It was a small book, bound in red ornamented leather, with gold lettering. Galahad’s brow furrowed, and quietness came over him.
“The Cinder Girl,” he murmured. Meira nodded quickly, and her hair brushed his cheek. She opened the cover to reveal an illuminated drawing of a gorgeous castle, outlined in gold. She turned the page, and showed him the elegant, painstaking writing, and the illustrations of the poor, downtrodden girl sweeping the hearth in front of her wicked stepsisters and stepmother.
“He gave this to you?” Galahad asked.
Meira nodded again, and then laughed softly, as if her delight had simply bubbled over.
“Good,” Galahad said quietly. “Hold tight to it.”
She immediately shut it and clutched it against her chest again as Galahad urged Thondorfax into a trot and then a canter, and they made their way back down to Euryor House.
Chapter Ten
Galahad,
It sounds as though you both are making fine progress. She’s a quick learner! You didn’t tell me—does she have any loveliness about her at all? What does she look like? She sounds as if she has a charming manner, at least, if the prince and the knights were so taken with her. And yes, I have heard of Sir Gawain, Sir Lancelot and Sir Tristan—they are all gallant men, and have served various kingdoms well with their heroics. Sadly, none of them possess Curse-Breaking tendencies, or I would have you recruit them.
Rose is doing well enough so far in Spegel. Prince Nikolas is tolerating her presence, though he seems to be spiteful and cold. I will keep you apprised of the situation.
Keep your eye on the political situation in Mhuirlan. I’ve received word that King Leonardo’s health is failing. Whilst he is alive, the prince may amuse himself as he pleases, and entertain whom he chooses. But if King Leonardo dies, Prince James will suddenly have to take on the mantle of the monarch of Mhuirlan, and his choices and responsibilities will change entirely. Keep me informed.
Reola
Galahad folded the letter and put it in his pocket, and shifted in his saddle. Scraw gripped Galahad’s cloak shoulder in his talons and muttered to himself.
Galahad sat upon Thondorfax on the edge of a high, rocky cliff, overlooking the shining water of the vast channel, and the white shores and deep-green country of the mainland. The cool, powerful wind pulled at his cape and billowed it out behind him, and he took deep breaths of it, frowning against the brilliance of the morning sunlight.
Finally, he turned Thondorfax and they headed back down the cliffside track at a crisp pace which soon turned to a flying gallop. Scraw leaped off his shoulder with a croak, and soared on ahead of them.
Galahad rode northward, following the shoreline, Scraw’s shadow flickering on the road before him. At last, he came to the road that led down to Euryor House, and clattered into the yard. He dismounted, scattering the chickens, and took Thondorfax into the stable to unsaddle and water him.
When that was done, he entered the house and took off his cape, listening for signs of the women.
He didn’t have to listen long. As he hung up his cape, girlish singing rang out from the kitchen, accompanied by brisk scrubbing.
“Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly, lavender’s green
When you are king, dilly dilly, I shall be queen!
Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?
Twas my own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so!”
Galahad stepped forward, recognizing Little Emblyn’s voice in the kitchen, of course—but he suddenly stopped as swift scraping noises filled the parlor. He turned to see Meira, on her hands and knees on the rug, wearing a brown dress and soot-covered apron, her hair bound back and covered in a kerchief. She had moved the grate off the fireplace, and was now busily scooping the ashes into a bucket.
“Call up your men, dilly dilly, set them to work
Some to the plow, dilly dilly, some to the fork
Some to make hay, dilly dilly, some to cut corn
Whilst you and I, dilly dilly, keep ourselves warm…”
She had smeared soot on her nose and cheek, her hands were black, and as she worked, Meira swayed back and forth in contented rhythm to Little Emblyn’s song. And for some reason, Galahad couldn’t take his eyes from her.
Then, she scooped a rather large shovel-full into the bucket, and caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye. She sat back on her haunches, a little out of breath, and gave him a questioning look.
He cleared his throat, and tapped his face.
Her eyebrows went up, and she swiped the back of her hand across her cheek—making a wide black mark on her pale skin.
Galahad snorted, and smiled for an instant—but she saw it. And she laughed.
Little Emblyn stopped singing and scrubbing, and he heard her clamber to her feet. She came into the entryway carrying a sudsy brush, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She nodded to Galahad, then saw Meira and giggled.
“Well done, Miss. We’ll make a royal housewife of you yet!”
The two women laughed together, and Galahad could only look at Meira, who held up her filthy hands and then smeared them across her apron, her eyes shining all the brighter for the soot on her face.
Galahad spent the rest of the afternoon outside. He cleaned Thondorfax’s hooves and brushed him, he helped Ben Glennon, the groundskeeper, to cut back the hedges and tear the ivy off the back of the house, lest it intrude through the rear windows; he repaired a hole in the chicken coop, and secured a large piece of thatch that was coming loose of the barn roof. At twilight, he was still up on the roof, stripped bare down to the waist, when Little Emblyn stepped out onto the house stoop and called to him.
“Dinner, sir?”
“You and Meira eat,” Galahad answered, swiping sweat out of his face. “I’ll be in when I’m finished.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and re-entered the house.
As the evening darkened, he managed to tie off the last bit of thatch, and climb down the ladder. He snatched up his shirt off the grass and trudged around the back of the house to the pump. He pumped a deal of cold water into the trough, and then splashed it all over himself with both hands. He stopped and winced as the icy water stung his scar, but he bit it back and kept washing till his hair was soaked and his whole upper-body was wet. He grabbed his shirt and used it to dab himself dry, then entered the back door of the house. He passed through the empty kitchen, smelling the lingering scent of roasted beef and vegetables, then crossed into the empty dining room. He heard the women in the parlor, so he ducked into the staircase without their seeing, and headed up the stairs to change clothes.
Clean and dressed in looser black clothes, Galahad spooned the thick stew out of the pot on the range and into a bowl for himself, picked up a plate of meat and cheese, and took it out to the dining table where a large cup of water waited for him. He sat at his usual place, facing the door into the parlor.
Little Emblyn and Meira sat in chairs facing each other beside the fire. As the darkness fell, the fire warmed their features, making both of them look like a master’s painting. Each had a lit lamp next to her elbow on a little table, and both worked with yarn—knitting. Little Emblyn was quite far along with what looked like a green sweater. Meira frowned hard at her own work: a simple scarf of maroon yarn. She only had about ten rows, and she moved the needles slowly, and very carefully, and often looked up at Little Emblyn for reassurance. Both young women had changed into clean—but plain—dresses, had taken off their headscarves, and washed their hands and faces.
As Galahad ate, Little Emblyn shifted and pulled a bookstand out in front of her, and Galahad frowned at the little volume clipped there.
“All right, then,” Little Emblyn said. “The Cinder Girl.”
Meira immediately smiled, and tucked her feet up on the chair beside her. Little Emblyn, not needing to look at her hands, kept working, even as she leaned toward the pages and the lamplight.
“‘Once upon a time, in a land very far away, t
here lived a little girl whose lonely widowed father decided he ought to re-marry, to give his daughter a proper mother. His new wife was very beautiful, but she had two ugly, spiteful daughters—and when the girl’s father died, her stepmother and stepsisters took to treating her like a slave rather than a member of the family. She was forced to work day in and day out, and to eat in the kitchen, and sleep next to the embers of the fire to keep warm. And so her sisters called her Cinderella.”
Meira paused her work, her hands drifting down to her lap as she listened to Little Emblyn’s reading. Absently, Galahad lowered his own hand, gazing into the parlor, as the story washed over him, and as the firelight softly touched Meira’s face.
“‘Though she worked very hard, and her stepsisters and stepmother were unkind to her, Cinderella was always kind and cheerful.’” Little Emblyn went on. “‘She sang while she worked, she always smiled, and as she grew into a woman, she seemed to become more beautiful every day. This made her stepmother and stepsisters extremely jealous, and they hated her.”
As Meira listened, she untied the end of her braid, and slowly began unraveling the plait, letting the thick, chestnut waves unwind around her fingers and tumble across her shoulders. Galahad watched the motion of her fingers as the fire crackled, and Little Emblyn turned a page…
Galahad stood up, picked up his plate, bowl and cup, rounded the table and climbed the stairs to finish his meal in his room.
Galahad threw his covers off himself and lit a lamp. The flame flared through the pitch darkness, illuminating his pocket watch, which read midnight. He got out of bed, pulled off his nightclothes, got dressed in his riding clothes and strapped on his sword. Then, silently, he opened the door and padded down the hallway, carrying his boots. He descended the stairs, avoiding the squeaky portions, threw on his cape and secured it, then put on his boots.
He left the house, shut and locked the door behind him, and put the key in his pocket. He then strode across the yard and into the barn, and saddled Thondorfax.
In no time, Galahad had mounted, and rode beneath cold, silvery moonlight up the road and onto the moors. Soon, Scraw caught up to him—he had been roosting on the chimney of the house. Thondorfax’s hooves thundered against the road as he stretched out into a full gallop. Galahad leaned low and rode every movement as if he were one with his horse.
He soon found the road that led down to the town of Megipesk, where he had first come ashore. He trotted down the hill, Scraw swooping low to his head, and passed the shuttered houses and dark square and silent fountain, hearing the roar of the sea rise up before him. Thondorfax’s hooves clattered on the cobbles, but he only pressed his pace. He rounded a corner and the town opened up to the sea—shining in the moonlight, foaming around black, toothy rocks. When Thondorfax’s feet hit sand, Galahad laid him out in a gallop again, Scraw crowing toward the stars.
The cliffs upon which Perlkastel sat soon loomed up on Galahad’s right, and the beach narrowed. Thondorfax splashed through the encroaching waves, spraying water up on Galahad’s legs, until at last Galahad pulled him to a halt and dismounted. His feet sank partway in the wet sand and foam, and he dropped the reins. He leaped up onto a high pile of jagged rocks covered in barnacles, and faced the channel. Wild wind swirled around him, and he set his jaw, staring into the black depths. Waves rolled and shattered just beneath him, striking his face with cold droplets that felt like snow.
Galahad took off his gloves and stuck them in his belt, narrowing his eyes at the deep stretch of forbidding sea before him. He pressed his bare hands together, and drew in a deep breath. He shut his eyes.
Instantly, a mighty heat built in his chest, and began throbbing with the force of a thunderstorm. It flooded his body, winding around his muscles, beating toward his fingertips. He sucked in another deep breath, and opened his eyes.
He thrashed his shoulders and flung out his right hand.
A great blast issued from his palm. His cape raged out behind him, an unearthly wind tore his hair.
Green fire screamed to life underneath the waves, illuminating the depths, sending light shooting across the ocean floor. It darted like an iron-straight river from the base of his rock directly out to sea, burning through the blackness, sending fish fleeing in every direction. And there, out in the center of the channel, it burst.
As if it hit a wall, it splintered and split into two directions. With blinding speed, each half screamed away from each other in a huge, gradual arc…
Until each half met each other again, and a vast circle glowed upon the bottom of the sea.
Galahad held out both hands now, and beckoned quickly with his fingers, taking deep breaths of the foreign scent that had risen from his spell…
The huge green circle flickered and flared, pulsing along with Galahad’s heartbeat, steam rising from the surface of the restless waves. But the edges burned strong and bright, and no fissures cracked in the sides. And an overwhelming scent filled the air, rising on the foam and swirling on the wind.
Jasmine.
Galahad lowered his left hand and turned his right hand over, spreading his fingers…
A gentle heat touched his palm, and rested there. Slowly, he nodded.
He clapped. The sound rang over the waters. Then, as if he was hauling a rope, he grasped an invisible strand of magic and jerked it.
The green circle of flame broke, and the line of fire burst into sizzling smoke and disappeared. Darkness descended again, save for the wary glow of the moon. The sea growled around his feet. Galahad let out a long, cautious sigh.
The seal was holding. For now.
Chapter Eleven
The next day, Galahad arose before dawn, cleaned out Thondorfax’s stall and then rode to the palace. He sought out the prince and ate breakfast with him on the terrace, the warm morning breeze toying lightly with their hair and the edges of the umbrella, and the sunlight sparkling across the sea.
Galahad studied the prince as they ate together. He seemed quieter, with shadows around his eyes. As if he had not slept well.
“So, how are you finding Euryor House?” the prince asked him, taking a sip of water and then cutting into his bacon.
“It suits,” Galahad answered, finishing his porridge and sitting back. “I prefer a house like that, rather than a palace.”
“Yes, I understand,” the prince smiled at him. “I don’t mind my own palace, as it’s been my home since I was born. But some of the others I’ve visited, I’ve found so vast that I felt lost—and afraid to talk very loud.”
Galahad nodded in agreement.
“How is Little Emblyn faring?” the prince wondered.
“She’s excellent,” Galahad said immediately. “And Ben Glennon knows his way around the house and grounds.”
“Yes, he’s a good old fellow,” the prince remarked. “One of my very favorite men.”
Then, the prince sat back in his chair, and regarded Galahad with a direct and serious thoughtfulness that instantly piqued Galahad’s attention. He waited as the prince’s brow furrowed.
“I’d like to show you something,” the prince finally said. “And once I have, I’d like to hear your thoughts.”
“All right,” Galahad said, eyes narrowing. The prince stayed as he was for a moment, then nodded crisply, slapped his armrests and got up.
“We’ll go get Gawain, Tristan and Lance. They can come with us.” And without preamble, the prince left the terrace. Galahad arose and followed him.
They had soon summoned and gathered up the other knights, and in a short time, the three of them, along with Galahad and the prince, had saddled up and mounted, and rode out across the moors.
After a while of casually riding, the prince took a deep breath and—almost as if he were making a conscious effort to lift his own spirits—he started singing loudly into the wind.
“Safe and sound at home again
Let the waters roar, Jack
Safe and sound at home again
Let the w
aters roar, Jack!”
He had a fine tenor voice—confident and beautiful. Without being
spurred, Sir Gawain joined in and added a rousing harmony to the chorus.
“Long we've tossed on the rolling main
Now we're safe ashore, Jack
Don't forget your old shipmate
Fal dee ral dee ral dee rye eye doe!”
Soon, Sir Tristan smiled at the tune and joined in, adding another layer
of harmony.
“Oftentimes have we laid out
toil nor danger fearing,
Tugging out the flapping sail
to the weather bearing!
Long we've tossed on the rolling main
Now we're safe ashore, Jack
Don't forget your old shipmate
Fal dee ral dee ral dee rye eye doe!”
Lancelot pulled up next to Galahad, and gave him a wry glance.
“I am sad I don’t know this song,” he remarked. “Do you know it, mon ami?”
Galahad shook his head.
“I don’t,” he answered. “But if I did, I’m afraid I don’t have anything of a singing voice.”
“But the best of friends must part
Fair or foul the weather
Hand yer flipper for a shake
Now a drink together!
Long we've tossed on the rolling main
Now we're safe ashore, Jack
Don't forget your old shipmate
Fal dee ral dee ral dee rye eye doe!”
In another half hour, they passed into a wood—much older and more tangled than the forest around the palace. This wood was wild, filled with gnarled oaks and chestnuts, their roots wrapped around each other, their branches knotted together to form a great, dark canopy. The prince slowed his horse, and the others followed suit. They soon ambled, single-file, onto the forest track, and passed into the shadow of the ancient wood.
The damp, rich must of foliage surrounded them, and the deep, quiet air closed in. Birds fluttered in the distance. The horses’ hooves shuffled through fallen leaves.
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