Spark and Sorrow

by Rachel A. Marks

  Lady Gwyndolin lays the dress aside then pulls out a cream linen chemise next. There are cornflowers stitched along the bottom hem of all the under things as well. “Slip this over your head.” She comes closer and positions the garment above my head.

  I eat the last bit of bread and release the shawl, letting it slide to the floor before raising my arms through the sleeves. The linen slides down my body, and Lady Gwyndolin’s brow creases deeper in concern.

  “Whatever’s to become of you?” she says, quietly. “It’s not right, seeing a girl fading away as you are—you look as if you haven’t eaten in an age.”

  I haven’t. Not truly.

  I pretend not to hear her as she helps me fit into the overdress, tying the ribbon around my waist several times. She doesn’t seem the least bit curious about my wound or how I feel. She’s too distracted by my apparent lack of nourishment.

  I’ll never be truly healthy, truly myself, until my blood is given the freedom to thrive. I do look more a ghost than a girl right now. But someday . . .

  “I appreciate your kindness,” I say, meaning it. There are dark circles under her eyes from sleeping in that horrid chair all night, obeying her cousin as she watched over me. And she’s obviously wary of me, concerned about something. Still, she’s being kind.

  “Never mind that,” she says, looking uncomfortable. “It’s our Christian task to give aid to a lost soul.” Her gaze moves to my hair, her discomfort growing. She lowers her voice. “Are your people of the higher northern clans? You wear the brace, as would someone with standing, with weight. Will they come hunting for you, my lady?”

  I’m surprised she knows what this torque would normally mean when the prince and princess were both ignorant.

  “My people abandoned me,” is all I say. To a human who recalled the old ways, this torque would signify an honored bloodline. What they don’t realize is how that honored blood began in the lines of the powerful. The torque has always been meant to contain.

  Yes, it is a sign of power. Deadly power within.

  My keeper, Lailoken, once explained to me how the tradition began, with each bloodline agreeing to settle their control, to make peace and refrain from their petty battles that had spread turmoil and war amongst the humans for centuries. And in turn their offspring would find places of power in the visible order. I never knew who my true human father was—though I believe he was a warrior—or perhaps he was a farmer. I was never allowed to know him. Instead, as a babe, I was put in another child’s place, made a changeling, cast into the arms of Fate.

  And Fate chose cruelty. As it happened, the woman they placed me with had the sight. She was able to tell instantly what I was. And what I was not. I was not her lost babe.

  To rid herself of the fae curse she left me at the base of a tree, fodder for the wolves.

  Thankfully, the monk, Lailoken, found me. Dear, kind, Lailoken. Since that moment in the forest the strange humble man of the wood has been my one true friend, my true father.

  Thinking of him, of his bright eyes, his ready wit, my heart grows even heavier, missing him terribly.

  So, I add, “And my name is Lily. Simply, Lily. I’m not a lady.” I am a queen.

  “If you say.” She gives me a tight smile. “Why don’t you wash yourself up a bit.” She motions to the bowl and pitcher. “I’ll go see what can be done with this.” She holds the bloody and torn novice overdress away from her and leaves the room.

  I quickly wash my face in the basin. Then I grab what’s left of the apple, taking a large bite as I return to digging in the basket for more food. I plan on eating every morsel. There’s no pie, but there is a roasted potato and a second loaf of bread.

  The prince enters as I’m shoving the apple core in my mouth and getting ready to follow it with a good chunk of the salted potato. When I spot his large form smiling at me from the doorway, I swallow hard and set the potato down, my cheeks turning pink as I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth to catch the apple juice dripping down my chin.

  Mother Catherine wouldn’t approve. She would be scolding me about measured passions and keeping my whims in check.

  “Well.” Julius eyes me, seemingly unconcerned with my lack of control. “Cousin Gwyndolin shockingly said you were healed. You seem to have scared her, she was shaking like a leaf when she told us. My sister believes this is a miraculous gift from Heaven because of her prayers last night. She says you’re blessed by God. I didn’t tell her that it was something else entirely.” He gives me a wry look.

  I ignore his hint and pick up the potato again, settling back on the couch, shoving it in my mouth.

  “So, will you explain now?” he asks, crossing the room. “You have me wondering if you keep faith with devils.”

  I stop chewing and gape at him. Why does it always come to that?

  “How are you surprised by this?” he asks. “I watched you speak to that beast with my own eyes. I saw its odd contorted frame, its horribly sharp teeth. It was most certainly a devil.” He pauses, stepping closer, and kneels down to my level, adding softly, “But I also heard you bargain your freedom away in exchange for my life. I’m not so self-righteous as my sister. I know that not everything is as it seems—and even if you’re a witch I would never harm you.”

  “I’m not a witch.” At least I can say that much.

  “But you are running away,” he says, his voice lowering, “From the abbey. Why?”

  I shake my head slowly, still keeping my eyes on his.

  “You won’t say.” He studies me, then seems to realize something. “You can’t say.”

  I nod.

  “It’s a secret.”

  I nod again.

  “Curious,” he says. Then after a pause, he adds, “Well, whatever the secret, it seems . . . that you need help.”

  I can only stare at him.

  “I would wish to aid you if I can, to escort you to your homeland, to protect you.”

  Hope lights in my chest. Could he truly mean such a thing? Isn’t he afraid after everything he saw? I was ready to weave a lie, create some sort of manipulation. It would be so helpful to be escorted by a human prince on the roads. Of course, I can’t be positive this will be as simple as it seems. Nothing is simple in my life. There’s always a hidden trap, a shadow inside a promise.

  “What will you wish for in return?” I ask.

  His wry smile appears again. “I simply wish to know you. That is all, my lady.”

  I open my mouth to correct him, but he adds quickly, “Forgive me. Lily.”

  “Thank you,” I say. I place the last bit of potato in my mouth, chewing, trying to decide how to tell him what I need without giving myself away fully.

  He studies me. “Yes, very curious,” he says, as if to himself. “You are a mystery I shall crack. But I can be patient. What would you like from me, Lily?”

  SIX

  Spark

  Over the next few days I learn that the prince is very good at lying.

  I told him simply that first day that I needed to find my way north, return to my kin and make peace. That the sisters were cruel.

  All of this is true. And he listened quietly, eyes narrow. Plotting in his head.

  He clearly understands I’m leaving pieces of the puzzle out, but he doesn’t seem disturbed, and he doesn’t prod any further.

  “I’ll put my sister off from writing the letter to the abbey for a few days, tell her you need rest,” he says. Then he adds mysteriously, “There will need to be plans made if we’re going to time things out right.”

  He soon begins commencing a campaign of falsehoods around the keep. Falsehoods to hide the true purpose of his coming absence from his father’s court as he escorts me north, explaining to his sister, his men, our need to leave within the next sennight.

  He mentions the king in passing to me, but the ruler remains a mystery. It seems the prince wishes to keep me from his father, but I can’t see why. I spend all my time in the west corridor where I w
as first brought, hardly seeing a soul.

  Instead of encouraging me to join the family at supper or during the quiet hours, the prince suggests I remain in my room the first few days, only seeing him, his sister, or Lady Gywndolin. Until he can speak to his father and “soften the field,” as he says.

  I agree to the idea, only because I wish to be left alone. It’s selfish, really. I find myself strangely enjoying being in seclusion for long chunks of the day, sitting in the lush chair beside the window, reading a monk’s accounting of the herbs on Sceilig Mhór, or watching from my perch as the silver fog rolls like ghostly fingers through the marsh. No scrubbing floors, no sweating over the ovens while baking bread, no endless prayers.

  On the third day the prince suggests we go for a short stroll through the keep to stem the boredom and I reluctantly concede. I follow him down the stairs, through the halls, and out into the courtyard. The more I see of my new surroundings, the more I wonder at the logic of human builders. They seem to prefer to live in the strangest ways. The keep is a dreary place, all hard and grey and damp. Not a flash of color to be seen. Not a green sprout to be found in the muck.

  I find myself missing home again, but this time I can let myself hope. Soon.

  He walks me over to the large oak at the center of the courtyard, it’s thick limbs still winter-bare.

  He leans in and points out a nook high above us. “There, see. Wait a moment, you’ll spot a dove hatchling peek from the shadows.”

  I watch. And sure enough, a small head lifts to the sky, crying out for food. I find myself smiling up at the strange prince forgetting about curious eyes as he begins to weave me a tale of how, as a boy, he climbed up into the highest branch to bring the spring chicks bits of apple once. But as he tried, like a fool, to balance knife, fruit, and feet, he slipped, tumbling down, breaking both his arms on landing.

  He rolls up one of his linen sleeves and shows me a scar. “Bone broke right through on this one; had me screamin’ like a banshee with her hair on fire.”

  I laugh in spite of myself, captivated by it all, wondering what he was like as a boy. I yearn to say that I fell from a tree as well, broke my arm only two years past. But I don’t want the listening ears to hear my confession. And mine isn’t a story of whimsy, like his. So, I stay silent.

  The next day he takes me past the stables and nonchalantly tells the boy there to ready some horses for an upcoming journey. We walk past the gates as well and he instructs a soldier to prepare a small group of men for a possible battle in the east.

  “Very soon,” he says to the muddy, stern-faced men. “I’ve heard rumblings of raiders troubling nearby villages. Nothing too difficult to deal with.”

  The men nod, taking his words as truth, and begin talking amongst themselves about who will go with their master and who will stay behind to guard the keep.

  All the servants and soldiers give me curious looks as the next few days pass, but none ask questions.

  It’s become clear to me what the prince’s plan is now. He means to bring his men with us to a point, then he will send them ahead and split off to make as if he’s returning me to the abbey. And that is when he and I will begin our journey north. Once he’s gotten me safely home, he’ll return to the keep and say that we were held up by some skirmish or another, that I was killed along the way. He claims it doesn’t really matter what he says, no one will question him, though there’s bitterness in his voice at the muttered comment. He seems wholly focused on helping me stay safe on my journey, unconcerned with the aftermath. Unconcerned with the lies and manipulations. It makes me wonder at his character.

  I’m more than curious what his story will be. It seems the web of falsehoods would begin to show itself with time. But he seems determined to take on the fabrication.

  To his sister, the prince concocts a very grand tale to explain my plight. It’s filled with childhood whoa, Dane raids, and sickness; my innocence is carved into each event that led me here, turning me into a lost bird, too broken to understand what was happening when the sisters took me in. That I’ve needed time to pray over my commitment outside the abbey walls.

  I cut in and add demurely how thankful I am to have been given such kindness, surprised how simple the lie is. And really, it isn’t a lie. They’ve been very kind.

  Breanne nods along with the tale, eyes wide as she soaks it all in.

  “There is always space for prayerful consideration,” she says, patting my hand. “I will ask God to guide you.”

  On the seventh day, the prince claims I’ve made my choice. He asks his sister to send her message, telling the abbey that they can expect me soon. He tells her that he’s decided to do the honorable thing and return me to the sisters himself before he turns east to meet his men and fend off a small band of raiders. “Things could become very dangerous along the way,” he says to her, all seriousness. “But I know that you will pray for my safety, Sister.”

  He’s so adept at weaving a tale, he could be part fae.

  His sister clutches at her chest and then goes to him, hugging him tight. “You make me so very proud, Brother, guarding this poor waif. You are a marvelous warrior. I’m sure the sisters will be ever so grateful. Please tell them of the miracle of healing that happened in this keep. Look at the girl, what a thing, barely a scar. Surely, it’s a sign of God’s favor here—oh, and you should consider doing penance as well.”

  He kisses her forehead. “I wouldn’t wish to tarnish my reputation, would I?”

  “Oh, saints be praised.” She shakes her head in disapproval but there’s light in her eyes. “You’re not phased one inch by God’s handiwork.”

  “On the contrary, Sister.” His face turns more serious. “I see His hand more clearly than ever before.”

  Her brow goes up. “Why, Julius, I do believe you may be telling me the truth.”

  He rubs her shoulder and gives her a sad smile, and I watch in amazement. I would believe him too, if I didn’t know better.

  Lady Gwyndolin steps forward, gripping her skirts with white knuckles. “Can’t your men simply take her?” She gives me a sideways look. “Your father needs you here, to give council—you just returned from battle a month ago. Surely Podric can return her to the abbey, then lead the men east.”

  “Hush, Cousin,” Breanne chides. “This is an important thing for Julius to do. He goes to represent our father to the Church. It’s vital that this miracle of healing isn’t overlooked.”

  “Well said, Sister,” the prince agrees.

  But Lady Gwyndolin doesn’t seem satisfied. Her worried gaze skips from me to the prince, then back again. “This can’t be the way. It shouldn’t be Julius, it mustn’t—”

  “Enough,” Breanne snaps, sounding surprised at her cousin’s insistence. “Please, Gwyn. Compose yourself.”

  Lady Gwyndolin pinches her lips shut and her eyes fill with tears. The girl is usually very quiet, but something has her stirred up.

  “When will you go?” Breanne asks.

  “We’ll follow a day behind your letter,” the prince says.

  The princess nods, tears filling her eyes now as well. “You are a nuisance, but I do hate it when you’re gone.” She sniffs, embracing him once more. “I’ll light a candle in the window so you can find your way home again soon.”

  She leaves, but Lady Gwyndolin appears immovable. She’s turned pale, her muscles tense as if bracing for a hit.

  As soon as Breanne’s retreating footsteps have faded down the hall, Gwyndolin gasps out a held breath and rushes towards Julius, taking his hand in hers. Fear has fully blossomed in her features now, her body shaking. “Please, Cousin, hear me. It mustn’t be you to do this.”

  Julius’ head pulls back. “Really, Gwyndolin. It’s a simple task. If your concern is because of the raiders heading this way, I—”

  “No,” she hisses. Her eyes dart to me again. “I’m worried about . . . other things.” Her features say so much more than her words. They carry a familiar echo of
human fear. Fear of me. As if she can see the mark of my Other blood branded into my forehead.

  Could she know what I am?

  The prince hesitates, sensing she’s not saying what she truly means. “What is it, Gwyn?”

  “A vision,” she whispers. “This morning.” Her hands slip from his, her shoulders falling. But her eyes don’t leave mine. “Every morning since the girl has come, really.”

  Julius’ gaze follows hers until they’re both staring at me.

  “Stop this,” I say, unable to keep my voice from shaking. “Say what you must.”

  “Yes,” the prince agrees, “What did you see?” He’s not surprised by her words about a vision. He’s obviously heard this before. But surely, he must understand, if she has the sight, it means she’s a witch.

  “I saw horrible things, many, many horrible things. I saw . . .” She points ominously towards me. “Her. She doesn’t belong here. She’s unnatural. She will only bring us death.”

  Julius’ brow rises. “Well, that’s dramatic.”

  “Death?” I hear myself echo. Could she just be afraid, sensing my blood? Or did her vision show her something to come?

  Lady Gwyndolin’s voice shakes, directing her words to me now. “You’ll be the death of us all.”

  “Cousin,” Julius says, turning her to face him rather than me, “your visions have been less than reliable lately. Do you recall the one with all the birds made of iron? Hardly a—”

  She jerks from his hands. “I’m not playing, Julius! There is a shadow over her. I saw it, Death follows her even now. It leaks into these walls and begins to press in, realizing a cursing on this place, on your family. Soon the curse will have its way and everything you love will burn. Everything, Julius. The keep, the village, all of your father’s land. It will all be ash.”