by Mark Anthony
After the brief and pleasant respite with Aryn on the battlements watching the kings arrive, Grace was left to her own devices once more as the baroness hurried off to see to her duties.
Grace lingered along the route to her chamber. She did not feel like going back to her room and studying the books there, but the day outside had darkened, and although it was not quite cold enough to snow, it would most likely sleet. Besides, her two recent forays outside the castle’s main keep had both ended in unqualified disasters. It was safer to stay indoors. So, with no particular destination in mind, she wandered.
Usually when she walked, Grace fidgeted with her necklace, the one that had been found with her as a child. Since she had come to Eldh, she had kept it safe in the leather pouch she wore at her waist. Now she drew it out and slipped it around her neck. The trapezoidal piece of metal was cool against her throat. She lifted a hand and brushed the angular symbols etched into its smooth surface. Runes. That was what Hadrian Farr had called them. Farr had said the ironhearts were interested in runes like the ones on her necklace. But why?
“I wish you were here now, Farr,” she said. “Something tells me you would understand everything that’s been happening better than me.”
But Farr was a world away. It was doubtful she would ever see him again, or Denver for that matter. The thought should have made her shudder, but somehow it didn’t. She felt no more remorse at leaving Earth than she had at leaving North Carolina after medical school.
What’s wrong with you, Grace? Can’t you feel anything a normal person should?
She tucked the metal pendant beneath the bodice of her gown and walked on.
Grace was just thinking of returning to her chamber when, from around a corner, came a crash followed by a scream. A second crash jerked her out of paralysis. She dashed around the corner and took in the scene before her.
A serving maid in a brown dress knelt on the stone floor surrounded by broken crockery. Tears streamed down her face, and the red outline of a hand showed clearly against her cheek. Above her stood a rotund man in gaudy crimson, his face twisted in rage. He raised a ring-encrusted hand, and the serving maid cringed.
People terrified Grace. Violence, however, she had dealt with daily in the ED.
“Stop, Lord Olstin.”
She did not raise her voice—shouting was not effective and, she had discovered, could actually spur people to do the opposite of what one wished. Instead she spoke the words in a low-pitched, precisely enunciated voice. The man snatched his jewel-covered hand back and spun around. For a moment his beady eyes darted about, then they locked on Grace. He unclenched his fingers, smoothed his rumpled garb, and inclined his head.
“Your Radiance.”
The curl of his upper lip belied his polite tone. She ignored him, moved to the serving maid, and knelt beside her. With precise movements she examined the young woman’s face, searching for other signs of injury.
“Does it hurt anywhere when I touch you?”
“No—no, my lady,” the serving maid said. “Only my cheek.” She was no longer crying, and her brown eyes were wide.
Grace nodded. The blow to the young woman’s cheek did not appear serious—there was no damage to her facial bones—but it was going to bruise, and badly. She helped the serving maid to her feet. The young woman adjusted the gray cap on her head and straightened her dress. Grace turned on Olstin.
“Why did you do this?”
The seneschal of Brelegond jumped backward. “I commanded this … this insolent wretch to bring a pitcher of goat’s milk to King Lysandir’s chamber. My liege is feeling indisposed, and it soothes his stomach. But the milk she dared to bring was curdled—an insult to my king.”
The serving maid shook her head. “I told you, my lord. The milk was sweet when I poured it. The Little People must have gotten to it when I turned my back for a moment. They’re the cause of such mischief.”
“You dolt!” A spray of spittle accompanied Olstin’s shrill words. “There are no such things as Little People, only stupid serving wenches. I’ll have you flogged for what you’ve done!”
Olstin lunged toward the maid. Grace stepped into his path.
“Go, Lord Olstin.”
He glared at her. She did not move.
“Now!”
Olstin hesitated, licked his lips. Uncertainty crept into his beady eyes, and he backed away.
“King Boreas will hear of this, my lady.”
“I’ll tell him myself,” Grace said.
He shot her one last poisonous look, then turned on a heel and was gone. Grace slumped against a wall. Something told her she had just made an enemy.
A soft touch on her hand. She looked up, and the serving maid gave a shy smile.
“Thank … thank you, my lady.”
Grace drew in a breath, and managed a faint smile in reply. “What’s your name?”
“Adira, my lady.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t come around the corner sooner, Adira. My name is—”
“Why, the Lady Grace, of course!” The young woman’s face brightened. “I’ve seen you many times, my lady. Indeed, I saw you only just yesterday in the bailey, talking to Queen Ivalaine.” Her eyes shone. “She’s a witch, you know, like the Lady Kyrene, only far more powerful they say. Are you going to be a witch, too?”
Now Grace felt like she was the one who had been slapped. She could only stare.
“I want to be a witch,” Adira said. “I’m going to ask the queen.” Now her eyes narrowed, and a sly smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Then Lord Olstin will be sorry for what he did to me.”
Adira picked up the pieces of broken crockery, thanked Grace again, then sauntered down the corridor, hips swaying. Grace hardly noticed her leave. She clutched the cold wall and gazed into the dim castle air.
A witch? Was that what Ivalaine intended for her?
60.
It was a drizzly afternoon four days later when Grace and Aryn stood on the battlements and watched the last of the kings arrive at Calavere. They clutched their cloaks around their shoulders against the sleet and late-Sindath wind, which was as chill as anything a Denver November could muster, and far more cutting.
King Persard of Perridon had come with sunset the day before, and Queen Eminda of Eredane had arrived at Calavere only that morning. Now Kylar, King of the Dominion of Galt, approached the castle gate. Kylar’s entourage was by far the smallest of all the kings’ and queens’—even smaller than King Sorrin’s austere traveling court—and the party appeared more roadworn and ragged than any of the others that had come before. A number of the horses were lame, and many of the courtiers limped along on foot, clad in mud-flecked browns and grays rather than rich golds and purples.
Grace gave Aryn a puzzled look. “I thought you said Galt was the nearest Dominion to Calavan.”
“It is.”
“Then why is Kylar the last to arrive? And why does his company look so … bedraggled?”
Aryn sighed. “I’m afraid it’s to be expected. It’s well known that King Kylar is the unluckiest man in Galt, and without doubt Galt is the unluckiest of all the seven Dominions. Which I suppose would make Kylar the most unfortunate man in all of Falengarth.”
Grace watched the last of Kylar’s company hobble through the archway below. At that moment the rain ceased, and a flood of golden sunshine spilled through a break in the clouds to gild Calavere’s nine towers.
Grace glanced at Aryn. “You weren’t kidding, were you?”
The baroness shook her head.
They headed back inside and strolled together toward Grace’s chamber. On the way, as she had for the last three days, Grace searched for the courage to tell Aryn of her encounter with the serving maid Adira. But it was all so ridiculous. Queen Ivalaine couldn’t really be a witch. Could she? True, Kyrene seemed to think she had some sort of power over others, and it was clear she looked to the queen as a model. And there were many things about this world Grace didn’t
understand. She opened her mouth to speak the words aloud.
“Lady Aryn, may I have a moment with you?” a man’s voice said.
Grace snapped her jaw shut. The two women turned to see Lord Alerain walking toward them. As always the king’s seneschal was trim and neat in his black-and-maroon attire.
Aryn touched Grace’s hand. “I’m sorry, Grace. Alerain no doubt needs my help. There’s to be a revel tonight.”
“A revel?” Grace said. “What’s that?”
“Oh, didn’t I mention it?” The baroness’s expression was a shade too innocent.
Grace narrowed her eyes. “No, you didn’t.”
“It’s rather like a feast,” Aryn said.
“So all I have to do is eat a lot?”
“Oh, no! Don’t do that, Grace. Then you wouldn’t be able to dance.”
“Dancer?”
Grace started to say more, but by then Alerain had reached them, and the baroness only smiled as she took the seneschal’s arm. Alerain made a stiff bow toward Grace, then baroness and seneschal departed down the corridor.
Grace grumbled under her breath. “Would Her Radiance prefer to dance tonight, or to hurl her body off the castle wall? Oh, I believe we’ll go with the castle wall this evening, thank you. Yes, Your Radiance, whatever you wish, Your Radiance.”
But there was no one to hear her little performance, and she trudged back to her chamber to start getting ready.
That night, as the revel commenced, Grace paused in a corner of Calavere’s great hall and made certain her newest possession—a slim dagger, given to her by Aryn earlier that day—was still secure in its sheath inside her doeskin boot.
“No proper lady should be without one,” Aryn had said when she stopped by Grace’s chamber to give her the weapon. However, Grace suspected her encounter with the merchant in the bailey, rather than fashion, was the true reason for the gift. She was beginning to think there was steel beneath the young baroness’s gentle demeanor.
Grace drew out the knife. The dagger’s jeweled hilt was ornate yet fit smoothly into her grip. Without doubt this knife had been made to suit a woman’s hand, and although the blade was slender, it was sharp and deadly. She slipped it back into its sheath. She doubted she would have need of it, yet all the same the dagger felt reassuring against her skin.
She straightened and noticed again the dark stone—or was it metal?—artifact that hulked nearby. She had asked Aryn about it the other day, but the baroness had known little, other than that it had been in the castle for centuries, and that some believed it was a relic of ancient Malachor. Grace started to reach out, curious to touch its smooth surface, when a voice called out behind her.
“Grace, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Grace turned and smiled at seeing Aryn. “And now that you’ve found me, you have to keep me company.”
Aryn did not argue the point, and the two walked together through the crowded hall. Grace saw King Boreas near the cavernous fireplace, in conversation with Queen Ivalaine of Toloria. Kyrene hovered just behind the queen, a haughty cast to her lips. Ivalaine’s visage was as beautiful as before, while the king could not seem to stop frowning.
“Why does King Boreas seem so unhappy to see her?” Grace said. She thought back to her lessons in history and politics. “Aren’t Calavan and Toloria allies?”
“Historically, yes.” Aryn took a goblet of wine from a servant, handed it to Grace, then took one for herself. “But King Boreas subscribes to the Mysteries of Vathris, and there has long been a rivalry between the Cult of the Bullslayer and those with whom Ivalaine consorts.”
Grace frowned. “And who are they?”
Aryn licked her lips before she whispered the words. “The Witches.”
An electric jolt surged through Grace. The Witches? So Adira had been right. Ivalaine was a witch—whatever it was that truly entailed. And no doubt Kyrene considered herself one as well. Grace gripped her goblet and downed the wine in one long swallow. Then, before she lost her nerve, she told Aryn everything: the strange things Ivalaine had said about the Touch, and Adira’s hope to become a witch by talking to the queen.
Aryn’s eyes grew rounder as Grace spoke, then she took a step backward. “Grace, is it true? Do you … do you have it, then? The Touch?”
Grace groaned. “How would I know? I don’t even know what it is.”
Aryn took another step in retreat. Grace shook her head. No, Aryn couldn’t pull away from her. Not now, not after everything that had happened.
“Don’t you dare be afraid of me, Aryn,” she said. “Ivalaine was interested in you, too. Remember that.”
The baroness blinked, then her look of alarm was replaced by one of regret. She reached out and took Grace’s hand. “I’m not afraid of you, Grace. Just for you, for both of us.”
Grace managed a weak smile.
“But we must not let King Boreas learn any of this,” Aryn said.
Grace squeezed the baroness’s hand in firm agreement. As long as she had Aryn beside her, things didn’t seem quite so terrifying.
As they continued through the hall, music floated down from a wooden gallery where a troupe of minstrels worked their craft: Flutes trilled over a buzzing drone accompanied by a gentle drumbeat. Many of the nobles took partners and danced to the music in stiff, intricate patterns. Grace saw Logren among them. He was clad again in pearl-gray, his dark hair swept back from his forehead. In contrast to his height and elegance, his dancing partner was a diminutive yet sturdy young woman, with a plain face and kind brown eyes. Grace recognized her—she was Kalyn, advisor to King Kylar of Galt, and Kylar’s twin sister. The two whirled in Grace and Aryn’s direction, and Grace turned her head.
Aryn raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong? I thought you said before you liked Logren of Eredane.”
“He’s busy at the moment, that’s all.”
Before Aryn could question her further, Grace pressed on. Then Aryn clutched Grace’s arm, and they halted.
“There, do you see him?” the baroness whispered.
She nodded obliquely toward a young man with broad shoulders and a short blond beard. He stood nearby, talking to several older men. They laughed at something he said, and he gave a dashing smile.
“Who is he?” Grace said.
“His name is Leothan. He’s a noble in southern Toloria, only an earl, but he has high standing in Ivalaine’s court and is no doubt destined for more. I was hoping he might ride here with his queen.”
“Why?”
“In two years, when I am twenty-one, King Boreas will release Elsandry into my care, and I will need to marry, so there will be a baron to help me in caring for the king’s fief.” Aryn’s blue eyes shone. “Leothan is most handsome, don’t you think?”
Grace mentally kicked herself. “Yes,” she said, “he is.”
The group of noblemen broke up, and Leothan turned and walked in their direction. Aryn hesitated, then squared her shoulders and stepped directly into the young earl’s path. He came to a halt before the two of them, smiled his brilliant smile, and bowed.
“Good eventide, Your Highness, Your Radiance.”
Grace nodded, and Aryn made an elegant curtsy.
“Good eventide, my lord,” the baroness said.
He made a broad gesture toward the dancers. “A fine revel, wouldn’t you say, my ladies?”
“Indeed it is.” Aryn took a deep breath. “Would you care to dance, my lord?”
Leothan’s smile never faltered, but a queer light crept into his eyes, making them hard and flat. “I’m afraid this dance requires two hands, my lady.”
Aryn stared, uncomprehending, then she glanced down, and her face went white. The elegant fold of cloth that draped her right shoulder had fallen aside, and her withered right arm had slipped free, twisted and delicate as the broken wing of a dove. She looked up with an expression of horror.
Leothan bowed again. Somehow it was a mocking gesture now. “If you’ll
excuse me, my ladies?”
Aryn managed some reply, and the young earl moved away through the dancers.
Grace stared after the earl in a fury. He was so beautiful outside, but she could almost see it—the ugly blot that was his heart, as cold and hard as the lump of iron she had found in the dead man’s chest at Denver Memorial Hospital. Beauty made a perfect mask for evil. That was why it was allowed to walk the world, why people sought it out, invited it in, and embraced it.
Grace heard a sigh, and her anger drained away. She moved to Aryn and redraped the fold of cloth over the baroness’s right shoulder.
“Aryn, he’s not even worth—”
“No, Grace, I’m all right.” She pulled away. “Really. Look, isn’t that your friend, Durge?”
Grace glanced across the hall. Sure enough the Embarran stood against a wall, arms crossed over his deep chest, black mustaches drooping, brown eyes somber.
Grace brightened at the sight of the dark-haired knight. She had not seen Durge since the last feast, and she had missed him. If only she could convince the knight that a visit from him would be anything but a bother. Durge didn’t make her feel like other people did, like there was something broken inside of her, something of her own to hide, if not with a fold of her gown, then with silence.
She waved at Durge and steered Aryn toward him, and although the knight did not smile, it did seem the gloomy air around him lessened a bit.
“Durge, it’s so good to see you,” Grace said.
“My ladies.”
The knight started a stiff bow, but Grace reached out and took his hand instead. He fumbled a moment, recovered, then kissed her hand—a bit clumsily, but the gesture was a thousand times more charming than all Leothan’s elegant poses put together. Grace supposed Durge might be considered homely. His face was angular, his nose craggy, his forehead furrowed by years of sober expression. But to her he was far better-looking than any Leothan.
An idea struck her. She looked at Aryn. “Perhaps Durge would dance with you.”
The knight cast a startled glance at Aryn. “I’m certain the baroness would much prefer to rest than dance with me.”