Beyond the Pale

by Mark Anthony

  The young woman curtsied deeply. How could she possibly manage the action in that heavy gown? But she made the motion appear effortless.

  At last the young woman straightened. “Am I disturbing you, Your Highness?” she asked in a clear voice.

  Grace’s surprise gave way to exasperation. She let out a groan. “Not you, too.”

  A look of alarm crossed the young woman’s visage. “Has Her Highness been disturbed previously in her rest?” Alarm turned to quiet outrage. “Be certain I will find the perpetrators of this terrible act and have them suitably drubbed, Your Highness!”

  Grace thought of the two frightened servants and shook her head. “Oh, no—no drubbing. Please. Really, no one disturbed me. It’s just …” She took a step toward the young woman. “It’s just everyone keeps calling me Your Highness, and I really wish they wouldn’t.” There, she had said it.

  The other nodded, and a knowing smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Lord Alerain warned me you would maintain this, Your High—that is, my lady. Of course, I will respect your wishes. However, you must let me know how I am to address you.”

  Manic laughter tickled Grace’s throat. “How about if you just call me Grace? It even happens to be my name.”

  “Well, that would seem to be the logical choice then, wouldn’t it?” the young woman said.

  Either she had entirely missed the wryness of Grace’s comment, or she was responding with an even subtler humor. Grace could not decide which. Curiosity began to replace her trepidation.

  “And you are …?”

  A chagrined look crossed the other’s face. “Well, it seems I left my manners in my other gown today.”

  Grace breathed in relief. Definitely humor.

  “I am the Lady Aryn, Baroness of Elsandry.” The young woman said this in a slightly pained voice, as if she found the title somewhat trying. “However, if I am to call you Grace, then you must call me Aryn, and were you the queen of lost Malachor, I would still not accept a refusal in this regard.”

  Never in her life had Grace been comfortable around other people. Yet she felt almost at ease in the company of the young noblewoman, as if there were some connection between them she could sense but not quite name. She made her own clumsy attempt at a curtsy.

  “I wouldn’t dream of refusing your request, Aryn.” Feeling positively brave, she fixed the baroness with a sharp look. “Now, do you plan to come in and shut that door, or is it your particular intention to let in that icy draft? I’ve already been half-frozen once today, and that really was enough.”

  “I’m so sorry, my lady!” Aryn hurried into the room and shut the door behind her. The playful mirth had fled her expression, and concern clouded her eyes.

  Grace groaned inwardly. Well, you’ve certainly done a good job of botching the mood. I suppose that will teach you to try being funny.

  She spoke in earnest then. “Please don’t worry, Aryn. I was only being foolish.”

  She did not want the baroness to leave in fear as the servants had. Rarely in her life had Grace sought out companionship, but at that moment she realized just how profoundly lonely she was. But what could she say to convince the baroness to stay?

  “I’m afraid I have a tendency to be a bit too wry for my own good sometimes. Please, you have to forgive me.”

  A radiant smile lit Aryn’s face. “You needn’t apologize, Grace. Certainly not after all you’ve endured today.”

  They gazed at each other, then the baroness rushed forward and reached out to squeeze Grace’s left hand with her own.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you’re not dreadful!” she said, then she snatched her hand back and bowed her head.

  Grace was unnerved in the wake of the baroness’s gesture. “What made you think I would be dreadful?”

  Aryn glanced up. “Usually noble ladies who visit Calavere are troubled only with asserting their status over the highest-ranking woman in the castle.” She let out a despondent sigh. “Which, I’m afraid, at the moment happens to be me. I’m King Boreas’s ward, and ever since Queen Narena passed away, it has been my duty to greet and entertain all visiting ladies of importance. This typically consists of listening politely while I am told in no small amount of detail how much grander and more luxurious their households are compared to mine, how much finer and more expensive their clothes, and how much faster and more fearful their servants.”

  “Sounds delightful,” Grace said. Aryn’s description reminded her more than a little of the power plays in Denver Memorial’s Emergency Department. There, the residents had constantly jockeyed against each other to win the favor of the attending physicians. It was a game Grace had not cared to play. “However, as I told Lord Alerain, I’m not royalty, so there’s certainly no need to be afraid of me.”

  “Of course, Grace,” the baroness said. “As you wish.”

  It was clear the baroness believed Grace’s denials of nobility as little as had the king’s seneschal. However, Grace did not press the point.

  Aryn continued with increased enthusiasm. “Regardless of your station, or your reason for traveling to Calavere, I’m glad you’re here, Grace. You see, there are so few women of manners in the castle who are even remotely near my age. I must confess, I had secretly hoped you would be absolutely wonderful, and that you would wish to spend time talking together, and taking walks in the garden, and …” Her cheeks flushed. “But I’m being horribly presumptuous, aren’t I?”

  “Yes, you are,” Grace said. “However, you’re also lucky in that you’ve happened to presume correctly.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then Aryn laughed. To her surprise, Grace found herself joining in. Apparently she was much better at humor when she wasn’t actually trying to be funny. She would have to remember that.

  After this, Aryn gestured to a stone bench set into the wall before the window. The two sat together in the honeyed light of late afternoon. Grace shifted on the bench and searched for something to say. She had never excelled at the art of conversation, though it might have been for lack of practice.

  “So, do I have the king to thank for the kind hospitality I’ve been shown?” She tried to make the question sound as if it weren’t completely forced.

  Aryn shook her head, and a fleeting smile played about her lips. “Oh, no. I’m afraid that King Boreas is usually far too preoccupied to see to the needs of his guests. Ruling a Dominion is a rather distracting job. At least, so I would imagine. The king rarely so much as exchanges pleasantries with visitors to Calavere, unless they are of the greatest importance. Taking care of guests is my job.”

  “Then I would like to thank you,” Grace said. “For everything. And especially for these.” She gestured to the deerskin boots she now wore. “They’re absolutely wonderful.”

  “I’m so glad you like them, Grace.” A shadow of concern touched Aryn’s forehead. “Alas, I see none of the gowns I left for you were similarly suitable. I was afraid that might be the case. However, you’re quite a bit taller than I, so I had few choices. Those are Queen Narena’s gowns—she was almost exactly your size. I had dared hope they would do temporarily, but they are rather out of fashion. However, if I could impose on you terribly to wait, by tomorrow I could have the king’s tailor alter one of my own gowns for—”

  Grace shook her head and interrupted. “No, it wasn’t the gowns, Aryn. I’m afraid it was me. I just couldn’t figure out where all the straps and hoops were supposed to go. I’ve never worn anything like it before.”

  Aryn raised an eyebrow. However, if she thought Grace’s statement odd, she was too well mannered to say so. “Well, then, I will simply have to show you.” The baroness moved to the wardrobe.

  After a moment Grace decided to ask the question that had been growing on her mind ever since coming to the castle. “Why are people here afraid of me?”

  Aryn turned around. “What on Eldh would make you say a thing like that?”

  Eldh? Was that the name of this world? Grace filed that
question away for later. Now, before she lost her nerve, she explained the way in which the guards had looked at her, and how the two serving maidens had reacted when she woke. When Grace finished, Aryn pressed her lips together in worry.

  “You know the reason, don’t you?” Grace said.

  Aryn sat down beside her, her expression concerned. “You really mustn’t worry about it, Grace. They’re common people, after all—predisposed toward superstition. And toward gossip as well. I fear you hadn’t been here an hour before the story of how the earl of Stonebreak found you in Gloaming Wood had run thrice around the castle. Of course, the tale grew more fantastic and further removed from the truth with every telling, until soon the servants had convinced themselves that you are in fact a …”

  “That I am what?”

  Aryn drew in a deep breath. “That you are in fact a fairy queen.” She shook her head. “I know, it is a great fancy, but there are many strange stories about Gloaming Wood. Of course, these are nothing more than tales to frighten children by firelight. Still, you were perfectly white when the earl brought you into the castle, and you are certainly beautiful enough to be one of the fey folk. I’ve never seen eyes the color of yours. They’re remarkable, like a forest in summer. So I hope you won’t be too upset that the servants mistook you for a queen of the Little People.”

  The baroness laughed at this, then her mirth faltered. “They are mistaken, aren’t they?”

  This was the first time Grace had ever been accused of being a fairy queen. She did her best to sound reassuring. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m afraid I’m completely mundane.”

  Aryn’s smile gathered strength once more. “I rather doubt that. There’s nothing mundane about you, Grace of Beckett.” The baroness leaned forward, threw her left arm around Grace’s shoulders, and pressed a cheek to hers. “We’re going to be friends, aren’t we, Grace?”

  Grace stiffened, alarmed by this sudden display. This was exactly the sort of intimacy she had guarded herself against all her life. She didn’t dare get this close to another, not now, not yet. It was far too dangerous. However, gradually, the baroness’s warmth melted through her fears, and Grace tentatively returned the embrace.

  “No, Aryn,” she said to her own amazement. “I think we already are.”

  It was then Grace realized what had been bothering her. The second the baroness of Elsandry had entered the chamber, her doctor’s instincts had pricked up in alert, had sensed something was wrong. Until that moment those instincts had been content to remain in the back of Grace’s mind, patiently and dispassionately observing. Now they rushed to the fore. Before she even considered what she was doing, she gently pushed the baroness away and regarded the young woman with probing eyes.

  “May I look at your right arm, Aryn?”

  The baroness’s face paled, and a shadow stole into her eyes. “My arm? Why should you want to look at my arm?”

  “I’m a doctor,” Grace said in a solemn voice. “I might be able to help you.”

  “A doctor?”

  “I heal people, Aryn.”

  At last the baroness nodded. “I see. You mean you are a chirurgeon.”

  “You’re surprised,” Grace said. “Are there no women doctors in this … in Calavan?”

  Aryn gave her a puzzled look. “All healers are women, of course. Men consider it beneath them, though in truth I think they are simply squeamish. Besides, they lack the patience for so subtle a craft. But I might have known you were a chirurgeon. You have the look of a woman of wisdom about you.” The baroness braced her shoulders. “Of course you may examine me, Grace, but I doubt there is anything you can do to help me.”

  With the same precision she always used when examining a new patient in the ED, Grace lifted the fold of cloth that draped Aryn’s shoulder. Beneath, the baroness’s withered right arm rested in a sling fashioned from a linen kerchief.

  Aryn sat perfectly still and stared impassively out the window while Grace examined her and systematically formulated a diagnosis. Unlike the left arm, which was normally developed, the right was malformed and profoundly atrophied, being perhaps two-thirds the length of its companion. Bones were visible beneath the wax-pale skin, twisted and fragile, like the braided tendrils of a wisteria vine. Wisp-thin muscles clung to these, displaying that perfect liquid smoothness that comes only with persistent disuse. The hand was folded in on itself and held in a perpetually flexed and pronated position—wrist and palm downward, digits curled in. The last three fingers, only partially developed, were syndactylous, contained within a single sheath of skin. The result was disturbing and alien, yet beautiful, like the white, contorted arm of a kabuki dancer, frozen in a gesture of quiet sadness: the fall of a wounded dove, the stillness of a yew branch in winter.

  “Can you squeeze my fingers?” Grace asked in her crisp doctor’s voice.

  Aryn frowned, concentration written across her forehead. The curled digits closed softly around Grace’s hand. Then, with a gasp, the baroness pulled her arm back and held the withered limb close against her side. With her left hand she deftly replaced the fold of her gown and concealed the arm once more.

  Grace took a deep breath. “You’re right, Aryn. It’s a congenital defect. There’s nothing I can do.”

  Aryn nodded in reply. “You mustn’t worry, Grace. I don’t mind. Truly, I’m quite used to it.” With this, the baroness smiled. It was a brave and brilliant expression.

  Grace did her best to smile in turn. “I could show you some simple exercises. They would help increase your strength and range of motion. Nothing drastic, but you might be able to use your arm a little more than you can now.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Aryn said.

  A distant look crept into her eyes, and she gazed out the window. Her voice became a murmur.

  “In a way we have something in common, Grace. When I was born, my mother died in childbed, and when the midwife saw my … my arm, she told my father, the baron, that I was a changeling—a child spirited into my mother’s womb by the Little People. I was born in winter, and the old midwife would have set me out in the snow to perish. However, I was my father’s only child, and he was not a superstitious man. He cast the midwife out instead.” Her eyes returned from the window to focus on Grace, and her lips smiled once again. “So now both of us have been mistaken for the kin of fairies. I suppose that makes us sisters of a sort.”

  Grace could only stare in sorrow. How many times had she tried to resuscitate a baby pulled from a cold metal Dumpster? Maybe this world was not so far from Earth after all.

  A sharp knock sounded at the chamber’s door. Grace and Aryn exchanged looks, then the baroness rose to answer the knock. The door opened to reveal a stocky man clad in a mail shirt and a black cloak. Grace rose to her feet.

  The man-at-arms bowed, then cleared his throat and spoke in a loud voice. “I bring a summons from His Majesty, King Boreas of Calavere. The king respectfully requests the presence of the Lady Grace of Beckett in his chamber. Immediately.”

  Grace shot Aryn a look of terror. The baroness’s mouth dropped open.

  “I thought you said the king was too busy to greet his guests,” Grace said, breathless.

  “He is.” Aryn fixed Grace with an awed expression. “Unless … unless, as I said, those guests happen to be of unusual importance.”

  Grace lifted a hand to her chest and tried to breathe.

  36.

  Grace hurried after Aryn down the torchlit corridor while the man-at-arms marched behind them.

  In the bedchamber, the baroness had clucked over the drab servingman’s clothes Grace had donned. However, the guard had continued to stand in the doorway in wait for them, and there had been neither time nor opportunity for a change of costume. Aryn had taken a moment to pull an ivory comb from a pocket and subdue Grace’s ash-blond hair. Then the two had rushed out the door to half walk, half run through the castle’s maze of passages and hallways. Grace gathered one did not keep the king of
Calavan waiting.

  “Whatever you may think when you first meet him, King Boreas really isn’t so terrible,” Aryn said. “Well, most of the time, that is.”

  Grace winced. “That really isn’t all that reassuring, you know.”

  Aryn gave her a tight smile. “Sorry. I guess I left my wits in my other gown as well. I’ll try harder.”

  They rounded a corner, and the corridor widened into a long hall.

  “Boreas is a rather simple man,” Aryn said so only Grace could hear. “Though do not take this to mean he lacks intelligence, for he most certainly does not. However, the king tends to see things in absolutes, and he greatly favors action over debate. So if he asks you a question or wants your opinion on something, cut to the heart of the matter in as few words as you possibly can. And be warned: He may say things to deliberately startle or frighten you. It’s his way of testing people. The best reaction is to react as little as possible—don’t flinch or gasp. If he thinks you weak or flighty, he’ll dismiss you immediately. Although in his favor I will say he is no more biased toward women than men in this regard.”

  Aryn tapped her chin. “Oh, and one more thing. The king thinks he’s a good deal funnier than he actually is. So do try to pay attention to what he’s saying, and if it sounds at all like a joke, laugh. The louder the better.”

  Grace clenched her jaw. How was she possibly going to remember any of this? Facing Aryn for the first time had terrified her nearly to the point of paralysis, and she couldn’t imagine a person milder than the baroness. How was she going to face a loud and demanding king? If he was bleeding and unconscious on a gurney in the ED, she wouldn’t even blink. But whole and talking, asking her questions? That was a far different matter.

  “You’ll do just fine, Grace,” Aryn said, as if she sensed Grace’s thoughts.