Perrotte looked at Sand. “Is that all?”
Sand imagined Perrotte free and well fed and observing stars with a tutor. He imagined himself working in the smithy, learning from his father and grandfather. And betimes, they would see each other, until he was old enough and had learned enough to go to her and be her smith.
It was a pleasant future. More pleasant than most he had contemplated his whole life.
Nonetheless, he leaned forward to whisper in her ear: “Is that all? Use your imagination!”
Right there, in the midst of negotiations, Perrotte closed her eyes, seeming to look inside herself. Her lips curved into a smile. She opened her eyes and said to Rivanon, “And any woman or girl who wants to learn with a tutor of the natural sciences may come and join me in my studies. We will need more than one tutor, in fact, if our population grows.”
Rivanon raised her eyebrows, but conceded.
Sand had to hide his beaming smile. Perrotte was barred from entering a university—but no one could stop her from creating one of her own. His heart swelled for her.
The rest of the negotiations went swiftly. All was agreed. A scribe was summoned to write out the contract; Rivanon signed and sealed the document, and Perrotte did as well, through the portcullis bars. Then the Queen’s signature and seal were added as well, to show that the agreement held royal approval.
The deal was struck, and their freedom was secure.
Servants swiftly took down the tent. Sand raised the portcullis. Outside the gatehouse, he found Perrotte waiting with Merlin on her arm. She extended her free hand to him, wearing a hesitant smile, but her eyes were worried, wary, and not a little anxious. He understood. But the Queen was there. The Queen would not allow this fragile peace to be broken, would she?
He took her hand. Together, they walked through the gates of the castle and into the world.
Outside, the air was no clearer, and the sun was no brighter. And yet, the world was greater than they had yet known it. They looked at each other. Neither of them had any words.
Then, Sand’s father grabbed him up into a rough embrace, and held him tighter than Sand ever remembered being held. He breathed deeply, a sigh of profound relief.
“Well mended, son,” his father whispered into his hair.
“Thank you, Papa,” he said, and turned his head to the side when he heard a flutter of wings. Merlin had taken flight and now perched calmly on the carved stone crest of the phoenix and the swan above the castle gate. She looked down at them, waiting.
She’d had to fly off because Agnote had grabbed up Perrotte in a warm hug too. Sand only briefly wondered what “my lady” thought of his stepmother’s overfamiliarity, but Perrotte’s eyes were closed, her arms were around Agnote’s abundant waist, and she was smiling.
Rivanon called Perrotte’s name, beckoning them over to where she stood with the Queen. Sand and Perrotte parted from Sand’s parents, and the four approached the Princess and the Queen.
Merlin swooped down and found Perrotte’s shoulder. Perrotte winced slightly, but bore the falcon’s grip.
“That is an astonishingly friendly falcon,” Princess Rivanon said.
The Queen agreed, and they admired the bird for a time, as they had done during negotiations. It eased the tension by giving them something neutral to discuss. Perrotte just smiled at Sand; he wondered if she would ever explain that Merlin was as resurrected as Perrotte, or if the falcon would just remain part of the secrets of the Sundered Castle.
“Avenie and Annick are staying with Grandpère and Grandmère,” Gilles said in a low voice, just for Sand’s ears. “We should go and retrieve them soonest. Do you think we are almost finished here?”
Perrotte and Sand’s eyes locked. She had overheard. She looked somewhat desperate, her lips pursing grimly. Sand was about to burst out, “No, no, I’m not finished with Perrotte, and I never will be,” but at that moment a small mounted party rode toward them from the distant army. They did not carry a white flag; the siege was over and truce was unnecessary, Sand reminded himself, but still, he found them ominous.
A priest on a donkey came first, followed by the infamous Jannet, who carried a cross high in front of her face, like it was her penance. They were flanked by ten or so men.
“They’re going in for the treasury,” Rivanon said.
A knight followed this procession at a distance: Sir Bleyz. He was free now. He came and knelt before the Queen, the Princess, and Perrotte.
“I am in your service, Lady Perrotte; I will go where you go.”
Perrotte looked torn, but in the end, she spoke her mind kindly. “How did they find out about your rebellion, Sir Bleyz?”
“The broken coins! They gave us away. Everyone who knew anything about the sundering knew immediately where they’d come from.” He sighed, shaking his head.
“Rise, Sir Bleyz,” Rivanon said, as the last of her mother’s party entered the castle gates.
Merlin flapped suddenly, lifting off Perrotte’s shoulder and screaming a loud, high kee-kee-kee call. Beneath their feet, the earth trembled. Sand grabbed Perrotte with one hand, whoever he could reach with the other, and ran away from the castle walls—were the walls falling? Or was it something worse? All he could think of was the story of Saint Gildas throwing sand on the castle of Sainte Trifine’s murderer, and the earth swallowing the castle whole. They had to get away.
A clanging slam came from behind them. Sand tossed a harried glance over his shoulder. The portcullis had dropped shut.
Perrotte had started running too, and now led him; the other person Sand had grabbed pulled away from him, slowing and turning. It was Princess Rivanon. If the ground weren’t still shaking, Sand might be embarrassed, even worried about having placed hands on royalty without permission. Sand halted, dropping his hands and also turning.
Beside him, Princess Rivanon clutched at her mouth. Perrotte swore.
Thorns. The earth trembled with the force of thorns rising from the dirt, and climbing up the castle walls—the air was filled with the creaking noise of their swift growth, as the plants swarmed upward until they reached a full man’s height above the outer walls.
“What have you done?” Rivanon cried, looking at Sand and Perrotte.
“This is no magic of ours!” Perrotte said.
Sand’s parents stood a little way off with the Queen and Sir Bleyz, panting and staring at the thorns. The Queen’s servants and courtiers pelted toward them, concerned for the Queen’s safety.
“No, Your Highness, no—it’s not our magic,” Sand told Rivanon, his mind twisting and turning. He had to explain everything the saints had said about the thorns and mending and forgiveness. The ideas were a jumble within him, and he fought to make the words come out right. Then, like a blessing, he felt a breath in his ear, and he became calm.
Sand turned to look, but no one was beside him. Was it the breath of a Saint that he felt? Words came to him as though they’d just been whispered in his ear.
“The thorns are not one person’s magic,” he said, his voice large and surprising to himself. Everyone looked at him. “The thorns are a wilderness created by rage and sorrow, by fear and guilt. Many people grew these thorns.”
The earth stilled at last, and yet everyone stared at him until Merlin landed on Perrotte’s shoulder once more.
“Well—!” Rivanon said, brow furrowed. She looked confused and helpless, but she wasn’t blaming them for the thorns at least. “Release my mother, then! You brought down the thorns before. Do it again!”
Now Perrotte stepped forward. She appeared as tranquil as Sand had felt with the Saint’s breath in his ear, and he wondered what she felt now, and what she heard.
“Only from within the castle can the thorns be taken down,” Perrotte said, her voice strong and pure as a bell. She glowed slightly, as the Saints had done during their visitation.
“How?” Rivanon asked, her voice nearly a wail. “You’ve already mended the keep!”
Sa
nd said, “There is much within the castle that is still broken. And . . .” He glanced at Perrotte, doubting himself now that the surety and calm of the Saints’ whispers had gone.
“It’s up to your mother,” Perrotte said. She was still calm. “She will have to make her own peace with what she’s done before she can free herself.”
Sand half expected Rivanon to order him or Perrotte or both of them into a dungeon, but the Princess just took a deep, shuddering breath, and nodded. She accepted this? With so much less argument than Perrotte and he had accepted it?
The voice in Sand’s head was smaller and less itchy than Melor’s voice had been, and he did not think anyone else could hear it: We told you we would be near, no matter what happened. This is our blessing.
When he saw the small smile on Perrotte’s face, he knew that she had also heard the voice.
Some of that old magic that made people ignore the castle seemed to be at play; already, the Queen had turned away, and even Agnote and Sand’s father were standing with their back to the castle, placidly, as if just waiting for Sand to finish his business with the Princess and Perrotte.
“They’re too high; I can’t even talk to her like I talked to you,” Rivanon said, tears slipping down her cheeks. “The thorns are much higher than before you brought them down.”
Sand glanced up at the towering thorns. “She’s not alone. She has companions,” he said, thinking of his lonely weeks, before Perrotte came back to life. “Her priest and those knights.”
Perrotte nodded. Rivanon did not look soothed.
“Though—what if the food stops growing?” Sand asked, struck. “They might starve to death.”
Rivanon made a wordless sob, but Perrotte shook her head. “The red seed,” she said. “The red seed, the one that brought me back to life, also brought the castle’s life back. While the thorns were not entirely from me, I think that the, the lifelessness might have been. My part of the curse, if you will; I was dead, and the castle was dead.”
Sand nodded, satisfied. “So it’s all entirely up to them. To the Countess, that is. Good.” That seemed just. More just than Rivanon sending Perrotte to Burgundy and leaving the dowager Countess to rule. He couldn’t be sorry for the Countess trapped in the thorns. He would leave that sorrow for others.
The Queen joined Rivanon and Perrotte. “I believe this turn of events may change some of the terms of the contract you negotiated today; I would suggest we rest ourselves, take some time for reflection and prayer, and sleep on what those changes might be. We can reconvene tomorrow to discuss those changes, and to present candidates for a worthy overseer of Boisblanc while you are with your husband, Rivanon, and before Perrotte comes of age.”
Rivanon swallowed down her tears, and nodded. She went to give orders to her servants.
The Queen turned her lovely doe-like eyes on Perrotte. “Do you feel sorry for the Lady Jannet, there, trapped inside that castle?” she asked with mild curiosity.
“Yes,” Perrotte said. “I can imagine how it feels.”
The Queen made an enigmatic smile. “My mother said you were the only girl she ever convinced to climb out a window with her.”
“I was the only one?” Perrotte said, startled.
“I look forward to hearing your version of the tale.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Perrotte said, and curtseyed.
“Very good, then,” the Queen said, and bustled off with her courtiers and servants.
“You climbed out a window with the Queen of France?” Sand asked.
“She wasn’t the queen then,” Perrotte said. “And I didn’t enjoy it.”
“It had to be more fun than being trapped in the castle,” Sand said.
She glanced at the castle. “That’s a different thing altogether.”
Sand regarded the bare thorns that had retaken the castle. This hedge had no leaves, no blossoms, no tiny yellow-green raspberries. Fun didn’t enter into it, but their time in the castle behind the thorns had given them each other.
“What I am worried about,” Perrotte said, “is how we’ll restore the countship with its wealth still trapped inside that stupid castle.” She kicked a stone into the thorns. It disappeared without a trace.
Sand patted the full purse at his waist. “You have a little to start with. But we should’ve taken more.”
“I didn’t want to be greedy,” Perrotte said. “That will teach me.” Her smile was ironic.
“Perrotte?” Rivanon said, returning. “May I invite you to Góll Castle for the night? The Queen is staying there . . .”
Sand’s heart fell. This was it, then; the beginning of their time apart.
Perrotte looked at Sand, hesitating. “I would be pleased to join you at Góll Castle, Rivanon, but not just yet. I—I need to go with Sand.”
As quickly as it had fallen, his heart rose. A late spring wind ruffled his hair, bringing the sweet scent of flowers from far across the asparagus fields. Sand smiled at Perrotte.
“All right.” Rivanon sounded only a little unsettled, but not hurt. She stepped forward, hands clasped, and bent down to kiss Perrotte on the cheek. Their flyaway, golden-brown hair briefly mingled, caught in the wind. “Until we see each other again, sister,” she said gently.
Perrotte smiled painfully, an expression trapped somewhat between sadness and shyness. “Until tomorrow,” she said.
Rivanon left, servants and knights trailing after. Sir Bleyz remained, and saluted Perrotte. “I am your champion, my lady,” he said formally. “Where you go, I follow.”
Perrotte said something pretty in response to this, while Agnote spoke in Sand’s ear: “Is Lady Perrotte planning to sleep at our house?” she asked anxiously. “Or is she just staying to supper? She knows we’re not noble nor rich, and that our house is not large nor sumptuous?”
Sand said, “She knows. And we’ll figure out what happens later. She just wants to be with us for now.”
“Good, good,” Agnote said, appearing comforted. “It’s good for her to be with us. Among people who can love her and who do love her.”
Sand nodded. Perrotte, finished with Sir Bleyz, turned to Sand.
“Perr?” he asked. “I think if we work quickly tonight, we could get a good start on your new astrolabe. Particularly if Papa helps us.”
His father cleared his throat. “I’ve never made a, uh, astro . . .” He coughed again.
Perrotte’s grin threatened to crack her face; uncertainly, his father returned the expression. “An astrolabe. A star-taker.”
“Don’t worry, Papa,” Sand said. “We’ll show you how.”
His father nodded and gave Agnote his arm for the walk home in the golden spring sunshine.
Sand faced Perrotte. Merlin stared at him from her right shoulder, eyes bright and watchful. His friend held out her hand to him, and he took it.
“Is it worth starting on the astrolabe?” he asked, following his parents toward the smithy and the little house on the hill. “Can we find the time to work on it together?”
Perrotte smiled. “We’re free now. What can we not do?”
Sand’s heart was full. This was truth.
Acknowledgments
THANK YOU TO JOHN Sarge and Tillers International, who taught me the little I know about blacksmithing. Anything I got wrong in this book had nothing to do with my excellent teacher and everything to do with me.
Thank you, Sarah Shumway: your enthusiasm alone makes you a gem. Your total support and keen editorial eye are icing on the gem. Thank you so very much for taking me on!
Thank you, as ever, to my wonder agent, Caitlin Blasdell.
Julie Winningham, your ability to read my brain waves remains unparalleled. Julie DeJong, super-beta, and Mary Lou Klecha, meta-master: my life and my work would be much poorer for not knowing you both. Marissa K. Lingen, I feel so lucky that I met you so early on in my writing career; I don’t talk to you nearly enough, but you mean a lot to me. Kate Riley, your perspectives make me a better write
r as well as a better person. No matter where you go, I will be writing to you. Elizabeth Shack, I just continue to adore you—I know my love is hard to bear, but someday you’ll get used to it.
Thank you to my beta readers, for all your wisdom and perspective and speed: Francesca Forrest, Nancy Fulda, Jason Larke, Sandra McDonald, Rachel Neumeier, Bethany Powell, Anna Schwind, Sophia K. Schwind, Catherine Shaffer, Amity Thompson, and Sarah Zettel. Special thanks to Karen Ostertag and Kat Otis for reading and for sharing your medieval expertise.
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About the Author
MERRIE HASKELL was born in Michigan and grew up in North Carolina. She wrote her first story at the age of seven, and she walked dogs after school in order to buy her first typewriter.
Merrie returned north to attend the Residential College at the University of Michigan, where she earned a BA in biological anthropology. Her fiction has appeared in Nature, Asimov’s Science Fiction, Strange Horizons, and Unplugged: The Web’s Best Sci-Fi & Fantasy: 2008 Download. She now lives in Saline, Michigan, with her husband and stepdaughter. Merrie works in a library with over seven million books, and she finds this to be just about the right number. She is the author of The Princess Curse and Handbook for Dragon Slayers.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Books by Merrie Haskell
The Princess Curse
Handbook for Dragon Slayers
Credits
Cover art © 2014 by Kevin Keele
Cover design by Joel Tippie
Copyright
Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
The Castle Behind Thorns
Text copyright © 2014 by Merrie Fuller
Map copyright © 2014 by Virginia Allyn
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