by F. E. Greene
Pearl assured her that she did. “I’ve never tasted oatenloaf. Is that an Illiate recipe?”
“I’m not sure where it comes from. Preparing meals was never my passion. I could barely manage a stew when I first arrived.” As the plate of cheese grew to a generous hill, Henifred kept shaving. “Mostly I get my recipes from books since I have to make do with whatever food appears.”
“Like the clothes in the wardrobes?” Pearl asked.
“More or less.” Pausing, Henny dabbed her forehead with her sleeve. “I call it the switching hour. On the last chime of the twenty-fourth bell, the kitchen restores itself. Leftovers vanish from the larder. Spits are emptied, and the pantry refreshed. It’s almost like the last day never happened.”
“What if someone has food in their room?”
“That goes, too.” Setting down the knife, Henifred wiped her hands on her pinafore. “And then, within a bellspan, whatever we need appears. The kitchen tells me what and how to prepare. I’m often the first to know the day’s agenda even though Owyn pretends to know everything.”
While he sputtered an indignant response, Pearl spun slowly where she stood. There was enough food in the kitchen for a Rosperian banquet. Wicker baskets sagged with vegetables. Fruits bulged past the rims of bowls. Bouquets of fresh herbs dangled from pegs, and juices sizzled on flames in the ovens.
Not all of the kitchen’s bounty was familiar. Pearl couldn’t name the brown pods with furry skins or the golden spindles bound like tiny haystacks. On the shelves of a baker’s rack, glass jars protected crimson sticks, knobby roots, and unshelled nuts.
Next to the rack, cooking tools hung from a wrist-thick iron band. Some were ordinary, forged in Orld and easily identified. The rest were relics, perfectly preserved with intricate metal parts too smooth and uniform to come from the clumsy, banging hammers of northern smelting pits. On the far side of the rack, a trap in the floor bore a single word.
SANDBOX
This time Pearl stifled the urge to lift its wooden lid and peer inside. “How do you know what to cook?” she asked.
“I don’t always,” Henifred said. “But I love a good puzzle. Here, Pearl. A small treat for your troubles.” On her palm she offered what looked like a young onion with musket-colored skin.
When Pearl hesitated, Henny smiled.
“No tricks, my dear. I give what’s bitter only to the lads.”
Pearl accepted the food and bit cautiously into its side. At first its leathery flesh resisted. Then soft sweetness encompassed her tongue as tiny seeds crackled between her teeth. Less cloying than honey, the food tasted like springtime, and Pearl asked what it was before taking another bite.
“A flower, of all things. My pixicon calls it a fig.” Henifred beamed in response to Pearl’s obvious delight, then frowned with equal ease at the open door. “And there goes Owyn without the cause to his call. Better catch him or he’ll finish your tour without you. It was a pleasure to meet you, Pearl. We’ll talk more soon. And please don’t judge us all by Owyn’s behavior. The king uses him to test our patience.”
Thanking her, Pearl smothered an impulse to hug the king’s cook. Henifred Orten seemed more than familiar, yet unlike anyone Pearl had known in Castlevale where free samples were merely enticements to buy and hugs used as tools of possession.
Without such low motives Pearl had often hugged the children in the schoolhouse. She listened to their stories. She brought treats whenever she could. But Pearl had also forgotten how it felt to receive, and the oddness of it shocked her.
As she thanked Henifred again and rushed from the kitchen, Pearl wondered, pensively, what unseen damage the last five years had done.
Chapter Fourteen
With the fig’s sweetness still deepening in her mouth, Pearl caught up to Owyn. It wasn’t difficult to spot the star-shaped splashes of tea leading to the door opposite the kitchen.
Through it Pearl entered an appended corridor. Its floor and ceiling and outer wall were built from planks of stained oak. Ample windows admitted wide wedges of sunshine.
The schooling hall, as its sign declared, was vacant but not barren. They passed low doors decorated with papers – artwork, poems, mathematical proofs – and Pearl slowed to study them all. The quality of work improved with each door. The last displayed lengthy essays and complex geometry.
“This is where the children learn?” Pearl asked.
“Everyone younger than eighteen years. Those with less than twenty-one assist the schooler. What’s your age?”
“Twenty.”
Owyn stopped and turned. “Twenty? Twenty years? That many?”
Bewildered by his astonishment, she nodded.
“Time flies,” he sighed before resuming a purposeful stride. “Upstairs we’ve a lectory plus an office and lodging for our resident schooler. I hope he knows that lessons are cancelled today. He forgets when we do have them and shows up when we don’t.”
At the hall’s far end Owyn held open another door while he waited, foot tapping, for Pearl. They entered a space where several corridors convened in a clash of stone and wood.
To Pearl’s eyes the entire castle had a patchwork feel with materials that didn’t match and designs that wouldn’t align. While the schooling hall looked relatively new, the kitchen was decidedly Beforish, and the keep seemed older than time itself.
Although she would never admit it, Pearl had expected something grander. Lush carpets. Vibrant tapestries. Priceless treasures in padlocked cases. In the old stories kings kept their wealth in plain sight to impress any visitors and more importantly other kings. But now there was only one king in the Fourtlands. He had nobody else to impress.
Whatever it might lack, the castle had plenty of doors. Pearl felt like a mouse in a maze as she trailed Owyn, and she appreciated the numerous signs, however crude or confusing. The latest was painted, its red words bright against a coating of whitewash. Each of its letters was as tall as a hand. Hanging lower than most, it was designed not to be missed.
REMEMBER WHERE YOU
PLACE YOUR CANE
“This is an important juncture,” Owyn said. “Turn left, and this hallway takes you all the way to the narthex. It connects the king’s hall with the courtyard and the mound. We don’t have time to visit those now, but you’ll see them eventually.”
Pearl’s disappointment resurfaced. Of all the places she hoped to explore, the king’s hall topped the list. If any part of the castle could meet her expectations, she felt sure it would be there.
Oblivious, Owyn continued the tour, his voice rising and falling with practiced aplomb. “Straight ahead is the elderward. We have twenty-three stopping there now. Most are former wayfairers, but a few others find the castle late in their days. I’m responsible for keeping the old dears occupied. Bonny helps me, as do the lads. But you haven’t met them yet, have you?”
Pearl shook her head. “What’s a wayfairer?”
“Anyone who serves the king outside the castle.”
“And inkeepers are the ones who stay here.”
“Yes.”
“Can I be an inkeeper?”
Owyn’s eyebrows arched with surprise. “That’s for the king to decide.”
Wishing she hadn’t asked, Pearl shifted toward a shorter door to their right. Even with sunlight slipping through a nearby window, the door was shrouded like a secret no one wished to hear. Metal bands reinforced its dark wood face, but it lacked a keyhole or padlock. Just one carved sign, nailed to its center, served to deter the curious.
OUTRIDERS ONLY INSIDE
“This is the armery,” Owyn said. “It’s off limits to most everyone, especially the children. If you’re allowed in there, you’ll know before you enter.”
Warily Pearl judged the door. “Why does the king need a room full of weapons?”
Owyn’s answer came slowly. “I wish that he didn’t.”
“Are you allowed in there?”
He gave an abrupt chuckle. “Yes, but I�
�m more welcome in the kitchen.”
“That’s where I’d rather be,” she agreed.
“Not so fast,” he replied. “I’ve one more place to show you.”
When Owyn pivoted, tea sloshed. He led Pearl down the hallway until they halted at its far end between two crosswise doors.
From the ceiling, signs were draped like bunting, their edges clipped by clothespins to drooping twine. Some held messages of thanks in wavering scrawls enhanced by flowers and butterflies. Others employed a more instructive tone. One discouraged loitering while another warned against unapproved foods. A permanent sign topped the door to Pearl’s right.
RING BELL IF HELP IS NEEDED
Pearl looked around. “Where’s the bell?”
“People kept ringing it,” Owyn said. “So we had it moved.”
She reached up to flip one of the suspended papers.
NOW WASH YOUR HANDS
On its back someone had added:
NOW hand over your wash
Nearly every instruction had a quip or retort penciled into its margins. Understanding the game, if not the absent bell, Pearl smiled.
“This is our infirmery,” Owyn explained. “We have everything we need to treat a variety of ailments including the best tender in all the Fourtlands. I would introduce you to her, but that purple plait on the doorknob means she’s out and about.” He stepped away to set his empty mug on the floor. “Derrie hates for anyone to snoop when she’s not here. No tender means no admittance, and clearly no one’s at home.”
As if to disagree, the infirmery door flew open. Somewhere a bell jingled as a stocky blur plowed into Pearl. Before she could react, the impact drove her to the floor.
Her head struck something softer than stone. Opening her eyes, Pearl gasped. A familiar face hovered above her own. She’d landed mostly atop his arms, and he’d landed mostly on her. His remorse turned anxious as he recognized Pearl.
“Paxton Kenelworth!” Owyn bellowed the young man’s name like a summons. “Didn’t you hear us talking? What if you’d hit one of the elderfolk? Or a child?”
More embarrassed than hurt, Pearl flushed as the young man untangled himself to stand. Sitting up, she promised Owyn that nothing was broken, and when Paxton offered her a courteous hand, Pearl pretended not to notice. She rose on her own, brushing her new dress to smooth it.
“At least you’re wearing proper clothes this time,” Paxton said.
Pearl froze, mortified, while Owyn ordered him to explain.
“Catryn skinned her knees, and I was sent to get bandages.” From the floor Paxton snatched a bundle of cloth drenched in a buttery salve. “See? I’m only in a rush because Catty is hurt. But not badly,” he added. “Or I would have carried her over.”
Owyn squinted through his spectles. “That’s not what I meant.”
Hurriedly Pearl intervened. “It’s just a misunderstanding. If a child is hurt, then he should go help her.”
Paxton looked grateful, but Pearl didn’t want his thanks. If he kept explaining, Owyn might learn about her earlier attempt to leave the castle. It made Pearl sound selfish, and already she liked Owyn enough to care what he thought of her.
Owyn wasn’t so easily sidetracked. His owlish eyes toggled back and forth as Paxton studied the ceiling and Pearl examined her sandals. With obvious reluctance Owyn nodded for Paxton to leave. Then he gently clasped Pearl’s arm.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.
Pearl promised that she was. “Is he – Paxton – always so reckless?”
“Yes, but don’t judge him too harshly. Pax bears a yoke we don’t yet understand. All the lads risk their lives for the king, but Paxton’s job is different and more difficult, even for an outrider.”
“Outrider?”
“Varrick is in charge of them. They do what he does. What he and Carys did for you last night.”
Remembering, Pearl shivered. “Paxton looks older than a lad to me.”
“He is. But that’s what we like to call our outriders. It helps us forget what they do.”
The gold sphere reappeared. Snapping it shut, Owyn closed the infirmery door and steered Pearl toward the other. “Jeron will have to finish this tour. I’ll take you to him.”
They followed a gravel path that ran alongside the king’s hall. As they skirted its base, Pearl admired the vaulted walls and slanting roof. Ornate stained glass crowned its spacious bay windows.
Pearl slowed, just a little, when they passed a well with no bucket or spindle nestled between bays of the eastern wall. Painted rather crudely on its roof boards was a name.
THE UNWELL
From the path’s edge the courtyard lawn spread and sloped, its green blades plusher than the rugs in a Rosperian mansion. Affixed in one corner was a carved signpost.
KEEP ON THE GRASS
FOOTWEAR OPTIONAL
Pearl’s mood improved at the thought. “Are there any rules I should know?” she asked. “I wouldn’t want to break one on my first day.”
Owyn peered back at her like she already had. “Just a handful. Although from the look of you, we may have to add a few more.” With a wink he waited for Pearl to catch up. “Be responsible for yourself. Be honest with others. And stay out of the abasement.”
“Where is that?”
“Where we’re headed now.”
When the path veered, so did they. A series of apartments flanked the castle’s southern wall. Two wings of rooms – each with a ground and first floor – extended like arms from a domed oriel. Attached to the oriel’s back was a tower, its height surpassing the rest of the castle, even the keep. Battlements encircled the tower’s roof like plates on an ancient crown.
While Owyn held open the oriel door, Pearl climbed three shallow steps to enter. Inside, other doors propped by crumbling bricks exposed corridors running east and west. The oriel’s interior lacked affectations, but its sparseness was also its splendor.
Stopping directly below its dome, Pearl counted its seven stark walls. Sunlight poured through windows that consumed the upper portion of each façade. Chiseled steps led to the base of each window, where one could sit comfortably, or two snuggly, on slender ledges.
What should have been an eighth wall was missing, replaced by a spiraling stairwell. Pearl felt a well-known twinge of warning as she crept toward its landing. Looking down made her anxious. Looking up made her dizzy. Across from the landing, tacked to the wall, was a weathered metal plaque.
ABASEMENT
Beneath the western doorway Owyn called her name. “This way.”
Like so much of what Pearl had already seen, the corridor was empty. “Who lives here?”
“Inkeepers. These are my lodgings.” He pointed to a door, one free of signs, as they passed it. “Jeron has the middle apartment, and Ilis is at the end.”
Halting before the second door, Owyn removed a piece of paper pinned to its frame.
“Up the broch,” he read. “Of course he is.”
As they backtracked to the oriel, Owyn grumbled under his breath even after they reached the stairwell. If he had still carried his cup of tea, Pearl guessed it would be sloshing. When Owyn approached the landing, Pearl’s earlier twinge grew to full-fledged alarm.
“Is this the broch?” she asked, dreading the answer.
“Yes.” Crumpling the paper, Owyn turned to leave. “Jeron will meet you at the top.”
Pearl cut him off. “Wait! I’m supposed to climb up there?”
“Unless you plan to fly.”
“There’s no way I can do this.”
“Not until you give it a go.” Owyn patted her shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”
“Would you stay until I reach the top – in case I do fall?”
“Why? So I can catch you?”
Something about the twist of his lips made Pearl want to smile in spite of her distress.
Owyn didn’t relent. “Why try at all if you’re planning to fail?”
“I’ve spen
t the last five years climbing towers,” she sighed. “I’m tired of it.”
“Ah, so you’re the poetical type.” With a crooked finger Owyn slid his spectles to the tip of his nose. His unfortified eyes captured Pearl’s. “Those weren’t real towers, and you were bored, not tired.”
The mysterious gold sphere reemerged. With a click and a snap, it finished their business. Announcing he was out of time, Owyn marched toward the oriel’s exit.
Arms crossed, Pearl called after him. “You’d rather mend fences than help me?”
He opened the door and halted beneath its frame. “How do you know those aren’t the same thing?” Pausing briefly, he grinned. “You see? I can be poetical, too.”
Chapter Fifteen
Left alone, Pearl peered into the disorienting coil of stairs. The tower lacked railings, and in place of a newel, a coarse woven rope flowed like a taut artery toward a pinprick of sunlight. Another sign reaffirmed what Pearl already concluded.
DARK AND DIFFICULT STEPS
Pearl couldn’t fathom why anyone would climb a tower filled with dark and difficult steps. But Owyn expected her to do so. Alone.
“Lean into the wall!” From high above a voice bounced toward her.
“Shouldn’t I hold onto the rope?” she called back.
“Not unless you want to slide down.”
Reluctantly Pearl set one foot on the lowest step.
“And don’t hurry,” the voice added.
Pearl didn’t. With her palms pressed firmly against the wall, she took each stair as if it lived independent from the others. She kept her eyes on her feet even though she ached to grasp the rope. The width of the stairs was stingy and inconsistent while their combined height seemed immense.