Lord Allenach’s Territory, Castle Damhan
I arrived to Damhan just as evening bruised the sky. The courtyard was teeming with life; liveried servants rushing about with lanterns to transport food from the storerooms, fetching water from the well and carrying stacks of firewood in preparations for the feast that night. The coachman opened the door for me, but it was Allenach who eased me to the ground.
“I’m afraid it is getting too late for a tour,” he said, and I stopped to breathe the air—burning leaves, roasting wood, and the smoke from the kitchen fires.
“A tour tomorrow, perhaps?” I requested just as a monstrously large dog came trotting up to us, nuzzling into my skirts. I froze; the dog looked like a wolf, wiry-haired and vicious. “Is . . . is that a wolf?”
Allenach whistled, and the wolf dog at once stepped away from me, blinking up at her master with liquid brown eyes. He frowned down at her. “That is odd. Nessie hates strangers. And no, she is a wolfhound, bred to hunt the wolves.”
“Oh.” I still felt a bit shaky, although Nessie looked back at me, tongue lolling, as if I was her greatest friend. “She seems . . . friendly.”
“Not usually. But she does seem quite taken with you.”
I watched as Nessie trotted off, joining her pack of three other wolfhounds, who were trailing a servant carrying a shank of meat.
Only then did I turn to gaze at the castle.
I recognized it.
Tristan had likened it to a storm cloud that had married the earth. And I found that I agreed with him, for the castle was built of dark stones, reaching upward as a thunderhead. It felt primitive and old—most of the windows were narrow slits, built during a fierce time of constant war, the time before Queen Liadan. And yet it was still welcoming, like a gentle giant opening his arms.
“I might be able to give you a tour tomorrow,” Allenach said, speaking in Middle Chantal even though his brogue caught roughly on the words. And then, as if he wanted to appear more Valenian than Maevan, he offered his hand again and walked me into his home.
He was saying something about dinner in the hall when I noticed that the sconces on the walls began to flicker with heated sparks, as if the flames were being pulled through hundreds of years. My heart quieted when I realized it was old light battling present light, that Tristan was about to summon me to his time. I must have seen something, smelled something in this castle to trigger it, and for half a moment I almost submitted to him, let his memory swarm me. It would be about the stone—a vision I undoubtedly needed to see—yet when I imagined fainting or going into a trance in Allenach’s presence . . . I could not allow that.
I inadvertently tightened my hold on Allenach’s hand, cast my eyes to the stone floors, to the way the light tumbled off my dress. Anything to evade the shift, anything to keep my ancestor at bay. It was like trying to smother a sneeze or a yawn. I watched the walls ripple, eager to melt back in time, watched the shadows try to catch me. And yet I would not submit to them. I felt as if I were tumbling from a tree and I caught myself on a branch—a weak yet stubborn one—just before hitting the ground.
Tristan relented; his grip faded, my pulse throbbing in relief.
“There is the door to the hall,” Allenach said, pointing to a set of tall double doors christened with his armorial banner. “Breakfast and dinner will be served in there for all my guests. And here are the stairs. Let me show you to your room.”
I walked beside Allenach up a long flight of stairs, a maroon carpet rolled out like a tongue to lick every step, up to the second floor. We passed several Valenian men who looked at me with interest but said nothing as they continued on to the hall. And then I began to notice the carvings over the doors, that the threshold of each guest room was dedicated to something, whether it was a phase of the moon, or a certain flower, or a wild beast.
He saw my interest, slowing his pace so I could read the emblem of the closest threshold.
“Ah yes. When my forefather built this castle, his wife had every room blessed,” Allenach explained. “See, this guest room is given to the fox and the hare.” He pointed to the baroque carving of a fox and a hare running in a circle, each chasing the other.
“What does that mean?” I inquired, fascinated with how the fox’s sharp mouth almost clamped on the fluffy tail of the hare, and how the hare almost bit the generous tail of the fox.
“It harkens back to a very old Maevan legend,” Allenach said. “One that warns of stepping through a door one too many times.”
I had never heard of such lore.
He must have sensed my intrigue, for he stated, “To protect oneself against the wiles of thresholds—to ensure a man knew where it would lead him every time he passed from one room to another—it became wise to mark, or bless, each room. This room grants stamina to the Maevan who never let one’s enemy out of sight.”
I met his gaze. “That is fascinating.”
“So most Valenians say, when they stay here. Come, this is the room I think will best suit you.” He led me to an arched door, latticed with iron, blessed with the carving of a unicorn wearing a chain of flowers around its neck.
Allenach took the candle from the nearest sconce and opened the door. I waited as he lit candles in the darkened room, a warning brushing against my thoughts. I was hesitant to be alone with him in a chamber, and my hand drifted to my skirts, feeling the shape of the hidden dirk.
“Amadine?”
I let my hand fall from my gown and tentatively passed beneath the unicorn’s blessing, standing a safe distance from him, watching as the light roused the chamber to life.
The bed was covered with silk embroidery, curtained with red sendal. An old wardrobe sat against one wall, carved with leaves and willow branches, and a small round table held a silver washbasin. There were only two windows framing a stone hearth, both war-inspired slits of glass. But perhaps more than anything, it was the large tapestry hanging from the longest wall that drew my admiration. I stepped closer to look upon it, the endless number of threads coming together to depict a rearing unicorn amid a colorful array of flowers.
“I thought that might catch your eye,” Allenach said.
“So what blessing does this room give?” I asked, warily glancing back to him just as one of his servants brought in my trunk, carefully setting it at the foot of the bed.
“Surely you know what the unicorn embodies,” the lord said, the candle faithfully flickering in his hand.
“We have no unicorn myths in Valenia,” I informed him mournfully.
“The unicorn is the symbol of purity, of healing. Of magic.”
That last word felt like a hook in my skin, his voice pulling on me to see how I would respond. I glanced back to the tapestry, only to shift my eyes from his, remembering that while this lord was appearing friendly and hospitable to me, he was not easing his suspicions. He was not forgetting that I was MacQuinn’s daughter.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmured. “Thank you for choosing it for me.”
“I’ll send one of my servant girls to help you change. Then come down and join us for dinner in the hall.” He departed, closing the door with hardly a sound behind him.
I hurried to unpack my trunk, locating the homespun servant’s dress, apron, and shawl that I would wear two nights from now, when I would sneak out of the castle to find the stone. In the deep apron pocket was my digging spade, and I quickly bundled it all together and hid it beneath the bed, a place the chambermaid would not think to look. I was leisurely unpacking the remainder of my clothes, hanging them in the wardrobe, when the servant girl arrived. She helped me shed the blue gown and white kirtle, refastened my corset even though I was aching to peel it away after wearing it all day. And then she re-dressed me in a gown of silver that bared my shoulders and gathered in a scintillating bodice. The dress flowed like water when I moved, the train following me like spilled moonlight. I had never worn something so exquisite, and I closed my eyes as the girl gathered and pinned my hair up from my neck, leaving a few tendrils loose about my face.
When she left, I reached deep within my trunk to find the silver rose I was to wear in my hair. I twirled it in my fingers, watching the candlelight breathe fire over the small rubies, wondering how simple it would be for me to locate d’Aramitz. A man I had never met, who I was supposed to recognize by a crest. Well, he was here somewhere, I thought and moved to stand before the hanging copper plate that served as a mirror. I watched my dim reflection as I pinned the silver rose behind my ear, and then I wiped away my star mole and redrew it on the ridge of my cheekbone.
Oh, d’Aramitz would know it was me, even without the rose. I was going to stand out like a sore thumb in a hall full of men, even if they were predominantly Valenian.
I began to walk to the door, but I paused, my eyes catching on the unicorn tapestry once more. I had won two victorious battles that day. I had gained passage for Jourdain, and I had made it to Damhan. I let that sink into my heart, let that courage rekindle. Tonight should be very simple, perhaps the cleanest branch of my mission. I did not even have to speak to the third lord, just make eye contact.
I left my room and found the stairs, following the trickle of laughter and the rich aromas of a promising feast all the way to the hall.
I was impressed by it, perhaps even more so than the royal hall. Because Damhan’s hall was some sixty feet long, the high ceiling crafted from exposed wooden beams that arched in complexity, darkened from habitual smoke. I admired the tiles on the floor, which led me to the fire in the middle of the hall, raised on flagstones. The light illuminated the heraldry that guarded the four walls—stags that leaped through crescent moons and forests and rivers.
This was the House I had come from.
Shrewd blessings and leaping stags.
And I savored it, this Maevan hall and all its charms and life, knowing that long ago Tristan had once sat in this hall. I felt close to him, as if he might materialize any moment, might come and brush my shoulder, this man I had descended from.
Yet it wasn’t Tristan who brushed past me, but servants rushing to set platters of food, glazed wine jugs, and ale flagons upon the long trestle tables.
D’Aramitz, I reminded myself. He was my mission tonight.
Most of the Valenian nobles were milling toward the center of the hall while the tables were prepared, holding silver cups of ale and reliving the day’s events to one another. There were also seven thanes of Allenach, intermingling with the Valenians, but I easily identified them by the leather jerkins pressed with the stag.
So I began to quietly move about the clusters of men, my eyes modestly coasting over their chests as I sought the crest of the tree. A few of the men, naturally, tried to catch me in conversation, but I merely smiled and continued on my way.
It felt as if I had wandered about aimlessly for a good while when I finally came upon a gathering of men I had yet to peruse. The first couple were certainly not d’Aramitz. I stopped in weary frustration, until I began to imagine how he should look in my mind. If he was one of the lords, he would be older, around Jourdain’s age most likely. So perhaps a few wrinkles, a few gray hairs.
I had just sketched a very ugly lord in my mind when my eyes were suddenly drawn to a man standing with his back to me. His flaxen hair was bound in a ribbon, and something about his height and manner of stature seemed strangely comforting to me. He was dressed in a dark red jerkin and white long-sleeved linen shirt, his breeches a simple black, yet the longer I looked upon his backside, the more I realized there was no chance for me to unobtrusively circumvent the crowd to see his crest.
He must have sensed my gaze, for he at last turned about and glanced at me. My eyes immediately fastened to the emblem imprinted on the breast of his jerkin. It was the tree Jourdain had shown me. This was d’Aramitz. But he had become very still, so still that it was unnatural.
My gaze slowly moved from the crest to his face—which was in no manner ugly and old but young and handsome. Eyes blue as cornflowers. A mouth that rarely smiled.
I was broken, I was mended as I stared at him, as he stared at me.
For he was not just d’Aramitz, the third fallen lord. He was not just an unfamiliar man I was supposed to make eye contact with and then drift away from.
He was Cartier.