by Callie Bates
We approach through the town flanking the palace, its half-timber, half-stone houses painted in bright yellows and blues and greens. People sing as they work, and stop to look after us.
As we switchback up the road to the palace, a boy comes running out from the open courtyard, skidding over rocks to fling himself into Rhia’s arms. “You’re back,” he bellows, his voice ringing against the stone.
Rhia Knoll, whom I always thought as tough as these mountains, breaks into a grin and grabs the boy into a hug. They are talking, quickly, in mountain dialect, so fast and heavily accented that I can only make out one word in ten. I stand back, watching as Rhia ruffles the boy’s hair. He’s about twelve, and submits to the hair-ruffling with a mock scowl.
He glances at me, then back at his sister. They must be related: they have the same black hair and pale eyes, the same sharp, uncompromising chins.
“Make a bow, Aengus,” Rhia says. “This is the Caveadear Caer-Ys.”
Aengus Knoll bows, wide-eyed, and I nod back at him.
“Are you here for the gathering?” he asks. I have a sense that, unlike his sister, Aengus does not often guard his words.
“The gathering?” I look at Rhia, whose cheeks actually flush pink. “Yes,” I say to Aengus. “I believe I am.”
—
AENGUS LEADS THE way into the palace’s open courtyard. It is wide and airy, with low walls, and seems more designed to defend against the elements than enemies. People crowd it—mountain lords in bright cloaks, jostling and shouting their conversations, and in another corner, musicians playing a lively tune. But my eyes are drawn, not to any of the people, but to the courtyard’s center, where a tree grows.
It must be a golden pine. It towers overhead, the fisted needles on its high branches burnished by the lowering sun. It does look as if it is made of gold.
And its sap sings to me.
I swallow. Even Markarades has never seen a golden pine, for they grow only in the Bal an-Dracan—or they do now. And as Rhia told me, I wear the symbol of these trees on my ring.
“You see?” Rhia says, at my elbow. “They all came for the gathering. Everyone, on the verge of winter. Because they knew you would come. My aunt reads the auguries. She knew.”
I blink at her. So this is why she wanted me to come so urgently. She knew the mountain lords were gathering here in Dalriada—gathering now, for me, because her aunt had predicted it. But how much of the prediction, I wonder, is coming true due to necessity, and how much due to Rhia’s dogged determination to bring me here?
A staircase dominates the courtyard beyond the golden pine, and as Rhia and Aengus guide me forward, a man emerges at the top of the stairs. A bell rings. Everyone goes quiet.
This must be Ingram Knoll. In his weathered face, his eyes are the flinty gray of the mountains themselves, and he wears the most magnificent cloak of all, its back woven with the shape of a golden firebird.
He crosses down the steps. “Caveadear. Be welcome in Dalriada. You are the first of your family to set foot inside her walls since Eren conquered Caer-Ys. For the last two hundred years, we wardens have kept the old knowledge alive; we have held the secret of shifting the land and lived side by side with fragments of the past. We have kept the peace among the mountain people in the hope that someday all of Caer-Ys could reunite. We have upheld the old laws. And now, at last, I have heard the voices of my ancestors speaking in my dreams. The land is waking.”
“Thank you.” I bow to Ingram Knoll. “I feel it in my body—the land. I’ve wed the earth.”
He smiles, and the weathered skin around his eyes folds up into creases. “We heard it, lady. We heard the land sing when you wed her.”
Someone in the crowd around us claps. Others take it up, and Ingram Knoll gestures to me to turn and face them. I hold out my hands; the green stains from the tree-crown still color my palms and wrists. I feel bright, visible, seen.
I turn back to Ingram Knoll. “I hope this means you’ll help us against Loyce Eyrlai and Denis Falconier?”
A murmur passes through the crowd; their accents are too thick, too difficult, for me to understand quickly what they’re saying, but I know the simple joy of a moment ago has vanished. The rumble of their voices tightens the skin of my back. I feel how much I am a stranger here. I was raised in the south. I do not belong in this place, among these people whose accents I can’t even understand.
I look for Rhia, expecting her to scowl at me. But she gives me a nod.
“If the king wishes our support against the Ereni, he must come here himself and be subject to our election,” Ingram Knoll says. “Just as every other true king of Caer-Ys has since the laws were made.”
“The king lives in Ida.” Their outmoded logic makes me impatient. “He’s not well. He won’t come until we’ve won Caeris for him.”
“Then he’s not a true king,” says a man in the crowd.
“Hebar Manahan, my father’s war consul,” Rhia murmurs to me.
“A true king must be sound of mind and body.” Ingram Knoll nods at the speaker. “Euan Dromahair does not appear to be either.”
“If you won’t support him, then support his son,” I say. “Fionnlach Dromahair has the capacity to be a true king. My father said so.” I hope it’s actually true. It has to be; we have no choice. And he will grow into his crown, if he gets the opportunity to wear it. I’ll make him grow, after I give him a piece of my mind about his lecherous behavior at the festival the other night. “Go and meet him if you insist, and decide for yourselves. But if you won’t help, you won’t even have him. You won’t even have a possible king.”
Silence meets my words. I twist the ring on my finger, force myself to stop. I am a botanist, not a diplomat. A job like this should be left to—my father, rotting in the Tower in Laon?
I can’t think about him. Father, if you could see me now. I am the steward of the land—this is what I must do. It’s where I belong.
A woman steps forward from beside Ingram Knoll’s elbow. She wears her hair in two long braids bound with blue ribbons—this was probably a fashion two hundred years ago, during the invasion—and streaks of blue spirals linger on her cheeks and forehead. She speaks quietly, but everyone listens.
“Fionnlach Dromahair will not be our king.”
Exclamations erupt around us. “You see?” Hebar Manahan says loudly. “We will have no foreigner claim the soil of Caer-Ys for his own—”
I stare at the woman. Her black hair is veined with silver, and she looks much like Rhia—small, slim—but her eyes are gentler. She must be the augury-reading aunt. She looks back at me, and almost at once I want to go closer to her, despite what she just said. I want her to look at me, to really see me.
“Enough,” Ingram Knoll calls out. “Or shall I send for the speaking stone?”
They subside into quiet. Hebar looks sullen.
I open my mouth, but Rhia gets there first.
“Father, may I speak?” When he nods, she goes on, turning to face the crowd: “It is my belief that this fight is a just one. Even if Fionnlach Dromahair will not be our king, his intentions are better than those of Denis Falconier and the Butcher of Novarre. And we may not have an elected king, but we have a steward of the land. The first steward in generations to be awake to the land.”
She doesn’t look at me. I realize I’m gaping. Rhia Knoll has just spoken for me? For Finn? Against the inclinations of her own people?
“I have brought the Caveadear here, that you may all see her and recognize a true steward of the land,” she says. “She has more sense of honor than any of her countrymen, and she is willing to give her life for another. I do not know if any of you are so courageous.”
“Thank you, Rhia,” I whisper.
“At the least, come meet Fionnlach for yourself,” Rhia says to her father. “We do no good to Caer-Ys hiding in the mountains.”
“We are safe here,” someone protests from the crowd.
“The land protects us!”
another calls.
Rhia faces them. “The land does not protect our countrymen. It’s time to recognize both mountains and lowlands belong to one country—Caer-Ys. Our ancestors knew this. The golden pines once covered all our lands. The trees knew it.”
“But her ancestors sold out!” Hebar Manahan points at me. “Her ancestors let the Ereni conquer them. They gave up their traditions. They let the Ereni cut the golden pines. They gave up their right to be called people of Caer-Ys.”
“I am not my ancestors,” I flare back at him. “I may have grown up in Laon—against my will—I may speak Caerisian with an accent, but I still belong to Caeris. I have wed the land; I feel her in my blood. Yes, the land protects you. But how do you think it protects the rest of us? It doesn’t protect me. Do you know what would happen to me, as a ‘witch,’ if I were ever caught by the Ereni?”
Hebar Manahan glowers at me.
“I would be sent insane,” I say slowly and clearly. “I would be tortured, probably. Interrogated, certainly. And then I would be executed.”
Silence around the courtyard.
I lower my voice. “I have had to hide my magic since I was a child, because to be caught would mean death and worse than death. Now it’s time for us to claim our power. To stop being cowed by Ereni and Paladisan oppressors, with their intolerance and fear.” I close my eyes, thinking of my father’s vision of Caeris as a haven for magic. At the time, I didn’t believe in it, but now—after being captured by Denis, after being threatened with execution—I wonder if it isn’t what we need, even if it means fighting against the empire of Paladis itself. Practicing magic openly is Jahan’s dream, but it can be mine as well. “Let us create a place where people can practice their magic freely. That is the vision my father had for Caeris—a haven not only for us, but for all the so-called witches who live in hiding throughout the world.”
They are watching me in silence. I steel myself—think of all those years at Eren’s court—and continue. “You imagine your mountains are a refuge, but you have no idea of the danger you’re in. Denis Falconier and the Butcher of Novarre have the maps showing the shift lines. If they find a way to read them—and there is always a traitor willing to sell that information for the right price, isn’t there?—then your mountains will no longer be safe.” I think of my mother, trapped in Barrody Castle, and have to drag my mind away. She’s strong; she won’t sell our secrets. Unless they force her…“They will come to Dalriada, and they will cut the golden pines so that you no longer have their songs or their knowledge or their magic. The Ereni will drive you from your homes. This fight is yours as much as everyone else’s in Caeris—more, because you possess knowledge that we don’t in the lowlands. If that knowledge is lost, if Caerisian customs are lost, then there truly will be no more Caeris.”
The silence lingers. Ingram Knoll is frowning. For a moment, I think I have them. I told the truth. My words rang with conviction.
But then Hebar Manahan says, “Denis Falconier and the Butcher will never learn to read our maps. No mountain folk would ever sell their knowledge, no matter the price.”
I stare at him. “Are you insane? We’re at war. Everyone—everything—is for sale. And if knowledge isn’t bought, it can be forced out, even from those on our side! Don’t you understand how the Ereni work?”
He scoffs. “We have lasted more than two centuries, hidden here, and they have not learned our ways. And as for your vision of unity, Caveadear, you’re dreaming. The lowlanders have never done a thing for us, nor have the Ereni. They call us barbarians and lunatics. I’ll not have my country exploited to be a ‘haven’ for those who despise us.”
A grumble of agreement passes around the circle. I glance in desperation at Rhia, who grimaces and shrugs.
“Besides, Granya says Fionnlach Dromahair will never be king—and praise the gods for it!” Hebar adds.
How does Granya know? I turn to stare at Rhia’s aunt, who is looking off over everyone’s heads, her hands clasped together.
“There is another,” she says at last, apparently aware that we’re all staring at her. “Another will come.”
I grind my teeth together until I can say in an almost-calm voice, “Another what?”
“Another ruler,” she says, as if it’s obvious.
Rhia puts a hand on my arm—a good thing, since I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself from shouting at the woman otherwise.
Ingram Knoll intervenes. “Even my sister Granya does not see all that may happen in the future. The Caveadear has come a great distance to plead for our help,” he says to Hebar Manahan. “We might do her the honor of not dismissing her words the moment they leave her mouth.”
Hebar folds his arms with a scowl. “I know a losing argument when I hear it.”
“It is not a ‘losing’ argument!” I flare. “It’s the only way you’re going to win.”
We stare each other down. After a long moment, Hebar lifts one shoulder. I look away. I don’t feel as if I’ve won, exactly, more that the battle lines have been drawn.
Ingram Knoll says, “We will put the matter to council. You will be given time to speak again, Caveadear, just like everyone else.” A pointed look at Hebar.
Rhia nudges me. “I’ll have a turn to speak as well. They will listen.”
I have my doubts. The circle seems to be fragmenting. My words were not enough to convince them to change their ways. I turn back to Ingram Knoll, who looks thoughtfully after the receding lords, and to Granya, who frowns.
“Let us go in,” Ingram Knoll begins. “We will make you welcome, Caveadear.”
But I don’t move. I say to Granya, “Why do you claim that Fionnlach Dromahair will not be king?”
She looks at me, then at Ingram Knoll and Rhia. They do not rescue her: We are all waiting. She presses her hands together. At last she says, “Because he is going to die.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how anyone can consign another human being to death merely because they saw it in a vision.
We’re in a pleasant, old-fashioned room covered in wood panels and tapestries. We’re supposed to be listening to a harpist pluck strings and sing Wildegarde’s poem, while smiling maids bring us tea and palm-sized cherry cakes. But I am not in the mood. I stare across the table at Granya, who calmly cradles a teacup to her chest, as if she hasn’t just pronounced the end of the entire revolution. “What else did you see in your vision?” I demand. “The destruction of Barrody? Fire and smoke?”
“Caveadear,” Rhia mutters. “My aunt is the memory-keeper of Dalriada. She’s held in great esteem. Don’t interrogate her.”
“I wouldn’t,” I retort, “if she didn’t make pronouncements that my friends are going to die.”
Granya glances between us, then at Ingram Knoll. She seems faintly accusatory. “I didn’t realize you’d told Hebar Manahan, brother.”
“I didn’t. Word spread.”
“What else did you see?” I ask Granya again. “Please tell me. Are we all going to die?”
Her mouth twists down. “I didn’t see it, Caveadear. I heard it.”
Oh, yes—because hearing voices is so much more reliable than seeing visions. I stab my knife into the butter that’s supposed to go on my cherry cake. I tell myself Granya’s wrong, but it doesn’t help, because part of me is all too afraid she might be right. What if Finn is going to die? What if he’s already dead now?
Rhia maintains her equilibrium much better than I do. She’s probably used to Granya’s visions. “What about the revolution, Auntie? Does it mean we lose everything?”
Granya chews her cake. It seems an eternity before she says, “Another will come—come here, I think, unlike Fionnlach Dromahair. But I don’t know more than that, chickie.”
Chickie? Granya calls Rhia Knoll chickie? I almost burst out laughing.
Rhia narrows her eyes at me. “Then we’ll have a different king—not Finn. It’s not the end of our hope. If,�
�� she adds to her father and aunt, “you’ll agree to help.”
I’m glad for Rhia, even if she does dismiss Finn too fast. He deserves better than that.
Ingram and Granya exchange a glance. The harpist reaches toward some low strings, and under the cover of the sound Ingram Knoll says softly, “You know we are agreed, my girl. But it’s a matter of persuading the lords.”
“What do they want?” I ask. “Can’t they see that they’re putting themselves at risk? That we would all benefit if Caeris acted as one united country?”
“They want respect.” He spreads his hands. “It’s an understandable thing. They feel our customs—our laws—have been ignored too long.”
“Then they should want revolution,” I say. “We’ll restore the old laws.” I think of the pamphlet I read on the way north, of the poverty in Eren, of Hugh’s passionate declarations about the superiority of the old laws, and I know it’s what we must do.
“You might,” he says. “But will Prince Finn? Will King Euan, who has never set foot in Caeris but knows only the ways of the empire?”
I study the woven runner on the table. It’s ironic that the question makes me angry, because it’s the same question I asked my father, just before they took him captive. The memory presses a lump into my throat.
At length, I look up at Ingram Knoll and Granya. “I can’t speak for King Euan, or even for Finn, but I am the Caveadear. If that gives me any power at all, it must give me say over the laws of our country. Over what’s right and what’s wrong. So I promise you, if we win, I will see the mountain lords gain the respect they deserve. And everyone will know you deserve it, because we can’t win without you.”