The View From Castle Always
Melissa McShane
Copyright © 2019 by Melissa McShane
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Allyson Longueira
Dedicated to Ivan,
in thanks for many years of snuggles and silent purrs
Contents
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
About the Author
Chapter One
The world felt fractured, broken into jagged splinters that dug into Ailanthe’s head and chest and legs. She gagged on the smell of sap filling the air like syrup, gagged and coughed and tried to sit up. Her body refused to obey. She felt as if the mother tree’s roots had her tied to the ground, which, she now realized, was digging hard, cold knuckles into her back and hips. She couldn’t even open her eyes.
An atonal thrumming sound that echoed in her bones resolved itself into the sound of a harp; it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. With a great effort, she dragged her eyelids open and saw the branches of the mother tree’s many trunks arching high above her head, unexpectedly blurry in the morning light. “Banazir, what—” she began, addressing the unseen player of the harp.
“You’re alive,” her mother said, and her face swam into view, as blurry as the branches. She put her arms around Ailanthe and lifted her, clutching at her so tightly it hurt. “We thought—Ailanthe, what happened?”
“I don’t remember anything,” Ailanthe said, but fragments of memory were beginning to piece themselves together. She’d risen early, crossed the bridge from one trunk to another to the stores where she could get a bite of cheese before breakfast, come back along the main branch, and then…the rest was gray nothing.
“I think you broke your back,” Banazir said, still out of Ailanthe’s line of sight. The kerthor continued to strum the harp, whose music was gradually becoming melodic as her magic wrapped around Ailanthe. It was making her whole again, she realized, easing the pounding headache and the stabbing agony in her legs and lower back, lifting away the other miscellaneous pains Ailanthe was only just becoming conscious of. “I had to use a song I barely knew to put you back together again. You must have fallen four flights.”
Ailanthe went numb. “Fell?”
Her mother nodded. “Varden saw you. You…slipped.”
“That’s impossible.” Ailanthe struggled away from her mother’s embrace and sat upright, blinking to clear her vision. “Impossible. No one falls.” But she could remember now. Two steps along the wide branch, and it had…bucked, rippling like the ocean waves in her father’s stories, knocking her off balance, another impossible thing. She had taken her first steps on branches higher than that one. In the whole twenty-three years of her life she had never fallen. No Lindurian ever fell from a mother tree’s embrace.
“It’s all right,” her mother said, her voice trembling beneath its soothing tones. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
Ailanthe pushed herself to her feet, closed her eyes against a momentary dizziness, then looked up at the branches of the mother tree again. From this perspective, here in one of the clearings between the trunks, the many rope bridges spanning the distance from branch to branch looked like black webs against the cloudless sky. A few people stood on those bridges, or on the thick branches wide enough for three of those people to walk with arms linked, and stared down at her. Backlit by the rising sun, their faces were impossible to read. She looked around at the few other people standing around the clearing; they all stared at her, expressionless, as if deferring judgment on whatever she had done to make the tree—no, it wasn’t me, it was an accident. It doesn’t mean anything.
She walked with slow steps toward the nearest trunk. The two women standing near it moved out of her way, stepping to either side of her as if showing her honor. Or attending my funeral. Ailanthe put her hand out to caress the silky bark of the mother tree. It tingled, but nothing more. She clambered up the rope ladder strung from the first flight to where it was tethered to the ground, moving more quickly as her confidence returned, and pulled herself onto the first broad branch—
—and sharp pain like icy needles stabbed at her hands and arms where they touched the living wood, and she screamed and slipped backward, flailing at the ladder. Her bare feet tangled in the ropes, her hands caught at a rung, and she hung there, upside down, panting. Tears pooled in her eyes and slipped down over her temples. Then there were hands, helping her disentangle herself, half-carrying her to the ground, and she tried to stand, but found she needed those hands’ support if she didn’t want to collapse. The pain was gone, but in its place was a terrible weakness, as if something had sapped her energy and left her wrung out and empty. She closed her eyes and focused on breathing.
“It’s an accident,” her mother was insisting, “you must be ill, sometimes that can make a person lose her balance….” Her voice trailed off.
Ailanthe opened her eyes and looked up at her; her mother, four inches taller than she, looked as drained as she felt. Ailanthe ran her fingers through her short brown hair, trying to smooth it. “I’m not ill,” she said. “You know what this means. The trees have rejected me.”
Her mother turned away. Banazir said, “That hasn’t happened to anyone in the settlement since…it must be over one hundred years.”
“Well, you won’t be able to say that anymore,” Ailanthe said, but the joke came out sounding flat and weak.
“I’ll start searching the records,” Banazir said. “You’re just out of balance, that’s all, and someone must have written down how to fix that.”
“What if you…you could stay on the ladders,” Ailanthe’s mother said, “and we could cover the branches near our home…”
Ailanthe put her arms around her. She felt strangely empty, as if every emotion had been drained from her along with her energy. “I think,” she said, “we should find me a tent.”
They ate on the ground that evening despite the chill in the early spring air, not only Ailanthe’s family but the entire settlement, consuming what was almost the last of their winter stores in near silence. Once again Ailanthe was reminded of a funeral—but, then, for a Lindurian to be out of balance with the trees that sheltered and nurtured them was a little like death, wasn’t it? She still felt numb inside. At some point her predicament would become real, and then…she had no idea what she’d do then. She couldn’t live on the ground forever, tethered like the rope ladders.
“I’ve read everything there is,” Banazir went on, “which isn’t much. But it’s not hopeless. Just…unexpected.”
“Tell me.”
“You have to go to Castle Always,” Banazir said.
It was unexpected, so unexpected Ailanthe at first didn’t understand what she’d said. “Castle Always?” she said. “That’s for people who want a destiny. I’m happy with who I am.”
“It sets you on your true path. It reads your heart, gives you your destiny, and sends you where you’re supposed to be. The records imply that means bringing you back into harmony with the trees.”
“‘Imply’?”
“The earliest records are over two hundred years old. I’m lucky I can read any of them.”
“Castle Always,” Ailanthe repeated.
Her father took her hand in his and squeezed it. “If that’s what it takes,” he said, “then I think you should do it.”
“But—” her mother began.
“You’re right,” Ailanthe said. She stood and faced Banazir. “I don’t suppose those records say where it is?”
Banazir shrugged. “It exists in all times and in all places,” she said. “I think, if you’re meant to find it, it doesn’t matter in which direction you go.”
“Then I’ll leave in the morning.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve always wanted to travel. Maybe not this way, but…it’s not that bad, is it?”
“It’s too soon,” Morwenna cried out. “There are preparations…we have to give you a farewell….”
Ailanthe looked around at all those familiar faces. “This is as good a farewell as anyone could want,” she said. “And I won’t need much. Mor, I just…I want to get this over with.” What no one was saying was that it might be years before she returned home, depending on where the Castle sent her. If she returned at all. Three people of the settlement had left for the Castle over the last ten years, and none of them had come home.
Ailanthe looked around again, this time at the massive trunks of the mother tree, and felt again the stinging pain of her rejection. If Castle Always could restore her balance…. “It will be an adventure,” she said with a weak grin, and a murmur of amusement rippled through the crowd.
“Then let’s make this a celebration,” Morwenna said, and embraced her. “Clear the ground, everyone, and we’ll dance and sing for Ailanthe and her destiny!”
Ailanthe laughed, but to herself, she thought, What if my destiny never brings me home?
Four days later, Ailanthe trudged through the forest in the pale light of dawn, gnawing on one of the hard, dry, odorless trail biscuits that were all the food she had left. She hadn’t thought the Castle would be so difficult to find, so she’d packed lightly, and now she was regretting it. The idea of delaying her journey to gather food or set snares made her impatient, but it seemed she might have no choice.
A flock of tiny white birds, eerily silent, circled her head, and she turned to watch them flutter away like dry leaves on the wind. When she turned back around, she nearly stumbled over a low-growing bush, took a few more steps, and found herself at the edge of a clearing so sharply delineated it could not be natural. Across the clearing, looming up before her like a gray, perfectly vertical mountain, was a building that could only be Castle Always.
She stood gaping up at it for a while, barely able to comprehend its size. Its stones, which might have been hewn out of the granite cliffs of Duathenin, fit together so tightly that from where she stood she could barely make out the outlines of each one. High above her head, glass windows winked at her in the early morning light, mirror-opaque against the brightness. Ahead, set into a stone arch too plain for the Castle’s grandness, were two doors not much taller than Ailanthe herself that looked entirely out of place in the majestic gray wall. There was no movement in the clearing, which was covered in long green and yellow striped grass, not even the leaping and buzzing of insects.
Ailanthe wiped her suddenly sweaty palms on her tunic and crossed the clearing to the doors. She laid her palm against the cool dead wood, a stripe of sunlight across the back of her hand providing a warm contrast, then pressed down on the plain iron latch and pushed the door open. It squealed like a dying animal, making her jump. Well, if there were anyone inside, they knew she was coming now. She took a few steps inside, letting the door close behind her with another shriek.
Beyond the door lay a short hall carpeted in black and gold that ended in a wall covered by a tapestry. Ailanthe went to look at it: it depicted a man and a woman fighting a creature with the body of a lizard and the head of a snake and wings that belonged to no bird or bat she recognized.
There were openings on either side of the hall, and she looked into one and saw tables and chairs made of dead wood, their legs carved to look like animal feet, a plush carpet thicker than meadow grass, and a long, cushioned seat drawn up before a fireplace big enough for her to curl up in. Ailanthe had never seen anything like it outside of books. She ran her finger along the back of the…sofa, the word was, and marveled at how it was smooth in one direction and resisted her stroking in the other. Amazing.
She turned around to look into the other room and realized with surprise that the front door had no latch on this side. Ailanthe stood back and regarded it, hands on her hips. “Already playing games, Castle?” she said. “I’ll just have to find another door.”
Her words sounded strange in her ears, and she clapped a hand to her mouth. “What—what language am I speaking?” she whispered. It was not Lindurian, nothing she recognized. She couldn’t even remember the Lindurian words for what she’d said. It’s not permanent, she told herself, Banazir would have said if the people who returned couldn’t speak Lindurian. She took a deep breath and moved into the next room.
This room had one wall that was nothing but windows; it looked out not on the grassy clearing, but on a dry and cracked desert landscape with one tree that looked as if it had been dried out by the sun for a thousand lifetimes. She walked closer and laid her palm flat against the glass, which was warm from the heat of a sun much hotter than the one that shone over Lindurien. So these were magic windows. Banazir had said the Castle existed in all times and places; it made sense that people within the Castle should be able to see those places.
A soft breeze blew past her ear, carrying with it the smell of peaches. She reached up to push her short hair back into place. That the Castle might have an orchard growing within its walls would not surprise her at all.
She crossed the room to a door on the far side and opened it to find a room packed full of books, neatly lined up on the shelves, all of them matching in height and color. Ailanthe had read the few books her family owned many times over; it would take her years to read this many. She counted, did a little calculating in her head—over three hundred books! A pity she wasn’t here for reading, especially since the chairs in this room looked so very inviting. She cast one last glance at the shelves, then opened the next door.
She stepped from the comfortable, warm library into a vast stone chamber paved with slabs of dark gray rock four feet on a side that were set in pale mortar that crumbled in places. High above, curving arches of white stone supported the roof, like the ribs of some unimaginably large beast. The chamber smelled of dust and old stone and made Ailanthe, who had never felt intimidated by the size of her forest home, feel small and in danger of being crushed. She straightened her spine. If the Castle were alive, it might be watching her, and she wanted to look strong. Another peach-scented breeze blew past her face, and she filled her lungs with the tantalizing smell. She was starting to feel hungry again, but
food could wait.
In the center of the cavernous chamber stood another room, this one of a coarser stone that looked like undressed granite, but pale yellow instead of gray. Window arches that came to a point at the top pierced the walls in several places, and light shone from those windows, brightening the dark stone floor.
Ailanthe advanced toward it and looked through one of the arches. The room beyond was empty, its glossy waxed floor reflecting the curving wooden beams of its ceiling high above. More window openings looked down on the room from the upper stories. The light came from dozens of glass hemispheres attached to the walls that glowed steadily instead of flickering with firelight; Ailanthe reached out to touch one and yanked her hand back when it burned her finger.
Around the far side of the room were three shallow stairs going down to the floor, which was made of thousands of pieces of dead wood set in an intricate, abstract pattern. She walked around to the stairs and looked down at the floor again. The pattern was fascinating. She went down the steps to look at it more closely—
—and the moment both her feet were on the floor, the room was no longer empty, but filled with tables and cabinets overflowing with objects. She gasped, leaped backward, and the room was once again empty. Cautiously, she put one toe on the floor, but nothing happened. She took another step, and the objects appeared between one blink and the next.
Stunned, Ailanthe moved forward along a narrow path that threaded between the tables and past a tall cabinet that bulged with so many things its doors were unable to close. It looked like a treasure room, with golden crowns and silver necklaces set with bright, faceted gems, but at a second glance Ailanthe saw more mundane items, like reels of thread and wooden boxes with chipped lids. None of it seemed magical at all.
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