by John Marco
“We’re here,” she whispered.
Jancis’ blind eyes maneuvered over the garden. “Are we alone?”
“Oh, yes.”
There was not a soul to be seen or heard. Cassandra marveled at the silence. Far in the distance, she could hear the dull murmur of people on the parade ground, gathered for the coming moon shadow but Lionkeep itself was a tomb, with only the breeze creeping through its halls. Cassandra looked up at the moon, so perfect in the sky, ready to be devoured in the shadow of their world.
“Can you see the moon shadow?” Jancis asked.
“Not yet,” said Cassandra. But then the smallest sliver of darkness came across the moon. “Wait . . .” Cassandra squinted, then heard a cheer go up from the parade ground. “Yes! It’s starting.”
Jancis smiled and squeezed Cassandra’s hand. “Tell me.”
Without fear, Cassandra draped an arm around Jancis and began to tell her everything she saw.
Gilwyn waited an hour for the moon shadow to begin, mindlessly cutting off slices of sausage as he sat back against the cold stone of the balcony. Teku had finished her apple and amused herself by jumping from one gargoyle to another. A pleasant breeze stirred through the balcony; all was silent but for the far-off merriment from the parade ground. Gilwyn glanced at the moon. Figgis had been very precise about the time of the shadow, but Gilwyn had no timepiece to test the old man’s accuracy. Still, he suspected it would be very soon. Then he saw the first brush of shadow. He put down his knife and struggled to his feet.
“Look, Teku, it’s starting.”
Darkness slowly crept across the moon’s surface. Gilwyn heard a cheer rise up from the parade ground and knew that somewhere in that throng, Figgis was smiling. He laughed, delighted for his mentor.
“He did it,” he said. “He was right.”
Excited, he went to the edge of the balcony and leaned out over the rail. Teku climbed onto his shoulder, as if to get closer to the sky. Together they watched as the moon shadow took hold, gradually inching its way across the distant orb. The world fell silent. And in the silence Gilwyn heard something remarkable.
Voices.
Startled, he looked down from his perch and saw two figures in the garden far below, cloaked by the overgrown plants. Gilwyn took a quick step back, not wanting to be seen. But the figures in the garden had not discovered him. They spoke in hushed voices, their faces turned toward the moon. Once again Gilwyn peered over the balcony to steal a better look. They were women. One was much older than Gilwyn, at least thirty, with plain brown hair streaked with gray and clad in unremarkable clothes. But the other was a vision, and stopped Gilwyn’s gaze cold. She was young and remarkably beautiful. Her raven hair tumbled down her back like a waterfall. Her skin was perfect, vibrant and glowing with health, and her skirt clung to her in the breeze, revealing her alluring shape.
“Who . . . ?”
In all his visits to the castle, Gilwyn had never seen her before. He supposed she was a visitor to Lionkeep, a diplomat’s daughter, perhaps. But whoever she was, she was far more interesting than the moon shadow. Gilwyn sank down behind the balcony, spying her through the space between rails. Her hand was raised toward the moon—she seemed to be describing it to her companion. Gilwyn realized suddenly that the older woman was blind, no doubt one of Queen Cassandra’s servants. But the younger girl was no servant, certainly. Her clothes were far too expensive, her face and hands too regal.
“She’s beautiful,” whispered Gilwyn. There was a sudden pain in his heart. He wanted to call down to her, to rise from his hiding place and wave for her attention, but he knew that he was only a librarian’s apprentice, and no one as beautiful as she could ever care about a clubfooted boy.
The moon shadow continued for almost an hour. The figures in the garden watched the celestial show. Gilwyn missed it entirely. Too enamored with the dark-haired girl, he hardly noticed the passing of time. And when the moon shadow was over, the two strangers fled the garden, disappearing quickly into the confines of the trees. When they were gone, when he was sure they couldn’t see him, Gilwyn emerged from his hiding place and stared into the empty garden.
“Teku,” he said softly, “I have to meet that girl.”
25
Night after night, Gilwyn returned to his little hiding spot, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dark-haired girl. Night after night he would brush his hair, smooth down his clothes, and go with Teku to the balcony, anticipating her arrival. And night after night he was disappointed.
The girl had captivated Gilwyn. He spent his days in the library daydreaming about her, causing him to bring the wrong books to the scholars or to forget his chores entirely. And though Figgis repeatedly asked what was troubling him, Gilwyn kept the knowledge of the girl to himself, sure that Figgis would berate him for skulking around Lionkeep looking for her. So he did what he could to finagle plum assignments out of his mentor, anything that involved delivering books or messages to the castle. There were always manuscripts being requested by Akeela and his staff. Still, Gilwyn’s many trips to the keep went unrewarded, and after a week of pining he knew more drastic measures were needed. Since the girl wasn’t blind, she could be anywhere in the keep. Yet the hope of running into her in the castle’s “open” spaces had proved fruitless. Gilwyn realized that his best chance of seeing her meant trespassing into the queen’s forbidden wing. Her servants were blind anyway, he reasoned, and so would never detect him if he was careful. But he couldn’t speak to anyone—he couldn’t risk being recognized, not until he knew the girl would actually meet with him. It was a dilemma that seemed to have no answer.
Then Gilwyn remembered Teku.
Teku had many talents. She was a monkey, but Figgis had trained her to be much more than a pet for Gilwyn, and her time with the old librarian had made her intelligent and resourceful. And she was a Ganjeese monkey, an extra special breed. Ganjeese monkeys were expensive and sought after, because they could learn anything, and not just tricks. They could understand language and reply in rudimentary grunts and chirps, and they bonded with their masters in an unusual, almost preternatural way. Teku had been Gilwyn’s right arm. More precisely, she had been his crippled left hand. When he needed a book or scroll he couldn’t reach, she fetched it for him. She scaled the library’s bookshelves faster than Figgis ever could with his ladder, and she had made the daunting task of navigating the place easy for the crippled apprentice. In many ways, she was Gilwyn’s best friend. Now, he needed a favor from her.
It was forbidden for Gilwyn or anyone else to enter the queen’s private wing. But Teku was a monkey, so she wasn’t really confined by such rules.
Was she?
Gilwyn didn’t know, and he was past caring. He would write a note to the strange girl, address the paper to her alone, and hope that whoever found Teku would know to bring his message to her. It was risky, because anyone might find Teku’s note and read it themselves, but he wouldn’t sign the letter with his own name. He would be more crafty than that, asking the unknown girl to meet him in the abandoned garden. There he would spy from his private perch, and if she came alone he would meet her. If she came with others, he would hide. And if she didn’t come at all. . . .
Gilwyn quickly suppressed that idea. His one hope was to lure the girl into a secret rendezvous, a hope that rested on the little shoulders of a monkey.
Years of working with Figgis had made Gilwyn good with words, but in the end he settled on the simplest of sentiments for his note. He addressed it to the “dark-haired beauty,” explained how he had seen her in the garden the night of the eclipse, and asked her to meet him tomorrow night in the same spot. And when he had finished he sat back and considered what he had written. He decided that his note needed at least some sort of signature, so at the bottom of the paper he wrote, “Your Adoring Servant.”
Satisfied, he folded up the paper and stuck it in his pocket. Calling Teku to his shoulder, he emerged from the study and went in search of Figgis. He
found the old man laboring with a stack of manuscripts that had just arrived from Paaral, a city north of Liiria and well-known for its poetry. Figgis’ wrinkled face glowed happily as he pushed the wooden cart full of papers down the hall, searching for just the right place among the endless leaves of poetry. When he saw Gilwyn, he waved him over.
“Gilwyn, they’ve come,” he said. “I need your help cataloging them.”
“All right,” said Gilwyn. “We’ll do it as soon as I get back from Lionkeep. You said there were some books to deliver, right?”
“That can wait.” Figgis hefted his ledger and began scanning the shelves, tabulating the book numbering system he himself had created. “It’s going to take all day to get these Paaral poems in order.”
“But you said King Akeela was waiting for the books.”
Figgis shrugged. “No hurry.”
“But I always deliver the books to Lionkeep around noon. Graig is probably expecting me.”
Figgis turned to regard the boy. “You’re very keen on going to Lionkeep lately.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“No reason. Just trying to get my work done on time.” Gilwyn smiled, sure that Figgis suspected something. Mercifully, Figgis didn’t pursue it.
“All right then, keep your secret.” Figgis shooed Gilwyn away. “Off to the keep with you. But don’t dawdle—there’s work to be done.”
Gilwyn tried not to grin. “Thanks, Figgis,” he said, then turned and started back down the hallway.
“Don’t forget the king’s books!” Figgis hollered after him.
“I won’t,” Gilwyn called.
If not for Figgis’ reminder, he would have forgotten his delivery entirely.
In less than an hour, Gilwyn was outside of Lionkeep with his sack of books. Because walking remained difficult for him, and because the load of books would have tired out anyone, he always rode to the keep on a wagon drawn by a single, worn-out horse named Tempest. The horse and its master had become a familiar sight at Lionkeep over the years, and were mostly ignored when they entered the parade ground and main courtyard of the keep. As usual, there were soldiers drilling on the grounds and boys and girls in the yard, grooms and servants mostly, who looked after the keep and the soldiers they worshipped. A few familiar faces smiled and waved at Gilwyn as he arrived. He made his way through the yard, carefully avoiding the groups of boys, and brought his wagon to a stop at the entrance to the keep, where a pair of guards with halberds granted him entrance. With his sack of books over one shoulder and Teku on the other, he went in search of Warden Graig. The warden had been in charge of Lionkeep since anyone could remember. He was warm and friendly, and always welcomed Gilwyn when he came to the keep. He was also Gilwyn’s only conduit to King Akeela. The king saw very few people, and of course couldn’t be bothered with apprentice librarians, so whenever Gilwyn delivered books to Lionkeep they went through Graig.
The Head Warden had an office on the keep’s ground floor, near the main entrance. In earlier days, before age had enfeebled him, he would regularly patrol the courtyard. Since he could barely walk without a cane now, General Trager had asked for his retirement, but Graig had pleaded with King Akeela to let him stay, and Akeela had relented, relegating him to paperwork in a shabby little room. Warden Graig was in his chair when Gilwyn arrived, serenely staring out the window as he smoked his pipe. His office door was open, and when he heard Gilwyn enter he turned to smile at him.
“Ah, you’re late,” said the old man. “I expected you earlier.”
“Sorry,” Gilwyn offered. He hobbled into the room and set his bag of books down on the Warden’s cluttered desk. “I was busy at the library with Figgis. He just got a delivery of poetry scrolls from Paaral.”
“You look tired.” Graig gestured toward a chair near his desk. “Sit and rest a bit.” He reached for the bag and started nosing through the texts Akeela had ordered. Graig pulled one of the books from the bag, a collection of love poems much like the ones that had arrived from Paaral.
“More nonsense for him to read to the queen,” he said with a sigh. He leaned back, taking a long drag on his pipe. Gilwyn took the opportunity to rest, sitting down and rubbing his aching ankle. The shoe Figgis had made him was working remarkably well, but its straps had left welts on his skin.
“I can’t stay long,” he said. “Lots to do.”
“That old maniac works you like a dog,” said Graig. He began leafing through the poetry book, clucking at the sugary passages. “The queen likes this drivel,” he said. “And Akeela adores reading it to her.”
“The queen has very little else,” said Gilwyn.
Graig nodded. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“She’s lucky to have a husband who reads to her.” Gilwyn glanced at his crippled hand. “Not everyone knows what it’s like to be ugly, Graig. I feel sorry for the queen.”
There was a silence between them. The awkwardness made Gilwyn clear his throat.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about the queen,” he said suddenly. “About her servants, I mean. They’re all blind, aren’t they?”
“Of course,” said Graig. “You know that.”
“Yes, but how do they manage? I mean, they must have some sighted people to help them.”
Graig shrugged and blew a ring of smoke from his lips. “I suppose.”
“You mean you’ve never seen them?”
“Who?”
“The people who help Queen Cassandra.”
“Are you kidding? Not even I’m allowed in that part of the castle.” The warden’s suspicious nature rose up. “You’re not thinking of snooping around there, are you?”
“Don’t be silly. I’m just wondering, that’s all.”
“It’s not good to wonder such things, boy,” Graig warned. “Just do your job, deliver your books, and don’t get underfoot. And don’t go near the queen’s wing. Her servants may be blind, but they’ll sniff you out like bloodhounds.”
Gilwyn rose from his chair with a smile. “All right,” he said, calling Teku to his shoulder.
“I mean it, Gilwyn.” Graig looked straight though the pipe smoke at the boy. “Stay away from there. If the king finds out you’re poking around, he’ll murder you.”
“Don’t worry,” said Gilwyn. “I was just curious. I thought maybe the queen had some sighted servants, that’s all.”
“Why would you think that?”
Gilwyn didn’t know how to answer. “I’m a librarian,” he said. “I’m supposed to wonder about such things.”
“You’re an apprentice librarian and a pain in the backside. Now go on, get back to work.”
Gilwyn didn’t return to the library. Not long after meeting with Graig, he found himself near the southern wing of the castle—Queen Cassandra’s wing. He had been this close to her quarters many times before, for it was where his secret balcony lay, and he knew that the grounds around the wing were unkempt and abandoned, just as they had been that night he’d seen the girl.
He skulked into the garden where he had first seen the girl, at once noticing the overgrown rose bushes. The thorns tore at his shirt and he brushed them aside, shielding Teku as he walked. When he parted the branches, Lionkeep rose up like a fortress before him. His mouth dropped open in surprise, for he had never seen the keep from this vantage before, and it frightened him. It looked haunted, a great ruin slowly being devoured by time. There were no windows, only bricked up spaces where glass had once been, and all the balconies had been torn down, so that only their rubbled remains lay at the base of the wall. A stony silence entombed the garden. The afternoon sunlight struggled down through the thickets, but the southern wing of Lionkeep seemed immune to its warmth.
“How do we get in?” Gilwyn whispered.
He saw doors with padlocks and knew they hadn’t been opened for ages, but then he remembered that the visitors to the garden had made it outside, and knew that one of the portals must be unlocked. He stepped forward, emerging from the thickets until he spied
a broken path of cobblestones winding through the weeds and bushes. After a cautionary glance around, he and Teku plunged forward, ducking to avoid the worst of the branches. Teku chattered uneasily on his shoulder. The path had obviously not been used for ages, but it seemed to lead directly toward the southern wing. Soon Gilwyn discovered the terminus of the path—an abandoned, broken door.
“Well, hello there. . . .”
Teku bobbed on his shoulder, understanding their discovery. Gilwyn didn’t waste a moment. He reached for the door and pulled it open, revealing the forbidden confines of Lionkeep. A hallway greeted him, wide and lit by torches. Up ahead were voices. He froze, afraid to go further, but remembered what Graig had told him—all of the queen’s servants were blind.
Time to find out. . . .
He stepped across the threshold, closed the door behind him, then turned to face the room. The torches were warm on his face and the voices in the distance coaxed him onward. He put a finger to his lips, and Teku understood the gesture perfectly. A surge of excitement coursed through him, pushing him onward. He took a few steps, rounded a bend in the hall, and blundered into a room full of people.
Fear froze him in place. One man and two young girls stood just yards away, talking to each other. The girls were laughing and holding trays of half-eaten food. The man busied himself knocking about pots and pans in a steaming wash basin and talking to the girls. Remarkably, none of them had seen Gilwyn enter their midst. Gilwyn’s eyes darted about the place, taking it all in. He was in a scullery, with cooking utensils hanging from the walls and wraps of dried meats and vegetables dangling from the low ceiling. The place glowed with warmth and good humor as the blind servants went about their work, oblivious to their intruder. Gilwyn studied the girls quickly, but knew at once that neither of them was the one he’d seen in the garden. He inched forward, floating like a wraith toward them, the sounds of the man’s activity covering his approach as he scrubbed his pots and pans. He was an older fellow with dark skin and oily hair, but he smiled at the girls as he spoke, as if his blind eyes could appreciate their beauty.
