The Grass King’s Concubine (11 page)

Time was of no great importance to the sisters, and so they tended not to heed its passing. Weather changed; they stayed the same, and that was what counted. Another season passed, and another, and the river made a new bid to
enter the Stone House, only to be repulsed with mops and irritation. But it was once again dry and dusty when the woman came a second time up the dirt track. Her silk robes had faded; above her veil, her eyes were shadowed and edged with a fray of lines. “More visitors,” said Julana. “More biting.”

“Hush,” said Yelena. “It’s the one you wanted. Remember? We asked for the book.”

“Marcellan’s book.” Julana arched her back. “Let me be human this time.”

“Don’t forget about your whiskers.”

In human form, Julana matched her sister precisely. No one save Marcellan and the Grass King had ever even claimed to be able to distinguish them, nor wished to. When, roughly dressed and with Yelena perched upon her shoulder, Julana opened the door, the woman doubtless saw the witch she had seen before. She sat on the step, legs folded beneath her, one hand resting lightly on a cloth-wrapped package. “The book,” said Julana, reaching out for it.

The woman glared up at her. “I want my spell first. I’ve endured enough for it.”

“So what?” said Julana, hand still outstretched. Yelena nipped her quickly on the ear. “What’s
that
for?”

The woman’s scowl deepened. Yelena said, “You’re not doing this properly. You have to behave like humans. Talk to her.”

“I won’t do tea bowls,” Julana said. Yelena sighed.

The woman spat. “Who’d drink from them? Nothing’s safe in a witch’s den.” She gathered the package to her. “I just want what you promised me. I’ve waited long enough.”

“You only just got here.” Julana raised a hand to her mouth, began to chew on a fingernail.

The woman spat again. “Three years it took me, to find your book and two more to bring it to me. My man has another daughter and a fine new concubine. He goes to her most nights, now. He likes young flesh—he says I’m too old for sons. And the first wife is still queening it, making me
scrub and fetch. Fix all that, can you? Bring my man back and get me a son faster than the pretty new whore?”

“Of course,” said Julana, but “How?” said Yelena. Julana ignored her, saying, “We can do all sorts of things.”

“So you say,” the woman said. “The proof’s in the firing.”

“Why’d you tell her that?” said Yelena, whiskers twitchy with disapproval. “We don’t do that.”

“Hush,” said Julana. The woman glared at her. “We do things when we want to.
If
we want to.”

“You seem to want this bad enough.” The woman patted the package with a worn hand. “The trouble it’s caused me, I reckon it’s worth a good big spell.”

“Make her unwrap it,” Yelena said. “Make sure it’s the right one.” Julana hesitated, again chewing a nail. “Go on,” Yelena urged.

Julana took her finger from her mouth. “Show me the payment, then.”

The woman gave them a sharp and scornful look. “Can’t you see through the wrappings, then?” She spat once more into the dust. “Well, if I must.” Her hands worked the knots of the cloth swiftly loose, flipped the folds aside. “Satisfied?” On the old yellowed cloth, the book lay like a stranger, its binding clean and bright, the green of new shoots. Curving lines were carved into it and picked out in red. Julana’s lips parted, her mouth watered. Yelena leaped lightly from her shoulder into the dirt, long body quivering. The woman drew back as she bounded onto the book. “If your animal marks it, it’s on your head.”

The twins ignored her. Two pairs of black eyes fastened on the book. Two hearts raced, out of time. Yellow teeth flashed and struck as Yelena bit down on one corner of the binding. Leather and road dust, fish glue and printers’ inks. She lifted her head and looked at her sister. “Marcellan’s book. I can taste his words.” She sat back, fur brushing the book’s edges. Above her, Julana’s fingers quivered.

The woman said, “Well?” and her tone was not patient.

“You’ll get your spell.” Julana bent, held out an arm for Yelena to climb. “But you have to be nice.”

“Pah.” But the woman lowered her eyes.

The twins had never troubled themselves overmuch with magic, or with what passed for it in human eyes. They had always had better things to do. When they bent their bodies or their environs to their own ends, they did it without thinking. But the woman’s body was not made like theirs. Her flesh held tight together, stubbornly embodied, shrinking and binding against the strangenesses of the world. It might not be simply thought into obedience. It would need to be tricked, to be worked on with borrowed power. It had not occurred to the twins, insouciant as they were to time, to form any plan for this. There was a very long silence. Julana’s fingers flexed and curled; her tongue told over the number of her teeth. Larger, in this form, and sharper than the human norm, but neither strong nor sharp enough to tear out a throat. Uncertainly, she said, “To make a child—a boy child…”

“It comes under our domain,” Yelena said into her ear. “The Grass King makes the seeds grow.”

“Not alone,” said Julana. The woman shook her head, muttered disdain to the dirt.

“Water,” said Yelena. “Water and stone, together in the earth. It’s up to her to provide the seed.”

It could not be just any stone, just any water source. It did not take careful knowledge of magic to know that. Only the oldest would do. And in these parts, no stone was older than that of the Stone House. Julana put her nose in the air. To the woman, she said, “You have to wait here.”

“I’m not going without what I came for.” But neither twin paid her heed, as Julana turned and stepped straight-spined back into the dank kitchen. The Stone House was built true and strong, made to hold against change and year and season. But no domain stood alone, and just as a great rock could change the course of a stream, so rain and wind and cold had worked long fingers into the slabs of the house and carved out mementos to mark their passing. Julana walked sure-footed up the dark narrow stair, Yelena clinging spikily to her shoulder, and along dim passages
and at last out into a cramped cold room close under the roof. Frost had long had its way up here, unchecked by casement or shutter, and the windowsill showed signs of weathering. The beginning of a crack showed close to its outer edge. Julana rubbed a hand over it, seeking purchase for her nails. Even in human shape, they were strong, those nails, and curved and tough. Yelena jumped down from her shoulder to peer closer. Julana said, “Help, then. We need stone. You said so.” She shifted, allowing Yelena to set her own sharp claws to the crack. Hand and paw, they tugged and twisted. The Stone House was theirs; the Grass King had said so. It should help them.

A chip of stone came loose with snap. Yelena, paw released suddenly, tumbled backward. Julana’s hand closed on the small shard of gray stone, heart stone, dear to the Grass King. “There,” she said. And then, “What about water?” she asked, uncomfortable with the notion of planning.

“Has to be the oldest,” Yelena said. “Closest to the land.”

“The source?” And Julana began again to gnaw on a nail.

“The source,” said Yelena. “Where stone first kissed water and grass first grew. It has to come from the Concubine.”

“She won’t like it,” Julana said, “that one down there.”

“She doesn’t matter. We just have to make it look good. Give her something pretty and something foul to make her see a spell.”

Julana’s fingers closed tighter over the stone. It was older than the twins and stronger, but it partook of their particular nature. Back through the passages, over dust and cobweb, down the stairs and into the rooms below, her fingers worked, and when at last she came again to the kitchen door, the small stone was powder, held in an old crystal box and mixed with a tuft of Yelena’s fur. The twins halted on the doorstep and looked down upon the woman. Julana held out the box.

“There’s your spell. But you have to use it right, or it won’t work.”

“It’ll choke her,” said Yelena, soft and cool.

“Mix it with water and swallow it when both moons are dark.” Julana was warming to the game. “Use a glass goblet and wear new clothes. You mustn’t tell anyone, or let them see you. You mustn’t speak from dawn until dusk. You…”

“Enough,” said Yelena.

The woman rose, the book tucked under one arm. “Give it to me, then.”

“Give me the book.”

There was a short silence. The woman held Julana’s gaze. Her eyes were no longer scornful. At last, she lowered them, held out the book. Beneath the robes, her shoulders were tense.

Julana pulled the book from her, clutched it close. The woman said “And now my spell.”

“The water,” Yelena said.

Julana held out the crystal box. As the woman reached out for it, she drew it back. “One more thing.” The woman scowled. Julana said, “Have to use the right water, from the spring on the yellow hill.”

“The one that starts the Lefmay River,” the woman said.

“That one. But it must be the spring, not the river,” said Julana.

Jehan and the Dead

T
HE DOUBLE GATES STOOD SHUT. Once they had been green; now a thin layer of dust had coated them olive. In the strong cold wind, they rattled and shook but did not give. They had been well made by someone. But whoever that someone was, it seemed they were no longer here. Jehan looked back over his shoulder, said, “I don’t think anyone’s around.”

“But I wrote.” Aude’s thick felt scarf and big fur hat hid most of her face from him, but he knew that her brows drew down. He could hear it in her voice. She said, “I wrote twice. When we left the Brass City. And then again when we crossed the big lake. That was five months ago. More.”

Letters went astray or were deliberately ignored. But he did not say it. Aude was still not accustomed to having her wishes ignored, and right now she was tired after their long ride across the plain. Five months and more had passed since they had fled the Brass City. Three months since she had turned up at his barracks, where he was confined after refusing to fire on an unarmed crowd. She had brought a public notary with her, telling his commanding officer that Jehan had promised to marry her. If he had been thinking straight, he would have sent her away. A man facing trial for insubordination was no fit husband for her. But something about her made it hard to think straight, then and now. She had sworn on the
Books of Marcellan
that she was
fully of age and free to wed as she willed. His captain, aware of the fate that might meet a man accused of refusing an order, had looked away from her smooth young face and soft hands and had wished them well. Aude had told the notary she was a girl from his hometown, come here to find him. To the captain, he suspected, she had confided her wealthy birth, if not her name. A wealthy wife was a passport to a discharge from army rank and duty.

The captain was a good man. When the order came to confine Jehan to barracks, he had interpreted it as broadly as he could, and he made sure Jehan had plenty of time to burn the collection of pamphlets that had piled up in his quarters. He had provided them with horses and a map, too, in the chill early morning when they rode away from the Brass City in search of…

In search of something. He still was not sure precisely what. Her past, Aude said; the reasons why her family had wealth and success. They had traveled from minor manor to minor manor, poking into records and archives, asking endless, unanswerable questions, trying to stay one step ahead of the messengers her uncle had, no doubt, sent out in search of her. Another crime to set beside his disobedience: He had fled from the two cities with an underage heiress.

That was Aude all over, always certain there was an answer, a solution, if only she looked long and hard enough. And somehow, in these months, he had come to believe her. It seemed that, after all, he had risen to her long-ago challenge that someone follow in the footsteps of Colonel Savarell.

Now he turned his attention back to the gates. The left-hand one was bolted at its base; higher up, there was a lock. He did not think the key had been left on the inside. Encased in two gloves, his hand would not reach between the slats. Pushing down his scarf, he tugged off his right outer glove with his teeth. The wind blew dust into his face. He blinked. He tried not to gasp or swallow—the stuff tasted foul. His fingers already numb with cold, he slid his hand through the gate and groped for the bolt. Cold stung his
hand through his thin inner glove. He set his teeth and gave one brisk tug. It drew back. Now for the lock. He ran his hand upward, feeling for the back. No key. Just more biting chill. He felt around again: no, no key, and no catch to release the mechanism, either. He shook his head. “Definitely locked. I could maybe climb in…” Even he did not think much of the suggestion. Aude could climb after him, but their three ponies could not. And all them were tired and fed up with the traveling and the emptiness of the steppe. “Maybe there’s another gate somewhere.” It was too cold to stand around for much longer. Even through his layers of wool and felt and fur and silk, his bones ached. Pulling his right glove back on, he added, “Or we could ride back toward that encampment we saw.”