Beyond the Pale (44 page)

“I think I’d like to return to my chamber now,” she said. “If I may take my leave, Your Majesty.”

Ivalaine gave a nod. Grace curtsied and with Aryn made her way through the crowd, back toward the sanctuary of the upper bailey. She did not need to look over her shoulder to know that two glints of emerald watched her as she went.

Two kings arrived at Calavere the next day.

Sorrin, King of Embarr, rode to the castle gate just after dawn, accompanied by an austere entourage of no more than five wagons, ten courtiers, and a dozen knights, each one as dark of hair and grim of face as Grace’s rescuer, the knight Durge. King Sorrin himself was a tall man, but hunched over, thin almost to the point of emaciation, and unexpectedly disheveled for royalty. His hair was lank and tangled, his black garb threadbare and unkempt. Yet he was a king all the same, and even gaunt and sharp-boned there was a stony handsomeness to his face, and his brown eyes were keen and intelligent—although, it seemed to Grace from her position on the battlements, there was something haunted about them as well.

The horns blew again near midday to announce the arrival of King Lysandir of Brelegond.

Lysandir’s company stood in vivid contrast to Sorrin’s and was even larger and brighter—if not necessarily grander—than Queen Ivalaine’s entourage. Lysandir himself was a plain, balding, soft-looking man of middle years who was all but invisible within the vast tonnage of scarlet, blue, and gold he wore. Most of the members of his extensive traveling court were clad in only slightly less ostentatious fashion, and even the horses wore peacock feathers in their bridles. Although painted in bright colors, the king’s wagons seemed to be in poor repair, and one lost its wheels as it rattled through Calavere’s open gates. Grace laughed aloud at the sight of three gaudy courtiers spilled into the mud by the wagon’s fall, their mouths open in circles of dismay.

After the brief and pleasant respite with Aryn on the battlements
watching the kings arrive, Grace was left to her own devices once more as the baroness hurried off to see to her duties.

Grace lingered along the route to her chamber. She did not feel like going back to her room and studying the books there, but the day outside had darkened, and although it was not quite cold enough to snow, it would most likely sleet. Besides, her two recent forays outside the castle’s main keep had both ended in unqualified disasters. It was safer to stay indoors. So, with no particular destination in mind, she wandered.

Usually when she walked, Grace fidgeted with her necklace, the one that had been found with her as a child. Since she had come to Eldh, she had kept it safe in the leather pouch she wore at her waist. Now she drew it out and slipped it around her neck. The trapezoidal piece of metal was cool against her throat. She lifted a hand and brushed the angular symbols etched into its smooth surface.
Runes
. That was what Hadrian Farr had called them. Farr had said the ironhearts were interested in runes like the ones on her necklace. But why?

“I wish you were here now, Farr,” she said. “Something tells me you would understand everything that’s been happening better than me.”

But Farr was a world away. It was doubtful she would ever see him again, or Denver for that matter. The thought should have made her shudder, but somehow it didn’t. She felt no more remorse at leaving Earth than she had at leaving North Carolina after medical school.

What’s wrong with you, Grace? Can’t you feel anything a normal person should
?

She tucked the metal pendant beneath the bodice of her gown and walked on.

Grace was just thinking of returning to her chamber when, from around a corner, came a crash followed by a scream. A second crash jerked her out of paralysis. She dashed around the corner and took in the scene before her.

A serving maid in a brown dress knelt on the stone floor surrounded by broken crockery. Tears streamed down her face, and the red outline of a hand showed clearly against her cheek. Above her stood a rotund man in gaudy crimson, his
face twisted in rage. He raised a ring-encrusted hand, and the serving maid cringed.

People terrified Grace. Violence, however, she had dealt with daily in the ED.

“Stop, Lord Olstin.”

She did not raise her voice—shouting was not effective and, she had discovered, could actually spur people to do the opposite of what one wished. Instead she spoke the words in a low-pitched, precisely enunciated voice. The man snatched his jewel-covered hand back and spun around. For a moment his beady eyes darted about, then they locked on Grace. He unclenched his fingers, smoothed his rumpled garb, and inclined his head.

“Your Radiance.”

The curl of his upper lip belied his polite tone. She ignored him, moved to the serving maid, and knelt beside her. With precise movements she examined the young woman’s face, searching for other signs of injury.

“Does it hurt anywhere when I touch you?”

“No—no, my lady,” the serving maid said. “Only my cheek.” She was no longer crying, and her brown eyes were wide.

Grace nodded. The blow to the young woman’s cheek did not appear serious—there was no damage to her facial bones—but it was going to bruise, and badly. She helped the serving maid to her feet. The young woman adjusted the gray cap on her head and straightened her dress. Grace turned on Olstin.

“Why did you do this?”

The seneschal of Brelegond jumped backward. “I commanded this … this insolent wretch to bring a pitcher of goat’s milk to King Lysandir’s chamber. My liege is feeling indisposed, and it soothes his stomach. But the milk she dared to bring was curdled—an insult to my king.”

The serving maid shook her head. “I told you, my lord. The milk was sweet when I poured it. The Little People must have gotten to it when I turned my back for a moment. They’re the cause of such mischief.”

“You dolt!” A spray of spittle accompanied Olstin’s shrill words. “There are no such things as Little People, only stupid
serving wenches. I’ll have you flogged for what you’ve done!”

Olstin lunged toward the maid. Grace stepped into his path.

“Go, Lord Olstin.”

He glared at her. She did not move.

“Now!”

Olstin hesitated, licked his lips. Uncertainty crept into his beady eyes, and he backed away.

“King Boreas will hear of this, my lady.”

“I’ll tell him myself,” Grace said.

He shot her one last poisonous look, then turned on a heel and was gone. Grace slumped against a wall. Something told her she had just made an enemy.

A soft touch on her hand. She looked up, and the serving maid gave a shy smile.

“Thank … thank you, my lady.”

Grace drew in a breath, and managed a faint smile in reply. “What’s your name?”

“Adira, my lady.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come around the corner sooner, Adira. My name is—”

“Why, the Lady Grace, of course!” The young woman’s face brightened. “I’ve seen you many times, my lady. Indeed, I saw you only just yesterday in the bailey, talking to Queen Ivalaine.” Her eyes shone. “She’s a witch, you know, like the Lady Kyrene, only far more powerful they say. Are you going to be a witch, too?”

Now Grace felt like she was the one who had been slapped. She could only stare.

“I want to be a witch,” Adira said. “I’m going to ask the queen.” Now her eyes narrowed, and a sly smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Then Lord Olstin will be sorry for what he did to me.”

Adira picked up the pieces of broken crockery, thanked Grace again, then sauntered down the corridor, hips swaying. Grace hardly noticed her leave. She clutched the cold wall and gazed into the dim castle air.

A witch
? Was that what Ivalaine intended for her?

It was a drizzly afternoon four days later when Grace and Aryn stood on the battlements and watched the last of the kings arrive at Calavere. They clutched their cloaks around their shoulders against the sleet and late-Sindath wind, which was as chill as anything a Denver November could muster, and far more cutting.

King Persard of Perridon had come with sunset the day before, and Queen Eminda of Eredane had arrived at Calavere only that morning. Now Kylar, King of the Dominion of Galt, approached the castle gate. Kylar’s entourage was by far the smallest of all the kings’ and queens’—even smaller than King Sorrin’s austere traveling court—and the party appeared more roadworn and ragged than any of the others that had come before. A number of the horses were lame, and many of the courtiers limped along on foot, clad in mud-flecked browns and grays rather than rich golds and purples.

Grace gave Aryn a puzzled look. “I thought you said Galt was the nearest Dominion to Calavan.”

“It is.”

“Then why is Kylar the last to arrive? And why does his company look so … bedraggled?”

Aryn sighed. “I’m afraid it’s to be expected. It’s well known that King Kylar is the unluckiest man in Galt, and without doubt Galt is the unluckiest of all the seven Dominions. Which I suppose would make Kylar the most unfortunate man in all of Falengarth.”

Grace watched the last of Kylar’s company hobble through the archway below. At that moment the rain ceased, and a flood of golden sunshine spilled through a break in the clouds to gild Calavere’s nine towers.

Grace glanced at Aryn. “You weren’t kidding, were you?”

The baroness shook her head.

They headed back inside and strolled together toward Grace’s chamber. On the way, as she had for the last three days, Grace searched for the courage to tell Aryn of her encounter
with the serving maid Adira. But it was all so ridiculous. Queen Ivalaine couldn’t really be a witch. Could she? True, Kyrene seemed to think she had some sort of power over others, and it was clear she looked to the queen as a model. And there were many things about this world Grace didn’t understand. She opened her mouth to speak the words aloud.

“Lady Aryn, may I have a moment with you?” a man’s voice said.

Grace snapped her jaw shut. The two women turned to see Lord Alerain walking toward them. As always the king’s seneschal was trim and neat in his black-and-maroon attire.

Aryn touched Grace’s hand. “I’m sorry, Grace. Alerain no doubt needs my help. There’s to be a revel tonight.”

“A revel?” Grace said. “What’s that?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention it?” The baroness’s expression was a shade too innocent.

Grace narrowed her eyes. “No, you didn’t.”

“It’s rather like a feast,” Aryn said.

“So all I have to do is eat a lot?”

“Oh, no! Don’t do that, Grace. Then you wouldn’t be able to dance.”

“
Dancer
?”

Grace started to say more, but by then Alerain had reached them, and the baroness only smiled as she took the seneschal’s arm. Alerain made a stiff bow toward Grace, then baroness and seneschal departed down the corridor.

Grace grumbled under her breath. “Would Her Radiance prefer to dance tonight, or to hurl her body off the castle wall? Oh, I believe we’ll go with the castle wall this evening, thank you. Yes, Your Radiance, whatever you wish, Your Radiance.”

But there was no one to hear her little performance, and she trudged back to her chamber to start getting ready.

That night, as the revel commenced, Grace paused in a corner of Calavere’s great hall and made certain her newest possession—a slim dagger, given to her by Aryn earlier that day—was still secure in its sheath inside her doeskin boot.

“No proper lady should be without one,” Aryn had said when she stopped by Grace’s chamber to give her the weapon. However, Grace suspected her encounter with the
merchant in the bailey, rather than fashion, was the true reason for the gift. She was beginning to think there was steel beneath the young baroness’s gentle demeanor.

Grace drew out the knife. The dagger’s jeweled hilt was ornate yet fit smoothly into her grip. Without doubt this knife had been made to suit a woman’s hand, and although the blade was slender, it was sharp and deadly. She slipped it back into its sheath. She doubted she would have need of it, yet all the same the dagger felt reassuring against her skin.

She straightened and noticed again the dark stone—or was it metal?—artifact that hulked nearby. She had asked Aryn about it the other day, but the baroness had known little, other than that it had been in the castle for centuries, and that some believed it was a relic of ancient Malachor. Grace started to reach out, curious to touch its smooth surface, when a voice called out behind her.

“Grace, there you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Grace turned and smiled at seeing Aryn. “And now that you’ve found me, you have to keep me company.”

Aryn did not argue the point, and the two walked together through the crowded hall. Grace saw King Boreas near the cavernous fireplace, in conversation with Queen Ivalaine of Toloria. Kyrene hovered just behind the queen, a haughty cast to her lips. Ivalaine’s visage was as beautiful as before, while the king could not seem to stop frowning.

“Why does King Boreas seem so unhappy to see her?” Grace said. She thought back to her lessons in history and politics. “Aren’t Calavan and Toloria allies?”

“Historically, yes.” Aryn took a goblet of wine from a servant, handed it to Grace, then took one for herself. “But King Boreas subscribes to the Mysteries of Vathris, and there has long been a rivalry between the Cult of the Bullslayer and those with whom Ivalaine consorts.”

Grace frowned. “And who are they?”

Aryn licked her lips before she whispered the words. “The Witches.”

An electric jolt surged through Grace.
The Witches
? So Adira had been right. Ivalaine
was
a witch—whatever it was that truly entailed. And no doubt Kyrene considered herself one as well. Grace gripped her goblet and downed the wine in one long swallow. Then, before she lost her nerve, she
told Aryn everything: the strange things Ivalaine had said about the Touch, and Adira’s hope to become a witch by talking to the queen.

Aryn’s eyes grew rounder as Grace spoke, then she took a step backward. “Grace, is it true? Do you … do you have it, then? The Touch?”