by Alison Baird
Ailia rose from the window seat and left the room.
She took her cloak from its nail in the front hall and opened the door. Pale wisps of fog drifted in, and the air outside was damp and chill, but it was a welcome change from the stuffy calefactory. She stood on the threshold, gazing out into the grayness. The paved drive seemed to wind away into nothingness: only the first few pairs of trees in the long avenue were visible, their dark boughs teared with trembling mist-drops.
Where could Lorelyn have gone? If only I’d been a friend to her! Ailia thought guiltily. She might have confided in me, told me her plans. I might even have talked her out of running away.
Ailia walked out across the sodden field until the curtain walls suddenly emerged before her, materializing out of the mist. Lorelyn had often retreated to the ruins when she was unhappy, finding temporary refuge within its empty chambers. It was quite possible that she was hiding here, in one of the hidden dungeons perhaps: waiting for the inevitable searches to end before striking out on her own. The castle ruins covered acres, so she would feel quite safe. Ailia walked on, picking her way carefully through stone passages and roofless guardrooms where creepers spread questing tendrils through glassless windows, covering outer and inner walls alike.
“Lorelyn! Lorelyn, are you there?” she called. “I won’t tell anyone you’re here, Lori—just answer me, please!” She held her breath, longing for a reply. There was a silence as the echo died—then an eerie, wailing cry.
She swung around in alarm, certain that the voice was Lorelyn’s and she was lying injured somewhere in the ruins. But in the next moment the voice was joined by several others in a wordless, inhuman chorus. Whatever can it be? wondered Ailia, trembling. It sounded like a conclave of witches, or like all the ghosts of the castle mourning together . . . Then she saw the small huddled shapes sitting beneath a broken arch a few paces away. As she stared at them, one of the tiny figures raised its head and uttered a high wavering cry. The others joined in, making a chorus.
It was only the feral cats that lived in the ruin! She thought she recognized old Ana’s gray cat among them, sitting in the center of the group. Relieved, she called to them, holding out her hand, but at the sound of her voice they slunk off into the mists, no doubt to continue their wild madrigals elsewhere. Ailia walked on.
There was no sign of Lorelyn anywhere. Doubt filled her, little poison-pangs of suspicion. What if those spiteful remarks of Lusina’s were true? Had Damion been lured away from the priesthood by his feelings for Lorelyn, and had they run off together? Ailia was desperate to believe it impossible, but . . . the more horrid something was, she thought miserably, the more likely it was to be the truth.
Horrid? You hypocrite! The simple fact is, you’re jealous. Admit it: you wish you were the one he’d eloped with.
“No,” she whispered in horror, as though speaking aloud would banish the taunting inner voice and the realization it brought her.
She was in love—she had accepted it at last; in love like Princess Liria, like all the heroines of the old stories. For a brief, exhilarating instant she understood the great romantic tales as never before, felt the joy and the yearning in them—and the heartbreak too. She tried to see her situation as tragic and romantic. But it was no use. The wound ran too deep, for once, to be salved with imaginings. “Oh, why didn’t you even try to talk to him?” she reproached herself in a whisper. “You might have made friends with him at least—had some happy memories to take away with you. But no—all you ever did was gawk at him, you ninny; and now he’s gone, gone forever!” She paused, then added another “Forever,” torturing herself. The ancient walls threw the word back at her.
She gazed at them, despondent: monuments to a bygone age, every stone steeped in antiquity. Going up to one, she touched its cold rough surface with her fingertips; then laid her cheek against it. This wall was also a bridge, she thought: a bridge through time, spanning a gulf of centuries. On the far side of that time-gulf were the people who had long ago occupied this castle and—she saw in a sudden flash of understanding—had been as real and alive as she. In her mind’s vision she saw them, not as stiff stylized figures in illuminated texts, but as human beings: lords and ladies in their fine attire, knights and monks, humble servants. Had King Andarion paced those battlements, his brow furrowed and weighted with the responsibilities of his reign? And his son, the unhappy and traitorous Prince Morlyn—might he have paused once, wrapped in dark thoughts, upon the very patch of pavement where she now stood? By coming to this place she had become one with them all, was incorporated with them into the great flowing stream that was Haldarion in all its long ages of existence. How many had lived out their lives within these walls, felt love and longing, seen wars and plagues and famines come and go? What was her own misery compared to the sum of all their sufferings? A droplet in an ocean—a fleeting second in an eternity. How many more would come after her, to suffer and sorrow in their turn?
But this new perspective, instead of reducing her pain, only intensified it. She thought of Great Island now, plain and rustic and untroubled by the great turmoils of history, and her heart suddenly hungered for it. Her mother and aunt had visited her a few days ago, talking of sailing back to Great Island and their men now that winter was over and no war had come, and it was plain that they expected her to accompany them. She had been dismayed and unwilling then. But now the thought of leaving the Royal Academy could no longer sadden her, for what was the Academy with Damion gone—without the possibility of coming across him in hallway or library, or of glimpsing him at the lamplit window of his room? Ailia stood, fighting the lump in her throat. She would rejoin her family: go back to her home and village, to her little room with the porthole window. But what life would I have there? How would I live? I’d end up marrying someone I didn’t love, just out of necessity—for how could I love anyone after Damion? And it’s that or become an old maid, a burden on my relatives, a person for everyone else to pity. It did not bear thinking about. I might stay here and become a nun, join the Holy Sisters in the cloister. The nuns would let me study and write treatises, and teach the postulants. I would be too busy to feel lonely, and perhaps Jaim could visit me sometimes, when he’s here on shore leave. Again she sought to reassure herself. I never really wanted to fall in love: perhaps it’s just as well that when I did I chose someone I could never, ever have. Now I can reconcile myself to the thought of never marrying. But she felt a restlessness, as if something within her had stirred and come near to waking: something that must sleep now forever. She seemed to hear the gate of the convent clanging shut upon her, closing out the world, hemming her in, and she knew a brief sensation of panic. A woman with a true vocation, she knew, would not feel this way. She would go to the cloister as if to a loving embrace.
What was it Lorelyn had said? “I’m so tired of being locked away behind walls!”
The voice in her memory was yearning, forlorn. The girl had been so unhappy. Perhaps if Ailia had not held back, if she had really tried to be Lorelyn’s friend, none of this would have happened. Lorelyn would have stayed at the Academy, comforted by her friendship; she might even have become reconciled to life as a nun if she and Ailia could take the veil together. And perhaps Damion would still be here, too. It’s all my doing—I brought this on myself. She buried her face in her hands for a moment, rocking to and fro.
Then she raised her head and looked around the ruin, and called out, one more time, in the faint hope that she might yet hear a reply: “Lorelyn! Can you hear me? It’s Ailia, Lori. Please, please answer me!”
No answer. Ailia walked on through the rubble.
Inside one of the ruinous watchtowers she paused, looking about her. In the vine-hung wall to her right she now noticed an opening, one she could have sworn had not been there before: a little low doorway giving onto a passage whose stone ceiling slanted downward into darkness. The thick ivy curtained it, and so, she assumed, she must always have overlooked it; yet now it was perf
ectly plain to be seen, as though it had appeared by magic. As she stared, wondering where it led and whether it would be safe to go in, a sound of footsteps came from within its dark mouth. Someone was coming up a flight of steps inside.
“Lorelyn!” The footsteps paused, then began to climb again, more quickly. Relief filled her. “Oh, Lorelyn—thank goodness! I knew you were here—”
But when the figure appeared, it was not Lorelyn but a tall monk, clad in a black robe with the cowl drawn over his face. He stooped under the low lintel and walked out into the open, straightening to his full height.
Ailia stared at him in confusion. The Brothers of Saint Athariel all wore pale gray habits. Whoever could this man be? Even as she thought this the fantastic answer came, in Belina’s high fretful voice: “He wears the robes of a monk, with the hood up hiding his face.” No, ridiculous! But, as long, white, thin-fingered hands emerged from the sleeves and began to draw back the cowl, Ailia’s imagination told her that that death’s-hood would reveal some ghoulish, supernatural horror. She watched in a kind of fascination, unable to speak or stir.
So it was with a shock of surprise that she saw that the face beneath the hood was human—and beautiful as well. Loyalty would not let her admit that he was as handsome as Damion, but he was undeniably comely. His face was lean and narrow-featured, its eyes set somewhat aslant beneath dark, well-marked brows, the nose almost aquiline and the cheekbones high. His complexion was unnaturally white, the color of skin that seldom sees the sun. But the hair that fell in long loose waves to his shoulders was a rich vibrant hue: gold with a touch of red in it, like a lion’s mane. So relieved was she to find he was a man and not a specter that she did not stop to think that this made him rather more dangerous.
“You must be either extraordinarily brave or most uncommonly foolish,” the man said. His voice too was beautiful, deep and resonant.
“I beg your pardon?” she stammered.
“I recognize you. I saw you with old Ana, the night of the fair. You are one of hers, aren’t you? Did she send you here?”
“Send me?” she repeated, backing away. “I don’t understand. I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
The man raised an eloquent eyebrow. “Oh, you haven’t, have you?” His eyes narrowed, and he took another step toward her. Too late, she now realized her danger: she was alone in the wild ruin with a sinister stranger, and no one was near her to call on for help. The man was furious, for some reason she could not fathom: his eyes held a cold and savage light. There was something wrong with those eyes . . . As he approached her she saw them more clearly, and her blood seemed to freeze in her veins. They were unlike any eyes that she had ever seen in a human face. They were not blue or gray, green or brown; they were yellow, a clear pale gold like the eyes of a wild animal. And the pupils were not round but slit, cleaving the irises vertically like the pupils of a cat.
Ailia could not cry out, could not stir a limb; as in a nightmare, she could only stand and watch helplessly. There was a roaring in her ears, and a seething grayness swam before her eyes. She collapsed, enfolded in a soft smothering darkness, and knew nothing more.
DAMION WANDERED THROUGH endless, winding tunnels, far down in the bowels of the earth. Through vast chambers he went, each one larger than the last: immense spaces whose far corners no light could reach, steeped in never-ending night. Stone archways yawned before him, black as the mouths of mines. Something about these deep silent places of the earth filled him with dread, a feeling that had nothing to do with prosaic fears of becoming lost or injured. There was no end to it, no sign of daylight—only chamber after chamber after chamber, stretching on into infinity. His footsteps raised forlorn echoes from distant walls. He stopped in despair. But though he stood motionless, the echoes continued—ghostly footfalls. The sounds were not coming from his own feet after all. He whirled, and saw in the darkness behind him two glowing eyes.
“Who are you?” he cried, and the reply came in a rasping whisper that woke more echoes from the unseen walls: “Mandrake . . . Mandrake.”
Damion woke with a start.
He had nodded off from sheer exhaustion, lying on the cave floor; in the total darkness he did not know at first where he was. Then he felt the hard clammy stone beneath him, the pain in his shin and the ache at the back of his head, and he remembered. Had hours passed while he drowsed, or mere minutes? And was it only his imagination, or did he still hear footsteps? With an effort he sat up, chilled and shivering. And it was then that he saw the light.
At first, with a leap of the heart, he thought it was daylight, seeping in through some far-off chink in the rock walls. Then he saw that it was in motion: the yellow glow of a candle. As it progressed through the darkness another light sprang up beneath it. A reflection. There must be an underground lake or pool nearby. Someone, still invisible in the darkness, was walking along its opposite shore.
He rose and walked forward, drawn to the light like a mesmerized animal, until he stood on the edge of a large body of water. He could just make out the line of the shore from the candle’s glow, and followed it around to the other side—the light all the while glowing like a beacon before him. Everywhere it went, beauty sprang to meet it. From out of the darkness appeared graceful fluted columns, chandeliers of glittering crystal, strange draperies that hung in rich, patterned folds dyed in soft hues, greens and blues and rose-reds.
The sound of footsteps ceased; the light paused. “Who is it? Who’s there?” called a woman’s voice.
He hesitated, uncertain whether to risk calling out: this must be another of the Modrian-worshippers. But the light darted toward him, quick as a firefly. “There is someone there—I know there is! Show yourself!” cried the voice. It sounded familiar.
He stepped forward into the light, saw that the light-bearer was a tall young woman dressed in white, her braids of fair hair hanging to her knees. A bag or satchel of some kind was slung over her left shoulder, and in her right hand was a candle in a brass holder. “Lorelyn!” he cried. “Is that you? Where in the Seven Heavens are we?”
“Damion—Father Damion!” she gasped.
She set down the candle so hurriedly that it fell over and nearly went out. Rushing toward him, she seized him by the arms.
“I can’t believe it’s you!” she exclaimed. “How did you find me? Did you come to look for me?”
“No, they’ve been holding me prisoner too,” he replied. “The Modrian followers—they threw me down into this cave.” He glanced around him in wonderment.
“It all looks so strange—I felt as though I’d wandered into a sort of faerie-land.” A slight tremor went through her.
He reached out and touched a fold of the hanging drapery above them: it was made not of cloth, but of a stone as hard as marble, tinted in delicate shades of rose and pale green. A drop of water splashed onto his hand; looking up, he saw a fringe of what appeared to be icicles on the ceiling above him, droplets welling from their points. “It’s beautiful,” he breathed, reaching up to touch one of the icicles. It, like the curtain, was opaque and made of solid stone. On the rock floor beneath, little conical shapes jutted upward, as though built up over time by the falling drops. Some had met the ceiling formations, creating slender columns. “It looks as though it all formed naturally, by water dripping down over rock.” How long, he pondered, had it taken for the trickling moisture to contrive these wondrous shapes out of the slowly yielding stone? Centuries, perhaps even eons?
Lorelyn interrupted his thoughts, her voice urgent. “I haven’t been able to find a way out, anywhere. He wouldn’t have left the door unlocked, of course, if there’d been a way to escape.”
“He?” Damion turned. “Who’s he? And what door do you mean? Didn’t they throw you down the hole too?”
“What hole? I got in here through a doorway.”
He took her by the arm. “We’d better start from the beginning, Lorelyn. What happened to you?”
She l
ooked at her feet. “I ran away from the convent when the others were in town, at the fair. I knew I could never be a nun, and I couldn’t go on taking charity from the Sisters. It just didn’t feel right.”
“You might have come to me.”
“I thought, being a priest, you’d be bound to agree with Reverend Mother. And then there were the monks’ friends, Ana and her crowd: but if I joined them I might have to hide in the tunnels as they do, and I couldn’t stand that either. I wanted to get right away—make a new start. I thought I might even travel and find out who my parents were, where they came from.”
He could find nothing to say to that: it struck too strong a chord within his own mind. She went on: “But I hadn’t gone far when I heard a rider coming up behind me on the road. He wore armor like a knight. And his eyes—do you remember that man, or whatever he was, in the chapel that night?” She shuddered.
“Go on,” he prompted gently.
“I tried to run, but he—it rode after me, and I felt a hand reach down and grab me, and then there was something over my mouth that had a sickly sort of smell, and I think I fainted. I woke up later in a room I’ve never seen before, and he was there. At least, he was there but he wasn’t there. It was just his voice.”
“You mean he hid in the room somewhere?”
“No—his voice was in my head. Like those other voices I’ve heard before, only his was so much clearer: I could hear every word. He told me he would come to see me soon. I said I planned to escape, and he just laughed and then he wasn’t there anymore. I found a hallway outside, and lots of doors, but some were locked and none of them led outside. Then I felt hungry, so I went back to the room, and ate some of the food he’d left for me there, and after that I felt tired so I lay down again. I fell asleep; and when I woke again Mandrake was there.”
