The Ale Boy's Feast

  “Take an apple,” said Batey, holding out three for Cal-raven to choose from. “I’ll help you. Otherwise you might spend all day deciding.”

  Without looking, the king took one and nodded, unsmiling. “This will do.”

  “The pieces are falling into place for you, aren’t they, Master of Abascar?” said Batey with a grin, his eye on Emeriene.

  Cal-raven turned to leave, paused, and said, “Thank you, Sisterly. For your patience. Bear with me. I have … too much in my head today.”

  And then he walked away, feeling like an older man than the one who had climbed into the belfry. “If I am to amend the story,” he said, “then I’ll make a madness they’ll never forget.”

  It was the cloud rising from the kitchen that gave Cal-raven the idea.

  In it he caught a scent of wild cherries. He walked back to his tower, but instead of returning to his bedchamber—Emeriene’s announcement had made him somewhat wary of seeing her work—he stepped into the room below it.

  This room with a tall, carved fireplace reminded him of the hearth he’d loved best in childhood. He was twice the size he had been when he last played with sculpted figurines between his father’s fireplace and his father’s stockings. But this fireplace was twice the size of that one, so he felt strangely comforted by the familiar proportion.

  Sometimes when the world was crumbling around him, all he needed was an idea.

  What if? he thought. What if?

  His idea continued to unfold.

  “Master,” said Scharr ben Fray, startling him. The mage was standing at the window with Hagah napping in the sunlight at his feet.

  “I would set my chair here,” Cal-raven said absently, holding his hands out as if to grasp the back of an invisible throne.

  “In memory of your father,” said the mage.

  “And here, a great round table.” He gestured to the center of the room.

  “For proclamations?”

  “Perhaps.” He did not look toward the mage. “Only if they are more thoughtful proclamations than any my father ever made.”

  “Or your mother.” Cal-raven turned his back.

  “What would be your first proclamation?” the mage asked quietly.

  Cal-raven stared into the imaginary fire, hesitating. His eyes narrowed. Was that the white scar returning? He had not seen it in days. He could hear footsteps on the stair behind him. And then Jes-hawk’s voice at the door. “Master?”

  He did not turn.

  “It is with a heavy heart that I trouble you, master.”

  “It cannot be heavier than mine.”

  “Shall I come back?”

  Cal-raven shrugged and said to Scharr ben Fray, “A feast, Teacher. I shall proclaim a feast for all who have gathered here. It would be a shame to let such bounty go another day without preparing a proper feast.”

  Scharr ben Fray stepped to the imaginary proclamation table, straightening his robes as if eager to take part in some manner of play. “May I be your witness?”

  “Be my witness, Scharr ben Fray. I propose a royal feast for all members of my house and all guests within these walls.” He turned sharply. “Well? What is it?”

  Jes-hawk was baffled by the king’s manner. He took a step back and scratched at the cast on his shoulder. “You asked me to report suspicious behavior from our guests.”

  “Who is it?”

  “One of the Bel Amican guards, sir. Joneroi. After Say-ressa dismissed him from her quarters, he went straight to his chamber, lit prayer lamps, and began appealing to moon-spirits.”

  Scharr ben Fray scowled. “That ruinous religion has no place within these walls. It turns us against each other, and the house will not last a season.”

  “Right. Only true faith here.” Cal-raven could not repress a sneer. “How did he achieve this? We’ve given out no bowls for lanterns.”

  “Took one from the kitchens, I suppose,” said Jes-hawk, stammering.

  “Simple problem, simple solution. Make it clear to him that I forbid the Seers’ ceremonies here, just as their own queen has forbidden them. Now may we continue with something of actual importance?”

  “A feast,” said the mage, “in honor of your achievement.”

  “No.” Cal-raven threw his apple core into the fireplace. “What have we found here? A fortress built with boasts instead of beauty. Inius Throan is a closed fist of power. Every corridor designed to seal people in and content them. This place reeks of choices made in fear.”

  Jes-hawk had stepped back into the doorway, his gaze shifting from Scharr ben Fray to the king and back.

  Hagah, raising his head, barked at the mountains.

  “You’re still here, Jes-hawk,” said Cal-raven. “Are you serving as a second witness? Or is there more?”

  Jes-hawk swallowed hard. “Forgive me, master. There is more. One of our defenders lost his arrows. We found they’d been taken by Gaithey, one of the merchant guests.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “It’s worse than that,” said Jes-hawk. “We found him lining up a shot at Jordam.”

  “What?”

  “We interrupted him in time. He ranted about ridding the world of Cent Regus mongrels.”

  “I’ve sworn to protect Jordam.” Cal-raven stepped through his invisible table, and though he was not much taller than Jes-hawk, he loomed. “No guest in my house can overspeak my word. Lock that merchant up.”

  “In the … in the dungeon, master?”

  “The dungeon?” Cal-raven looked at Scharr ben Fray. “Do we have a dungeon?”

  “Oh yes,” said the teacher. “A corridor of simple cells. We need all three of your keys to open and shut them.”

  “Here are the keys, Jes-hawk,” said the king. “But return them directly to me.” Jes-hawk looked at the keys, terrified.

  Cal-raven grabbed the archer’s hand and pressed the keys into them. “Now, where was I?”

  “Proclaiming a feast,” said the mage.

  “Ah, yes.” Cal-raven began to pace. “A feast in honor of Rescue, who followed the tracks of the Keeper and saved so many of us from fire and trouble.” He half shouted his decision into the cold fireplace. “I will ask Krawg to tell tales of the ale boy’s courage. And we will raise our glasses in hope that he is well.” Then he added quietly, “Wherever he may be.”

  He turned and made a gesture of removing an invisible ring and holding it in the space above the invisible table.

  And he held it there, closing his eyes. “What more, Jes-hawk?”

  “You know how I feel about having guests within these walls, master. We’ve been abused by certain Bel Amicans. We’ve been betrayed by my own sister because of the Bel Amicans’ influence. And we have plenty of Bel Amicans in this house, not to mention merchants, strangers, and a beastman.”

  “Get to the point,” said the king. Had Jes-hawk guessed it was Ryllion in the tower?

  Jes-hawk spoke quickly, as if pleading his case before a judge. “Partayn instructed the guards that he sent after us to search for a missing item. The queen’s cup. He thought one of us might have taken it.”

  “Partayn ordered them to look through our belongings? They have no right to search without my permission unless they would dare suggest that I stole it myself.”

  “They found it, master.”

  Cal-raven opened his eyes. “It was Warney, wasn’t it? The glassworks inspired the One-Eyed Bandit.”

  “The truth is more troubling, master. It was Milora.”

  Cal-raven lowered the imaginary ring and turned to stare at Jes-hawk for a long time. “She confessed?”

  “With furious excuses, yes.”

  “What does she say?”

  “That the goblet was crafted for a different table than Thesera’s.”

  The king shook his head. “She’s a glassworker but not a Bel Amican. And she had a difficult time in that house. Perhaps she made the goblet herself.”

  “She’s compromised our bond with House Bel Amica,” J
es-hawk shot back. “The queen’s hunting a criminal we’ve welcomed into these walls.”

  Cal-raven looked into the cold fireplace.

  “May I offer some counsel, master?” Jes-hawk pressed on.

  “Oh, be so kind.”

  “You are thinking that they’re more than mere crooks,” said Jes-hawk. “That without them we might not have survived the ambush in the ravine. That’s true. But they were fighting for their lives back there. Soon we’ll face contention over territory within these walls. It is time to be clear that Abascar is a house of law.”

  “Throw Milora in the hole, then?” Cal-raven muttered. He stood like a statue during a long, grave silence, until Hagah, sensing the discomfort, whined anxiously and trudged across the room to lean his head against Cal-raven’s hip. At last the king turned to his teacher. “How would you have advised my father?”

  “The goblet belongs to Queen Thesera,” said the mage. “This was a crime against her. She must determine the consequences. It is only for you to deliver the offender back to Bel Amica. But one needn’t be Maugam and flog the offenders. I’d suggest you deprive them of the ale boy’s feast. Lock them up for the night and give them time to ponder their offenses. Refrain from your father’s cruelty, but show your people that feasts are for those who deserve them. Build your reputation as the good sovereign.”

  Cal-raven reached down to scratch Hagah’s head. The dog’s tail thumped the floor.

  “Master?” asked Jes-hawk. “What are your instructions?”

  Cal-raven walked to the window and leaned on the sill, looking down as if he were thinking of jumping. “Let it be as my teacher has said.”

  “Then I take my leave, master.”

  “I give it to you gladly.” Jes-hawk departed in a rush.

  “I am going to the kitchens,” said the king. “I am suddenly very thirsty.”

  25

  THE FUTURES OF HOUSE BEL AMICA

  he ocean teased the netterbeaks, withdrawing the surf’s grey blanket to reveal tide pools teeming with sun-timid life. The birds celebrated, screeching and leaping about, fighting over rabbit-slugs, scamperpinches, pincushions, starfish, and schools of bright orange zippers, until their throats sagged with cargo.

  On the morning’s foggy shore, Cyndere sat just out of the beastchild’s reach, calmly watching the creature pace back and forth. Careful not to show fear, she stroked the long back of the black viscorcat, Dukas, who had reluctantly come along on the stroll.

  The beastchild took bold, proud steps at first, already walking on her small, sturdy, red-haired hind legs, trailing the cord that Cyndere had bound to a jagged fang of stone. Her feet were as nimble as her fingers, and she picked up shells and stones and sniffed them one by one. Sometimes she cracked them with the sharp teeth of her froglike mouth. Sometimes she held them up to the side of her head, to the small earflap, which was shaped like a dinner roll.

  Cyndere waved to the four guards, who kept their distance to avoid distracting the beastchild. Vigilant, the two farther down the sandy strand waved in return, as did the two who waited back the way they had come.

  “May I draw you a picture?” Cyndere approached the black, glassy rock and unpocketed a piece of chalk.

  Dukas remained where he was, tail twitching, glaring in judgment at the beastchild.

  In the rock’s reflective surface, Cyndere could see herself—her yellow hair, short as a boy’s, ruffling in the breeze; and the black stormcloak that had been Deuneroi’s, draped around her shoulders. She tightened the cloak’s cord at her throat. It was good to have something of Deuneroi’s with her.

  “I’ll draw someone you might recognize.”

  The beastchild grumbled, standing at the length of the cord, picking at the slits of her nostrils. But as Cyndere drew the first bold strokes, she saw in the reflection that she had the creature’s attention.

  She had already grown fond of the large, whiteless eyes staring with such fierce interest from a face furry like a raccoon’s but lumpy and toadlike in shape. And the sound—the beastchild’s body seemed a hive of chirping crickets. “What’s human inside you?” she murmured. “How much of the Curse can we tame?”

  She drew the outline of Jordam’s head and shoulders—a very different drawing than she had first made of the beastman. Almost twice the size of any Bel Amican soldier, he was still an impressive figure, his arms long in proportion to his torso, his hands hanging to his knees. His head was a crooked, pock-marked monument of scars, hairless now except for a half-crown of black, bristly hair circling from one ear to the other. His eyes had changed—they were blue and piercing as a wolf’s. His long sloping nose was still noble as a lion’s, his jaw still frightfully bold. No Bel Amican boots yet fit his feet, but he wore garments now, sewn by sisterlies, and he’d made his own belt out of two soldiers’ sword-belts.

  As Cyndere filled in these details, the beastchild began to purr, drawing closer, transfixed.

  Cyndere paused, then lifted a giant sea-snail’s shell to the beastchild’s ear. “Hear that?” she said. “That’s our very own far-off country. I’ll take you there someday. We’ll walk on ground no one has seen before.”

  The beastchild took the chalk from Cyndere’s hand and sniffed it. Then she stepped up to the rock and began to draw small, intricate crease lines along Jordam’s fingers.

  Cyndere stepped away. “I’m not the only one who misses him.”

  Dukas, impatient, ambled around her legs, whimpering for attention. Absently, she stroked the ridge of his spine.

  A guard shouted for Cyndere’s attention. A man on horseback rode south along the beach toward her. She swallowed her surprise, folding her hands behind her back.

  Partayn arrived with his typical bluster, riding a full circle around the rock. The beastchild crouched to growl, but Cyndere set an example by calmly resting on a piece of driftwood.

  Partayn jumped down, patted the horse’s shoulder, and then sat down on the sand. Dukas butted his whiskered brow against Partayn’s shoulder. The bearded man wrapped his arms around the giant cat, and they wrestled in the sand. This, like most human behavior, bewildered the beastchild.

  After the tussle, Partayn leaned back against his sister’s knees and watched the Cent Regus orphan. “Do you know how hard this is? For years I dreamed of plots to kill the Cent Regus.”

  “This is how we change what you knew, brother. We’re making it known that the Curse can be broken. That monsters are made from lack, but they can learn to tame their urges.” She knotted her hands around the sharp shells. “We’ve got to find another well, Partayn. I’ve been reading grandmother’s journals. She heard stories when she was a child. Stories that say the Cent Regus came to Bel Amica for help when the Curse first took hold. But we were happy to see the Cent Regus weaken, thinking it would give us an advantage. We told them that they deserved the consequences of their actions. What might have happened if we’d helped them?”

  Then she turned sharply. “What are you doing here, Partayn? You ignored my counsel. You rode south to find the Curse and destroy it. I’ve been waiting for reports of your death.”

  He brushed sand from his beard. “You told me it was a fool’s errand.”

  “And you told me that we had no choice, that the forest is filling up with viscorclaws. You said we have to kill this problem at the root. But here you are.”

  Partayn stared out at the grey, where the sky blurred into ocean. “We made camp at some bear caves behind Juliweir Hill. And I finally opened my water flask.”

  “And?”

  “Blazing crolca, Cyndere! I drank, and the slumberseed oil knocked me out for two whole days.”

  Cyndere blinked. “Slumberseed oil? In your flask?”

  “You know what happened.”

  She thought about this while Dukas offered Partayn his belly for scratching. Then she laughed. “Wasn’t me! If you insist on riding into danger like that, I want you wide awake!”

  He frowned. “That leaves … one obvi
ous culprit.”

  “A culprit who loves you. What did you think would happen, singing with her, collaborating?”

  “I guess she’d rather I didn’t ride off into battle.”

  “She doesn’t want to compose a lament over your death.”

  “When I woke, I wasn’t right in the head. Worst nightmare. My troop was replaced by beastmen. Weird beastmen too. Reptiles. Bird men. I tried to wake myself up.”

  “And?”

  They paused as the beastchild leapt on Dukas to wrestle him. The cat, furious, broke away and loped to a safe distance, then groomed his front paws to pretend nothing unseemly had happened. And as soon as the disappointed beastchild turned to go back to the drawing, Dukas went after her for a tackle. They tumbled about in the sand.

  “One of my men, Rohrich, said that beastmen had come out of the cave. He’d tried to wake me, but I was under the spell of the slumberseed oil. The beastmen had not hurt them. They’d offered water to my men.”

  “What?”

  “Rohrich led me back into the caves, and I saw them. Seven beastmen. Malnourished, feeble. But they’d found a well.”

  Cyndere put a hand to her heart. “Were there … blue flowers?”

  “Shining blue.” He drew a few petals from his pocket.

  Cyndere covered her mouth to repress a shout.

  “But that’s not why I came back.” He smiled, looking at the beastchild. “Quite an artist you’ve got there. Look at that. It’s Jordam. Right in front of us.”

  Cyndere’s rush of questions was disrupted by the sight. The drawing was now more detailed than anything Cyndere had ever drawn. The beastchild had given Jordam a long, ragged kilt and put a torch in his hand. She’d sketched long red lines across his arms—open wounds from a struggle—and given his toes broken claws.

  “I’m waiting, Cyndere,” said Partayn, amused. “But all I see from your new pet is suspicion.”

  “Waiting for what?”

  “I got your message.”

  “What message?”

  “A messenger arrived at our camp. He said you needed me. And that the creature needed me too.”