Even if she couldn’t sense the Power emanating from her, the bright yellow of the woman’s hair and her air of command told Zazar plainly that this was Gunnora the Golden. She had a silken robe clutched around her, and held a hollow silvery rod of a type that Zazar remembered, with another cold chill, seeing before.
“What are you doing up?” Gunnora demanded.
“Are you the only one who can’t sleep every now and then?” Askepott said. “I woke up and came in here, where it’s warm. Would you like some tea? It might help you get back to sleep.”
“I felt something. Well, not felt exactly so much as smelled something. It seemed to come from here.”
Askepott laughed shortly. “You were dreaming. Here, this is what you smelled. Have a pasty. It’ll make your dreams sweeter.”
With a start, Zazar realized she had left her half-eaten pasty behind on the wooden platter. Perhaps Askepott’s quick wit would cover the lapse.
“It wasn’t a meat pasty I smelled. But never mind.” Gunnora turned, as if to return from where she had come, and paused. “If you’re lying, I’ll have it out of you sooner or later.”
“You see old Steinvor Askepott having a cup of tea and a little something to eat in the middle of the night,” Askepott said flatly. “Where’s the lie in that?”
Gunnora made no answer, but left the kitchen. Askepott arose from the table and tiptoed softly to the door from where she had entered, listening. When she was satisfied, she released Zazar from the cupboard and they returned to the table. Then she poured out Zazar’s cup of tea, dropped a few crushed leaves into the pot, and filled it with hot water. When the leaves had steeped a few minutes, she refilled both cups with the brew. She and Zazar took a swallow.
“Should have thought of this in the first place.” Askepott’s voice seemed to come from a distance. “Gunnora sleeps, if she sleeps, with one eye open. But even she can’t hear us now.”
“What was that thing she was holding?”
“An artifact she brought back with her from the ice palace. It was, she said, a souvenir of her childhood, a silvery rod that looks hollow. It’s supposed to be a weapon, I think, though nobody knows how to use it. Gunnora keeps it in her jewel box.” Askepott laughed a little. “It seems to be a favorite place for ladies to keep things they do not fully understand.”
“I cannot stay as long as I would have liked,” Zazar said.
“No. And I am sorry for that.”
“Well, no matter. We have filled in some pieces of an old puzzle, however, and between us we’ll fill in more. Here is a fresh package of herbs of Transport that will take you to my tower room at Cyornas Castle. I’ve said the words over them. There’s enough, I think, for two more good visits. All we need to do is set a time.”
“At the full moon,” Askepott said. “That will give me time to put Gunnora’s suspicions to rest.”
“The full moon, then.” Zazar pursed her lips and whistled a low note. Weyse came scampering into the room and climbed up into Zazar’s lap. Without hesitation she reached for the discarded pasty. “Oh, you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” Zazar told the little creature. “If you must, bring it along with you.”
“Until next time,” Askepott said.
“Yes. Until next time.”
Zazar hurried back to the closet and stepped into the fire ring that still blazed there, ankle-high. Askepott made a sign with her fingers and the fire shot up into the familiar swirl. Zazar closed her eyes and when she opened them again she was in her tower room once more.
Zazar shivered, seized with a chill that no fire or blanket could warm. She had no proof, of course, but her strong feeling was that Gunnora, daughter of Flavielle, was, if not the physical then definitely the spiritual daughter of the Great Foulness of too recent memory.
Fourteen
In Iselin, Princess Elin was finding the thought of ruling to be more agreeable than actually having to do it. Every night, the same boring faces at the dinner table, and every night the fool, Tinka-Lillfot, with her entertainment. At least, she did not ridicule Elin again; perhaps someone had informed her that her efforts had caused anger, not amusement.
Of course, old Lackel and the Seneschal Harald helped in the day-to-day matters inside the manor. Gustav actually ran things in the duchy, with Caspar and Isak, so there was little left for her to do save put her name on a paper now and then.
She let her embroidery cool in her lap while she gazed out the window at the falling snow. Don’t worry your young head; you just enjoy yourself. She had heard that so often that she now wanted, very much, to throw something at the next person who said it. Yes, she wanted to enjoy herself—and would, if these stodgy old men would get out of her way—but she wanted also to savor real power. She wanted to get a taste of what she would be doing once she received Iselin permanently, and nobody was the least bit willing for her to do it, or so it seemed.
In a way, she almost envied Mikkel. The details of his misadventure were widely known, even here in Iselin. Through no fault of his own, other than sheer stupidity, he had been whisked off to a Wykenig stronghold where he had to be an honored guest. He was probably living a life of ease, feasting every night. Waited on hand and foot. Perhaps, she thought, he would even decide to take the Wykenig stronghold for his own, with Father’s help, of course. That would surely be a sound political move. Better to turn your opponent into an ally than let him become your open enemy, according to Granddam Ysa. Who, she wondered, would be the Nordorn emissary to the Wykenigs?
One of the ladies, Cataya, cleared her throat meaningfully. She had not been specifically assigned to her, but had joined the others at their stitching. Elin took up her hated embroidery once more. It was to be a panel of a wall hanging, with a flower garden worked in wool thread. She had started it willingly enough, but now was incredibly bored with it. There were too many stupid snow roses to count, let alone stitch. Maybe she could lay it aside and work on something easier.
She arose from her chair, and her ladies all leaped to their feet as well. “Do not alarm yourselves,” Elin said. “I just feel a need to walk awhile, and perhaps even visit Mattis. I’ve not been there in almost a week. Too much sitting makes one logy.”
“Yes, Madame,” they said, almost in unison.
“Would you be wanting someone to accompany you to the Fane room?” Lady Brithania inquired.
“I know the way. Be patient, and I will return anon.”
With scarcely disguised relief, Elin let herself out of the cozy, overheated room and into a chilly corridor, remembering too late that she had left her shawl behind. The cold had the effect of revitalizing her instantly, if uncomfortably. She hurried in the direction of the Fane room where there would be some heat, at least.
She found the priest sitting by a window, reading. He laid his book aside.
“Come in, Your Highness!” he said. “Will you sit? Shall I ring for some warm wine or cakes perhaps?”
“A little warm wine would be nice,” Elin said. She summoned her dimpled smile. “My ladies are too careful of me to let me get warm inside as well as out.”
“Well, not too much, then.”
Mattis bustled about, found another chair, and poked up the coals in the firepot, adding more wood. “Have you a—a spiritual matter you wished to discuss with me?” he asked delicately.
“Oh, no, not really. It’s just that I was very bored and tired of my ladies’ company. Actually,” she added, as a thought struck her, “I was looking for something to read. I understand that my granddam, the Duchess, has many interesting books.”
“So she does. Iselin has the finest library between Cyornasberg and Rendelsham.”
“Then could I borrow a book? Or two?”
“The library is Your Highness’s to read as she will,” Mattis said, bowing. “Is there a particular subject you would like to read on?”
“Oh, no,” Elin replied as guilelessly as possible. “Let me look through the volumes and see what catches my fancy.”
/> “This way, then,” Mattis said.
He opened a door leading to another, bigger chamber off the Fane room, and stood back to allow Elin to enter ahead of him.
She breathed in the smells of old paper, glue, ink, gilt, and something else—she could not recognize it. The library was as cold as the corridors and she shivered a little.
“Shall I bring the firepot in here?” Mattis asked. “We do not keep this room warm because of the danger to the books.”
“Oh, I’m quite all right,” she assured him. “I’ll be quick about it. Thank you.”
He hesitated, but took the hint. “If you need me, I’ll be just outside.”
“Thank you again.”
The door closed behind him, though he did not latch it. That was all right; Elin would make this errand a short one. She immediately began to search through the shelves lining the room. The ones set up in the middle of the room she glanced at, but did not pause to examine closely. What she sought would be found in an inconspicuous place, or she missed her guess.
And there they were. Almost an entire shelf, devoted to magic and the making of magic. Quickly, she read through the titles and selected three more or less at random. She didn’t really know what she was looking for, other than that she would recognize it when she came across it.
She placed another book, filled with poems, on top of the other volumes and tapped on the door. Mattis opened it immediately.
“Did Your Highness find what you sought?” he inquired.
“Perhaps. I think I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon in my room, reading. I’ll be sure to bring these back when I’ve finished.”
She left him still bowing, and hurried off to her apartment where she dismissed her ladies with their infernal needlework.
“Tomorrow, I will stitch twice as much,” she said. “Today, I want solitude until dinnertime.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Lady Brithania said. She swept a deep curtsy, closely followed by the other ladies. “If you want anything, you have but to touch the bell.”
When they had left, Elin settled down in a chair and put her feet up. She opened one of the books on magic at random, and began to read where the pages fell open of their own accord. It was a ritual designed to create a little flying creature that would act as eyes and ears for the one who created it. Useful, but not practical, she decided. She turned the page and read on.
Askepott took Mikkel aside. “You must know that your kitte is maturing,” she told him. “The time is very close, if it hasn’t arrived already, when you must let him go.”
“No!” Mikkel protested.
“Yes. It’s nothing you have done; it’s just the way of the krigpus. They mate for life. He must seek a female of his own kind.”
Mikkel stared at her, trying to find a way to refute her words. But he could not. The warkats at Cyornas Castle—Keltin and Bitta, Rajesh and Finola—were, as she said, mated for life. But to give up his friend? It was too much to ask.
“I can’t do it.”
“You can, and you must.” She handed Mikkel a mug of tea, her sovereign cure for what ailed anyone. “He will not desert you. When it is time, he will return, with his mate, and then you will have two krigpus. Not many can boast of even one.”
“When must I do this?”
“When the weather eases a bit. Look you. You will not be turning a helpless creature out to fend for himself. He is perfectly capable of taking care of himself and his mate, too. Have faith in your friend.”
Mikkel regarded the old Wysen-wyf through a haze of tears. Impatiently, he dashed them away. He was far too old for such things. His voice had changed, and the hairs on his chin were growing more numerous, it seemed, with every passing day.
“Do you promise that it is a needful thing?”
“I do so promise. Your kitte has stayed with you longer than he would have with his mam out in the wild. He loves you just as you love him. This will not change, that I vow.”
Mikkel swallowed hard. “How soon must I do this?”
“As I said, when the weather has let up a little. Maybe a week, maybe longer. But no more than that. You have a few days. I’ll let some of your chores go, so you can spend more time with him.”
Mikkel nodded, unable to speak.
The word spread quickly among the other younkers.
“I’m sorry, Mikkel,” Haldon said. She put her hand on his shoulder. “He’s so nice. I’ll miss him.”
“I think we all will,” Lucas said.
The other younkers nodded, except for Petra. Her face, with its silvery tattoos, was expressionless. She reached for Mikkel’s other hand.
“When you go to set him free, let me go with you,” she said quietly.
“That would be very kind of you,” Mikkel told her.
That evening, all the children made much over Talkin, giving him extra treats and tidbits saved back from their dinners. The warkat, either not knowing or not caring that he would shortly be granted his freedom, greedily ate everything he was given and searched for more.
“That’s it, that’s all I have,” Willin protested, laughing, as Talkin nudged him so hard he fell over. The warkat then shoved him halfway across the room with his nose, butting and rolling him, apparently enjoying this new game. When he began taking Willin’s tunic in his teeth and pulling so hard the fabric threatened to tear, Mikkel stepped in and stopped it.
“You have been my true friend for a long, long time,” he told the warkat, cupping his face between his hands. “And, I hope that you’ll be my true friend again.” He looked up at Petra. “Yes, thank you, I would appreciate it if you went with me. Maybe it won’t be so hard, if somebody else is there.”
“When will we go?”
“Askepott said the first clear day.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Askepott will have your hide for shirking your tasks,” Haldon observed. “And if not her, then Gunnora.”
“No, they won’t,” Petra said. “This is much more important.”
That night, all the younkers vied in coaxing Talkin to sleep cuddled up with them. Obligingly, he moved from bed to bed, ending up, as usual, with Mikkel. He hugged the warkat as tightly as he dared, dreading what was sure to come.
For three days, the skies were heavy with clouds, and the air full of light snow. But on the fourth, the day dawned bright and fair, and at breakfast, Askepott glanced meaningfully at Mikkel.
“Yes,” she told him, and he could not pretend to misunderstand her meaning.
“Yes,” he replied.
All the younkers looked at him sadly. Petra slipped away from the table and vanished, meeting Mikkel outside as he tightened the wolvine-furred hood of his tunic.
“Where did you go?” he asked.
“I had something to take care of,” she replied. “We might as well get started.”
The two left the compound, with Talkin bounding ahead of them and then doubling back as if to show how much he loved being outdoors even if it were in the company of clumsy children, and headed toward the line of dark trees topping the hill behind the walled village.
“Do you have any idea where you’re going?” Mikkel asked.
“Yes. Over that way.” She pointed to a spot higher up and to the right.
“What’s there?”
“You’ll see.”
And that was all he could get out of her until they were deep into the forest and had reached a glade where the tops of the trees nearly met overhead.
Talkin stopped, ears pricked forward, listening. From a distance came a low cry, like and unlike a cat. Talkin took a step forward, then looked back at Mikkel.
“It’s a female krigpus seeking a mate, just like Talkin,” Petra told him.
Mikkel went down on his knees, his arms around Talkin. “Yes, you must go now and be a real warkat. But remember, you’ll always be my friend, and if you ever want to come back, I’ll be so glad to see you.” Tears were running down his cheeks, and he wiped them on Tal
kin’s soft, thick fur. “Now, go.”
He got up. Talkin took a step forward, stopped, turned back to look at Mikkel one last time. Then he turned again, and began to trot in the direction of the cry. The trot became a gallop and, in a twinkling, the warkat had disappeared from sight.
“He’ll be all right,” Petra said. “There isn’t anything in these woods that is a danger to a krigpus. He’ll be a king wherever he goes.”
“Thank you.”
“Now,” Petra continued, “you must do something for me.”
“What?”
“You must help me get back to my home.”
“What? How can I do that?”
“Well, first, take this thing off me.” Petra loosened her hood and pulled her hair off her neck.
For the first time, Mikkel saw that the iron torque she wore was wrapped in cloth.
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t expect you to. Just take it off. Don’t let the iron touch my skin.”
Gingerly, he freed enough of the hinge so he could pull out the pin that held it in place. Then he slipped it off her neck. Despite the wrappings, the skin under the torque was chaffed and red, as if scorched.
“Now you,” Petra said. “The presence of iron hurts me, and you won’t be taking it with you anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re going with me to my home.”
Mikkel just stared at her. “What makes you think I’m going to run away from Holger’s village? That is my home!”
Petra lifted her arms, seeming to grow taller now that the torque had been removed. “What about the NordornLand?”
He shook his head. “I know nothing about any NordornLand.” He gestured in the direction from which they had come. “That is where I live. It is home.”
“Then how did you come to be there?”
“Oh,” Mikkel said, a little vaguely, “I was taken off a ship and brought back here. Holger adopted me.”
“And put you in with the other younkers? The castoffs? The strays?”
“He thought it would be good for me.”
“Your story makes no sense.”
The Knight of the Red Beard Page 20
