A Necklace of Souls

by R. L. Stedman

  ‘A bath will fix it,’ said N’tombe firmly.

  My skin was pale, and the girl in my mirror had blue shadows under her eyes. But worse than my looks or the sickness was a terrible fear for Will. What would happen to him? What if he was attacked again, and I was not there to help?

  ‘Are you in pain?’ N’tombe asked Rosa, jerking me from my reverie, returning me to a fresh worry. How deep was the chest wound? How much longer could my aunt last? True, my concern was partly selfishness. I never wanted to be permanently in this place, but now, staring at Rosa, there was pity also.

  ‘Some,’ she acknowledged, rubbing her chest.

  N’tombe seated herself next to Rosa and held out her hand, palm uppermost. ‘Here,’ she said.

  Rosa placed her hand on N’tombe’s. Black skin, pink skin merged together. I felt a humming sizzle and Rosa straightened. She blinked, and her voice was stronger. ‘You need to be careful,’ she said.

  N’tombe shrugged. ‘It is the least I can do for you.’ She sounded out of breath and her dark face seemed suddenly tired. If I had been able to relax, I was sure I would have seen glowing golden lines passing from my tutor to my aunt. If I could relax. I needed to work on this.

  Rosa smiled at me. ‘Don’t worry, child.’

  N’tombe scowled. ‘Don’t soothe her.’

  ‘And why should I not?’ Rosa said. ‘She’s done very well. Exceptionally well, if you ask me. And not a child for much longer. When do you turn sixteen, Dana?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I said glumly. ‘There’s a ball and everything.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Rosa and smiled. ‘Fireworks. I always enjoy them. Up here, you know, I have such a wonderful view.’

  Everyone loved the fireworks except me. I still hoped that by some miracle tomorrow might not arrive and I would never turn sixteen, never have to wear adult clothes or behave as an adult. A birthday was only a day out of one’s life. Strange, how that one day could change my life completely.

  ‘Tell her about the dream,’ said N’tombe.

  ‘She already knows,’ I said. ‘Don’t you?’

  Rosa nodded. ‘But it’s good to filter it through your perception. What you saw, why you did what you did.’ She looked at N’tombe. ‘That’s the sort of thing one never gathers from watching.’

  N’tombe pursed her lips. But as I recounted what I’d done, what Will had said, her face relaxed and she nodded agreement. I talked about the dream honestly, but kept a few things to myself. Somethings were mine and private. They didn’t need to be shared.

  When I’d finished, Rosa looked at N’tombe. ‘Impressive.’

  N’tombe raised an eyebrow. ‘I find it concerning.’

  ‘Concerning? What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Dana,’ said N’tombe, ‘have you not realized? You have killed men. Not just one man, but many men. And in a dream.’

  ‘But,’ I faltered, ‘it was a dream. It wasn’t real.’

  She shook her head. ‘You dreamt it; that is correct. But it was a true dream. And in those dreams …’

  I finished the sentence for her. ‘What you dream has really happened.’ What had I done? I could kill when asleep. Was I a monster?

  ‘No,’ said Rosa, startling me. ‘You did what you had to do.’ She stared at N’tombe, her face fierce. ‘Don’t you understand? You do what you have to do. As your aunt used her magic to keep you alive, N’tombe. As you did when you left to come here.’

  N’tombe bent her head, assenting, but not agreeing. ‘Once she has the necklace, though …’

  ‘Yes,’ Rosa stared at me. ‘Oh yes, once you have the necklace, Dana, you will be formidable.’

  I didn’t want the necklace; I didn’t want to be formidable. I just wanted to be me.

  Rosa smiled. ‘What we want and what we get are often two very different things.’

  She sounded like my mother. She heard my thought — when would I learn to mind my thinking around her — and smiled again. When she smiled her eyes sparkled, her cheeks lifted; she seemed healthier. ‘Have you had any other dreams of Will?’ she asked.

  I shrugged, about to say no, then remembered. ‘I had one earlier.’ I told them of the first dream, as much as I could recall of it.

  ‘So,’ said Rosa slowly, ‘these dreams of yours are not in real time.’ Catching my blank stare, she added, ‘In your first dream, you say Will seemed unchanged, yet in the second, how did he appear?’

  ‘Older,’ I said.

  ‘And the land? Was it the same in both dreams?’

  I shook my head. ‘Yesterday there were mountains in the distance. Tall, with snow on their tops.’ Not that I’d paid much attention to the scenery. ‘And when I told Will about the Festival he seemed surprised it was so soon.’

  ‘I imagine he would,’ Rosa leant back from the table. ‘You’ve been moving about in time as well as space. You’re dreaming at a different speed to the real world.’

  ‘I can move in time?’ Of course I could; hadn’t I seen Rosa as a girl, accepting the necklace? Still, the concept was disturbing. What if I dreamt of myself as an old woman? What would I see?

  ‘What of this Eternal One?’ said N’tombe. ‘And the warrior who calls himself a merchant?’

  Rosa tapped her finger on the table, thinking. The ruby swayed with her movement. ‘I mustn’t reveal myself,’ she decided. ‘You will have to question him.’

  N’tombe nodded. ‘I have some ideas on that,’ she said softly.

  ‘Mother won’t like this,’ I warned.

  ‘I’m not worried about Cyrilla,’ said Rosa.

  ‘You can’t’ — how to say this? — ‘You can’t trust her. Not when it’s her appearance at stake. You sending soldiers to take that merchant will have upset her. He was her guest.’

  N’tombe shrugged. ‘He’s a prisoner now. We have him under guard.’

  I shook my head. ‘Don’t you realize? Mother is obsessed by status. She will do anything to maintain this. Anything.’ I remembered a conversation: Who do you think pushed the slut?

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said N’tombe, ‘I will question this merchant. While you are at the ball.’

  ‘And I,’ said Rosa, ‘will talk to Leovane. He will explain to Cyrilla.’ She patted my hand. ‘Don’t worry, child.’

  ‘I’m nearly sixteen. Not a child for much longer.’

  The Firelight Festival was a remembrance and retelling of a battle between Lord Macsson and Duke Wilyam. The duke, an illegitimate upstart with dreams of grandeur, had laid siege to the Mount of the Fallen. In those days there had been just the grey tower. No keep, no outer walls, no moat. It must have been a bleak, dark time; somehow, it seemed fitting that the commemoration was full of light and laughter.

  Children recounted the action with nursery rhymes, adults with fireworks.

  Down they came, a fiery rain,

  A tumbling, sizzling shower.

  Soldiers screamed and burnt and ran

  When Wilyam stormed our tower

  The story goes that the invaders were defeated by pitch-smeared barrels. The casks had been set alight and rolled down the mount, falling into the invader’s men and horses. Legend also told that not in a thousand years had the Festival been cancelled due to rain. Still, the week before the Festival, the weather-tellers kept an anxious watch on the colours of the sunset.

  The fireworks were the climax of the Festival. The Fire Master and his apprentice had carefully seeded wooden tubes, packed with explosive powders, across the Castle ramparts. Interlinked by thick strands of string, the gate house roof seemed wrapped in a mat of grey webbing. The walls were off-limits to all save the guardsmen and the Fire Master.

  ‘They do say it will be a grand evening, my lady,’ said Nurse enthusiastically. No-one but she would dress the Crown Princess on this, the eve of her sixteenth birthday, although she did, with a sniff, admit that Ruth could be useful; she could string golden wires through the princess’s hair.

  In fascination and fear, I stared a
t the mirror. Was it enchanted? Gone was the morning’s monster. Here stood a slim young woman, gowned in gold and green. Her hair rippled in waves of fire, lit by strings of gold that shimmered in the candlelight and made it seem alive. I touched my throat and the ghost in the glass moved too. It was me, but not me at all. What would Will think of this? Would he find me beautiful? Or would he laugh? For what is the point of gold wires in one’s hair? And how can one move in linen underskirts and silken brocade?

  ‘Ah,’ said Nurse, stepping into the mirror beside my image. The sight of her plump, linen-wrapped form was comforting. ‘Look at you. All grown up!’ She dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘Step gently, my lady,’ Ruth said. ‘The fabric is fragile and will tear easily.’

  ‘It’s time, Princess,’ said N’tombe.

  I sighed. First, there was to be a state banquet; I was to be the guest of honour. All eyes would be on me. I may be good with a blade but at table I would be fingers and thumbs and spill all that was coloured and certain to stain. Worse than the meal, though, was the ball. I would have to move gracefully in confining (and food-encrusted) skirts and uncomfortable high heels with partners of varying ages, ability and agility. And the other guests would stand around the edge of the dance floor and criticize me in low, whispered tones and I would have to pretend not to hear them.

  The climax of the evening, the fireworks, would be a wondrous relief. If I survived that long. For who would look at a food-spattered, foot-damaged princess when there were rockets like bursting stars?

  The revelry of the last few days had turned the turf of the parade ground to muddy porridge, making it unusable for the working of fire. One needed a firm, level, nonflammable base for fireworks. And so the outer keep’s court yard was the place where the magic was made. I say magic, but really it was the workings of skilled practitioners: jugglers throwing flaming sticks, men carrying tarred barrels, children dragging burning dolls, made in effigy of the long-dead invaders. A spectacle for high and low — of course we had a good view from the balcony but so did the commoners, down among the heat and smoke and echoing drums of the courtyard.

  The meal was as bad as anticipated. Course after course of ornate food: roast deer stuffed with boar stuffed with hare stuffed with mice, who were no doubt stuffed with something smaller — fleas perhaps? So much meat, so many dead animals. The worst thing was the centrepiece: a whole swan which had been roasted and then — horror of horrors — the feathers had been reattached!

  ‘Do I have to eat it?’

  ‘Quiet!’ Mother hissed. ‘The crown on its head is in honour of you. You could at least try to look appreciative.’

  Mother was resplendent in shiny purple satin and a white silk sash over her bodice. Her hair had been elaborately braided, then coiled and pinned at the back of her head. It made her skin seem tight; her face was drawn and pale. Her tiara caught the candlelight and reflected tiny rainbows along the rafters as she turned her head.

  I didn’t want to look at the poor bird, much less eat it, but the servers cut me a portion and Mother stared at me as if daring me to refuse, so I nodded weakly, and tried to look grateful. As if anyone would be grateful to have a portion of swan’s wing placed in front of them.

  The feathers stuck in my teeth and I tried to pick them loose with my fingernail. Owein, seated between Alden and Father, looked over at me and winked. Seated beside me, Alden made kissing faces at one of Mother’s ladies. She blushed and smiled and looked away. Alden was so disgusting! I jerked a feather free from my front teeth.

  Alas, in my haste, I knocked a goblet of red wine into Alden’s lap. He swore, standing hastily as the wine trickled down his leg, leaving a trail of pink.

  ‘Sorry,’ I muttered through a mouthful of feathers.

  ‘You did warn me,’ he said to Mother, patting at his stained white breeches, ‘but I didn’t believe you.’

  ‘Now dear,’ Mother said through a rigidly smiling mouth, ‘quietly, please. We don’t want the guests to notice.’

  This might be a bit optimistic, seated as we were on a raised platform in front of one hundred guests.

  ‘I am sorry, Alden,’ I said, trying to dab the stains with a cloth that, unfortunately, was covered with swan’s grease and feathers, which stuck to his sodden garments. The more I tried to pick the white fluff off, the worse it got, until he looked like a badly plucked chicken. Some of the guests seated at nearby tables rose to their feet to watch.

  Alden batted my hand away. ‘She’s a menace,’ he spluttered to Mother. ‘Sooner she’s locked up in that tower the better.’

  Even stoical Owein gasped and around us the guests fell silent, a pool of quietness that spread in ripples throughout the room, so now everyone was staring at my brother and me, locked into a tableau of anger; him standing above me with his bedraggled breeches, I staring up at him with my table dagger in my hand. It wouldn’t take much to insert this in his eye, I thought.

  Owein, too, seemed to realize that, although at table, I was still armed. And even in this ridiculous dress, with its trailing sleeves and low-cut bodice, I might inflict damage. He coughed, ‘Brother!’

  Alden blinked, looked down at the dagger in my whitening grip and swallowed.

  ‘You’re so clumsy, Alden,’ I said brightly into the watching room. ‘You’d better get changed.’ I looked up at him, smiling as I added clearly, ‘I’m sure you can find a maid to remove your drawers.’

  There was an excited hum from the listening guests and several gentlemen, doubtless aware of Alden’s reputation, choked. My brother flushed as red as his stained breeches and stared at me with angry, hard eyes.

  ‘That’s enough,’ hissed Mother. ‘Alden, go and get changed.’ I smirked at him until she added, ‘Dana, I’ll deal with you later.’

  ‘Well,’ said Owein, dragging me around the dance floor, ‘you sure know how to make friends.’

  ‘I don’t care about Alden.’

  ‘You should,’ Owein’s voice was low but quite clear, even above the wail of the violins. ‘He’ll be the next king. What will you do then?’

  ‘It’s a long time away.’ I shook his shoulders. ‘It was just a little bit of wine on some breeches. Stop worrying. It’s supposed to be my birthday.’

  ‘Ah yes! Sixteen! Happy birthday, sister.’

  The music drew to a close and I curtsied. ‘Thank you, brother.’

  He offered me his arm as we walked from the floor. ‘And are you having a lovely evening?’

  I thought of Alden and his feathered breeches. ‘Not at first,’ I said brightly, ‘but it’s getting better, thank you.’

  I was literally the belle of the ball. A strange thing for someone who dislikes dancing or being the focus of attention. I felt nervous; I might fall over or stand on my partner’s feet, or tear my dress. Or spill more wine.

  The clock ticked away, marking the minutes to the fireworks, and the dancing came to an end. As was traditional, the Concert Master laid aside his baton and turned to the crowded ballroom. The dancers, flushed with heat and wine, stopped.

  ‘Gentlefolk, pray you silence.’ Abruptly, the noisy throng fell silent. The only movement was the fluttering of fans. ‘Tonight, we celebrate a great and glorious victory.’

  ‘Hurrah!’ cried the audience.

  The Concert Master cleared his throat. ‘Tonight, we remember those who prevailed against a mighty enemy.’

  ‘Hurrah!’ we cried again.

  ‘Some of those brave men lost their lives for us. But we follow in their footsteps; we live within those walls they fought so hard to save. We salute their memory.’

  ‘We salute you!’ A cry from all who stood watching.

  ‘And finally,’ he called, in a booming voice that shook the rafters and lifted the trumpet-player’s wig, ‘we celebrate the independence of this, our Kingdom. And, in a double celebration, we commemorate the coming of age of our beautiful princess. Princess Dana!’

  He held out his hand to me. This was not traditiona
l. I wanted to turn and hide myself behind a stone pillar. But Mother put her hand in my back, pushing me forward with stern determination, so I had no choice. I turned and curtsied to the assembled guests.

  ‘Hurrah!’ they cried. ‘Happy birthday, Princess.’ I pinned a smile on my face and curtsied again.

  The man put his hand up for silence. ‘And now, gentles all, attend to the windows and the walls, for the Festival is about to commence.’

  Thank God — a return to tradition. We trooped out onto the balcony, the royal family leading. Father’s crown was askew and Owein seemed relieved to be in the night air, for he eased the high collar of his dress uniform as we passed under the window arch. Alden had not yet returned. Was he still angry? How petty to miss my birthday toast, all because of a droplet of wine and a few feathers.

  The guests followed us onto the balcony like obedient sheep, or stood at windows gazing down at the courtyard. The chandeliers of the ballroom were lowered, their candles snuffed, so a faint smell of candle smoke drifted on the evening breeze. Below us, in the courtyard, the Festival was beginning.

  Part Four

  31

  A City on a Plain

  In troubled times a man with a sword is always in demand. Within a week of the bandit attack, Jed and Will had employment. A scholar, travelling for knowledge, desired protection.

  ‘You mean,’ said Will, ‘he’s travelling because he wants to?’

  ‘What’s so strange about that?’

  ‘It seems odd, that’s all.’

  ‘I enjoy travelling,’ said Jed.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Will. ‘You just haven’t enough coin to stop.’

  ‘True spoken,’ yawned Jed, lying back on his bedroll. ‘Well, he’s a fool, sure enough, but he’s a rich fool.’