by Dylan Farrow
“I’ve traveled extensively across Montane, so I actually do.” Ravod talks over me, igniting the anger in my chest further. “You—”
I determinedly continue speaking over him in turn. “—all this way across unsafe terrain for an audience with anyone who will listen to me, and—”
“Very well, I concede. You’ve made your point.” Ravod raises his hand, cutting me off. He pauses, searching my face. “You’re a fierce one, aren’t you?” he says, although nothing in his countenance betrays that he found my comments moving. My skin prickles at his tone, and I glare at him.
“My point is that I wasn’t just in the neighborhood dropping by for tea,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
To my surprise, he smiles and laughs so softly, I almost don’t hear it.
“You’re funny too. I guess we’ll see how long that lasts.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask as Ravod begins walking away. I jog to catch up with him.
“Usually when we get a recruit with a sense of humor, one of two things happens,” Ravod says, his dark eyes fixed ahead of him as we continue through the cloister. “Either they break the habit, or they wind up dead.”
“Is that a threat?” The garden is starting to feel ghostly and gray in the falling dusk, and it finally hits me how cold it is this far up in the mountains. I wrap my arms around myself.
Ravod’s eyes flicker to me and away. “Not necessarily.” He adds, more quietly, “You must have shown some promise. Lord Cathal has a particular talent for sensing these things.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, frowning at Ravod who continues to stubbornly not meet my gaze.
“Curiosity. Another trait you should think about quickly eradicating,” Ravod states. We’ve reached a large, wrought-iron gate at the edge of the cloister. A pair of guards bow to Ravod and usher us through. “I will say only this, and I hope for your sake that you heed me this time.” Ravod nods as we pass. “Mind yourself around Cathal. Serve him. Obey him. But be very careful when speaking with him.”
“Why?” The question burns too hot not to ask, but Ravod shoots me a dark glare that says not to push my luck.
The gate deposits us into a flat, sprawling field, ringed on one side by High House and the other by the edge of the mountain. I’ve never seen cliffs like these—grand, massive, terrifying, deadly. Distantly, I hear the crash of the waterfalls, and it sounds to me now like the thundering of a thousand hooves.
Ravod keeps to a direct path, crossing the lawn toward the sound, toward that magnificent, horrifying edge. Beyond him, clouds billow and swirl in the darkening sky. Even this late in the day I see groups of Bards paired off in different areas, training. Some hone their martial skills with blades and crossbows; others march in tightly regimented formations. Some sit in quiet meditation. A fourth group is gathered attentively around an older Bard, who appears to be giving a lecture of some sort, but they are too far away to hear.
“These are the training grounds,” Ravod explains. “You’ll be spending most of your time here for the near future.”
I stand awed, taking it all in. The scent of mountain wind and freshly cut grass fills my lungs. When he says I will be training here, I am still struggling to believe it’s true. That I have the gift and have been recruited. It’s beyond what I could ever have imagined for my life, and as I stare at all these other Bards in training, I wonder if somehow this was my calling, the reason for all my suffering—to be led here. It’s a strange thought, and it comes with a mixture of hope and fear.
I can’t forget what drew me here. One of these Bards, right here on this field, one of these moving shadows against the coming darkness, could be my mother’s killer. Perhaps, though I hate the thought, it may even be Ravod. I barely contain my shiver.
“Your days will be regimented and scheduled according to what talents we see manifest in your evaluation,” Ravod is saying as I tune in to his words, “and, assuming you pass, your initial training. Each Bard has a place and a purpose, thus order is maintained both here at High House and throughout Montane.”
“What’s your place?” I ask, genuinely curious. The broad slope of his shoulders under his Bard’s cloak is rigid; he is so hard to read, the need to know what he is thinking is strangely consuming.
Maybe he’s hiding something.
Ravod glances at me with one eyebrow raised. “I see you’ve already decided to ignore my advice about being too curious,” he says.
“And you’re deflecting my question,” I counter. “I’ve seen you collecting tithes from my village and mentioning recruitment to Lord Cathal, so I’m going to hazard a guess that you’re some kind of envoy?”
Ravod barks a laugh, but the harshness of the sound is offset by the brilliance of his surprised smile. Two dimples appear on his cheeks. I feel red heat rise in the tips of my ears. A few of the nearby Bards glance at us curiously before returning to their duties.
“An envoy. Very well, let’s call it that.” Ravod’s amusement fades as if he’s embarrassed to have shown it. But the pleasure of it, like a quick burst of sun, leaves lasting warmth on my skin. I watch his dark eyes pass over the training grounds. “If you simply must know, Cathal honors me with the task of watching over the other Bards. I go wherever he needs me, to ensure order is maintained among us.”
“That sounds difficult,” I say. “If all the Bards know you report to Cathal about them, don’t you feel mistrusted?”
“Their trust is irrelevant,” Ravod replies. “They know their duty and I know mine.”
My brow furrows at the coldness in his voice.
I look around at the Bards on the training grounds. There is clearly a sort of camaraderie that exists. The off-duty Bards murmur with one another and laugh, but somehow there is the same impersonal air between them that Ravod is displaying. Thinking back to when I first saw him interact with his fellow Bards in Aster, it was the same then as well.
“This is the Bards’ Wing.” Ravod’s voice interrupts my reverie as we reach the other side of the training grounds and reenter the castle. Metal braziers light the area inside, and the halls feel older here, as if frozen in time from long ago.
Ravod halts in the center of the main room, pointing at a door to his left. “The refectory. Meals are served promptly at sunrise, midday, and sunset.” His finger redirects to a door on the opposite side of the room. “The scriptorium. The only one in all of Montane.”
Scriptorium. I have never heard this word, but he says it with complete and total reverence.
As if aware of my uncertainty, he adds, “It’s High House’s repository for written knowledge. This is where elder Bards learn the art of written Telling.” My eyes widen in horror, but he continues, “As a Bard, you will eventually be instructed in the written word. It is one of our many responsibilities in maintaining High House’s careful order.”
Cold dread knots at the back of my throat. The artifacts Constable Dunne kept in his office flash through my mind, and I can’t help shivering. I exhale shakily, realizing that I’ve surreptitiously stepped away from the door of the scriptorium.
“This is part of how the Bards protect Montane,” he says with unexpected gentleness. “We must be familiar with the danger if we are to protect others from it.”
He pauses, and even in the dim light of the hall, I can feel the way his eyes move over my face. He is probably wondering what Cathal saw in me, or how I will ever prove myself worthy of studying with him and the other Bards.
To be perfectly honest, I have the same questions. Part of me feels sick, wants to curl up in a ball and make all of this go away. It’s too much. I’m not sure which outcome is more terrifying—that I will disappoint them all, or that I won’t. Both possibilities feel like heavy rocks strapped to my body, pulling me to the bottom of a dark ocean.
“Follow me,” he says finally, leading me through an ornate arch and into a long hallway. “I’ll show you to your quarters.”
I fall in step beh
ind him, knowing that no matter how afraid I am, I have no choice.
The faint sound of chanting hums in the air of the Bards’ Wing. It’s a slow, deep monotone that is both beautiful and haunting, and so quiet I have to strain to hear it.
“What is that sound?” I ask.
“There’s a constant Telling done by the elder Bards for the protection of High House,” Ravod explains. “If you become proficient enough yourself, you’ll start to hear it from anywhere in the castle.”
“That’s amazing,” I whisper. “It must take a lifetime to become that powerful.”
Ravod does not answer, instead turning a corner into a shorter hallway, lined only with rows of simple wooden doors.
“These are the ladies’ dormitories.” He gestures. “Because there are so few women, you each have your own room.” I stare in wonder at the other closed doors. The other women. I long to knock on each door and meet them. Perhaps then I won’t feel quite so intimidated and alone. He walks to one of the last doors and retrieves a small, bronze key from the lock, handing it to me. “I know how bad you are with instructions, but believe me, you do not want to lose this.”
I take the key and clutch it tightly. I’m not sure if he’s teasing me; the look on his face is his usual—deadly serious.
Ravod opens the door and gestures me inside, remaining on the threshold with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I hope it’s to your liking.”
It’s likely modest by High House standards, but it’s the grandest room I’ve ever been allowed to stay in. Like the rest of the wing, the walls and ceiling are stone, but there’s a lovely window overlooking the training grounds and a cozy little bed, laid with crisp white linen sheets. There’s also a chest of drawers, a desk, and a chair, all made from rich, dark wood. An adjoining door leads to a simple but elegant washroom. I gasp when I notice my fireplace. I rush to each thing in turn, running my fingers over every surface if only to ensure that it’s all real. The room is nearly the size of my entire home in Aster.
“This is all for me?” The words come out in an astonished whisper.
“There are training clothes provided for you in the chest.” Ravod ignores my question, tilting his head to the bureau. “You’ll be expected to wear them tomorrow when you report in. We can have them altered for you later on. You have a private washroom over there…”
“Are you just going to lurk in the doorway to explain all of this?” I ask, turning to Ravod, who has not moved since he ushered me into the room. His face takes on a look of shock at my question, and a faint hint of color rises in his cheeks.
“Entering would be highly improper,” he says, his voice somehow even more stern than before. He indicates the fireplace with another nod of his head. “And please don’t set the dormitory on fire. It’s happened before.”
I roll my eyes. “I know how to properly light a fireplace.”
“Not by Telling,” Ravod corrects me. “Which, by the way, you are strictly forbidden from practicing alone.”
My nose begins to twitch in indignation before what he’s saying can fully land. You can do that? And, quickly after: You think I can do that?
“You’re at High House now. Those are the rules and you will obey them.” Ravod’s eyes flash, adding silently that the topic is not up for further discussion. Before I can ask anything else, he takes a step back into the hall. “Your evaluation begins tomorrow on the training grounds. Report to Kennan in the morning after breakfast.” He closes the door. After the latch clicks, I hear his stiff footsteps retreating back down the hall, leaving me alone.
The sunlight is all but faded from the window as I slide my rucksack off my shoulder and take a moment to let everything sink in. At least, as much as I can. I was nearly a captive of bandits only last night. Just days ago, I was in Aster.
My mind launches into circles again, spinning wildly, and I stop it with a brisk shake of my head. I light the torch on the wall with the nearby flint and tinder, before venturing into the washroom.
The mechanisms that allow running water into the bathtub are confusing at first, and I’m further shocked when the water that pours from one of the spouts is hot, as if warmed by a fire, though my hearth is currently cold. Is this a work of Telling, or part of the mechanics of High House? And, I wonder, is there really any difference? This whole place seems to be laced with wonders half made, half magic.
I marvel at it until my hand comes away scalded, and finally manage to work out how to fill the tub with pleasantly warm water. Back home, we wash with cold well water from a bucket—or, in late summer, if there was water in the tiny stream that runs along the south portion of the pasture, we might bathe there. It is rarely pleasant, the cold water, heavy with minerals, stinging my chapped skin and leaving me shivering. Fiona, on special occasions, would bathe in fermented milk, which she said softens the roughness of calluses. That’s the finest thing I’ve ever heard of.
Until now.
When I slide into the brass tub, a delicious, soothing sensation overcomes me. I feel my journey slough from my body like a snake’s skin. I close my eyes, and for a brief second, I am safe. I’m right where I should be. Fiona and I never fought. Mads never proposed. Ma never died. The curse never touched me.
I open my eyes. Not a curse. A gift.
I stare at my hands. How is it possible, that all this time, I have had the power of Telling, the gift of the Bards, and not known it? We hear of the Bards combing the countryside for youths who show signs of possessing this gift. But it is known to be incredibly rare, especially in girls. No one knows if it is carried in the blood; it seems to just be as random as it is rare. It’s as common as getting struck by lightning. No one in Aster has ever, to my knowledge, been recruited by the Bards.
The weight of today’s revelations—and the journey that led to them—finally hits me, with a wave of exhaustion so acute, I nearly let out a sob.
It takes several tries before I feel ready to leave the embrace of the warm water. The stones beneath my feet are warm too, I notice with astonishment. There must be a heating system beneath the floor. The large towel hanging on a nearby hook is softer than any clothing I’ve ever worn. I dry myself off and wrap it around my body, heading back to my bedroom.
My bedroom. The thought is strange. I’ve never slept in a room alone before. It’s exciting and a little frightening all at once.
I empty my rucksack onto the bed, searching for my nightclothes. My mouth twists as I riffle through my few belongings. I imagine Fiona packing them up for me, probably unable to wait to see me gone.
When I find my nightgown, I pull it a little too forcefully from the bottom of the bag, and as it comes free, I hear a faint clatter on the floor behind me.
I turn, casting my frown downward before I feel the muscles in my face slacken.
Shimmering up at me is the small silver hair comb inlaid with colored glass in the shape of a butterfly. The one I placed in Fiona’s hair. The tiny reminder of the beautiful things we have; the love of a faraway friend, despite everything.
The first pang of missing Fiona softens as I turn the comb over in my hand, letting it catch the torch’s firelight.
What I wouldn’t give to share this with her. I imagine her eyes popping out of her head with disbelief and can practically hear her: You? A Bard? That’s incredible, Shae, I want to know everything!
Sadness pricks at me, and I turn my head to the window to look out into the darkness.
A sharp knock at the door nearly makes me drop the linen wrapped around me. Frantically, I slip on my nightgown.
Is someone really knocking at this hour? Perhaps they have the wrong room? In an instant, the wistfulness that had consumed me turns into a flutter of fear. I must not forget that my mother’s killer could be lurking beyond this door.
Do murderers knock?
Whoever it is knocks again.
I cross the heated floor, padding quietly to the door. My brow furrows as I lean a little closer to
the dark wood.
“Who’s there?” My voice shakes a little.
“It’s Ravod.” His voice is muffled through the door, but unmistakable.
The air hitches in my throat.
“Ravod?” I open the door, more than a little confused to see the tall, handsome Bard so soon. His hair and uniform are still immaculate and his face remains impassive when I open the door a little wider. Once again he makes no attempt to cross the threshold into my quarters, and his reluctance to look at me in my nightgown borders on comical. His preoccupation with propriety is equally infuriating and adorable.
“Cathal was displeased that you were not properly fed,” Ravod states. “I apologize for the oversight. I brought you this.”
He hands me a small linen pouch, inside of which is the reddest apple I have ever seen, a soft piece of bread, and fresh cheese. Even the most common food at High House is fancier than anything I could have found in Aster.
My stomach insists very loudly that I accept. “Thank you so much.”
Ravod nods curtly. “I hope the rest of your night is pleasant,” he says. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll take my leave.”
“Wait.” I stop Ravod with a brief touch on his forearm, and my cheeks flush when he moves his arm away from my hand. “There’s something I need to know,” I whisper.
I don’t know whether to trust him yet. For all I know, he’s the killer I’ve come here to find. But I find myself wanting desperately to give him the chance to prove me wrong.
Ravod says nothing, merely quirking an eyebrow, reminding me what he said about asking questions. With effort, I determinedly keep my eyes on his. “Have the Bards ever killed people?”
Ravod’s expression changes rapidly from surprise to shock to fury and finally something I can’t quite determine. He takes a step closer to me in the doorway, careful to keep the threshold between us. I catch the faint hint of cedar I noticed before in Aster.
“I’m not sure how I can make myself clearer. Did you not understand me the first time I told you to quell your curiosity?”
