by John Marco
“But how? Who are you?”
The woman looked up into the sky. A strong breeze blew her milky hair. “It’s late. The storm is just starting. You should get home before the worst of it.”
The strange prediction rattled Gilwyn. “You know how long it’s going to rain?”
“Questions, questions . . .”
“Tell me who you are,” said Gilwyn. He studied her, then whispered, “Are you a sorceress?”
The woman’s black eyes widened, “Oooh, now there’s a word you shouldn’t use, not in Koth these days. Protect yourself, young Gilwyn. Don’t ask so many questions. And forget what you saw here tonight. Just accept our help and be on your way.”
“Forget? How can I forget any of this? I—”
“Shhh,” bid the woman. “Too much talk. Go to your horse and get home.”
“Oh, no. My horse!” In all the commotion, Gilwyn had forgotten he was lost. “I don’t know where he is.”
The woman reached up and touched Gilwyn’s face. She said softly, “Your horse?”
“Yes,” said Gilwyn. He blinked, feeling sleepy, but when she removed her hand the dullness passed.
“Where is your horse, Gilwyn?”
Gilwyn thought for a moment, and suddenly everything was obvious. The terrain of Koth flashed through his mind, clear as daylight.
“Near Capital Street,” he said. He pointed east. “That way.”
The woman smiled. “Then you should go that way.”
Gilwyn nodded. “Yes.” A great relief washed over him. “Yes, I need to get home. But those creatures. . . .”
“They are Akari,” the woman corrected. “Spirits from a world beyond this one. Now be on your way.”
Still Gilwyn wouldn’t go. “Spirits? What kind of spirits? And you said they’d stay with those men. How’s that possible?”
“Gilwyn, because you are troubled I will tell you this—the spirits will not harm those men. I lied because I wanted to frighten them. But there’s no reason for them to be afraid of the Akari, and neither should you be. And more than that I won’t say.” She took her bald companion’s hand and started off down the alley, sparing Gilwyn one last grin. “Get home, young Gilwyn. Before the storm gets worse.”
Then they were gone, swallowed up by the gloom. Gilwyn watched them as long as he could, staring at the alley for long minutes after they were gone. The rain had thickened. His clothes were drenched and Teku’s fur had flattened against her skin, yet all he could do was stare. Something remarkable had happened tonight, and he couldn’t begin to explain it. He thought of asking Figgis when he got home, but quickly remembered how the strange little woman had asked for his silence. For some reason, he intended to keep her secret. Finally, unable to endure the rain another moment, Teku tugged at his ear.
“All right,” said Gilwyn. “We’ll go.”
As quickly as his sore foot would carry him he began his long trek toward Capital Street, toward the place where he knew, somehow, Tempest still awaited him. And as he walked a strange word kept popping into his mind, a word he knew only from fairy tales and children’s songs. Despite the many distractions filling Koth’s streets, the word would not leave him.
The word was Grimhold.
Near midnight, Gilwyn finally returned to the library. He discovered a very cross Figgis waiting for him. Gilwyn had tried to avoid his mentor, but reaching his bedchamber meant passing the old man’s study, and that’s where he discovered Figgis. The old man had heard Gilwyn enter the hall and was drumming his fingers expectantly on his desk. There were bags under his eyes from staying up well past his bedtime. As soon as Gilwyn crossed the threshold, he barked, “Where have you been?”
Gilwyn didn’t know how to answer. “I’m sorry, Figgis. I didn’t mean to be gone so long.”
“Do you know what time it is? It’s been dark outside for hours!” He jabbed a thumb toward the room’s tiny window. “I was worried sick about you!”
“I’m sorry,” repeated Gilwyn. “I lost track of time. I had something important to do.”
“What?” Figgis demanded. “What’s so important that you had to leave me here fretting over you?”
Exhausted, he could only shrug. “I can’t explain it.”
Figgis rose from his chair. “Look at you. You’re drenched!” He stared at Gilwyn, demanding an answer. “Tell me where you were.”
“I went into the city,” replied Gilwyn. “I told you, there was something I had to do.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Figgis, I’m tired. . . .”
Before Gilwyn could try to leave, Figgis went to the doorway to block his way.
“Gilwyn, I can’t have you running off without telling me where you’re going. I spent the whole afternoon expecting you back here. I had to deal with all the work myself. And when you didn’t return by nightfall. . . .”
“I’m sorry,” said Gilwyn. The worry in Figgis’ eyes shamed him. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to confess the reason for his trip into Koth. As much as he wanted to tell Figgis about the dark-haired girl, he knew the old man would murder him for skulking around Lionkeep. Gilwyn sighed and fell into Figgis’ chair, miserable and contrite. “I didn’t mean for you to worry. I didn’t think I’d be gone so long.”
Figgis hovered over him. “What happened to you? Trouble?”
Gilwyn looked away. His strange experience in the alley was just another thing he couldn’t confess. “I’m fine,” he said. “I just got caught in the rain.” Then he laughed, adding, “I lost my way.”
“In Koth? I could have told you that would happen. It’s not a city for a boy, Gilwyn, especially not at night.” Figgis brushed some clutter from his desk and sat down, smiling gently at Gilwyn. “Now, want to tell me what really happened?”
Gilwyn merely shook his head.
“Gilwyn, you’ve been acting odd lately. You’ve been ignoring your work, forgetting things. . . .”
“I know, Figgis. I apologize.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were in love.”
Gilwyn looked up. “What?”
“Is that it, boy? Have you gotten yourself a sweetling?”
A rush of heat filled Gilwyn’s face. “No,” he said quickly. “No, I’m just . . . thinking a lot lately.”
“Uh-huh.”
“No, really.”
The old man laughed. “You’re sixteen now, Gilwyn. Old enough to be sweet on someone.”
“I’m not!”
“And you’re old enough to have some secrets,” Figgis conceded. “If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to.”
For some reason, Gilwyn feared he would cry. His foot was aching and Teku was half asleep on his shoulder, and all he could think of was his ordeal in the alley. He wanted desperately to talk to Figgis, to enlist the old man’s help in winning the beautiful girl from Lionkeep, but he was afraid. Figgis was a good man. Sometimes, Gilwyn felt he didn’t deserve him.
“Figgis, I want to keep my secret,” he said. “For a little while longer, at least. All right?”
Figgis nodded. “All right.” He got up and held out his hand for Gilwyn, who took it and let Figgis pull him to his feet. “We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow,” said Figgis. “Go to sleep now, and we’ll forget about it. But I want your word that you’ll tell me before going off on your own again. You may be sixteen, but I’m still master of the library.”
“I will, Figgis, I promise.” Gilwyn moved toward the door, relieved the conversation was over. But before he could say good night, the same strange word popped into his mind again. He hovered in the threshold. Figgis stopped fiddling with the papers on his desk.
“Gilwyn?” he asked. “Something wrong?”
Gilwyn shook his head. “No, I’m just thinking.” He paused for a moment, then asked, “Figgis, do you know what Grimhold is?”
“Grimhold? Why are you asking about that?”
“I’m not sure,” said Gilwyn. “I keep thinking about
it for some reason. Do you know anything about it?”
The librarian shrugged. “Nothing that isn’t known by everyone else. Grimhold’s a myth. They say it’s a place of monsters.”
“Monsters.” The word intrigued Gilwyn. “And sorcerers?”
“I suppose. The legend goes that the monsters of Grimhold are led by a witch. She steals children.”
“Steals children? What for?”
“I’m no expert, Gilwyn,” said Figgis. He seemed almost annoyed at the questions. “Grimhold is just a tale. A good story, nothing more.”
“But there must be books about Grimhold, right? Somewhere in the library maybe?”
“Probably,” said Figgis. He shooed Gilwyn away. “Now go to bed. It’s late.”
Gilwyn took a single step out of the room, then stopped again. “Do you think you could find me a book about Grimhold, Figgis?”
Figgis sighed. “Gilwyn, please. It’s late and we’ve got work to do in the morning. I really can’t have you wasting time daydreaming about Grimhold while I do all the heavy lifting around here.”
“You’re right, Figgis, I’m sorry,” said Gilwyn. Then he smiled. “But you can find me some texts about Grimhold, can’t you?”
“Great Fate, you’re a pest sometimes! All right, I’ll dig up something for you. But it might take me some time. Until then, try and lend a hand around here, will you? For old times’ sake?”
Gilwyn bowed. “Promise. Thanks, Figgis. Good night.”
“Good night!”
Satisfied, Gilwyn left the study and made his way to his little bed chamber. He put Teku into her unlocked cage, stripped off his wet clothes, and slipped lazily into his night shirt. Outside his window he could see the fractured light of the moon as he pulled the bedcovers over himself. The memory of the strange woman in the alley played through his mind, yet he was not afraid. Too exhausted for fear, he closed his eyes and dreamed of tomorrow, when he would meet the dark-haired girl at last.
27
Cassandra sat alone in her bed, her mind full of images. The tolling of a distant clock absently spoke the midnight hour, but Cassandra was wide awake as she dreamed, consumed by better days. Darkness shrouded her bedchamber. Only the flicker of a candle behind a canvas partition invaded the gloom. On the other side of the partition sat Akeela, blinded by the heavy canvas yet still able to speak to her. His voice droned through the midnight silence as he read from a book of poetry. He had been ridiculously excited by the latest books from his library, and had been reading to her for hours now. Unable to face another of his dreadful performances on the eve of her meeting with Lukien, Cassandra had protested, feigning a headache. But Akeela had insisted. Like a child, he never gave her any peace. And he never seemed to tire, either, or to improve in his performance. He tried gamely to entertain her with poems and plays, but his skill was amateurish and his ebullience irritated Cassandra. Tonight, he was unbearable. His ceaseless voice tore through her like a nail, forcing her to daydream her way to freedom. Now, as Akeela worked his way through a particularly tedious sonnet, Cassandra was reminded of Lukien and the hours they had stolen together, long ago. Tomorrow she would see him again. And then, if the curse of her amulet truly existed, she would die.
A clap of thunder detonated above the tower, muffled by the thick walls of her chamber. Akeela had told her it was raining; the storm had come unexpectedly. The rain reminded her of that dewy morning when she had first given herself to the Bronze Knight. In her mind she could smell the apple orchard, the freshness of peat, and the moist spring mist. The thought brought a secretive smile to her lips. Until then she had supposed Lukien would be brutal as a lover, but he had been gentle with her. He’d had none of Akeela’s clumsiness, either, and she adored him for it. And in their subsequent couplings he had learned to play her like a harp, so that her body made the most exquisite music.
And then Akeela had gone mad. And Lukien had been banished.
Cassandra opened her eyes in the darkness. As she listened to Akeela’s voice, she heard the taint of insanity. He had aged. Unlike her, time had played its tricks on him. But he still had his childlike exuberance, and he still loved her, though his love was a sickness. She studied his voice as it climbed over the partition, listening to it rise and fall, imparting his words with melodrama. Surprisingly, she had never been able to hate Akeela. He had banished Lukien, Liiria’s greatest hero, and he had blinded Jancis. He had neglected Koth to the point of ruin while squandering every drop of taxes on his elaborate library. In his paranoia he had crushed the chancelleries, and in doing so he had become a tyrant, imprisoning the long-dead Baron Glass and other good men and taking their wealth for his own. Baron Glass had languished for two years in Borior prison before being exiled to the Isle of Woe. Akeela had wanted him executed, but Cassandra’s intercession had been enough to save the baron, consigning him instead to certain death among the savages of an island prison. He had died there, presumably, and Akeela had never spoken of him again, as though the memory of the baron was something to be expunged.
Yet for all his crimes, Cassandra still pitied Akeela. He was a fragile man, still a child in so many ways. As she listened she heard the love in his voice. Truly, he still thought she enjoyed his company. And he still craved to be near her. He hadn’t laid eyes on her in sixteen years, nor had he dared to touch her in the darkness, not since that first time. But the inference in his tone was always clear. He hungered for her like a starving man, and would never take another woman to satisfy his lust. He had told her many times that their marriage was sacred. To Cassandra, their marriage was a farce. Still, she admired Akeela’s fortitude. His madness had given him a peculiar strength.
Could she be just as strong, she wondered? So far, the prospect of dying hadn’t frightened her, yet by midnight tomorrow she might well be dead. Would it take long for human eyes to kill her? Would there be enough time to tell Lukien all she wanted to say? A few moments was all she wanted. That would be enough to look at him, to touch his face, to see the man he had become, and to tell him that she loved him still. In her sixteen years of isolation, she had learned that love was timeless. She smiled, struck by her own poetry. Lukien was a warrior with a poet’s soul. She had unearthed the truth in him. Tomorrow, if she died, she would stand before the Fate, that great and mysterious entity that oversaw the world. She would be commanded to list her life’s accomplishments, and she knew that she would put Lukien at the top of that list. Loving him had changed her life. He had been worth all the dismal aftermath.
Akeela cleared his throat unexpectedly. There was a long silence, and Cassandra could hear him turn his face toward her through the partition.
“Cassandra?” he asked. His voice was a bell, crystal clear and cutting. “Are you awake?”
“Yes, Akeela, I’m awake.”
Another pause.
“You haven’t said anything in a while. I thought you had fallen asleep.”
“No, Akeela.”
There was a rustle as Akeela closed the book. “You are preoccupied tonight.”
“No, I just didn’t want to interrupt you,” said Cassandra.
“You are preoccupied,” Akeela repeated. Cassandra heard him lean back in his chair. His silhouette on the canvas seemed to slump. He was thinking, and that was always a bad thing. He could be very perceptive sometimes. Cassandra tried to mask her thoughts. When she did not reply, he asked her, “What are you thinking about, Cassandra?”
“I’m sorry, Akeela, my mind was wandering,” she confessed. “It’s late, and I’m tired.”
“Yes,” Akeela drawled. “And how is your headache?”
There was a peculiar accent on the word headache that made Cassandra cringe. He could always tell when she was lying, even through the darkness.
“Better now,” she replied. She watched his shadow through the fabric, lit by candlelight. He didn’t stir, but sat as still as stone. His silence frightened her, and she cursed herself for being so stoic with him. Now he was su
spicious. “Keep reading,” she urged. “You haven’t finished the sonnet yet.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t read you love poems. They make you pensive.”
“No,” laughed Cassandra. “I enjoy them.”
“Why?”
The question hung in the air. Anything Cassandra said would be a lie, so she replied, “Because you read so well, and because it is good to hear your voice.”
“No other reason?”
Cassandra frowned. She could tell he was baiting her. “Should there be another reason, Akeela?”
Akeela didn’t answer. She watched his silhouette for movement, but he didn’t flick a finger. She could tell he wanted to say something to her, to bring up the ugly accusation that was always on the tip of his tongue, waiting to fall off. Cassandra grew angry suddenly. Tonight, on the eve of her meeting with Lukien, the very night before her possible death, she decided to push him.
“Say something, Akeela.”
Akeela’s breathing quickened. “I know what you’re thinking when you hear love poems, Cassandra.”
“Do you? Tell me, then.”
A great sigh came from behind the partition. “You’re lonely. And that’s my fault. I’ve failed you.”
“What?”
Akeela rose from his chair and shook his head in despair. “It’s true. You are alone because of me, because I’ve failed to find the other amulet.”
Cassandra wanted to laugh. “No, Akeela. . . .”
“Don’t spare my feelings. I know what you think of me. You’re right—I have failed you. I’ve left you to rot in this room all alone, without a husband to comfort you. I’ve done my best to keep you company, but it’s not enough. You need me, Cassandra. All of me. A voice in the darkness isn’t good enough, not after so much time. What kind of husband is that?”
“Akeela, stop,” said Cassandra. She sat up to give her voice emphasis. “I’m fine, really.”
“You’re not fine. You can’t be. But you will be someday, Cassandra, I promise you.” Akeela went to the partition and put his hand up to the fabric. His ghostly silhouette lingered there, unable to reach her. “I love you, Cassandra.”
