Beyond the Pale (32 page)

Aryn and the serving maids retreated from the room, and Grace soaked in the marvelously hot water until, one by one, her muscles unclenched. However, at last the water grew cool, and she knew there was no more putting it off.

It was time to try the gowns again.

She dried off, shrugged on the simple linen shift Aryn had left for her, then eyed the dusky purple gown the baroness had selected. Aryn had said the color would contrast nicely with Grace’s green-gold eyes and ash-blond hair. Grace could only take her word for it. They hadn’t taught fashion design in medical school.

Grace shrugged the gown over her head, staggered under its weight, recovered, then arranged it as best she could. To the gown’s sash she attached the small leather pouch that contained the silver half-coin and the business card Hadrian Farr had given her. After a moment’s thought she added her necklace to the pouch, for the metal pendant seemed too large and heavy given the low cut of the gown’s bodice. At least, that was what she told herself, but she remembered the way Detective Janson had leaned toward her to peer at her necklace, interest shining in his small, evil eyes.

With a gentle knock Aryn entered once more. Her blue eyes flew wide, but it was a hallmark of her nobility that she did not burst out laughing. “It’s a good start,” the baroness said, “but let’s work with it a bit.”

There was some struggling at first, but once Aryn asked Grace to stand still and quit resisting, things went more rapidly. Aryn adjusted the gown with deft fingers, and Grace found that, once properly arranged, it was neither so heavy nor binding as she had thought. There was a definite trick to
walking in the thing, and sitting was a feat in itself, but after a few pointers from Aryn, Grace found she was not at all hopeless. In fact, it was almost fun to feel the soft material swishing around her.

“You’re doing wonderfully, Grace,” Aryn said.

Grace smiled in reply and spun in a circle. Her smile became a grimace as she tripped over a fold of cloth and flopped down into a chair.

The baroness winced. “But don’t get overconfident.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

Aryn helped her out of the chair, and they proceeded next to a breakfast of brown bread, soft cheese, and dried fruit. The baroness used the meal as an opportunity for a lesson. Here in Calavan—as in all the Dominions, Aryn explained—common folk paid tithes of food and other goods to their liege lord in exchange for protection and justice. In addition to being king, Boreas was a baron and held several duchies as well, and thus possessed fiefdoms of his own from which came the food, the wool, the iron, and other materials that were required for the keeping of Calavere.

Grace picked up a piece of bread. “It all seems like an awfully complicated way just to get your breakfast.”

“And how does one procure food and protection in your homeland?”

Grace chewed the bread and thought. “I’m not entirely certain. We buy food in a store. And I suppose we pay police officers to protect us.”

Aryn’s words were polite, but it was clear from her expression she thought this arrangement inferior. “I see. Markets and mercenaries. I have heard things are so in the Free Cities to the south. Perhaps you hail from one of them?”

Grace looked away. How could she tell Aryn the truth about where she came from? People here had been afraid enough when they thought she might be a fairy queen. What would they think if they knew she came from another world?

Now Aryn’s voice quavered with worry. “I’m so sorry, Grace. It’s none of my concern where you come from. Can you forgive me?”

Grace turned back, forced herself to smile, and found it was not so difficult. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

All the rest of that day, and for several days after that, Grace’s education continued. In a way, it was like being in school again. Although even medical school—despite Grace’s love for dissection and examination—had not been so interesting as this. Most of her time was spent in her chamber, and she sat by the fire and gazed into the flames as Aryn lectured. The baroness would sip spiced wine while Grace favored steaming cups of
maddok
. She had discovered the remarkable substance one morning when a clay pot of it was left on her breakfast tray by mistake. Apparently
maddok
was considered a vulgar drink, suitable for commoners only, while nobles preferred wine. However, after her first cup, Grace did not care what anyone thought of her for drinking it. In multiple ways
maddok
reminded her of the coffee in the Residents’ Lounge back at Denver Memorial—thick, black, and energizing—only without that battery acid aftertaste and the accompanying shakes. It was good stuff.

Each day, Grace looked forward to Aryn’s visits more and more. Before long, by the time the baroness arrived at the chamber door, she would discover Grace already risen and dressed. What was more, Aryn was forced to rearrange Grace’s hopelessly tangled gown only on the first two or three occasions. After that, Grace found she could manage by herself, albeit with some minor lifting on the part of one of the serving maids. The first time she was able to properly don one of the gowns alone she beamed in triumph. It was amazing what a feeling of independence it gave one to be able to dress oneself.

Aryn, it turned out, was a good teacher.

The baroness was knowledgeable and explained things in a clear manner, and, while patient, she was also demanding of her pupil. Though far from perfect, a picture of this world—at least the part of it in which she had found herself—began to form in Grace’s mind. She listened as Aryn spoke of the history of the Dominions, and of kingdoms and empires far older. And she learned something of geography as well, when one afternoon the baroness used bits of charcoal stolen from the hearth to draw maps on pieces of stretched sheepskin vellum. It was fascinating, yet—just as Grace had expected in a world without automobiles and satellites—Aryn’s
knowledge of the land grew more vague with increasing distance from Calavan.

Of all Aryn’s lessons, politics was Grace’s least favorite, and the one upon which they spent the most time. If Grace was to be at all effective in observing the upcoming Council of Kings, Aryn explained, it was crucial she possess a thorough understanding of all the players involved.

“And the ruler of Brelegond is?”

The baroness paced before the fire, her left hand on her slender hip, and her expression serious. She had taken to quizzing Grace, who sat on a stool, to test how well her pupil had paid attention.

Grace thought a minute. “King Lysandir.”

Aryn nodded. “Good. Now, tell me the seat of Queen Ivalaine of Toloria.”

That was an easy one. The names were so similar. “Ar-Tolor,” Grace said without pause.

The baroness did not give Grace a chance to rest. “And the primary export of Galt is?”

Grace wracked her brain but could not recall the answer. This was worse than the gross anatomy final her first year in medical school. “Rocks?” she said with a hopeful look.

Aryn sighed. “Close. The primary export of Galt is goat’s wool.”

Grace’s lips twisted in a wry expression. “I should have guessed. What with all those rocks, there are bound to be lots of goats.” She looked up at Aryn. “So, I didn’t pass, did I?”

The young baroness hesitated, then shook her head. “But you were wonderfully close, Grace.”

Only Aryn could make failure sound like an accomplishment. “I don’t know how you keep track of everything, Aryn,” Grace said. “You’re amazing.”

The baroness turned away and hunched her slender shoulders. “It’s nothing, really. It’s a noble’s job to know such things, that’s all. It behooves us to be familiar with our allies and rivals. Still, my knowledge is only a poor fraction of what Lord Alerain knows. It is said the king’s seneschal can recognize every noble in the Dominions, down to the least earl, on sight.”

“He didn’t recognize me,” Grace said softly.

Her own words startled her, she hadn’t meant to utter them aloud. Aryn turned around, her expression thoughtful, although what she was thinking Grace did not know.

“I believe it is past time for a rest,” was all the baroness said.

Not all of Grace’s hours were spent in study in the small stone chamber, for Aryn had other duties to attend to besides Grace’s education. As King Boreas’s ward, and as the highest-ranking lady in Calavere, it fell to her to make the household ready for the nobles that would soon arrive. Rooms that had not been used in a decade needed to be reopened and aired. The stores in the cellar had to be inventoried. And there were countless other details to oversee, from making certain there were linens enough for all the guests, to examining every spoon in the scullery to be certain each had been polished. Just listening to all Aryn’s activities was enough to make Grace tired. She decided she would rather work double shifts in the ED on a full moon Friday than be the lady of a castle for a day.

To keep Grace occupied in the times she was away, Aryn brought an armful of books from the castle library to Grace’s chamber.

“Oh!” Aryn gasped as she set the stack of books on the sideboard. Concern touched her forehead. “You do read, don’t you, Grace? I simply assumed … a lady of your station, that is … but if you haven’t learned, that’s perfectly …”

Grace held up a hand. “It’s all right, Aryn. Yes, I do read. Almost everybody reads where I come from. Well, they
can
read, that is. I’m not certain they always
do.
”

Aryn looked shocked. “Only a fool would squander such a precious gift.”

“I won’t argue with you on that one.”

The books were like nothing Grace had ever seen. Each was lettered painstakingly by hand and bound in leather gilded with gold and silver leaf. She opened one of them and
turned the pages of stiff vellum with growing delight, for the margins of every page were decorated with intricate drawings of moons, stars, and intertwining leaves. These were not so much books as they were works of readable art. Grace eagerly gathered them up in her arms.

For several afternoons in a row, while Aryn saw to her various duties about the castle, Grace curled atop the massive bed and read. The books Aryn had brought were largely histories that described the founding of Calavan and, in lesser detail, the other Dominions. Most of what she read was difficult to follow, and consisted of long lists that recounted the names of which knights and nobles had fallen in this skirmish with barbarians or that battle with a neighboring fiefdom. Still, it was enough to make Grace realize that, however kindly people had been to her, these were harsh lands, carved not all that long ago out of wilderness by sword and fire.

It was while reading one of the books that Grace discovered the secret of the silver half-coin the strange preacher man had given her, at the ruins of the Beckett-Strange Home for Children back on Earth.

One night she shucked off her gown and, clad only in her linen shift, climbed into bed. She took one of the books with her, to read by the light of a tallow candle. Except when she opened the book the words on the page were gibberish, as if written in some ancient, alien language. Yet she had been reading this same volume no more than an hour ago.

Wait a minute, Grace. You’re a scientist, be rational about this. What’s different now that wasn’t a little while ago
?

Perhaps it was intuition. Perhaps it was a leap of logic based on some clues or evidence she had unconsciously noted earlier. Either way, a thrill ran up Grace’s spine. She moved to her cast-off gown, reached into the leather pouch fastened to the sash, and drew out the half-coin.

After a little experimenting her initial hunch was confirmed. If she held the coin, or if it was anywhere about her person, she could read the books as if they were written in English, albeit a somewhat archaic dialect. However, if she was not in contact with the coin, the words were meaningless scribbles. When a serving maid entered Grace made another
discovery. The coin affected not only written words, but spoken words as well. At first the serving maid seemed to speak in a lilting foreign tongue. Then Grace gripped the coin, and the girl’s words phased into meaning.

“Forgive me, my lady, but I asked if you required anything?”

“No. No, I’m fine.”

The serving maid curtsied and left.

It made sense, of course. Why would the people of another world speak English? It should have occurred to her sooner. But somehow the coin had worked to translate the language of this land, and she had not noticed. Grace opened her hand and gazed down at the broken coin on her palm. The partial symbols engraved on each surface glinted in the candlelight, but she could not guess what they might be. Whatever they were, one thing was for certain. Whoever he was, wherever he had come from, Brother Cy had some sort of connection with this world, with Eldh.

Knowing that left just one question.
Why
! Why had he come to her at the orphanage?
Or did I come to him
? Grace sensed that if she knew the answer to that question, she would understand much. She tucked the half-coin back into her pouch.

It was not a feeling she was accustomed to, but the next morning a strange sense of loneliness crept into Grace’s chest. She wished Aryn was there, but the baroness was off seeing to one of her myriad tasks. She moved to the window and watched the people below through rippled glass: squires, nobles, servants, all with names and purposes unknown.

Grace drew in a deep breath. She knew this place was a world away from Denver. Yet it was not so different from the hospital, was it? At Denver Memorial she had never spoken much with the other residents and doctors, had never taken part in their impromptu hallway games or lounge chat sessions. She had felt there just as she did now, watching the bailey—distant, disconnected, observing but not taking part.

Grace clutched the stone sill. There was nothing for her beyond the window. She started to turn away—

—then halted. There, in the upper bailey, a figure walked toward the stable. He was clad all in black and gray, and his mail shirt seemed to weigh down his shoulders. Even from
here she could see the way his long black mustaches drooped, and by that she knew him for certain. It was Durge, the knight who had found her in the forest.