Thornlost (Book 3) (52 page)

The Elf was surly the first day out, keeping himself to himself with a mutter and a snarl. By noon of the following day, as their route to the coast took them through Gowerion, he livened up during a brief stop for lunching at Brishen Staindrop’s distillery. Brishen was gone to the Pennynines, hunting for rare flowers that bloomed but briefly and only once a year, and herbs said to be exceptionally potent when gathered at Midsummer. Mieka led them on a tour of the facilities and they all got tipsy just on the fumes from the huge oaken barrels of whiskey. There was a separate building, squat and thatched atop gray fieldstone walls, where Brishen concocted various types of thorn. This, in the absence of its proprietor, was sternly and magically locked.

A whole barrel of whiskey was loaded into the wagon. They
made a stop at Yazz’s parents’ house to drop off Robel, who would be staying there until the birth of their child. The Giant looked so forlorn when someone mentioned that it was time to get back on the road that Cade decided they could just as easily leave early tomorrow morning. It was a small thing, and only a few additional hours to spend with his wife, but Yazz was almost tearfully grateful.

This made Cayden feel a bit of a shit, because he’d suggested it for his own convenience. Had they stayed with the original schedule, they would have passed Sagemaster Emmot’s Academy in the late afternoon, and someone—probably Mieka—would have suggested they call round for tea. By spending the night many miles from their intended stop, there was no time to linger anywhere. He lazed in his hammock, staring out the window, glad to avoid the awkwardness of a visit, wondering in spite of himself where the old man was these days. Cade hadn’t seen him since leaving this place of tall brick towers and heavy slate roofs years ago; he’d heard Master Emmot resigned from his post, but had no idea why or what he might be doing with himself. He supposed he could have found out by stopping in and asking, but he had no desire to be pointed out to young scholars as a famous former pupil, a shining example of the advantages of an education at the Academy.

Ten miles beyond the Academy, the skies churned up great gray mountains as if every weathering witch in Albeyn had coaxed every cloud to this one particular place. The rain was beyond torrential. It didn’t fall in individual drops, but as if a million colossal buckets had overturned all at once. Though it lasted only ten minutes or so, it turned the road into a river. The drenched horses—four of them, not of Romuald Needler’s stock—struggled to haul the wagon up a hill, fetlock-deep in mud, as water flooded down. At last Yazz reined in and simply waited it out.

Had they not lingered in place last night, they would have been nearly to Lord Mindrising’s estate by now. It was an interesting
little lesson on the consequences of one’s choices, Cade thought, and resigned himself to having to get out and push.

He consoled himself with the memory of their latest Gallybanks triumph: the command performance before the Princess and her ladies in the garden of the Keeps. Miriuzca had developed a liking for the tower on one side of the river, and the King had ordered its apartments redone for her. Touchstone, the Shadowshapers, and Crystal Sparks had been invited not just to play but to stay the night as well. A look at little Prince Roshlin wasn’t part of the schedule, but a tour of all the presents sent from around the Kingdom and across the Continent was. There were hundreds, divided into three groupings: those that would be used, those that were too expensive to use, and those that were duplicates (sometimes quadruplicates) and would be sent with the Princess’s compliments to young mothers who might not be able to afford such luxuries. Cade took the opportunity to move, quite unnoticed, a certain embroidered velvet pillow from the “use” tables to the “send” tables. The card identifying the crafter as one Mistress Windthistle of Hilldrop he pocketed for later disposal in a garderobe.

Rafe pointed out the place of honor given to Blye and Jed’s pottinger and spoon, and Chat joked that if he was ever given the Gift of the Gloves, it would make handling the withies rather difficult, and Mirko Challender told them he’d hold out for a knighthood, beholden all the same.

The Elsewhen that ensued had left Cade smiling then, and brought a smile to his lips now, even in the rain and mud.

{In the antechamber, all sea-green velvet and gilt, a small commotion was centered round a tall, good-looking blond boy who was talking with shy eagerness to Jeska and Rafe and Mieka. Cade approached in time to hear Jeska startle everyone in earshot by saying, “You’re more than welcome
to come along tonight to our celebration at Wistly Hall, Your Highness.”

The boy, after a glance over his shoulder at his grandfather in the next room, as if wondering whether he mightn’t get away with it, mumbled, “Supper and King lessons tonight with Gran’fa.”

Cade told him, “All well and good, Your Highness. But I hope you pay attention to what your mother can teach you, too.”

“Every day,” the boy said with a smile that knew more than his years could account for. “I hope His Majesty kept a good grip on the sword. Sometimes, when he’s knighting somebody wearing a uniform, there’s shreds of shoulder fringe all over the carpet after.”

Mieka snapped his fingers and exclaimed, “Damn! I forgot to ask when I’m gettin’ the sword!”

“You’re
not
,” Cade said firmly.

The Prince was grinning. “I’m sure we’ve a few spares round here someplace.”

Before Mieka could yelp his delight, Cade clapped a hand over his mouth and said, “Please, Your Highness, don’t encourage him. He’s behaving himself for now, but it won’t last. And the thought of a real sword in these destructive hands—it just doesn’t bear contemplating.”

“That’s a pity,” the Prince replied, flashing his mother’s smile. “I was hoping for some practical advice. There’s a perfectly terrifying old wardrobe in my rooms, about ten feet high and ten feet wide, and it’s just begging to be redesigned. From everything I’ve ever heard, Sir Mieka is just the man for the work!”}

“What’re you all grinagog about?” Rafe muttered as they freed the wagon’s left rear wheel from the muck.

“The prospect,” Cade told him, “of getting back in the wagon and getting warm.”

Arriving many hours beyond the expected time, they were welcomed to Shellery House with glad exclamations and a dinner made up fresh at ten in the evening by a Trollwife who, far from grumbling and grumping about the trouble they’d made for her, greeted them with the news that her great-aunt Mirdley had warned her to treat these boys right or else.

“Our Mistress Mirdley is your great-aunt?” Cade couldn’t help but say.

“More or less,” Mistress Gesha said with a shrug. “It’s been a bit of a tangled while. Most Trolls are related to each other, or claim to be.” She pointed to the small mountain of mussels set before each man. “Eat!”

They woke the next morning in a comfortable room overlooking the sea. Almost all the rooms, Cade found, overlooked the sea and the small fleet of fishing boats that plied the ocean and smaller craft that tended the lobster pots. Many generations ago, a previous Lord Mindrising had used the fallen stones of a very old castle to build a rambling house that undulated along the cliffs. Facing the courtyard was a long, narrow two-storied hall with a set of stairs at each end and one set in the middle. These led up to a gallery set with a dozen or more doors into the bedchambers and private rooms of the house. Only this upper floor was all of a level; the lower, more public rooms featured a few steps either up or down as the original foundations dictated. It was odd and rather charming, but not one member of Touchstone could figure out exactly where they would be performing.

Lady Megs showed them. Her presence was a surprise to Cade; he’d expected she’d stay in Gallantrybanks with the Princess and the new little Prince, as she had during Trials. But here she was, dirty-blond braid and all, dressed in a simple brown skirt and tan shirt, a turquoise scarf tied loosely around her throat.
Cade finally knew why she kept wearing a color that so obviously did not become her: the family arms featured a black arrow on a turquoise background.

“You’ll have to decide for yourselves, of course,” she told them as they walked outside, past the courtyard and along a pathway paved in a chevron pattern of gray and brown bricks. “But it’s the only place that will accommodate everyone in comfort and provide you with a backdrop.”

Cade was just itching to say,
In your professional opinion, of course
, but wisely held his tongue.

Their destination was a lighthouse atop an outcropping of rock. The base of it had obviously once been part of the earlier castle; a hundred feet of solid stone, a hundred feet wide, with only one entrance set halfway up the wall. Back then, wooden stairs would have led up to the door, easy to burn down once everyone was shut up tight in the tower during an enemy attack. Now there were brick steps—steep ones—and a wooden platform with a balustrade outside the door. Rising another hundred or so feet was a more modern tower made of the same gray and brown bricks. The top was open for twenty feet beneath the roof to let the light shine out.

“Like a gigantic candle in a stone holder,” Jeska said, tilting his head back to look. “How often is it lighted?”

“Every night in winter,” Megs replied. “And other times, when it’s foggy or stormy. We use Wizardfire.”

“Not Elf-light? Not like in streetlamps?”

“It’s yellowy gold. Wizardfire is blue.”

As if that explained anything.

But then Cade remembered the purplish-gold light conjured by the old man that called up the
vodabeists
in the Vathis River, and wondered if the gold of Elf-light attracted them as well, and if they were indifferent to the blue fire of a Wizard. What had the old man said to Mieka? Looking at his ears, saying,
“Kin”
—
was there something about the nature of light created by an Elf that differed in more than color from Wizardfire? Yet hadn’t it been Cade’s use of magic, Wizard’s magic, that had disturbed the monsters, unsettling them so much that final night on the river?

Passing by the Academy had put Master Emmot back into his thoughts, where the old man hadn’t been in months. Would Emmot have known about such things? And if he had, would he have told Cayden about them?

Rafe paced off the dimensions of the paved forecourt and pronounced it acceptable. Mieka decided to set up the glass baskets to one side, and use the stone wall as his backdrop, just as Megs had suggested. Workmen were already setting up benches and chairs, and standing torches here and there, for they would be doing the show at night. This was a rarity for Touchstone. They’d played outdoor venues before, but not often in the dark.

On the walk back to the house, Cade asked Megs about the Princess.

“Blooming, glowing, and quite pleased with herself,” said Her Ladyship, grinning. “She had so much fun that night at the Downstreet!”

“I would imagine that Prince Ashgar is beginning to wonder what happened to his meek and charming little golden mouse.”

“Oh, he is, that. There’s a look in his eyes these days, for certes. He put a good face on it, attending that night when you and the Shadowshapers and Crystal Sparks played for her and the ladies at the Keeps, but he could play the proud husband much better if she were somebody else’s wife!”

“Tell me, my lady,” he said with a delicate emphasis on the title, “how can one be so forthright about other people—” His hesitation was right out of one of Jeska’s performances, and created the same effect. Her smile was gone by the time he finished. “—And yet so evasive about oneself?”

“I didn’t lie!”

“Not that I recall.”

“If I’d told you who I really am, would you have believed it?”

“You might have said something, y’know.”

“And been laughed at, even more than you laughed at me for wanting to be a Steward?”

“Laughter at my ambition to become a tregetour was the least of the reactions I got.” He paused, then said with a sidelong smile, “Knolltender isn’t bad as a punning alias.”

She seemed relieved to be discussing something other than herself. “Mindrising is an old Gnomish name, truth to tell. Anciently, Gnomes were given lands all round the country, marking the limits of the Kingdom. Your Lord Fairwalk’s ancestor, for instance. His name is one of the oldest, because his holding is so close to Gallantrybanks. As Albeyn expanded, Gnomish families were sent farther and farther out. Sometimes Gnomish names are mistaken for those that describe a particular place, but they’re really
gnomons
, markers, indicators of the Royal lands.”

“And you’re a scholar as well. Tell me, how did you come to be so good at serving drinks?”

Any other highborn girl would have blushed with embarrassment that he knew she’d demeaned herself to become a barmaid, or with fury that he dared mention it at all. Megs looked him in the eyes and said, “I can be at a tavern without having to dress up in men’s clothing. I can watch the fettlers at work. And,” she finished, “my father owns a half interest in the Keymarker, so I can go there anytime I like.” With that, she walked off.

He was watching her, musing idly on the difference between the charm of a woman’s rustling skirts and the interest of a woman’s legs in trousers, when Rafe came up beside him.

“Learn anything from the Elf about that blossom on his jaw? It’s fading, but it must’ve been a sight to see when fresh.” When Cade only shrugged in reply, Rafe persisted, “After the garden show at the Keeps he went back to Hilldrop. One might assume
they said their farewells rather less than tenderly.”

“Not our business.”

“True,” Rafe admitted. “But she’s got a fist on her wrist, that’s for certain sure.”

They played “Hidden Cottage” that night, the silly version complete with Mieka’s beloved pig. The residents of the estate and the inhabitants of the three nearby villages were still howling with laughter as they made their torchlit way home. Cade was feeling pleased with himself in particular and the world in general. There had been dozens and dozens of women at the performance, a little scared at first and looking to their young Lady Megueris for reassurance. Before Touchstone came on, she and her father circulated amongst the crowd, greeting everyone by name. They made sure people were comfortable on the benches and called occasionally for a pillow to be brought out from the house for this or that elderly person. The Mindrisings, Cade gathered, were universally adored.