“The color matches your eyes,” Lady MeMe said. “And such intricate embroidery. Where did your seamstress study? Llytlesby? Etoilia?”
“Madam Sewell learned weaving and stitchery from her mother,” Lyssanne said. “She’s never left the village.”
“This is the work of a village seamstress?” Countess Fynnette asked. “Why, those intricate flowers and vines stitched along the hem could rival the work of Lyrya’s court embroiderers. Less costly, too, I daresay.”
Lyssanne smiled. “Indeed. The stitchery was a gift, adornment for a friend's wedding.”
“Astounding,” the willowy dowager baroness said. “Your people must truly love you.”
“Well,” said Countess Fynette, “I, for one, am eager to see what finery she’ll wear to the prince’s feast. If this is her idea of a morning dress, it promises to be dazzling.”
“Lyssanne, are you well,” Lady MeMe asked. “You’ve gone pale.”
“Might we speak a moment in private?” she asked.
They stepped outside, Lyssanne’s heart lodging in her throat as she explained that this gown was her finest. Would wearing the same dress to dinner cause offense?
“Fear not,” Lady MeMe said. “I shall have Lily alter one of my gowns for your use. Now, think nothing of it,” she said, before Lyssanne could protest. “You’ve journeyed in the wilds for months; it is only right you have proper attire, for one night, at least.”
Lyssanne tensed. “I’ve not spoken of my travels. How do you—?”
“Brennus mentioned something of it to Duncan. I shall send Lily to you when the gown is ready. She will help you dress, since no lady’s maid accompanies you.”
With every kindness shown her, Lyssanne sank deeper into the mire of Jarad’s deception. Perhaps Reina could suggest a gracious way to extract them all from it.
Raised elfin faces peered back at Lyssanne from the shiny, rounded escutcheons securing the nose-high, brass handle to the door. She ran a forefinger over their sculpted, childlike features and pointed ears, then gripped the handle in both hands. Her fingers barely spanned its width. Had she the strength? These massive, twin slabs of oak barring her exit from the manor stood as tall as three men and nearly as wide. She stepped back and pulled.
The door swung inward with surprising ease, threatening to bowl her over. Calling forth every vestige of strength, she arrested its swing, pulled it behind her, and stepped outside.
The early afternoon sun glared off a solid sheet of white and silver marble—a trick of the eye, the sun’s position and dark silver veins in the stone conspiring to mask the edges of the steps. The rush of open air from below dispelled the illusion, as Lyssanne paused atop the twenty-eight stairs she’d counted the night before to prevent future stumbling.
She cast surreptitious glances at the guards standing sentry on either side of the door. They stared straight ahead, statue-still in their pale green finery.
She turned back to the steps, her entire body braced to help her see their edges. Alas, no railings. Instead, rectangular shrubbery beds flanked the wide expanse of stone, containing a shoulder-high honor guard of evenly spaced, conical trees…well, shoulder-high to her.
Fighting the slight vertigo that always plagued her at a precipice of unknown depth, she stretched out her hands, as if to use the air for a banister, and let the toe of her shoe find her way.
At the bottom, she spun to admire Avery Hall’s inner court. The emerald lawn sloped upward, forming the wide hill upon which the blue-roofed manor perched. The steps lay like a snowy carpet unrolled to welcome royal guests.
Like Prince Brennus. She must remember to address him properly when next they spoke. If they spoke. What could she say to him? She and Jarad should have departed hours ago, leaving behind these kind people who thought her something she was not—and the prince whose contradictory actions so confounded her.
However desperate her yearning to remain amidst the kindness and shelter she’d so long craved, she risked much in staying her journey for even another moment.
She rushed through the open inner gate and turned right, then paused. Had Lady MeMe said left instead? The high stables in which Reina was housed stood in the corner of the outer bailey nearest the sally port, but which way?
She turned to resume her hurried pace, but walked right into a wall…or had the wall run into her? She stumbled backward and found herself looking up at the tallest man she’d ever beheld, a man who would have dwarfed even Prince Brennus.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, mistress,” he said, bowing.
“Forgive me, sir. The fault is mine. My thoughts were elsewhere.” She bobbed a small curtsey, in case he was one of the many knights who seemed to be everywhere.
“Name’s Clark, mistress. No sir attached,” he said, his voice deep as a well but brimming with merriment. He lifted a wide shoulder, and sunlight glinted off the sword he carried across one arm, the shimmer dazzling against his plain brown tunic and leather apron. “My only dealing with weapons, nowadays, is over a forge.”
Lyssanne gasped. “You’re a blacksmith?”
“That, I am.” He touched his bald brow in a little salute.
“My father was a blacksmith.”
“Sword smith or farrier? Or was he a general craftsman?”
“I confess, I know nothing of his trade. He died before I was born.”
“A shame,” he said. “The state of his forge might tell you much, though. Was it—?”
“I never saw his forge. It, too, was destroyed in the accident.”
“Accident?”
“They say, my father died in an explosion. All that remained was a blackened lump of stone that once housed his fire. There wasn’t even anything of him to bury.”
Clark whistled through his teeth. “Powerful hot explosion, that. Puzzles me, what could cause such unnatural heat?”
“No one knows, or at least, they’ve never spoken of it.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, you just out for a stroll or lookin’ fer somethin’ particular?”
“I’m in search of the high stables.”
“That’s a bit of a walk, but I’d be glad to show you the way. If you’ll follow me, I’ll just drop this blade at my forge. It’s over by yon wall.”
“I should be most grateful for the assistance,” she said.
Moments later, as Clark deposited his burden, Lyssanne stood well away from the door to his forge, her breath catching in the heat even at this distance.
“I’ll have that back in shape in no time,” Clark said. “Now, to get you sorted out.”
He led the way past people and animals engaged in such a flurry of activity, Lyssanne couldn’t distinguish any of it. All was a swirl of color and sound. As they walked, he described the makeup of the castle’s outer reaches.
“The outer bailey’s a square,” he said. “Each leg has its purpose. This section holds craftsmen’s shops and work areas. The front-facing side’s fer merchants’ stalls, the gatehouse, and the armory. Along the right, are the garrison house, the lists, and the lower stables. The rear holds gardens and pens for the animals that serve the kitchens.”
He stopped, gesturing to a red-roofed building in the rear corner. “There y’are, the high stables, home to Their Graces’ finest horses. There’s grooms aplenty to serve your needs.”
“I thank you, Mr. Clark. It was truly an honor to make your acquaintance.”
“Well, now,” he said, his big voice sheepish. “Clark’ll do. I’m a simple man with a simple name, Mistress, er…”
“Lady Lyssanne!” Jarad shouted, running from the stables. “I thought it was you.”
“Yer pardon, my lady,” Clark said, bowing. “I should’ve known you fer a lady, but with yer saying yer father was a blacksmith and all, I just s’posed…”
“You supposed rightly,” she said. “I, too, am just a simple girl from a distant valley.”
“I get the feeling,” he said, “whatever ya be, simple has nothing to do
with it.” He chuckled. “Like the starlings nestin’ by my house. Stop by my forge anytime. I’ll show you a bit of what yer father may have done to pass the hours.”
“It would be a delight. I’ve often wished I knew more of his life.”
Clark offered one last half bow and lumbered off.
As Lyssanne strode toward the stables, Jarad fell into pace beside her. “That man’s huge!” he whispered. “Think he needs an apprentice? I could be a blacksmith.”
She laughed. “I have no doubt of it.”
“And everybody here speaks Starransi, even the stable boys. Lyryan and Starransi!”
“Well, ours is the common language of trade throughout the Seven Lands.”
“Yeah, but can you imagine anyone in Cloistervale knowin' two languages?” He paused. “We could stay here. One of the grooms says there’s always work to be found. It’s a nice place, too, don’t you think?”
“That, it is,” she said, her voice thick, “but we have much to discuss. First, let us find Reina and a bit of privacy.”
Noire crouched on the crimson roof, immersed in Jarad’s conversation with a stable boy.
“You any good with that bow?” the boy asked, passing Jarad a bucket of clean water. “Cuz if y’are, see, Lord Av’ry lets us hunt on his lands. Anything we want. ’Cept ravens.” He shivered. “Shoot one, an’ you’re for the stocks. That’s if ya just wound it. It’s death to any man who kills one.”
“Why? Is it like…a religion thing?”
“Nah, just the law. ’Specially when His Lordship’s friend’s in residence.” He leaned close and spoke low. “They say he trains ’em as spies, y’know. Like, whatever one o’ his birds overhears, he knows by nightfall. You came with him; is it true?”
“Sir Brennus?” Jarad asked. “No, that’s silly. I’ve never even seen him with a raven. Lady Lyssanne would say that kind of superstition’s only good for scaring people.” Jarad glanced over his shoulder and dropped his bucket. “Lady Lyssanne!”
Noire's feathers ruffled. She'd emerged, and he hadn’t seen her approach? He fought his feathers into submission. Distractions! He couldn’t afford them, not even here.
Jarad disappeared with Lyssanne into the stables. After long moments, he emerged with her and Reina in tow, heading for the sally port. “Please,” he was saying. “The stable hands all want me to join in the game.”
“Very well,” she said. “But remember what I’ve told you.”
“I promise. I still think it’s brilliant, though, us knowing…someone like him.” Grinning, he dashed off, pell-mell, careening into one of the guards who held the gate open for Lyssanne.
Reina and Lyssanne wandered out into the meadow. When they halted, still within shouting distance of the castle, Noire circled high above. While Lyssanne spread her blanket upon the soft grass, he alighted in a convenient clump of tall wildflowers a safe distance away, just in time to catch her and Reina mid-conversation.
“Perhaps,” Reina said, stretching out next to Lyssanne, “he simply feels more comfortable in the role of ordinary knight. If that’s the only life he’s known, he may not even think of himself otherwise.” She paused as Lyssanne’s dove landed on a corner of the blanket.
Perchance, denied the sport of raven-hunting, Duncan’s men would find the dove an appealing target. A pleasant thought, that.
“If his family’s in exile,” Reina said, flicking her tail at a bee, “he can’t have ever truly lived the life of a prince. Besides, his family may still have enemies.”
She knew?
“Whatever his reasons for silence,” Lyssanne said, “I can’t un-hear what I was told. What do I say to him, Reina? Do I go on as if I have no knowledge of this?” She twirled a blade of grass. “The revelation wasn’t of his choosing, but Lady MeMe may have told him of it.”
Noire’s stomach tightened. Duncan had mentioned nothing of this. Oh, he’d known the risk in bringing her here, but he hadn’t expected her to discover anything so soon. Ice rushed through his veins. What else had MeMe told her?
Lyssanne sighed and let the grass fall from her fingers like a discarded thought. She stared off into the distance then gasped. “I allowed him to…to tend me when I was ill.”
“I daresay, you had not the presence of mind to prevent him,” Reina said. “Had you known, his station would have made no difference.”
“Yes, but,” Lyssanne buried her face in her hands. “Of all things, he massaged my head!” She looked up, flushed. “How can I dare speak to him again? He’s a prince!”
“Who’s a prince?” The voice sizzled through the empty air an instant before its owner materialized over Lyssanne’s right shoulder.
Lyssanne jumped up and spun to face the spiky-haired faerie. “Please, Jada, could you give some warning before you do that?”
“What?” the faerie said, arms splayed. “I sent air ahead. It always pops or sizzles a little fanfare. You just need to be more watchful. So, who’s this prince you’re in such a bother about?”
Lyssanne released her death-grip on her pendant and exhaled. “Sir Brennus. He’s…but I’m not certain who knows of this. Perhaps I shouldn’t—”
“Oh, feathers, we know who he is.” Jada waved the matter away. “Why should that vex you? He’s only a human prince. You spoke well enough with the exalted queen of the FAE, and that wasn’t even your first time in the presence of royalty. Why, Princess Tria—”
“Jada.” With warning in her voice, the faerie Olivia resolved into view.
“Princess?” Lyssanne said. “What princess?”
“Well, you didn’t actually meet her,” Jada said. “Not face to face.” She shot a glance at Olivia. “Anyway, we should cut the chatter and get on with your lessons.”
“Now may not be the time, after all,” Olivia said, peering at Lyssanne. “You look drained. I suspect there is more to that than the unexpected origins of a knight you barely know.”
“She’s been unwell, of late,” said Reina. “More so than I’ve ever seen her.”
The unicorn detailed the nature of Lyssanne’s recent battle against pain. How much did the faeries, or even Reina, know of its true cause?
“Yes, the King said you’d had a rough time of it,” Olivia said, fluttering down to rest a hand atop Lyssanne’s shoulder. “I thought some practice in directing His Light might cheer you, but I see your heart and mind are elsewhere. Understandable.”
Lyssanne shook her head. “I can do this. You’ve come all this way, and I do wish to learn.” She squared her shoulders. “I shall think only on what you tell me.”
“No,” Olivia said. “You must first build up your strength.”
“Lyssanne has been invited to remain a guest of the border lord,” Reina said. “What think you? I sensed nothing untrustworthy in the man, but my skills in such matters are limited.”
Olivia turned to survey the walls of Avery Hall. “His lady honors the King,” she said. “You should all be safe in his hall, at least for a time.”
“That time may be shorter than you suppose,” said Lyssanne. “They think me an equal.”
“We are all equal in the eyes of the King,” said Jada.
“Yes, but ’tis not so among men,” said Lyssanne. “If they discover who I am—”
“Rest while you have the chance,” Jada said. “Dangers far worse than discovery of your station lurk beyond those high walls.”
Olivia jabbed the tip of her wand into Jada’s side.
“Like the sorcerer responsible for that mist in Cloistervale?” In its tone, Lyssanne’s question carried its own answer. She fixed the faeries with beseeching eyes. “Who is the enemy in Mr. Fescue’s warning?”
The faeries fluttered there, gazes locked in silent battle.
“You know, don’t you?” Lyssanne said. She sighed, perhaps as weary of asking this question as Noire was of hearing it. “Who have I wronged so terribly they wish me harm?”
“Now, Lyssanne,” said Olivia, “we did not say any
such thing.”
“You’ve said nothing at all,” Lyssanne snapped. She hung her head. “Forgive me, but ’tis obvious you hold answers. If I have brought danger upon us, I must know, so I may make amends. If such is possible.”
“You are weary,” Olivia said. “Fret not over such things.”
“You say I carry the King’s Light within me,” Lyssanne said, “that it will guide my path, but how am I to walk that path if you keep me in the dark? In the past pair of fortnights, I’ve stumbled over enough surprises to make me question my own reason.”
She sank onto her blanket and leaned forward, elbows on knees, feet curled to one side. Lifting her chin from her cupped hands, she looked up at the faeries with eyes far older than her nineteen years. Sitting there, bedecked in embroidery, with her neatly wound hair and soul-weary eyes, she more resembled the careworn widow of some lesser knight than the serene peasant maiden Noire had first spied upon in the village.
“When last we spoke,” she said, “you warned that I must give no place to fear. Yet, I’ve discovered that the mist I alone can see is a tool of the Thief of Souls, that a sorcerer wishes me ill, and that I’ve been keeping company with a prince. How can I but dread what else lies in wait for me amid the shadows of secrecy?”
“She’s right, Captain,” Jada said without her usual fire. “Light reveals. If she is to truly embrace Light’s gifts, she needs to know what the darkness is.”
Olivia’s eyes remained fixed on Lyssanne, her countenance grave. “It is time.” She floated down to sit before Lyssanne, motioning Jada to join her. “It began just before your birth.”
The tale that followed so ensnared Noire, he didn’t even twitch when a fly crawled through his feathers.
The faerie spoke of a day when Lyssanne’s mother ventured to the bottom of Rowan Hill, bearing refreshment to her husband at his forge. A stranger’s appearance had interrupted their cheerful converse. The couple treated the woman with all deference, attired as she was in silks and velvet brocade. But they soon learned this lady of high birth was there for no noble purpose.
Keeper of Shadows (Light-Wielder Chronicles Book 1) Page 24