Rescue (By Eyes Unseen Book One)

by F. E. Greene

  While she savored the dessert, Bonny pressed her for information. “So who did you meet today, and where did they take you?”

  As Pearl described the afternoon’s events, the outriders listened with interest. When she mentioned her trek through the forchard, every lad dropped his jaw – even those whose mouths contained food. Checking their dumbstruck faces, Pearl hoped she hadn’t said something wrong.

  West was the first to recover. “Varrick escorted you?”

  “Varrick Slone?” Bendan asked.

  “The king’s retriever?” Randel clarified. “Tall fellow. Scar. From Orld.”

  Pearl thought they might be mocking her. “Varrick doesn’t do that?”

  “Escort women? No,” Paxton assured her. “He tolerates Carys. And my mother. Most others he avoids.”

  “He avoids everyone,” Bonny said.

  “I don’t think he wanted to be there,” Pearl confessed. “I’m afraid I made him angry.”

  When West asked how, Pearl described her hesitation at the forchard’s entrance along with Varrick’s reaction.

  West offered a heartening smile. “I don’t mean to contradict you, Pearl, but Varrick wasn’t angry at you. He was confused. Little fears make no sense to him. That doesn’t make them less real for the rest of us.”

  “Carys didn’t scare you, did she?” Paxton asked. As Pearl shook her head, he looked skeptical. “The softer she talks, the more trouble you’re in.”

  “Don’t try lying to her,” Bendan advised.

  “Never state the obvious,” West added.

  “And when she goes totally silent?” Randel paused. “Run.”

  “I can’t believe you’re all afraid of Carys,” Bonny scoffed. “She reads poetry. She knows how to sew. But you lads act like she’s a clannlord from Ungott.”

  “Even one of them would run from her,” West said.

  The outriders laughed in agreement. When Bendan raised his mug of cider, so did the others. In unison they banged their free hands on the table and gulped down whatever remained.

  Bonny clutched her forehead. “Can’t you bugbears behave for once? This is why Owyn won’t let you sit together at common meals.”

  “And why we have to enjoy it when he does,” Paxton said. Then he stiffened, his grin fading. “Red sash, lads. Second at twelve paces.”

  All five outriders tensed. Hands vanished under the table. Shoulders opened, and faces blanked. The roll that started it all was nowhere to be seen.

  Carys wasn’t so formal. Arms clasped behind her back, she greeted Bonny and Pearl with a pleasant smile. Then her gold eyes narrowed as she judged the lads.

  “Everyone enjoy their supper?” she asked.

  Rigid as flint, the outriders nodded.

  “Get enough to eat?”

  They assured her in sparse grunts that they did.

  “Remember, we’ve changed to the autumn schedule. That means morning tacks in the lectory with Thadd. Please be on time.”

  “Even though Thaddeus won’t,” Bonny murmured.

  Carys seemed not to hear her. “Drills are with me on the mound at 14 bells.” She set a rock twice the size of her fist on the table and pivoted to leave.

  The outriders released a chorus of groans. Their postures wilted along with their moods.

  “I told you we’d get in trouble!” Calen fussed.

  “What about me?” Paxton asked. “I wasn’t even part of it.”

  “Well, lads.” Bendan stood. “If we’re going to own this penance, let’s make sure we’ve earned it.”

  His tone was wily and his eyes were alight as he lifted both arms, his hands clinched into fists. Pearl couldn’t resist giggling when the other lads’ anticipation grew tangible.

  Catching her eye, Bendan winked.

  “To the green!” he bellowed.

  Spinning, he bolted for the hall’s bronze doors. The rest of the outriders followed, rattling dishes and tipping stools in their rush to beat him to the exit. Children began pleading to be excused and with permission dashed after them.

  With elegant exhaustion Bonny surveyed the deserted table. “That wasn’t too painful, was it? Those lads may be a silly bunch of grapes, but they’d give their lives to save ours.”

  Pear sobered at the thought. “Would they really?”

  “They’re outriders. It’s their job.” Bonny fluttered a hand until she had Owyn’s attention. “Now it’s time for you to meet everyone else. Get ready to see a lot of faces and hear a lot of names. Though, no one expects you to remember them all.”

  Pearl watched the kingsfolk peel away from their tables. Forming a disorderly line, they mingled and conversed while waiting to greet her. “And what if I do?”

  “Then we’ll all be impressed.” Bonny gave her an artful look. “I think Paxton already is.”

  Ignoring the comment, Pearl stood and smoothed her skirt. No one was overdressed, not even the trium, and a few inkeepers nursed the rumpled look that lingers after a lengthy nap. Some did display sashes or vestments. Many wore unfamiliar fabrics dyed in indescribable colors. Like Carys, several women had opted for trousers.

  Greetings were equally diverse. Some pressed hands to chests while others raised branded palms. A few extended their arms in the forceful style of Orld, and Pearl did her best to remember to rest her forearm against theirs. No one seemed offended when she flubbed things.

  As conversations wore on, Pearl made herself pay attention. She repeated each name. She reflected every smile. Some wanted to share their life stories then and there, but Owyn stayed close, nudging onward any who loitered too long. Even after the very last welcome, Pearl still hoped to hear those tales.

  At Owyn’s request Bonny escorted Pearl as far as the keep. The lads roughhoused on the courtyard lawn. Older folks bunched at its edges. Along the way Bonny chattered about castle chores and rotations for setting tables, washing dishes, laundering sheets, and scrubbing the waterbox.

  Pearl heard little of it and remembered less, unable to think past the waning day. In a daze she navigated the forte and managed to climb the correct staircase without dropping her candlete. She stepped into the vacant salon, its curtain tied back, the bedpallets untouched.

  Although Pearl had woken up late, and left her room even later, she felt as if she’d lived five more years since that morning when she almost abandoned the castle to rescue a few Sterling heirlooms. As Castlevale’s campanile began to ring, its long peals muzzled by the keep’s dense walls, Pearl counted each one aloud. When the final chime faded, she sighed.

  Twenty.

  One day earlier she had trudged up Lake Trail Lane to meet Hieronymus Stentorian. He draped his family sash across her undeserving shoulder. She recalled his triumphant sneer, his possessive air, and his dismissive parents.

  Later, Hieronymus had threatened to forget her. Pearl hoped that he would. She never wanted to see him again.

  She would remember, of course – not only her losses but also her hopes. Regretting, not remembering, was what made her mournful, and Pearl could still hope to reunite with her parents but never at Hollycopse. The castle was her home now. No amount of hoping would change that.

  When she heard sounds in the stairwell, Pearl slipped into her room. She pushed the door closed, slumping against it while youthful voices flooded the salon, and Bonny called above the squall for the girls to calm down. Soon Pearl would contribute to the evening routine. This one night she retired alone.

  Crossing the room, Pearl set down the candlete. She doubted she had the strength to pull back the bedcovers, but she would need to do more than that. Someone, without asking, had entered her room and scattered objects across her bed.

  Annoyed, she checked the door for a bolt, then promptly regretted the impulse. Although the castle contained uncountable doors, none of them had locks – not even the armery.

  As she parted the bed’s lace curtains, Pearl’s regret changed to amazement. A wooden box compressed the center of the downy quilt. Fresh wax
made its panels reflective. Inscribed on its lid was a single name.

  STERLING

  Opening the box, Pearl saw everything familiar. Ancestral documents. Trinkets and scraps. Even her father’s spectles. Carved messages decorated the inner lid, all notions and discoveries which Alyn Sterling couldn’t risk mislaying.

  His journals ringed the box in neat, leaning stacks. Next to those, her mother’s sewing kit sat open, its fabric mouth lodged in a yawn. Like everything Maye Sterling managed, the contents were in perfect order.

  The pillow, too, was obscured by another parcel – one Pearl did not recognize. It was bundled in what the king had called tissue, but she guessed she should not wipe her nose with it. Dyed bright as a buttercup, the tissue was cinched with a strip of silver ribbon. Underneath its crisp bow was a note.

  To Pearl Sterling

  IT is always safer to face what is real than to take refuge in what is not IN this spirit I ask you to second our castle tender for the next three seasons IF you accept please consider wearing the enclosed so you might be identified by those needing your help

  YOURS forever I am

  the king

  From the tissue Pearl withdrew a purple sash. It was simple and silken with no appliqués or fringe. As Pearl slipped it over her head, she wished she could speak with the king directly, tell him how much she would love to stay. An odd afterthought blossomed that he might, somehow, know what she’d chosen to do.

  The tender’s sash fit her perfectly. While the Stentorian sash drooped too far past her waist, this one settled deftly against her left shoulder. Better still, it was Pearl’s to wear – or not.

  Removing it, she returned the sash to its tissue and tucked it into a wardrobe drawer. More than ready for bed, she picked up the sewing kit. Beneath it was one more gift.

  Her mother’s cherished pendant was coiled upon the bedspread. Although polished, it didn’t shine in the candlelight. Threadgold was rare – the earth’s last great treasure – and only sunshine brought the stone to full burnish. Otherwise it looked as plain as slate. While the pendant was the size of a raindrop, it weighed more than a horseshoe.

  Lifting it with both hands, Pearl touched the delicate S etched upon it. Her lips quivered as she raised the pendant to her neck and fastened its sturdy clasp. Even before they met, the king had been listening.

  Overcome with gratitude, Pearl dropped to her knees and rested her elbows on the bed. She pressed her forehead against her folded fingers. Then she wept as the weight of years and days, of wishing and defending her own grey world dissolved with each guttural sob. Grief sloughed like dry sand from her dusty being, replaced by the balm of relief.

  The king had promised he would always hear her.

  Believing, Pearl whispered her thanks.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  There were aspects of the castle Pearl hadn’t yet seen. Paxton Kenelworth knew them all.

  Throughout his lifetime he had explored every inch of the castle’s interior along with its walled outer grounds. He climbed each climbable tree and some that weren’t. He opened every door, even those he was told to keep closed. He knew the forchard better than any friend, and the abasement – what it hid, where it led – had become his perilous refuge.

  Only one temptation strained his patience. Always open, never locked, the castle’s main gate beckoned like a waving hand. Beyond it, a vast world flourished.

  But Pax served the king, and that meant staying put. For so long it was boredom that drove him to ignore expectations and rules that weren’t really rules – much to the dismay of those inkeepers who liked both. While the castle made everyone else feel safe, Paxton just felt trapped.

  One facet of the castle that he’d come to prize held no charm for anyone else. As a child Pax had stumbled upon it while avoiding another chore. How far back its construction dated, he couldn’t begin to guess. The castle seemed older than the dirt beneath it.

  But this secret feature, while not unique, frequently proved useful. Now Paxton crouched beside it, waiting for a sign that he should settle in. He knelt at the southern base of the apartments – what he might call their backside, if buildings had such things.

  “Well? Was it there? Did you get it?”

  His mother’s voice exploded like pyrophoric stone. On a calm day she could outclap thunder. Holding his breath, Paxton waited to catch a reply.

  “Wasn’t there.”

  That rumble belonged to Varrick who hadn’t attended the banquet and, unless injured, never remained in the castle after dark.

  Pax knew their voices along with their habits. Varrick should be patrolling. His mother should be straightening the infirmery. Neither spent their free time together. One of the trium had called a meeting, and that never happened without good cause.

  Unrolling a patch of canvas, Paxton sat at the crest of a grassy slope. The masons who built the castle apartments left weepholes between the anchor blocks where moisture could escape the mortared walls. Down those openings water gathered and flowed.

  So did sound. The holes coincided with each office, and when a meeting was called, the trium gathered in Jeron’s. Most of their words trickled easily down the weep.

  Like a snail preparing to scale the brace, Paxton flattened himself against the wall and listened.

  Owyn was lodging a zealous protest. “Books don’t grow legs and walk away. They might have done so Before, but we’re not hunting that sort of repository. This was a book, plain and simple. Completely unreadable to most humen, of course, but still a book!”

  Carys interrupted his bombast. “Was anything else missing?”

  “Hard to say,” Varrick replied. “It was chaos inside.”

  “We can’t go forward without the book.” Jeron’s voice held the slightest tension like his own frustration would rise if minds didn’t focus. “The book will lead us to the lamp and the map.”

  “And to more.”

  Silence. Everyone waited for Ilis to speak again.

  “Find the thief, and find the book.”

  “That’s no small order,” Owyn said. “Whoever took it could be towns away by now. If it reaches Biblius, we’ll never see it again. Some bookbadger will sell it for a fraction of its worth.”

  “So who’s the thief?” When Varrick’s harsh question was met with more silence, he pressed the point. “Is it that we don’t know, or we don’t want to say?”

  “Let’s not make assumptions,” Jeron cautioned.

  “But we can conclude a few things,” Carys said. “A common scaver wouldn’t steal books. A bookbadger would have emptied the library, not left so much treasure behind. A starving man would take food. A ragbagger would want clothes. A lover would hunt for sentiments. But our thief left with just one object – a book no one can read.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Jeron asked.

  “Where we began,” Varrick said.

  “Not entirely,” Derrie reminded him. “We have Pearl with us now.”

  “Lovely girl, isn’t she?” Owyn sounded proud, like he had a hand in her upbringing.

  At the bottom of the slope, grass crunched with warning. Staying close to the wall, Paxton wished himself invisible – a trick that never worked – until he recognized the approaching silhouette. It was the king who scaled the slope with ease.

  Relieved, Pax scooted over to make room on the canvas.

  “Heard anything good?” the king whispered as he sat down.

  His clothing reflected a contrast of purpose. Beneath a bulky traveling jacket that doubled his upper mass, the king wore a linen tunic and matching slacks, both crimson, with billowing cuffs. Dressed for celebration, something urgent had lured him away.

  “I’m not sure,” Paxton answered. “They’re grousing about a book no one can read.”

  “Oh yes – the caveatexte. It’s gone missing.”

  An instant before blurting his reply, Pax reminded himself to speak softly. Unlike water down a weephole, sound traveled in both direc
tions. “You know about it?”

  “I helped write it.”

  Paxton grinned, suspiciously, as he studied the king’s stoic face. “You’re the only one who ever says things like that. I never can tell if you’re pulling my leg.”

  It was the king’s turn to look puzzled. “Where did you learn that expression?”

  “From Owyn. Where else? He explained where it came from, but I stopped listening.”

  When the king laughed, so did Paxton. While the outriders were like brothers to him, his kinship with the king ran deeper. It was the only part of castle life that Pax couldn’t put into words, and somehow that lacking seemed right.

  Had anyone else caught him eavesdropping, a reprimand would follow. But the king seemed to understand what it meant to endure a limited life even though he frequently crossed the pale and often stayed away for days.

  “You weren’t at the banquet,” Paxton said. “I thought you might attend this one.”

  “I had hoped to, but I needed to visit a friend. I brought you something.” Reaching into a pocket, the king withdrew a pale disc that glowed faintly in the moonlight. “Souvenir,” he announced, resting it on Paxton’s open palm.

  The souvenir was lightweight and rigid. Five slits accented a snowflake-shaped imprint on its desiccated face. Flipping it over, Paxton found more symmetrical grooves.

  “This looks like one of Henny’s pancakes. I’m guessing I shouldn’t eat it?”

  The king laughed again. “No, although long ago some folks called it a sea biscuit. This is only a test. It was once a living creature. After it dies, the sea washes it ashore, and the sun bleaches its skeleton.” He reached into another pocket. “This is agarope. Once knotted, it won’t come undone.”

  Paxton accepted the plait of coarse threading. It weighed less than the sea biscuit and looked blacker than tar. Lifting the rope to his nose, he regretted it instantly.