by Mark Anthony
It was Beltan who came up with a way to pass the time until the others returned. “I don’t know much about dolls, Grace. But I do know about fighting. And since we’re going to Toringarth to get you a sword, you should probably learn how to wield one.”
Grace wasn’t certain she liked this idea. Beltan had once showed her how to use her knife to defend herself, but a knife wasn’t all that much bigger than a scalpel. “You lost your sword in the shipwreck,” she said. “It went down with your armor. There’s nothing to practice with.”
“How about this?” Beltan picked up the iron poker that leaned next to the hearth. He hefted it, testing its weight, then gave it a few swings. “This feels about right. The balance is better than some blades I’ve wielded. It’ll do until we can get the real thing.”
Grace stared at the poker. A year earlier, she had used a similar instrument to beat back the feydrim that attacked her and Travis in her chamber in Calavere. The gangly monster had nearly killed them, but together she and Travis had defeated it.
Grace swallowed. Maybe learning to defend yourself isn’t such a bad idea after all, Your Majesty.
She took the poker. “Teach me.”
They started slowly. Beltan showed her a series of positions, standing behind her and moving her arms so she held the poker just so, and using his own feet to push hers into place. Then he stood back and watched as he called the names of the positions, and she assumed each one as quickly as possible. She was pathetic at first; she couldn’t even hold the poker steady. But after an hour, she showed a few faint glimmers of improvement.
Panting, arms and shoulders aching, she sat in a chair and let the poker clatter to the hearth.
“Not bad, Your Majesty,” Beltan said, his face lighting up with a grin. “You’re better than most beginners I’ve seen. It comes naturally to you.”
Grace gave a weak smile. “I suppose it’s in my blood.”
Beltan’s grin faded, and he looked away.
Despite her aches, Grace stood and moved to the knight. “What is it, Beltan? If something’s wrong, you can tell me.”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing, Grace. It’s just that what you said made me think about what’s in my own blood these days.”
Grace understood. In Denver, Duratek had given Beltan a transfusion of the fairy’s blood. It had healed him. And maybe it had changed him as well.
She took his big, rough hands in hers. “You’re still you, Beltan. No matter what they did to you.”
There was sadness in his green eyes, and wonder as well. “I’m not so sure that’s true. I remember what I used to feel like, Grace. And it wasn’t like this.” He moved to the window, gazing at rain outside. “Do you remember how Falken says it’s impossible to tell when the sun sets here for all the clouds?” He turned around. “Well, it’s not impossible for me. I get a sort of tingling feeling up my back, and I know the sun’s just set, no matter how cloudy it is. And I know when it’s risen, and when the moon is showing, and when it’s not.”
Grace stared at him, words eluding her.
“I feel things like that, Grace. And I hear things that I shouldn’t possibly be able to hear. Like the sound of the stars. They have a sound, did you know that? It’s like bits of crystal all clinking together. Only a thousand times that, and so far away I can only hear it if I hold my breath. And the wind—it has a voice, I can hear it, too. But I never know what it’s saying, except that sometimes it’s sleepy, and sometimes it’s sad. And when a storm is coming, it’s excited and maybe even angry.” He passed a hand before his eyes. “And I see things.”
Grace moved a step closer to him. “What sort of things?”
“I’m not sure.” He seemed to be looking past her. “Sometimes, in bright daylight, I’ll glimpse a shadow out of the corner of my eye, only when I turn it’s gone. And then at night, I’ll see a flicker of light, but only for a moment, never long enough for me to be sure it’s really there.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair, and now his eyes did meet hers. “Am I going mad, Grace? Like King Sorrin?”
“No,” she said softly, firmly. “You’re not going mad.”
“But I’m different, aren’t I? The fairy’s blood changed me.” Grace hesitated, then nodded. “You should tell Falken. He might have an idea what it is you’re seeing.”
“I know. But not just yet. I don’t mind your knowing, Grace. I’m glad for it, really. But I don’t think I’m ready for Falken to start poking and prodding me. Not until I get a little more used to feeling like this.”
“I won’t tell anyone. You have my word.”
A hint of the knight’s grin returned. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
She groaned. “If you want to thank me, then don’t call me Your Majesty.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
And then she was hugging him, fiercely, and she was surprised to feel him trembling despite his strength. And she was trembling as well. But then, he wasn’t the only one who had changed.
“We’ll get through this, Beltan. We’ll get through it together. I promise.”
The knight didn’t reply, but she felt the solid beating of his heart, and that was answer enough.
30.
Falken and Vani didn’t return until well after midday.
“Did you find the earl?” Grace said, rising from her seat by the fire. She grimaced as she stood, holding her hip just as she had seen old ladies do when descending a staircase.
Falken cocked his head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, really.” Grace stretched herself tall, forcing the kinks in her legs and back to loosen. “Beltan decided to teach me how to wield a sword, that’s all.”
The bard let out a soft whistle. “You’re letting Beltan teach you how to fight? That’s not a good idea, Grace. That is, not unless you want to end up getting horribly maimed.”
“I’m right here, you know,” Beltan said, glaring down from the bed.
Falken paid the knight no attention. “We didn’t find Elwarrd—I suppose he’s out seeing to his lands again. But we did find the steward, Leweth, and he promised us the earl would be at supper this evening. So it looks like we’ll finally get a chance to beg our leave. And none too soon. I think this rain will be turning to snow before long.”
“Did the steward seem distressed to you?” Vani said, her leather garb creaking faintly as she moved nearer the fire. Grace knew that the Mournish woman—raised in the balmy south—found these northern lands harsh and frigid.
Falken rubbed his chin. “Now that you mention it, he did seem just a bit on the frantic side. I suppose he was just working hard to make sure the lord’s supper would be a fine one. I’m sure the earl and the steward both know we’ll be requesting our leave tonight, and it’s not as if they get many guests to entertain here.”
Vani nodded, but she didn’t say whether she agreed with the bard’s explanation or not.
“Anyway, that wasn’t why we were gone so long,” Falken said, unwrapping the bandages from his silver hand. “We found something interesting. Or Vani found it, anyway.”
The T’gol rested her hands on her hips. “It would have meant nothing were it not for you, Falken.”
Beltan climbed from the bed, and Grace sat down again as the bard and the assassin described what they had seen. The two had gone over every inch of the keep, telling the occasional servant they ran into they were looking for the steward. They would nod and listen as the servant offered directions, then would promptly pretend to get lost again so they could keep exploring. They even peeked into the earl’s solar, behind the great hall, although they had found nothing special within: his bed, a chest for clothes and bedding, that was all.
They were about to give up and return when Falken realized they hadn’t yet been to the mystery shrine. Every keep and castle in the Dominions had a shrine to the lord’s favored mystery cult—even in Embarr, where the mysteries were not so popular as in other Dominions. Vani knew where the shrine was, for she had passed b
y it during her explorations several nights before. The shrine was a square stone structure that jutted from the back of the keep. It contained little more than an altar along with a trapdoor that led to a small family crypt.
“The altar was bare of anything but dust,” Falken said. “There were no figurines, no candles, no cups for wine— nothing that would indicate any of the seven mysteries have been followed here in years. But many Embarrans aren’t religious these days, so that’s not unusual. On the other hand, the secret door opposite the altar most definitely was.”
Grace shot a startled glance at Vani. “But I thought you didn’t see anything unusual the night you went wandering.”
“I didn’t. Though I did have a feeling there was something I was missing. I told Falken about it, and so he took a closer look around the shrine.”
“And it’s no wonder Vani missed the door,” Falken said. He looked at Grace and Beltan. “You see, the door is bound with Alth, the rune of shadow.”
Despite her proximity to the fire, a shiver coursed through Grace. She leaned forward in her chair as the bard spoke in a low voice.
“The art of runebinding was lost centuries ago—at least until Travis Wilder showed up on Eldh—so the door’s obviously ancient. It’s likely no one in the keep even knows it’s there— not even Elwarrd. The rune of shadow makes it completely invisible to the eye. Keen as her senses are, Vani couldn’t see it, although she had the feeling she should see something.”
Beltan gave the bard a critical look. “So how come you could see it, Falken?”
“Because of this.” He raised his silver hand. “It grants me some degree of sensitivity to rune magic. Enough that I felt the presence of the rune of shadow once I stood close to the door. And by concentrating, I was able to glimpse through the veil of shadow and see the door beyond.”
Grace folded her arms, trying to keep warm. “So what do you suppose is beyond the door?”
“It could be almost anything. My guess is that long ago a runebinder dwelled in this keep. Maybe he kept his secret books there. The door is sealed, but only with what looks to be a mundane lock. The rune of shadow conceals its presence, nothing more. If we had the key, we could open the door. But I imagine the key was lost centuries ago.”
The bard’s story fascinated Grace—there was so much history in this world, her knowledge barely scratched the surface—but she knew this was no more than an intriguing aside. The scientist in her longed to open the door and catalog all of the ancient artifacts within. But they had other purposes, and it was time to leave Seawatch.
The afternoon waxed and waned. Grace was just lighting candles against the falling dark when a knock came at the door. Falken and Beltan had returned to their chamber to rest an hour before, and Vani had ventured to the keep’s kitchen in search of more oil for her leathers, which were not quite as supple as the T’gol wished. Grace opened the door, supposing it was a servant come to summon them to dinner.
It was the serving maid, Mirdrid.
“Forgive me, my lady. Is this an ill time?”
Grace had been staring. After all she had been through, sometimes the simplest human actions could still shock her. “Of course not, Mirdrid. Come in. Please.”
The young woman curtsied, then entered. Grace sat by the fire and indicated Mirdrid should do the same.
“Oh! No, my lady, I mustn’t sit. It isn’t proper. I only came to show you this. You said you might wish to see it.” She held out a folded piece of cloth. “It’s the embroidery I’ve been working on.”
Grace smiled, glad the young woman had felt comfortable enough to return. Evidently Grace was good at this whole not-being-terrifying thing. She took the cloth—it was surprisingly large—carefully unfolding it and spreading it on her lap.
The fire on the hearth went dim; her heart froze between beats.
“I made it for my father,” Mirdrid said, her voice seeming to come from down a long corridor. “He’s gone now, you see. It was just three days before you came to the keep. He had been getting sicker and sicker ever since Fallowing. So I started this for him a month ago. I wanted...” She smudged the tears from her eyes with the corner of her dirty apron. “I wanted him to be able to see it. Only I haven’t had enough time, and it’s not finished yet.”
Grace hesitated, loath to touch the thing, then as if compelled by some dark force ran her fingers over the embroidered fabric. The pictures upon it were crude but expressive, rendered in uneven stitches of colored thread.
There were several images, arranged in a circle. Most depicted scenes of domestic life: men harvesting grain, women baking bread, children herding cows with switches. In many of the scenes there was a man with hair as yellow as Mirdrid’s, watching over the task at hand. However, it was the scene in the center of the embroidery to which Grace’s eyes were drawn. It showed the same man with yellow hair, only lying on a bier. Next to the bier was a tree, and perched in the tree was a shape stitched with black thread, like a dark stain on the fabric.
It was a bird.
Grace fought for words. “What is this?”
“It’s a shroud for my father.” Mirdrid knelt, smoothing the wrinkles from the embroidery with gentle motions. “Lord Elwarrd is so kind. He saw to everything himself. He put my father in the crypt, that’s what he told me, right alongside all the lords and ladies of old. Wasn’t that so wonderfully kind? And he said that when I’ve finished this embroidery, I can go there myself and lay it upon him. It’s to help him remember what he did when he was alive. And see? My father’s not alone. He’ll always be watched.”
Grace felt sick. “What do you mean, he’ll be watched?” Mirdrid touched the shape of the bird. “We’re all being watched, all the time. Isn’t that the safest feeling, my lady? I used to be afraid of so many things, of the dark, of dying, but I’m not anymore. The eye watches us, and it makes sure we always do the right things, that we don’t stray from the path before the end comes and—”
“Mirdrid, what are you doing?”
Both Grace and the serving maid started at the sound of the stern voice. They looked up. Leweth stood in the doorway.
Mirdrid rose, snatching the cloth from Grace and wadding it into a tight ball. “I was doing nothing ill. I was just talking to my lady, that’s all.”
“You should be seeing to your chores.”
Mirdrid gave a wordless nod and hurried from the room, not so much as glancing at Grace.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Leweth said, his voice gentle now. “Was my sister bothering you?”
Sister? So Leweth was Mirdrid’s brother. Which meant Mirdrid’s father must have been the old steward. That was why Leweth seemed so young to hold the position; he had inherited it from his father just days before they came to Seawatch.
Grace took a deep breath to make sure her voice would be calm. “No, she was no bother.”
Leweth nodded. “Supper will on the board soon. The lord requests your presence in the great hall immediately.” Then he turned and was gone.
Grace hurried to tell Falken and Beltan it was time for supper, and when they started downstairs Vani was there. Grace wanted to tell them of her odd encounter with Mirdrid, but there was no time. And she wasn’t certain what it meant—if it meant anything at all.
As they entered the great hall, Grace couldn’t help a glance up at the gallery, but it was dark and empty, and she knew if she were to reach out with the Touch she would sense nothing there. Whatever it was she had glimpsed before, it had felt her attention, and now it was wary. If it even existed at all.
It’s probably your nerves, Grace. They’re just frayed after the shipwreck, and then being cooped up in a gloomy castle. No wonder you’re seeing shadows.
All the same, it was hard not to think of the dark bird on Mirdrid’s embroidery, and the words the young woman had spoken.
We’re all being watched, all the time....
“Are you all right, Grace?” Beltan whispered in her ear.
She squ
eezed his hand. I’ll tell you about it later, she spun the words across the Weirding, and by his surprised grunt she knew he had heard her.
As promised, the earl was present, and he stood as they approached the table. Grace felt some of her dread evaporating under the force of his smile. In the days since she had seen him, she had forgotten how handsome he was. He wore a sort of long vest over a loose shirt, breeches that clung tightly to strong legs, and leather boots.
“My lords, my lady,” Elwarrd said, “you must forgive my absence these last days. There has been much to see to. Orders have come from Barrsunder requesting additional tithes of food. It’s been hard to fulfill our duty to our king, and yet make certain we have stores enough for winter.”
Grace saw Beltan and Falken exchange knowing glances. Grace thought she understood. Why would Barrsunder request more food if someone there didn’t know a siege was coming? And depleting the resources of Embarr’s keeps and castles would make them all that much easier to defeat. It seemed the king’s advisors indeed prepared for war—against Embarr itself.
“You needn’t worry, my lord,” Falken said. “We’ve been well attended to, and the rest has done us good. But now that the threat of illness has past, it’s time for us to—”
The earl held up a hand, smiling. “No, my lord, save your requests until supper is finished. These may be the hinterlands of the Dominions, but we do things properly here.”
Falken pressed a hand to his chest and bowed. Grace wondered what the bard was thinking, but if the Touch could be used to read minds, it was a skill she had yet to develop.
They took their places at the table. Once again an empty setting had been arranged to the earl’s left, although this time there was no place at the table for Leweth.
“I’m afraid the steward has duties that cannot wait,” Elwarrd said, “so he’s unable to join us tonight.”
Vani took the place beside Falken, leaving Beltan to serve himself. Once again, it was Grace’s duty to serve the lord. She poured wine and handed him the cup, and when his hand brushed hers it was like an electric charge, shocking her.