Summers at Castle Auburn

by Sharon Shinn

  Cressida dribbled fragrant salts into the water and tested the temperature with her slender fingers. Kneeling over the tub, all thin arms and folded legs, she looked like a shrub crouched over a streambed, wispy and fey and still. “She’ll stay for a while at least,” Cressida said in a soft, careful voice that seemed to screen back emotion. “She’s too young to go to a household on her own.”

  “Did someone want her?”

  “Oh, yes. Your uncle Jaxon had a dozen offers. But Andrew convinced him that she needed time.”

  “How much time?”

  Cressida shook another handful of crystals into the water and appeared to watch them dissolve. “Longer than Jaxon thinks,” she said on a sigh.

  I felt my heart squeeze in protest. “Is she—but she’ll be—I mean, in time, she’ll be fine, won’t she?”

  Cressida turned her head to gaze at me, a weight of sorrow in her face. I felt centuries of despair in that gaze, eons of longing. “She has been torn from her family and her life and will be sold into slavery,” the aliora said in a low voice. “Imagine yourself in her place and answer your own question.”

  Shock ran through me with a physical jolt; I felt my veins crisp and the hammering of my heart turn feeble. It was not as if I had not considered any of this before. It was just that Cressida, Andrew, the others had not seemed so wretched in their captivity.

  “But I—” I whispered. I shook my head. “I—”

  She nodded and returned her attention to the bath. “I know,” she said. “And it is not like you are free, either.”

  Freer than many others, I thought, and slid into the steaming tub. “I have some herbs that may help her,” I said to Cressida as she shampooed my hair. “Some callywort and stiffelbane. They will soothe her. If you think that would be a comfort.”

  “Callywort? Yes, it’s something we use in Alora all the time,” she replied. “I’m not familiar with stiffelbane.”

  “Very effective,” I murmured, hypnotized by the feel of her fingers on my scalp. “I’ll bring some up.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her hands in my hair were so careful, so gentle. How could she resist the urge to push me beneath the water and hold me under till I drowned? It was not fear of reprisals that kept me safe from her, I knew; she did not have violence in her. None of the aliora did. Their great personal grief was matched by their enormous capacity for love. If I was threatened, Cressida would try to save me; if I was ill, she would nurse me; if I died, she would mourn. I could not have summoned that kind of love for a captor.

  I did not understand her. Understand any of them.

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON, after I returned from my ride and before I dressed for dinner, I climbed the stairs to the top of the castle, and passed the golden key to enter the domain of the aliora. It was a busy time of day for them, for their mistresses and masters were all in the process of changing from daywear to evening dress. But Cressida was there, because Elisandra relied on Daria for this duty—and so was Andrew.

  “Where’s Bryan?” I asked Andrew as soon as I saw him. “Shouldn’t you be with him?”

  “He has not come back from the hunt yet. I’m watching.” The largest window in the garret looked out over the stables; Andrew would easily be able to mark the prince’s return.

  I hefted my satchel for them to see. “I’ve brought my medicines. Where is—What is her name? I haven’t heard it.”

  Andrew and Cressida exchanged quick glances. “We have not yet given her a name you can pronounce,” Andrew said.

  His eyes turned toward a bed across the room, which was the first time I noticed the young aliora, sleeping. She lay on top of a thin white sheet, and was so thin herself that she looked like a collection of kindling piled before the pillow. Her long brown hair was spread around her and fell to the floor in silken pools. Her skin was so white it seemed to melt into the weave of the sheets.

  “Call her Phyllery,” I said softly. Andrew looked puzzled, but Cressida gave me one quick, sharp look.

  “That’s not a name I know,” Andrew said.

  “It’s a plant,” Cressida said in a subdued voice. “It has some minor healing powers.”

  I went closer to the bed, drawn by the girl’s helpless, broken presence. “It has a rare, beautiful blossom that blooms for a day, then falls,” I said. “Anyone lucky enough to see it in the wild feels blessed for a lifetime.”

  “That seems fitting enough,” Andrew said.

  I stopped a foot away from the sleeping girl. Even by aliora standards, she looked fragile; the pale skin looked ready to dissolve away from the bones beneath. Her fingers looked too long for her hands. Her fabulous hair looked dusty and unused.

  “She hasn’t been eating, has she?” I asked abruptly.

  Cressida came to my side. “She tries. Food will not stay in her body.”

  “I don’t want her to starve,” I said.

  “Neither do I.”

  I watched her awhile longer, then abruptly turned on my heel. Seating myself on one of the empty beds, I opened my satchel and began pulling out packets. “Stiffelbane. It’ll calm her when she weeps in the night. Orklewood. It will soothe her stomach and help her retain her food. Callywort. It will help her sleep, but don’t give it to her unless she’s wakeful.”

  Cressida took the herbs from me without speaking, but Andrew said, “How do you know she weeps in the night?”

  I fastened my satchel and came to my feet. I felt older than my sister at this moment, older than my grandmother, older than the world. “I would,” I said.

  Cressida looked at the packets in her hand. “And are these safe to give her?” she asked. “We aliora are not formed as you are.”

  Andrew took a sample from Cressida’s hand. “I’ll try them myself first.”

  “That might be a good idea,” she said.

  I hesitated a moment, for I didn’t want to go; but I had no other business there, and it was hard to stay. “Let me know how she does,” I said at last, and left the room.

  That night I did not return, and for three nights running could not bring myself to steal up to the loft and spy on the aliora. It was left to Cressida to tell me—in her soft voice, keeping her emotions rigidly in check—that Phyllery had passed three straight peaceful nights and managed to eat every meal. I nodded solemnly, and we spoke no more about it.

  I did not charge for this healing service, but I felt even more professional at this success; and yet I could not say I was proud of myself, either. Better, perhaps, to have given her halen root—not just enough to ease her hurt heart, but enough to gently halt its frantic beating. Better, perhaps, to have let her quietly die.

  AS IT TURNED out, not a week later I was given a chance to use some of my halen root, though this time for its intended purpose: to ease pain. I hadn’t expected to face this particular professional crisis, either, and I was no happier with what I learned on that call.

  It was night again, the time this summer when all of the events of my life seemed to unfold. I was wandering through the servants’ quarters, usually the most silent part of the castle, when I caught the urgent, miserable sound of someone shrieking. My first instinct was to freeze where I stood. My second was to follow the sound of anguish as quickly as I could.

  The trail led me to a closed door far down in the servants’ wing, where the younger women had their quarters. This close, I could catch not only the intermittent wail of agony but the undertone of women’s voices gathered in discussion. I stood outside the door and listened, trying to determine who was inside and what the trouble was. I caught Giselda’s voice, sharp and certain, and a young girl’s reply. Then the screaming started again.

  I hesitated a moment, then pushed open the door and went in.

  A few quick seconds gave me the whole scenario: a pregnant young woman sprawled on the bed, sobbing and shouting; Giselda bent over her belly, checking for movement and progress; two other young servant girls nearby, boiling water and looking frightened. One was
Giselda’s apprentice, and she should have been more use than this, I thought with a flare of contempt. The other was a girl I did not recognize—a kitchen maid, perhaps.

  Giselda looked up sharply at my entrance. “Lady Coriel! What are you doing—!”

  I waved a hand to silence her. “I couldn’t sleep. And I heard sounds—this woman crying—”

  Giselda’s hand put light pressure on the girl’s body, and she screamed again. “The baby’s breech and I can’t turn him. I need to cut her open, but I can’t calm her enough. I tried to tie her down, but she’s already broken one cord. I may lose them both.”

  “Let me help,” I said. “I’ve attended a hundred birthings.”

  “If Lady Greta knew where you were—”

  “She won’t know. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I need to get my medicines.”

  Giselda protested again, but halfheartedly. Even she knew she could use assistance. I flew back to my room, snatched up my satchel, and ran down the hallways again. I was breathless as I skidded back into the servant’s room, where fresh howls of pain could be heard all the way down the hallway.

  “I have halen root,” I announced the instant I darted through the door. “Let’s start with that.”

  It was a wretched night for all of us gathered in that room—for the writhing, suffering girl; for the weary old apothecary; for the assistants; for me. I had, as I said, been to a hundred birthings, but none of them as bloody as this one. We kept feeding halen root to the mother, more and more of it because she showed no reaction, still sobbing and cursing with the same demented energy. And then, suddenly, between one cry and the next, she went limp and silent in the bed.

  “No—too much—oh, dear heaven—” Giselda muttered.

  “I’ve got ginyese,” I said briskly, already measuring it out. “I’ll revive her.”

  Eventually I found the proper mix of drugs while Giselda and her assistants labored over the woman’s distended body. The patient had finally grown quiet, childlike, giving out hiccuping little whimpers from time to time but no more of those bloodcurdling shrieks. Still, it was nearly dawn by the time Giselda delivered the child, a puny, angry, squalling boy covered with blood and mucus.

  “Quickly—the towels—” Giselda commanded, and her assistants cleaned the child while Giselda finished her business with the mother. I was aiding Giselda, so at first I had no attention to spare for the baby. Giselda had not forgotten him; while she tended the mother and wiped away the blood, she called out questions about his toes and fingers and the color of his skin. All the answers seemed to be satisfactory, and we could all tell by his unabated crying that his lungs, at least, were perfectly healthy.

  Once most of the mess was cleared away, Giselda went to the mother’s head and patted her sharply on the cheeks. “Tiatza! Can you hear me? Tiatza, you have a nice strong boy.”

  Tiatza? Where had I heard that name before?

  The mother did not answer, just moaned and turned her head aside from Giselda’s insistent hands. “Can you hear me, girl? A boy, and he looks fine and strong.”

  Tiatza said something incomprehensible, then burst into tears. “Not at all,” Giselda said calmly. “You’ll have to be a good girl now and do what you’re told.”

  Whatever that meant. I left Giselda to her ministrations and went to join the assistants, who were wrapping the newborn in lengths of white cotton. For the moment, he had ceased his wailing, so I thought I might be willing to hold him. “Can I see him?” I asked, peering over the unknown maid’s shoulder.

  “He’ll look like his daddy, this one,” she said, and handed the baby to me.

  At first, all I noticed was that his eyes were open, and that he appeared to be staring at something over my shoulder. The next thing I saw was that his head was covered with the finest, sleekest red curls I’d ever seen.

  “Look like his daddy—?” I said stupidly, automatically rocking the little form against my chest. “And who’s that?”

  Nobody answered me, though both the assistants gave me long, significant looks and even Giselda glanced over at me from the bedside. It was all coming together for me now. The red-haired boy, child of a red-haired man. Tiatza, about whom Elisandra had inquired on her first day back from Mellidon.

  In my arms I was holding the illegitimate son of the prince of Auburn.

  I STAYED IN Tiatza’s room another half an hour, helping Giselda clean her up and monitoring the drugs I had administered. Tiatza was sleeping now, exhausted by her labors and her screaming, but her breathing seemed normal and untroubled; I did not worry about the side effects of the halen root.

  “I can leave some behind, in case she is in pain later,” I offered to Giselda as I packed my satchel.

  The old woman shook her head. “I’ve got less tricky medicines to dose her with if she needs them. Thank you for your help, though. I don’t know how much longer we could have stood her shrieking.”

  “If you ever need me—”

  “Lady Greta would not be pleased to know you have been midwifing servant girls,” Giselda said firmly.

  I smiled. “Just let me know,” I finished.

  Eventually I was out of the close, fetid room, but even the quiet hallways did not seem open and clean enough for me. I hurried down the corridors, down the stairs, and out into the fresh, limitless night. The stars were receding into the face of oncoming dawn, but I judged there to be an hour or more before the sun edged above the horizon. I was exhausted, but too tense to sleep. I felt hot and filthy and sick and old.

  Hot and filthy I could do something about. I headed directly for the great fountain, murmuring with its constant waterfall, and paused only to take off my shoes and drop my satchel. Then I vaulted over the rim and straight into the cold bubbling water. I sank to my knees, then extended myself facedown, under the surface of the water. I wondered if I could float there forever, a water nymph, indistinguishable from the sprays of the fountain itself, quiet, calm, undisturbed.

  I surfaced noisily, gasping for air and spewing water everywhere, then I ducked below the surface again. The night air was so warm that even the chill of the water was not enough to cool my skin. I wished I had soap and brushes so I could scrub myself thoroughly, scrape away the top tainted layers of flesh and hollow out the bones themselves. Giselda had done more of the bloody work than I had; I could not understand why I felt so unclean.

  Twice more I came up for air, then settled into the water again. The fountain was so big that even its curve did not distort my body; I could lie in it almost supine. My hair drifted above me, curling and uncurling with its own wayward motion; my blouse and my skirts billowed about me where they had trapped air in their folds. If I could sink to the bottom of the fountain and find some handhold, a gargoyle’s face, perhaps, or an iron ring embedded into the stone, I could stay underwater forever, invisible and serene. . . .

  The next time I surfaced, Kent was standing beside the fountain, watching me.

  I gave a little shriek and fell clumsily back into the pouring spray before righting myself and trying to muster my dignity. In the graying light, his face looked serious and unsurprised.

  “I saw you come up twice before, so I knew you had not drowned,” he said in a solemn voice, “but this time I was beginning to wonder if you were willing to make the effort.”

  I put my hands up to my sopping hair and began to wring out the water. “What are you doing out here?” I asked.

  He lifted his eyebrows. “That’s a question I imagine might be more profitably directed at you,” he said politely.

  I flushed. “I often roam the castle grounds at night.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Who tells you such things?”

  He shrugged. “Servants. Guards. People who have seen you. It explains your morning absences—though nothing, as far as I know, has quite explained your midnight ramblings.”

  Now I was the one to shrug. “I grew accustomed to these hours last winter in the village. I’ve discove
red that some of the most interesting events occur when everyone else is asleep.”

  “For a while, I thought you might be slipping off to meet some ineligible suitor by moonlight,” he said in a level voice.

  I was instantly irritated. “And who might that lucky man be?”

  He smiled slightly. “But since you seem to have such a low opinion of men—”

  “Lower these days than most,” I said.

  He held out his hand as if to help me from the water. I hesitated, and he dropped his hand. “And why would that be?”

  I waded forward in the water and he extended his hand again. Carefully holding on to his fingers, I climbed from the fountain with as much grace as I could manage. This was not much, considering how the wet clothes dragged me back. Once I was free of the water, my blouse and skirts clung to my skin. I was suddenly embarrassed at how much of my body they revealed.

  “Are you cold?” Kent asked suddenly, releasing my hand as soon as I had found dry footing.

  “Oh—not really,” I said, but he stripped off his jacket anyway. It was a plain cotton garment, well-worn and a little small for him; it must be like my ragged gray dress that I wore most of the time around my grandmother’s cottage. I was grateful when he put it around my shoulders. It was kind of him to make the gesture. “Thank you.”

  He took my hand and proceeded to walk me, slowly and with complete unself-consciousness, around the perimeter of the fountain. “Why do you hate men more than usual these days?” he asked again.

  I sighed quietly. “I have just—by chance—attended the birth of Bryan’s son to some servant girl named Tiatza,” I said. “I believe you are familiar with her situation?”

  He peered at me in the dark. “A boy, you say? That is bad news.”

  “And why? Why any worse news than the birth of a girl?”

  He made an inconclusive gesture with his free hand. “Because bastard girls are not likely, when they are twenty years old, to try to win support for a bid for the throne. Bastard girls disappear to some country farmhouse with their mothers, or get married off to minor lordlings, or get raised by some priestess in Chillain. Bastard boys are much more troublesome.”