Rescue

by F. E. Greene

Swiveling where she stood, Pearl sighed with exasperation. In one day she’d seen more than her fair share of doors. It would take a fourtnight at least for her to feel comfortable finding what she needed in the castle, even with its copious signs – another of which hung above the door leading north.

  INFIRMERY THIS WAY

  NO SPORTING OR JINKERY

  After her collision with the lad – Paxton – outside the infirmery, Pearl appreciated the warning. At the far end of the narthex, above a western doorway, a smaller sign gave less detailed directions.

  MOUND AND MERE

  To Pearl’s left was the only pair of doors she’d noticed that seemed built for more than function. Crafted from bronze, they rose half the hall’s height, secured to the wall by hinges the length and width of an arm.

  While they were the first priceless effects Pearl had seen inside the castle, age had robbed the doors of their best glory. Patina tinged many of the scored panels, and both handles were scuffed from overuse.

  Dissatisfied, Pearl sighed again.

  “You all right?” Carys asked.

  “It’s been a full day,” she replied.

  “And it’s not over yet.” Lowering her voice, Carys motioned for Pearl to join her at the door. “I’m going to coddle you for just a bit longer. There’s some ceremony with tonight’s common meal, and it will focus mostly on you. This is more than a typical supper. It’s your welcoming banquet.”

  Aghast, Pearl glanced down at herself. Her new dress was already wrinkled. Dust coated her uncovered toes. She’d been traipsing through woods all afternoon and had no time to wash or change.

  “What will I be expected to do?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Carys said. “The trium will take care of it all.”

  “You said the king doesn’t like ceremony.”

  “Not much of it. But he understands why we do.”

  Pearl wished he didn’t. The last thing she wanted was to be on display. The king was supposed to be honoring himself, not an orphaned farmmaiden from Rosper. A simple meal in her cozy room would have been plenty, and Pearl deliberated how she could excuse herself, graciously, from whatever the king had planned.

  One of the bronze doors yawned open. Two magnified eyes appeared in the gap. With furrowed brows, Owyn glared at both women like they plotted to burn the place down.

  “We are eating tonight, aren’t we?” he demanded. “Some of us have earned our supper, and we’re quite ready to enjoy it. What are you two doing? Swapping recipes? Darning socks?”

  Carys laughed at his impatience. “You told me to bring her at 12 off the bell. Fashionably late, you said it was called.”

  His gaze dropped to her trousers. “Well, you’re late. I’ll give you that.”

  While Owyn stepped back to let Carys pass, he extended an arm to Pearl. He still wore his autumnal vest, its colors a match to the sunset.

  “We’re delighted that you’re here, Pearl. Everyone’s ready to meet you.”

  Pearl slipped her hand around Owyn’s arm. Through the bronze door where Carys had gone, warm light spilled into the narthex. Pearl heard the buzz and lilt of voices, calls of greeting and the cadence of stories. As Owyn coaxed her into the doorway, those voices stilled until Pearl noticed only the sound of water.

  A bouquet of fragrances struck her – musk and honeysuckle, citrus and herb. She had smelled them since arriving, Pearl realized, and in every part of the castle. Outside the hall, their scent was more subtle. Within, and around her, it flourished.

  “Welcome to the king’s hall,” Owyn said. “And here, dearest girl, your tour concludes.”

  Again, expectations failed her. Nothing about the hall’s exterior hinted at its contents. It wasn’t formal or well appointed. It held no obvious treasures. It did have a roof and windows, four walls and a floor. The rest defied explanation.

  Human hands, Pearl knew, could not have made it. She felt sure it was made for them.

  The hall’s north wall resembled a mountain. Craggy and sheer, the wall looked as if it had been there first, and the castle had grown around it. Water cascaded along its ridges in a thin sheet that trickled and skipped. Runoff pooled in trenches at its base. Pearl couldn’t discover the water’s source, but its tepid drops dampened her cheeks while she tried.

  When Owyn cleared his throat, Pearl refocused on what lay before her. Instead of an opulent, carpeted aisle, a stream flowed down the hall’s middle. Boulders buffed to high gloss made a lustrous floor. Sparkling mortar sealed the seams between each.

  As Owyn led her down the aisle, Pearl felt like she was in two places at once. Indoors and outside. Sheltered and exposed. The feeling increased with every step as she and Owyn seemed to walk on top of the water, their sandals protected by a transparent floor.

  To their right the upper half of the wall was glass. A fireplace consumed its lower portion. On such a warm night, the hearth was dark, and above it the sunset crested.

  Amid so much natural splendor, Pearl scarcely noticed the kingsfolk. She sensed, more than saw, their affable stares. Long tables lined both sides of the aisle, and with ten seats at each, all appeared to be full. An array of faces studied her – fifty-eight, Pearl remembered from her visit with Henifred in the kitchen. She didn’t notice the king among them. Or Varrick Slone.

  At the far end of the hall, a stonework bridge curved above the stream. Boughs dripping with blossoms decorated its arch while lanterns flickered among them. More nature and more lanterns embellished the hall’s perimeter where trees burst from its corners and vines wove their own tapestries.

  As they stepped onto the bridge, Pearl concentrated on not falling. Its stairs were narrow, their gradient steep, and it had no railing to clutch. So she clung to Owyn and heaved a sigh of relief when they reached its crown. From that vantage, the hall seemed less congested, more cavernous, and the kingsfolk not quite so intimidating. Pearl’s kneecaps still rattled at the sight.

  “You don’t have to say anything,” Owyn whispered.

  Instantly she relaxed. Owyn wrapped an arm around her shoulders and cleared his throat. With authority he addressed the waiting crowd.

  “Many of us arrive here with nothing. But perhaps the greater challenge is leaving much behind. Tonight Pearl Sterling joins us from the town of Castlevale. Let’s welcome her together.”

  Hands clasped glasses. Arms lifted. While everyone drank, tears filled Pearl’s eyes.

  Sniffling, she trailed Owyn from the bridge toward one of the nearest tables. As they approached, Bonny waved eagerly. Elation made her curls flutter while she instructed Pearl to keep standing.

  “It’s not done yet,” she said. “Watch the bridge.”

  Pearl tried, but her eyes darted to who else shared their table.

  Five young men stood with arms stiff by their sides. Anchored like columns, they glanced furtively at Pearl. All wore shirts the color of moss and blue slacks like Jeron’s, made from the same Beforish cloth. Not one lad matched the others in height or build, and Pearl recognized only the one standing beside her.

  Resigning herself to his presence, she managed a tentative grin.

  In return, Paxton offered a genuine smile.

  Blushing, Pearl stared at her toes until Bonny gave her a nudge.

  “Bridge,” she whispered again.

  A slight figure had climbed onto its middle. The woman was gaunt, her face so angular it seemed she hadn’t eaten in a season. Her cornsilk hair, bound in a limp plait, fell across one shoulder like a sash, and blotches mottled the woman’s pasty skin, spoiling what might once have been lovely. She wore a modest grey shift and no jewelry. In Rosper she’d be the first to go unnoticed and the last to command an audience.

  Pearl leaned close to Bonny. “Who is that?”

  “Ilis. One of the trium. When she isn’t resting, she listens for the king.”

  “Has she been ill?” Pearl asked, trying not to sound unkind.

  “Not recently,” Bonny said. “She spent much of her yo
uth as a docksie on the wharves in south Illial.”

  “One of the king’s trium was a whore?”

  When Paxton coughed, Bonny nodded. She grabbed Pearl’s hand and squeezed it.

  “We’ll talk later, Pearl. It isn’t often we hear Ilis sing. The king must be very glad you’re here. And so are we.”

  Pearl believed her – about Ilis at least. More than politeness had captured the kingsfolk. Anticipation made them stand like statues. Not one flutter or wheeze, even among the children, upset their collective attention.

  Ilis lifted her gaze. Her chest swelled. Her lips parted. Then a single note spilled from her colorless lips.

  Soon her voice painted a flawless tune as smooth as the water slipping under the bridge. Steadily it gained thickness and weight. Like an idea come to life, the song told its own story, breathed its own breath.

  Pearl felt lighter, then lifted by Ilis’ voice. She didn’t recognize the song, and it didn’t matter. The kingsfolk vanished. The walls dissolved. Floating in the closest thing she’d known to bliss, Pearl forgot to care about anything, including herself.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  All too soon the song’s final note faded. While Ilis left the bridge, reverence kept everyone silent. That hush persisted until a subtle voice emerged from somewhere in the crowd. Jeron spoke just loud enough to be heard, and although his tone lacked the boom and thrust of Owyn’s, it still reached every ear.

  “We are grateful for this place, for this meal, for these friends among us, and for those who are not.”

  “We are grateful.”

  The corporate reply caught Pearl by surprise. Some spoke it boldly while others murmured the words. Next time she would know to join them.

  With that slip of recitation, the ceremony ended, and commotion replaced the calm. Fingers gripped pitchers. Flatware clattered. Conversation drowned out the burbling stream until plates, and mouths, grew full.

  Pearl watched the kingsfolk at her own table take charge. While one lad poured water into glasses, another topped up mugs of cider. Everyone seemed to have a task, and no one sat until all were served.

  Once more the castle’s reality fell short of Pearl’s fanciful stories. None of the dishes matched. Neither did the cutlery. Some utensils were Beforish with the rest clearly smelted in Orld. A porcelain tureen served as the centerpiece, and from it Bonny ladled a steaming liquid into seven wooden bowls. Meat and other things floated in the soup which had a curious scent and thinness.

  Studying her bowl, Pearl began to feel lightheaded. At her own welcoming banquet, she didn’t know what they were eating. Only the bread looked familiar, and it had something strange baked into its layers. Pearl felt awkward not helping and weak from not eating sooner, or more, on such a straining day.

  Only Paxton seemed to notice her discomfort. Asking if she needed to sit, he reached beneath the table to withdraw an unusual stool. With a padded top and broad base, it resembled an overgrown mushroom.

  Pearl had seen nothing like it in Rosper, and selfishly she wished for a bench. When she dropped rather clumsily onto the stool, she wobbled and lost her balance.

  Paxton’s arm swung out to catch her. With his boot, he righted the stool and moored its rim while Pearl flailed for anything to grasp – which turned out to be him. It all happened so fast, no one else might have seen if she hadn’t squeaked in alarm.

  Paxton let go only when she did. “At least it wasn’t my fault this time,” he said.

  Mortified, Pearl felt her cheeks burning. No doubt Paxton had told his friends about their earlier collisions. All stared in her direction. Three seemed amused, but the fourth lad, who sat farthest away, was expressionless. He reminded Pearl of a hunting hawk, patient and very aware.

  When Bonny invited the lads to sit and eat, they did so with gusto.

  “Everyone finds them odd at first,” she reassured Pearl. “You’ll get used to them, I promise. I’ve never seen anything quite like them myself. Not even in the dockland theaters where you can see at least one of everything.”

  The lad directly across from Pearl was smirking. “Are you talking about the stools or about us?”

  “Both,” Bonny said. “Do you know about noodles, Pearl? I never ate such a thing until I came here. They’re like bread that doesn’t fall apart in water. Henny makes them with a machine. It has a crank and a spout that changes shape. I don’t know who named them, but I like saying the word. Noodles.”

  Filling her spoon with soup, Bonny slurped it down.

  Pearl did the same. The soup was made with chicken, and the noodles did taste vaguely like bread. As she ate, her dizziness faded, and she decided that a traditional banquet buffet – gamebirds in gravy, fishes with sauce, pork pies and potatoes and puddings – would have been too much for her stomach. On a cooler, calmer evening, she’d enjoy that sort of a feast. But the peculiar soup was the perfect meal on such an uncommon day.

  The young man across from Pearl set down his spoon and wiped his mouth. “Should I begin the introductions?”

  When Bonny nodded, he covered his chest with one arm.

  “I’m West, outrider for the king.”

  Pearl returned the gesture. “You’re from Rosper?”

  West shook his head. “Only lived here since I was a boy. All of us have. I was born in Ungott.”

  Pearl failed to stifle a gasp. By their own accounts, Ungers were wicked and savage. They weren’t known for compassion, much less good manners, but West appeared to have both.

  He was leaner than the other lads, more lithe and compact, likely from a malnourished childhood. His brown hair, though shaggy, was visibly clean. His green eyes were wide and kind. West acted nothing like what Pearl expected, and she regretted her first reaction.

  The brawny young man to West’s right elbowed him in the ribs. “Show her your stig.”

  West gave him a reproachful glance. “Not at the table.”

  “When he gets a haircut, you’ll see it,” the other lad promised. “It’s a shark. Blue as a bruise and teeth like knives.”

  “This is Bendan,” West said with a trace of apology. “He’s from Orld.”

  “As if she couldn’t guess it!” While Bendan offered no gesture of greeting, he shot Pearl an infectious grin. With fair hair and blue eyes, he seemed the reverse of Varrick Slone.

  Men of Orld were supposed to be dark and sullen. They treated women like rubbish and wasted no charm on anyone. Bendan, however, disproved those beliefs. Only his accent gave him away.

  “That’s why it’s good to have West around,” he continued. “No one cares that I’m Orldic once they hear where he’s from.”

  “Glad I can help,” West said. He swiped a roll from Bendan’s plate.

  As Bendan attempted to reclaim it, the lad on West’s left tilted away from the tussle. He rested his chin in one hand and waved at Pearl with the other.

  “I’m Randel,” he shared. “Illiate.”

  When he said nothing else, Paxton intervened. “Randel’s an archer. He’s tops with a bow. He’s the youngest outrider, but he’s been here the longest. Well, except for me.”

  Pearl made sure to keep her gaze on Randel. He was slender like West with sinewy arms and thicker shoulders. While his features were plain, and his stature was average, his eyes watched the world with a curious spark. If Orldics were bullies, then Illiates were braggarts, but Randel seemed defiantly humble.

  “How long have you been here?” Pearl asked him.

  “Since I was toddling. My mother and I arrived together.”

  “Where is she?” Pearl straightened to search the other tables.

  “Not here.” His voice deepened. “Not now.”

  Before Pearl could respond, Randel took a roll to the chin. Wiping butter from his face, he lobbed the bread at Bendan who caught and lobbed it back.

  The roll overshot its target and landed in the empty bowl of the last outrider, the hawkish one who now looked thunderous.

  “Whoever started
this, stop it,” he growled. “Or we’ll all be hauling rocks tomorrow.”

  Bendan scoffed at the dour warning. “Did you see where Carys is sitting tonight? Our schooler’s got all her attention.”

  “That’s Calen,” Bonny whispered in Pearl’s ear. “He’s the oldest outrider, after Pax, and he’s next in line for retriever. He’s Illiate, too, but he acts more Orldic than Bendan.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Calen replied. “We’re supposed to behave.”

  “Like what?” Bendan taunted.

  “Like outriders,” Calen hissed. Then his black eyes flickered toward Pearl.

  Staring back, Pearl held her breath. Intensity poured from Calen’s skin which was as brown and unblemished as a chestnut, and Pearl noticed how the outrider favored Varrick Slone in manner more than appearance. Calen was the only lad who didn’t offer his name. He studied Pearl like he couldn’t quite trust her – until a roll struck him squarely in the face.

  Paxton snickered into his hand. Bendan puffed his chest and challenged Calen with a look. Between them, West careened back in his seat, and Randel tipped forward until his chin touched the table.

  For a moment no one moved.

  Calen picked up the roll and flung it at Bendan. His aim was perfect. He smiled in triumph, and his smile was sincere.

  Pearl stopped breathing again at the sight.

  All four lads resumed their scrapping, baiting each other with pinches and slaps. Rather than join the skirmish, Paxton leaned close to Pearl.

  “Thanks for the rescue,” he said quietly.

  She eased sideways. “What do you mean?”

  “Earlier with Owyn. He would have skinned me if you hadn’t said what you did. I’d be mucking the stables for a season. Or worse, helping him mend furniture.” His face lightened like he told a joke.

  “I didn’t do anything,” she argued.

  “But you could have. One word, and I’d be in a heap of trouble.”

  “What for?” Pearl asked. “What happened the first time was my fault. You weren’t the one rushing downstairs.”

  “I might as well have been. I get blamed for a lot of jinkery here, mostly because it’s my fault.” Paxton kept his confession soft. “But I wouldn’t hurt a person, and I’m sorry I embarrassed you on your first day in the castle. I hope we can be friends.”