by K. C. Julius
Borne flashed his damnable dimples. “Ah, I see you approve. May I say you are also looking irresistible this evening, my lady? Comte Flaseur appears in the depths of despair that I beat him to you.”
“Thank the gods,” breathed Halla. “If you hadn’t rescued me, I’d have dropped to the floor and slithered like a snake from the room.”
“An intriguing image, considering that gown.” Borne closed his cornflower eyes as if to more fully appreciate it.
Halla gave him a discreet punch. “Wipe it from your salacious mind,” she threatened. “The next blow will be aimed lower. Now take me somewhere I can sit without being incessantly bowed over.”
With a courtly incline of his head, Borne tucked her arm proprietarily under his and drew her from the dance floor. “A glass of wine, perhaps?”
“I’d rather an ale. Better still, can we not just leave?”
“Not without insulting our royal host. This is your evening, Lady Halla.” He looked beyond her. “And your beaux are not easily discouraged.”
The cloying scent of musk moved Halla to action. She gave Borne’s arm a brisk tug, and they escaped to the relative quiet of the balcony.
“A clandestine tryst!” whispered Borne as she drew him under the overhanging greenery and out of sight of the courtiers. “Should I fear designs on my virtue?”
Before Halla could think of a quelling response, he hoisted himself onto the stone ledge at their backs and asked, “Can you bend in that sheath?”
In answer, Halla levered herself up beside him.
“Follow me.” Borne helped to her feet, then led the way along the wall to the end of the ledge.
Halla pushed an escaped braid away from her face. “Now what?”
“Sit,” commanded Borne, and leaping down, he deftly lifted her off the wall.
Halla peered into the darkness and made out a set of stairs leading downward. “Where are we?”
He raised a cryptic brow. “Patience, Jelzahba.”
Used to his obscure references to literary figures, she didn’t bother to ask who Jelzahba might be.
Her attention was caught by the sound of fountains playing. It accompanied them down the steps and under a series of arching trellises. Here the grounds opened up, and Halla drew a breath of delight. A rippling lake spread before them, and on a small island at its center stood a house constructed entirely of glass, shimmering with a strange, starry light. A wooden bridge led across the water to the island, its railings adorned with half a dozen clusters of grotesques. Their grimacing visages may have been intended to discourage intruders, but to Halla they were wondrous.
“Come.” Borne took up her hand.
As soon as they stepped onto the bridge, jets of water sprang up from the polished surface of the dark lake. Through the spray, Halla saw strange creatures slowly rising from its depths.
“They’re mechanical,” said Borne. “Whoever designed them was a genius. They used some sort of hydraulics.”
Halla, who shared Borne’s fascination with anything to do with engineering, clapped her hands as the emerging waterworks were revealed to be stately birds with bills that opened and closed and wings that rose and fell. She started forward to examine one of them more closely, but Borne placed a forestalling hand on her arm.
“We have to time it just so,” he cautioned.
He drew a small stone from his pocket and tossed it a few paces ahead. When it hit the bridge, the nearest mechanical bird swiveled and spouted a stream of water at its exact location.
Borne sprinted over the bridge, and Halla, with a laugh, kicked off her slippers and scampered after him. She caught up with him when he paused to toss another stone. This time, the slats beneath it collapsed with a splash.
Halla gasped. “How did you know that would happen?”
But Borne was already leaping over the gap. His landing triggered the mechanical grotesques lining the railings, and as he leapt back to where Halla stood, the grotesques—which Halla could see now were apes—sprang into action. The creatures rattled along the railings, emitting simian shrieks and swinging their long, curved arms. Had Borne continued forward, they would have surely knocked him into the water.
When the apes’ arms fell still, and the beasts themselves began to slide back to their original positions, Borne assisted Halla across the gap, and together they raced over the bridge.
But just before they reached the end, Borne pulled them to a stop. Halla looked up expectantly at him, and saw he was counting under his breath.
“On my signal,” he murmured.
Halla poised herself to run. But instead of leaping forward, Borne hollered “Duck!” He tugged Halla to her knees just before a cunningly hidden paddle swung at the empty space where their heads had been.
“You’ll love this part,” Borne whispered.
He was up and off again.
A great roar thundered behind Halla, propelling her after Borne. She cast a frantic look over her shoulder to see a mechanical lion rise up through the hole in the bridge, water spilling from its back. Though she knew it wasn’t real, she felt her blood pounding through her veins.
Borne was waiting ahead, his hand outstretched. He pulled her onto the island as the lion surged forward, its metal jaws closing with a jarring snap just inches from her.
“By the gods—”
But Borne’s finger against his lips silenced her. Still holding her hand, he led her silently toward the glass-cased belvedere.
At the sudden and startling sound of an organ groaning to life, Halla bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood. The glass house went dark, and Borne pitched another stone at it. Halla braced for the shattering of glass, but instead a mirrored shield sprang up from the ground, sending the stone ricocheting into the lake. Simultaneously, buckets of water and flour emptied from the eaves of the house, followed by a drifting cloud of feathers that added to the pasty mess.
Halla burst out laughing. “Gods’ blood! Who was the delightfully mad man who contrived this?”
Borne dropped onto a narrow bench beside the belvedere. “Woman. The mad woman was Queen Delaphoise, great-grandmother of his most high, most powerful—”
“Please, spare me all the honorifics,” Halla said, sinking down beside him.
“Ah, but Delaphoise was deserving of them. Under her rule, the lesser kingdoms of Gral were unified in much the same way that Gundauld the Great brought together the realms of Drinnglennin.”
“Him again,” Halla groaned, then caught her breath as fissures of light began zigzagging within the glass house.
Borne shook his head in wonder. “I’m still trying to figure out how the lightning is done.”
Halla released a happy sigh. “Thank you for… this. It’s bloody brilliant! The best birthday present I could have imagined.”
When Borne didn’t respond, she gave him an elbow in the ribs. “Don’t worry—I’m not about to get all dewy-eyed and cloying.”
“I’m glad,” he said, rubbing his side. “I shouldn’t like to be the cause of any discord…”
“Between Nicu and me, do you mean?” Halla hoped she didn’t sound bitter. “No, it’s not like that with us.” She bent down and retrieved a pebble at her feet. “I imagine you know as well as I do where he is right now.”
Borne’s dimples disappeared. “Does it bother you?”
Halla shrugged. “The demoiselle Margreitte set her sights on him the moment she saw him. They all did. He’s a beautiful man. And no, it doesn’t bother me, or at least not so much.” Perhaps, she thought, if I say that often enough, it will come to be true. “Fidelity isn’t really part of å Livåri life, at least not until marriage.”
“But you’re not å Livåri,” Borne pointed out. “And, forgive me, but I assume Nicu is your first lover. I thought perhaps—”
“You thought wrong.” She tos
sed the pebble into the muddle of flour and feathers rather harder than she had intended. “Does it shock you that I accept this? Or is it giving my maidenhead to someone like Nicu that you find hard to fathom?” She stood up and looked down at him. “I don’t see why it should. I lead a soldier’s life: I train, I fight, I risk death every time I ride into battle. Why shouldn’t I partake of the same pleasures all of my comrades enjoy? Why is a girl’s virginity considered sacrosanct and the loss of it out of wedlock to be shameful, while a man’s sexual exploits are a cause for congratulations?”
Borne held up his palms in surrender. “Peace, my fiery warrior—I’m on your side. I’ve never heard a woman pose this view, but of course you’re right.”
“Then the women you’ve listened to are either too cowed by others’ expectations or they’re dishonest.”
“Or perhaps I just never thought to ask their opinions on the matter. I shall be mindful of this in the future.”
His words tempered Halla’s anger. She sat down again, and they listened to the strains of viols and lutes wafting over the grounds.
“What about you?” she asked, when her heartbeat had returned to normal. “I’ve never seen you with a woman in all the time we’ve been riding together. I know for certain you’ve not been without opportunity.”
Borne looked down at his clasped hands. “And how could you know that?”
Halla glanced sideways at him. “The ladies of the court are throwing themselves in your path at every opportunity, as you well know.”
“And how do you know that I haven’t accepted their advances?” he asked lightly.
“Because women gossip. So do men, for that matter, every bit as much as women, especially about their commanders. You’d be surprised what I’ve learned about you.”
“Such as?” His guarded tone belatedly warned her she was on thin ice.
“Nothing too personal,” she assured him. “You bathe too often for a man, you talk in your sleep, you—”
“I what?”
“Talk in your sleep—when you sleep, that is, which isn’t very often. Most nights you make notes in your secret book about everyone in the company. I assume it takes up the time you could be spending with a wo—” She bit off what she’d been about to say when she saw his expression.
“Who told you about the book?” he demanded. “Nicu?”
Halla attempted a shrug. She hadn’t meant to cause anyone trouble. “Nicu, Baldo, Chik—I can’t remember. What does it matter? It’s just idle talk.” She pretended not to notice the grim set of Borne’s mouth. “Surely this doesn’t upset you?”
“Not in the least,” he replied, rising to his feet. “We should get back. You will have been missed by now.”
They crossed over the bridge in silence, and Halla found herself wishing for the commotion of the marvelous contraptions to ease the tension she now felt between them. She deeply regretted her casual mention of Borne’s book; it had clearly offended him and now overshadowed all the pleasure of their escapade.
At the foot of the staircase, she ventured to lay a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. She felt his taut muscles relax slightly, and when he turned to face her, one dimple was on display.
“For?”
Halla sniffed. “My lady mother always said it’s in terrible taste to repeat gossip.”
He laughed then, but it had a hollow ring. “I think my mother once told me something along the same lines. In any event, you can assure the men I’m not writing about them.”
Halla gave a little nod. “It’s none of my business, but… am I right? Does your writing have something to do with why you don’t have a woman?”
“You’re right.” Borne stepped aside to let her precede him. “It’s none of your business.”
Chapter 13
Fynn
In Fynn and Grinner’s dreary cell, the weeks crawled to months. Judging from the fleeting daylight showing through the bars high on the wall, the winter solstice couldn’t be far off.
During the long hours of the night, Fynn often lay sleepless, occupied by random, troubling thoughts that spun cobwebs of despair. He wondered if any Restarians had survived the massacre he and Teca had escaped, and what had become of Flekka, his mother’s fine Albrenian mare. Sometimes, remembered snatches of silly conversations with Einar made him smile to himself in the dark, until he recalled that his friend’s voice was likely silenced forever.
Fynn worried about Grinner too, fearing that the å Livåri’s destiny had somehow become tied to his own. There’d been no court hearings for either of them, no information as to what fate they could expect. It seemed the world had simply forgotten their existence.
“Most like they reckoned we’d finish each other off,” Grinner suggested with a wry smile.
But Fynn thought it more probable that they were both expected to die in here, and until they did, their warders would carry on with their orders: two bowls of gruel and a pail of water a day, with fresh rushes once in a moon cycle. He doubted they could survive indefinitely on the poor fare. Grinner had developed a worrisome cough from the dank, cold air, and a puncture Fynn had given himself in the heel of his hand with the wrong end of his spoon was slow to heal, the skin around it reddened and tender.
They did their best to keep each other’s spirits from flagging. Grinner made clear he hated to speak of his past, but he hungered for stories about Fynn’s childhood in the distant northern world of Helgrinia, so completely different from the harsh life the å Livåri had endured.
“Ye say the snowdrifts stood o’er a man’s head? And great elkers pulled yer sledges through ’em?” Grinner chivvied Fynn to describe the icicles, as thick as young trees, that hung from the eaves of the longhouses, and the ice stars that formed in perfect symmetry on the windows of their manor. How it got so cold a man’s breath would freeze in his beard, and wet clothes left hanging out overnight would crack and split. Grinner had seen dustings of snow before, but he’d grown up in the southern part of the realm and avoided the north of Drinnglennin in the winter months. “The one time I ventured up tha’ way in the cold season were last year, and I nearly ended up at the end of a swingin’ rope.”
In recalling Restaria for his friend, Fynn found he couldn’t avoid speaking about his family. The memories he related about his loving home brought a smile to Grinner’s lips, and gave Fynn a glimmer of comfort through the pain.
On the day he finally told Grinner what had become of his mother, the å Livåri teared up. “We both knowed sorrow,” he said, clumsily patting Fynn’s hand. “What of yer pa an’ yer brother? Do ye ken they was killed by them raiders, too?”
“I don’t know.” And I never will, Fynn thought bitterly.
But lying awake that night, his hand moved to the little pouch of bloodteeth tucked under his tunic, and he realized there might be a way to find out what had become of Aetheor and Jered. If he were to eat part of one of the mushrooms, might he not be able to dream-cast like Old Snorri? The taleweaver had traveled to Cloud Mountain to beg for the gods’ help; perhaps Fynn could do the same.
For several days, he wrestled with the obstacles in this path. For one, Old Snorri had eaten his mushroom cap in the presence of Wurl, the sacred tree. It might be that Fynn was too far away from the great oak to dream-travel across the sea, and the mushroom would only serve to poison him. And if he were to attempt a dream journey, he’d have to let Grinner in on his plans. That worried him. While he trusted the å Livåri to do him no harm while he dreamt, he wondered if the lure of a drug, even one that could kill outright, might be too great a temptation for his friend. What if Fynn were to awaken and find that Grinner had tried to dream-cast as well, and had died for his effort?
Of course, if Fynn got his own dosage wrong, he would never know.
But halfway through a sleepless night, he sat bolt upright, recalling that Old Snorri had gone
to Gral to find the corpse of his father. Surely that meant that Fynn could dream himself a great distance as well.
As the days passed, thoughts of dream-casting occupied more and more of Fynn’s time. Waiting out the end of his days in ignorance seemed a fate every bit as grim as death. He had to know if Aetheor and Jered still lived. And if they do not, he thought, I’ll have two more deaths to avenge.
Eventually, the sheer monotony of his existence made his decision for him, and he revealed his intentions to Grinner. He was surprised to learn that the å Livåri knew of the powers some mushrooms held, although upon examining the bloodteeth, Grinner confessed he’d never seen their likes.
“No question they’re poison, tha’s fer sure. I’ve eaten loads o’ wild victuals, and I know t’ avoid any wit’ red spots on ’em. Are ye sure this Ol’ Snorri weren’t chaffin’ ye?”
“He was most serious when he told his tale,” said Fynn. He supposed he should feel guilty for breaking the promise he’d made the old man never to share his story, but Fynn figured under the circumstances, Old Snorri would forgive him. “I’ll know for certain tonight. I’ve decided I’m ready.”
For the first time since Fynn had known Grinner, he saw fear flicker in the å Livåri’s dark eyes. “Don’ do it!” Grinner pleaded. “Don’ leave me ’ere alone!”
“I’ll only take a tiny bit,” Fynn promised, attempting a reassuring smile. “Old Snorri survived after eating half a cap, and he did it twice.” He broke off a small portion. “See? I’ll only eat this much.”
“What if they gone off?” Grinner countered. “They look right parlous t’ me.”
“That’s only because they’ve been dried.” But Fynn felt a stab of doubt. His mother had told him herbs become more potent through the drying process. Will a quarter of a cap be too much? He stared at the dusty spores on the underside of the crimson-spotted cap, then dropped it back in the pouch. He tried not to notice how his fingers trembled as he tucked the little bag under his tunic.
He rose to his feet and began to circle his friend. “I’ll wait until tonight, so you won’t have the whole day to fret away. We’ve still got hours to kill. Let’s see if you can take me down today. I’ve won the last two bouts.”
