“I fear I could not find means to build a fire, or I would have cooked for you,” Tristram said. He opened a pot of jam and spread some on a round of bread, which he offered to her with a smile. She accepted it graciously, though she was becoming nervous. Maybe Coren was right, and Tristram was working his way toward pledging her his undying loyalty. That would be uncomfortable. She’d have to stay alert to fend off any such protestations.
“Shall we begin our search on the next floor, my lady?” Tristram asked, sipping his pinkish-orange drink as if he enjoyed the bitterness.
“I suppose so. What do you think, Coren?” Coren shrugged. “Then it’s settled. Tristram, you don’t need to clear away the plates. The Castle will take care of them later.”
“I think perhaps this extraordinary room does not deserve to be cluttered with dirty things,” Tristram said, taking her empty plate and glass and leaving the room.
Coren said, “I really don’t like him.”
“Why not? It’s true, he’s a little high-handed, but I think he genuinely wants us to be friends. And he worked very hard yesterday.”
Coren shrugged again. “Maybe it’s more accurate to say I don’t like the Galendish. They have pretty manners and dress up their words like they’re taking them to a party, but they’ve also got this code of conduct they hold to no matter the circumstances. God forbid they come up against a situation that requires subtlety.”
“Tristram hasn’t behaved like that.”
“You’ve known him for a day. Just…keep it in mind, all right?”
Ailanthe sighed. “Let’s meet him downstairs. I think there are some locked doors.”
With Coren toting the lamp, they descended the stairs and met Tristram on his way up. “Ah, friends!” he said. “Let us begin our search, and perhaps we will have more luck today.”
It didn’t take long for Ailanthe to become discouraged. She was tired, her hand hurt and was bruised badly—it took some doing to conceal it from her companions, because she didn’t want to explain how it had gotten that way—and although Tristram’s compliments were less frequent, probably because of Coren’s presence, they now had a serious undertone that flustered her.
They went from room to room with no success other than finding some beautiful galleries filled with paintings and sculptures that had all three of them exclaiming in wonder. What they needed were more storage rooms, preferably ones with axes or rope or something useful.
The thirteenth room was draped in forest green velvet, not just the windows but the walls as well, the heavy curtains giving the chamber a somber feel not dispelled by the plush carpet of so deep a green it looked black. “This looks much as I imagine it would feel to be interred,” Tristram said, his voice flattened, the sound absorbed by the drapes. The light came from a lamp set into the ceiling and only dimly illuminated the room.
“Turn the lamp off,” Ailanthe said, moving closer to Coren. The shadows it cast seemed to move. Coren switched it off and put his hand on her shoulder. “Warn me if you see anything,” he murmured. They hadn’t told Tristram about the shadows, and Ailanthe wasn’t sure why, except that it would give him one more thing he might feel he should protect her from, and his offers of protection, unlike Coren’s, made her feel awkward.
“We need more light,” Tristram said, and pulled one of the drapes to the side, letting in bright sunlight. Ailanthe quickly moved to uncover the other windows, staying well within the light they admitted, and tied the drapes back with thick black ropes hanging to each side of the windows.
Coren came to stand beside Ailanthe, but made no move to help her. “You could open those drapes over there,” Ailanthe said, a little annoyed, but he stayed where he was, gazing out the window. “Coren,” she said.
“It’s Hespera,” he said quietly, and reached out to touch the pane of glass before him.
Dusty green hills spread out before them to the horizon, scattered with small groves of trees that sprawled instead of reaching for the sky as they did in Lindurien. A wide river flowed lazily from right to left in the near distance, white rocks rising from it at intervals as if some giant hand had placed them there to change the way the river flowed. A cloud of birds swirled and dipped against the bright blue cloudless sky. “Oh, Coren,” Ailanthe said in a quiet voice to match his.
“It’s been almost four years since I saw it,” he said. “But that landscape is unmistakable.”
“My lady, good sir, I think you should look at this,” Tristram said. He was holding back one of the drapes along the wall, revealing a door. “It’s locked.”
Coren and Ailanthe looked at each other. “Go ahead,” Coren said. Ailanthe turned the key in the lock, then pushed the door open. Cool air rushed in, smelling of green things and sunshine. She went through the door and found herself on a balcony that looked out on the same vista as the windows. It was about five feet wide and just as deep, with a stone railing. And it was open to the outdoors.
Ailanthe gripped the railing and inhaled her first breath of fresh air in weeks. It tasted like spring. They were in the lee of the Castle, shaded from the sun, but it was hard to believe in evil shadows when she could feel the wind on her face and see the sun’s rays turning the river to bright flowing glass. She felt Coren and Tristram come to stand on either side of her. “Most beautiful,” Tristram said.
“I’m getting the rope,” Coren said.
Chapter Fourteen
Ailanthe tied the rope securely to the railing and said, “Coren, pull on this.” He took hold of it and leaned away from the railing, putting his full weight on it. Tristram said, “Perhaps it would be better if I tied the rope, my lady. I have some experience—”
“Tristram,” Ailanthe said, unable to fully contain her impatience, “I have been tying knots since I was three years old. My people trust their lives to rope bridges that run two or three of the Castle’s stories in the air. I have experience. Now move aside and let me climb down.”
“No, my lady, I cannot allow you to do that. It might be unsafe.”
“I am going first,” Coren said, “because I weigh more and someone should anchor the rope at the bottom to make climbing easier. And it’s my country. So both of you get out of my way.”
Ailanthe moved aside. So did Tristram, after a long moment in which he and Coren faced each other in fierce silence. Ailanthe wasn’t sure if Coren had won that battle, or if Tristram had given in to make himself look gracious in front of her.
Coren climbed over the railing and gripped the rope in both hands. He met Ailanthe’s eyes briefly, and she knew what he was thinking: there was a very good chance the Castle would pull him back up, or snatch him off the rope, the way it had done Ailanthe at the tower. She gave him a nod, and he lowered himself over the balcony and down the wall.
She and Tristram watched his progress, Ailanthe with her uninjured fist clenched tight. He was moving far too slowly, inching along as if waiting for the Castle to snatch him back. Halfway there, and Ailanthe discovered she was dizzy from holding her breath and made herself breathe in the fresh, beautiful air. He was almost to the ground when the rope began to tremble.
“Coren, jump!” Ailanthe shouted, and he looked up at her—
—and then he was standing next to her, his hands still curled as if around the rope, looking up at the overhanging roof of the balcony, his mouth hanging open as if he were about to speak. He stood that way for a single frozen moment, then his hands fell to his side and his mouth closed.
He continued to stare at the roof, unblinking, until Ailanthe said, “Coren.” She was afraid to touch him, but not because his closeness always cast her into confusion; now she was afraid of what he might do if she did.
He lowered his head until he was staring at the stone floor of the balcony. He closed his eyes, and a shudder ran through him. Then he opened his eyes, pushed past her like a blind man feeling his way through a crowd, and went through the room and out the door.
“Should we follow?” Tristram s
aid. His voice lacked the half-teasing note she was now familiar with. She shook her head fiercely.
“We are going to lock this door,” she said, “and we are going to close the drapes, and then I am going to lock the door to the room and we’re going to pretend it doesn’t exist, understand?”
“I think I do, my lady,” Tristram said. “I did not realize what a cruel mistress this Castle is until now. I am truly sorry for both of you.”
“You think of the Castle as a woman, then?” Ailanthe untied draperies and settled them so they completely covered the windows.
“Do you not? She is careless and cruel, yet she provides for the needs of everyone dependent on her and grants blessings beyond the wisdom of men. Is that not female?”
Ailanthe now understood why Coren had such a dislike of the Galendish. “Are you suggesting careless cruelty is a universal female trait?” she said, feeling her fear and sorrow for Coren turn into anger inside her.
“I mean no disrespect, my lady. I have great regard for all women.” Tristram looked puzzled at her response.
“Well, Tristram, do you know what I think? I think of the Castle as a man—stubborn, haughty, and unwilling to bend in his rigid attention to rules set down by God only knows who. Keep looking if you want. I’m done for the day.” She strode down the hall in the direction of the stairs.
She didn’t know if she wanted to find Coren or not. She didn’t want to intrude on his pain, didn’t have a right to comfort him, though she felt comfort was something he might need right now. What she wanted was to put her arms around his neck and hold him, and she wasn’t going to do that. So she went to the tower.
Staring out over Lindurien, she understood a little of how he must have felt to be so close to escaping. It wasn’t the same—when she’d dangled outside the tower, buffeted by that wind, she hadn’t been locked up for six years, given up hope, and had it waved in front of her face only to be snatched away again. But to be so close to the place you loved most and to be unable to touch it—that, she understood.
She wished she had Usael’s book now. It had been a few days since she’d read it last, and she was eager to see what happened next, because Usael had developed an attachment to Elara, one of her sister’s friends. The thought that he might choose to settle at the mother tree, that she might have the chance to meet him someday, thrilled her. She leaned back and laid her head against the chilly glass of the window. She really wanted a book to read. But Coren might have gone to ground in the Library, and she didn’t want to disturb him.
But…just suppose… She closed her eyes and thought of Usael’s book, not just the binding and the grooves of the board, but the pattern of oil-slick rainbows that she’d discovered were unique to each of the hero books. She’d put the book back in its place in the Library, but whenever she chose to keep it in her room, it was still there the next morning. It was her book now, she was certain, not the Castle’s, and if she had some of the Castle’s power she ought to have some of its skills. She held out her hands, palm up, and said, “Come to me.”
And the heavy weight of the book settled into her hands.
She opened her eyes and flipped through it. It might be a copy—no, it couldn’t be a copy, because when she tried to work that type of magic on something magical, such as the key and the ring she’d found at the back of a dresser drawer, that yellow-black spike of agony went through her head and her vision went blurry and she had to lie down until it went away.
She turned it over in her hands, marveling, then sent it back where it had come from. It vanished with barely a trace of sparkling dust, just as she’d seen in the Honor Hall when Tristram’s Things appeared. She summoned it again; it was easier this time, far easier than learning to create things had been.
She hugged the book to her chest, then opened it and turned to where she’d left off. She blushed, and flipped ahead a few pages. The book’s magic didn’t believe in giving people privacy, though at least she now knew Usael and Elara were definitely a couple. Everyone was celebrating their union, and Usael was showing off his growing kerthor abilities.
Ailanthe wiped away a tear. She reminded herself if she were home, she still would be rejected by the trees and her personal misery would have made it impossible for her to truly celebrate with her people.
Loud footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Coren emerged from the hole in the floor at a run. “You did it,” he said, breathing heavily. He pointed at the book. “I saw it vanish. Then I saw it appear again, and vanish again. I knew it was you.”
“So I did summon it?” Ailanthe exclaimed. “I hoped I hadn’t just made a copy.”
“No, you summoned it.” Coren sat with his legs dangling down the stairwell. “It’s another step.”
“I don’t know what use it will be.”
“I don’t give a damn about usefulness. Right now all I care about is tearing this Castle apart from the roots up. Summon something else. Summon my sword.”
“I don’t know if I’m familiar enough with it.”
“Try, Ailanthe. Please.”
He’d been so excited about her summoning Ailanthe had assumed he’d overcome his grief at losing his home yet again. Now she realized he’d just turned it inward, and her heart ached for him. His jaw was set and there was a tightness around the corners of his eyes and mouth that told her how much tension he was still under.
So she closed her eyes and pictured the sword, with its strangely angled guard and leather-wrapped hilt, the silver pommel like a giant etched marble, the groove that ran half the length of the blade, and heard a clatter as something metal and heavy struck the stones of the tower.
She opened her eyes to see Coren pulling the sword toward himself across the floor with a loud scraping sound. He examined it carefully, and said, “It could still be a copy.”
“But you don’t think it is.”
“No.” He stood up. “Let’s go find out.”
It wasn’t a copy. Coren had left the sword on one of the chairs in the window room that morning in response to Ailanthe’s frown; Tristram wasn’t carrying his own sword, and Ailanthe was a little impatient with Coren’s antagonism toward the Galendishman. The chair was empty.
Coren hefted the sword in his hand and sighted along the blade. “It doesn’t look like summoning damaged it,” he said.
“Why should it? Nothing is ever damaged when the Castle does it.”
“I know. I just expect things to go wrong, now.” He turned away and walked toward the desert window. Ailanthe followed him.
“Are you all right?” she asked, knowing it was an inadequate question and not sure what she would do with his answer.
“No,” Coren said. “But I will be. It was just so…why did it let me get so close, Ailanthe? It felt like the Castle was taunting me.”
“I don’t know. The more I learn, the less I understand. I’m so sorry, Coren.”
He waved that aside. “It was my choice, and I knew what was likely to happen. I won’t go back there again.”
“That’s good, because I locked the doors. And removed the rope.”
He laughed, and Ailanthe relaxed because it was a normal-sounding laugh. “Afraid I might try something mad?”
“Afraid you might spend all your time staring out the window and mope around and be boring.”
“I promise I won’t do that. I—” He focused on her hand. “What is that?”
Ailanthe hid her hand behind her back. “It’s nothing. An accident.”
He grabbed her arm, then her wrist, and raised her hand so the light struck it clearly. “An accident with what? A hammer?”
Ailanthe tried to wrench away from his grip. “I tried to open the door again last night. I just lost my temper, that’s all.”
“And tried to break your hand?” He felt along the worst bruises, making her gasp in pain. “I don’t think anything’s broken, but—Ailanthe, what were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking!” she shouted. “It moved, Coren
, a little bit, and then it stopped and I couldn’t bear it any longer! I’m so tired of this place, and worrying about being attacked, and this magic is growing inside me and I don’t know where that will end—what if it turns me into something neither of us recognizes? I just want to go home. I don’t care if I never see the tops of the trees again. I want to go home.”
They stood glaring at each other for a long moment. Coren cursed, let go of her hand and wheeled away to stare out the window. Ailanthe sagged onto a chair and covered her face with her hands, then hissed with pain and dropped her injured hand to her lap. She hurt, she was overwhelmed, and she wanted so badly to be held by him it was an almost physical pain in her chest.
She’d kept herself from thinking about the implications of the magic she was learning to use, or that was growing inside her, focused only on how it might help them escape. Now she was forced to admit there was a possibility she was being changed into something else. A magical being, not a human woman who could somehow tap into the Castle’s magic. Suppose she did become powerful enough to defeat the Castle, but at the cost of her humanity? What would be left for her then?
“I don’t know how to help you,” Coren said quietly, and she raised her head to look at him. He was facing the window, and she could see by his faint reflection in the glass that he was looking down at the base of the Castle, far below. “You shouldn’t be trapped here. You don’t deserve it. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“It’s not your fault,” Ailanthe began, but he shook his head and overrode her.
“It’s not about fault,” he said. “I know what it’s like to be trapped here for years. I chose that. I don’t want that for you. But I’m tired of being alone and I feel guilty at how glad I am you’re here with me. It’s selfish and stupid and I hate myself for it. So if I could free you—if anything I could do would free you, I’d do it.”
The View From Castle Always Page 13