by Mark Anthony
Aryn gave a hasty nod. “Yes, I would. Thank you for understanding, my lord.”
Grace frowned. She opened her mouth, but just then horns heralded the start of supper. Durge bowed and begged his leave.
“But aren’t you eating at the high table?” Grace said.
“Now that the kings and queens have arrived, Boreas does not need the likes of me to fill his board.” The knight did not seem disturbed by this, merely matter-of-fact.
This news disappointed Grace. She almost told Durge she would sit wherever he did, but Aryn tugged her hand, and she was forced to make a hasty farewell instead.
“I don’t see why you like Durge so much,” Aryn said as they walked toward the high table. “He’s old. And so gloomy. And not handsome at all.”
“Really?” Grace said. “And here I was thinking he’s the kindest man I’ve ever met.”
Aryn opened her mouth, but by then they had reached the table, and the baroness was forced to take her seat to Boreas’s left, while Grace moved to an empty spot at the table’s end. Once seated she found herself next to King Kylar of Galt. Now that she saw him at close quarters he was even younger than she had thought, no more than twenty-five, with an open face and hazel eyes that seemed too gentle to belong to a monarch. She took a sip from the wine goblet that rested between them, wiped the rim with a napkin, then—feeling bolder—introduced herself to the young king. His smile was shy but genuine, and he took the goblet when she handed it to him.
“It is g-g-good to meet you, m-m-my lady.”
He fought the words valiantly to get them out, then looked away, his cheeks red beneath the soft down of his brown beard.
Yes, of course. He had raised the goblet in his left hand. He fit all the typical categories then: male, left-handed, a twin. On Earth he would have undergone speech therapy, as well as counseling to help him overcome his anxiety at speaking. Most likely he would have spoken normally by age ten or twelve. But here … here he would probably stutter his whole life. Grace sighed. She was starting to think, just maybe, she hated this world.
Her hand crept across the table and touched his: cool, reassuring, a doctor’s hand. “May I pour you some more wine, Your Majesty?”
He gazed at her, then his smile returned, crooked and grateful. “Yes, th-th-thank you, Your R-r-radiance.”
Grace almost winced at his gratitude. What would Kylar think if he knew she was this kind, this assured only because he was damaged? She pushed the thought aside and poured.
As Kylar drank, Grace surveyed the high table. The kings and queens of the Dominions all sat in sharp contrast to one another. There was King Sorrin of Embarr, Durge’s liege, at the far end of the table, gaunt and sallow, hunched over his plate, not touching his food. Queen Eminda of Eredane sat next to him, a thick-waisted woman of middle years who might have been comely in a matronly way were it not for the perpetual frown into which her mouth was cast. Beside Eminda was King Persard of Perridon. He was by far the eldest of the royals—thin and frail, with only scant wisps of hair left to float above his skull—but his eyes were bright and mischievous. When he saw Grace gazing at him, he winked, grinned, and made a gesture with his hands that could have only one, lewd, meaning. She moved her gaze quickly down the line.
Aryn and Alerain flanked King Boreas, who looked bored and restless, and drank entire cups of wine where others had sips. Near the dark and bullish king of Calavan was Ivalaine. The Tolorian queen gazed in regal silence over the hall, her eyes glittering like mysterious gems. Last of all, between Ivalaine and King Kylar, sat King Lysandir of Brelegond. Or at least Grace assumed it was he amid the masses of crimson and gold. She could hardly see the balding king of Brelegond for all his finery, though she could certainly hear his constant demands upon the servants, shouted in an impatient, nasal tone. Grace moved Lysandir to the bottom of her list of the kings and queens. Those who acted the most important seldom truly were.
Servants came to the table, bearing steaming platters of food, and—as they had at the last feast—the castle’s two runespeakers approached the table. Starting one at each end they moved down the length of the table and spoke a rune of wholesomeness over each plate. They were halfway down the table when a shriek rose above the din of conversation.
“Keep your filthy magic away from me!”
As one, those at the high table turned and stared as Eminda of Eredane leaped to her feet. The young runespeaker before her gave Boreas a look of confusion. The king of Calavan scowled, then gave a flick of a finger, indicating for him to move on, which he quickly did. Eminda seemed embarrassed now, and her cheeks glowed red as she sat once more. Logren moved from his place at a lower table to his queen’s side. He spoke with her for a moment, then turned to address King Boreas.
“My queen asks that you forgive her, Your Majesty. She is weary from her journey and is not used to all the customs of your castle. Runespeakers are not … common in Eredane these days.”
Boreas grunted. “Of course. Her Majesty should not be concerned. And she has my word my runespeakers will not trouble her again.”
Logren bowed and returned to his seat, and the course of the supper resumed. Grace and Kylar spoke little as they ate, but they smiled much, and it was not at all unpleasant—except when Kylar spooned up an insect from the bottom of his steamed pudding.
“Please d-d-don’t worry, my lady. I’m quite ac-c-c—I’m quite used to it.”
He smiled, as if just because one was used to hardship it made it all right somehow. Grace smiled in return, although she did not feel like doing so, and stirred her own pudding. She almost hoped she would find a beetle as well, but she did not.
Once dinner was over the music and dancing resumed, although Lord Logren led Queen Eminda from the great hall, and King Sorrin had disappeared at some point during the meal. King Persard left as well, a plump serving maid on each of his scrawny arms and a grin on his wrinkled face.
Boreas approached the corner where Grace and Aryn stood. “Would you care to dance with your king?” he asked the baroness.
“Your Majesty, I’d rather have my feet trod upon by a herd of wild horses.”
Boreas clapped his hands together. “Lady Aryn, I’m proud of you! That lie almost sounded convincing.” The king glanced at Grace. “Perhaps there’s hope for my ward yet.” He gripped Aryn’s hand. “Now let’s dance.”
The baroness shot Grace a pleading look, but Grace knew her friend was lost beyond hope. Boreas dragged Aryn into the throng and began tossing her around in a series of dizzying circles.
Grace watched all the nobles in the great hall dancing—moving in complicated patterns she couldn’t hope to understand. She sighed. “I’m never going to figure out how to do this.”
“The dance is not so difficult as you think, my lady.”
She lifted a hand to her chest and turned around. Durge stood in the dimness beside a stone column.
“I wasn’t talking about the dance, Durge.”
The Embarran knight stepped forward. “I know.”
Grace shook her head and wished she could believe him. She gazed again at the dancers. The great hall seemed a stormy sea of color in which she could all too easily drown. If only she had something to help keep her afloat, something or …
She turned back toward the knight. “I can’t do this alone, Durge. I can’t be King Boreas’s spy at the council. Not by myself.” It was not like her to do so, but she didn’t care, not now, not in her desperation. She reached out and touched his shoulder. “Will you help me, Durge? Not just tonight, but tomorrow, and the next day, and through all of this. Please?”
His face seemed carved of stone. Grace thought he was going to pull away. Then he shrugged.
“Now that my king is here with his favored servants and counselors, there is little enough for me to do. I’m afraid I’m a far better fit on the road than I am at court.” He gave a solemn nod. “Yes, my lady, I will help you, but not out of any desire to further King Boreas’s causes. I w
ill help you for your sake, and your sake alone.”
Grace surprised herself then—she laughed, and for the first time in days she felt a sense of hope. The sea still churned around her, but she was not lost yet.
“That makes three times you’ve rescued me, Durge.”
To her surprise, embarrassment, and—strangest of all—her delight, he knelt before her and bowed his head.
“At your service, my lady.”
61.
It was late.
Grace woke to moonlight streaming through the window of her chamber. She sat up in bed, grimaced, and lifted a hand to her temple. Her head throbbed—the aftereffects of too much wine. She was still clad in the woolen gown she had worn that evening, now bunched up and rumpled. She forced herself to think back. After her conversation with Durge she had felt bold enough to walk around the great hall in the knight’s company. She had spoken with some of the nobles, and even a king or two. Only it seemed every third person had thrust a full goblet into her hand. The last thing she remembered was Durge leading her back to the door of her chamber, and then … she must have climbed into bed without changing and fallen asleep.
But what had awakened her? It had been a sound: distant, yet high and silvery, a sound almost like … bells. Yes, that was it, a sound like far-off church bells on a still winter night. But she had noticed no bell tower in all her wanderings about Calavere. And even if there were, who would ring the bells so late at night? Urged on by curiosity, she slipped from the bed, padded to the chamber door, and stepped into the corridor.
The stone floor was cold against her bare feet. She had gotten her boots off at least. She glanced down the corridor in both directions. The castle was silent. Now what?
She was just beginning to feel foolish, just beginning to think she should go back into her room, drink some water, shuck off her gown, and slip back into bed, when she heard them again. Before, in her sleepiness, she couldn’t be certain. Now she was wide-awake, and there could be no doubt. The faint sound had not come from outside the castle, but from within.
Bells.
She hastened down the corridor in the direction of the sound. A minute later she heard them again, closer this time. She quickened her pace until she nearly ran down twisting passageways. Then a blast of cold air brought her to a halt. The corridor ended in an alcove set with a single round window. The window hung open, and frigid air streamed in. Grace approached the window, shivered, and peered through. It had snowed outside, but now the clouds had parted, and the land glowed under the light of the rising moon. She looked down, and that was when she saw them, at least twenty feet below: a line of small depressions dinted in the newfallen snow. Footprints.
The trail led to the edge of the hill on which the castle rested, then vanished over the edge. Grace lifted her eyes and peered in the direction the footprints led. Her gaze crossed white, glowing plains to a dark line on the horizon. The eaves of Gloaming Wood.
How long she gazed out the window she wasn’t sure. A shiver jolted her back to the present. Whoever—whatever—had jumped out the window was now long gone. She shut the window, then turned and started back toward her chamber.
She was halfway there when she rounded a corner and let out a gasp. In front of a door, not a dozen paces away, stood a man. At least Grace assumed it was a man, for she could not see his face, as he was clad from head to toe in a robe as black as night. He held a knife in his hand and was using the tip to carve something into the surface of the door.
Grace drew in a breath, unsure what to do, then called out. “Hello.”
The robed figure froze, then the cowled head snapped in Grace’s direction, although she could not glimpse the face within. She took a step forward. The figure turned and fled, his robe billowing behind like black wings. Something fell with a clatter to the stone floor.
Grace held out a hand. “Wait!”
It was too late. The stranger turned a corner and was gone. Grace shook her head. Why would anyone be afraid of her? She walked to the door the stranger had been standing before. There. It was so small she probably never would have noticed it had she not seen him doing it. A symbol had been scratched into the wood of the door near the upper left corner, formed of two curved lines:
No matter how much Grace stared at it the symbol made no sense. She sighed—she was far too tired to think. Tomorrow she could bring Aryn or Durge here. One of them might know what the symbol meant. Perhaps it related to one of the mystery cults.
Grace turned away from the door, and a flash of silver caught her eye She bent and picked up the object. It was a small knife with a black hilt. The stranger must have dropped it when he fled. She tucked it into her belt as she started down the corridor. Grace wasn’t sure why, but the knife seemed important for some reason.
She reached her chamber without seeing another soul and slipped inside. Quickly—her room was cold—she shucked off her gown and, navigating by the brilliant moonlight, climbed onto her bed. She started to pull back the bedcovers, then gasped. With a trembling hand she reached out and picked up the object that rested on her pillow.
It was a sprig of evergreen. She remembered a pair of nut-brown eyes gazing at her, and she saw again the small footprints in the snow. Then Adira the serving maid’s words echoed in her mind. The Little People must have gotten to it.… Grace tightened her grip on the twig. She didn’t know what it all meant, but one thing was certain.
Strange things were prowling the halls of Calavere.
62.
On the last day of Sindath, the day before the Council of Kings was to convene, a curious traveling party arrived at the gates of Calavere.
The news—along with Aryn—found Grace in the east wing of the castle’s main keep, in the company of the knight Durge. A week had passed since the evening of the revel, when Grace had felt herself adrift in the subtle sea of power and politics in the great hall and Durge had pledged his help to her. During the intervening time Grace had learned a great deal about the art of intrigue.
“The first rule of any conflict,” the knight had said in Grace’s chamber the morning after the revel, “is never wait for your enemy to come to you. Rather, go to him first.”
Grace had stopped dead in her pacing to stare at the knight. “Even when you’re at a disadvantage?”
Durge had regarded her with his usual gravity. “Especially when you’re at a disadvantage. If you’re going to perish, better at least to choose the place.”
Grace had resisted the urge to scream. She was never going to best the other nobles at their own game—she might as well have embroidered the word amateur on her gown. Yet the alternative to taking Durge’s advice was to tell Boreas she couldn’t help him at the council. And the only thing that terrified Grace more than the prospect of playing Boreas’s spy was facing the wrath of the bullish king of Calavan.
She had sighed like one condemned beyond reprieve. “Let’s get started.”
However, a week truly did make a difference. In the days since that uncertain morning, Grace’s confidence had grown—tentatively at first, then by great strides.
One by one, she and Durge had questioned the nobles attending the council—the courtiers, the counselors, the seneschals. The two would wait until the most opportune moment, usually when the object of their attention was alone, then as one they would pounce. To Durge this may have been a war, but to Grace it was more like medicine: Observe, diagnose, then go in with a sharp scalpel. All she had to do was think of the nobles, not as people, but as cases to be solved, and it was not so different from a shift in the ED at Denver Memorial.
On that particular afternoon their chosen target was Lord Sul, High Counselor to Persard, the ancient—if sprightly—king of Perridon. Sul was an inherently fretful man and had proved an elusive quarry. They had followed him nearly an hour before they saw their opportunity and seized it. The two split up and came upon the counselor from opposite directions, trapping him in a corridor. Sul was a mouse of a man with big ea
rs and a whiskery mustache that was in constant motion. His black eyes darted from knight to lady and back to knight again. Grace bit her lip to conceal a smile.
“Tell me, Sul,” Durge said, “is it true what they say of your king?”
Sul fingered the neck of his tunic. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”
“Don’t you?” The Embarran knight backed the counselor up against a wall. “I’ve heard Persard will petition the Council of Kings to cede all the lands along the north bank of the Serpent’s Tail River to Perridon. But you know as well as I the north bank of the river belongs to Embarr.”
Sul batted his eyes. “But my king has no such plan!”
“You’re lying, of course,” Durge said. “I know you can’t help it, Sul. You’re a Perridoner, after all. Telling the truth goes against your basic nature. But in Embarr we have ways of convincing liars to speak the truth, and most of them involve heating iron tongs in a bed of coals first.”
The counselor’s eyes bulged as he struggled for words. Now it was Grace’s turn. She laid a hand on Durge’s arm and did her best to look imploring.
“My lord, can’t we resolve this with words rather than violence?”
Sul nodded in vigorous agreement.
Durge reached up and over his left shoulder to grip the hilt of the Embarran greatsword slung in a leather harness strapped to his broad back. “You cannot understand, my lady. Yours is too gentle a soul.”
“Please, my lord. Allow me to speak with the counselor. Just for a moment.”
Durge hesitated, then nodded. “Very well, my lady, but only a moment. Then I will deal with him my way.”
The knight stepped aside, and Grace approached the trembling Sul.
“I beg you, my lady,” the counselor whispered. “You seem to have some influence on this madman. Call him off!”
Grace gave her head a regretful shake. “I’m so sorry, my lord. It is beyond me to influence the earl of Stonebreak. You know how Embarrans are when angered. It’s the dreary landscape of their homeland. It makes them a trifle insane, I think.”