Grimenna Page 7

  When one ranger handed her a bite to eat she smiled her thanks, expecting a kinder response than an icy silence. That ranger had a scarred claw mark streaked down the side of his chin to his neck, where it disappeared under the folds of his cloak. His eyes were a slate gray, almost colorless and empty of kindness. They did not look like they could truly hold thoughts, they looked like the lifeless eyes of a man who had been commanded all his life and whose only duty was to obey. These rangers were not village boys, they were hunting dogs, trained to the master’s whip and the call of the hunt.

  Grodalweir itself was a dismal place. The people who passed them in the streets kept their eyes lowered and their backs stooped, as if trying to ward off a chill that might catch them. None offered acknowledgment to the other, no one called their ‘hello’s or ‘good-day’s. It was as if each thought the other a thief or a scoundrel of some sort, for any looks that were exchanged were mistrustful and guarded. It was entirely unlike Birchloam and it made her heart pang with whimsy for her home.

  Here the streets were dirty and the houses showed signs of neglect and poverty. The only work available, it seemed, were for oxcarters carrying stone from Quarrytown to the Keep, a chandlery that filled the streets with an awful stink of tainted animal fats, and a chapel house whose steps were filled with sleeping dirty urchins and drunks. The farms that encompassed the village were scraggly and unkempt. Some fields were so far gone with weeds and rabbit bushes that there was no use for them but to graze cattle and oxen. The cattle were thin and dirty, their eyes filled with flies.

  Paiva was disconcerted by this town, for it seemed the closer she travelled to the Keep the dirtier and more hostile people became towards each other. She thought of how sad her father would be to see people live in such a way, for clearly, they had no love for each other or even for themselves, and certainly none for the great Forest.

  Yulin pressed them onwards from Grodalweir and by the time the sun waned low in the sky the trees had given way to a great expanse of greening moors, and on the horizon, rose the steepled form of the Keep. They slept in a verderer’s hut that night, and by full sun the next day they had passed through the moors and into the farm fields that encompassed the Keep.

  Paiva was in awe of it when they arrived. She tilted her head back to take in the great expanse of stone walls that stood guard around the Keep. There were men at arms that paced the ramparts above her, banners that flapped in the breeze from the turrets, a cacophony of noises and smells. She felt so very small and out of place and wished for all the world to return home, where stone walls were not the size of mountains and there were not so many people that they did not all know each other by name.

  Yulin led them through the gate and into the bailey square where there were so many things happening at once it made Paiva’s head spin. There were people in bright clothes in colors she had not known could be woven into garments. There were sounds and smells that confused her, wood smoke and hot iron, horse and sweat and refuse and sometimes a wafting cloud of baking bread and the strange spices of roasting meat. There was the din of voices, striking metal, heavy hooves. There were was a dirty man tied to a pillar in the middle of the square, his hands chained and his body covered in the stains of refuse that had been flung at him. He sat dejected, his head bent forwards into his lap while he awaited an unknown sentence.

  Above it all was the Keep itself, rising so tall into the sky it cast all beneath it in its long shadow. Around it wound streets lined with houses and shops, trade guilds and smithies. It was like a beehive. She had not known so many people could all live on top of each other. Yulin sensed her shock at this new world and gave her an understanding smile.

  — «» —

  “The kitchens are a rumor mill, it would be best if you kept to yourself,” Yulin said as he led her from the stables. She nodded absently, too busy reconciling with her new environment. He led her through long stone corridors and up through a series of heavy doors, out into a hall with vaulted ceilings.

  “This is the great hall,” he said. His voice seemed to float away and echo through the large room. There were ornate tapestries hanging on the walls, tall arched windows that flooded with beams of moated light, a massive fireplace that glowed with dying coals. In here it was quiet, the world outside muted by the thick walls.

  He led her across the hall and into another passage, down into the kitchens where she heard the clamor of cook pots and the babble of voices. He came to a door at the bottom of the stairs and rapped sharply, then let himself in. The door gave way to a blast of hot air that smelled of roasting meats and breads, the commotion of noises within amplified.

  “The Master Warden’s here,” a voice bellowed. Paiva entered the kitchen behind Yulin and blinked about. There was a column of steam rising from a simmering pot over an iron stove, a series of bread ovens lined a stone wall, each heated by the inner working of flues from the great fireplace over which spitted chickens were being turned by a freckled girl in a dirty apron. There was a long wooden working table over which many young maids bent their backs while kneading and mixing dough. From the rafters hung bushels of herbs and salted meats. One wall was dedicated to crockery and cupboards, and at the far end of the kitchen were windows above doors to the cellars and storeroom and streets.

  A large woman with graying hair emerged from a cloud of steam and pushed her way through the girls.

  “Master Yulin,” she huffed. Then her eyes landed on Paiva.

  “Hello Aunt Bess,” Paiva said.

  The heavy woman’s red face broke into a grin. “By my soul have you grown, you’re the spitting image of your mother. The last time I saw you, you were still sitting on your father’s knee.” She came and hugged Paiva with damp arms. She smelled of flour and spices. Paiva felt at home once again. Aunt Bessil was but a bigger, louder version of her mother.

  “Did you come with Master Yulin? I expected your father would bring you down in the cart. You must forgive me but I haven’t found you a place to stay yet. No troubles though, I’ll find somewhere for you.”

  “All is well then,” Yulin said, he nodded to Bessil.

  “Ah, Master Yulin, can I fetch you something? I suppose you’ve just come back from the road. Perhaps you’d like to refresh yourself with something?” Bessil asked.

  “Though I have been waiting to taste your cooking again, I have duties to attend to that cannot wait. I will return later for my usual treat.” He bent his head in a curt nod to the both of them and headed back to the stairwell. Paiva noticed then the kitchen had grown quiet and there were a dozen eyes staring at her. Bessil heaved her frame around, bearing her hands on her hips.

  “This is my niece, young Paiva Ibbie. We’ve been expecting her,” she said sweetly to the kitchen. “Now back to work the lot of you, we’ve a supper to prepare for tonight.” She ushered Paiva along to the far side of the kitchen where she opened one of the doors that led down to the cellar. She kindly helped to stow Paiva’s travelling bag atop a row of pickling barrels and then embraced Paiva once again.

  “Your father sent me news of what came to pass,” she said. “I’m only glad that none of you were hurt.”

  “Thank you for taking me on.”

  “Oh it will be a pleasure,” she beamed happily. “Having my own blood in my own kitchen. There’s only one condition.”

  “Yes Aunt Bess, of course.”

  “You don’t steal none of my recipes and give them to your mother.”

  — «» —

  It was late in the evening, after the supper had been served and taken away. Paiva was helping a quiet maid named Dorta to scrub pots in a barrel when Yulin reappeared at the kitchen door. Bessil went over to him and he nodded curtly.

  “Excellent meal, Bessil,” he said. “Finally I have rid myself of the taste of Grodalmeir gravy and dust from the road.” Bessil’s red face seemed to flush deeper and she grabbed hold of her a
pron and mopped at her face.

  “Thank you, Master Yulin. It pleases me to hear it.”

  The quiet maid next to Paiva leaned in close and whispered to her, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” Paiva smiled shyly.

  “I would like to speak with your niece again, if she is not too tired.”

  “No heavens, no,” she said sweetly. She turned her head to the kitchen and barked, “Paiva!”

  Paiva set aside her pots and went with Yulin up the stairwell and out into the great hall. There were low candles burning on the table, a few maids scurrying about to sweep the floor. She followed him out into the hall wherein lurked the shaggy frames of hunting hounds beneath the tables and men at arms standing still beneath the low light of flickering torches. They went into a labyrinth of corridors and then up into a stairwell that seemed to never end.

  She realized they were mounting the tower, and by the time they reached the top she was breathing hard. He led her to a chamber door and rapped on it. A voice from within beckoned him, and he swung the door open. Paiva blinked in confusion, for when she glimpsed the interior of the chamber there seemed to be a hundred faces staring at her. She stepped inside after Yulin, a shiver of fear sneaking up her spine. There were candles burning in the room, casting eerie, flickering light into a hundred pairs of glass eyes in preserved heads of hideous beasts that lined the walls, mounted like trophies, their horror frozen on display. The faces were each unique, each a horrible blend of man and animal and nightmare. She stared at them, too shocked to see the man at his writing desk before her.

  “Ahem,” Yulin said, drawing Paiva’s eyes back down. He looked at her and bowed, suggesting she follow suit. Immediately she bent her knees and bowed her head, pulling her dirty apron into a curtsy.

  “My Lord,” Yulin said, and Paiva realized with a shock who it was she was standing before. “I have brought you the sheep herder’s daughter.”

  Sitting before her dressed in the finest coat of silk and brocade, with chains of gold and silver splashed across his chest and an ornately stitched cap, was Lord Pratermora himself. He was older than Paiva’s father, his perfectly groomed blonde beard heavily streaked with gray. There were deep lines in his brow and about his mouth, but where her father had plenty of lines that crinkled in the corner of his eyes, the Lord had none. His eyes were a pale blue, startling against the deep purple of his robes and coat. They narrowed as they looked at her, as if he saw her very bones through her flesh.

  “She looks afraid. I assume she has only ever imagined what you look like.” A woman’s voice floated out from behind the Lord. She moved from the window and stepped closer to the light. Paiva had to blink again, not believing what she saw.

  A milky face with deep, pooling eyes came closer, belonging to a woman much younger than the Lord — beautiful, exquisite, as if made of clay. Her hair was the burnt red of the setting sun, strung up with a glitter of pearl pins. Her gown was the same deep and expensive purple of the Lord’s, silken and flowing with intricate designs. Looped through her arms was a throw made of orange fox fur to keep off the chill of the tower. When Paiva met the lady’s eyes, the chill deepened.

  “I am Lady Ceitra,” she said. “Please sit, and speak with us. We talked about you over our supper tonight and we were curious to meet you.” Lady Ceitra’s eyes followed Paiva as Yulin offered her a chair before the Lord’s writing desk. There was a small smile that pulled at Ceitra’s perfectly shaped lips. It was not unfriendly, but neither was it warm.

  “Yulin tells me of what came to pass with Varloga,” the Lord began, and Paiva felt a rush of relief for not having to tell a curbed tale to the imposing man before her. “We are all curious as to the reasons why Varloga chooses the people he does. He is like a hawk, forever circling in the light of the sun that blinds the hares below him. He is always there, always watching and waiting. Of a sudden he will strike, leaving the warren of hares ruined with terror and grief.”

  “I do not know, Milord. I wish I did. But I am safe now, behind your great walls.”

  Paiva saw the corner of Pratermora’s lips lift in a smile. It was a sad smile that did not reach his eyes. “So you are. You see these faces about you, lining my walls?” He lifted his pale eyes to the flickering walls. Paiva followed them, fear turning her blood cold.

  “What are they?”

  “Demons, nightmares let loose from hell,” he said. “Or what someone from Birchloam would call a Folka. This is a collection of preserved heads that began with my forefathers. Every time a Wilderman culls a Folka he brings me its head back and asks for his pardon. Only the finest are mounted on my wall; only the finest are worthy of a pardon.” Paiva looked away and found that Ceitra’s dark eyes were on her, studying her with that curious little smile.

  “One day Varloga’s head will be on that wall,” Pratermora said. “But I must know why it is he hunts the people he does. I must find some weakness to cripple him.”

  “I cannot tell you, Milord.”

  “No, I didn’t expect you to give me any answers. I just wanted to look at you. I wanted to see if there was something about you that was different. But you are just another girl, like many others.”

  “Her eyes,” Ceitra said. Yulin and Pratermora both looked at her curiously. Ceitra’s strange smile grew, though it did not touch her eyes. Her eyes remained secret, liquid pools.

  “She does have peculiar eyes, does she not, My Lord?” Ceitra said.

  “Green maybe,” Pratermora said indifferently. “Yulin’s eyes are green as well.”

  “But there is a gold in them. Very peculiar, very stunning.”

  “Varloga does not go about collecting eyes,” the Lord returned.

  “No not eyes, My Lord, but souls. Those pretty eyes are linked to her soul. Every thought, every feeling that she has, you can see it in the light that passes through them, as anyone’s soul can be seen. Perhaps that is something to think about.”

  “What would be different from her soul than any other girls?” Pratermora asked. “There is no pattern to the people Varloga takes. Some are poor, some are highborn. Some are children, some are old. Even when we researched their lineage, there was nothing that linked them. No great ancestor, no old blood that connected them from times past. There is no rhyme or reason to it.”

  “There is always a reason,” Ceitra said. She went and fetched a decanter of wine from the far end of the room, her skirts gliding behind her, her footsteps echoing with sharp clicks of her heels. The sightless, soulless glass eyes stared down at Ceitra as she took a sip from her drink. “There is a reason why the woods are filled with nightmares. There is a reason why Varloga has risen again.”

  Paiva felt like a specimen in a glass case hanging on the wall of the apothecary shop in Birchloam. People were forever eyeing them, trying to identify the creatures so neatly pinned on display.

  “Of course there is a reason, my dear,” Pratermora said. “I just can’t fathom it. I am so tired of being afraid of what I do not understand.”

  “Who else has been taken?” Paiva asked timidly. She saw a shadow slip across Pratermora’s face.

  “Perhaps we shall call it an evening then,” Yulin said. “My weary back is aching for its bed. As you can see, I have discovered nothing new.”

  “No,” Pratermora said. “Good night Yulin.”

  “Good night, Paiva Ibbie,” Ceitra called from the window. “I am ever so glad Yulin was kind enough to bring you all this way.”

  “Yes, Milady. Goodnight.” She rose from her seat and gave another wobbly curtsy, then followed Yulin back down the stairs. Yulin grabbed a torch from the wall and quietly escorted her back to the kitchens.

  Bessil commented on the weary rings beneath his eyes and ushered him off to bed with a small sweet tart she tucked in a napkin for him. Then the kitchen was tidy and empty but for her and Paiva. A low fire crackled in the great
oven and there was a lamp lit on the work table beside a mug of ale Bessil had been drinking.

  “Well like I said, I didn’t know you were coming so soon and I didn’t have a chance to find room in the maid’s quarters,” said Bessil. “You’ll have to sleep here in the kitchens, and if you ask me it’s the coziest place in all the Keep, especially in winter, right by the oven. You wake up smelling like a loaf of fresh baked bread.” On the wall alongside the oven was a frame of wood hanging on the wall. Bessil unlatched a hook and the boards fell away on a hinge, catching on two chains to make a very long collapsible shelf. There was a thin mattress on it that puffed a cloud of dust and flour when Bessil beat it clean. Paiva realized this was her bed.

  “I never thought I would end up here,” Paiva said, staring at the flimsy bed. She sat on it and tested her weight while Bessil fetched blankets and a flour sack stuffed with hay for a pillow. “I never thought I would meet the Lord and Lady of the land.”

  “Ah, how did that go? What did you think of them lot upstairs?”

  “Lady Ceitra is so beautiful. Pratermora must have picked her from some faraway place.”

  Bessil heaved a laugh. “You think Ceitra is Pratermora’s wife?” She cackled. “My goodness, what do they teach you up in Birchloam? Everyone in all the land knows that Ceitra is the widow of Pratermora’s son. Pratermora’s own wife died long ago. The Dark Spirits got her in the end.”

  Paiva recalled the shadow that had fallen over Pratermora’s face. “I never knew. I suppose I was really never interested. Father’s always talking of old families and lineages, it’s hard to keep track. All I knew was there was some old man in a tower at the other end of the land that we had to make sure we paid our taxes to. I know all the local gossip, though. I know almost everything that happens in Birchloam the moment it happens.”