Summers at Castle Auburn (36 page)

The crowd cheered. I thought perhaps Matthew himself had had a few too many glasses of wine. Once the applause died down, he proceeded in this vein for a few more fulsome sentences, then he raised his water goblet in a dramatic gesture.

“Long life and health to Princess Elisandra! Sealed by water!”

“Sealed by water!” the crowd roared back.

“Sealed by wine!”

“Sealed by wine!” the audience shouted. We all gulped down the appropriate liquids. Bryan, I noticed, raised his water glass politely when everyone else did, but did not bring it to his lips. The wine, however, he drained from the glass, which he then switched with the glass in Damien's hand, full except for the single sip taken by the taster.

Matthew was not quite done. “And to Prince Bryan, shortly to be our king! Long life and health to him! Sealed by water—sealed by wine!”

The regent proposed a few more toasts to lesser mortals, then Kent rose to his feet and made a few speeches of his own. After that, it was anybody's guess who would leap to his feet next, calling for the prosperity of Tregonia, the fertility of the Cotteswold farmland, the safekeeping of travelers who would be on the road tomorrow, the continuance of pleasant weather and the well-being of all our souls. After the first few toasts, I gave up on the “sealed in wine” part and only made my affirmations in water, because I knew one more swallow of alcohol would send me keeling over into Ordinal's lap. Many of the other ladies, Elisandra included, had reached
similar conclusions and barely touched their wine for the rest of the evening. Most of the men, however, seemed to have no problem emptying their glasses for one toast and filling them for the next. Kent, I saw, was not one of them; he tasted his wine every time a new pledge was made, but the level in his glass barely dropped.

Just when I was beginning to think that the inexhaustible number of vows needing our endorsement would drain the castle of all liquid resources, there was a lull in activity. No one hopped to his feet to cheer on the proliferation of rabbits in Chillain or the perfection of the greenery in Faelyn.

Matthew rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet again. “The prince, the princess, and I ask you to join us now in the ballroom, where we will hear a symphony composed to commemorate this event. The orchestra is ready—let us all attend.”

So, the whole mass of people transferred slowly from the dining room to the ballroom, where rows and rows of chairs had been set up facing a makeshift stage. The entire room had been festooned with streamers of white flowers, which scented the air with a sweet, wistful aroma; dozens of petals had floated down to land on the chairs and the stones of the floor, so many that we appeared to walk into the remnants of a summer blizzard. The musicians were tuning their instruments, a strangely discordant activity, and suddenly the last thing in the world I wanted to do was sit here through a long, pretentious concert. My head hurt, my stomach was complaining about too much food, and I didn't care much for formal music at the best of times. I sat in the very last row, thinking to make an early exit.

I glanced around the room as the other guests settled in, and realized that I was not the only one disinterested in this final segment of the celebration. At least a third of the people who had been present in the dining room were missing now, and I saw a few stragglers linger in the hallway and then turn away from the doors. Ordinal appeared to be one of those who had opted against further entertainment, for he was not beside me, and I did not spot him anywhere in the crowd. Angela had somehow eluded me as well.
Elisandra, of course, had no hope of escape—she and Bryan were seated in the very first row, facing the orchestra, forced to listen to every note of the composition written in their honor.

I did stay long enough to hear the first somber movement of the symphony, a slow, ponderous piece in a minor key. I supposed this symbolized the dreariness of their lives before they were joined in matrimony, but it did not make me eager to hear the rest of the music. It was having a soporific effect on the other guests as well, for I saw a few heads nod to one side, while a number of other bodies were slouched as comfortably as possible in the low chairs. Food, wine, and dull music; it would be a wonder if anyone was awake for the finale.

Eventually I rose to my feet and slipped noiselessly out the door. At last, at last, this long dreadful day was over—for me at least. I hurried through the quiet corridors, one hand pressed to my aching head, the other laid across my protesting stomach. I wanted nothing so much as to lie down and sleep away the rest of my life.

Once in my room, I lay down briefly, but my stomach was by this time in knots. “Please, no. Please, no. Please, no,” I whispered over and over again, for more than anything in the world I hated to vomit. I curled up into a little ball on the bed, hoping the nausea would subside, but, of course, it did not. You couldn't eat and drink with such abandon for an entire day and not expect your body to revolt. I had three quick sessions over the chamber pot, and felt immensely better. After that, when I laid back down, I fell instantly into a blessed and dreamless sleep.

 

I
WOKE ABOUT THREE
hours later, at a time I judged to be about two in the morning. My head still echoed with the reminders of pain, and my stomach did not feel entirely normal, but all in all I did not feel so awful as I swung myself to a sitting position. I would have liked to go back to sleep, for I was tired to the bone; but there was much to be done, and this was the only night to do it.

I rose, cleaned myself up and combed my hair before changing
into a simple, comfortable gown. By candlelight, I sorted through my satchel of herbs, then sifted a few into the pitcher of water that always stood on my bedside table. Eventually I poured the whole mixture into a large jug that I had stolen from the kitchen for this purpose. I sniffed at the opening—it could have been fruit juice inside—then stoppered the top. I quickly donned my shoes, and I was on my way.

I passed the silent castle corridors, where all signs of reveling had died down at least an hour ago. I heard nothing behind any of the closed doors; even the late-night arguers were too exhausted after this day to air their grievances. No one stirred in the servants' quarters, no one was up late browsing in the library. The first wakeful souls I saw were the two men on guard at the front door.

“Good evening to you!” I greeted them merrily. “And a long day of celebration it has been!”

“Good evening, Lady Coriel,” one said.

The other, sounding just a little miffed, answered my second observation. “No celebrating for us. They said the prince was sending a keg of wine down to the guardhouse, but
we
don't get any. Oh, no,
we
can't drink on duty.”

“That is a shame,” I said sympathetically. “Can you have some berry juice? I brought some down with me, just in case they hadn't let you in on the festivities.”

“Berry juice!” the first one repeated. These were men I was familiar with from the past two summers of late-night wandering. I had often brought them treats mixed by hand. “Like that stuff we had two weeks ago?”

“That was good,” the second guard agreed.

I pulled out the stopper. “Hand me your canteens,” I said gaily. “You can have as much as you like.”

I poured out liberal portions and watched them drink, then poured them each a second helping.

“Save some for the gate guards,” I laughed, when they would have taken more.

“But it's so good.”

“If there's any left, I'll come back,” I promised. Then I skipped down the steps, hurried past the fountain, and followed the flagged path all the way to the outer gate.

Shorro and Cloate were among the four men on guard there, and they all greeted me with enthusiasm. I had not seen the new husband since his wedding, so while I handed out my celebratory concoction, I asked how he was enjoying married life.

“
Don't
let him say a word, I beg you,” Shorro interrupted before Cloate could answer. “All day long, constantly, we don't hear a word but how wonderful that woman is. Her cooking is so tasty, her temper is so kind, her loving is so sweet—I appreciate a good woman as much as the next man, but this woman, I swear, she has him bewitched. He's not a sane man anymore.”

Cloate gave me that small, bashful smile that on him passed for exuberance. “I like married life just fine,” he said.

“So, how was the prince's wedding?” Shorro wanted to know. “Grand? Exciting?”

“Interminable. Tedious,” I corrected. “It took the entire day.”

“And it'll take the entire night,” was the guard's wicked response.

I smiled, though I did not want to. “Hush. You should not talk that way to the sister of the princess.”

“You don't care how I talk,” Shorro scoffed.

Cloate turned on him. “Well, still, you should treat her with some respect. Try to show you've got some manners, even if you don't.”

That sparked a quick, halfhearted argument, which the rest of us ignored. The other two guards held out their canteens for more juice, and one of them asked me what activities were on the schedule for the morrow.

“I'm not sure,” I said. “There's a hunt, I think, but not till late in the day. A lot of the guests will be leaving in the morning, so I understand. Pretty soon the castle will be empty again.”

“Too bad,” said the other, smothering a yawn. “I like it all stirred up like this.”

“It has been fun,” Shorro agreed, suddenly abandoning the fight with Cloate. “All those nice young ladies' maids from Tregonia—”

“Damn, Shorro, don't you ever think of another single thing?”

“What else is there to think of, I ask you?”

I laughed as the wrangling started again and held up my free hand for peace. “Goodnight, my friends, it was a pleasure to see you all again. I'll come visit again some other time.”

They all called out their goodnights as I strolled away. Pausing by the fountain, I perched on its stone ledge and rinsed the jug thoroughly in the falling water. The multicolored lamps of previous evenings had not been lit tonight, but I could see well enough by the quarter moon that lay with a supine, lazy abandon on the velvet cradle of the night. The light breeze was warm and sultry, high-summer air, but I could detect the faint, crisp current of fall underlaying the heat. Autumn soon. I would not be sorry to see it come.

I lingered at the fountain no more than five minutes before rising and heading back to the castle, back up the grand stairway. The two guards stationed at the door were already asleep.

I
ran down the main corridor, up the back stairs, up every stairwell to the top story of the castle. Here, as always, there was the muted hum and click produced by aliora sleeping. The sound was quieter than usual this night, due to exhaustion, I supposed. The aliora had been kept busy from sunup till midnight, dressing the grand ladies, decorating the vast halls, serving wine, serving the banquet. They would have tumbled into their crowded beds the very minute they had been released from duty.

I stood for a moment outside the curtained doorway, listening to the low music of communion. Then I lifted the gold key from its hook outside the door and stepped inside the room.

I moved among the sleeping bodies till I found the form I wanted. I had never tried to rouse a sleeping aliora; I did not know if they screamed or started as they were jerked to wakefulness. I placed my hand on her shoulder and shook her slightly. “Cressida,” I said.

She came awake and to her feet in one single, soundless motion. One moment, she was prone and unconscious, the next she was standing beside me, gaunt, silent, and questioning. Her eyes looked huge in the moonlight that filtered in through the window. She did not say a word.

I showed her the key, gripped between my thumb and forefinger. “Give me your hand,” I breathed.

She merely stared at me and did not move.

Impatiently I reached for the chain that ran between the shackles on her hands. She crossed her wrists against her stomach and shook her head. “The guards,” she said, her voice as low as mine. “At the door and at the gate.”

“Sleeping,” I said.

She stared even harder.

“I can unlock the shackles,” I said. “I can get you to the outer gates. After that, I cannot help you. Can you make it from there?”

“All of us?” she asked.

“Every single one.”

“What time is it?”

“About three in the morning. The human servants will be up in another three hours, but I doubt any of your masters will call for you for another half a day.”

“Three hours would be enough to get us safely on our way.”

“Then let us waste no more time,” I said, and reached again for her chain. This time she let me pull her hands up so I could see the lock and insert the key in the small opening.

The first shackle split into two hinged halves and fell from her arm.

She smothered a small cry as the metal fell to the length of the chain and bumped against her thigh. The noise was so small I couldn't imagine that anyone else could hear it, but suddenly there was a stirring all around us. Heads rose from their mattresses, thin voices called out a series of questions.

“Be quiet,” Cressida said, and there was no more noise. One by one, the other aliora in the room sat up or came to their feet, and every single one of them watched us.

“Your other hand,” I said calmly, and she held that out to me. Within seconds, it too was freed from its shackle. Cressida gave her wrist one sharp shake, and the chain fell with a tiny clamor to the stone floor. Everyone in the room gasped or cried out, then a sudden deathly silence descended once more.

“Gather what you need,” I said to Cressida. “And explain to the others that they can trust me. We must move quickly.”

Some of them had already guessed, or convinced themselves to hope, that a rescue was in effect, and a half dozen aliora had already lined up before me with their wrists extended. I moved from one to the next as fast as I could, two quick turns of the key and the sound of falling metal. Around me I could sense hurried, purposeful movement as Cressida and the newly freed aliora bundled up clothes, shoes, water jugs, and other necessary items.

“I did not have time to steal food for you,” I told Cressida over my shoulder. “I don't know that it is wise to take time to stop at the kitchen.”

“We can forage. We can make it to the forest.”

The last chain was undone; I had a pile of broken fetters at my feet. I turned to face Cressida again. “You will be on foot. They will have horses.”

She smiled, a fey, peculiar smile I had never seen on her face before. I realized she had never before had a reason to exult before me. “We can blend with the land. When we are cautious enough, and clever enough, we can hide in an open valley and a man will ride right by us.”

“Andrew could not,” I said.

She pointed to the small tower of open handcuffs at my feet. “Metal interferes with our ability to move, to change, to grow invisible. Andrew was hampered. We will not be. They will not find us.”

Another aliora came forward and put his hand on Cressida's arm. He said something to her—her name, I think, her true one—and added, “We must go.”

“We must,” I said, and led the way to the door.

That was a strange, perilous, and exhilarating journey through the silent, shadowy hallways of Castle Auburn. Never had any corridor seemed so long; never had my footsteps sounded so loud. Behind me, the parade of aliora was absolutely silent. If I had not glanced back from time to time, I would have believed they had all stayed behind, cowering on the upper story of the castle, afraid to trust me, afraid to run. But they followed me, all fifty-three of them,
down the stairways, through the halls, into the grand foyer, and out the great doorway.

Where the two guards still slept, slouching against the doorframe. They would not believe, when they woke, that they had slept at all. Their dreams would be of brief, desultory conversations with their fellow guards, frequent glances at the sky to gauge the level of the moon, sips from their canteens, idle games of dice. They would swear they had been awake all night—these two here, the four at the gate. Six corroborating testimonies. Would they be believed?

We descended noiselessly down the broad steps, fanning out to move in a group across the courtyard, past the fountain, and up to the main gate. Cloate, Shorro, and their friends stood and crouched by the great stone archway, seemingly caught in a moment's brief inactivity. The aliora slowed and glanced doubtfully at the still figures, but I shook my head and strode on.

Out through the gate; the first steps toward freedom.

I was the first one to stop, but the fifty-three aliora streamed past me. Their pace picked up as their feet crossed that visible boundary from castle grounds to open land. I doubted they would stick long to the main road. It was man-made; it would interfere with their magic. They would drift onto the grass and the soil, melt into the groves of trees that dotted the countryside from here to Faelyn River. I did not think it would take them three hours to disappear. I thought it might take three minutes.

Only one aliora stopped beside me as I stood at that gate and watched them go. Cressida stood before me, placing her hands on either side of my face. With the restraint of the shackles lifted, her touch was even more powerful than usual; I felt the shock of her aura resonate through me, past my cheekbones, through my skull, down my spine. Heat rose along every inch of my skin. I expected my flesh to begin glowing.

“Thank you, Corie,” she said in her sweet, grave voice. “You have given a gift even greater than you know.”

I managed a smile, though I felt like sobbing. “Aren't you going to ask me why?” I said.

She shook her head. “I know why. You could not save your sister, and you had to save something.”

I put my own hands up to touch the contours of her face. It seemed softer than my own, more springy, as if the skin was not laid over a structure of bone but a framework of twigs or vines or petals. “Even if I could have saved her,” I said, “I would have done this. But this was the only night to try, when every aliora in the kingdom was gathered in one room.”

She spread her fingers wider, taking in more of my face, sending tendrils of a heartfelt longing curling into my brain. “Come with us,” she said suddenly. “To Alora. There is no winter there, no heartache, no illness, no despair. You will be loved and welcome all the days of your life. The trees will brush their hands through your hair to greet you in the morning and the birds will sing lullabies to set you dreaming at night. You will be at home. You will be content as you have never been.”

It was not the words, it was the desire conjured up by her words. Especially for someone like me—who had had too many homes, half homes, partial lives spent between two entirely different worlds—her invitation was almost irresistible. To belong, to be beloved, to go always in sunshine and in peace in a place of eternal beauty . . .

“I have to stay here,” I heard myself say, though the words were strangled and unconvinced. “I am not ready to leave the mortal realm.”

“You could come back here anytime you chose,” she said, her soft voice compelling, insistent. “You would be free to leave us and return whenever you wanted. We would not hold you.”

I took a step back from her and her hands fell to her sides. “Not as we held you, in chains and against your will, but you would hold me,” I said, my voice stronger. “I cannot go with you. There is too much unfinished business here.”

She watched me gravely a moment in silence. I could no longer see any of the other aliora; I hoped she would be able to catch up with them. “Anytime you change your mind,” she said. “We will welcome you gladly. We will make our home your home—I will
take you in as my own daughter. We would celebrate to have you among us. You would be our communal joy.”

“Thank you,” I said, backing away still more. “Someday, perhaps—thank you. Now you must go forward, and I must go back. You must run—the others have already disappeared.”

She smiled. “I will find them. We will reach Alora together in a few days' time. Thank you again, Corie. I have no stronger words than those.”

“You do not need them,” I said, and stepped back through the gate. Back into the world of men, safe from the siren call of the aliora. One more moment she watched me through that stone portal, then she lifted her hand in a gesture of farewell.

“I will look for you,” she said, and turned on her heel. Though I watched as closely as the darkness would permit, I could not follow her more than three steps down the road. That quickly she blended with the night, or was absorbed into it; that completely was she gone.

I stood a few minutes with my sleeping companions, Shorro, Cloate, and the other guards, and allowed myself to feel a moment's comfort in their undemanding presence. They—had they been awake—would have welcomed me as surely as the aliora would; they would have offered me their flasks and allowed me to deal a hand of cards. They would take me in, they would amuse me and—if it were in their power—they would protect me from distress and calamity. I need not feel so bereft just because the aliora were gone. Love and friendship could still be found in the world.

It was warm out, but I suddenly shivered, and my stomach twisted violently once more to remind me of its unhappiness. I hurried back toward the castle, past the fountain, past the sleeping guards at the door, up all those flights of silent stairs. Back in my room, I threw up once more, then lay in bed a long time, shaking. It was nearly dawn before my eyes finally stayed closed and I drifted off to sleep. Had I known it would have taken so long to fall asleep, I would have sipped from the guards' canteens as I slipped past them. This was a night I could have used some easy dreaming.

* * *

A
N ANGRY SHRIEK
woke me late the next morning. My room was filled with lazy golden light, enough of it to let me know the hour was far advanced. For a moment I could not think why I was so tired and why I should feel such dread for the revelations of the day. Another cry in the hallway was answered by a series of shouts. I sat up in bed. Suddenly I remembered.

I did not trouble to dress before running to the door and sticking my head out. The hallway was filled with people milling uselessly about; I identified Greta and Daria and a few of the noble guests.

“What is it? What's wrong?” I called out. Daria hurried to my side.

“Such terrible things!” she exclaimed. “Everyone is sick and the aliora are missing and the regent is accusing one of the noble lords of having been careless with the keys—”

“What? What? Who's sick? And the aliora? They're
missing
? How can that be?”

Daria nodded vigorously. “That's what everyone wants to know! But all the shackles are in a heap on the floor of their room. Dirkson of Tregonia says Lord Matthew did it on purpose, and the prince wants to ride out after them, but he's so sick he can't get out of bed—”

That caught my attention. “Bryan's sick? What's wrong with him?”

“Some kind of problem with his stomach. The princess said he was up all night with—with unpleasant episodes,” she ended delicately. Apparently she did not want to offend my sensibilities by saying the prince had been retching out his guts.

“How strange. I had a little trouble last night as well,” I said.

She nodded again. “Yes, so did many of the guests. The regent and Lord Kent also were sick, though it seems the prince suffered more than anyone. He is still unwell this morning and cannot even get up. Although the princess says he is determined to ride in the hunt for the aliora—”