The Keep of Fire (20 page)

You can let yourself cry, Durge. You don’t always have to be a rock. Doctor’s orders
. But as so often in her life, she had not known how to speak the words she really wanted to.

“Go see if Lady Aryn needs anything, Durge,” she had said instead, and he had given her a brisk nod before turning to see to her request.

Unlike Durge, Aryn had wept with surprising and worrisome frequency since the incident. Grace or Lirith—or sometimes both of them—would hold the baroness as sobs ripped themselves from her chest. Had the young woman known about Garf’s love for her? Perhaps that was it, but there was something about Aryn’s grief that made Grace think it wasn’t all for the slain knight. Grace had heard weeping like Aryn’s before. She had been a girl at the Beckett-Strange Home for Children, and she had heard it at night sometimes, drifting on wings of dark through silent rooms: the primal, wordless sounds of utter despair.

Grace sighed. She would keep observing Aryn, but she didn’t know what else to do. In this case, whatever was truly wrong, she couldn’t diagnose it without the patient’s help.

The garden path wound on, and as Grace walked
her thoughts turned to Travis. These last days she had found herself thinking of her friend more often than usual. For some reason he weighed upon her mind almost more heavily than Garf did. Then again, given the dreams, perhaps it was not such a mystery.

Nearly every night now she had the queer dream of Travis standing atop the foggy mountain. It was always the same: calling in vain to him, then the red star, and the swirling mist that became fire.

Throughout her life, Grace’s dreams had been murky and nonsensical: a series of badly edited foreign films made by drunken directors. This dream was different. Vivid, real. When she closed her eyes she could see the curling fog, the blazing star. But what did it mean?

It didn’t mean anything, of course. Dreams were merely the synaptic equivalent of leftovers. Looking for meaning in one was about as useful as looking for a haiku in a bowl of alphabet soup. All the same, it was hard to shake the feeling that Travis was in trouble somehow. However, it was pointless to worry. Even if Travis were in danger, he was a world away now, and far beyond her ability to help. Besides, Grace had far nearer concerns.

Twice more over the last several days, Boreas had called her to his chamber to discuss the matter of Perridon—although as yet the king seemed not to have decided whether action was required, and if so what that action might be. Regardless, Grace had been glad to have a mundane problem to focus on, and she had helped the king by giving him what knowledge she could.

Her studies with Lirith were another matter. She would have thought that, after what had happened, Lirith would have suspended their lessons. And in Aryn’s case this was so. But not for Grace. The evening after Garf’s death, just as the moon was rising, Lirith had knocked on Grace’s chamber door.

“There is comfort in work, sister,” she had said in answer to Grace’s astonished look. “And you have much to learn yet.”

Grace had almost laughed.
That’s the understatement of the century. Sister
. But she had let Lirith into the room and had shut the door behind her.

However, despite her efforts, in the time since that evening Grace had not been able to touch the Weirding once.

“You must concentrate, sister,” Lirith would whisper. She always smelled of citrus and cloves. “Unshackle your mind from fear. Allow yourself to reach out, to feel the life around you, to bring it close.”

Grace would try, but every time, just as she glimpsed the sparkling threads of magic around her, she would see the shadow that lurked in the heart of the web, and she knew that if she were to follow the thread of her own life it would lead right into the blot of darkness. A sound would split her mind, like a door shutting, and she would blink as the Weirding vanished.

“I can’t,” she finally said last night, trembling and gasping, sinking to her knees. “I can’t do it anymore.”

Lirith studied her, then left the room without a word. Grace thought the witch had given up on her at last. However, that morning she returned to Grace’s chamber. And that was when Lirith told Grace to look for someone in the garden.

“Hello?” she called once more.

The word drifted through the vibrant tapestry of vines and branches. She had stepped through another gate into a smaller space walled on all sides by high hedges. The profusion of life there was even greater than what she had glimpsed so far—a dense and glorious cacophony of color that grew with abandon.

“Get out of here, you rascal!”

Grace jumped at the sound of the high-pitched voice. Where had it come from? She turned around,
then blinked. A bush on the farside of the garden was moving. Its branches flailed about, as if it were angry, and leaves fluttered to the ground.

“I said get out!”

Grace hesitated. It was hard to know exactly what to do when one was shouted at by a bush. Once, while at a feast, she had seen a heap of pine boughs shake, then had glimpsed a small, green man within. That had been last winter, when the Little People were prowling the halls of Calavere. But there had been no sign of them since Midwinter’s Eve. Was there a greenman in the castle again?

“Out!”

With this last word, the bush exploded in a cloud of leaves, and a figure stumbled from it. It wasn’t a greenman.

She was old. Grace was a good judge from experience, and she assessed the woman’s age at eighty years, although ninety was possible. She was twig-thin, but not hunched or osteoporotic. Her skin had the soft translucence of petals, and veins traced lines beneath. She wore a simple gray dress that was streaked with dirt, and leaves and bits of bark clung to her wispy white hair.

“I knew I’d get you,” the woman said, blue eyes sparkling above smudged cheeks.

At last Grace understood: The woman had not been speaking to her, but rather to the thistly-looking weed she gripped in a gloved hand.

Grace stepped forward. “Hello,” she said again.

The old woman dropped the weed. Grace winced—she should have known that speaking suddenly would startle the other. The old woman searched about with that unfocused look the elderly sometimes have when attempting to locate a sound or a voice. Then her blue eyes locked on Grace, and her expression sharpened at once.

The old woman smiled. “Well, now. Here is a lovely flower, sisters.”

Grace winced again. She hardly thought of herself as a flower. And who was the woman speaking to? Grace didn’t see anyone else in the garden.

“What is it, sweet? Have you found your tongue only to lose it?”

Grace shook her head. No one had ever called her
sweet
before. But she supposed it was better than
Your Radiance
. “I’m supposed to meet someone here. In the garden. Although I’m not sure who it is. Have you …?”

“Have I seen anyone?” The old woman shook her head. “No, sweet. There’s only me. And my sisters, of course.”

A frown tightened Grace’s forehead. The old woman had said it again.
Sisters
. Who was she referring to? Or perhaps she was senile.

Grace tried again. “If you see anyone who’s looking for me, could you tell them I was here?”

The old woman nodded. “As you wish, sweet. Although, if you’d like, you could stay a while. If you don’t know who you’re looking for or where you might find him, aren’t you as likely to find him here as elsewhere?”

Grace opened her mouth, but she had to admit there was a logic to it. Perhaps she would rest a bit, then head back to the castle to tell Lirith she had not found the one she was supposed to.

“You can sit there, sweet.” The old woman pointed to a marble bench half-lost within a stand of poppies. “Don’t mind while I work. One can’t lower one’s guard for a moment, or the rogue’s thistle will creep in and steal the life from everything else.” She bent down, scooped up the recalcitrant weed, and heaved it onto a small pile.

Grace sat on the bench. It was odd to rest while the old woman worked, but she wouldn’t be much help.
Grace had a feeling she could steal the life from any given plant faster than rogue’s thistle. She glanced down at her hands.

Maybe you’re not much better with people, Grace
.

Except she knew that wasn’t true. Ivalaine was right; healing was Grace’s gift. But then why hadn’t she been able to heal when it mattered most? Why had she let the thread of Garf’s life slip through her fingers?

“Is something amiss, sweet?”

Grace glanced up. The old woman was gazing at her, a curious expression on her wizened visage.

“No, I’m fine. Really.” She struggled for something to say. “I’m Grace. What’s your name?”

“My name is Naida, but most people call me the Herb Mother. You can call me whatever you wish.”

Grace thought about this. “I’ll call you Naida.”

“If it pleases you, sweet.” Naida bent beside a cloth bag, rummaged inside, then pulled out a clay bottle. “Would you like a drink?”

The day was getting hot. Grace accepted the bottle and lifted it to her lips. She had thought it would contain water, but instead it was cool, earthy wine. Naida took the bottle, drank, and returned it to the bag. A warmth permeated Grace, from both sun and wine. She let her eyes droop shut. This was a peaceful place.

“My poor sister,” Naida said in a soft, sad voice. “You are so beautiful still, but inside you are dying.”

Grace’s eyes flew open. She fought for understanding. Did Naida know what had happened? But how? Grace searched for the old woman, then saw her standing under a tree. It looked something like an ash tree, although the leaves were tinged with gold not silver.

Grace stood and approached Naida. “What do you mean?”

Naida rested a hand on the tree’s bark. “You cannot see it, sweet. But I can feel it there, like a darkness. I’m afraid she rots from within.”

The tree. She was talking about the tree, not about Grace.

Naida sighed, then turned from the tree and held out her arms. “We must say good-bye to our dear friend, sisters. This season will be her last.”

Grace frowned. “Excuse me, but you keep saying the word
sisters
. Who are you talking to?”

A smile deepened the wrinkles of Naida’s face. “Why, I’m speaking to them, of course. They are all my sisters.”

Finally Grace understood. The plants in the garden—it was to them that Naida spoke. Maybe the old woman was daft after all. But no, there was something about her—a calmness, a strength—that was familiar to Grace. She moved to the tree and laid her hand on its trunk, then shut her eyes. At first she was afraid, then she forced herself to reach out with her mind, into the tree.

Her eyes blinked open. She had seen it: a dark blot in the shimmering web of threads that wove around the tree. She clutched a hand to her stomach. Was that what was happening to her? Was she rotting from within like the tree?

Naida had been watching her, and now the old woman nodded. “The Touch runs strongly in you.”

A breath of uncertainty filled Grace’s chest. “Where did you come from?” she asked quietly.

“Why, I journeyed to Calavere with my queen, of course.” She brushed a blossom with her fingers, and her gaze grew distant. “I can still remember the last time I stood within the borders of Calavan, although I was only twelve winters old. One day a nobleman I had never seen before rode up to my father’s manor on a white horse. Behind him was a mare with no rider. It seemed so strange—I couldn’t imagine why
he had come. That night the nobleman dined with us. I remember thinking him to be terribly old, although he was only twenty-four. Twenty-four! And look at me now.”

She held out her hands. Grace could see sunlight through them, the bones as frail and twisted as wisteria.

“The next morning I sat aback the mare, trailing behind the nobleman whose name I barely knew, and watched my family wave good-bye. I never saw them again. We rode to his manor in the duchy of Arthannon, and I lived there with him for many years, until he died and I went to be of service to my mistress, who was not yet queen at the time.”

She gazed around the garden. “I always meant to return here. And before my queen rode for Ar-tolor, I begged of her that I might stay, and the king was kind enough to invite me in.” She sighed. “There are no more journeys in me, save for one.”

Grace wasn’t certain at what point in the old woman’s story she had finally grasped the truth she had been too blind, and too caught up in her own shadow, to see. “It was you,” she said. “It was you that Lirith wanted me to find.”

Naida shrugged. “Sister Lirith is ever full of peculiar ideas. But she is such a lovely thing. She should be married to a strong, handsome man. As should you, sweet.” She gave Grace a sly wink. “A garden grows more beautiful if it is tilled more often.”

Color bloomed on Grace’s cheeks. “I don’t … I don’t think I’ll ever be that close to another.”

Naida scowled. “But what is it you fear? That if a man looks closely he will see you warts and wrinkles and all, and that he will turn away? Is that it, sweet?”

Grace stepped back. No, she didn’t want to talk about this. There was no way Naida would understand why Grace could never be touched that way—not by a man, not by anyone.

“What sadness on your face! But you have aught to worry about. Not a precious thing like you.”

Naida reached for her, but Grace pulled back and turned toward the dying tree. She folded her arms across her chest, as if to conceal her own black center. “Is there nothing that can be done to save it, then?”

Naida regarded her, then shook her head. “I fear not, sweet. Perhaps if we had known sooner. But the darkness inside has eaten at her too long.”

Grace nodded. It was a harsh prognosis, but she had spoken ones just as bad a hundred times.

“Well,” she said, turning to face Naida, “I guess Lirith sent me here to help you. So what can I do?”

Naida pressed her lips together, watching Grace, then she pointed to a patch of flowers. “The rogue’s thistle is beginning to creep among the fairy’s breath.”

“I’ll see to it,” Grace said, and she turned to begin her task.