“Aunt Weaver, you have a guest,” Telaine called out, and led Alison out of the kitchen and down a short hall into the great central room of the house. A young woman and a slightly younger man sat at spinning wheels; the young man turned to see who’d entered and let go the puffy wool in his hand, which the wheel, spinning on its own, swallowed up. An enormous loom filled the back of the room, clattering away, but its movement slowed and then came to a halt as the woman behind it let her hands and feet fall idle. Alison felt as if she’d sprouted roots that went through the floorboards into the earth and kept her from moving, kept her from falling, as the weaver left the loom and came to greet her.
Sweet heaven, she looked just the same. Older, maybe—she appeared to be in her mid-thirties—but the eyes, sharp as diamond, the black hair just like Anthony’s, the firm chin and the look that said You had better not be wasting my time...how under heaven had she ever fooled anyone into believing she was an ordinary woman?
Mistress Weaver’s expression was placid, but her voice was sharp as she said, “Maris, Jonathan, you’re excused for the day. I ain’t seen my friend for...a very long time, and happen we’ve a lot to talk about.”
Maris and Jonathan wasted no time in tidying up their work places and running out the front door, shouting happily at their freedom. “Aunt Weaver,” Telaine began, then looked from one face to the other, slipped her arm free of Alison’s, and said, “I’ll see you at supper. You’re invited, Aunt Weaver, if you want.” She left the room, and soon Alison heard the faint sound of the back door shutting.
Alison looked at Mistress Weaver. “It’s been a long time,” Anthony said.
“It’s been a long time,” Alison said.
“Sixty years,” Mistress Weaver said. Her blue eyes glittered. “A lifetime.”
She blurred in Alison’s vision. “Zara,” Alison said, and went toward her sister, arms outstretched, as Zara did the same, and they clung to each other, weeping, though Alison didn’t know if it was joy or sorrow at how fate had robbed them of those sixty years.
“You haven’t changed,” Zara said.
Alison laughed through her tears. “Because I’ve always been wrinkled and white-haired and limped a little from a broken hip that never healed right?”
“Your eyes are the same,” Zara said, pulling away a little to look her into those eyes, “and you still walk like you own the world.”
“Like you’re about to take on the whole damn world at once,” Anthony said in her ear.
“I never really believed in your inherent magic until now. It’s just impossible to comprehend, when the last time I saw you you had most of your face blown away.”
“By you. Thank you.”
“I had nightmares about it for weeks. Thank heaven Anthony and I had each other. Was it worth it?”
Zara’s eyes went distant. Alison wondered what she was seeing. “I imagine sometimes what would have happened if we hadn’t killed me,” she said. “I picture young Jeffrey wasting his life, waiting for me to die. All those children becoming nothing more than hangers-on at court. Telaine never becoming an agent, never finding her heart here. I won’t say it wasn’t hard. But I had love—I doubt I’d have found that if I’d stayed Queen—and I’ve made a life and I even got to see my descendants grow up. Though I thought about murdering Telaine when she gave that child my name. Said ‘I thought she should have a little of my favorite relative’s spunk’ and I near burst into tears right there. Never tell her that.”
“I wouldn’t. And she does. Have spunk, I mean. She’s the terror of the palace whenever she visits. The only time I see her quiet is when she’s in the Long Gallery looking at her namesake’s portrait. Who knows what she’s thinking?”
“Probably that her Aunt Weaver looks uncommonly like Queen Zara North,” Anthony said. “She knows it’s time to move on and can’t bear to. But I can hardly blame her for that.”
“I wish I could have come sooner,” Alison said. “But that was just one more sacrifice.”
“It was,” Zara said, “but I’m glad you’ve come now. Let’s get your things inside. And then we can talk.”
There wasn’t much time before supper to talk. Zara showed her the room she’d be staying in. “Fitted it up with a better mattress,” she said. “Used to be this old, thin thing with hardly any padding to it. Put Telaine on it her first night in Longbourne, see what she’d do. Not a word of complaint. I’d been expecting fancy manners and demands for special treatment.”
“Even when she was pretending to be a brainless socialite, haughtiness wasn’t part of her character,” said Alison, lowering herself onto the bed. It was soft and welcoming and she thought about pleading tiredness and taking a real nap, but that wasn’t what she was here for. “She’s her father’s daughter, down to the bone. There’s very little of Elspeth in her.”
“She says it skipped a generation and appeared in young Julia,” Zara said, leaning against the bedroom wall next to the dressing table and idly running her finger over the mirror’s rim. “The child does take after her great-grandmother, except for the eyes.”
“Who knows how these things come out in the blood? Owen doesn’t look like any of his maternal relations. Ben’s never said the boy looks like anyone on his side of the family. Though he doesn’t talk about them much.”
“Doesn’t talk about them at all. He’s hiding something, but Telaine won’t dig for it. Says it’s his business and none of hers.”
“She seems happy.”
“She is.” Zara stretched. “I’m going to pull supper off the fire and put it in the cold room. Won’t hurt it to be heated again tomorrow. Then we can see what Ben’s come up with tonight.”
Alison had to work hard not to be appalled at Telaine’s relatively primitive living conditions. How long had it taken her to adapt to this small house, with its plain furnishings and little rooms and the narrow staircase that led up to where the children slept?
“You’re a little bit of a snob, love,” Anthony said. “Would you have complained at all if I’d asked you to leave the palace and live in the forest with me?”
She shook her head, then smiled at Ben when he asked if anything was wrong. It was true, she was accustomed to luxury. She watched her granddaughter swipe a cloth across her three-year-old daughter’s face, making the child laugh. It’s not about the furnishings, she told herself, it’s about who shares them with you.
After supper, she brought out presents: an old book of folk songs for Ben, a newly printed schematic for the Device that propelled Jeffrey’s new toy for Telaine, picture books for Julia and little Zara, and a huge encyclopedia of Tremontanan animals for eight-year-old Owen, whose eyes gleamed when he saw it. “You remembered, Grandmama,” he said.
“Your grandmama has never forgotten anything to do with books in her life,” Telaine said.
“I’m afraid I’m a bit single-minded in my interests,” Alison said, “but it’s such a joy, matching people with books they didn’t even know they needed.”
“You don’t mind if I spend all night in the workshop again, do you?” Telaine said, teasing Ben, who put his arm around her waist and pulled her close for a kiss. “Well, all right then,” she said, a little breathlessly.
“Pa, sing for us,” Julia said. She climbed onto her father’s lap and turned the pages of his book.
“One of these?” Ben said. “I think I need some practice.” But his hand stilled hers, and he ran his finger down the staves of music on one of the pages. “Or...happen not.”
They settled in around the fireplace while Ben stood before them, moving his lips as he ran through the words of the song. “Good thing for me my voice has changed some since I was young,” he said. “More a baritone than a tenor, these days.”
“Still the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard,” Telaine said.
“Zara’s going to follow his example, you know,” Anthony said. “She’s only five and you can hear it in her voice.”
Alison said no
thing, just watched Ben as his stance shifted and he began breathing rhythmically. Did Telaine know her husband was a classically trained opera singer? He’d never given any hint of being more than just a man with a gift for music and a love of folk songs, but Alison had attended many concerts in her day, most of them against her will, and in her boredom with the music had turned her attention to the singers, how they stood, how they moved, the way they held their chests and throats and lips. Ben Garrett might not have taken up the profession, but it wasn’t for lack of either talent or training. Well, if Telaine wasn’t interested in ferreting out her husband’s secrets, it wasn’t any business of Alison North’s.
“I’ve heard this song before, but it never had words, not that I knew anyway. It’s a very old lullaby that’s supposed to come from the time of Haran, back when we still worshiped gods,” Ben said. “The words are in—is this Kantnish?”
Alison took the book from him. “An old dialect of it. I can’t read it.”
“Well, whoever wrote it down translated it into something we can understand. Couldn’t sing it else.” He closed his eyes, took in a slow breath, then held the book where he could easily read from it, and sang.
Now the day is over,
The sun, it dips into the sea.
It burns a path along the waves
That brings you back to me.
* * *
The stars will be your blanket,
The moon will paint the grasses blue,
The night will be your guardian
‘Til I come home to you.
* * *
Then rest you on your pillow
Within your cradle, slumber deep.
I’ll watch o’er you ‘til morning comes
As peacefully you sleep.
* * *
The last notes of the song floated away, leaving silence behind. Ben lowered the book. “I liked it,” Julia said.
“That was beautiful. You can tell it’s an old melody, can’t you?” said Telaine.
“Don’t know how good a translation it is, but it feels sad.” Ben held the book so little Zara could look at it. “Thanks, Milady Alison.”
“I knew you were the right one for it.” She tried to hold back a yawn. “Excuse me. I’m more tired than I thought.”
“You should sleep,” Telaine said. “And tomorrow I want to show you everything. The lake is so beautiful this time of year.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing it. Goodnight, children.”
She hugged them all, then walked the short distance to Zara’s house with her sister. Sunset came early in the mountains, and the snows on the top of Mount Ehuren were tinged faintly pink from the rays of a sun that had already dipped beyond the western peaks. To the east, stars glittered against the indigo sky, more than anyone could see in Aurilien, which glowed in the light of a million Devices every night. “How much longer will you stay here?” she asked.
Zara didn’t respond. She stayed silent until they reached her back door and entered the kitchen, when she said, “Until the first snows fall. Can’t afford to stay longer. Been here too long as it is.”
“I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave.”
“Never hated this magic so much as I have these last two years. I almost wish she’d never come here. It hurts like hell, leaving ‘em all behind, but....” She reached into a cupboard and took out a bottle of wine. “I say we get drunk and tell old stories. If my heart’s goin’ to break, I want it to break in company.”
She lit a dozen candles and they sat at the kitchen table, talking and laughing and even crying a little, but just a little. “Doyle never gave away the secret,” Alison said. “I miss him sometimes—he died about twenty-five years ago, probably from all the drinking. I thought he’d outlive me.” She took a swallow of wine. “I thought a lot of people would outlive me.”
“I wish I’d been there for you when Anthony died.”
“It was horrible. Waking up to that, him lying there so...it’s still hard to remember. It was a long time before I could think of him without crying.”
“I never wanted to hurt you, love,” Anthony said.
“I know,” said Alison.
“Know what?” Zara said.
“It’s nothing.” Alison yawned again. “I think I’m ready for sleep now.”
They climbed the stairs together, and at the top, Zara embraced her. “I’m glad you came,” she said.
“So am I,” Alison said. “Good night, Zara.”
She sat on the bed in her nightgown, watching the stars. The stars will be my blanket, she thought. Would it be a warm blanket, or a cool one? How would it feel to be decked in those lights, wrapped in them so you took their brilliance with you wherever you went? She leaned out of the window and looked up the street to where lights still burned in the house by the forge. Did they still look up in wonder, or was all this beauty just a commonplace for them? The sky was growing darker; there was no moon to ruin the brilliance of all those twinkling diamonds. It felt as if heaven were drawing closer, though no one really knew what it looked like or where it was, just that it was bound to earth by the lines of power and populated by the dead. When she was a young child, she’d seen her grandfather’s body before his burial, and for months afterward she’d pictured heaven as full of motionless gray people. Now the idea of heaven held no fear for her.
She lay back in the bed and closed her eyes. It was a good mattress, nearly as good as her bed at home, but she hadn’t slept well for weeks. Possibly it was something that happened as you got old, needing less sleep. Some nights, she just sat up reading, or walked through the Library tidying up, but mostly she lay awake in her bed feeling guilty that she couldn’t sleep like a normal person. The wine was relaxing her body but not her mind, which went around in fuzzy circles touching on half a dozen things she had to do when she returned. Possibly it was time for her to resign as Royal Librarian, spend more time with her family, but that would only give her fewer things to fill her nights with. And her body might have slowed down, but her mind was as sharp as ever, thank heaven.
Her circling brain began to slow as she drifted closer to sleep. The faint scent of pine tickled her nose. Maybe she should close the window, but it smelled so good, and the coolness of the air relaxed her further. Finally, she thought, and slept.
It felt as if she’d only slept for minutes when something woke her, a sound she couldn’t remember upon waking. She knew immediately she wouldn’t be sleeping again any time soon, cursed a little under her breath, and sat up. There was no point just lying there staring at the ceiling, so she got dressed and went carefully down the stairs, not wanting to light a lamp and possibly wake Zara, hoping she wouldn’t trip and fall and break her damned hip again. Bright moonlight came through the kitchen window, enough to help her avoid the table and its single chair. Oh, Zara. How lonely you must be.
She stepped out into the back yard, which looked pale and barren despite the new growth of spring she’d seen sprouting around the edges of the sheds. The high creaking sound of she had no idea how many crickets filled the air, an invisible choir singing a series of notes all in the same key. A breeze brushed her face, bringing with it the now-familiar scent of pine and the unexpected smell of water. There was a lake, or a river, somewhere around here, and she wanted to see it.
It wasn’t very hard to find the road that led westward out of Longbourne toward the smell of water, but the road tapered off as it entered the forest of evergreens and then vanished, and Alison stood at its end and contemplated the woods. She ought to go back, but for what? More hours lying awake in Zara’s spare room? And it wasn’t as if she could get very lost out here. She left the road and continued walking, following her nose. A tune came to mind, and she hummed along, though she couldn’t remember the words of the song. It was beautiful, and fitted the night perfectly.
It was much darker beneath the trees, dark enough that she had to feel her way between the trunks. It took only a few minutes for her to rea
lize this had been a bad decision. She stopped with her hand on the rough bark of a pine tree whose branches brushed the top of her head and thought about turning around. No, you’ll just get confused and end up wandering these woods until morning. At least if you move forward you’ll end up lost somewhere interesting. That didn’t make much sense, but the idea of finding the river, or the lake, had taken hold of her now, and she knew she was just looking for an excuse to keep going.
Feeling her way, conscious of the dangers of falling and injuring herself here in the dark, she kept moving. The cool, damp breeze came to her now and again, leading her in what she hoped was the right direction. With every step, that hope turned into something more certain, until she was walking more quickly, knowing her path as surely as if it were picked out by bright daylight. She breathed deeply and let the smell of clear water fill her lungs. She was nearly there, she could feel it.
She came out of the woods so abruptly she nearly fell over, having anticipated more trees where there were none. And there, spread out before her, was a vast black lake that glittered under the moonlight with hundreds, no, thousands of tiny waves stirred up by the breeze. Short grass covered the ground between her and the shoreline, which was shrouded in rushes that remained still despite the wind. The smell of water filled the air, but now it was mingled with the green scents of growing things that surrounded the lake, hidden by the rushes. The sound of crickets was quieter here, she didn’t know why, and the low bass rumble of bullfrogs joined the choir. It was so beautiful it made her heart ache. She felt as if she could hear the tune now, as if it wound itself around the high thin creak of the crickets and the deep, echoing beat of the frogs. It was so familiar, and yet she still couldn’t remember where she’d heard it.
Movement off to the right drew her eye. Someone stood about a hundred feet away, near the shore, someone who wasn’t more than a black smudge in the moonlight. He, or she, stood almost motionless, and for a moment Alison thought it must be a stub of a tree trunk, burned and broken—but no, it was definitely a human figure, and although Alison couldn’t make out a face, she felt certain the person wasn’t looking at the lake, but at her. The whole scene seemed odd somehow—surely the moonlight should light up the person’s features?—but then this whole episode had taken on a surreal quality. What had possessed her, and it did feel like possession, to leave her bed and go wandering in a strange land at what must be nearly midnight? She must be more drunk than she imagined.
Tales of the Crown Page 40