Wednesdays in the Tower

by Jessica Day George

  “And some dried corn.”

  “Yes, my Lord Wizard,” the maid said, and hurried off.

  “I wish I was the Royal Wizard,” Celie grumbled.

  “We’ll see if we can’t get something set up with the kitchens,” Bran said. “I’ll go and talk to Cook myself.”

  “What if she says something to Master Humphries?” Celie asked. “What happens if he tells her that I haven’t been assigned an experiment involving raw meat and dried corn?”

  “Well,” Bran began, “perhaps—”

  As Celie turned her attention to the griffin, to stop him from gnawing on the leg of a stool, she had an idea.

  “I’ll ask the Castle,” she said. “After all, it wants me to take care of the griffin, so it should provide the food!”

  “Do you think it’s going to do what you ask?” Bran said, looking skeptical. “It’s been very … capricious lately.”

  Her clothes were filthy, and the bites and scratches on her hands were beginning to sting. She had a griffin to take care of, and she didn’t know how, and for all Bran’s speeches about her being entrusted with the griffin and its imprinting on her, he didn’t seem to think she knew how to take care of it, either. She suddenly felt like crying, and she wanted Bran to leave.

  “Celie, do you want to get washed up?” Bran, with his wizardly intuition, seemed to guess her mood at once.

  “Yes,” Celie managed to say without quavering.

  “Why don’t I hurry the food along, and you and the griffin can freshen up. We’ll just deal with this one day at a time.”

  “Oh!” As Celie stood up, her stomach growled audibly, to her embarrassment. “Is it dinnertime?”

  “Yes,” Bran said, looking vague. “I think we’d better … Hmm.” He tapped his lower lip. “I’ll go on to the dining hall and tell them that you’re working on a project for Master Humphries and can’t join us,” Bran said. “I’ll have a tray sent up for you, and I’ll come check on you after dinner.”

  “Perfect,” Celie said. “Thanks, Bran.”

  She didn’t burst into exhausted tears until after she had latched the door behind him.

  Chapter

  6

  Celie spent the next week watching the little griffin eat and grow.

  The Castle went out of its way to support her in this, and to make sure that the griffin was well provided for. Every morning when Celie woke up, with a warm, sleepy griffin curled against her side, she found fresh sawdust in a box in the corner, a large urn of water, and bowls of fresh meat, seeds, and fruit. There was even a leather ball for him to play with.

  Celie had been worried about the maids finding the griffin, but Bran put a spell on her door the very first night that made them turn away, thinking that they’d already cleaned Celie’s chamber. She asked him to put a spell on everyone in the Castle so that they couldn’t see the griffin—which she had named Rufus—but Bran had frowned at her.

  “There is a very great difference between bespelling your door and bespelling a person,” Bran said, bristling at her. “The Council of Wizards would have my head if they thought I was even contemplating such a thing.”

  At the end of the first week, the griffin had nearly doubled in size, and his cries had become three times as shrill. Celie had a hard time keeping him entertained: most of her furniture was scraped and chewed, and her new riding boots were ruined. Bran came to her rooms to measure and sketch the griffin, and she asked him again to use magic to make the animal less noticeable, at least.

  “I don’t see why you won’t just tell Father,” Bran replied. “I promised you I wouldn’t, but that’s because I think you should be the one to do it. Really, Celie, there’s only so long you’ll be able to hide him.”

  “I know, but I don’t know what else to do,” she said. “I actually tried to tell Mummy and Daddy at breakfast the very next morning. I was so exhausted; he kept me up all night whining and begging for food. But as soon as I opened my mouth to do it, that pack of cloaks fell down the chimney.”

  “Oh, that,” Bran said.

  The family had been at breakfast in the winter dining hall, and Celie had just gotten her parents’ attention when a sooty bundle had fallen down the chimney into the fireplace with a startling thump. Rolf had hurried to pull it out of the fire with the iron tongs, and they had discovered that it was a bundle of oddly shaped old cloaks that had probably been shoved up the chimney centuries before. The cloaks were shaped like oak leaves, and made from leather that had been washed and pounded until it was as soft as the finest wool. In the ensuing excitement, Celie had lost her opportunity to tell her parents.

  “And I almost told them the next day,” she said, “when I got back from my lessons and found that he’d eaten my new boots. But as soon as I decided to, the door of my room locked itself. I couldn’t get out until I promised that I wouldn’t tell anyone about Rufus.”

  “Rufus?” Bran raised his eyebrows.

  “I named him Rufus,” Celie said, defensive. “It’s a good name for a griffin.”

  Rufus had been the name of the stuffed lion she had had since she was a baby. Last year, during the old Emissary’s attempt to get rid of their family and put Prince Khelsh of Vhervhine on the throne, Rufus the lion had turned into a griffin—and eaten Prince Khelsh. Then he had simply disappeared. The baby griffin was considerably smaller than Rufus the Stuffed-Lion Griffin, but Celie still thought it was a very good name for a griffin.

  “Oh,” Bran said. “I, er, brought a list of names you might like. But if you’ve already named him …”

  “Yes, and he answers to it,” Celie said with pride. She picked up the leather ball. “Rufus!” The griffin immediately looked up from the bone it was chewing. “Fetch!” She tossed the ball, and the little beast ran across the room after it. Celie turned back to her oldest brother. “Why? What names did you think of?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Bran said.

  Looking up at him, Celie saw that her tall, commanding brother—the Royal Wizard, no less—was blushing. He shoved a scrap of parchment into his pocket.

  “What were the names?” Celie was intrigued.

  “They were silly,” Bran said. “Anyway, if the Castle is locking you in your room, and possibly even dropping things down the chimney, then it definitely wants you to keep Rufus a secret.” He sighed. “Even though I think it’s a rather strange idea, having to keep a wild animal in your bedcham—Hey!”

  Celie had sidled around Bran and grabbed the slip of parchment from his pocket. “Goldenwings …” She looked at the names in incredulity. Bran? Pragmatic, studious Bran had written down Goldenwings as a potential name for her griffin? “Proudheart. Proudwings. Brightclaw.”

  “Give that back!” Bran snatched the list away, his face bright red.

  “I’m not laughing at you,” she said, contrite when she saw how hurt he was. “I’m just laughing because … Well, Proudwings?”

  “I was looking for a noble name,” he said stiffly. “Something that evoked the steeds of the great heroes of legend.”

  Now Celie really did feel bad. “Those are very noble names,” she offered. “But I’m not sure that a creature who can’t stop eating my shoes deserves to be called something like Brightclaw.” And with a sigh she went to pull one of her dancing slippers out of Rufus’s beak.

  “True,” Bran said, looking mollified. “I had better get to the Armor Gallery,” he said with a sigh. “Still more to study there.”

  “I should think you’d be more excited,” Celie said, tossing the ball for Rufus to distract him from her shoes. “All those strange bits of armor and weaponry …”

  “Yes, they’re all very well,” Bran said. “But you know that all my life I’ve wanted to uncover the secrets of the Castle itself, and not just one of the rooms.” His shoulders slumped. “Besides which, most of the things aren’t from the Castle, they’re from some other land. It’s just adding mystery to mystery. I’ll never figure out where most of the artifacts came from,
let alone what they’re for. And when I’m finally done with them, I’ll be further than ever from finding out about Castle Glower.” He ran a hand over his face. “You’ve done more to unlock the Castle’s mysteries with your atlas than anyone living, yet I’m the one who spent years learning to be a wizard!”

  “Oh, dear,” Celie said. Her eyes flicked to her desk.

  “What’s that?” Bran followed her gaze. “Is it finished?” He picked up the atlas on the top of the neat stack.

  “Yes,” Celie told him reluctantly. “I was going to pass out copies at dinner. But now I don’t want to … to show you up.”

  She had declared the atlas finished a few days previous, and had given it to the Castle scribes. They had made four copies and put them in leather folders. She had planned to give one to her parents and the others to Bran, Rolf, and Lilah at dinner, but she worried now that it would make Bran look bad.

  Bran must have immediately sensed her regret. He turned to her with a broad smile.

  “This is truly amazing, Cel. No one has ever done anything like this!” He reverently turned the pages of maps. “Could I have one of the copies?”

  “Of course!” She made a pushing motion at him, indicating that he should keep the atlas in his hands.

  “This is really something special, Celie,” Bran said. “Can I have another copy made? One of my tutors from the College of Wizardry, Wizard Levin, is coming to stay here and help me with the Armor Gallery.”

  “He is?” Celie was startled and excited by this piece of news. Other than Bran, she’d rarely seen any real wizards before.

  “Yes,” Bran said. “And he’ll need a copy so that he can get around. And hopefully with him here, I will have more time to study the Castle and spend less time hunched over meaningless artifacts.”

  “I wish I could help,” Celie said.

  Now that she was done with her atlas—at least until the Castle produced a new room, and then it would only take her a day to sketch it and have copies made—she was feeling a bit let down. True, there was Rufus to care for, but she had been working on the atlas for so long, it felt strange to be done.

  “I could use your help,” Bran admitted.

  “How? Why?” Distracted, Celie let Rufus nip at her fingers and gown as she gave her full attention to Bran.

  “I want you to find out what connection there is between griffins and the Castle,” Bran said. “Find that book you left in the library, see if you can’t find more references to griffins appearing at the Castle.” Bran held up one of the maps to study it better. “Where did that egg come from, and why did the Castle give it to you, specifically?”

  “Excellent,” Celie said eagerly. “I think I’ll start by sketching the tapestries.”

  “What tapestries?” Bran looked up, confused.

  “The ones in the upper corridors,” Celie said. “You know: the ones that show our ancestors riding griffins into battle.”

  Chapter

  7

  The presentation of the remainder of the atlases at dinner was everything Celie had hoped for. Her family praised her greatly, and her father spoke of giving her a special title— Royal Cartographer to the Castle—which she was sure made her face turn positively mauve. Back in her room, she’d told Rufus all about it while he gazed at her with golden eyes and lovingly chewed the hem of her gown.

  But the next morning, several of her maps were rendered useless. There was another new stable, which had demolished part of the outer wall and let a number of cows into the courtyard. And Celie was late for her lessons because there was now an extra portrait gallery and a large storeroom containing hundreds of bolts of fabric between her and the schoolroom.

  Then, when she finally got to the schoolroom, Lilah and Rolf were both there. Celie took a step back and looked around, wondering what they were doing there. Had they gotten lost on their way to someplace else in the Castle? Lilah looked distinctly put out, but Rolf seemed eager enough. He waved cheerfully to Celie and stretched, resting his hands behind his head. Celie put down her books on the end of the long table, still feeling muddled by her roundabout journey to the schoolroom.

  “What are you doing here?” Celie asked, her voice coming out a little harsh as she looked at her brother and sister.

  “I am learning Grathian because it will help me be a better king,” Rolf said easily. “But Lilah is learning Grathian because she’s being punished.” He grinned at Celie.

  Lilah slammed closed the book she was holding. “I am not being punished!” She tossed back her long, dark hair. “It is also important that I study the languages of some of our allies, even though I am too old for the schoolroom,” she said in lofty tones.

  “Father caught her flirting with Lulath one too many times,” Rolf said in a stage whisper. “So he’s pretending that he believes her story that she was really trying to learn Grathian.”

  “But what about Pogue?” Celie asked Lilah.

  “What about Pogue?” Lilah threw her hands in the air. “Can’t I just have friends? Can’t I enjoy talking to my … friends?”

  “There’s talking, and then there’s talking,” Rolf said with a snicker.

  “And then there’s listening to your instructor,” Master Humphries said as he entered the schoolroom.

  He shook his head, running an ink-stained hand through his graying hair. When he looked at the three of them sitting in a row he let out a puff of air. Celie had a feeling that he wasn’t amused to find that he now had two more students, and one of them sent there as punishment.

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Master,” Celie said. “There’s a huge room full—”

  “Of fabrics,” Master Humphries finished. “Yes, thank you, Your Highness. I am late myself for that very reason. And so is your new Grathian instructor.”

  All three Glower children looked at their tutor in shock. Master Humphries had taught all their lessons since he had come to the Castle to instruct the then five-year-old Bran. If they needed to learn something that he did not already know, he took great pains to master the topic himself before guiding his charges through it. He was overly fascinated by ancient peace treaties (in Celie’s opinion) and could be a bear about punctuality, but was a respected scholar and a fine tutor.

  “Your instructor in Grathian will be—” Master Humphries began.

  “I am all the excitement,” Prince Lulath shouted as he practically leaped into the schoolroom. “Please to forgive that I so the very late; there is but a great many makings of clothes now in the place where there was used to having a stairs.”

  “I want to die,” Lilah said in a strangled voice.

  “This is going to be terrific,” Rolf said under his breath.

  “Lulath!” Celie cried in delight. “You’re going to teach us?”

  Celie stared at the Grathian prince. He had all four dogs in tow, the satin bows around their necks matching his elaborate layers of clothing. His sleeves hung to his knees, and one of his dogs became entangled in the trailing ends of the laces that ran up the sides of his breeches. His blond hair was fancifully styled, and his teeth showed very white as he beamed at them.

  “Yes, indeed, Your Highness,” Master Humphries answered her, forcing a smile. “As my Grathian is limited to reading and writing, Prince Lulath has nobly agreed to teach you how to speak it. It was the suggestion of the king himself.”

  Rolf snorted.

  Lulath’s dogs scattered. One of them trotted around the room, sniffing everything as if seeking a place to relieve itself. Two others, JouJou and Niro, ran to Celie and Lilah, who were their favorite people. Lilah hid her blushing cheeks by leaning over to pick up Niro, but Celie just rolled JouJou over with her feet and rubbed the dog’s belly with her toes.

  “I have given each of the students a Grathian language primer,” Master Humphries said in a desperate attempt to bring things to order. “If you’re having trouble getting started, I’m sure that I can—”

  “It would be so much nonsense to think I c
ould not tell to them my language,” Lulath said exuberantly. “Come, let us speak to each one another in the Grathian!” He held his arms out wide as if to embrace them all, and smiled in his usual faintly daft way. Then, so abrupt that it was startling, his expression sobered. He picked up another primer and announced crisply, “We begin with minou.”

  And to the utter shock of Celie, Rolf, Lilah, and Master Humphries, Lulath began to teach them with cool competence. He ignored his dogs and his students’ complete amazement as he took them through the basic greetings and then taught them how to introduce themselves in Grathian.

  Two hours later, when a maid came bearing a lunch tray, they were still stunned. Lulath instantly became a dandy once again, and after turning up his nose at the ham sandwiches on the tray, he gathered up his dogs and left, promising to return the next day and teach them more.

  Rolf and Lilah left after lunch, and Celie and Master Humphries were soon hard at work. She was supposed to be practicing her calligraphy by copying out a poem from a book so old it was nearly unreadable. It had been Master Humphries’s choice, and his taste in poetry always ran toward the epic, with lots of names and battles mentioned, but not described in half as much detail as Celie would have liked. Consequently, she was halfway through it when she found the word “griffin” and realized that the poem was about a mighty battle between the griffins and an army that Celie had never heard of.

  “What are Hathelockes?” Celie asked.

  Master Humphries, who was flipping through a book and seemed to have forgotten that Celie was there, nearly dropped what he was reading. He blinked at her owlishly.

  “The what?”

  “Hathelockes,” Celie repeated. “It says that the griffins and the people of the griffins were making war upon the Hathelockes. I’ve never heard of them.”

  “Oh, er,” Master Humphries began, attempting to read the faded poem upside down. “This is an old and rather fanciful poem,” he told her. “Notice the presence of mythical animals in it? I’m sure that the Hathelockes are also merely the construction of the poet’s mind.”