Caught in Crystal: A Lyra Novel (5 page)

The door banged below. A boy’s voice, breathless with running, called, “Mother? Mother!”

Kayl’s ears caught the undercurrent of fear being sternly suppressed by eight-year-old pride. Habit and instinct combined to set her personal worries aside at once. “I’m here, Mark,” she said, taking the last few steps two at a time. “What is it?”

Mark stood by the outer door, holding a bronze-bladed dagger in his right hand. His thin chest heaved in panting breaths, and his blue-gray eyes darted around the serving room. Kayl’s gaze followed his, but she saw no signs of danger. Mark straightened from his fighter’s crouch when he saw Kayl, but his eyes remained wary. “Mother! You’re all right?”

“Of course I’m all right,” Kayl said. “Why shouldn’t I be? And how many times have I told you not to come banging through the door like that? You’ll scare away what few guests we have.”

The familiar scolding was even more reassuring than Kayl’s presence. The last traces of tension left Mark’s shoulders, and he shoved the dagger into a sheath at his belt. “I was in a hurry,” he said defensively.

“And why was that?”

“Tully said he saw the death-coach drive right up to the inn! I thought—” Mark stopped and eyed his mother warily.

“You thought it was coming for your aged mother and you came running home to defend me, hmmm?”

Mark looked down, and nodded. “I guess it wasn’t very smart,” he offered.

Kayl snorted. “Not at all. Brave, perhaps a little, but not smart.”

“Really?” Mark’s head came up. “You really think it was a brave thing to do?”

“Were you scared?”

“No!” Mark said indignantly. Kayl looked at him, and his eyes dropped. “Well, maybe a little.”

“If you were afraid and you came in anyway, you did a brave thing,” Kayl said. “That’s what being brave means.”

Mark considered. “But you said it was a stupid thing to do.”

“Being brave doesn’t automatically make you smart,” Kayl said. “They’re two different things.”

“You mean I have to be
both
? At the
same
time? That’s not fair!”

Kayl laughed and rumpled Mark’s blond hair affectionately. “Lots of things aren’t fair. Enough talking; we’ve a new guest and there’s work to do.”

“A new guest?”

“Tully saw her arriving.”

“In the black coach?” Mark cast a dubious look at the stairs, as if he expected a Wyrm to appear around the corner at any minute.

“It was just a travel-chariot. Now, you go and—”

“Where is she?”

“Mark! Don’t interrupt. She’s in the room at the head of the stairs, and you’re going to take up water right away.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes, you have to. Go on!”

Mark left, looking much put-upon. Kayl watched him until the rear door of the inn closed behind him—with a bang—and shook her head. Mark would never make an innkeeper. He might become a good fighting man, if he could only control his impulsiveness long enough to survive the learning. And if Kayl could find a way of training him. Dara, on the other hand…

“Mother?”

Kayl turned. Dara was peering around the edge of the front door, her brown eyes wide. “What’s the matter with you?” Kayl said crossly.

Dara flushed and stepped inside. She tossed a long strand of dark, fine hair defiantly over one shoulder and said, “I saw a black chariot stop here, and, well…”

“Not you, too.” Kayl rolled her eyes. “It was just a guest.”

“Oh.” Dara studied Kayl. “You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Kayl said with what she hoped was sufficient firmness to discourage further questions. Dara was four years older than Mark, and far more perceptive.

“Huh.” Dara scowled. “I thought that it might at least be somebody special.”

“Special in what way?”

“Oh, you know. One of Father’s friends, from before.”

“I hardly think any of your father’s friends would come looking for him five years after his death,” Kayl said sharply. Dara was closer to the truth than she could suspect, though it was not her father’s past that was the problem.

“Well, who is it then? Driving around in something like that and scaring everybody.”

“She calls herself Corrana, she’s paid for an evening meal, and you’re going to run over to the market and get what we need to feed her decently. That’s all you need to know right now.”

Dara groaned. “Errands? But, Mother, I went last time. Can’t Mark—”

“Mark’s drawing water for the new guest. Do you want to trade chores with him?”

“No.”

“All right, then. Get greens and a little meat, if you can find any that’s not too dear. And we’ll want more bread; stop at Brazda’s on the way back and see if she has extra today.” Kayl handed Dara three of the copper pennies Corrana had given her. “Oh, and while you’re out, try to let a few people know that I haven’t been killed or cursed or carried off. One customer won’t even begin to pay Islorran’s tax, especially if she drives everyone else away.”

Dara’s eyes narrowed in sudden thought. “That’s right, people will be worried. I’d better go right away.” She shoved the coins into her pocket and darted for the door.

“Dara!” Kayl waited until Dara turned to face her. “You are not to go telling stories to Jirod to lure him out here tonight. Do you understand?”

“I wasn’t going to do anything like that!” Dara said. Her tone was unconvincing, and her eyes slid away from Kayl’s face.

“No?”

“Well, all right, but what difference would it make? He’s bound to hear about it sooner or later.”

“At least if someone else tells him, I won’t have your matchmaking to contend with.”

Dara flushed. “Mother!”

“If you want to be successful at that sort of thing, you need to learn a little subtlety,” Kayl went on relentlessly. “Did you really think I hadn’t noticed?”

“You never said anything.”

“I’d hoped you would think better of it. And I’m saying something now.”

“Well, you
ought
to get married again,” Dara said defensively.

“If I ever decide to remarry, I’ll choose my own partner, thank you.”

“Jirod’s nice.”

“Yes, he is. And he’s a good friend. But I’ve no interest in him as a husband, and I’d rather not have to tell him so to his face just because my daughter thinks we’d make a good match.”

“But there isn’t anyone else in Copeham!”

“Then I won’t marry. It’s my affair, after all.”

Dara’s eyes fell. “I suppose so.”

“Now, promise me you’ll stop this nonsense with Jirod once and for all.”

“Well…” Dara sneaked a glance upward. “Oh, all right. I promise.”

“Off with you, then.”

Dara nodded, looking considerably subdued, and left. Kayl sighed as the door closed behind her daughter, feeling the familiar guilt rising inside her. Not having a father was hard for the children. Perhaps she should remarry, for their sakes. Jirod was a kind man, and he had made no secret of his admiration for Kayl. He was quiet and steady, too; he would be good for Mark. Yet, much as she liked the thoughtful farmer, she never seemed able to bring herself to encourage him. Or any of the other eligible and semi-eligible men of Copeham Village, for that matter.

She chalked Corrana’s name on the slate by the stairs, then picked up the broom she had left by the door and went out to finish her sweeping. Perhaps the real problem was that she’d never met anyone else like Kevran. She smiled sadly, remembering the laughter in his face and the warmth of his touch. Five years had done much to dull the pain of his loss, but his memory was still clear in her mind. The time they’d had together had been worth the price they’d paid, and neither of them had regretted it.

But she’d never found another man worth giving up… what she had given up for Kevran. And she could never be content with less, even now. Kayl scowled and gave the step one final brush with the broom, then went back inside. She hadn’t thought even obliquely of the days before her marriage in years. It was the fault of that woman, Rialynn, Corrana, whatever she called herself. She had no right to come here, stirring up things Kayl had no wish to remember.

Kayl paused, turning that thought over in her mind. No wish to remember? They had been good times, despite their bitter ending, and Kevran had shared some of them with her. Why was she so afraid of them now? Absently, she set the broom in its corner. Mark had already brought the water in; she could tell by the irregular trail of drops he had left in his wake. She would have to remind him again to be more careful.

She went into the kitchen to prepare for Dara’s return. The distorted image of herself in the bottom of a dented brass pot was oddly disturbing today, though she had seen it every afternoon for… how long had she had that pot? Kayl shook herself. She was trying to avoid thinking, she realized, and doing a pretty poor job of it. All right then, face the question and answer it. Why
was
she so disturbed by Corrana’s appearance?

The answer came almost as soon as the question had been phrased. She was afraid of the disruption the woman’s arrival might bring to her orderly way of life. Kayl stared at the kitchen wall for a long moment, appalled. When she had begun to cling to the somewhat dubious security of life as an innkeeper in a small Mindaran village? She had wanted more, Kevran had wanted more, once. And how had she not noticed what was happening to her?

Her mind ran quickly through her years here, pointing out the little changes in attitude that had summed to such a terribly unwelcome total. The difficulty of being accepted by the villagers when they first arrived; the comfort of having a place that was
theirs;
working side by side with the villagers the time the river had threatened to flood; Dara’s birth, and the nameless child who had died, and Mark; Kevran’s death of the summer sickness; the struggle to be both mother and father to two small children; the growing acceptance by the village in the wake of Kevran’s death; the wanderers who didn’t pay their bills or tried to intimidate her into lowering her prices; the rising taxes Islorran demanded. So many things, and so small.

And there was nothing she could do about it now. She was what she was; the years had shaped her as surely as a smith shaped steel.

The rear door banged. Kayl snatched up a cleaver and an onion, and began to chop. Mark knew that her eyes always watered when she chopped onions; even if he noticed, he would not ask his mother why she was crying over the kitchen pots.

T
HE EVENING MEAL WAS
normally the busiest time of day at Kayl’s inn, and this evening was even busier than usual. Far from frightening Kayl’s customers away, Corrana’s dramatic arrival was a magnet. Nearly everyone in Copeham had found some excuse to stop in, and, once in, they stayed.

Just as the sun was setting, Corrana descended the stairs at last. She had changed her loose black robe for a clinging one of deep forest green. Her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders, hiding whatever clasp held the sweep of the robe’s neckline. She had put off her rings, and Kayl saw no sign of the silver skull necklace. She seemed to float down the stairs, oblivious to the sudden silence below.

Kayl greeted her appearance with a relieved sigh. Perhaps now some of the merely curious would leave, and she would have a chance to relax a little. She moved forward, no faster or slower than she would have gone to greet any other guest. “My lady,” she said, inclining her head slightly.

Corrana’s lips curved. “Greetings, innkeeper.” There was the briefest hesitation between the two words, just long enough for Kayl to take note of it. Her eyes were fixed on Kayl, as if no one else in the room was of any importance. Kayl nodded again, with as much respect as she could muster, and turned to lead the way between the tables.

The villagers drew back almost imperceptibly as the two women came among them. Kayl caught the eyes of Holum, the metal worker, and quirked a corner of her mouth at him. Holum’s eyes narrowed; then, reluctantly, he smiled back and hoisted his beer mug. The movement, small as it was, broke the atmosphere of tension. A murmur went through the crowd, and then the hum of conversation rose once more. Kayl felt some of the tightness leave the muscles in her shoulders and back.

She reached the head of one of the long tables and arranged a place for Corrana, close enough to the window to have the benefit of the night breeze. The woman seated herself gracefully as though unaware of the fascinated eyes of the villagers. Kayl signaled Mark. “A bowl of the stew,” she told him.

“You’re sure you want her to have that?” Mark said.

“Why not?”

“It has too many onions in it.”

“You think stew has too many onions in it if I wave one at the pot while it’s cooking,” Kayl said without irritation. “Go along and get it.”

Mark shrugged and left, threading his way rapidly among the benches and tables. Kayl turned back to find Corrana watching her with speculative and slightly disapproving eyes. “You are remarkably easy with your staff,” she said, glancing at Mark’s retreating back.

“That,” Kayl said coldly, “is my son, Mark.”

A look of surprise came into Corrana’s eyes. She made a little motion with her left hand, the first completely unnecessary gesture Kayl had seen her make. The movement made something glint beneath the heavy black tresses that lay across her left shoulder. “Your son.”

“My youngest,” Kayl said. She did not know why this woman was discomfited by the thought, but, after the way Corrana had disrupted her peace of mind, Kayl took a malicious satisfaction in seeing her even momentarily at a loss.

“You have others?”

“A daughter. They’re a great help to me.”

Mark chose that moment to return with the stew. Corrana pulled away from the table as he leaned over to set the bowl before her. Her hair fell aside momentarily, revealing the silver clasp that held her robe at the left shoulder.

It was a heavy, sculpted piece in the shape of an eight-pointed star. The metal had been polished until it seemed to shine with its own light, and in the exact center was a milky white stone. Kayl stiffened in shock. With the last of her presence of mind, she turned away before Corrana or Mark noticed her expression.