Quatrain

by Sharon Shinn

  There was nothing much left to say and no energy to say it, anyway. Within a few minutes, Orlain and I had gotten ready for bed as best as we could—which meant we’d each taken a turn visiting the privy, we’d banked the fire, we’d pulled off our boots, and we’d arranged ourselves under our thin covers. Camping out in the wild, I had discovered, did not offer amenities such as nightshirts and pillows.

  “Sleep well, Princess,” Orlain said softly once we were settled in on opposite sides of the fire.

  I did not bother to answer.

  Exhausted though I was, I did not fall asleep right away. I couldn’t stop wondering what was happening back at the castle. It was true that six of the eight provinces had sent armies to help defend my father’s right to the throne, but spies had raced back three days ago to report that Dirkson’s army was even bigger than we had anticipated. He seemed to have conscripted every able-bodied man of Tregonia between the ages of fourteen and sixty-four to fight for his cause. Dirkson was old, nearly as old as my grandfather Matthew, but still vigorous enough to lead his own troops. Beside him, so our spies had said, rode the redheaded young man called Brandon. Born twenty years ago to a lady-in-waiting who had visited Castle Auburn in the company of Dirkson’s daughter Megan. Possibly Prince Bryan’s illegitimate son.

  There were still stories about the wild, wayward Prince Bryan, who had died so suddenly at the hands of an unknown assassin. My father had inherited the throne because he was Bryan’s cousin. While I was convinced that my father—who just radiated competence—was an admirable king, I couldn’t help thinking of Bryan as a tragic figure. I had spent some time studying the portraits of him that could be found in strategic places throughout the castle. If he was half as handsome as the artists had made him look, he must have been a swooningly beautiful man.

  His most distinctive feature, of course, was his red hair. And Dirkson of Tregonia had produced a claimant to the throne whose hair was a corresponding color. Although, as I had heard Grandfather Matthew say, “If every redheaded bastard born to the eight provinces is going to lay claim to the throne, we’ll be fighting battles for the next twenty years.”

  My father had responded, in a very wry voice, “The chances are good that Bryan could have sired every one of them, don’t you think? He very well could have bedded this young woman, since she came to the castle more than once in Megan of Tregonia’s train. The boy that Dirkson is promoting is the right age. He has the right look. He may very well be Bryan’s son.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Matthew had flatly replied. “There is a legitimate king on the throne, who has produced legitimate heirs. The Ouvrelet line continues. There is no throne open to this pretender.”

  I had to confess that, if it had not been my family that was under siege, I might have found the young pretender a glamorous figure. It was highly romantic to think of the true prince being sequestered in Tregonia all these years till he was old enough to ride out and claim his throne. As it was, however, I found it very easy to be immune to the charm of his situation. My brother, Keesen, only twelve years old, had looked so young and small and frightened when my mother kissed him three more times and then helped him into the coach that would carry him to safety. I might be the only one who knew that Keesen still had nightmares sometimes, for he would creep to my room whenever he was too afraid to sleep alone. I might be the only one who knew that he was not always the energetic, laughing, rambunctious boy who raced through the castle and upended platters in the kitchen and tore through the gardens, trailing havoc behind him. I had seen him cry as recently as a month ago, when one of the dogs had to be put down.

  I could not imagine how he would manage so far from home with no one he loved nearby. I could not imagine how he would get through the scary dreams if I was not nearby.

  I couldn’t believe my mother and father separated us. “But he’s so young,” I had said to my mother over and over. “Who will watch out for him?”

  “We will send a whole troop with him,” she said.

  “But who will take care of him?”

  “Your grandmother is very fond of him; you know that. Well, as fond as she is of anyone.”

  “Let me go with him.”

  She had put her arms around me and rested her smooth cheek against mine. “We can’t risk it,” she whispered. “We have to separate you. If the worst happens—if Dirkson finds your brother—we have to make sure one of you is safe—”

  “Then let him come with me to Alora,” I begged.

  She was silent for a moment. Then, “We can’t risk it,” she repeated on a sigh. “I am almost as afraid of sending you to Alora as I am of sending Keesen to Cotteswold. And yet I am certain that, whatever else happens to you there, you will at least survive.”

  “I won’t fall under the spell of the aliora,” I promised her.

  She kissed my cheek and pulled away. “Oh, yes, you will,” she said. “Everybody does. You have no idea how seductive the aliora are. And yet I think Jaxon and Rowena will keep you safe. I think they both understand how important it is that you come back to us.”

  The only aliora I had ever met was Jaxon’s wife, Rowena, and I had to admit that there was something mesmerizing about her. She looked human—almost—although thinner and somehow more ethereal. I would not have been surprised to learn her bones were made of cat-tails or sea glass, her skin from pressed rose petals. She did not seem to walk through the world so much as float through it; I had yet to see a footprint that her shoe had left behind. When she was nearby, it was impossible to be interested in anyone else’s conversation.

  If all the aliora were like Aunt Rowena, Alora would truly be an enticing place.

  Years and years ago, hunters caught and enslaved the aliora, selling them to aristocratic households for vast sums, but that practice had been stopped before I was born. Stories still persisted, however, that the aliora lured humans to Alora and never let them go home. The humans never wanted to go home—that’s what the stories said. Alora was a place of such richness, warmth, and enchantment that once a man crossed its hidden boundaries he was ensorcelled; he was content. He was never seen again.

  Jaxon was the only man who seemed to possess the knack of moving between worlds, and even he rarely emerged from that magical place. My mother and my aunt had devised a system of communicating with him by leaving messages in a cairn on one side of the Faelyn River. Now and then these messages would say Come visit us, and he would make his way to Castle Auburn or his old estates, where my aunt now lived. He never stayed for long. It was clear that the desire to return to Alora was like a gnawing hunger inside him, an urgent imperative that would not let him settle comfortably anywhere else. He was less restless when he was accompanied by Rowena, but only a little.

  No one else who had ever entered Alora had crossed the Faelyn River again.

  Oh, there were talismans you could use to try to keep yourself safe from the fascination of the aliora, and my mother had loaded me down with all of them. First and foremost, of course, was the application of a little gold. Metal of all kinds was anathema to the aliora, but gold was the worst. It burned their skin—it had actually been known to leave scars behind, as evidenced by two small marks on Aunt Rowena’s cheeks. If you wore gold on your person, an aliora would be afraid to touch you.

  So naturally, I was practically dripping in gold. I wore a bracelet on each wrist, narrow hoop earrings, and a wide, flat necklace. The necklace had been soldered on—at great risk to the skin on the back of my neck, may I say—because my mother had insisted.

  “I won’t take it off,” I told her at least a dozen times.

  “You think you won’t,” she said. “But I can guarantee you that you won’t be in Alora longer than a day before someone encourages you to remove your jewelry. I just want to make sure you can’t take all of it off.”

  She had also made up dozens of potions for me and poured them in tiny glass bottles stoppered with cork. “Drink one every day,” she told me. “Even
when you don’t want to. Promise me, Zara.”

  I had held up one of the little vials and shook it till the amber liquid inside frothed to bubbles. My mother had trained as a wisewoman when she was my age, and she still knew more about drugs and herbs than the castle apothecary. She didn’t flaunt this knowledge much, because people weren’t always comfortable thinking of the queen as some kind of roadside witch, but her skill had come in handy more than once when Keesen and I were ill.

  “What’s in it?” I asked, because she had taught me what medicines went into some of the very simplest potions.

  “Domestic spices, mostly,” she said. “Cinnamon, clove, and a touch of ginger. Things to make you remember what you love about home.”

  I eyed the little bottle, where the bubbles had already disappeared. “There’s more in here than spices,” I said.

  She smiled. “Well, I might have added one or two other herbs. Nothing to trouble you. But drink one every day.”

  I counted. There were thirty bottles. “What if I have drunk them all and I am still in Alora?” I asked.

  She looked very sober. “I will mix up another batch and send them to you. We will send news as often as we can.”

  “What if there is terrible news?” I whispered.

  She hugged me very tightly. “Then you must be very strong.”

  Is it any wonder I wept as we rode from Castle Auburn?

  Is it any wonder I cried myself to sleep?

  Two

  Morning slipped in among the eternal shadows of Faelyn Wood and knelt beside our fire, fanning it to fresh life. Or, no, I supposed that was Orlain feeding more sticks into the blaze and rattling the metal plates with unnecessary force.

  “I’m awake,” I snapped and pulled myself to a sitting position. You always think sleep is going to refresh you, but it is amazing how dreadful you feel when you wake up after lying on the ground all night. At least it was summer and the ground wasn’t stiff with ice. I told myself there was something to be grateful for, at least.

  “Freshen up,” Orlain said. “I’ll have breakfast ready in five minutes, and we can be on our way in twenty.”

  Fine with me. I didn’t want to linger anyway.

  In less than a half hour, we were back on the trail, leading our horses through the endless gloomy miles of Faelyn Wood. I can’t tell you how my heart lifted when I finally saw ahead of us a broad band of sunlight that signaled a break in the trees. I could also catch the rushing rumble of tumbling water, a sound that grew louder the closer we got to the edge of the forest.

  Orlain looked back at me with what passed for a smile. “Hear that? There’s a waterfall not too far from where we’re going to cross. I’d take you to see it, for it’s truly spectacular, but I think it’s better to get you to Alora as soon as possible.”

  I nodded and said, “I don’t even have the energy to demand that you take me there right now.”

  He laughed, and for a few moments we traveled on in good spirits. My mood quickly turned apprehensive, however, when I got my first glimpse of the Faelyn River. “It’s blue,” I said stupidly, staring at the swift water that leapt and jostled by with joyous abandon. “How can it be that color?”

  “They say that Alora is so close to the river that the current here is enchanted,” Orlain replied. “The water tastes the same, I know. But I always wonder if I’m drinking magic when I scoop some out and take a sip.”

  I looked doubtfully from the fresh blue river and back at Orlain. “Is it safe to drink?”

  He smiled. “It better be. We’re all out of water.”

  “But—”

  “Anyway, you silly girl, what do you think you’re going to be drinking the whole time you’re in Alora?”

  “Don’t call me silly,” I said.

  I could see the words hovering on his lips. Then don’t behave foolishly. But he didn’t say them. “Come on. Let’s fill our water bottles and then cross.”

  We knelt beside that strange sapphire river and filled all our containers, pausing to lap up a few mouthfuls from our cupped hands and splash water on our faces. The morning was already warm and the cool moisture felt heavenly. I could not resist skimming my heel through the water and covering Orlain with a light spray. He turned to me, laughing, but his eyes conveyed a warning.

  “Do that again and I’ll throw you in,” he threatened. “Don’t think I won’t just because your father’s king.”

  Impossible to resist such a challenge. This time I splashed him with one big gout of water. “You wouldn’t,” I said.

  Or started to say, since all I produced was a squeak as he scrambled to his feet, snatched me into his arms, and bounced into the racing water. I was shrieking and kicking and laughing and trying to get free and trying to cling to him as he waded deeper into the river. “Orlain! Orlain! Don’t you dare!” I cried. The water was up to his waist by now and both of us were drenched just from the spouts thrown up around his body. His grip loosened and he made one hard quarter turn as if to fling me from him, and I squealed and wrapped my arms even more securely around his neck. But he didn’t let me go. His hold tightened at the last minute and he charged forward onto the other bank, water streaming from both of us as he staggered up the incline. We were both breathless and laughing as he came to a halt, still holding me close to his chest.

  “I thought you were going to throw me into the river,” I said impudently.

  “I should have,” he said.

  “Maybe you have some respect for royalty after all.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Maybe you have some respect for me.”

  I expected that to elicit the same reply. I doubt it. But he just gazed down at me a moment without speaking. The laughter still illuminated his wide face, leaving it warm and open, but his smile had disappeared. For a moment I was struck by the thought that he was much handsomer than our uncle Roderick.

  “I wish you were staying in Alora, too,” I said in a low voice. “I’m a little afraid to be going by myself.”

  “I would,” he said, “but every sword is needed at the castle. You’ll be safe here.”

  I took a deep breath. “My mother is worried,” I said. “What if I fall under the spell of the aliora? What if I never want to come home?”

  “You’ll come home anyway,” he said. “I’ll come get you.”

  “What if they won’t let you into Alora?”

  “I’ll find my way.”

  “What if I tell you I won’t go back with you?”

  Now his smile returned, smaller, sweeter. “I’ll grab you and throw you over my shoulder and haul you out of the forest no matter how much you scream and kick.”

  “You said you’d throw me into the river, but you didn’t do that,” I pointed out.

  “That time I only threatened. This time I promise.”

  “And a promise is better than a threat?”

  “Always,” he said.

  “Then I believe you,” I said.

  I don’t know if he would have answered. I don’t know if he would have kissed me. I thought he might—he looked like he wanted to—and I was trying to make my expression as soulful as possible, so that he would realize a kiss would be welcome. But suddenly there was a shout from a distance and the sound of boots striding through the undergrowth.

  “Zara!” someone called out.

  Orlain dropped my feet none too gently to the ground. “Uncle Jaxon!” I cried as I spun around to see him.

  He was barreling out of the forest, a big man with wild dark hair and a full beard. His arms were already outstretched to hug me, so I ran toward him to be enfolded in a welcome embrace. Jaxon was a burly man; his hugs always had a lot of heft to them, and he was not above lifting a girl off her feet and squeezing her so tightly she couldn’t breathe.

  “Zara!” he exclaimed again, releasing me just enough so that he could peer down at me. “Lord, I can’t believe how much you look like your mother. Those dark eyes and those dark curls. And that expressio
n. Nothing but mischief in that girl from sunup till sundown.”

  I giggled because “mischief” wasn’t something I associated with my mother. At least, it wasn’t ever something she encouraged in me. Maybe she was strict with me because she remembered what she had been like at seventeen. “How did you know I was going to be here today?” I asked.

  “Your father has sent messages over the past couple of weeks,” Jaxon replied, pointing. I half turned to see the small stone cairn on this side of the river. “We weren’t sure when you’d arrive, but we’ve been watching for you.”

  “I’m to stay in Alora until it’s safe for me to come home,” I said.

  He nodded. “What’s the news back at the castle?”

  “Dirkson’s army was half a day away when we left two days ago,” I said, my flush of happiness quickly dying. “I don’t know what’s happened since.”

  “Well, I don’t have much interest in the affairs of men these days, but I remember Dirkson of Tregonia well enough to hope he does not succeed in this venture,” Jaxon replied. “And I would be loath to see any son of Bryan’s on the throne if the boy was half as stupid and willful as his father.”

  “Jaxon!” I exclaimed.

  My great-uncle shook his head. “He was a bad man.” He shrugged. “Dead now, and no reason to mourn.” He smiled again and patted me on the shoulder. “So! Are you ready to come to Alora to live? Rowena has your room all ready.”

  Orlain spoke for the first time. “Ready to come to Alora to visit,” he corrected.

  Jaxon laughed and turned his appraising look on my escort. “That’s what I meant,” he assured him. “You’re Roderick’s nephew, aren’t you? I think I’ve encountered you at Halsing Manor when I was visiting my niece.”

  “I am. You have.”

  Jaxon shook his hand and seemed far more pleased with Orlain than Orlain seemed with him. “Thank you for taking such good care of Zara on the trip here. We will watch out for her from now on.”