by Mark Anthony
Knight, horse, and passenger moved through the crowded courtyard.
“What was that all about?” Grace gestured back toward the castle’s gate. “The guards acted so strangely when they saw me.”
The knight cleared his throat. “It was nothing that should concern you, my lady. They wonder who you are, that is all. You must forgive them. They are simple men.”
Grace accepted this, but she thought there was something more Durge was not telling her. A flash of silver caught her eye, and she glanced down at the ground. It was a puddle of water, a mirror to the sky above. A ghostly face gazed up at her: thin, ethereally pale, green-gold eyes like summer gems above sharp cheekbones. It was her own reflection in the puddle. No wonder the guards had stared at her so. The horse continued on, and the reflection was gone.
At the far end of the bailey was a wall that was darker and older-looking than the others. There was a second gate in this wall, and it was toward this that Durge steered his horse.
“We are going to see Lord Alerain, my lady,” the knight said. “He is the king’s seneschal, and so is concerned with visitors to the castle. I must announce myself to him, and he will be able to see to your needs.”
Grace gave a jerky nod. It was not as if she had any other suggestions.
They passed through the gate and entered a smaller courtyard. The upper bailey was quieter than the lower bailey. This was the oldest part of the castle, Grace decided, for here the stonework looked heavier and more weathered. Against the far wall rose the high, square tower she had glimpsed before. It must have been the hill fort’s original keep, although its layers of different-colored stone indicated that the tower had been expanded many times in its history. Stone wings stretched from either side of the main keep and turned the corners to encircle the courtyard on all sides.
In the center of the upper bailey was a thick and tangled garden that looked like a tiny forest. Even in this wintry weather, Grace caught the faint perfume of flowers on the air, and from somewhere in the garden drifted the music of water. She sighed. It was a peaceful and private refuge. Even the thick stone walls were comforting rather than confining.
There were fewer people about the inner courtyard—men-at-arms and others Grace took for servants. Durge asked a grizzled guard to direct them to the king’s stable, and the fellow pointed toward a long wooden building. As they approached the structure, Grace caught the rich scent of horses.
The knight brought his horse to a halt and dismounted, then reached up to help Grace. She was stiff and clumsy and nearly fell, but Durge caught her in strong arms and set her on the ground.
A sharp voice emanated from the stable. “And the next time I catch you sleeping, boy, you can clean all the stalls yourself—and without the benefit of a rake, mind you!”
“Yes, Lord Alerain,” answered a youthful and contrite voice.
A figure stepped from the shadows of the stable. He was a lean, precise man of later years. His white hair was closely cropped, and a neatly trimmed beard adorned his pointed chin. His garb was fine but understated, all in shades of maroon and black, and a cloak was clasped at his neck by a simple—but large—gold brooch. He cut an imposing figure, yet there was something grandfatherly about him all the same. Perhaps it was the preoccupied look in his watery blue eyes. He started toward the keep, an intent cast to his face.
“Pardon me, Lord Alerain,” Durge said.
The seneschal looked up, searched for the source of the voice, saw them, and approached. He studied the knight, then seemed to make a decision. “The earl of Stonebreak, I presume?” he asked in a formal tone.
“You presume correctly,” Durge said.
A smile broke through Alerain’s stern expression. “Then I have not lost all my skill. Well met, my lord. You have the look of your father, Vathris keep him.” He reached out and gripped the knight’s hand. “It seems Embarr is the first to arrive for the council. Is King Sorrin far behind you?”
“At least a fortnight, my lord. Though it would surprise me little if his traveling party were delayed by bandits, or lamed horses, or a fallen bridge.”
Alerain scowled at this. However, his eyebrows were too bushy for the expression to be genuinely fierce. “You Embarrans! Such a gloomy folk—always expecting the worst of things. I’m certain King Sorrin will arrive in good order.”
Durge shrugged. “If it pleases you to say so, my lord.”
The seneschal rolled his eyes but let it pass. He glanced at Grace, who was still wrapped head to toe in the blanket. “Tell me, my lord, who is this who accompanies you?”
“I cannot truly say, Lord Alerain.” Durge gazed at her with his solemn eyes. “I came upon her half-frozen in the snow, in the eaves of Gloaming Wood.”
Alerain gave the knight a sharp look. “You ventured into Gloaming Wood?” The seneschal shook his head. “You are a brave man, Sir Knight. Or, if you’ll forgive me, a foolish one. You might have become as lost as this poor lass.” He took a step toward her. “Now, what have we here?”
Grace opened her mouth, but Alerain clucked his tongue to silence her. “Do not fear, my child. We’ll get you out of that damp blanket and into something dry at once. There will be plenty of time to tell us your name after you’ve warmed yourself by a fire.” He reached a hand toward her.
Grace hesitated. Yet it couldn’t hurt to wait until she was warm and dry to start asking questions about where she was. She reached out to take the seneschal’s hand. As she let go of the blanket, it slipped back around her shoulders, away from her face.
Alerain sucked in a hissing breath. “My lord!” he said to Durge. “Why did you not tell me who your companion was?”
The seneschal dropped to one knee right there on the muddy ground in front of the stable. Grace cast a startled look at Durge. The knight gave a nod, as if something he had suspected had just been confirmed. Then he too bent to one knee before her.
Grace watched the men in confusion. What was going on? As if to answer her question, Alerain bowed his head and spoke in a ritual tone.
“Welcome to Calavere, Your Highness. How may we serve thee?”
28.
The door shut behind Grace and she was alone inside the drafty bedchamber. Outside, footsteps faded away as the two maidens who had led her through the castle’s labyrinthian corridors retreated. She let out a deep breath.
“What would a princess do in this situation, Grace?”
She grimaced. It had been absolutely no use trying to convince Lord Alerain she was nobody special. In the courtyard, after the flustered seneschal had managed to recover his composure, she had attempted to explain he had made a mistake. Her name was Grace Beckett. She was not royalty, and there was absolutely no need to keep bowing his head or calling her Highness.
Despite her repeated protests, Alerain had given her a conspiratorial wink. “As you wish, Your Highness,” he had said. “It is not my place to question why a lady of high station might desire to travel in disguise. It is a curious happening, to be sure, but these are curious times. Though I confess, I cannot fathom from whence you hail. The line of your jaw speaks of the noble houses of northeast Eredane, but your cheekbones could belong to a duchess of southernmost Toloria. And your eyes are like those of no royal family I can think of.” He had stroked his short beard. “It is part of my office to know every noble in the Dominions on sight, whether we have met before or no. But I know you not. This Beckett must be a dominion far distant from Calavan.”
“Very far,” Grace had replied.
After that she had given up. It was simpler that way. Besides, she was too numb really to protest. Alerain had summoned a half-dozen servants, and with crisp commands gave orders for a room to be prepared for her. Most of the servants had dashed off at breakneck speed, but two pretty women—barely more than girls—clad in dove-gray dresses had remained behind. Each took one of Grace’s elbows and had led her at a more careful pace toward one of the wings of the keep. She would have shaken off their hands
and told them she could walk on her own, but she wasn’t entirely certain that was true. Her knees shook, and she felt light and hollow.
She had wondered then what had become of Durge in all of the chaos, and had glanced over her shoulder. Gloomy as he was, she rather liked the knight, and though she seldom made friends, she thought she could use one in this unfamiliar place. However, the brown-eyed knight had been nowhere in view, and before she could ask about him the maidens had led her through a door into the keep.
Now Grace let her gaze wander over the room. It was perhaps five paces across and nearly twice as long. One end of the room was dominated by a gigantic four-posted bed. The top of the bed was so high off the floor that a stepping stool placed before the footboard was the only practical means of climbing up. At the other end of the room was a fireplace in which a cheerful blaze crackled, and on the far wall was a narrow window glazed with thick glass. All around the room colored tapestries hung against the walls and depicted flowering trees, lushly tangled vines, and clear fountains. So vivid were the images in the weavings that if she half closed her eyes, Grace could almost believe she stood in an idyllic spring glade. Almost. For despite the fire and the tapestries, and a worn carpet beneath her feet, a chill radiated from the stone walls and floor. By this, and the musty odor that lingered on the air, she suspected this room had not been used in some time.
Grace decided to look out the window in an effort to get her bearings—she had lost all sense of direction in the castle’s mazelike corridors—and moved toward the far wall. Halfway there she halted—something she had not noticed before caught her eye. In a corner near the fireplace was a large wooden tub filled with water. Even as she watched, a crisp curl of steam rose from the water’s surface. On a stool next to the tub lay a neatly folded cloth towel, a brown lump she took for soap, and a porcelain bowl filled with dried herbs and flower petals.
Grace cast another look at the window. She wanted to learn more about where she was. However, the window wasn’t going anywhere, and right now her chilled body ached to feel itself immersed in hot water. She debated the issue—window or bath?—for a second more.
Bath won out.
She stood before the fire, kicked off her cold shoes, and started to unbutton her blouse. It was only then she noticed her left hand was clenched shut in a tight fist. She thought about it and realized it had been so all along. With her right hand she had clutched the blanket around her while on the knight’s horse, and it was also with the right she had reached toward Alerain. Her left hand had remained closed throughout all of it, so numb with the cold she had not noticed. Now, with her right hand, she unclenched the left.
Something small and silver shone on the palm of her hand.
Grace peered at the object she had clutched so tightly. It looked like half of a coin. There was a design on each side, but she could not make them out, for the half-coin was too worn. It must have been very ancient. Yet where had it come from?
A raspy voice seemed to speak again in her mind. It is merely a token. Yet in it there may reside some small reservoir of strength.
Of course. He had given it to her. The weird preacher man in black. Brother Cy. She remembered something small and cool being pressed into her hand, just before she had opened the door of the orphanage. Just before everything had gone white and she had awakened to find herself here, in this …
“… world?” she whispered aloud.
Yes. That was the word that had been hovering on the edge of her understanding, waiting for her to voice it. This was not present-day Earth. Nor was this even Earth as it had been in some past century. She wasn’t certain how she knew this, only that she did. Perhaps it was some deep and primeval human instinct, embedded in her chromosomes over the course of millions of years of evolution—sensitive to slight discrepancies in the color of the light, or the force of gravity, or the chemical composition of the atmosphere—that told her this was not her world.
Yet that did not seem entirely right. If that were truly the case, then the knowledge she was no longer on Earth—that she had somehow stumbled through an impossible doorway into another, alien world—should have flooded her veins with fear and adrenaline. Wasn’t that how instincts worked? However, for all its strangeness, there was something about this place that felt oddly … comfortable.
None of this served to answer her primary question. How had she gotten here? Had he sent her to this world? But the preacher had told her what lay beyond the door of the orphanage was up to her. Perhaps something deep inside of her had wished to find a way to another world.
She dug into the pocket of her chinos and pulled something out. It was damp and rumpled but still legible: the business card Hadrian Farr had given her. Farr had told her it was the mission of the Seekers to search for and study strange occurrences.
A jolt of grim humor hit her. “You should have stuck with me, Farr. It doesn’t get any stranger than this.”
A shiver reminded Grace of the steaming tub of water. She set the card and the half-coin on the mantel above the fire place, then took off her necklace and placed it beside them When she got back to Earth—if she got back, she amended, then suppressed the thought—she would call the number on the card and talk to the Seekers. However, right now there were other matters to concern her, the most immediate of which was survival.
As quickly as she could with her stiff fingers, she shucked off her wet clothes and piled them in a heap before the fireplace. Then, without even testing the water, she climbed into the tub.
She let out a gasp. The water was shockingly, painfully, and deliciously hot. A series of violent shivers surged through her body, and needles of pain danced across her skin. She forced herself to stay submerged. Her shuddering eased, and the bright pinpricks faded to a pleasant tingling. Finally the heat seeped into her chilled core, and her shivering ceased. She let out a luxuriant sigh and sank deeper into the tub as her stiff muscles melted.
She decided it was time to scrub and reached for the lump of soap. It was soft and fatty, and its smell was faintly rancid. However, it was soothing as salve when she rubbed it on her skin. She sprinkled the dried herbs and flowers into the water, and a sweet fragrance rose upward, effectively masking the unpleasant odor of the soap, as was clearly their purpose.
After this, Grace leaned back, soaked, and drowsed for a time. At last the water started to cool. With a sigh, she climbed from the tub and toweled off in the glow of the fire. Soon she was dry and warm. And, she realized, quite naked. She eyed the clothes piled on the hearth. They were steaming now, but still sopping.
She gazed around the room, and her eyes fell on a tall cabinet in a corner. She threw open the cabinet’s doors, and this action confirmed her initial suspicion. It was a wardrobe. Inside were several gowns, each a different color, but all fashioned of soft wool. Folded on a shelf above were some sort of undergarments, made from undyed linen. All looked to be about her size. No doubt these things had been brought here ahead of her, along with the tub of water. Grace gave the odd clothes a dubious look. None of them were exactly her style—chinos and a blouse were about as dressy as she ever got—but she supposed necessity superseded fashion.
The undergarments were easy enough to comprehend. They were soft and not unlike a pair of long underwear. She slipped them on, then started to reach for one of the gowns, but at that moment a wave of weariness washed over her. Between her ordeal in the woods and the warmth of the bath, she was exhausted. Her gaze drifted toward the massive bed, and immediately her only thoughts were of sleep. She clambered up the stepping stool, flopped onto the bed, and sighed as she sank down into expansive softness. Goose down.
Then, for a time, she did not think of all that had happened to her. She did not think of the man with the heart of iron, or of Hadrian Farr, or of Brother Cy. She did not think of this strange world, or of how far away from Earth she might be. She did not even think of the hospital, or of the endless stream of broken people that streamed through the Emergency
Department’s door.
Grace’s last conscious effort was to burrow under the heavy bedcovers. Then she shut her eyes and drifted into a deep and peaceful sleep in which she thought of nothing at all.
29.
Travis and Falken reached the ancient keep just as the sun sank behind the rim of the valley and the lake turned from copper to slate.
“Shall we see if anyone is home?” the bard said. His black-gloved hand slipped to the knife belted at his hip, and belied his light tone. Travis didn’t need a magical translator for that message. He swallowed hard and gripped the hilt of his stiletto. Falken made a fist of his left hand and pounded on the door—a huge slab of scarred wood—three times.
There was a grating sound. Then, with a groan, the door opened a crack—just enough to reveal a single, bulbous eye. The bloodshot orb rolled back and forth, then focused on the two men.
“Who goes there?” a chalky voice said.
Falken answered in a formal tone. “Two travelers seeking shelter against the coming night.”
“Well, then you had better find another keep,” the voice said in a croak. “We’ve already taken in our share of vagrants. We couldn’t possibly squeeze in another, let alone two. Good-bye!”
The door started to shut, but Falken wedged the toe of his boot in the crack to keep it open.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, there are no other keeps,” the bard said. “We might be on the far frontier of the Dominions, but even here the laws of hospitality hold sway. Or have you forgotten?”
This resulted in a burst of cackling. “I have forgotten nothing. Yet I’m afraid King Kel doesn’t go in much for laws—except for ones he makes up himself, of course. Still, I doubt you’ll find a lord more hospitable to those he favors—or more harsh to those he does not.” The eye squinted to a slit. “Which be you, Falken of the Blackhand? Friend or foe?”