Summers at Castle Auburn

by Sharon Shinn

  In the two months that I had been gone from court, news had filtered back to me slowly, sometimes in the form of ordinary gossip brought in by merchants and other travelers, sometimes in letters sent by my friends back at court. The news of Prince Bryan’s death was brought by the candlemaker’s son, who ran a carting business from the southern provinces to the northern and spent most of his life on the road. Official word came three days later as the regent sent criers throughout the eight provinces to bawl out the shocking tidings in every market square. Everyone in our village, or what seemed like everyone, gathered on the green to hear the proclamation.

  “If Prince Bryan is dead,” someone shouted back to the official messenger, “who will rule in his place?”

  The messenger had obviously answered this question many times already. “Lord Matthew Ouvrelet continues as regent until Prince Kentley Ouvrelet can be crowned.”

  “Kentley Ouvrelet? What, Prince Bryan’s cousin?”

  “Yes, the regent’s son.”

  “And what’s he like?”

  “He is fit to be king,” the crier answered coldly.

  “Aye, but what is he like?”

  The messenger fielded that and a dozen questions like it with the stone-faced diplomacy you might expect. I, at least, was convinced Kent would make a far better king than Bryan ever would have. Not something I wanted to leap in front of the crowd and declaim, however. I found it strange—on that first day and in the weeks that followed—to hear Kent referred to as the prince. Even more odd was to think of him as the king. He had never seemed so majestic as all that. Thoughtful, intelligent, evenhanded, kind, but not majestic.

  But then, Bryan had never seemed very regal, either. Romantic, not regal. I supposed one brought to the table whatever traits one had, and then did the best one could to grow into the role one was given.

  More intimate news arrived in my hands via letters that came sporadically, depending on the time available to the authors and the availability of couriers coming my way. Elisandra wrote immediately and often, though her tone was guarded; I wondered more than once if Greta, or Matthew, was censoring her correspondence.

  Her first missive told me of Bryan’s death, which had occurred two days after my abrupt departure. All I could be grateful for was that, as he got sicker, he seemed to suffer less, she had written. He had been in great distress when he first fell ill, but as the days passed, he seemed to grow calmer and less sensate. Giselda said she did not think he was in any pain at all when he died. That was a comfort to Lord Matthew as well as to me.

  I skimmed the descriptions of the mourning and the burial ceremony; all eight provinces had shared in the public displays of grief, draping black banners over city gates and flying black flags from the public buildings. Some of the more romantic young girls had dressed in mourning from which they refused to emerge for weeks on end, but most of the villagers had no real cause to grieve for the prince. They had never met him; they neither loved him nor hated him; the politics and personalities at court held very little real significance in their daily lives. The prince was dead and the new prince would soon step forward. The realm remained whole and united. That was all they cared to know.

  What I really wanted to know was what would become of Elisandra next, and in a later paragraph, she addressed that very issue. It seems strange to think I am a widow when I have scarcely been a bride, she wrote. Lord Matthew does not seem to know what to do with me, though I am sure he will come up with some sort of plan. Kent assures me that I have inherited Bryan’s personal fortune, although, of course, I will not have access to the royal jewels and coffers. Matthew has hinted that I shall need to wed again. As for myself, I think, “I have had one disastrous marriage. Let me wait awhile before I embark upon another.”

  I looked up from the page I was reading. Of course. Halsing women have always provided the brides for the royal house. Elisandra was a Halsing woman, and Kent was now the last living descendent of the Ouvrelet royal house. Even from hundreds of miles away, I could sense Matthew’s brain engaged in its usual plotting. Decency required him to wait a short interval before handing Elisandra over to the new prince, but decency was not a consideration that had long tied Matthew’s hands in the past. Soon enough, we would be hearing news of Elisandra’s betrothal to the new prince.

  It was what I had hoped for and tried to bring about for so long. I couldn’t imagine why the thought depressed me so much now.

  From Angela, I received much more gossipy letters describing the emotional flux at the court in the days following Bryan’s death. Megan of Tregonia had had to be confined to her room, sedated, because of the strength of her despair. Three of the other young ladies, all of whom had seemed to be insanely attached to Bryan, had been sent home even before the funeral, because they had disrupted meals and councils with their hysterical sobbing.

  The visiting noblemen, on the other hand, had not seemed quite so dismayed, and the half-secret political meetings that took place the very day of Bryan’s death were occurring in rooms all over the castle. I never saw poor Kent look so grim and harried, for, of course, everyone instantly wanted to call him friend. He is too polite to treat anyone with rudeness, so he allowed himself to be cornered every five minutes by some backwater lord who fancied a position at court. I must say he handled himself wellenough, except for looking so tired. Even Elisandra, who has worries enough on her own, has grown concerned about him. Just yesterday she insisted that he come to the dinner table for a meal, since he had missed both breakfast and lunch.

  The question now appears to be when exactly Kent will be crowned. Since he is over twenty-one, there is no need to name him “prince,” so when he ascends the throne, it will be as king. (King Kentley, is that not divine? It makes him sound so much more impressive than our sweet, grave Kent.) Everyone says that Matthew has delayed in setting the date because he wants a smooth transition from regency to royal, but I myself wonder if Matthew is not quite so eager to hand over all his power at once—and to his son.

  No one was editing Angela’s letters, that was obvious. I loved to receive them, and I wrote back faithfully so that she would not forget me. I had less to tell, of course, though I tried to make my stories amusing. I described the wild dance at the fall festival, and the traveling monkey show that had come to town. I also told her about some of the more outlandish requests I had received from the villagers who sought my professional advice (Goodwife Janey, who’s sixty if she’s a day, came to ask for help conceiving a child. . . . Red Brotton, as he’s called, wanted to know if I had any spells for increasing the size of his—well, he called it his “manfinger,” so I suppose I should do the same. . . .”).

  To Elisandra I sent back shorter, more personal letters, asking about her health, reassuring her about mine, and expressing hope that I could see her again, somehow, soon. Into the folds of each of these letters, I sprinkled grains of nariander and stiffelbane, herbs that would lift her spirits and keep her serene. She seemed well enough, but with Elisandra, you never knew; and it was a simple thing to do and gave me great comfort.

  My other correspondent this fall was a new one: Kent. He had never, in the twelve years I had visited at Auburn Castle, sent me so much as a solstice greeting when I was back at my grandmother’s cottage. Indeed, the first time a letter arrived at the seamstress’s house, I did not recognize the handwriting. I had to pry off the seal and turn to the signature before I could identify the author. I could not believe it when I saw Kent’s name.

  But the letter itself held nothing that should have sent my heart skidding so precipitously against my ribs. In fact, it was fairly short: Corie—The carriage returned empty and the guards were all alive, so I presume you made it safely to your grandmother’s cottage. There has been much chaos here, as I’m sure you can imagine. My father and I have been in endless conversation with the viceroys and their advisors as everyone looks on the prince’s death as an opportunity to test and restructure old alliances. I am not used to h
aving so many people ask my opinion, and I have been cautious about the replies that I have made, but I find that I usually have decided ideas about every topic that is brought up and I am convinced that my way is usually the most reasonable. The makings of a despot, don’t you think? Nonetheless, I have mastered the art of listening with a serious, intent look upon my face. Even when I am not actually listening, I have managed to maintain the look. I expect this new trick will come in handy more and more often as the days progress.

  Other than that, we are all well here. Elisandra is quiet but does not seem unhappy. I have less time to spend with her than I would like. My father, who first seemed stricken at Bryan’s death, now seems revitalized by the challenge of turning me into a king. On some days I am excited, on other days a little frightened, but most of the time I am just tired. I do miss you. Kent

  Not “Kentley,” I was glad to see. And he missed me. I sent him back a note even shorter than his own, but I did not say I missed him. I did not thank him for the ring. But I did dust the letter with a variety of crushed seeds, designed to endow him with wisdom and patience and strength. He would not notice the gesture, but it cheered me, and I sent the letter off with a light heart.

  MY LIFE DID not consist solely of gossipy letters recounting court intrigue. My job at the tavern perfectly suited my personal schedule, for I went in during the early evening, worked till midnight or later, than came home to read herbal books and mix up experimental potions. I went to bed sometime after three and slept till noon the next day. And I loved the tavern work. I loved the simple routine of waiting on customers, flirting harmlessly with the men, sympathizing with the women, and bringing everybody food. When I noticed patrons who were ill or in trouble, I was not above seasoning their beer with restorative herbs, once I had managed to learn exactly what their problems were. Consequently most repeat customers were a healthy, happy lot who associated the tavern with thoughts of ease and renewal. This meant business picked up significantly with every passing week.

  Darbwin, the barkeeper, noticed the trend. “Everybody likes you,” he observed late one night as we closed up. “Days you’re not here, they ask about you. Days you are here, they stay longer and order more.”

  “I guess you’ll have to give me a raise, then,” I said, grinning. I was counting the day’s take, which was substantial. Darbwin was the richest man in town.

  “That or marry you,” he said. I looked up. He laughed. “No, in my experience, a good barmaid makes a lousy wife.”

  I laughed. He had not had as much experience as Ordinal, it was true, but he had been married twice. His first wife had died young, the second had run off, and he had shown no inclination to replace her. Both of them, if I remembered right, had started out as his employees. “From what I hear, you’re a better boss than husband,” I retorted. “So, thank you very kindly, but I think I’ll just take your money.”

  I had handed him the stacks of counted bills, and he pushed one of them back across the table at me. More than I usually took home at the end of the week, but I did not point this out. Darbwin never miscounted dollars; this was a deliberate gesture.

  “Though I do wonder,” he said in a casual voice, “how long you’ll be staying. Don’t you usually go up to Auburn in the spring?”

  I stood up and shook the crumbs out of my apron. “Used to. Not anymore.”

  He leaned back in the booth and watched me move around the tables, straightening chairs and blowing out candles. “So, you’re planning to be here the rest of your life? Year in, year out?”

  “I haven’t made any plans,” I said. “I suppose I’ll go visit my sister now and then. You’ll give me a little time off if I ask for it, won’t you?”

  He nodded vigorously. “Sorry to see you go, but happy to see you back. You’ve got a job here as long as you like it.”

  I smiled at him in what had become the near-dark of the tavern. “Glad to hear it,” I said. “But I’ll be here for a while yet. Not to worry.”

  “Through solstice, anyway, I hope,” he said. “That’s my busy time.”

  “Solstice I can guarantee.” I took off my apron, laid it across the back of the booth, and smiled at Darbwin again. “See you tomorrow night,” I said, and left.

  It was a short walk home through the quiet streets, though the air was chillier than I expected. Winter before long; solstice before we knew it. I would have to write my uncle Jaxon and see if he was inviting Elisandra to Halsing Manor for the holidays. I could think of no reason he would not allow me to join them for a visit—once the actual celebration was over, of course. I could not abandon Darbwin during his busy season, after all.

  But there was a letter waiting for me on the table outside my room, and it obviated any possibility of visits during the winter holidays. It was from Elisandra, and it was the longest one I had received from her yet. Also the most frank; she must have written it in secret and sent it out by a trusted hand.

  Corie: The strangest news has just arrived today from the steward on Jaxon’s estate. It seems Jaxon and Rowena have left—vanished. They were there one night and gone the next, all their clothes removed from the closets and all their personal effects missing. The servants say they heard nothing in the night, that Jaxon and Rowena retired to their room as usual, but in the morning, they were both gone. The steward says he made discreet inquiries at various inns and posting houses in the neighborhood, but no one remembers seeing them. Oh, and none of the horses are gone. Only Jaxon and his wife.

  Is this not odd? What are we to make of it? I have only gotten one note from Jaxon since he left last summer, saying he was not sorry Bryanhad died though he hoped it had not caused me any sadness. I burned it immediately, of course, for I did not want either my mother or Lord Matthew to find it. He said nothing about any plans to travel—or disappear!—and I feel quite disturbed and shaken. As if we might not ever see him again.

  And I cannot help but wonder about Rowena’s role in all this. She is the queen of Alora, after all, and the alora have gifts and powers that I do not believe we have ever understood. She made a strange bargain with Jaxon a year ago. Could she have come to regret it? Could she have done anything to harm him?

  I have told Matthew that I would like to go to Halsing Manor to see for myself how the situation has been left, but he told me flatly that I was not to leave the castle. I was quite astonished, I assure you, and asked him with some hauteur what right he had to attempt to confine me anywhere. And then he told me—it was a day of shock piled upon shock—that I was the widow of the true prince and any children of my body would be considered the next heirs to the throne, and that until nine months had passed from Bryan’s death, I must be carefully watched. Otherwise I might in secret bear a child that was either Bryan’s, and thus rightful heir, or that I pretended was his, and attempted to put on the throne in Kent’s place! Can you believe this? I was never more amazed. I told him that he could consult with Daria, who would inform him that I had had four monthly courses since my wedding night, but he said maids could be bribed and such signs could be misleading, and in any case, the law required a nine-month waiting period and he would observe it to the last day.

  So this answers all sorts of questions that I have had, though I have not raised them—one being why he has not insisted Kent be crowned immediately, and another being why he has not shown more active interest in finding me a new suitor. I must confess, I still have no taste for another beau of Matthew’s procuring, but I was surprised at his slowness in this area. But now I understand. I understand everything.

  Oh, Corie, I miss you so much! I think so often about what you said to me, about living in some small cottage in a tiny village, raising herbs and earning enough to feed ourselves. How I would love that life and the chance to be near you always. Matthew has vowed that you shall never return to Castle Auburn, but I shall not let that keep us apart. I will cometo you, or you must meet me somewhere, as soon as my nine-month sentence is lifted. Till then, think of me often, w
rite me whenever you can, and know you are always in my thoughts. Elisandra

  This was a letter that needed to be read more than once, and I did so, standing beside my bed and holding the paper to the candlelight. Jaxon and Rowena vanished! But there was no mystery there at all. She had taken him back to Alora, that place of rest and delight for which he had hungered ever since he spent that one brief, fateful visit inside its borders. Or perhaps for even longer—since his first glimpse of one of those frail, exotic creatures; since the first time one of them touched a wondering finger to his cheek and set in his heart that inescapable, inexplicable desire. I remembered what deep longing Cressida’s touch had fired in me, that night I released her from Castle Auburn. Even now, months later, I would wake sometimes in the night weeping and wretched, homesick for a place I had never seen. I knew where Rowena and Jaxon had disappeared. We would not be seeing them again.

  I skimmed the letter a third time, frowning as I came to the second half. Yes, indeed, the possibility that Elisandra had become pregnant on her wedding night would have loomed huge in Matthew’s mind. Though even he must realize it was a slim chance, considering how sick Bryan had been. And nine long months for Elisandra to wait before she could make any moves, any changes in her life! Nine months of limbo Kent would have to endure as well, treated as the next king though still without any real power. Nine months of waiting for me before I could see my sister again.

  Well, four and a half months had already passed. We were halfway there. I sat up another two hours, writing letters, before I sought my bed that night.

  THE SEASON ADVANCED; the sun grew small and ungenerous, parceling out a few watery hours of light every day. The nights turned long, bleak, and frigid. Companionship and firelight were the only weapons we had with which to combat desolation. The tavern was crowded every night, and no patron ever seemed to want to go home, back out into that black and icy silence.