“You deserve better, my lady, and it is with no small modesty that I suggest I am that.” He kissed her hand again. “I swear I shall not ask more than you are prepared to give.”
She was too shocked and embarrassed to try to pull her hand free. She had to tell him the truth; she couldn’t put it off for the right time, if there ever was one. If he found out on his own, he would be so humiliated—might be humiliated no matter how she tried to spare his feelings. He was arrogant, and self-absorbed, and didn’t know any more of her than the idealized figure he’d set up as his true love, but he was also sincere and loyal and she wished with all her heart that he’d never come to the Castle, even if it meant never learning Gweron’s secret.
“Tristram, I have to tell you something you’re not going to like,” she said, gently rearranging her hand so she could clasp his. “I—Coren and I—he loves me, Tristram, and I love him. I…admire you so much, and your affection and respect for me—”
Tristram snatched his hand away. “What madness is this?”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you before. I didn’t know what to say. You don’t really know me, Tristram, and—”
“You are the woman of whom I have dreamed my whole life. You belong to me, not to some boorish knave who will not worship at your feet as I will.”
“I don’t belong to anyone,” Ailanthe said, trying to keep her rising anger under control. “That woman, whoever she is, she’s—you told me when you arrive home you’ll be wooed by so many beautiful women, and I’m certain one of them will be perfect for you.”
Tristram stood and shouted, “You are my destiny, my lady, and you will not reject me so out of hand!”
Ailanthe leaped up to face him. “Don’t shout at me, Tristram. I’ve been telling you that I don’t feel anything for you but friendship. It’s not my fault you haven’t been listening.”
He grabbed her arm, and she pulled away from him and stepped out of his reach. “You have a strange way of showing how much you respect me,” she said.
Tristram’s face was twisted with anger. “You have betrayed me,” he said. “I pledged myself to you, and you cast that pledge aside as worthless. I suppose you and that oaf have made sport of me, in private? I cannot bear this humiliation.”
“No, Tristram, we haven’t laughed at you at all. You’ve done so much for me, I can’t tell you how grateful I am. It’s just that I don’t—”
“Spare me your protestations.” Tristram brushed past her. “I cannot bear to look upon you more, faithless creature.” He strode out of the room, striking the wall with his fist as he passed through the doorway. Ailanthe watched him go, not sure whether she was relieved he was gone or afraid he might meet Coren in the hallway.
She sat back down on her chair and shooed Miriethiel away from the chicken carcass, then sent the detritus of the meal away. The bright lights turned the windows into mirrors, and she watched Miriethiel wander away from the table where good smells still lingered and come to sit on her lap.
She petted him and let her mind wander. Tristram would probably leave in the morning. He might even leave that night. Tomorrow she and Coren would resume the search, and as tired as she was, the idea tired her still further. They didn’t even know what they were looking for. The Castle had so many rooms, it could take weeks, and they might not have weeks.
“You look as if you’re asleep with your eyes open,” Coren said, startling her. He rested his hands on her shoulders and squeezed lightly.
“I told Tristram the truth about us.”
His hands went still. “And?”
“He was furious. He thought we’d been mocking him. I’m glad I realized how much more upset he’d be if he found out on his own.”
“Did he leave?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know whether to hope he does or not.”
“He’s been helpful. We wouldn’t have found the study or the lens without him.”
“I know.” She laid her hand atop one of his. “I’m too tired to think about it anymore. Let’s go to bed.”
Coren pulled her to her feet and put his arms around her. “I’m glad neither of us has to sleep alone.”
She laid her hand on his cheek. It was freshly shaved; he’d done that for her, and it made her smile. “Even if all I can do tonight is sleep?”
He squeezed her lightly. “Then I will hold you, and we’ll see what the morning brings.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Tristram was in the window room when Ailanthe entered it the next morning. “Oh!” she said. “I thought…I wondered if you might have left.” Coren had woken her by nuzzling her neck and shoulders, and then he’d moved on to more interesting parts of her body, and now she felt self-conscious, as if their lovemaking were some kind of taunt aimed at the Galendishman, who’d slept alone.
“I have pledged myself to you, and I intend to fulfil my vow to free you from this place,” he said, his words clipped as if he’d bitten each one off and spat it at her. “Though you are faithless, yet I will keep my word.”
Ailanthe was grateful Coren wasn’t there to hear this. “Thank you, Tristram,” she said, deciding to ignore “faithless.” “You really are the most noble person I know.” And the most arrogant, self-centered, narrow-minded…oh, there’s no sense going on like that.
Tristram gave her a nod of the head. “Should I descend to provide us with sustenance, or will you use your magic again? I am quite fond of steak.”
“I’m really sorry, but my people don’t keep cows, so I don’t know what steak looks like. I can do eggs again, or porridge?”
Brief distaste crossed Tristram’s face at the mention of porridge, but he said, “I should like eggs, my lady, if it be not too much trouble.”
She produced eggs for both of them, then, when he arrived, more eggs for Coren, who nodded to Tristram but didn’t say anything. By the way Tristram’s face went white, then red, when he looked at Coren, he was close to challenging Coren to a duel for the hand of the fair maiden, and Ailanthe didn’t like the idea of postponing their search while they worked out their aggression on each other. But he managed to control his anger.
They ate in silence, each facing a different window, and Ailanthe watched two large birds drift high above the desert searching for their own breakfasts. She wanted to go home, true, but now that she’d seen so much of the world through the Castle’s windows, she wanted to see more of it on her terms. That desert, that distant city, the hills of Hespera…would Coren want to travel with her, or would he be unwilling to leave home once he’d regained it?
She glanced at him, staring out over the ocean at a storm coming along the shoreline. What did he think, when he thought about his future? Was she in it? Would he still love her when he was free? She moved her empty plate from her lap to the floor and sighed. Time enough for thoughts of the future when she was certain she had one.
They made a quiet, tense group that day, searching rooms efficiently and almost without speaking. Tristram’s few comments were terse and directed at no one in particular. He wouldn’t look at Ailanthe and couldn’t stop glaring at Coren. Coren pretended not to notice. He spoke to Tristram politely but rarely, innocuous words no one could use to start a fight.
Ailanthe, for her part, said nothing at all. There was nothing for her to say; the shadows stayed at a distance, and she saw nothing that radiated magic the way the diary did. They ate sitting in a pool of light in the hallway, and continued the search until Ailanthe’s arms were shaking from holding the lamp at such an awkward angle and her empty stomach ached.
“We should stop,” she finally said. They had come full circle and reached the stairwell, which spiraled down into darkness. Ailanthe tried to turn the lights on, but weariness defeated her.
“Are you all right?” Coren asked. He took the lamp from her and put his arm around her waist for support. Tristram’s face went grim and he looked away. Ailanthe wanted to smack him.
“Just tired. And frustrated.” She didn’t say anything m
ore, because they were all thinking it: their quest was probably doomed.
“We shall have better luck on the morrow,” Tristram said. He’d stopped saying “my lady” several hours before.
“I hope so,” Ailanthe said. Reluctantly, because she’d been worrying this over in her head for an hour and found no graceful way to say it, she added, “I think maybe you ought to move into our—Coren’s suite, Tristram. We might all be safer close together, and it will be easier for me to keep the shadows away.”
Tristram looked as if he’d been force-fed a clump of manure. “I think not,” he said.
“Then at least let me control the lights in your room. I know you’re not afraid of the Castle, but I’m afraid for you. If it struck you, we wouldn’t even know until it was too late.”
Tristram’s face didn’t change, but he said, “As you wish.”
Ailanthe having altered Tristram’s room, they returned upstairs and ate in silence. Ailanthe found she had no appetite despite her empty stomach, and even broiled salmon seemed like too much effort to eat. She picked at it and fed slivers to Miriethiel, and kicked the lower edge of her chair idly. The moon was still too bright for them to turn off the lights and see the outside world clearly; it would cast too many shadows. If she looked closely, she could see movement in the farthest corner of the room. How frustrated the Castle must be at not being able to reach them. She ate another bite. Tasteless.
Coren had the lens in his hand and was playing with the different settings. “Did you know this one makes the sprites solid green?” he said, holding it to his eye and following a sprite around the room.
“Yes. It’s completely useless. So are most of the other settings I tried. Who knows what Gweron had in mind for it, aside from translating his diary.”
“’Tis pity there be no setting that reveals his location,” Tristram said. “Or this endless search would be over, and the three of us freed to go our separate ways.” His lips thinned as he looked from Ailanthe to Coren as if remembering two of them would probably be going the same way.
Coren pushed more buttons. “It must be strange, Ailanthe, seeing the world the way you do,” he said. “All these lights where magic is. And that diary is blindingly bright.”
“So were a lot of things in Gweron’s study,” Ailanthe said. “For all he talked about how difficult building the Castle was, he certainly threw magic around like it was nothing. The lens itself is as bright as the diary. And you both felt the power that came out of the cabinet. Nothing else in the Castle is nearly so magical.”
“There’s the key,” Coren pointed out.
“True, but—” Ailanthe stopped. She took the key in her hand and rubbed the silver streaks. “It’s as magical as the diary,” she said. “Maybe more so.”
“It does unlock all the doors,” Tristram said. “The Castle cannot prevent it. It must have great power to do so.”
“Great power,” Ailanthe agreed, still unable to take her eyes off it. “Everything else with this kind of power was locked up where the Castle couldn’t touch it. Everything but this.”
“Ailanthe, what are you saying?”
“You said he might have been turned into something,” she said. “Why not this? It would explain why the Castle wouldn’t let me leave with it.”
“But the Castle gave it to you, more or less. Why didn’t it keep the key hidden somewhere? A place this big, no one would ever have found it.”
“I don’t know.” She closed her hand over the key so hard she could feel her blood pulse through her fist. “But what have we been looking for? Something with a lot of magic in it. Something hidden. If this isn’t Gweron, I’ll bet it can at least help us find him.”
“But, my lady, did not you say you cannot work your will upon magical objects?” Tristram had forgotten he was angry with her.
“I can’t make them mine, certainly, but I don’t want Gweron to be mine, I want him to be free. There has to be a way to make that happen.”
“Ailanthe, you’re exhausted. Why don’t we do this in the morning?”
Ailanthe shook her head. “I’m not going to be able to sleep if I don’t at least try right now.” She removed the key from her wrist and held it up to the light, then said, “Could I have that lens, Coren?”
The last door they’d opened had given the key a slender shaft with a single square tooth halfway down it. To her unaided eye, it coruscated with rainbow light. Under the red-tinted lens, that magic showed itself as wriggling lines of white-yellow brightness, spiraling down the shaft and disintegrating only to be replaced by more wriggling lines. The silver streaks pulsed, distorting the yellow lines that passed over them.
Ailanthe put her finger in front of one of the wriggling lines and lifted it up. It stretched, then snapped back to resume its course. She felt nothing when the magic touched her. She never felt anything, touching the key, except its smooth metal; whatever magic was on it, or in it, was buried deep.
“What are you?” she said, and wrapped the question around the key and let it settle among the wriggling lines like a white film. The key shivered, and the lines of light went still. It stretched in her hand, becoming broader and longer, then flat-shafted with a row of jagged pointed teeth like a predator’s mouth, then a fat, hollow cylinder, and then the changes were coming so quickly it seemed the metal had become cold liquid in her hand, shifting from one form to another with no pause in between.
Ailanthe closed her hand on it to keep it from falling, but it struggled against her grasp until it forced her fingers open and fell to the floor, where it bounced once with a dull chime and then rattled with the force of its transformations.
Coren and Tristram drew nearer until all three of them stood in a loose circle about five feet from the key. “What did you do, my lady?” Tristram said.
“It’s in pain,” Ailanthe whispered, ignoring him. The rainbow aura surrounding it was distorted now, stretched far from it until it snapped back and sent out a spray of sparkling dust that glowed more brightly than the key. She reached out to touch it, and Coren took hold of her wrist firmly and said, “Don’t.”
“You can’t see it,” she said, but he shook his head and said, “We can now. All that light stretching away from it—you can see it too, Galendishman?”
“Indeed I can,” Tristram said. “I ask again, my lady, what did you do?”
“I don’t know,” Ailanthe said. She shook off Coren’s grip and knelt beside the key. “You don’t have enough power, do you?” she said. “Whatever it is you’re trying to become, you don’t have the power to do it. I can help you.” She spread her hand, fingers fully extended, above the jittering key, feeling the sprays of magic brush her palm with an exhilarating tingle. “Because you gave me your power.”
She cast about in her mind for an image that would help, but kept returning to memories of her hand on the key, unlocking countless doors and boxes and cabinets. The rush of rose-scented air from the cupboard in Gweron’s den. The sprawling red doors of her tower. Room after room filled with the Castle’s unwanted Things. “You can unlock everything except yourself,” she whispered, and took hold of the key.
Lightning went through her hand and up her arm and spread through her chest. She felt her heart stop, briefly, then begin beating again at a too-rapid pace. She smelled the sharp scent that came after lightning struck one of the grandfather trees, then the acrid smell of the smoke that followed, but both faded quickly, replaced by the sweet, clean smell of roses after rain. Her hand was numb, but when she opened her eyes she could see she still clutched the key in her fingers, and before she could think about how impossible it was, she pictured a keyhole hovering in midair, inserted the key and turned it.
Green light flashed, blinding her. Coren and Tristram cried out from somewhere nearby. Tears streaming from her eyes, she blinked hard to see more than their silhouettes that went from black to inverted white-green when her eyes closed. Coren, shorter than Tristram by an inch or two, and next to them, a th
ird figure, shorter than both, standing with its arms wrapped around its chest and its—his—head bowed.
Ailanthe saw her hand was empty and lowered her arm, rubbing her numb fingers. The green light was fading, but not quickly enough; it cast an appalling glare over all of them, giving Coren’s skin a dull, waxy look and making the much paler Tristram look three days dead. The third man raised his head and looked at Ailanthe. His eyes were colorless in the green light, and his fair hair was as green as the new buds on the mother tree. Arms still crossed over his chest, he looked around the room, his face filled with confusion.
“The Atelier,” he said, sounding aghast. “Rhedyth, why have you brought me here?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ailanthe gaped at him. “You’re Gweron,” she said.
“I am he,” the man said, “but I know not who you are. Nor why Rhedyth swallowed me up near its heart only to spit me out here.”
He looked at his hands as if he’d never seen them before, then touched his face, his throat, and ran his hands down his chest. He wore a brown jacket with full sleeves and a long black skirt whose hem brushed the tops of his bare feet. “I am intact. I thought myself dead when the shadows took me.”
“No, just…transformed,” Ailanthe said. He turned his gaze on her, and she had to stop herself taking a step backward from those intense, colorless eyes. “I’m Ailanthe,” she continued, “and this is Coren, and Tristram. We’ve been looking for you.”
Gweron turned to examine Coren and Tristram, then turned his attention back to Ailanthe. “You have my power,” he said. “I had thought myself alone in the world. How is this possible?”
“I had—when you were transformed, you—some of your power came to me,” Ailanthe stammered. Now that the light had mostly faded, she could see his eyes were actually a very pale blue. He was somewhat older than Coren, but still extremely attractive; it was disconcerting, since Ailanthe had pictured him as a white-bearded man, lean and sinewy and wrinkled. He strode to the window, moving with the assurance of someone who’d never feared anything in his life.
The View From Castle Always Page 20