Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (29 page)

 
          
“Shall
I carry you across?” he asked, his voice innocent.

 
          
“Thank
you, no.” Wynett shook her head, feeling an abrupt surge of alarm at the
prospect of being held in those solid arms. “I believe I may safely cross
unaided.”

 
          
Eyrik
nodded, looking mildly disappointed, and stepped casually onto the first stone.
He halted at the
center,
waiting for her as if afraid
she might falter and fall. Wynett lifted her skirts and set foot on the first
slab. It was wide, almost a rectangle, and flat. She could see where it met the
sand of the stream bed, yet when she transferred her weight, she felt it move
beneath her. It was less a sensation of tilting than of internal movement, as
if the stone itself gave way under her. The thought flashed through her mind
that the experience of the weird chambers had distorted her sense of balance
and she moved swiftly to the second stone. That appeared smaller than the
first, though she would have sworn it was the same size when first she saw it,
and she stepped hurriedly to the third. That, too, felt less solid them stone
should, and as she moved on she experienced a strange sensation of shrinking,
of dwindling, for the brook seemed wider, the stones more numerous, stretching
before her as though they crossed not a narrow stream, but a small river,
which, when she glanced down, did, indeed, appear deeper than it had at first
seemed. Dizziness made her halt, arms outstretched as she fought to hold her
balance, and she felt a flush of embarrassment and irritation at her weakness.

 
          
Then
Eyrik had her hand and the brook was no more than that: a rivulet, shallow and
little more than a few steps across. She felt his fingers close about hers and
the touch seemed to imbue her with strength, clearing her head. The stepping
stones became solid again and she allowed him to lead her to the far bank,
retrieving her hand as she stared back over the water. It shone silvery blue in
the sun, eddies swirling about the bulk of the stones, the bottom knee-deep at
best.

 
          
“Your
gown is wet.”

 
          
Eyrik’s
voice was solicitous and Wynett glanced down, seeing die hem of her skirt
banded with darkness where it had fallen into the water as she struggled to
maintain her balance.

 
          
“No
matter,” she murmured, “it will dry quickly enough.”

 
          
“If you are sure?”
He was all courteous concern and when she
nodded and he took her elbow again she found it impossible to remove her arm
from his grip. It was not that he clasped
her,
though
there was, undoubtedly, strength in his fingers, but something in his look and
the tone of his voice, as if refusal of contact would hurt and offend, that
shaped her will to break the contact. It seemed, anyway, innocent enough and
she allowed him to hold her lightly, taking her into the woodland.

 
          
There
was a path, a band of grass trod short, winding between overhanging trees,
moving to left and right so that it was never possible to see more than a few
paces ahead, sunlit and picture pretty. Light filtered through the trees to
either side, falling in bands striated with blue shadows, dappling the path.
Birds sang and insects buzzed and as Wynett looked about she saw a profusion of
timber akin to the great forest of the Beltrevan. Oak and ash and birch grew
alongside beech and larch, willows edged the stream and tall sycamores thrust
toward the sky, here and there somber pines standing stately, and hawthorn,
elderberry, chestnut, foxgloves, harebells, and violets growing in the shade: a
bosky extravagance that paid no heed to nature’s laws. Within a few steps the
stream was out of sight and within a few more Wynett felt lost. The path seemed
to curve gently, but turns that should, she was certain, have brought them back
upon it revealed instead fresh avenues into the wood.

 
          
They
came to a meadow bright with buttercups, cowslips, and red poppies, and she saw
rabbits scutter to the cover of a bramble thicket on the farther side; she
glanced at the sky, for the presence of the conies suggested a latening of the
hour. The sun, however, remained high, seeming to have moved little, if at all,
since she had first looked from her bedroom window. It filled the meadow with
warm, golden light in which butterflies drifted on fragile wings and fat
yellow- banded bees dusted heavy with pollen moved busily from flower to
flower.

 
          
“Is
it not lovely?” asked Eyrik, his voice soft, as though he were afraid to spoil
the perfection of the scene with intrusive sound.

 
          
“Aye,
it is,” Wynett agreed.

 
          
He
led her to the center of the meadow, their passage raising clouds of pollen
that hung dusty on the still air, bees and butterflies winging from their path,
and paused facing the sandy bank pocked with the entrances of burrows. There
was
a stillness
at the center, as if the wood held his
sylvan breath, and Eyrik let go her arm to pluck a flower, presenting the
bloom.

 
          
Wynett
smiled a trifle doubtfully as she accepted the offering; Eyrik smiled and said,
"It matches your eyes.”

 
          
She
studied the blossom and saw that it was a cornflower, though such would not
normally grow in this location

 
          
“Come.”
He took her elbow again, bringing her across the meadow to the bank, up which
he insisted on helping her even though it was by no means steep. Yet when they
reached the top and paused again within the circle of seven pine trees she
found she could look back and see the stream and the white bulk of the palace,
shimmering as if viewed through heat haze and distance. In all other directions
the wood stretched, unbroken save by the little meadows, the variegated shades
of green becoming blue as wood and sky merged on the horizons. It seemed large
as the Beltrevan.

 
          
“How
far does this extend?” she asked, thinking that she did little but ply him with
questions, and knowing that there were many more to come.

 
          
“Far,”
he answered vaguely.

 
          
“Have
you not explored it?”

 
          
He
shook his head, smiling. “Not all of it. There is so much, and it will always
be here.”

 
          
She
turned to look up at his face, seeing in his gold-flecked eyes a look as
distant as the horizon. His head was cocked slightly to the side, as though he
listened for something, attuning his ear to the breeze that would carry sound.
She opened her mouth to frame a fresh question, but he caught the movement from
the corner of his eye and forestalled her.

 
          
“Look
. ”
She followed his extended hand and saw three hawks swoop
from the blue, low over the treetops, banking and disappearing among the
timber. He waited a while as if expecting the birds to reappear, but when they
did not he turned, gesturing to the far incline of the ridge. “Shall we return
now?”

 
          
Wynett
nodded and they descended the slope into a stand of slender, silvery birches.
Before the path curved she turned back, glancing at the bank, and saw the seven
pines standing like sentinels atop a mound little more than twice a man’s
height. A coney emerged from a burrow, standing on its hind legs, its long ears
erect, its eyes fastened on her as if it studied her with more than animal
intelligence. Then the path turned into the birches and the creature was
hidden, the mound and the bramble thicket and the pines all lost behind the
slim trunks.

 
          
She
began to count the twists and turns, convinced that the trail wound like a maze
through the wood, as inexplicable as the dimensions of the building, finding a
leftward curve, or a swing to the right, where her senses told her it must
recross itself, wondering how far into the timber they had penetrated, but
unable to guage time because the sun appeared un moving, shining resolutely
through the overlaying latticework of branches. Perhaps, she thought, no night
fell on this strange place; or perhaps it fell when Eyrik decreed it should.
She was about to inquire when the path straightened and she saw the willows that
marked its meeting with the brook.

 
          
They
emerged at the stepping stones and Wynett frowned, convinced, for all the
meanderings, that their way must have taken them some distance from the ford.
She looked across the brook and saw the wall of the palace, apparently from the
same vantage point.

 
          
“May
I?”

 
          
She
turned to find Eyrik offering his hand and this time took it without argument,
allowing him to lead her over the stones, which remained solid.

           
“It is a wondrous place,” he
remarked as they reached the bank and began to walk across the lawn, “but a
little confusing until you are accustomed to its nature.”

 
          
Wynett
assumed that he spoke of the wood and wondered if it was a warning she heard.
“An easy place in which to lose
yourself
,” she
replied.

 
          
“Aye.”
Eyrik nodded solemnly. “You are, of course, free to
come and go as you please, but for the moment I suggest you rely on my
guidance.”

 
          
“I
shall,” she said, the agreement eliciting a satisfied smile.

 
          
There
was an indefinable element in his expression and without knowing exactly what
it was, or why it should have such an effect, she felt a flash of irritation.
She became aware that she still held the flower he had given her and let it
fell from her grasp. If Eyrik noticed he said nothing, merely continuing to
smile as he took her across the grass toward the looming white wall.

 
          
She
assumed they approached the same door from which they had come, but when he
swung the portal open she saw, not entirely to her surprise, and somewhat to
her relief, that the chamber beyond was not that vaulted, candle-lit hall,.
but
another, low-ceilinged and wider than it was long. Nor
was she surprised to find when he closed the door that windows marched along
the wall where none had shown outside. She looked through them and saw the sun
was westering—if compass points had any meaning in this place—settling close to
the horizon, the woodland already shadowy, the gallerylike chamber lit with
mellow, red-gold light. Plush benches stood across from the windows, as if placed
to catch the sunset, interspersed with alcoves in which stood slim silver
pedestals, each one supporting a vase of dark green glass filled with flowers.
The floor was of tessellated marble, pink and gold that emphasized the radiance
of the setting sun, and the walls seemed imbued with a coral tint.

 
          
“It
is very pretty,” Eyrik murmured absently, “but there are finer views I shall
show you.”

 
          
Wynett
offered no comment and followed him silendy across the mosaic floor to a door
of pink-hued wood.

 
          
This
opened on the smallest room she had seen since awakening,
and
the
only one to possess neither windows nor any visible source of light.
At first she did not realize that, for the chamber was filled with a shifting,
shimmering blue luminescence that made her think of mountain pools, or the
calmer reaches of the Idre, and it was only when she glanced about her that she
saw the unbroken walls and noticed that no candles or flambeaux were present.
Eyrik motioned her forward and she stepped onto a floor of the same aquamarine
hue as the walls and the low ceiling, feeling as if she moved into breathable
water, her steps somehow slowed, graceful as the languid movements of a
cruising fish. It was less disconcerting than the riot of color that filled the
rainbow room, but still confusing to the senses, tricking the eyes so that
distance became hard to judge and she found herself at first holding her
breath.

 
          
There
was no furniture, nor any form of decoration, every surface smooth. Or so it
seemed until Eyrik halted, staring down, and she saw that he stood beside a
circular pool of translucent water. This seemed to be the source of the
chamber’s illumination for the light was brighter about its confines and when
she looked at it, it seemed to hold her gaze, the flawless surface hypnotic in
its liquid purity. It was impossible to judge the depth: there was no bottom
visible despite the blue clarity, nor any darkening to suggest the abyss of a
well.