by F. E. Greene
Arms crossed, Pearl called after him. “You’d rather mend fences than help me?”
He opened the door and halted beneath its frame. “How do you know those aren’t the same thing?” Pausing briefly, he grinned. “You see? I can be poetical, too.”
Chapter Fifteen
Left alone, Pearl peered into the disorienting coil of stairs. The tower lacked railings, and in place of a newel, a coarse woven rope flowed like a taut artery toward a pinprick of sunlight. Another sign reaffirmed what Pearl already concluded.
DARK AND DIFFICULT STEPS
Pearl couldn’t fathom why anyone would climb a tower filled with dark and difficult steps. But Owyn expected her to do so. Alone.
“Lean into the wall!” From high above a voice bounced toward her.
“Shouldn’t I hold onto the rope?” she called back.
“Not unless you want to slide down.”
Reluctantly Pearl set one foot on the lowest step.
“And don’t hurry,” the voice added.
Pearl didn’t. With her palms pressed firmly against the wall, she took each stair as if it lived independent of the others. She kept her eyes on her feet even though she ached to grasp the rope. The width of the stairs was stingy and inconsistent while their combined height seemed immense.
As the climb began to feel endless, Pearl battled the urge to measure her progress by glancing down. If she lost her footing, the rope wouldn’t save her. Lunging for it might send her down the tower’s throat, and she wouldn’t stop falling at the ground floor. Any descent would take her into the abasement.
“You’re more than halfway.” Unlike Owyn’s teasing baritone, the voice coached her with a smooth, soothing tenor.
When fresh air caressed her face, Pearl forgot to be cautious. In a rush she tackled the last ten steps, half crawling to keep her balance, and at the final stair, a hand appeared. Gripping it with both of her own, Pearl let it hoist her indelicately onto the tower’s roof. Heart pounding, she wheezed like an overworked plowhorse.
The owner of the hand and the voice was wholly different from Owyn. No taller than Pearl, his build was slight, his skin ripened by the sun. Pale hair encircled the crown of his head. He wore no vestment or sash or anything to indicate his anchorland, and his blue slacks were a well-worn canvas. He seemed as agile and casual as Owyn was formal and firm.
He offered Pearl a cup of water, then guided her to a crooked bench that wobbled when she sat. Still standing, he greeted her in the Rosperian way.
“It’s nice to see you,” he said. “Not many people scale the broch.”
“I can understand why,” she replied between gulps.
Jeron chuckled. “It’s quite a climb, but that isn’t the reason. It’s because most people don’t see the castle. Each midsummer everyone living here climbs this tower. We have a contest to see how many kingsfolk we can pack onto this roof. Last time we managed forty-two.”
Pearl wasn’t convinced. The roof was roomier than she expected, but it didn’t seem large enough to accommodate more bodies than the Castlevale schoolhouse. She couldn’t decide if a contest would make the ascent less distressing. Certainly it would be no safer.
“Even the children climb up here?” she asked. “And the elderfolk?”
“We don’t all climb alone,” he replied. “I appreciate that you did. I usually have meetings in my office, but it’s too nice a day to stay indoors.”
With that, Pearl agreed. It was a glorious day. Shutting her eyes, she savored the warmth of the sun and the scents on the wind. For the first time since waking, Pearl began to relax – until a piercing squeal sliced the air.
She shot up from the bench and rushed to the tower’s northern rim. “What on earth was that?”
“Sounded like one of the children.” Less urgently Jeron joined her. “Probably playing a game in the garden. They’ll settle down when lunch is served. It’s hard to shout through a mouthful of sandwich.”
Hoping he was right, Pearl gazed between the tower’s crenellations. From that height, the keep wasn’t so imposing, and the courtyard looked like a green tablecloth trimmed with silver fringe. Even the king’s hall couldn’t compete with the broch’s elevation.
Pearl found herself enjoying the view until the horizon swirled like water in a washbowl. Her heart sprinted while her head spun. She gripped the nearest crenellation as if it might tumble free – and take her with it.
“Why not start simply?” Jeron suggested. “Look out instead of down.”
It was good advice. Stepping back, Pearl focused on the horizon. Beyond the keep sat the outer wall and the hidden bridge and then Castlevale. Pearl could see the market arch, the campanile, and even the schoolhouse roof. People worked. Livestock grazed. The lumber mill coughed sawdust. All of the vale resembled a carved and painted miniature, one recreated in precise and enchanting detail.
West of the castle, not far from her old doorstep, was the lake where nobody swam. Ringed by willowy reeds, its smooth waters lapped at a pebbled shore where flat-topped boulders softened by moss appeared ideal for lounging.
Despite its inviting shallows, the lake’s center was indiscernible. Cobalt water exposed its depths, and Pearl wondered if it had once been something else – quarry or a mine. Both were uncommon in Rosper, but the lake seemed uncommon, too.
“Does that lake have a name?” Pearl asked.
“A few,” Jeron said. “We call it the mere.”
Inching closer to the edge, Pearl noticed a third gate disrupting the castle pale. Made of iron, the gate’s pointed arch sheltered a flight of stairs. Brightly painted boats were moored nearby, with oars piled inside their hulls. If there was anything to fear from the lake, the kingsfolk didn’t seem to know it.
Beyond the lake, nestled between knolls, Hollycopse sat vacant. The horses grazed in their usual places, and the shed door was propped open which meant Ned was fiddling with the reaper. It was the first day of autumn, and life at Hollycopse continued.
Soon a new family would fill its rooms with foreign belongings while – as Hieronymus had promised – no one would remember its previous tenant. Or even bother to try.
When Jeron asked if Owyn had finished the tour, Pearl shook her head, unable to look away from the farm where she no longer lived.
“Let me show you the south grounds.” He crossed the roof and waited for her to join him.
At that moment few things could have freed Pearl from her grief. To see Hollycopse again dispelled the diversions of the last few bells. Pearl had spent them in a welcome fog, letting the castle and its residents distract her like a rousing theatrical or a cherished book.
But her former life hadn’t vanished when the castle appeared. She was still a dispossessed orphan. She had failed to rescue her home or herself. With her gaze fixed on her unusual shoes, she despondently crossed the roof.
“Look ahead,” Jeron coached. “See what else is there.”
When Pearl raised her eyes, she forgot to feel defeated.
South of the tower, a primitive woodland flourished. What thrived behind the castle could make a poor man richer than a dozen cunning bankers, but it lacked any hints of cultivation. No girdles cinched the boles of older trees. No pollards sacrificed their branches to spur new growth.
In Rosper a forest was a prime source of fortune, and while a scant copse might sit idle, a thicket of any potential worth would never be allowed to grow wild. Despite that, the castle’s backwoods lived untouched.
“Does it have a name?” Pearl asked.
“Probably. We call it the forchard.”
As she stared, Pearl heard its arboreal chorus – layers of birdsong and applauding leaves, bantering squirrels and the tumble of fir cones. Like anyone raised in the Great Vales, she knew the sylvan language. Its acclamations and its comforts. Its pleasures and its threats.
But this forest conversed differently. A dense canopy hid whatever lived among its trunks, and all Pearl wanted was to explore the forchard’s
depths.
At the same time, a new fear stirred inside her – fear of losing herself in an uncultured wood and of never being found.
“Is anyone allowed back there?” she asked.
“Everyone,” Jeron said. “It’s where the king spends most of his time when he’s not traveling.”
“How can a forest like this go unnoticed?”
He took awhile to reply. “Some places you can’t see from the outside. You have to get at them from within.”
“But it’s enormous. I’ve walked the Barrowfield Road dozens of times. Why didn’t I see it?”
“You see it now,” he reminded her.
The campanile began pealing in a steady progression. Its chimes were louder than Pearl expected. “So we hear the town, but it can’t hear us?”
“Hear it, see it, smell it.” Jeron let a long pause linger between them as if he waited for her next question. Then he gestured at the wooden bench. “Have a seat, Pearl. Tell me about yourself.”
Without really wanting to, Pearl did. She talked first about the farm and her arrangement with Ned. Next she described the schoolhouse and its children.
Soon it felt good to tell Jeron everything about Hieronymus and Mis Ruel and the lien on Hollycopse. Pearl shared each event of the previous day – even the embarrassing bits. Eventually she reached the part of the story where she left the festival.
“I can’t explain what happened next. If I weren’t standing here with you, I would think I had dreamt it. And if you tell me I did, I’ll believe you.”
Jeron’s expression barely shifted as he listened to Pearl. His attention was as honed as Owyn’s was harried. “You haven’t mentioned your parents.”
“There’s nothing to say. They left five years ago. They’re no longer a part of my life.”
“Oh.” The word opened another long pause. “If you hadn’t seen the castle, what would you have done?”
As she considered it, Pearl’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know.”
Jeron set a hand on her shoulder. “That’s all right because it doesn’t matter. You’re here, and it’s time for your next meeting.” As if to reinforce his point, Castlevale’s campanile issued the first of fifteen rings.
“Where am I going?”
“With Carys and Varrick.”
Inadvertently Pearl tensed. “The man with the scar?”
“Yes.” Jeron moved to the trap in the floor. “Varrick is our retriever. He protects people when they first see the castle. He also patrols, mostly at night, and checks on the king’s wayfairers.”
“But he’s from Orld.”
“He is.” Sitting, Jeron tucked his legs into the hole. “Does that matter?”
Pearl wished it didn’t. “I grew up hearing stories.”
“Everyone does. Many of them are true.” Jeron shielded his eyes from the sun. “Did Varrick do something unkind last night? Threaten you or hurt you?”
She rushed to answer. “No, no. He saved my life. He was very kind. And he’s not so frightening when he smiles.”
Jeron looked as if he didn’t believe Pearl – who was exaggerating. But she didn’t want to cast doubts on anyone in the castle, least of all the Orldic soldier who rescued her. Even so, a bold question escaped her lips before she could stop it.
“How did he get that scar?”
“You should ask Varrick,” Jeron suggested. “It’s his story to tell.”
With no intention of doing so, Pearl nodded politely. “Will I have a job in the castle?”
“That’s for the king to decide. It’s different for everyone.” He pointed into the dimness. “Should I go first?”
It was a simple question, but Pearl couldn’t find an easy answer. Some part of her wanted to stay on the broch where she felt safe even with its vertiginous heights. Another part of her dreaded the climb back down. This time, however, she knew what to expect, and she wouldn’t go alone.
Rising, Pearl gathered what courage she had. With a nod and a sigh, she followed after Jeron.
Chapter Sixteen
When the soles of her sandals touched the ground floor, Pearl issued another, more satisfied sigh.
The night before, she’d been warned it would be a full day. When Carys had said it, Pearl assumed that fullness was related to Hollycopse – collecting her things, hauling them to the castle, getting settled and then sorted with assignments and rules.
In the midst of that activity, Pearl would meet the king. Despite her best efforts, she would seem awkward, and the king would excuse her inelegance. Time would pass. Pearl would adapt. She imagined herself living not so differently – just more easily – among people who cared for her while she did what she could to care for them.
Gone would be the pettiness and greed of Castlevale, its social demands and double standards. Instead, Pearl would live contentedly within the castle, watching and wishing for her parents to return.
So far none of her assumptions were correct. No one seemed the least bit concerned with what she’d lost. Politely they listened, but they did not leap into action on her behalf.
When Pearl shuffled into the sunlit oriel, Carys greeted her with a brief nod. The Illiate woman stood with Jeron near the western corridor. She still wore trousers but carried no weapons, just a basket of sandwiches wrapped in a red checkered cloth. Without the cover of an archer’s glove, her branded palm was free to be seen.
“So you actually made Pearl climb the broch?” Carys asked Jeron. “On her first day?”
“She did great,” he said. “Never fell once.”
Carys made a face. “You only fall once.
Agreeing, Jeron accepted the basket and started toward his apartment.
Silently Pearl wished he would stay. He was the first comforting person she’d met in the castle. The rest were likable, but none consoled her like he did. Jeron seemed motionless even when he was moving, and his tranquility put her at ease.
A sharp cough reminded Pearl of who didn’t.
Half masked by shadows, Varrick loitered next to the oriel door. Arms folded, he looked both impatient and bored.
He still wore the extraordinary weapon which he’d used to rescue Pearl the night before. It hung from a loop on a stocky belt sitting just beneath his vest. His shirt was sleek and clinging, his trousers straight and plain. Neither his clothes nor his thick-soled boots appeared made by hand, and everything down to the last stitch was black.
“Where are we going now?” Pearl asked, struggling to sound more composed than she felt.
“Level ground,” Carys said. “It’s time for you to meet the king.”
Pearl checked the state of her dress. “Do I look presentable?”
The retriever coughed again.
“You look fine,” Carys replied. With a sidelong glare at Varrick, she ushered Pearl into the courtyard.
To Pearl’s amazement, Varrick stayed a stride behind as they marched down a rolling slope to the path that split the inner grounds. Orldic women, she’d been told, always followed the men who owned them – typically by ten paces and often on chains. But Carys wasn’t from Orld, and neither was she.
Reaching the path, they all veered right. While the northern gate that faced Castlevale was intact, if not lavish, the southern gate scarcely served its purpose. Its sparse iron lattice, bent and rusted in parts, hung from one leaning beam unattached to the wall. A workhorse could pull it down with a tug. A child could squeeze between its rails.
“This is the south gate, back gate, lame gate – we have lots of names for it,” Carys said as they passed through. “If you keep straight on this trail, you’ll reach a stepladder and then a byroad. Take the road to the Barrowfield fork, head left, and you’re in back Castlevale. But that route is only for leaving, not entering. It can’t be seen from outside.”
“Like the forchard,” Pearl murmured. “How’s that possible?”
Carys shrugged. “Bit of a riddle.”
Pearl slowed to peek over the eastern wall. I
t faced the loward where the poorest folk lived in the shoddiest houses. At the base of the great hill, carters traveled to and from Barrowfield along a broad road. Wagon wheels kicked up dust and creaked beneath the weight of carved goods or raw logs. Pearl saw and heard and smelled their evidence, but the carters did not notice her. Marveling, she almost stopped.
“I thought I’d be moving there today,” she shared.
Carys brushed the wall with her hand as she walked. “You wouldn’t have gone traveling?”
“I considered it. But I don’t know the first thing about other towns.”
“A town is a town is a town. You don’t have any family?”
“Second.” Abruptly Varrick loomed beside them. “Stay the course.”
Carys acquiesced with a glower as she reclaimed the lead. After climbing down a set of timber steps built into the sod, they set out across an expansive fosse.
Farther west, the outer wall dammed the lake – the mere, Jeron called it – to keep the fosse and the forchard from flooding. Fieldgrass grew in messy patches along a footpath maintained by its traffic.
As they paraded across the soppy ground, Pearl wondered how often her escorts fought. Their rapport reminded her of the years she’d spent bickering with Hieronymus. It was more a clash of intentions than manners since Hieronymus could seem charming and Pearl was raised to be polite.
When they reached the forchard, Pearl’s anxiety doubled. Admiring it from above was different than standing beside it. Briers, vines, and branches wove an impenetrable hedge, one that stretched the whole width of the woods. Squirrels catapulted over the canopy. Birds dug through the brush. Those signs of life reassured Pearl, and without them, she might have asked to go back.
At a central point, the hedge parted. Its arched opening, neither wide nor tall, made Pearl feel less than welcome. A pair of boundary stones flanked the constrictive space, and Pearl thought she recognized the gliph chiseled on their skins, but its translation escaped her.
She did recall, with unfortunate clarity, every ghastly tale and hideous myth about evil things lurking in unbridled woods. To Rosperians an untamed forest was a dangerous place.