Roses

  She swallowed hard. “I have dreamt it.”

  “Dreams don’t mean yur—”

  “I have dreamt it many times.”

  “Beauty . . .”

  “I must tell you! It is getting stronger—first it was dreams, and then visions, but I know that it is growing. Do you see what I mean? I am—”

  “No!”

  The palomino mare shied away as Owaine grabbed her hand. Sensing his mistress’s distress, Champ whinnied and trotted over, his tail high.

  “Yur mustn’t say it, Beauty, it’s too dangerous.”

  “But—”

  “One day I’ll not be able to protect yur, but till then I’ll always do my best to keep yur safe. I brought yur here, but I don’t know if that’ll be enough.”

  “So, you always knew?”

  He reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

  “Ain’t every day yur see a child with violet eyes.”

  She squeezed his hand back.

  “I always wish to obey you,” she said. “But I cannot stay in this valley, and I am safe with Champ. Please trust me.”

  Owaine nodded and tried to push away the large head that was coming between them, nudging for affection.

  “All right, yur daft beast,” he muttered. “Yur best take care of my Beauty.”

  Champ snorted.

  “He will, I promise.”

  It was a dream that she had had many times before. The rose began hard and golden like the engraving on her amulet, and then it melted. Its petals burned scarlet red and they shivered and curled as though it were a beating heart. Its head was full and heavy, bent slightly on a slim green stem with purple thorns, and it seemed dark and dangerous. She saw it always on its own, with nothing surrounding it but blackness, and she did not know what it meant.

  She woke suddenly to the roar of a beast. Sitting bolt upright on her bedroll, she panted into the spring air and felt droplets of sweat trickle down her spine. The amulet above her head was swinging slowly from side to side. Since her first night in Imwane she had not removed it from its place on the rusty nail. She sensed that it made her dreams stronger—these strange dreams that had visited her since she could remember.

  She reached up and touched the amulet. Her ears still rang with the rumble of a howl and her body was trembling.

  “It is a deal,” she whispered, although she did not know to whom.

  She took her cloak, wrapped it around her, and then she quietly climbed down from the attic and slipped out of the cottage.

  Outside, the sun was just appearing over the swelling land and the valley was dim and cold. Taking in a deep lungful of moist air, Beauty tried to calm herself. No dream had ever troubled her as much as this one.

  She felt warm breath on her shoulders and a muzzle nudged her back.

  “Morning, Champ.”

  He rubbed his face against her and sniffed at her pockets. He had grown even taller lately and the villagers were muttering about his pedigree. There were rumors that he was descended from the great warhorses of ancient times, when the gods first created all and placed fantastical beings in the Hillands to run to the four corners of the realm as they pleased. He was an unusually handsome creature with a shinning conker-bay coat and dark mane and tail, but Beauty thought that there was nothing mythical about a horse that would still try to steal an apple from your hands as you ate it.

  “What yur doing, Beauty?”

  She turned to see Owaine standing in the doorway, rubbing his chin.

  “I woke early.”

  “Yur all right?”

  “Yes, but . . . Owaine, are their any roses in the Hillands?”

  “I ain’t never seen a rose except on Ma Dane’s amulet. They’re not a Pervoroccian flower, I don’t think. I remember Ma tried to get them shipped to her once, but they died on the travels. Why’d yur ask?”

  “I had a dream.”

  Owaine swallowed. “I see. Well, yur best come in and have some porridge. I’m hoping we’ll back that young gray mare today. She’s of a feisty temper.”

  Beauty nodded. “I will come for breakfast in a moment.”

  Owaine disappeared into the cottage, and Beauty was alone once more.

  Champ turned his head and pricked his ears. Following his gaze, Beauty saw the dark forest. No one in Imwane walked closer to it than where the cottage stood, as if it were an unspoken law. There was plenty of game in its dark depths and a few times, when she had stopped to look at it, Beauty had been sure that she had seen movement in its trees. There must be many horses in there, too, but no rustlers would so much as enter its fringes.

  She felt the forest’s presence always, like a shadow in the corner of her eye.

  Champ sighed.

  “You feel it too, boy?” she whispered, placing her palm on his broad chest. “It’s waiting for us, but I do not understand why.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Matchmaker

  As seasons came and went, Beauty dreamt of the rose more and often. Some nights, when she closed her eyes she could see nothing but its full, scarlet petals; often she awoke with a sweet, heady scent in the air, and always her amulet would be swinging above her like a metronome counting time.

  She found herself looking for roses whenever she could. When work was done and she had eaten dinner with Owaine and Isole, she would scramble onto Champ’s back and they would ride about the hills together, searching. Each day they traveled a little farther, exploring more of the green, lush land. They discovered nearby villages and new waterfalls and mountains. There were hillsides of daisies, buttercups, heather, and in the spring, bluebells and snowdrops, but they never found any roses.

  “May I finish early this evening, Owaine?” she asked one summer’s day. “I would like to train Champ.”

  Owaine was suspicious of her request, but he did not like to ask too much of his silver daughter. Besides, she was becoming better and better at training the wild horses they received and this autumn, they would enter town with a whole herd to sell.

  “If yur wish it, but yur must be back by nightfall.”

  “I will.”

  Later that day, Beauty left the men working in the valley and whistled for Champ to follow her to the temple. When they both stood outside its golden doors, Beauty climbed on a rock and scrambled onto Champ’s tall back.

  Though it was summertime, there was the usual drizzle dampening the Hilland air. It made a series of rainbows that burst over the horizon in thick arches and crowded the sky with colors. A thrill in her chest, Beauty gently pressed her heels into Champ’s sides and they trotted away.

  Beauty had once asked Owaine what came after the Hillands and he had just stared blankly at her.

  “The hills be in the far western corner of the realm, Beauty. Yur knows that.”

  “But there must be something at the end of them,” she had persisted.

  He had scratched his head. “I don’t know. The sea, I suppose.”

  But she wanted to know definitely and she was going to find out.

  Beauty urged Champ into a canter and then a full gallop. They began on a track they had followed before, rushing past a waterfall and a wide, flowing river, before skirting the edge of a nearby village and racing on over the hills. The farther they traveled, the faster Champ galloped.

  When they had been riding for a full hour without pausing, Beauty slowed him to a walk, noticing that he was not even panting or sighing.

  “You all right, boy?” she whispered, pressing her palm to his neck.

  He had not worked up a sweat, but then neither had she. Beauty felt enlivened and excited. No other Hillander had tried to travel to the edge of the hills before and she did not know what she would find.

  Beauty nudged Champ on and they galloped over the rocky green hills once more, moving ever faster than before. The wind rushed through her white hair and smarted her violet eyes so that they glistened. Champ’s mane and tail rippled like ribbons, and his hooves barely made a sound on the dam
p turf.

  Hill folk in the valleys paused in their afternoon work and looked up to see a shadow flying across the land above them. They blinked, not trusting what they had seen, for they thought that it was a silver girl astride a warhorse.

  Beauty and Champ galloped on. She hugged her silver legs around his broad, bay sides and buried her hands in his black mane. They hurried on and the land grew rockier and the lush green growth turned to scrub. Then before them, Beauty caught sight of a thick, blue horizon. She tugged on Champ’s mane and he gradually slowed his pace. He jogged up a steep hill covered with blue slate and then skidded to a halt.

  They stood on the tip of a cliff before a dark sea. The cliff was white and chalky and it made the water appear that much darker. There was a strong, salty breeze that blew tendrils of Beauty’s long white hair from her back and brought chilly bumps to her arms. It was not like the sea of Sago, which was calm and sleepy. The heavy crash of the waves here was wild and ominous, and it stretched for as far as the eye could see.

  Beauty felt faintly disappointed.

  “We will follow the cliffs around,” she said, and Champ flicked his ears. “I want to see if there is anything more.”

  She turned the horse and they galloped along the cliff’s edge, a chalky spray rising from Champ’s hooves. They moved faster than she thought possible, outlining the Hillands like a silver line as the sun slowly sank from the sky and disappeared.

  Beauty and Champ galloped all the way across the coast of the Hillands, but they saw nothing and no one except the blue choppy sea. When the stars began to glow in the sky, they turned for home, arriving at Imwane in the early morning hours.

  It should have taken a moon-cycle to cross the Hillands, yet Beauty and Champ had ridden it in a night.

  Two days later, Duna knocked on the door of the cottage to say that the matchmaker was coming. Beauty had seen the matchmaker a handful of times before. Though she spent most of her time in the next valley training horses, it was difficult not to notice him as he paraded about the village demanding favors of the people. He traveled the hills from village to village in the summertime, matching couples, and women would primp and fawn over him, hopeful that he would find their daughters suitable husbands.

  “I just thought yur should like to know,” finished Duna, winking at Isole. “We all be very excited when the matchmaker calls.”

  Isole gave a delighted, hopeful smile, and Owaine blushed. He was well aware that his daughter was too old to be matched with anyone, but she was ever optimistic and would giggle like a silly Hill girl whenever the matchmaker was around. In the messages he had sent home while in Sago, he had never urged her to marry and now he regretted it. Hally and Duna, although good to her, had indulged Isole like a child long after she had stopped being one, and they had failed to think of offering her name to the matchmaker. Now he knew it was too late.

  “I thought yur could invite the matchmaker to sup here, Owaine,” added Duna.

  “Here?”

  “Yes ’em,” she said with a forceful smile. “Then he can’t overlook no one.”

  “Oh, Papa, yes!” cried Isole. “We must have him here, and I’ll cook him a dinner like no other!”

  “If yur wishes it, my child.”

  “I do! I do!”

  Duna and Isole began chattering about suitable dishes and Owaine turned to Beauty who was cleaning his saddle by the fire.

  “I’ll give yur the day off when the matchmaker comes, Beauty.”

  She paused and both Duna and Isole fell quiet.

  “Whatever for?” she asked with a frown.

  “So’s yur can meet him proper.”

  “No one’ll want her!” scoffed Isole. “She works like a man and—”

  “Enough!” snapped Owaine.

  Beauty stared ahead and her lip curled a little.

  “Is the thought so terrible?” laughed Owaine when he saw her face, but she did not reply.

  “I suggested the idea so Isole could impress him,” began Duna. “When he sees her fine cooking he won’t—”

  “He can consider both my daughters, seeing as he be in my home.”

  Duna bit her lip and Beauty shivered.

  When the afternoon came to prepare the meal for the matchmaker, Beauty was even less enthusiastic. Isole was determined to impress him with her cooking skills and nothing Beauty could do to help was good enough. Isole yelled and shouted all afternoon, and Beauty remained oddly compliant. She received criticism for an unsatisfactory short crust pastry with her head bowed meekly and her hands clasped in her lap.

  When the matchmaker entered the cottage that evening, Beauty was as pale as silver snow. Isole had laid out a truly spectacular feast with an army of pies and dripping beef and steaming broth that could have fed the whole village twice over. The potent scent of the food made Beauty feel nauseated, but it had the desired effect on the matchmaker, who rubbed his barrel belly in anticipation and smiled broadly.

  “This be a Hill woman that can cook,” he said, taking off his crushed leather hat to reveal a mop of brown hair.

  “That be all me!” squealed Isole, helping him off with his cloak. “I loves to cook.”

  In his shirt and slacks, the matchmaker looked fatter than it seemed possible a man could be. Beauty had seen him every summer season, of course, but always at a distance and never with a thought that she would ever be under his assessing eye.

  “I assume yur are the Hill woman I am considering today?”

  “Yes ’em, I be Isole—”

  “And Beauty.”

  Owaine gestured to the silvery woman hiding in a corner and the matchmaker turned.

  “My, my, I’d heard the rumors, but I’d never seen it with my own eyes.”

  Beauty nodded a welcome to him and placed her left hand to her chest.

  “Sit down,” said Isole quickly. “Try some salt bread, it be my specialty.”

  The family sat at the table and made the sign of the gods before they began digging into the food.

  “What’re the matches like this season?” asked Owaine.

  The matchmaker crammed in great mouthfuls of beef. “It be good. There’re more than usual.”

  “Have some more pie,” said Isole, loading a second colossal helping onto his plate.

  “Oh, I thank yur, woman.”

  Beauty picked and pushed her food about her plate.

  “Be that a crumble I spot for dessert?” asked the matchmaker after a loud belch. He had somehow managed to devour most of the food laid before him.

  Isole nodded and hurriedly filled up his mug of ale. “And a trifle and sugared custard.”

  The matchmaker licked his slack lips and Owaine looked worried. This meal had cost him sticks, and though they were making more than ever before, he did not wish to needlessly waste them.

  Beauty declined a dessert.

  “This be superb,” announced the matchmaker after his third helping of crumble. “Do yur have more sugared custard?”

  “Of course!” said Isole.

  The meal finally came to an end, and Isole swept away the mountain of plates and bowls. Beauty was sure that she would have to clean them later.

  “I wonder . . .” muttered Isole, coming to sit nervously back at the table.

  The matchmaker raised an eyebrow.

  “Yur wonder?” he asked.

  Owaine prayed that his daughter would not be disgraced by her question.

  “Yes ’em, I wonder if yur . . .”

  “Yur wonder if I can find yur a match? Well, Isole, yur cooking has swayed me, and I happen to have the right Hill man. He be a widower in a village northwest called Dousal, would yur take him?”

  Isole gasped and Owaine smiled in amazed relief.

  “He has two children, but they be young and well behaved,” added the matchmaker.

  But Isole seemed barely to hear him; she looked absolutely delighted.

  “I’ll take him,” she cried, her cheeks flushed.

 
“Would yur wish for me to arrange a meet?”

  “No, I’ll take him!” She clapped her hands.

  “I’m happy to settle it then. And for yur other daughter, I’ve many matches to choose.”

  Beauty jumped and Isole’s smile fell from her face.

  “For Beauty?” asked Owaine.

  “Yes ’em. A young, pretty Hill woman is easy to match but a beautiful one is easier. Begging yur pardon, Isole, what be yur young sister’s name?”

  Owaine and Isole both turned to look at Beauty, and they no longer saw a peculiar, frightening child, but a radiant, graceful woman. Her violet eyes were like two jewels placed in a pearly soft face. Her long white hair hung in a shimmering sheet to her waist, and though her baggy, poorly made clothes tried, they could not conceal her fine figure.

  “No, yur don’t understand,” said Isole. “She be strange.”

  “Some men are collectors,” replied the matchmaker. “She be a prize.”

  Owaine saw Beauty’s deep shudder and he said, “There be no matches for Beauty.” He had wanted both his daughters to be treated equally, but if Beauty did not wish it, he would not make her marry.

  She looked at him gratefully.

  “Ah, Beauty,” said the matchmaker. “That be a fitting name.”

  “I said there be no matches for her. Yur found my Isole happiness and I thank yur kindly for it, but none needed for Beauty.”

  “Yur sure? She be such a fine match . . .”

  “I said none.”

  The matchmaker stared into Beauty’s amethyst eyes. “So be it,” he said.

  He left that evening, agreeing to arrange the marriage of Isole and the widower from Dousal, but he also spread the tale of Beauty throughout the hills. And all the Hilland villages and all the nearest towns had soon heard of a beautiful silver woman that lived in Imwane.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Woman with Amethyst Eyes

  Isole’s marriage happened quickly. Though she would never admit it, Isole knew that she was old and she wished to have the greatest chance of conceiving a child. She and her match, Manwelly, were wed on the last day of summer in the temple in Dousal, and Owaine forked out enough sticks to ensure that his daughter had the wedding of her dreams. She must have been the only Hilland bride to ever wear so many ribbons in her hair.