Summers at Castle Auburn (23 page)

He nodded. “For both of you. I'll be right back.”

He left, and my sister and I sat in two elegant high-backed chairs and whispered about the dancers still on the floor. She seemed completely relaxed and at ease, but I could not shake my disquietude. Had they been talking about her betrothal to Bryan? Was that what she would be happy to see challenged? She had never seemed particularly fond of Bryan—but then, Elisandra never showed much fondness to anyone except me. What was going on behind that cool, still facade? How could even Kent tell what she was thinking?

He returned with our drinks, and before I had even finished mine, Hennessey of Mellidon came up to ask for the favor of a dance. Elisandra smiled and waved me on, so I jumped to my feet and returned to the floor. I danced for the rest of the night, though I tried to keep track of Elisandra from this point on. I saw her pass from the hand of one lord to another, protestations of a bruised toe forgotten, but I did not see her in Bryan's arms again. Once again, I wondered; but no one was being forthcoming with the answers.

T
he days following the summer ball were flat and dull. The castle quickly emptied of grand company and we were left with what seemed like a small, unimaginative circle of constant companions. I took up my earlier nocturnal habits and renewed my friendship with the night guards. Cloate (I learned from Shorro) had stolen a kiss from his reserved young kitchen maid, and she had neither slapped his face nor refused to meet him again the next afternoon. He was thrown into transports by this mark of favor.

I also had a chance to go riding with Roderick several times over the next couple of weeks. After that last edgy, interesting conversation, our time together had become strangely companionable. He told me more about the country where he grew up, and I responded with tales of my grandmother and Milette. He laughed at my description of the village girl.

“I don't think she's quite as vile as you've painted her,” he said. “Probably comes from a family of five or eight—no hope of a quiet hour there—and no dowry that might interest a farm boy. Has to be looking out for herself any way she can, and loring's the best for that.”

“Loring?” I repeated.

“Knowing herb lore. That's what it's called in Veledore.”

“Well, I hate her anyway,” I said mulishly.

He smiled. “Hate her all you like, but try not to be unkind to her. She's just trying to make her way in the world.”

Privately I knew he was right, but I would not admit it aloud, and soon enough I changed the subject. The next time we went riding, Elisandra came with us, and so Roderick rode behind us and scarcely spoke a word. It was a comfort to have him along, nevertheless, and I was pleased that we had managed to forge a relaxed friendship.

My other wanderings took me in darker directions. One night, standing outside the open door to the room of the aliora, I heard the low hum of companionship sharply broken by a series of hopeless, bitter cries. I would have started through the curtained doorway except that it was clear others—more capable of giving solace—were already at the side of the sufferer, offering soothing words and expressions of hope. I could not be sure, of course, but I thought the one weeping was the youngest girl, brought here by Jaxon, and I almost could not endure the knowledge.

The next day, as Cressida came to help me with my bath, I questioned her.

“That new aliora,” I said, as casually as I could. “What's to become of her? Is she to stay at Castle Auburn?”

Cressida dribbled fragrant salts into the water and tested the temperature with her slender fingers. Kneeling over the tub, all thin arms and folded legs, she looked like a shrub crouched over a streambed, wispy and fey and still. “She'll stay for a while at least,” Cressida said in a soft, careful voice that seemed to screen back emotion. “She's too young to go to a household on her own.”

“Did someone want her?”

“Oh, yes. Your uncle Jaxon had a dozen offers. But Andrew convinced him that she needed time.”

“How much time?”

Cressida shook another handful of crystals into the water and appeared to watch them dissolve. “Longer than Jaxon thinks,” she said on a sigh.

I felt my heart squeeze in protest. “Is she—but she'll be—I mean, in time, she'll be fine, won't she?”

Cressida turned her head to gaze at me, a weight of sorrow in her face. I felt centuries of despair in that gaze, eons of longing. “She has been torn from her family and her life and will be sold into slavery,” the aliora said in a low voice. “Imagine yourself in her place and answer your own question.”

Shock ran through me with a physical jolt; I felt my veins crisp and the hammering of my heart turn feeble. It was not as if I had not considered any of this before. It was just that Cressida, Andrew, the others had not seemed so wretched in their captivity.

“But I—” I whispered. I shook my head. “I—”

She nodded and returned her attention to the bath. “I know,” she said. “And it is not like you are free, either.”

Freer than many others,
I thought, and slid into the steaming tub. “I have some herbs that may help her,” I said to Cressida as she shampooed my hair. “Some callywort and stiffelbane. They will soothe her. If you think that would be a comfort.”

“Callywort? Yes, it's something we use in Alora all the time,” she replied. “I'm not familiar with stiffelbane.”

“Very effective,” I murmured, hypnotized by the feel of her fingers on my scalp. “I'll bring some up.”

“Thank you.”

Her hands in my hair were so careful, so gentle. How could she resist the urge to push me beneath the water and hold me under till I drowned? It was not fear of reprisals that kept me safe from her, I knew; she did not have violence in her. None of the aliora did. Their great personal grief was matched by their enormous capacity for love. If I was threatened, Cressida would try to save me; if I was ill, she would nurse me; if I died, she would mourn. I could not have summoned that kind of love for a captor.

I did not understand her. Understand any of them.

 

L
ATE THAT AFTERNOON
, after I returned from my ride and before I dressed for dinner, I climbed the stairs to the top of the castle, and passed the golden key to enter the domain of the aliora. It was a busy time of day for them, for their mistresses and masters were all in the process of changing
from daywear to evening dress. But Cressida was there, because Elisandra relied on Daria for this duty—and so was Andrew.

“Where's Bryan?” I asked Andrew as soon as I saw him. “Shouldn't you be with him?”

“He has not come back from the hunt yet. I'm watching.” The largest window in the garret looked out over the stables; Andrew would easily be able to mark the prince's return.

I hefted my satchel for them to see. “I've brought my medicines. Where is—What is her name? I haven't heard it.”

Andrew and Cressida exchanged quick glances. “We have not yet given her a name you can pronounce,” Andrew said.

His eyes turned toward a bed across the room, which was the first time I noticed the young aliora, sleeping. She lay on top of a thin white sheet, and was so thin herself that she looked like a collection of kindling piled before the pillow. Her long brown hair was spread around her and fell to the floor in silken pools. Her skin was so white it seemed to melt into the weave of the sheets.

“Call her Phyllery,” I said softly. Andrew looked puzzled, but Cressida gave me one quick, sharp look.

“That's not a name I know,” Andrew said.

“It's a plant,” Cressida said in a subdued voice. “It has some minor healing powers.”

I went closer to the bed, drawn by the girl's helpless, broken presence. “It has a rare, beautiful blossom that blooms for a day, then falls,” I said. “Anyone lucky enough to see it in the wild feels blessed for a lifetime.”

“That seems fitting enough,” Andrew said.

I stopped a foot away from the sleeping girl. Even by aliora standards, she looked fragile; the pale skin looked ready to dissolve away from the bones beneath. Her fingers looked too long for her hands. Her fabulous hair looked dusty and unused.

“She hasn't been eating, has she?” I asked abruptly.

Cressida came to my side. “She tries. Food will not stay in her body.”

“I don't want her to starve,” I said.

“Neither do I.”

I watched her awhile longer, then abruptly turned on my heel. Seating myself on one of the empty beds, I opened my satchel and began pulling out packets. “Stiffelbane. It'll calm her when she weeps in the night. Orklewood. It will soothe her stomach and help her retain her food. Callywort. It will help her sleep, but don't give it to her unless she's wakeful.”

Cressida took the herbs from me without speaking, but Andrew said, “How do you know she weeps in the night?”

I fastened my satchel and came to my feet. I felt older than my sister at this moment, older than my grandmother, older than the world. “I would,” I said.

Cressida looked at the packets in her hand. “And are these safe to give her?” she asked. “We aliora are not formed as you are.”

Andrew took a sample from Cressida's hand. “I'll try them myself first.”

“That might be a good idea,” she said.

I hesitated a moment, for I didn't want to go; but I had no other business there, and it was hard to stay. “Let me know how she does,” I said at last, and left the room.

That night I did not return, and for three nights running could not bring myself to steal up to the loft and spy on the aliora. It was left to Cressida to tell me—in her soft voice, keeping her emotions rigidly in check—that Phyllery had passed three straight peaceful nights and managed to eat every meal. I nodded solemnly, and we spoke no more about it.

I did not charge for this healing service, but I felt even more professional at this success; and yet I could not say I was proud of myself, either. Better, perhaps, to have given her halen root—not just enough to ease her hurt heart, but enough to gently halt its frantic beating. Better, perhaps, to have let her quietly die.

 

A
S IT TURNED
out, not a week later I was given a chance to use some of my halen root, though this time for its intended purpose: to ease pain. I hadn't expected to face this particular professional crisis, either, and I was no happier with what I learned on that call.

It was night again, the time this summer when all of the events of my life seemed to unfold. I was wandering through the servants' quarters, usually the most silent part of the castle, when I caught the urgent, miserable sound of someone shrieking. My first instinct was to freeze where I stood. My second was to follow the sound of anguish as quickly as I could.

The trail led me to a closed door far down in the servants' wing, where the younger women had their quarters. This close, I could catch not only the intermittent wail of agony but the undertone of women's voices gathered in discussion. I stood outside the door and listened, trying to determine who was inside and what the trouble was. I caught Giselda's voice, sharp and certain, and a young girl's reply. Then the screaming started again.

I hesitated a moment, then pushed open the door and went in.

A few quick seconds gave me the whole scenario: a pregnant young woman sprawled on the bed, sobbing and shouting; Giselda bent over her belly, checking for movement and progress; two other young servant girls nearby, boiling water and looking frightened. One was Giselda's apprentice, and she should have been more use than this, I thought with a flare of contempt. The other was a girl I did not recognize—a kitchen maid, perhaps.

Giselda looked up sharply at my entrance. “Lady Coriel! What are you doing—!”

I waved a hand to silence her. “I couldn't sleep. And I heard sounds—this woman crying—”

Giselda's hand put light pressure on the girl's body, and she screamed again. “The baby's breech and I can't turn him. I need to cut her open, but I can't calm her enough. I tried to tie her down, but she's already broken one cord. I may lose them both.”

“Let me help,” I said. “I've attended a hundred birthings.”

“If Lady Greta knew where you were—”

“She won't know. I'll be back in ten minutes. I need to get my medicines.”

Giselda protested again, but halfheartedly. Even she knew she could use assistance. I flew back to my room, snatched up my satchel, and ran down the hallways again. I was breathless as I skidded back
into the servant's room, where fresh howls of pain could be heard all the way down the hallway.

“I have halen root,” I announced the instant I darted through the door. “Let's start with that.”

It was a wretched night for all of us gathered in that room—for the writhing, suffering girl; for the weary old apothecary; for the assistants; for me. I had, as I said, been to a hundred birthings, but none of them as bloody as this one. We kept feeding halen root to the mother, more and more of it because she showed no reaction, still sobbing and cursing with the same demented energy. And then, suddenly, between one cry and the next, she went limp and silent in the bed.

“No—too much—oh, dear heaven—” Giselda muttered.

“I've got ginyese,” I said briskly, already measuring it out. “I'll revive her.”

Eventually I found the proper mix of drugs while Giselda and her assistants labored over the woman's distended body. The patient had finally grown quiet, childlike, giving out hiccuping little whimpers from time to time but no more of those bloodcurdling shrieks. Still, it was nearly dawn by the time Giselda delivered the child, a puny, angry, squalling boy covered with blood and mucus.

“Quickly—the towels—” Giselda commanded, and her assistants cleaned the child while Giselda finished her business with the mother. I was aiding Giselda, so at first I had no attention to spare for the baby. Giselda had not forgotten him; while she tended the mother and wiped away the blood, she called out questions about his toes and fingers and the color of his skin. All the answers seemed to be satisfactory, and we could all tell by his unabated crying that his lungs, at least, were perfectly healthy.