Authors: Mark Anthony
A triumphant smile touched Kyrene’s full lips. “Do not misunderstand me. No one would ever say that Boreas is not a fine and good king.”
They just think it a lot
, Grace added the unspoken implication.
“However,” Kyrene said, “it is true Boreas follows the Mysteries of Vathris. And the Cult of the Bullslayer is a cult of warriors. One cannot fault them for being predisposed toward conflict and violence. It is in their blood.”
Grace bit her lip. The Cult of Vathris? Was that a religion of some sort? Knowing would certainly help her in grasping Kyrene’s motives, but she couldn’t ask the countess about it—to do so would show her ignorance.
“Are you saying you think King Boreas is a warmonger?” Grace asked instead.
Kyrene clucked her tongue. “Words are such tricky things, love.”
And so are you
, Grace said to herself.
Love
.
Aloud she said, “I can’t claim to care much for war, but sometimes it’s necessary in times of trouble.”
“There are other methods for averting trouble. Subtler methods, but just as powerful—perhaps even more so. Men are such obvious creatures. They have difficulty seeing these things. But there are those who do.”
Grace did not like guessing games. “And they are?”
The glint in Kyrene’s eyes matched that within the large emerald in the cleft of her bosom. “For now I believe it is enough to say there will be those at the Council of Kings with interests different from those of Boreas. You may not wish to sell your allegiance just yet, my lady.”
“I wasn’t aware that I had.”
Kyrene drew near. Now the scent of apricots was cloying. It filled Grace’s head, made her mind dull and torpid. The countess spoke in a low voice.
“Boreas is a strong king. But do not be mistaken by that
strength. He is a man, and like all men he can be controlled. A few herbs, the proper words—I can show you the way. Why should you serve him, my lady, when it can be the other way?”
Grace could not look away from Kyrene’s eyes. They filled her vision, as if she were falling into deep emerald seas. Then she felt it—a presence reached for her, groped, searched for secret places. A spark of rage flared in Grace’s brain. No. She had vowed. No one would ever touch her like that again.
Leave me alone
!
Grace did not speak the words, but Kyrene stumbled back as if struck a blow. A look of shock was written across her lovely face. Then something else crept into her expression. It might almost have been … admiration.
Aryn stepped forward, and her slight form trembled inside her blue gown. “King Boreas is not a warmonger! He’s simply concerned about the Dominions. As everybody should be in these times!”
By the time Aryn finished, Kyrene had already regained her composure. Her nod was curt. “As you wish, Lady Aryn.” She paused for a moment beside the chamber door. “Consider my words, Lady Grace. Come to me if you wish to know more.” Then with a flash of green the countess was gone.
Aryn let out a frustrated groan. “What on Eldh was that all about?”
Grace shook her head. “I’m not sure.” Her mind was still vague and dizzy. It had felt as if Kyrene had come close—too close—and she had pushed the countess away. But how?
“She thinks she’s so important.” Aryn glared at the door. “I don’t recall anyone crowning
her
queen.”
Grace hardly heard the baroness. A terrible weariness seized her, and she sank into a chair. “I don’t think I can do this, Aryn.”
Aryn turned around at these quiet words.
“I don’t think I can go to the feast.” Grace hugged her knees to her chest. “Or be King Boreas’s spy. It’s too much.”
“Of course you can do it.”
“No, I can’t. I’m not who you think I am.”
The baroness sighed. “Is that what troubles you, Grace? But it doesn’t matter what kingdom you hail from, or what
your rank really is. King Boreas doesn’t care, and neither do I. You’re a noble lady, and you’re here to help us, and that’s all that matters.”
“No, you don’t understand, Aryn. I’m not royalty. And I’m not from any kingdom. I’m not even from this …”
It rushed out of her before she could stop it.
“… I’m not even from this world.”
Aryn gazed at her, confusion apparent on her face.
Now, Grace. You have to tell her. You have to end this game before it’s too late, before it starts getting dangerous. If it hasn’t already
.
Still curled in the chair, Grace gazed at the coals on the hearth, and the words tumbled out of her. She spoke about the hospital, and the man with the iron heart, and the weird preacher who had shown her the door at the old orphanage. She spoke about everything—everything except her true connection with the Beckett-Strange Home for Children. Because if she talked about the orphanage, then she would have to talk about the hands that had reached out of the dark, and the fire that had consumed them, and she could never talk about them. Never.
“Grace …?”
The word startled her, and only then did she realize she had fallen silent. She looked up and expected to see disbelief—or mocking, or even disgust—on the oval of Aryn’s face. Instead she saw tears. They traced shining trails down the baroness’s cheeks.
“You … you believe me?” Grace whispered.
Despite her tears, Aryn smiled. “How could I not believe you, Grace? You’re my friend.” She let out a deep breath. “No, I don’t pretend to understand everything you’ve told me. Yet, from the moment I saw you, I knew there was something different about you, an otherworldly air—if not from the Twilight Realm of the Little People, then from this
Earth
of which you speak. While I find great wonder at your story, I confess I am not altogether surprised by it.”
Grace opened her mouth to reply, but she could manage no words. She had never expected to find this kind of trust, this kind of acceptance. Certainly not here, a world away from the life she had always known.
“Now,” Aryn said, her tone brisk, “we still have a feast to
get ready for. No matter who you are or where you’re from, tonight, here in Calavere, you’re the Duchess of Beckett, and the king is expecting you.” She opened the wardrobe and drew out a pair of gowns. “Tell me, does Her Radiance prefer green or violet?”
Grace laughed as sunlight poured through the window.
That afternoon, Aryn was called away to help Lord Alerain with preparations for the feast, and Grace began to contemplate escape. She stared out the lone window of her chamber at the cobblestones two dozen feet below and finally decided facing a room of strange lords and ladies was in fact preferable to plummeting to her death, although only just barely. She donned the violet wool gown Aryn had chosen for her, fastened the leather pouch containing the silver half-coin and her necklace around her waist, and sat down by the fire with a book to study. At sundown a young page whose haircut spoke volumes about the bowl which had inspired it came to her door, and she nodded wordlessly when he asked her to follow him.
They paused before a set of double doors. Low sounds emanated from the other side.
Just don’t faint, Grace. It would be very unduchesslike
.
The doors swung open and created such a draft that Grace was whisked into the great hall of Calavere before she even thought to take a step. A trumpet to either side let out a piercing note, and she cringed as if a gun had gone off by her ear.
“Her Radiance, the Duchess of Beckett!” announced a booming voice.
The dull roar of conversation that had filled the hall dropped to a murmur. A hundred pairs of eyes turned in Grace’s direction. She froze like a deer in the headlights of a car. What was she supposed to do? She searched the hall in panic for a face she recognized—someone, anyone she could pretend she was glad to see, move toward, and in the process extricate herself from the scrutiny of the crowd.
There was no one. Every face in the great hall—knight and noble, servant and attendant alike—was a stranger’s. Grace could not remember the last time she had felt so utterly alone.
“Come with me,” a deep voice growled in her ear.
Grace was too relieved to be startled. A strong hand gripped her elbow and steered her toward a nearby alcove. She blinked and found herself gazing at the handsome face of King Boreas.
“Your Majesty!” She began a flustered curtsy.
He scowled. “Didn’t I order you not to do that?”
“I don’t think so, Your Majesty.”
“Well, I am now. I hate the way everyone is constantly bowing and curtsying around me. It makes me seasick.”
Grace snapped up straight. She had forgotten just how imposing the king was. He was clad all in black and silver, and his black hair and beard shone in the torchlight.
“As you wish, Your Majesty.”
This elicited a bullish snort. “If only people
would
do as I wished. Then I wouldn’t have had to call this damnable council in the first place. So, have you found out where the nobles of the other Dominions stand?”
“I only just arrived at the feast.”
The king grunted, as if he found this a poor excuse.
Grace hurriedly continued. “You asked if I had found out where the other nobles stand. Where they stand on what, may I ask?”
He clenched a big hand into a fist. “On war. What else? I need to know which of the Dominions are ready and willing for war, and which are not.”
“War against who, Your Majesty?”
His steel-blue eyes narrowed. “Who do you think, my lady?” he asked in a perilous voice. “Against those who would threaten the Dominions, of course.”
She took an instinctive step back. “Of course, Your Majesty.” Even as she said this, she could not help thinking about Kyrene’s words. Why was the king so interested in war? While Aryn had spoken of an early winter, and disease, and outlaws roaming the highway, Grace had heard nothing of an organized threat such as one might fight with an army.
“I’ll leave you to your task,” Boreas said. “I have guests I
must attend to before Lord Alerain starts scolding me like a mother hen.”
The king stalked away and left Grace to catch her breath. Aryn appeared a moment later. Clearly she had been watching from a short distance. The baroness was wearing the same gown she had the day Grace had first met her—a sapphire blue that matched her large eyes—and her dark hair was braided and coiled beneath a net of fine cloth studded with small gems.
“Isn’t this exciting, Grace?”
Grace raised an eyebrow. “That’s a word for it—though probably not the one I would have chosen.”
The baroness sighed. “I wish I could be like you, Grace.”
“Why would you wish for a thing like that?”
“You’re so noble, so regal. Even that first day, in a servant’s tunic, Alerain and Kyrene and King Boreas took you for royalty. And now …” She shook her head and halted Grace’s protest. “Yes, I know what you told me earlier. I know on … on your world, on Earth you’re a doctor, but that doesn’t change what you look like, the way when you entered the hall just now you commanded everyone’s attention.”
The words left Grace dumbfounded.
Aryn whispered in amazement. “You really don’t know, do you?”
She took Grace’s hand and led her toward a corner. A mirror of polished silver had been hung upon the wall, so that courtiers might check and adjust their attire during the course of the feast. Grace did not recognize the woman in the mirror. She was tall, clad in a trailing gown the color of winter violets, with a slender neck and high cheekbones. Her hair was short but elegant, swept back to reveal small ears, and her eyes shone like sun on leaves.
She looks like a queen
. Only then, with a start, did Grace realize the image was herself.
Was that why everyone had stared at her? Not out of mockery, but out of …? It was too absurd. She was an overworked resident from an underfunded city hospital. That was all. Grace turned away from the mirror. She opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment a voice rose over the noise of conversation.
“Aryn of Elsandry!”
The baroness winced.
Grace gave her a wry smile. “It sounds like the king wants you.”
“However did you guess?” Aryn started to move away, then hesitated.
“Go,” Grace said. “I’ll be fine. Really.” She tried to sound as if she meant it.
Aryn gave her a small wave. “I’ll come find you again when I can.”
For the first time since she had entered the hall, Grace was both alone and out of the glare of attention. She took the opportunity to look around and get her bearings.
The great hall of Calavere had been decorated to resemble a winter forest. Boughs of evergreen and holly hung from the soot-blackened beams high above, and more had been heaped along the base of the walls. Their icy scent mingled with the smoke of torches. Leafless saplings stood in the corners of the hall, to suggest the edges of a sylvan glade, and even the tapestries on the walls added to the illusion with their scenes of stag hunts and forest revels, woven in colors made dim and rich with time.
Only one object countered the forest illusion and seemed out of place. It stood against one wall, not far from the doors, a hulking thing of dark stone. Grace drew near. It was a massive ring as wide across as she was tall. It hung over a wooden base, parallel to the floor, balanced between two thick posts. Now that she studied it, Grace was not certain if the artifact was hewn of stone or metal. Unable to guess what purpose it could serve, she moved on.
The floor of the great hall was strewn with fresh rushes, and a dozen long trestle tables stood at right angles to the king’s table, which rested on a dais at the far end of the hall. A score of servants still scurried about. The feast proper had not yet begun, and the gathered nobles wandered the hall, goblets of spiced wine in their hands, and paused here and there to make conversation. Grace was oddly reassured. Except for the archaic costumes and the stone walls, it didn’t look much different from the annual Christmas party at Denver Memorial, and she had survived enough of those.
Besides, medieval nobles couldn’t possibly be more arrogant and scheming than hospital management.
She was right. The moment she started wandering the great hall she knew that, given a tunic and a feathered hat, Morty Underwood would have fit right in. What she had forgotten was, at Denver Memorial Hospital, she had been a lowly resident. Here she was Grace, the duchess of Beckett. In moments they had her cornered.