Beyond the Pale

by Mark Anthony

  It was odd, but the busier everyone in the castle became, the less Grace had to do. The second morning after Queen Ivalaine’s arrival she found herself fingering the fine wool cape Aryn had given her. Before, the outdoors had been largely off-limits because of the freezing air and her desire not to perish from hypothermia. The cape, however, changed everything.

  She picked up the garment. She should ask, she knew it. But Alerain would be too busy, and there was no chance of her seeing the king. Besides, no one had told her that she couldn’t and, after all, wasn’t she a duchess?

  You’re rationalizing, Grace.

  But she didn’t care. She was bored, and boredom more than anything else made her feel dangerous. Before she could change her mind, she threw the heavy cape over her shoulders and slipped out her chamber door.

  Ten minutes later, Grace stood at the gate that led to the castle’s lower bailey. She pulled the cape around her shoulders and pressed herself against the inside of the stone arch. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. It had been nearly two weeks since that day Durge had brought her to Calavere, two weeks since the first and last time she had been in the castle’s main yard, and then she had been safely above it, on the back of the knight’s horse. Now she was on foot, and she had forgotten just how busy the lower bailey was.

  “You wanted to do this, Grace,” she said through clenched teeth. She took a bold breath and stepped forward.

  The mud was deeper than she expected. It squelched around her boots and nearly sucked them right off her feet with every step. People jostled past her: peasants bearing baskets of bread or apples, squires dashing on errands for their masters, merchants selling beer and candles and bolts of cloth. Once Grace found herself engulfed by a flock of bleating sheep, and it was all she could do to keep from getting trampled into the mud by four dozen cloven hooves.

  No one in the bailey greeted her or paid her any attention. The cape covered her gown, and most likely nobody had mistaken her for a duchess. Besides, Grace doubted noblewomen ventured here without the company of attendants. Most of the people around her were the serfs and freemen who worked the land and did the lowly chores that made a feudal kingdom work.

  She moved deeper into the bailey and wound her way through the confusion of stalls and carts and horses. Many things caught her eye: bowls of beaten copper, knives of bright steel, wooden boxes inlaid with ivory and lapis lazuli, beeswax candles, and spools of dyed thread. A man horribly scarred by disease displayed on twisted fingers the exquisite silver rings he was selling. Ragged children wound their way through the bailey, begging or selling crude wooden charms on strings, carved into various shapes: a woman holding a hunting horn, a man with the face of a horse, a black bull.

  “Mysteries!” the children cried. “Mysteries for sale!”

  Grace blinked in realization. Of course—the bull charm must represent the beast associated with Vathris, god of the warrior cult. Which meant the hunting woman and the horse-man represented other mystery cults. Apparently, in the Dominions, there was not just one religion.

  She halted and gazed at something at her feet. It was one of the charms, trampled into the mud where someone had dropped it. She picked it up and brushed away the soil. One of the crude bulls. A needle-sword was stuck into its back, and red-painted blood flowed down its black wooden flanks. She brushed the needle-sword with a finger. So this world sacrificed its gods as well. She slipped the charm into her leather pouch and moved on.

  A delicious scent filled her nose—warm and sweet and spicy—and all at once she was hungry. She followed the scent to one corner of the bailey. At the base of a tower, between two wooden buildings, a man stood beside a clay oven. His face was red, but whether from the heat of the oven or from shouting it was impossible to say.

  “Spice cakes!” he cried above the roar of the throng. “Spice cakes, warm and toothsome, favored by the king himself!”

  He turned and saw Grace before him, and a grin split his ruddy face. By the poor state of his teeth he had sampled his own wares more than a few times. He held a small brown cake toward her.

  “Come, Your Highness,” he said, “try one.”

  Your Highness? So much for her disguise. She clutched her cloak around her throat and shook her head.

  His grin broadened. “Ah, but you will find it delicious. Made with rare spices of the mysterious south, from Al-Amún, far across the Summer Sea.”

  “I shouldn’t,” she said.

  “And why not, Your Highness? Don’t you deserve as much as anyone something sweet and good?”

  Grace opened her mouth, but she found no words for a reply. How could King Boreas think she could pry secrets out of royalty? She could hardly speak to a commoner.

  He held the cake out farther. “Here, Your Highness. You take it.”

  She hesitated. Was he giving her a gift? Or did merchants in the market often give nobles samples of their wares, in hopes of winning their patronage? More likely the latter. Either way, she decided, it would be an insult not to accept.

  Grace reached out and took the cake. It was warm in her hand. A rich scent, like cinnamon and nutmeg yet not quite either, rose from it. She brought the cake to her mouth and took a tentative bite. Then she took another, and another, until the cake was gone.

  The man beamed in satisfaction. “You liked it, Your Highness?”

  Grace nodded. “Yes, very much. Thank you.” With that she turned and started away.

  A callused hand gripped her wrist and jerked her back around. She let out a gasp.

  “Just a moment, little sister. The cakes are a silver penny apiece.” The man’s expression was no longer friendly. His small, black eyes burned into her like hot stones.

  She shook her head. “A silver penny? But I thought … I thought you gave it to me.”

  He did not let go of her wrist. “Gave it to you? Now why should I give you a cake, little sister?”

  She licked her lips. “Because …” Now that she voiced the words they sounded utterly absurd. “… because I’m a duchess.”

  He let out a harsh laugh. “Oh, of course you are, Your Highness. And I’m a duke, so we’ll get along just fine. If you give me my money, that is.”

  She stared at him, then it struck her. Your Highness. Little sister. He did not think she was royalty—it had been a nickname, nothing more. He had not given her the cake, but expected her to pay for it.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t … I didn’t realize. I don’t have any money. But I’m sure I can get some, if you let me go to the keep.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, little sister, not until I get my money.” His breath was sweet and fetid, a mixture of spices and decay.

  “But I told you, I don’t have any—”

  The swiftness of his action stunned her as much as the impact. He whirled her around and shoved her back against a stone wall. The air rushed out of her lungs in a sickening whoosh.

  “So you’re a thief then?” he said. “Do you know what we do to thieves here, Your Highness? We cut off their hands, so they can’t steal again.”

  He tightened his grip around her wrist, and she could feel the bones inside grind together. People in the crowd passed by as if they did not see—or did not care—what was happening. Now he smiled again. The expression was more horrible than his anger.

  “It’s all right, little sister.” His voice dropped to a croon. “I’m a fair fellow. If you’ve got no money, I can think of a way for you to pay.”

  He pressed her against the wall with his body. Rough stones dug into her back. Heat radiated in stifling waves from the oven a few feet away. He pawed at her cloak with one hand, while the other reached down to hike up the front of his soiled tunic.

  Grace stiffened. Fear and pain gave way to rage. Her mind grew terribly clear.

  No. I swore it. Never again.

  She locked her green-gold eyes on his. He hesitated, and his leer gave way to puzzlement.

  Never!

/>   It happened too fast to see. One moment he held her against the wall. The next he was screaming. The merchant stumbled away from her and beat at the flames that licked up the back of his tunic.

  Now people stopped and stared. The merchant fell into the mud and clawed at his blazing tunic with blistered hands. The crowd closed around him, though whether to help or to watch Grace could not tell. She slid sideways along the wall, turned, and fled across the bailey.

  She was brought up short by a flash of emerald.

  “Lady Grace, are you well?”

  The world reeled. Only by force of will did she manage to keep from falling into the muck. She clenched her jaw and forced things back into focus.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you, Lady Kyrene.”

  “Her Majesty is looking for a bolt of cloth for a new gown,” Kyrene said with a smug expression. “She asked me to help her. And why are you in the market today, Lady Grace?”

  “I …” Grace glanced over her shoulder. The crowd had already dispersed, and there was no sign of the merchant. Perhaps he had stumbled away, or perhaps others had carried him off. “I just came out for a walk, that’s all.”

  The countess of Selesia displayed her white kitten teeth in a smile. “Really? Like the other day? I never did have a chance to tell you how nice it was to see you, love.”

  Despite her rattled state, Grace was aware enough to wince at these words. She fumbled for a response but could do no more than stutter. Then another voice spoke.

  “Do not make small conversation, Lady Kyrene. Can you not see our sister is distressed?”

  Only at the sound of the clear voice did Grace realize Kyrene had a companion. She was tall, as tall as Grace, and clad in blue-gray. Gems sparkled in her hair. What had Kyrene said? Her Majesty …

  “Queen Ivalaine!” Grace hurriedly attempted a curtsy.

  “Please, sister. Rise.”

  Sister. The merchant who had tried to … the merchant had used the same word. But it sounded so different when it came from the queen’s lips. Not mocking, but warm and secret and inviting. Grace looked into her ice-colored eyes. The woman’s beauty stole away her fear.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Grace said.

  She now saw she had been right—noble ladies did not venture into the lower bailey unescorted. Behind the queen were several men-at-arms, as well as a red-haired woman. She was plump and pretty, and her face was touched by fine, wise lines. Grace recognized her from the queen’s entourage. She was Tressa, Ivalaine’s first lady-in-waiting and, Aryn had said, her closest advisor.

  “Tell me, Lady Grace, has something ill befallen you?”

  Grace froze. Like a wounded animal, her first instinct was to hide her hurt, to nurse it in a dark and private place. If you told another, how could you ever pretend it didn’t happen? But something in the queen’s voice calmed her.

  “There was a merchant selling cakes … I ate one, but I didn’t have any money … he was angry, and tried … he tried to stop me but … a spark from the oven must have landed on him … his tunic caught fire and …”

  The queen’s eyes grew hard, and she nodded, as if she understood far more than Grace’s disjointed words alone had told.

  “Do not worry, sister,” Ivalaine said. “If the flames did not take him, then another end will be found for him. I will make certain of that.”

  The queen spoke the words in a cool tone—not angry, not vengeful, simply matter-of-fact. She made a slight nod toward one of the men-at-arms. He bowed, then moved purposefully through the crowd. Grace shivered. She did not doubt the queen’s will would come to pass.

  She licked her lips. “Shouldn’t we tell King Boreas what happened? It is his castle, after all.”

  “But we are women, love,” Kyrene said in a purr. “There is no need to concern Boreas with this affair. Men mete out their justice, and we our own. Is that not so, Your Majesty?”

  Ivalaine did not acknowledge Kyrene’s words. Instead she regarded Grace, her eyes intent, as if looking for something.

  “Walk with us, sister,” the queen of Toloria said.

  Grace wanted nothing more than to go back to her chamber. But, little as she knew of politics and courtly manners, she guessed one did not decline a polite request from a queen. She bowed her head and walked beside Kyrene and Ivalaine. Tressa and the men-at-arms followed some paces behind.

  “Your words skillfully avoided it, Lady Grace,” Ivalaine said, “but I know what you did.”

  Grace glanced at the queen, startled. “I’m afraid I didn’t even think, Your Majesty. I didn’t know he expected me to pay for the cake. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have even—”

  “That is not what I meant, Lady Grace. You know it as well as I. A single spark could not have set a man’s tunic to flame so quickly.”

  “But—”

  Ivalaine halted and laid a hand on Grace’s arm. “You know what truly happened, sister. You have only to allow yourself to believe it.”

  Grace remembered—the call of owls, the darkened corridors, her nightgown torn. Then the fire, the fire and the screams. Once before flames had taken hands that had touched her, once before fire had set her free. But it was chance, that was all. It had to be. Grace shook her head, forced the memories away.

  Now Ivalaine clasped Grace’s hands between her own.

  “You are right, Lady Kyrene,” the queen said. “She has the Touch.”

  Kyrene gave a triumphant smile.

  “It is strong in her hands. Far stronger than in any I have seen in some time.”

  Kyrene’s expression faltered. She cast a startled look at Grace, then her eyelids descended over her emerald eyes, turning them to slits.

  Grace snatched her hands back. “The Touch? What do you mean?”

  Ivalaine’s visage was solemn. “The Touch of healing, Lady Grace—of control, of power.”

  Grace gazed down at her hands, long and slender, just like the queen’s. The Touch of healing. How many people had these hands brought back from the brink of death in the Emergency Department? How many hearts had they coaxed into beating again, how many pains had they soothed? But there was nothing miraculous about any of that. It was emergency medicine, that was all. It was IV drips, and chest tubes, and crash carts, not something strange and special. Not … magic.

  “Grace!”

  She looked up at the sound of her name and caught a blur of sapphire-blue. Aryn pushed her way between two merchant stalls and rushed toward the three women, oblivious to the hem of her gown trailing in the mud.

  “Grace, are you all right?” The baroness’s blue eyes were wide with fear.

  Grace lifted a hand to the bodice of her gown and stared at her friend. “Yes, Aryn, I’m fine. Why?”

  “I just … I just had a feeling that something was wrong.” Now she sighed. “It’s silly, I know. I shouldn’t have bothered you. But the feeling was just so strong for a moment.”

  Grace shook her head. If Aryn only knew the truth of it.… “It’s not a bother,” she said. “But how did you know to find me here?”

  Aryn opened her mouth, then shut it and frowned, as if not entirely certain of the answer.

  “You simply knew she was here, didn’t you?”

  It was Ivalaine who spoke the words. Aryn looked up in startlement, as if only just noticing the queen and the countess stood there. She bowed her head.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. It almost does seem like that. But it was just a good guess, I suppose.”

  Ivalaine did not answer her. Instead she turned her ice-blue gaze on Kyrene. “Why did you not tell me about this one?”

  Kyrene gave a languid shrug. “She is a child, sister.”

  Ivalaine rested a hand beneath her chin. “She is young, yes, but more than a child, I think.” Her eyes flashed. “And here, in this place, you may yet call me Your Majesty. Sister.”

  Kyrene’s green eyes went wide. “Yes, Your Majesty!”

  For a moment, next to the queen, she looked not like the lush coun
tess Grace knew, but rather a spoiled, chubby child who only now realized she had overstepped her boundaries long ago. Grace understood little of what had just transpired, but this made her smile all the same.

  “I think I’d like to return to my chamber now,” she said. “If I may take my leave, Your Majesty.”

  Ivalaine gave a nod. Grace curtsied and with Aryn made her way through the crowd, back toward the sanctuary of the upper bailey. She did not need to look over her shoulder to know that two glints of emerald watched her as she went.

  59.

  Two kings arrived at Calavere the next day.

  Sorrin, King of Embarr, rode to the castle gate just after dawn, accompanied by an austere entourage of no more than five wagons, ten courtiers, and a dozen knights, each one as dark of hair and grim of face as Grace’s rescuer, the knight Durge. King Sorrin himself was a tall man, but hunched over, thin almost to the point of emaciation, and unexpectedly disheveled for royalty. His hair was lank and tangled, his black garb threadbare and unkempt. Yet he was a king all the same, and even gaunt and sharp-boned there was a stony handsomeness to his face, and his brown eyes were keen and intelligent—although, it seemed to Grace from her position on the battlements, there was something haunted about them as well.

  The horns blew again near midday to announce the arrival of King Lysandir of Brelegond.

  Lysandir’s company stood in vivid contrast to Sorrin’s and was even larger and brighter—if not necessarily grander—than Queen Ivalaine’s entourage. Lysandir himself was a plain, balding, soft-looking man of middle years who was all but invisible within the vast tonnage of scarlet, blue, and gold he wore. Most of the members of his extensive traveling court were clad in only slightly less ostentatious fashion, and even the horses wore peacock feathers in their bridles. Although painted in bright colors, the king’s wagons seemed to be in poor repair, and one lost its wheels as it rattled through Calavere’s open gates. Grace laughed aloud at the sight of three gaudy courtiers spilled into the mud by the wagon’s fall, their mouths open in circles of dismay.