by Keyes, Greg
“Since I was eight,” Cazio replied. “How do you think I got out, all of those nights, even when you sealed my window?”
“Damn. I should have known. Well, let’s go, then.”
CHAPTER SIX
THE ABODE OF GRACES
A PRIM WOMAN IN AN OCHRE HABIT with black wimple and gloves greeted Anne and Austra as they stepped down from the carriage. Her gray eyes surveyed the two girls rather clinically from above a sharp and upturned nose. She was perhaps thirty years of age, with a wide, thin mouth plainly accustomed to the shape of disapproval.
Anne drew herself straight, as behind her the knights began taking down her things from the roof of the carriage. “I am the princess Anne of the house of Dare, daughter of the emperor of Crotheny,” she informed the woman. “This is my lady-in-waiting, Austra Laesdauter. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
The nun’s lips twitched as if at a private joke.
“I am called Sister Casita,” she said, in heavily accented Virgenyan. “Welcome to the Abode of Graces.”
Sister Casita didn’t bow or even nod as she said this, so that Anne wondered if she were perhaps hard of hearing. Could Vitellio be so different that they did not acknowledge the daughter of a king here? What sort of place had she come to?
I’ve made my decision, she thought, fighting down the sudden bad taste in her mouth. I’ll make the best of it.
The Abode of Graces wasn’t an unpleasant-looking place. Indeed, it was rather exotic, rising from the spare, rustic landscape as if it had grown there. The stones it was built from were of the same color as those they had seen exposed in seams along the road, a yellowish red. The coven itself sat on a ridgetop encircled by a crenulated wall longer than it was wide and enclosing an area the size of a small village. Square towers with sharply steepled roofs of rust-colored tile rambled up at odd intervals and inconsistent altitudes around the wall, while through the arched gate Anne could make out the large but oddly low-built manses across a flagstoned courtyard. The only height within the wall was a single ribbed dome that Anne assumed to be the nave of the chapel.
Grapevine and primrose crawled up the walls and towers, and olive trees twisted through cracked cobblestones, giving the place a look that was somehow both untidy and immaculate.
The only discordant note was provided by the ten persons with carts and mules who seemed to be camped outside of the gates. They were swaddled head to toe in patchwork linens and gauzy veils and sat or squatted beneath temporary awnings of light cotton fabric.
“Sefry,” Austra whispered.
“What was that?” Sister Casita asked sharply.
“If it please you, Sister,” Austra said, “I was just noticing the Sefry encampment.” She gave a small curtsey.
“Be wary,” the sister said. “If you keep your voice low, it will be assumed you mean mischief.”
“Thank you, Sister,” Austra replied, more loudly.
Irritated, Anne cleared her throat. “Where shall I have my men carry our things?” she asked.
“Men are not allowed within the Abode of Graces, of course,” Sister Casita replied. “What you want, you will carry yourself.”
“What?”
“Choose what you want and can carry in a single trip. The rest remains outside of the gates.”
“But the Sefry—”
“Will take it, yes. It is why they are here.”
“But that’s insane,” Anne said.
“These things are mine.”
The sister shrugged. “Then carry them.”
“Of all—”
“Anne Dare,” the sister said, “you are a very great distance from Crotheny.”
Anne did not miss the lack of any title or honorific.
“Crotheny travels with me,” she said, nodding at Captain Marl and the rest of her guard.
“They will not interfere,” Sister Casita assured her.
Anne turned to glare at Captain Marl. “You’re going to let her treat me this way?”
“My orders preclude interfering with the will of the sisters,” Captain Marl replied. “I was to deliver you here, safe and whole, and place you in the care of the Coven Saint Cer, also known as the Abode of Graces. I have done so.”
Anne switched her gaze from the captain to the sister, then looked back down at her things. There were two trunks, both too large and unwieldy for her to lift.
“Very well,” she said at last. “Do your orders preclude giving me a horse, Captain Marl?”
“They do, Princess.”
“A rope?”
He hesitated. “I see no reason not to supply you with a rope,” he said at last.
“Give me one, then.”
Anne grunted, straining her back and legs at the earth, and her trunks dragged reluctantly forward another handspan or so. She shifted her footing.
“I can assure you,” Sister Casita said, “whatever you have there will not be worth the effort. Little is needed within these walls—habit, nourishment, water, tools. And all of those will be provided. If you are vain, rescue your comb. You will not be allowed to wear jewelry or fine gowns.”
“It’s mine,” Anne said, through gritted teeth.
“Let me help her,” Austra asked, for the sixth time.
“They aren’t your things, my dear,” the sister replied. “You may carry only your own things.”
Anne looked up wearily. After an hour of dragging, she had nearly made it to the gate. She had attracted an audience, some twenty girls of various ages but tending toward her own. They wore simple brown habits with wimples of the same color. Most of them were laughing and jeering at her, but she ignored them.
She strained again, feeling the rope she had strapped across her chest cut into her bodice. Her foot sought purchase on the first of the flagstones and failed.
The Sefry seemed to be enjoying the spectacle as much as everyone else. One had produced a tambour and another a small five-stringed croth, which he played with a little bow.
“Give it up, Princess Mule!” one of the girls shouted. “You’ll never bring them in, no matter how stubborn a jackass you be! And why would you?”
The japing girl got a good chorus of laughter for that. Anne marked her, with her long, slender neck and dark eyes. Her hair was hidden by her wimple.
Anne did not, however, reply but set herself grimly and pulled some more. She had to go back and work each trunk onto the flagstones individually, but after that they went a bit smoother. Unfortunately she was wearing out.
At first she didn’t notice the sudden silence that fell across the other girls, and when she did she thought it was because she had stumbled. Then she looked up and saw what had really silenced them.
First she noticed the eyes, fierce and piercing and bright, like the eyes of Saint Fendve, the patroness of war madness, in the painting in her father’s battle chapel. So striking were they that it took moments for her to understand their color— or rather that they had almost none, so black were they.
Her face was harsh and old and very, very dark, the color of cherry wood. Her habit was black, wimpled in storm gray, and the moment Anne laid her gaze on her she was afraid of her, of what damage crouched behind those eyes and the rough seams of that face.
“Who are you,” the old woman said, “and what do you think you’re doing?”
Anne set her jaw. Whoever this was, she was just a woman. She couldn’t be any worse than Mother or Erren.
“I am Anne of the house of Dare, princess of Crotheny. I am told I may have only those things that I can carry to my room, so I am carrying them there. And may I ask your name, Sister?”
A collective gasp went up from the assembled women, and even Casita raised an eyebrow.
The old woman blinked, but her expression did not change. “My name is not spoken, nor is the name of any sister here. But you may call me Sister Secula. I am the mestra of this coven.”
“Very well,” Anne said, trying to remain brave, “where shall I put my
things?”
Sister Secula looked at her for another dispassionate moment, then lifted her finger. Anne thought at first she was pointing to the sky.
“The top room on the left,” she said softly. It was then Anne realized she was pointing at the tallest of the towers on the wall.
Midnight found Anne collapsed at the base of the narrow spiral stairs that led to the tower heights. Sister Casita had been replaced by another observer, an older member of the order who identified herself as Salaus. Austra was still there, of course, but otherwise the courtyard was empty.
“Why persist in this, Anne?” Austra whispered. “You would have left all this behind had you succeeded in fleeing. Why do you care so much for it now?”
Anne regarded her friend wearily. “Because that would have been my choice, Austra. All of my other choices have been made for me. To keep my things is the only choice it is still in my power to make.”
“I have been up the stairs. You cannot do it, and they will not let you separate yourself from them. Leave one of the trunks behind.”
“No.”
“Anne …”
“What if I give one to you?” Anne asked Austra.
“I’m not allowed to help you.”
“No. I mean I will give one of the trunks to you, and all of its contents.”
“I see,” Austra said. “And then I would give it back, later.”
“No. It would be yours, Austra. Forever.”
Austra’s hand flew to her mouth. “I’ve never owned anything, Anne. I don’t think I’m allowed to.”
“Absurd,” Anne said. She raised her voice.
“Sister Salaus. I’m giving one of my chests to my friend Austra. Is that permitted?”
“If it is a true gift.”
“It is,” Anne replied. She tapped the smaller of the chests. “Take this one. It has two fine gowns, stockings, a mirror and combs—”
“The mirror set with opal?” Austra gasped.
“Yes, that one.”
“You can’t give me that.”
“I already have. Now. You can choose to carry your things to our rooms, or you can leave them for the Sefry. I’ve made my choice. Now you make yours.”
They crossed the threshold into their room an hour or so before dawn, dragging the trunks behind them. Sister Salaus presented them with a lit taper and a pair of dun habits.
“The morning meal is at seven bells,” she said. “You should not miss it.” She paused, and her frown deepened. “I’ve never quite seen the like of that,” she said. “I do not know if it bodes ill or well for you as a beginning here, but it certainly sets you apart.”
And with that, she left. Anne and Austra looked at each other for a few moments, then both burst out in a fit of laughter.
“It certainly sets you apart,” Austra said, imitating the sis-ter’s thick Vitellian accent.
“There’s something to be said for that, I suppose,” Anne replied. She cast her gaze around the room. “Saint Loy, is this really where we’re to stay?”
The room was a quarter of the tower, about five paces on a side. The roof was mere beams, and above that was the deep darkness of the conical roof. The girls could hear doves cooing, and feathers and bird droppings decorated the floor and the two wooden beds that were the only furnishings. There was a small window.
“It’s hardly better than a dungeon cell,” Austra said.
“Well,” Anne sighed. “It’s a good thing I’m a princess and not a greffess, I suppose.”
“It’s not so bad,” Austra supposed dubiously. “Anyhow, now you’re a princess in a tower, just as in the story of Rafquin.”
“Yes, I’ll begin knitting a ladder from spider silk right away, so when Roderick comes—”
Austra’s face went serious. “Anne!”
“I’m joking, dove,” Anne said. Nevertheless, she went to the window and peered out. “Look,” she said. “The sun is rising.”
The pale horizon became a golden seam and eventually the sun himself peeked up to reveal the leagues of gently rolling pasture, sprinkled with gnarled olive trees and slender cedars. In the middle distance, a gently meandering river clothed itself more verdantly in cypress and willow, and beyond that, the scenery faded into pale green, yellow, and finally sky.
“This place will do,” Anne said softly. “If I can see the horizon, I can bear anything.”
“We’ll test that now,” Austra said, holding one of the habits toward Anne.
“Well, there’s Princess Mule,” the girl with the long neck said as Anne and Austra entered the refectory.
Anne’s ears burned as the girls within earshot laughed, and a chatter went up in Vitellian.
“I seem to have earned a nickname,” she noticed.
The refectory was an airy place, its flat roof supported by slim, open arches on all sides. The tables were long, common, and rustic, and few empty seats greeted them. Anne chose the least populated bench and sat at an end across from a thickset young woman with a large jaw and close-set eyes. As Austra settled beside her, Anne noticed that the other girls had already been served bowls of porridge dressed with some sort of curd or fresh cheese.
The girls at the table glanced at her from the corners of their eyes, but no one spoke until several uncomfortable moments had passed, when the thickset girl, without looking up from her meal, said, speaking Virgenyan, “You have to serve yourself, you know. From the cauldron on the hearth.” She gestured, and Anne saw a cauldron tended by a pair of the dun-dressed girls.
“I’ll fetch ours, Anne,” Austra said quickly.
“They won’t allow that,” the girl said.
“Doesn’t she know anything?” another of the girls wondered aloud.
“You didn’t know when you arrived, Tursas,” the thick girl pointed out. Then, to Anne, she said, “You’d best hurry. Soon they’ll take the food to the goats.”
“What kind of place is this?” Anne whispered. “My father—”
“You’d best forget your station here,” the girl said. “Forget it, and quickly, or Mestra Secula will teach you to regret your stubbornness. You’ve already been foolish enough. Take my advice.”
“Rehta should know,” the other girl said. “Sister Mestra put her—”
“Hush, Tursas,” Rehta said sharply.
Anne considered ignoring the advice, but her belly added the final weight to the argument. Cheeks burning, feeling all of their eyes upon her, she went and fetched the porridge, ladling it into a stoneware bowl and procuring a spoon to eat it with. Austra joined her. Despite its consistency, the mush was surprisingly good. Anne washed it down with cold water and wished for bread. Halfway through her meal, she glanced back up at the girl identified as Rehta.
“Thanks for the advice,” she said.
“And so what happens now, I wonder?” Austra asked. “What do you do all day?”
“You’ll interview with the mestra,” Tursas said. “You’ll get your names, then you’ll be assigned studies and tasks.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Anne said sarcastically.
The other girls didn’t answer.
They met the mestra in a small, dark room with no windows and lit by a single oil lamp. The ancient sister regarded the girls from behind a small writing desk for a very long space before speaking. Then she looked down at the ledger before her.
“Austra Laesdauter. Henceforth, in this place, you shall be known as Sister Persondra. You, Anne Dare, shall be Sister Ivexa.”
“But that means—”
“In the language of the church it signifies a female calf, and denotes the behavior I desire from you—obedient and passive.”
“Stupid, you mean.”
The mestra focused her frightening gaze on Anne again. “Don’t think to make trouble here, Sister Ivexa,” she said quietly. “An education in the Abode of Graces is a rare privilege and a priceless opportunity. The lady Erren recommended you, and she is well thought of by me. When you disappoint me, I am dis
appointed in her, and to feel disappointment toward her is upsetting.”
“I endeavor to do my best,” Anne replied rigidly.
“You do nothing of the kind. You began your tenure here with an unseemly tantrum. I wish it to be your last. It may be that you will return to the world one day. If you do, your behavior must reflect well your time here or I and every other sister of this order and the very Lady of Darkness herself will bear your shame. If, after a time, I’m not assured that you will represent us well, I promise you—you shall not leave at all.”
Anne’s scalp prickled at that, and a sudden panic caught at the base of her throat. She suddenly felt very uncertain and very far from home, as she considered just how many ways Mestra Secula could make good on that promise. Already she could think of two, and neither seemed very promising.
CHAPTER SEVEN
GIFTS
STEPHEN AWOKE TO HIS BREATH, and agony that shot like flames from his lungs out to his fingers and toes, burning holes where his eyes ought to be and scorching hair from his head. His eyes flickered open to a terrifying light that poured nightmare colors into his skull and left them there to clot into shapes so terrible and fantastic that he shrieked at their very existence. He lay on the ground wailing, covering his eyes, until gradually the pain subsided, until he realized that it wasn’t pain at all, but a return from nothingness to normal sensation.
Nothingness. He had been nothing at all. He hadn’t even been dead. He’d been less and less and then—nothing.
Now he was back, and as he gradually grew more accustomed to feeling again, he saw that the terrible shapes were only the trees of the forest and the blue sky above it. The rasping across his skin was a gentle breeze swaying the fern fronds.
“My name,” he said shakily, “is Stephen Darige.” He sat up and brought his hands to his face, felt the shape of his bone beneath the skin, the stubble of beard on his chin, and began to weep. He drew breath and worshipped it.
A long time later he pulled himself to his feet with the aid of a nearby sapling. The bark was a luxury against his raw fingers, and he coughed out a laugh that sounded strange to his ears.
