The Keep of Fire (16 page)

“She flaunts her secrets,” Aryn went on. The baroness hugged her left arm around the bodice of her gown. The right arm—slender and withered—was hidden as always beneath a fold of cloth. “Lirith, I mean. Sometimes I think she likes baffling us. Those smiles of hers—she must do it on purpose.”

Grace thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. Lirith isn’t like Kyrene was. She has secrets, yes, and they’re locked away. But I think it’s up to us to find the key. I think that’s what she’s trying to tell us.”

“Maybe,” Aryn said, but her smooth forehead creased in a frown.

Grace studied her friend, but whatever was wrong was beyond her ability to diagnose. Something had happened to Aryn, something amid all the dark and remarkable events of last Midwinter’s Eve, but what
it was Grace didn’t know, and the baroness had never spoken of it in the months since.

But then, mysteries were not Lirith’s sole purview.
We all have our secrets, don’t we, Grace?

She sighed and began walking again, with Aryn following alongside her.

Despite Lirith’s enigmas, their lessons with her had progressed well—if slowly. To their surprise and delight, Lirith had not begun with such mundane tasks as weaving or gathering herbs as Ivalaine had done. Instead, the day after she arrived at the castle, their first lesson had been to spin a web along the Weirding. Grace had reveled in the experience, listening to the smoky chant of Lirith’s voice, imagining the silver-green threads of the Weirding running through her fingers like the threads of the loom as she spun them into a shimmering gauze of power. Then Lirith laughed, and it all had fallen apart. Grace had blinked and opened her eyes to see Aryn looking as stunned as she must have.

The next day they attempted the same exercise. And the next day, and the next, until it was no longer a joy to touch the Weirding, but rather an act of drudgery she could barely force herself to attempt. Grace would work for hours spinning a web—eyes clamped shut, jaw clenched, head throbbing—then Lirith would merely tap her shoulder and the strands of magic would unravel, slipping through her clutching fingers.

“Try again,” Lirith would say, and the exercise would begin anew.

As tedious as the lessons were, neither Grace nor Aryn was ever late for one. Sometimes Grace wondered if King Boreas already knew what they were doing. The pretenses for Lirith’s visit had been weak at best. She had delivered a spoken message from the queen and had asked Boreas if she might stay on in
Calavere to visit with a cousin. Boreas had granted her request. However, just who this cousin was, and why Lirith was never seen in his company, were questions that had yet to be answered.

And there was something more, something else about Lirith’s arrival at the castle that had always bothered Grace these last months. Then, in a flash as bright and unexpected as the firedrake, she had it.

She gripped Aryn’s arm.

“What is it, Grace?”

“Remember how Lirith arrived at Calavere just a week after Ivalaine left?”

The baroness looked puzzled. “It’s only a week’s journey to Ar-tolor.”

“Yes. And that means Lirith would have had to set out from Ar-tolor at the exact same time Ivalaine left Calavere.”

Aryn lifted her left hand in protest. “That doesn’t make sense. Lirith said she had spoken to Ivalaine, and that the queen bade her to come here.”

Grace met Aryn’s gaze. “Exactly.”

Aryn’s blue eyes went wide. Yes, she understood.

“It’s like us, Grace,” the young woman murmured. “Like the way we spoke on … like the way we spoke that time.”

Grace nodded. Except neither she nor Aryn had been able to speak to the other across the Weirding since Midwinter’s Eve. At best each had heard only the barest whisper, and even that might have been imagination. Somehow the urgency of that moment had granted them a power that now eluded them. And they had not mentioned it to Lirith for fear, like so many things, it was something they were forbidden to try on their own.

“Come on,” Grace said. “I think that’s one mystery answered at least.”

And a new one opened. Was this something Lirith
would ever teach them? But there was only one way to learn. They started toward the brook, following the others.

The afternoon was wearing on toward nightfall. Even in summer, days could not last forever. The five of them would have to ride back to the castle soon. The guards would be watching for them—waiting to shut the gates against the dark.

The guards could wait a while longer.

Grace let her eyelids droop. She sat on a blanket, drowsing in the late-day warmth as she listened to the drone of insects. The air was like gold wine: She drank it in, tasting cool water and sun-warmed grass, then breathed out in a soft exhalation. She wasn’t certain what it was, but there was something about this moment—a peace, perhaps, or a power—that made her want to live it just a little longer.

“Night approaches, my lady,” a rumbling voice said beside her. “I imagine predators will be roaming the land soon—those that prowl on four feet and two.”

Grace did not open her eyes. “Hush, Durge.”

There was a low grunt, but no other reply.

She remained still, listening and feeling. However, both moment and magic were gone. The sun dipped behind a line of trees, and the air cooled from gold to green-gray as the insects ceased their toneless song. Grace sighed and looked up. Durge was on his feet, scanning the distance with deep-set brown eyes.

“Any sign of them?” she asked.

“No,” the knight said. “I fear they might have fallen into a—”

A hole? A gorge? An improbable though convenient pit of poisonous adders? Grace didn’t get to find out what it was Durge feared, because at that moment three figures appeared atop a low ridge some distance away. One of the figures—the broadest but not the tallest, which meant it was Garf—waved to them. So the day really was over then. A feeling of sadness filled Grace, so sudden and strange that she almost gasped. But that was silly; Durge was good enough at finding things to worry about without her helping him. She gained her feet as the others started down the ridge.

As the trio approached, Grace saw that the basket slung over Garf’s shoulder was filled with bunches of green and purple. So Lirith was right. The shepherd’s knot was beginning to bloom after all. That boded well for their simples. Garf grinned and hefted the basket high, showing off. She laughed and waved. Behind her, Durge muttered something she did not quite catch.

She turned to regard the dark-haired knight. It had been interesting to see how Durge’s reactions to her studies differed from Garf’s. While the steadfast Embarran would never have questioned her—or Aryn or Lirith, for that matter—it was clear from his manner that he did not entirely understand or care for what Grace was doing with her spare time. When it came time for her lessons with Lirith, he usually made himself scarce. Were most men uncomfortable with the idea of witches?

But Durge’
s
response isn’t the same as Boreas’s, is it, Grace? You’ve seen how the king acts at the mere mention of the word
witch.
He just about needs a full rabies series
.

Grace knew Boreas’s reaction was more instinctual than angry. As far as she could tell, the relationship between the Witches and the Cult of Vathris was much like that between cats and dogs, only not so
cordial. However, Durge did not follow the mysteries of the warrior cult—or those of any cult. His mind was given more to logic than religion, occupied by his late-night studies of chemicals and compounds. Grace imagined he simply thought the Witches silly, their craft a matter of love potions and empty rhymes, not a true science.

Of course, Grace was a scientist herself, but she doubted Durge understood that. On this world medicine was women’s work, itself at best a half step from the workings of hags and witches.

Then there was Garf. The young knight seemed to regard Grace and Aryn’s studies with an amused curiosity.
As it pleases my lady
, Garf was fond of saying when she made a request, be it large or small. Grace supposed if she told Garf they needed a basket of a given herb in order to fly around the castle’s towers, he would grin and ask how much. And if the three of them really took off into the sky, he would no doubt clap his hands and laugh at the sight. Garf seemed to take it for granted that Grace could work magic. Would she ever feel the same way?

She hoped not.

“He is a fine man,” Durge said.

Grace glanced at the knight, but he did not meet her gaze.

“I have heard that Boreas is to choose a husband for Lady Aryn this autumn,” Durge went on, his voice gruff. “I hope it will be a man such as Sir Garfethel.”

So Grace was not the only one who had noticed. The others were close now, picking their way across the stones of the brook, although Grace could not yet hear their voices. Even now, while he remained a polite distance from both Lirith and Aryn, Garf’s body was turned just slightly in Aryn’s direction, his head bowed toward hers. A beatific smile hovered on his lips, and his eyes shone.

Grace gave a wry smile. “Something tells me I’m
no longer the noblest and most beautiful lady in the Dominion.”

“My lady?”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing, Durge. Tell me, does the king know?”

Durge shrugged stooped shoulders. “I cannot say, my lady. The mind of King Boreas is a foreign land to me.”

“Then maybe I had better bring it to his attention.”

Aryn was laughing now, pressing her hand to her stomach. Grace could hear the sound of her mirth, as clear as the music of the brook, although she could not hear what Garf had said to bring it on. It didn’t matter. Grace resolved to speak to Boreas tomorrow. Someone who could bring joy into the baroness’s life would be a blessing, and Grace knew Boreas would agree.

A thought occurred to her. “What about you, Durge? When will you look for a wife?”

Even as Grace spoke the words she regretted them. A grimace crossed the knight’s face, and he turned away.

“Old men do not marry,” he said.

Grace searched for a reply, but as usual words that healed were far harder to come by than those that wounded. Then the moment was lost as the others reached them. Garf unslung the basket of herbs from his shoulder, his face a mask of pain as he let it fall to the ground.

Grace’s medical instincts replaced all other concerns. “Is something wrong, Sir Garfethel?”

“I believe that’s Sir Ox, my lady,” Garf said with a bow. “It was not a noble knight but a beast of burden the good ladies required today.”

Now he grinned: He was not in pain, it had been a joke. Grace forced herself to take a breath. It was
amazing how such small things could throw her off still.

“Perhaps one day, Sir Garfethel,” Lirith said with perfect seriousness, “you can instruct the rest of us in the subtle but intriguing distinction between oxen and knights.”

Garf let out a booming guffaw, and Lirith’s eyes sparkled like the sky at night.

“It grows late,” Durge said. “We should be going.”

Garf stifled his mirth. “I’ll get the horses.”

Grace smiled fondly at both of her knights. She might be only a counterfeit duchess, but her good fortune in having these men as her retainers was genuine.

Durge helped Grace mount Shandis, then turned to assist Lirith. However, the Tolorian woman sat astride her horse already, gown neatly arranged. It might not have been magic, but it was a trick Grace wanted to learn all the same. She struggled with her own gown in a vain effort to keep from sitting on a hard knot of fabric and tried not to hate Lirith too much.

Garf, in turn, helped Aryn onto her white mare.

“Thank you,” the baroness murmured.

“As it pleases my lady.”

The baroness bowed her head, but not before Grace glimpsed the smile that touched her lips.

As they rode north across the land, long shadows stretched to their right. They crested a rise, and Grace saw Calavere atop its hill. She guessed it to be about a league away, but that was mostly because she had yet to gain a good sense of any of the measures of this world, and in her mind any distance over a mile and less than ten was
about a league
.

They lost sight of the castle as they descended into a gulch. Granite outcrops rose over their heads, and the air grew cool and purple. The floor of the valley
was thick with vegetation. Grace suspected a botanist from Denver would have found the trees and shrubs fascinatingly deviant, but to her they looked a lot like pine and scrub oak. They reached the bottom of the gulch and headed up the other side.

Grace heard the sound the same moment Durge raised a hand, bringing the party to a halt. They sat still on their horses, listening. Then Grace heard it again: a low, rhythmic sound she could not place. Durge glanced at Garf, and the young knight’s hand moved to the hilt of the sword at his hip. Grace swallowed, startled by the hard look on Garf’s face. For all his good humor, at twenty-two years of age he was a man of war.

The sound drifted again on the moist air, although it was difficult to tell from which direction it came. Aryn cast a look at Grace, her blue eyes concerned. Lirith’s own eyes were closed, as if she were listening for something. Grace opened her mouth to ask a question, but a look from Durge made her clamp it shut again. Maybe the Embarran’s fear of brigands was not so impossible after all.

Durge dismounted from Blackalock. Grace watched as he took three steps forward along the path. Then the bushes to his left exploded, and a black ball of fury burst forth.

It was upon Durge before Grace even realized what it was. The horses whinnied and leaped back. The bear reached out huge paws to engulf Durge. The knight curled up and fell to the ground. Aryn let out a muffled cry of terror.

“No!” Grace shouted, but she wasn’t certain if her lips really formed the word. She reached out a hand, but Durge was impossibly far away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Garf leap from the back of his warhorse and draw his sword. Then there was another dark flash of movement.

For a horrified second Grace thought it was a second bear. Then the beast let out a trumpeting cry, and she realized it was Blackalock, Durge’s charger. Eyes wild, the horse reared onto its hind legs, then brought sharp hooves down on the bear’s humped back. The bear snarled and scrambled around, but Blackalock had already galloped away. Grace knew that chargers were trained for battle, but she had not understood what that meant until now. Shandis trembled beneath her and would have bolted but for Grace’s death grip on the reins. Aryn was struggling with her own mount—although Lirith’s horse stood stockstill, the witch’s hand pressed against its neck.