By the time he got back to the cottage, night had once again fallen. Ada was waiting there for him, again, but this time so was her father.
"Quinton," Hakon said, putting a big hand on his shoulder and shaking him with a little less friendliness than his tone indicated. "Quinton, lad. What ails you?"
"Nothing," Quinton said. His clothes had not dried in the night air and he was shivering.
"You're fevered, lad."
Quinton pushed the older man's hand away.
"Where've you been?"
Quinton shrugged and turned his face from Ada and her father.
Hakon wouldn't be stopped. "I went to the castle," he said.
The horses. Quinton had forgotten yet again.
"I saw nary a sign of you along the way, and the second stable master said they'd not seen you either."
"No," Quinton said. He started to get undressed, hoping that would get them to leave. He kicked his boots off, then pulled his shirt up over his head.
Ada turned her back.
"I brung the horses," Hakon said.
Quinton took his pants off and crawled into bed, and still Hakon stood there staring at him.
"We done Rankin's holding in what was left of the day. We're doing Durward's tomorrow morning. And Osborn's and Halsey's, if we have the time. If you want yours done the day after, you'll be at Durward's with the rest of us."
Quinton didn't answer, and eventually the two of them left.
She wasn't there the next day, though Quinton got to the stream early and didn't leave at all. He spent the night out in the open, sleeping on the grass where she had stepped on her way from the rock to the forest. The next day dawned misty and rainy, and by late afternoon he was too cold and hungry to wait any longer.
At home he found a pot simmering over the fire. Ada. Wouldn't that girl leave him alone? As a matter of principle, he wanted not to eat what she had prepared; but principles don't ward off a chill. He ate the soup and the bread and crawled into bed.
"Salina." He said the name out loud, as though that would have more effect than just thinking it. "I hate you," he whispered into the night. "Come back. Come back." Tears ran down his face, and he was too tired to wipe them away.
The next morning Hakon was there before Quinton had a chance to leave. "Quinton," he said. "We're willing to give you another chance."
Chance? Quinton thought, fastening his boot. Chance?
"You having some kind of woman trouble?"
Quinton snorted, shifted to his other boot.
"Ada—Ada, she been outside your door last night. She said to her mother she heard you calling some woman's name."
"It's none of your business, old man."
Hakon grabbed his arm. "See here," he said, all pretense of concern, of friendliness, gone. "You done made promises to my girl. Certain things are expected of you."
"Leave me alone."
Hakon held on to him.
I could easily grow to love you, Salina had said. In fact, I may love you already. She was no doubt waiting for him even now. And this old fool was keeping him from her.
"Let go of me," he cried.
"You're not going nowhere," Hakon said. "You're going to stay here and work your father's holding and do right by my girl."
Quinton snatched up the heavy pot in which Ada had cooked the soup. "I don't want your ugly little daughter," he said, shoving the pot at Hakon. "Take this and get out of here."
"You damn well better want her," Hakon said. "I'll go to the baron. Ill tell him what you promised, and he'll see to it you marry her proper or lose your rights to this land."
Quinton didn't care about the land. He didn't care about anything except getting out of there, of getting to Salina. But Hakon wouldn't let go. Quinton swung the pot and hit him across the side of the head.
The old man dropped.
Quinton straightened his shirt, which had gotten pulled down over his shoulder. Salina, he thought. Salina was waiting.
Shortly before he reached the edge of the forest, he heard footsteps running up behind him. "Quinton," a female voice called. He turned and faced her: a dark girl, unlike his Salina of the sunlight. She had dark eyes, dark hair, even her skin was darkened by years of toiling under the sun. Soon, another few years, it would be wrinkled and cracked and sagging—youth did not last long in the northern holdings. He couldn't put a name to the girl who clutched at him and begged him to return.
"Who is she?" this ugly walnut of a girl demanded. "Nobody lives in the forest, Quinton. Not real people. You've found some wood sprite or a naiad, one of the old folk."
He kept on walking, though she pulled his sleeve loose at the shoulder.
"Quinton, she'll steal your soul away."
That was ridiculous. A soul was a soul. How could it be stolen away, like a loaf of bread or a pair of boots? He didn't bother to tell this girl that. He told her: "Look to your father."
"Quinton?" She stood there with that vacant expression on her homely face, looking from him to his cottage, back to him.
Once he saw that she wasn't following him into the woods, he didn't look back.
He found Salina where he'd first seen her: on the rock by the stream. But this time she wasn't alone.
There was a young boy with her, sitting on her rock in what should have been Quinton's place. A peasant, he saw. An ugly, dirty little peasant. He was an overgrown child of perhaps thirteen or fourteen, and he was finger-combing Salina's beautiful golden hair.
"Salina!" Quinton cried.
She turned, languorously, to look over her shoulder at him and smile. "Quinton," she said, her voice as empty as her eyes and her smile. "My pretty-speeched young sleeper. Have you dreamt of me lately?"
Quinton strode into the water, fighting the pull of the current. The peasant boy didn't even have the decency to appear frightened of him. His eyes were dull and unresponsive, and he continued to comb his fingers through Salina's hair as though unaware of anything else. Quinton's gaze went from Salina's lovely face, past her shoulder, down the length of her arm, to her hand resting on the boy's thigh. Apparently she wasn't concerned that he was ugly or little more than a child.
Quinton grabbed him by the collar and hauled him off the rock, staggering against the pull of the current. He flung the young peasant into the water in the general direction of the shore. At least the boy had wit enough to scramble to his feet.
"Tomorrow," Salina called to him. "Come back tomorrow."
The boy ran off into the forest.
Quinton looked from his retreating back to Salina and saw his life collapse in front of him. "You said you loved me," he said.
"I lied," she told him.
"But I love you."
"I know."
"Please—"
"Don't beg," she snapped. "Begging is for cripples and dogs."
"Salina..." He trailed off at the look on her face.
"Boy?" she said, laughing.
"I gave up everything for you."
"And I have nothing to give you in return." She held her arms open. "Did I ask you for everything?"
"Don't laugh at me," he said, and she laughed at him again. "Don't you laugh!" he screamed. And still she laughed.
He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her into the water. She didn't even struggle, she was laughing so hard. He pushed her backward and held her down so that her face was under the water, and even that didn't get the smile off her face. Her hair streamed out, looking green and feathery. And the smile never left her face, even long after she had to have been dead.
He staggered to the shore, repulsed by what he had done, repulsed because of the sense of exhilaration he felt, repulsed because he didn't know if that had come from being pressed against her or from killing her.
I'll go back to Dunderry, he thought. He remembered Ada's sweet face and thought with honor of the way he had treated her. He'd tell her ... He remembered her father and sank to his knees. Had he struck the old man hard enough to kill him? The
re was no way of telling. Not without going back to see.
"Hey!" a voice called.
He jerked up his head to see two men on horseback. The baron's guards, judging by their chain mail.
"You Quinton Redmonson?" one of them asked.
"No." He shook his head and backed away. Hakon must be dead. Ada must have gone to the castle and told them what had happened. "No," he repeated. He felt the incline of the ground where it dipped down to the stream.
The man pointed a finger at him. "You. Get back here."
Could they see Salina's body? he wondered. He couldn't. Had the current carried her away already? He could argue that killing Hakon had been an accident. But would they believe two accidents in one day? The cold water lapped at his ankles, his knees.
"I said—"
But he missed the last of what the baron's man said, because his foot slipped in the muck at the bottom of the stream and he fell. For an instant he came up sputtering, then the water closed over his head again.
It isn't this deep, he thought. It isn't this deep. He was facing upward. He could see the sunlight hitting the surface of the stream, but he couldn't get to it.
The water roared in his ears, pressed down against his face. Salina, he thought. Salina was holding him down. But that was foolishness. There was nothing there. All he had to do was sit up. It was only the water pressing down on him. Water no deeper than Salina's hair was long. Water that pressed down on him until he didn't want to sit up after all.
He stopped struggling. He let the water in. Up above, the sunlight danced a golden green dance. The last thing he saw was her; the last thing he thought of was her.
She was sitting on the rock, smiling to herself, her feet dangling in the stream, and he thought she was the loveliest sight he had ever seen. She leaned backward, bracing her feet on the rock, and arched her back so that a hand span or two of her long hair dipped into the water, where the current gently tugged at it. She closed her eyes against the brightness of the sun, but still she smiled. It was wonderful to see her, he thought, to see someone so obviously in love with life.
Remember Me
I FIND MYSELF KNEELING on the dusty road, doubled over as if in pain—though I remember no pain.
Before me stands a woman, dressed all in black. Her face is wrinkled and old, her eyes blue green and cold. She says, "Let that be a lesson to you, you arrogant pig." Then she raises her arms and all in an instant is transformed into a crow and flies away.
I try to take notice of her direction, which I feel is probably important, but almost immediately lose the tiny speck of black in the glare of the sun. Also, I'm distracted by the thought that I have no idea who the woman is, or why she should have said such a thing to me.
More alarming, I realize I have no idea who I am.
A young man—that I can tell. I frantically ransack my brain, but no name surfaces. No face, either—my own or anyone else's, except the one I've just seen, the old woman's with the cold eyes. This is ridiculous, I think, I'm...
But even with this running start I can't finish the thought. No name. I can't even think: I'm so-and-so's son. I feel no connection to anyone or anything before fifteen seconds ago.
My clothes are satin and brocade. I have two rings, one on each hand—one is set with two emeralds; the other is simple gold, in the form of a dragon eating its own tail. I also have a gold clasp for my cloak. So, I reason, I'm a wealthy man. And, it takes no memory but only common sense to know, wealth means power. But I don't feel powerful, without even having a name.
I look around. The countryside is unfamiliar without being strange. I am on a road, fairly wide and clear. The land is a bit hilly, behind me more so, ahead of me less. Also ahead of me, rising above the tops of the trees, I can make out a distant tower. Much closer is a horse, grazing on the weeds by the edge of the road. I think he must be mine, for he is saddled and bridled, and there is no one else in sight, and what need does a woman who can turn herself into a crow have for a horse?
But I have no name for the horse, any more than I have for myself, and he looks at me warily as I rise to my feet.
"It's all right," I assure him, making soft clucking noises to calm him. "Everything is fine."
Obviously we can both see everything is not fine, but he lets me approach, although he watches me with eyes so alarmed the whites show around them.
I can tell that the horse, like the clothing, is expensive. So are the horse's accoutrements. The saddle is soft leather, just worn enough to be broken in and comfortable, not old or scuffed. The saddlecloth is expensive material and looks brand-new. There are no saddlebags, nothing to tell me who I am or where I'm from.
"Steady," I tell the horse, and I swing up into the saddle. The action seems natural and familiar. I gather I'm accustomed to riding, but there's no further enlightenment. I face the horse in the direction of the tower, which I hope is a castle. Where I hope someone will recognize me.
I imagine someone—there is no face: I'm imagining, not planning—that someone placing a cool cloth on my head. I imagine this person saying, "The poor dear had a nasty spill from the horse, but he'll be fine in the morning."
But I remember the blue-green eyes of the black-clothed woman, and in my heart I know it's not going to be that simple.
***
The tower does turn out to be part of a castle. The castle overlooks a town. Still, no names come to mind.
I ride through the town gate, and people scurry out of the way of my horse. When I get to the gate of the castle itself, guards standing at either side bow, which might mean they recognize me. Or which might mean my clothes and my horse make me look important enough to warrant polite behavior.
In the courtyard, I dismount and a steward comes and bows. "Good day, sir," he says. "May I announce you?" He gestures for a page to come take the horse.
Somewhat reluctantly, for the horse is my only connection to any past at all, I let go of the reins and watch the boy lead the horse in the direction that must be the stables. "Yes," I tell the senior servant. "Please do."
"Your name, sir?" the steward asks.
I sigh, thinking everything would have been so much simpler if this had turned out to be my home. "Don't you know me?" I ask hopefully. Perhaps he'll take guesses, and one of them will sound familiar.
But the steward just says, apologetically, "I'm afraid your lordship's face is unfamiliar to me." His smile gets just the least bit impatient as he waits.
"I..." I say. "I seem to have had a mishap on the road..."
"Indeed?" the old servant says, sounding decidedly cooler by now.
"I think I may have been struck on the head," I say, unwilling to share the thought that I seem to have gotten on the wrong side of a woman who can turn herself into a crow.
"How unfortunate," the steward says, his tone bland, but his face disapproving. I can tell, by his face, that people of real quality, such as he is used to dealing with, don't have such things happen to them.
"I was hoping," I admit, "that someone might recognize me."
"I don't," the steward says.
"Perhaps someone else," I suggest.
The steward thinks I am insulting him. "I know everyone who comes and goes at this castle," he tells me.
"But maybe," I insist, "the lord of this castle might know me."
The steward looks me up and down as though I'm a disgrace to my fine clothing. But he doesn't dare turn me away for fear that maybe his lord would recognize me, so he says, "The lord and his lady may or may not be in the audience hall this afternoon. You may wait there."
"There was a lady on the road..." I say, with a flash of remembrance of hard eyes, of the swish of fabric as arms are raised....
"Not our lady," the steward assures me, and turns his back on me.
I'm so annoyed by his attitude, I call after him, though I know my presence here is dependent on his goodwill, "Once I regain my identity, you'll apologize for your bad manners."
He look
s back scornfully. "Doubtful," he says.
All afternoon long I wait with a crowd of other petitioners for the arrival of the castle's lord.
As evening shadows lengthen and the wonderful smells of cooking waft into the audience hall, we are told that the lord will not be seeing us today. Go home. Try again some other day.
I ask to see the steward, but he is not available, either. The servants are very sorry, very polite, but in no time I'm back out in the courtyard, and the castle door shuts in my face.
I find out where the stables are, but my horse is not there. When I admit to the stable master that I'm not a guest at the castle, he tells me that the stables only house the horses of the castle inhabitants and their guests.
"But a boy took my horse away," I protest, "when I first arrived and the steward greeted me."
"Ah," the stable master says, "I know who you are."
My heart starts to beat faster, but he only means that the steward has warned him about me. The horse was originally brought to the stable, he says, but the steward ordered him removed when it was discovered I had no legitimate business at the castle. The horse, the stable master says, is tied up out back behind the smallest stable building, and with that he closes the stable door in my face as firmly as the castle servants closed the castle door in my face.
I am unable to remember who I am or anything else about me, but I am fairly certain I have never had doors shut in my face before.
Going to the back of the building, I find my horse tied to a post, looking disconsolate. His saddle has been removed and is sitting on the ground beside him, but the grooms did not have time to curry him before the steward changed their orders. The horse's healthy coat beneath a layer of road dust shows that he's used to better treatment, and, worse yet, there is no vegetation within reach of his tether.
"Come on, horse," I say, untying him. The area around the castle is all paving stones and packed dirt, so—carrying the saddle—I lead the horse out through the castle gate, through the winding streets of the town, and out the town gate. The smell of all that fine hay and grain just the other side of the stable wall must have been just as frustrating for him as the smell of the castle supper being prepared was for me.