Beyond the Pale

by Mark Anthony

  Aryn sighed. “Close. The primary export of Galt is goat’s wool.”

  Grace’s lips twisted in a wry expression. “I should have guessed. What with all those rocks, there are bound to be lots of goats.” She looked up at Aryn. “So, I didn’t pass, did I?”

  The young baroness hesitated, then shook her head. “But you were wonderfully close, Grace.”

  Only Aryn could make failure sound like an accomplishment. “I don’t know how you keep track of everything, Aryn,” Grace said. “You’re amazing.”

  The baroness turned away and hunched her slender shoulders. “It’s nothing, really. It’s a noble’s job to know such things, that’s all. It behooves us to be familiar with our allies and rivals. Still, my knowledge is only a poor fraction of what Lord Alerain knows. It is said the king’s seneschal can recognize every noble in the Dominions, down to the least earl, on sight.”

  “He didn’t recognize me,” Grace said softly.

  Her own words startled her, she hadn’t meant to utter them aloud. Aryn turned around, her expression thoughtful, although what she was thinking Grace did not know.

  “I believe it is past time for a rest,” was all the baroness said.

  46.

  Not all of Grace’s hours were spent in study in the small stone chamber, for Aryn had other duties to attend to besides Grace’s education. As King Boreas’s ward, and as the highest-ranking lady in Calavere, it fell to her to make the household ready for the nobles that would soon arrive. Rooms that had not been used in a decade needed to be reopened and aired. The stores in the cellar had to be inventoried. And there were countless other details to oversee, from making certain there were linens enough for all the guests, to examining every spoon in the scullery to be certain each had been polished. Just listening to all Aryn’s activities was enough to make Grace tired. She decided she would rather work double shifts in the ED on a full moon Friday than be the lady of a castle for a day.

  To keep Grace occupied in the times she was away, Aryn brought an armful of books from the castle library to Grace’s chamber.

  “Oh!” Aryn gasped as she set the stack of books on the sideboard. Concern touched her forehead. “You do read, don’t you, Grace? I simply assumed … a lady of your station, that is … but if you haven’t learned, that’s perfectly …”

  Grace held up a hand. “It’s all right, Aryn. Yes, I do read. Almost everybody reads where I come from. Well, they can read, that is. I’m not certain they always do.”

  Aryn looked shocked. “Only a fool would squander such a precious gift.”

  “I won’t argue with you on that one.”

  The books were like nothing Grace had ever seen. Each was lettered painstakingly by hand and bound in leather gilded with gold and silver leaf. She opened one of them and turned the pages of stiff vellum with growing delight, for the margins of every page were decorated with intricate drawings of moons, stars, and intertwining leaves. These were not so much books as they were works of readable art. Grace eagerly gathered them up in her arms.

  For several afternoons in a row, while Aryn saw to her various duties about the castle, Grace curled atop the massive bed and read. The books Aryn had brought were largely histories that described the founding of Calavan and, in lesser detail, the other Dominions. Most of what she read was difficult to follow, and consisted of long lists that recounted the names of which knights and nobles had fallen in this skirmish with barbarians or that battle with a neighboring fiefdom. Still, it was enough to make Grace realize that, however kindly people had been to her, these were harsh lands, carved not all that long ago out of wilderness by sword and fire.

  It was while reading one of the books that Grace discovered the secret of the silver half-coin the strange preacher man had given her, at the ruins of the Beckett-Strange Home for Children back on Earth.

  One night she shucked off her gown and, clad only in her linen shift, climbed into bed. She took one of the books with her, to read by the light of a tallow candle. Except when she opened the book the words on the page were gibberish, as if written in some ancient, alien language. Yet she had been reading this same volume no more than an hour ago.

  Wait a minute, Grace. You’re a scientist, be rational about this. What’s different now that wasn’t a little while ago?

  Perhaps it was intuition. Perhaps it was a leap of logic based on some clues or evidence she had unconsciously noted earlier. Either way, a thrill ran up Grace’s spine. She moved to her cast-off gown, reached into the leather pouch fastened to the sash, and drew out the half-coin.

  After a little experimenting her initial hunch was confirmed. If she held the coin, or if it was anywhere about her person, she could read the books as if they were written in English, albeit a somewhat archaic dialect. However, if she was not in contact with the coin, the words were meaningless scribbles. When a serving maid entered Grace made another discovery. The coin affected not only written words, but spoken words as well. At first the serving maid seemed to speak in a lilting foreign tongue. Then Grace gripped the coin, and the girl’s words phased into meaning.

  “Forgive me, my lady, but I asked if you required anything?”

  “No. No, I’m fine.”

  The serving maid curtsied and left.

  It made sense, of course. Why would the people of another world speak English? It should have occurred to her sooner. But somehow the coin had worked to translate the language of this land, and she had not noticed. Grace opened her hand and gazed down at the broken coin on her palm. The partial symbols engraved on each surface glinted in the candlelight, but she could not guess what they might be. Whatever they were, one thing was for certain. Whoever he was, wherever he had come from, Brother Cy had some sort of connection with this world, with Eldh.

  Knowing that left just one question. Why! Why had he come to her at the orphanage? Or did I come to him? Grace sensed that if she knew the answer to that question, she would understand much. She tucked the half-coin back into her pouch.

  It was not a feeling she was accustomed to, but the next morning a strange sense of loneliness crept into Grace’s chest. She wished Aryn was there, but the baroness was off seeing to one of her myriad tasks. She moved to the window and watched the people below through rippled glass: squires, nobles, servants, all with names and purposes unknown.

  Grace drew in a deep breath. She knew this place was a world away from Denver. Yet it was not so different from the hospital, was it? At Denver Memorial she had never spoken much with the other residents and doctors, had never taken part in their impromptu hallway games or lounge chat sessions. She had felt there just as she did now, watching the bailey—distant, disconnected, observing but not taking part.

  Grace clutched the stone sill. There was nothing for her beyond the window. She started to turn away—

  —then halted. There, in the upper bailey, a figure walked toward the stable. He was clad all in black and gray, and his mail shirt seemed to weigh down his shoulders. Even from here she could see the way his long black mustaches drooped, and by that she knew him for certain. It was Durge, the knight who had found her in the forest.

  Over the last several days, Grace had often wondered what had become of her rescuer. Despite his gloomy demeanor—or perhaps even because of it—she had liked the Embarran knight. Though she had never been one to make friends easily, she had been oddly disappointed the knight had not come to visit her, if only to see how she fared. Durge was the representative of King Sorrin of Embarr. No doubt the knight was busy making certain things were ready for the arrival of his liege. Still, it would be good to at least say hello.

  Grace fumbled with the latch and threw open the window. A blast of frigid air struck her. She leaned out, raised her arm, and opened her mouth to call out to the knight below. As she did, a dread came over her. It was that same overwhelming fear she always felt when dealing with other people. Whole people. She froze. This is ridiculous, Grace. There’s no reason to be so afraid. He’s just a
man, that’s all. She steeled her will and tried again to call out, but by then it was too late. Durge had stepped into the shadow of the stable and was lost from sight. She lowered her arm, her hand aching with cold.

  Grace stared at the empty bailey below. Why was she always so afraid of others? She thought of the man she had shot at the hospital, the man who had killed Leon Arlington, who would have killed the old woman in the wheelchair if Grace had not stopped him—the man with the lump of iron in his chest. She lifted her hand to the bodice of her gown, but her fingers were so cold she could feel nothing. Maybe she was missing her own heart. Maybe they had taken it from her at the orphanage all those years ago, just like Detective Janson’s had been taken from him. Maybe that was why she couldn’t feel.

  Finally the cold was too great to bear, and she closed the window once more.

  47.

  The next morning, Grace’s fifth in Calavere, Aryn did not knock on the chamber door. The night before, the baroness had explained she was to be in audience with King Boreas for most of the day, working out details in preparation for the council. Grace was on her own.

  For a time she sat by the fire and read. She was determined to teach herself the language of this place. The half-coin was a remarkable artifact, and certainly it had saved her life by allowing her to communicate with the people of this world, but she dared not count on it. What if she were to lose the coin?

  It was painstaking work. First she would read a passage of the book with the coin in hand, then she would set it down and study the strange words once she knew their meaning. Already she could read a few phrases without the coin’s help.

  At last she blinked, eyes bleary. No amount of maddok is enough to cure brain-death, Grace. Put it up.

  She rose, set the book on the sideboard with the others, then began to pace, restless. It dawned on her that she had not left this chamber since her conversation with King Boreas four days ago. True, before there had been little need. She had been content with Aryn’s company, and the books, and rest. Food was brought to her at regular intervals, and in the corner there was a covered chamber pot, which the serving maids replaced twice daily. However, it was more than that. Beyond the door lay an entire world she did not understand, but within these four walls was a small space she could control and command, like the ED at Denver Memorial. Except now the chamber was starting to seem more like her old apartment. Grace felt bored and trapped, her legs ached to be stretched. It was time to leave her room.

  And go where?

  She thought this over, then an idea occurred to her. She could go speak with King Boreas. Certainly he would have some task for her. Perhaps there were some in the castle who were ill or injured. While she could not say she missed the Emergency Department or Denver Memorial Hospital, she did miss the healing—finding the places where others were wounded or hurting, and taking that pain away.

  Quickly, so as not to lose her resolve, she braced her shoulders, opened the chamber door, and stepped into the hallway beyond. If she had thought there would be someone there to stop her from leaving, then she was wrong. The corridor was empty, save for a young page who was walking past on some errand.

  “Your Radiance!” he said, then bowed and hastened on.

  Grace winced. Even though they did not know her rank or from where she hailed, somewhere along the way King Boreas and Aryn had decided Grace was at least a duchess. And, Aryn had explained, the proper term for a duchess was Your Radiance. It wasn’t much of an improvement over Your Highness, but Grace supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  She gazed down the corridor in either direction. One way looked much like another. She tried to remember something of the route by which Aryn had taken her to see King Boreas but could not, so she made her best guess as to which way the main keep lay and started down the corridor.

  After an hour she knew she was lost. By then she had made her way through a labyrinth of passageways, stairwells, and high-ceilinged halls. Each time she came upon a window, she would look out to find herself gazing on an unexpected part of the castle. She passed numerous people as she wandered—servants, men-at-arms, and, by their fine clothes, nobles of various ranks. All bowed or nodded their heads as she passed, depending on their station. While she might have liked to ask some of them for directions, none paused to speak to her or question where she was going. Apparently duchesses were supposed to know what they were doing.

  Eventually she found herself in a part of the castle that appeared, little used. Not even the occasional servant or guard walked these dim corridors. A dusty scent hung on the air, and cobwebs dangled from the ceiling. She was beginning to wonder if she would ever find her way back to more traveled ways when she rounded a corner and, to her relief, found herself gazing at a familiar face.

  “Your Radiance!”

  This time the words were uttered by Lord Alerain, the king’s seneschal. Alerain was dressed much as he had been the day Grace had first met him by the stables, all in black and maroon, with a long vest overlying all. For a fraction of a heartbeat Alerain seemed surprised. Then the moment passed, and everything about him was as sharp and precise as his close-cropped gray hair. He placed a beringed hand against his chest and bowed toward Grace. She made her best attempt at a curtsy and did not worry too much whether she had gotten it right. One advantage of a gown was that it was awfully hard for others to see exactly what you were doing inside of it.

  “Pardon me for just a moment, my lady,” Alerain said. He turned toward a man who stood a few paces away. The man looked to be a servant of some sort, dressed in a nondescript tunic and a leather cap. He would have been completely ordinary except his eyes were of different colors: one brown, one blue.

  “You may go now and see to your task,” Alerain said in a low but commanding voice.

  The man nodded—the gesture seemed a trifle curt—then started down the corridor. As he passed Grace, he glanced at her with his peculiar eyes, and for a moment a grin split his unshaven face. This struck Grace as strange—none of the other servants in the castle would so much as meet her eyes. Then the man was gone, and her attention was turned toward Alerain as the seneschal spoke.

  “I would not have expected to find you in this part of the castle, Your Radiance.”

  “You’re not the only one.” Grace lifted her hands in sheepish gesture. “I think I’m lost.”

  “Well, we shall have to correct that.” Alerain extended his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation Grace accepted it. The seneschal guided her down the corridor. For a time they were silent as they walked. At last Grace found the courage to speak.

  “I was hoping to find King Boreas.” She meant to explain further, but that was all she could get out for the moment.

  Alerain shook his head. “I’m afraid the king won’t be able to see you today, my lady. He’s quite occupied with preparations for the coming council. Do you have a request I might relay to him?”

  Alerain’s kindly demeanor bolstered her courage. “I was hoping to ask the king if there was anything I could do for him.” She was about to explain she was a doctor, but Alerain spoke first.

  “Are you learning about the Dominions and their various rulers and histories?”

  Grace nodded. “Yes. The Lady Aryn has taught me a great deal already.”

  “Good. That is all the king requires of you for now, my lady. He will be pleased to know of your progress. And when he wishes for you to do something else, I’m certain he will summon you.”

  These words caught Grace off-balance. She opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. No matter what world she was in, conversation was not one of her strengths. They had reached a well-traveled hall now, and Alerain disengaged her arm.

  “I fear I must see to other, less pleasant duties than escorting you, my lady. Can you find your way from here?”

  Grace peered around. The hall looked vaguely familiar. If she remembered her wanderings rightly, her chamber was not far off. “I think I can manage.” She tried
to sound more confident than she felt.

  Alerain smiled and made a precise bow. He bade her farewell, then turned and strode away. Grace sighed, then moved down a corridor. She was disappointed when she found herself before the door to her chamber. So much for adventures. But there was nothing else to do, so she opened the door and stepped inside.

  48.

  The next day a young page came to Grace’s chamber with a message from King Boreas. A feast was to be held at Calavere that night, and the presence of the Lady Grace of Beckett was required. At this news, Aryn laughed in excitement. Grace, in turn, panicked.

  “A feast?” She slumped into a chair by the fireplace. “I don’t think I’m ready for this.”

  “Nonsense,” Aryn said. “Feasts are easy. You just have to eat a lot.”

  “Something tells me King Boreas isn’t inviting me just for the food. After all, I’m supposed to be his spy.” Grace looked up at the youthful baroness. “So who else is going to be there?”

  Aryn scanned the remainder of the king’s missive. “The feast is being held to honor the various representatives of the kings and queens of the other Dominions. They’ve all arrived now, to make the necessary preparations for the Council of Kings before the rulers themselves get here.”

  “You mean everyone at the feast is going to be a noble?” Grace asked in growing dread.

  Aryn nodded. “But it won’t be so bad, really. You’ve already met one. Remember? Durge of Embarr. And he’s certainly the most dour of the lot.”

  Grace thought about the stern but kind knight. “Actually, I rather liked that about him.”

  Aryn shrugged. “Well, he did rescue you from Gloaming Wood, so I suppose you’re predisposed to be forgiving.” The baroness brightened then and knelt beside Grace’s chair. “I know this all seems frightening, Grace. But it’s not every day one gets invited to a feast by the king of Calavan. It’s going to be fun. You’ll see.”