Gerald crouched down before her and reached out his hand, but the girl shrank away. He withdrew it and spoke as gently as he could.
“Of course you do, Rosella, as do we all. No one would ever doubt your loyalty to Lord Stephen or the children.”
Rosella’s gaze came to rest on his face and remained there; within her eyes Gerald could see madness burning.
“I do, sir, I love them all.”
“Yes, yes, of course you do.”
“I love them.”
“I know.”
Outside the windows the wind picked up, howling furiously. Rosella’s dark eyes darted away again, and she began to whimper like a frightened child.
Gerald reached out to her once more, and once again she reared away. “It’s all right, Rosella,” the chamberlain said soothingly. “It’s all right.” The governess began to mutter to herself, incoherently now. When Gerald caught her eye again, it had clouded over, reflecting the light of the snow.
“The duke,” she whispered repeatedly. “The duke.”
Gerald Owen remained crouched for a long time, ignoring the screaming protest of his knees and back, not moving, until her muttering finally ceased. Afraid what she might do if he were to frighten her, he stood slowly and backed away. He put out his hand again.
“Rosella?”
“The duke,” she whispered. The terror on her face resonated in Gerald’s soul.
“I’ll get him,” he said. “Don’t move, Rosella.”
As the door closed behind the chamberlain, the voice in the wind grew louder.
Now, Rosella.
It had been howling at her for hours, directing her to its will, berating her incompetence, her stupidity. It no longer threatened, no longer growled, only whispered softly in the darkness past the closed windows.
Now, Rosella.
The governess’s face hardened, and her trembling stopped. The pain in her frozen feet from when she had stood at the balcony edge in the snow ebbed until it vanished.
Slowly she rose and went to the sideboard. The heavy stopper of the decanter tumbled smoothly down the skirt of her dressing gown and onto the floor, where it spun in rolling circles under the table. The small shard of glass from where the fall chipped it twinkled in the reflected light.
She took a crystal snifter and righted it, then held it up in the dancing light of the snow. The curved bowl caught the illumination and held it in the glass like liquid moonlight.
Now, Rosella.
Rosella set the snifter on the sideboard, then opened the tiny drawstring of the cloth sack, damp and deeply wrinkled from the clutching of her hands. She upended the sack into the snifter, then took the decanter of brandy from the floor and splashed a finger of the liquid into the glass. She swirled the snifter slowly, watching the fine powder catch the currents in the brandy and vanish into them, then held the glass up to the snowy light again.
Now, Rosella.
She put the glass to her lips.
“If you love me, or my children, you won’t drink it.”
Rosella spun around. Lord Stephen stood before her in his nightshirt; in the light spilling from the hallway she could see Gerald Owen as well at the door.
“Give me the glass.”
“M’lord—”
“Now, Rosella.”
The words of her beloved master shattered the grasp of the voice in the wind that had wound around her mind. She reached out her hand with the glass; it was shaking violently.
Stephen took the snifter, gently prying her fingers from around the bowl. He walked to the cold fireplace and hurled it into the dark stones at the back, then returned to the sideboard.
“Who gave you the adder-flower extract?”
Rosella’s lip was trembling, but her gaze was clear.
“I don’t know, m’lord.”
“You don’t know?”
“Forgive me, m’lord,” she whispered. “I can’t remember.”
Stephen felt his heart lurch. The words were the same; he had heard them spoken before. They came from the lips of a Lirin soldier, just before the hangman slipped the noose around his neck. The man had been caught, along with the rest of his party, slitting the throat of Stephen’s wife. He had continued to saw at Lydia’s neck, decapitating her, even as Stephen’s soldiers dragged at him, choosing to remain focused on his grisly task rather than to fight or escape.
Why? Stephen had demanded, his voice breaking along with his heart, as he stood face-to-face with the man on the gallows. At least tell me why.
I don’t know, m’lord.
Who gave you the order?
I—I can’t remember.
It had been the same with each of the soldiers executed that day, even to the last, whose sentence he had offered to commute in exchange for the information.
I can’t remember. I am sorry, m’lord.
The soldiers of the Sorbold column that had attacked the winter carnival had stood, staring blankly at the smoking ruins of the holiday festival.
Why?
I—I don’t know, m’lord.
Who gave the order?
I can’t remember.
The woman standing before him was trembling violently. Stephen stared into her eyes, which were filled with dark terror and uncertainty, and felt for a moment he could see straight into her heart. He took her into his arms.
“All right, Rosella,” he said finally. “All right.” He gestured at Gerald Owen, who in turn opened the door and allowed the two guards who had been waiting outside in the hall at Stephen’s command to enter the library.
“Take her to the tower,” he said quietly to the chamberlain as the guards led her away. “Make her comfortable; do not treat her like a prisoner. She’s ill.”
“Shall I send word to Llauron, m’lord? Perhaps Khaddyr could do something for her.”
Stephen shook his head. “No. I have to think about this, Owen. Until I decide what to do, I’m not going to involve anyone else, not even Llauron.”
“I understand, m’lord.” Gerald Owen picked up the decanter and the small empty bag, bowed, and left the library.
Stephen sighed as the door closed.
“I wish I did.”
38
Deep in the Forest of Tyrian, at the Veil of Hoen
The morning light broke over the forest, shining through the flakes of quietly falling snow. All around them the woods were silent, and the absence of sound seemed to grow deeper with each step. Occasionally one of the children would whimper, or giggle nervously, but by and large even they felt the heavy stillness in the air and succumbed to it.
Oelendra stopped, and Rhapsody followed her lead, clicking softly to the mare. They were in a forest clearing, unremarkable in its appearance, with heavy woods around them on all sides, impenetrable to the eye. There was a solemnity to the place, a deep and ancient song of power that Rhapsody could feel in her bones. She looked at her friend.
Oelendra was casting her gaze around the forest, as if trying to discern a direction. Finally her eyes opened wider, and she pointed off into the distance.
“There ’tis, the alder with the split trunk. That was my landmark.”
Rhapsody followed Oelendra’s direction with her eyes until she, too, saw the tree, and she nodded. “How far is it from there?”
Oelendra shook her head. “I don’t know,” she answered quietly, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the clearing. “You’ll see what I mean in a moment. There’s a bend in Time around here somewhere; ’tis the best I can describe it. I had passed this way a thousand times before that night and I had never seen the Veil of Hoen.”
Rhapsody nodded and looked off into the distance again. The Veil of Hoen, the Cymrian word for Joy, was the doorway to the realm of the Lord and Lady Rowan, the entities Oelendra had told her about the first night they met. There was something mystical about these legendary people, the Keeper of Dreams and her mate, the Peaceful Death, something beyond Rhapsody’s comprehension. Had anyone but Oe
lendra related the tale of Ashe’s rescue to her, she would have suspected an unhinged mind or an excessive amount of ale, but Oelendra’s words were always carefully considered, and carried the ring of knowledge when she used them. The Lord and Lady, she had said, only intervened, only allowed guests, in cases of life and death. She swallowed, hoping they would consider this situation worthy.
“Perhaps it only is visible when you need it to be,” she suggested, patting the mare on the flank.
Oelendra shrugged. “Perhaps,” she said, and she squinted, looking into the forest again. Then she turned and took Rhapsody by the shoulders. “There is something you need to remember. Time does not pass there the way it does here. I was within their realm for hours, perhaps days, when they were working on Gwydion.” The reflection of a cloud passed in her silver eyes, or perhaps it was just the irony of the memory. Oelendra had taken the news of Ashe being alive with a solemn silence, back when Rhapsody had first returned to Tyrian, seeking her help with the children of the F’dor. She had often wondered what the Lirin warrior was thinking, but Oelendra never shared her thoughts about it. “When he—after there was nothing more I could do, and the Lord Rowan sent me back, nothing had changed from the moment I had entered, Rhapsody; my saddle was still warm. You may find yourself staying for a very long time, months, years perhaps, but when you come back it may only be a moment later than when you went in. It may be hard for you to find your place in Time again.”
Rhapsody patted her hand. “Thank you,” she said. “I know where I will come first for help if I lose my way.”
For the first time since they had entered the wood Oelendra smiled. “Well, that’s a lesson you have learned well. My door is always open to you, dearest. My home is yours. Now, I will wait here with the children, and him.” She gestured toward the gladiator, propped up in the saddle of the roan Oelendra had led, his eyes bleary in the herb-induced stupor. “I hope you find them.”
Rhapsody swallowed hard. She tried not to think about what she would do if she couldn’t. Slowly she drew Daystar Clarion and held it before her, watching the twisting flames whisper up the shining blade, gleaming with the light of the stars. She ran the tips of her fingers through the fire, feeling the humming pulse in her skin; at her touch the flames leapt and roared, quieting into a windy billow a moment later. Then with a decisive jab she plunged sword, tip first, into the snow to serve as a marker and walked away without looking back.
She had walked for what seemed like a very long time, stepping in the ankle-deep snow, leaving almost no trail. The wind blew gently here, and the breeze was warm, even in the depths of winter. Though she had no idea where she was going, and barely knew from where she had come, Rhapsody did not have the sense of being lost. She closed her eyes and drank in the song of the forest, deeper, more solemn, than the song of Tyrian she had come to know so well.
The song resonated louder to the west, and she followed it blindly, her hands outstretched before her. It was a deep, warm melody, like the song of miners in the depths of the hills, what the Earth itself sounded like when she heard it singing while traveling along the Root. It undulated on the wind, growing stronger in one direction; Rhapsody turned toward it and opened her eyes.
The air before her and all around her was shrouded in mist, thick with silver vapor. The droplets sparkled in the air, reflecting the light of the rising sun. It was like standing within a cloud, with the sky and forest no longer visible. She put out a hand to brush the mist away; it did not move, but rather hung heavy in the air, like rain that had frozen in time.
Rhapsody wandered for a while, trying to find the other side of the misty Veil, but the fog was ever-present, inviolable. She called out every few minutes, but heard nothing; no voice or birdcall answered her. Directions became difficult, then impossible, to discern. She began to fear losing her way. Finally she sighed, the sound swallowed by the thick layers of vapor, and turned back to Oelendra and the children again.
She could see them at the very edge of her vision after a few minutes, clustered around and on the horses in the distant part of the fog. Rhapsody quickened her step, trotting through the snow, until she came within clear sight of them. She stopped in her tracks.
The children of the demon were as they had been when she had left them. The person holding the reins of the roan was not Oelendra, however, but rather a slim, pale woman with hair as white and silver as the mist, dressed in a plain white robe. She smiled and held out the reins of the mare to Rhapsody, who took them as if entranced, then turned and walked off into the thickening fog. A moment later Rhapsody shook her head as if shaking off sleep, and followed the woman, leading the horse and the children into the mist.
After a long time the fog began to dissipate. At first Rhapsody didn’t notice it, she was too focused on following the woman in white and the children, but eventually she became aware of a few trees here and there, then some denser patches of woods, until at last the mist evaporated like smoke in the heat of the sun rising in the sky above them. Rhapsody found herself in a forest not unlike Tyrian, except that it was spring or early summer. The ground was green, as were the leaves and new shoots of the trees, many of which were white birches, ashes, silver maples, and pale beech trees, their ivory bark giving the woods an otherworldly appearance.
The children, who until then had been solemnly silent, began to talk softly to each other, then laugh, and finally to run about, enjoying the sun. It was as if an enormous weight had been lifted from them; now they felt as if they could fly, and so they tried, extending their arms wide and dashing in between the trees and up small rises, leaping and giggling.
Rhapsody smiled as she turned to survey them all and caught the eye of the Lady, who had been watching her intently. She colored under the stare, and the woman smiled. Then she turned toward the deeper part of the wood and two young men appeared, dressed as the woman was, in white robes. They took the semiconscious gladiator down from the roan and led him and the horse away toward a settlement of small huts, visible to Rhapsody for the first time only in that moment.
Rhapsody turned back to the children and her heart leapt to her throat; they were gone. Only the woman in white remained, and she approached the Singer slowly, her hands extended. Rhapsody took them in her own; they were warm, as her mother’s had been as she brushed Rhapsody’s hair before the fire in childhood. Aches and pains she did not even know she had been carrying vanished, along with the raw, black patches of frostbite, leaving her feeling whole and rested, though not entirely awake. The pale woman spoke. Her voice was like the soft sigh of the warm wind.
“You need not fear, they are well attended. Come; I will show you your place here.” She led Rhapsody by the hand over the rise of a hill to a small thatched hut, the same as she had seen in the settlement. She nodded to it. Rhapsody blinked in her inner fog.
“But what if they wake in the night, crying?” she asked. She had not even thought of the question; it was as if it had been placed directly into her mouth, bypassing her mind.
“They never will,” a voice answered behind her. Rhapsody turned to see a pale man, attired in the same type of robe, but the color of night. His eyes were black as pitch, and deep; Rhapsody felt she easily could fall into those eyes. They were crowned with black thundercloud brows that gave way to snowy white hair. Suddenly she realized that the question had been put into her mouth so that she would hear the answer. She felt the heavy sleep fall off her shoulders like a woolen cloak, clearing her mind at last.
“Thank you for taking them in, m’lady, m’lord,” she said. “I will do whatever I can to help in any way.”
“Good,” said the man. His face was solemn. “They will need your help more than you can imagine.”
“Come, child,” said the woman, smiling. She held out her hand again. Rhapsody took it once more, and followed the Lady Rowan deeper into the peaceful forest.
The realm of the Rowans was a serene one by all appearances. The children ran about, playing in the s
unshine, their joyful voices shrieking and laughing through the forest, breaking the stillness. Rhapsody did not see the gladiator, but all the other children were there, frolicking in between the trees, even Quan Li, the oldest girl, who up until that point had been serious and reserved. The sight gladdened her heart. She felt a hand touch her elbow, and she turned. The Lady was beckoning to her.
They walked over the rise of a hill and came to a stop under a stand of white birch trees. In the valley at the foot of the hill was a large wood building without ornament except for a thin wooden steeple crowned with a silver star. She followed the Lady down the hill and into the building.
Inside it was dark and cool, with a rotunda off which were a number of doors. The Lady opened one across the rotunda from the door they had entered by and stepped back, allowing Rhapsody to go in.
The room was dark as well, with a wealth of beeswax candles in boxes and the minty smell of pipsissewa, a herb used for easing the pain of the dying. Open bags of other medicinal herbs, juniper puffballs and shepherd’s purse, lay on the table, their contents scattered across its top. In the center of the room was a plain cot with short legs, close to the floor, and several tables with strange-looking implements and containers. The Lady offered her a candle, and she took it. The beeswax was soft and fragrant; there was something hypnotic about holding it. She extended a finger to light it, but the Lady shook her head.
“Not yet.” Rhapsody curled her finger back into her fist quickly. The Lady smiled reassuringly. “Before you light the candle, you must understand that it is a promise.”
“A promise?”
“Yes, and one you may not be willing to make.”
Rhapsody blinked. “What is the promise?”
“Come, and I will show you.” The Lady walked through the door of the room and went to the next door, which she opened as before. Rhapsody looked in to see an identical room, except that on the cot was the gladiator, asleep. She turned and looked questioningly at the Lady, who nodded at the demon’s oldest child. Rhapsody looked back at him again.