fixed on a row of four fabrics that gave off a subdued, unearthly shimmer.

  “What is that?” he murmured.

  “What?” the shopkeeper asked.

  “That,” he said, crossed the room, moved around the counter and approached the fabric. He tugged off his gloves, stuffed them in his belt, then carefully reached out to touch them.

  One was turquoise, the other deep green, and the last a stormy blue—shimmering above and pulsing beneath. They felt light and delicate to his fingers, and gave way like…

  Like water.

  “Oh, those are our only Fortryllet fabrics,” the shopkeeper sighed as she stepped up next to him. “They are very old, but of course they don’t wear or gather dust. Not one of us here knows how to craft with it…” she sighed again. “But I cannot bear to put them in a dark attic. Nothing elvish should ever sit in the dark.”

  “I want all three,” Galahad said.

  The shopkeeper jumped.

  “Wh—You do?”

  Galahad faced her.

  “I know what to do with these fabrics,” he said. “And I will take all three bolts.”

  The girls let out exclamations, but the shopkeeper’s face turned red with delight.

  “Right away, sir!” and she pulled them down from the shelf, laid them out so one of her girls could package them, and then took down the rest of his order in writing, so excited she could hardly hold a pen.

  Galahad tied the large parcel to Thondorfax’s saddle, making certain to balance it so it wouldn’t swing, and was just about to mount up when a frantic hubbub began near the town square. Galahad paused, his foot in the stirrup, and watched as people stopped mid-conversation, or burst out of shop doors, took off, hurried downhill and turned left.

  “What is it?” he called to a bespectacled clerk who dashed past, holding his wide-brimmed hat down. The clerk skidded on his buckled shoes and whipped around to look at him.

  “The king’s herald’s just ridden to the square,” he panted. “Best come quick!” And he ran off.

  Galahad frowned, but climbed onto Thondorfax, turned him and followed the crowd.

  Soon, the people thickened in front of him, and no longer moved forward. Galahad, glad he was astride a tall horse, could see over their heads. Perhaps a thousand people had pressed into the town square, and a finely-dressed herald stood atop the wooden platform in the center. Three trumpeters stood beside him, and they blasted a quick call in unison. Then, they snapped their instruments under their arms, and stood at attention. The herald then unrolled a scroll with brass handles, and held it at arm’s length out in front of him.

  “Hear ye, hear ye!” he shouted, his fine voice booming out over the heads of the villagers. “A proclamation from our king! Three days hence, His Majesty Aethelred Alexander Richard Augustus Edward James the First shall be crowned King of all Mhuirlan! At which time, he invites the entire island of Metern to his royal festivities.”

  A great cheer rocked the town square, startling some of the horses. Hundreds of people threw their hats and waved their hands. Thondorfax just snorted, and Galahad simply listened.

  The herald waited, suppressing a smile, then held up the proclamation again. The people, excited for more, pressed in closer.

  “Furthermore,” the herald continued. “His Majesty will be receiving a most esteemed guest from the island of Hanter-Broder: Her Ladyship Beatrix Graigh of the castle of Arsa Coill.”

  Murmurs raced through the people—though they sounded pleased. Thondorfax lifted his head and pricked his ears up.

  And a strange jolt traveled through Galahad’s whole frame.

  “Her ship shall arrive at noon upon the day of the festival,” the herald went on. “And the king orders that all of you be here to help him receive this most beauteous and respected frien
d of the royal household.”

  The villagers broke into applause and cheered again.

  Galahad pulled on the reins and gently ordered Thondorfax to back directly out of the crowd. Soon, they had cleared the edge of the group of people, about-faced and trotted back up the street, up the hill—and he urged Thondorfax into a gallop as soon as they crossed the town’s border.

  Galahad left Thondorfax outside and carried the bolts of fabric into the house under his arm. He charged straight in, without taking off his cape, and glanced sideways into the dining room.

  Meira sat in Galahad’s usual place, a cup of tea between her hands, wearing her dressing gown, her hair in a messy braid over her shoulder. Little Emblyn sat across from her, and both young women were laughing. Galahad turned into the parlor and set the wrapped bolts on the couch.

  When the door slammed shut, Little Emblyn immediately got up and hurried after him.

  “Everything all right, sir?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said, only now straightening up to pull off his cape. “A herald came while I was in town and made an announcement.”

  “An announcement?” she cried, then spun around to give Meira a wide, ecstatic grin. Meira blushed, but her eyes sought out Galahad. Galahad pushed past Little Emblyn and hung up his cape in the hall, and pulled off his gloves.

  “The king is to be crowned three days from now, and the people of Megipesk are invited to a dance and feast afterward,” Galahad said. “He also commanded the whole town to come to the docks at noon on that day to receive a special guest of the king’s, from the isle of Hanter-broder.”

  Little Emblyn tripped on the rug and almost fell—she caught herself as she hurried back into the dining room—but all the while she frowned hard at Galahad. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Meira giving him the same expression.

  “Who?” Little Emblyn demanded.

  Another chill passed through Galahad’s frame, and he finally faced them squarely.

  “Her name is Lady Beatrix Greigh of the castle of Arsa Coill,” he said quietly.

  Meira lost some of her color. Little Emblyn just frowned more fiercely.

  “Beatrix Greigh…”

  “Apparently a longtime friend of the royal family,” Galahad answered. “And she has an elvish surname.”

  Little Emblyn exchanged a startled look with Meira.

  “Elvish? She’s part elf?”

  “She may be,” Galahad said. “And she lives in a stronghold that the elves built. Arsa Coill means ‘ancient forest.’”

  “Oh…She’s going to be so beautiful…” Little Emblyn whispered—and she too went pale.

  “We don’t need to be alarmed yet,” Galahad cut in. “For all we know, Lady Beatrix is the king’s godmother.” He gave them both firm looks. “Just do your utmost to make yourselves ready for the coronation. That’s all any of us can do.” And with that, he returned to the parlor, picked up the bolts of fabric, and carried them up to his bedroom.

  “Sir?”

  Galahad stopped brushing Thondorfax and came round to the opening of the stall to see Little Emblyn standing there, her apron wrapped around her hands.

  “Yes?” he asked, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. Little Emblyn bit her lip, then took a careful breath.

  “I know who Lady Beatrix is,” she said. “And she isn’t the king’s godmother.”

  Galahad set the brush on the top of the stall and stepped toward her, listening. Little Emblyn reluctantly met his eyes.

  “She is the daughter of old friends of the former king and queen,” she said. “The prince—His Majesty, now—and his parents have gone visiting them since he was just a boy. Lady Beatrix is also an only child, since her younger sister died two years ago of fever madness.”

  A pang shot through Galahad’s heart. Little Emblyn took another difficult breath and went on.

  “I’ve never seen her, sir, but she’s said to be very fair, and lovely, and everyone who meets her truly likes her.” Her voice quieted. “I’ve heard she is King James’ favorite and oldest friend.”

  Galahad glanced over at Thondorfax. The horse met his gaze, and pricked up his ears. Galahad turned back to Little Emblyn.

  “Since you know the king better than Meira or I,” he said. “What do you suggest we do?”

  She shrugged.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” she said quietly. “Aside from trying to make him jealous.”

  Galahad stared at her.

  But Little Emblyn said no more. Instead, she curtseyed, and left the barn.

  Slowly, Galahad looked at his horse—who just silently looked back at him.

  Setting his jaw, Galahad snatched the brush down and returned to what he’d been doing.

  Late that night, after Little Emblyn and Meira had gone to bed, and all the lamps in the house had been extinguished, Galahad carried the bolts of fabric into the library and shut the door behind him.

  He lifted his free hand and snapped his fingers.

  The lamps and candles all blazed to life. He stepped around the couch and carefully laid the three fabrics out, side by side, leaning them upright against the back of the couch. He took a step back, and narrowed his eyes at each of them in turn.

  He drew in deep, purposeful breaths, and held out his right hand, palm up, gently opening his fingers.

  And as he watched, the deep green fabric began to ripple, as if sunlight disturbed a great depth of seawater. He let the enchanted elvish fabric stir for a moment, then snapped his fingers again.

  It slowly began to unwind itself from the board, picking up speed as it did, and lifted like a spirit into the air in front of him. He took another step back, studying the flowing length. Then, when it had all come loose, he reached out and took hold of the end.

  He immediately wound it around his hand, flung it straight up, then yanked it down.

  With a great flap, the fabric took a sudden shape: a general hourglass form, with the bottom rustling uneasily like waves caught in tidepools. Galahad stepped around it, to the back, grasped the fabric there with both hands and tugged it tighter.

  The fabric synched into a definite waist, and remained. He came round to the front again, tilted his head sideways, then took hold of the neckline and folded it down into a straight line above the bust. The excess fabric melted into the rest of itself, as if this fold were its true edge. He then pushed the sides of the fabric out of the way of the shoulders, and they melted down too, to create a sleeveless, strapless silhouette. He came around the dress again, and tugged the back edge of it down to create a gentle U shape that would scoop down below the shoulder blades.

  Once he faced the dress again—for it did look like a dress, now—he regarded the turquoise fabric.

  Instantly, it started sparkling in anticipation, like the shallow, tropical water near the port of Nerrinton—aquamarine water atop snow-white sands. He snapped his fingers, and this fabric sprang off the board so fast that the board immediately came loose and toppled onto the floor. The blindingly-bright fabric flew to him and he caught it in both hands, then knelt down in front of the formed garment. He gripped the edge of the turquoise and pinched it against the middle of the green skirt.

  The two fabrics bled together, like oil paint—and Galahad smeared the turquoise up into the green with long, tight strokes. The turquoise fabric obediently wrapped around the bottom half of the skirt, and Galahad, on his knees, worked his way around it to draw the turquoise up into the green, and the green down into the turquoise, with swift, deft, brush-stroke movements of his fingertips. When he came round to the front again, the turquoise had fully fastened to the green, and fanned out all around, dragging on the floor behind.

  Galahad got up, moved to the corner of the library and pulled out a book he had spotted earlier. Leaning toward a lamp, he flipped through the pages till he arrived at a full-page drawing of a spiral, halved nautilus shell. He came back to the dress and pressed his hand over the drawing. He took a deep breath, closed h
is eyes for a moment…

  Then bent and pressed that same hand to the skirt.

  The nautilus illustration splattered all over the skirt in a repeated swirling pattern, growing larger and smaller to fill all the space. Galahad set the book aside on the floor, picked up the very bottom of the skirt and shook it. The pattern faded and retreated up the skirt, so that around the circumference, the nautilus design looked as if it had bled away into the water.

  Galahad arose, and pointed to the stormy blue fabric. As he watched, the depths of it began to roil, like the reflection of hurricane clouds upon the deepest part of the sea. It slowly unrolled itself from the board, and boiled toward him through the air, churning and twisting. He took hold of it and brought it round to the front. He took a corner and turned it so it pointed upward, and pressed the very corner to the invisible breastbone of his mannequin, right where her collarbones would meet. He then drew that stormy fabric down in an inverted V shape, and wrapped it all around behind her. The fabric fought him, as if it didn’t understand what he wanted. Galahad slowed down, peering over to the back, and pinched the blue to the green, right in the small of the air-mannequin’s back. The fabric instantly relaxed, tumbling down all around the green dress and, upon the chest and at the small of the back, became one with it.

  Taking another breath, he backed up, then knelt down in front of the dress again, grasped the blue fabric, then drew his forefinger straight up the center, to a point just below the bust.

  The fabric split right where he had drawn, and took on an inverted V ruffle, revealing the stunning green skirt beneath. Galahad then came round to the back where excess fabric lay in elegant tumbles upon the floor. He gathered it up, then drew another line…

  The green, turquoise and blue fabrics sliced free of the rest, and he stood up with the new pieces in his hand. Briskly, he pinched the top edges and they sealed together. He then pressed the center of this wide length to the top-center of the dress’ back with his forefinger. It stayed there, as if he had stitched it so. Then, he tossed the right and left ends toward his invisible frame…