I told my­self it was Smithy who led us so dir­ectly to Molly’s shop. Pup­py­like, he had re­turned to where he had been wel­comed be­fore. Molly’s father had kept his bed that day, and the shop was fairly quiet. A single cus­tomer lingered, talk­ing to Molly. Molly in­tro­duced him to me as Jade. He was a mate off some Seal­bay trad­ing ves­sel, not quite twenty, and he spoke to me as if I were ten, smil­ing past me at Molly all the while. He was full of tales of Red Ships and sea storms. He had a red stone ear­ring in one ear, and a new beard curled along his jaw. He took far too long to se­lect candles and a new brass lamp, but fi­nally he left.

  ‘Close the store for a bit,’ I urged Molly. ‘Let’s go down to the beach. The wind is lovely today.’

  She shook her head re­gret­fully. ‘I’m be­hind in my work. I should dip tapers all this af­ter­noon if I have no cus­tom­ers. And if I do have cus­tom­ers, I should be here.’

  I felt un­reas­on­ably dis­ap­poin­ted. I ques­ted to­ward her, and dis­covered how much she ac­tu­ally wished to go. ‘There’s not that much day­light left,’ I said per­suas­ively. ‘You can al­ways dip tapers this even­ing. And your cus­tom­ers will come back to­mor­row if they find you closed today.’

  She cocked her head, looked thought­ful, and ab­ruptly set aside the wick­ing she held. ‘You’re right, you know. The fresh air will do me good.’ And she took up her cloak with an alac­rity that de­lighted Smithy and sur­prised me. We closed up the shop and left.

  Molly set her usual brisk pace. Smithy frol­icked about her, de­lighted. We talked, in a curs­ory way. The wind put roses in her cheeks, and her eyes seemed brighter in the cold. And I thought she looked at me more of­ten, and more pens­ively than she usu­ally did.

  The town was quiet, and the mar­ket all but deser­ted. We went to the beach, and walked sed­ately where we had raced and shrieked but a few years be­fore. She asked me if I had learned to light a lan­tern be­fore go­ing down steps at night, and that mys­ti­fied me, un­til I re­membered that I had ex­plained my in­jur­ies as a fall down a dark stair­case. She asked me if the school­teacher and the horse­mas­ter were still at odds, and by this I dis­cerned that Burrich and Ga­len’s chal­lenge at the Wit­ness Stones had be­come some­thing of a local le­gend already. I as­sured her that peace had been re­stored. We spent some little time gath­er­ing a cer­tain kind of sea­weed that she wanted to fla­vour her chow­der with that even­ing. Then, be­cause I was win­ded, we sat in the lee of some rocks and watched Smithy make nu­mer­ous at­tempts to clear the beach of gulls.

  ‘So. I hear Prince Ver­ity is to wed,’ she began con­ver­sa­tion­ally.

  ‘What?’ I asked, amazed.

  She laughed heart­ily. ‘New­boy, I have never met any­one as im­mune to gos­sip as you seem to be. How can you live right up there in the keep and know noth­ing of that which is the com­mon talk of the town? Ver­ity has agreed to take a bride, to as­sure the suc­ces­sion. But the story in town is that he is too busy to do his court­ing him­self, so Regal will find him a lady.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ My dis­may was hon­est. I was pic­tur­ing big bluff Ver­ity paired with one of Regal’s sugar-crys­tal wo­men. Whenever there was a fest­ival of any kind in the keep, Springsedge or Win­ter­heart or Har­vestday, here they came, from Chalced and Far­row and Bearns, in car­riages or on richly-ca­par­isoned pal­freys or rid­ing in lit­ters. They wore gowns like but­ter­flies’ wings, ate as dain­tily as spar­rows, and seemed to flut­ter about and perch al­ways in Regal’s vi­cin­ity. And he would sit in their midst, in his own silk and vel­vet hues, and preen while their mu­sical voices tinkled around him and their fans and fancy­work trembled in their fin­gers. ‘Prince-catch­ers’, I’d heard them called, noble wo­men who dis­played them­selves like goods in a store win­dow in the hopes of wed­ding one of the roy­als. Their be­ha­viour was not im­proper, not quite. But to me it seemed des­per­ate, and Regal cruel as he smiled first on this one and then danced all even­ing with that one, only to rise to a late break­fast and walk yet an­other through the gar­dens. They were Regal’s wor­ship­pers. I tried to pic­ture one on Ver­ity’s arm as he stood watch­ing the dan­cers at a ball, or quietly weav­ing in his study while Ver­ity pondered and sketched at the maps he so loved. No garden strolls – Ver­ity took his walks along the docks and through the crops, stop­ping of­ten to talk to the seafolk and farm­ers be­hind their ploughs. Dainty slip­pers and em­broidered skirts would surely not fol­low him there.

  Molly slipped a penny into my hand.

  ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘To pay for whatever you’ve been think­ing so hard that you’ve been sit­ting on the edge of my skirt while I’ve twice asked you to lift up. I don’t think you’ve heard a word I’ve said.’

  I sighed. ‘Ver­ity and Regal are so dif­fer­ent, I can­not ima­gine one choos­ing a wife for the other.’

  Molly looked puzzled.

  ‘Regal will choose someone who is beau­ti­ful and wealthy and of good blood. She’ll be able to dance and sing and play the chimes. She’ll dress beau­ti­fully and have jew­els in her hair at the break­fast table, and al­ways smell of the flowers that grow in the Rain Wilds.’

  ‘And Ver­ity will not be glad of such a wo­man?’ The con­fu­sion on Molly’s face was as if I were in­sist­ing the sea was soup.

  ‘Ver­ity de­serves a com­pan­ion, not an or­na­ment to wear on his sleeve,’ I pro­tested in dis­dain. ‘Were I Ver­ity, I’d want a wo­man who could do things. Not just se­lect her jew­ellery or plait her own hair. She should be able to sew a shirt, or tend her own garden, and have some­thing spe­cial she can do that is all her own, like scroll­work or her­bery.’

  ‘New­boy, the like of that is not for fine ladies,’ Molly chided me. ‘They are meant to be pretty and or­na­mental. And they are rich. It isn’t for them to have to do such work.’

  ‘Of course it is. Look at Lady Pa­tience and her wo­man, Lacey. They are al­ways about and do­ing things. Their apart­ments are a jungle of the lady’s plants, and the cuffs of her gowns are some­times a bit sticky from her pa­per-mak­ing, or she will have bits of leaves in her hair from her her­bery work, but she is still just as beau­ti­ful. And pret­ti­ness is not all that im­port­ant in a wo­man. I’ve watched Lacey’s hands mak­ing one of the keep chil­dren a fish-net from a bit of jute string. Quick and clever as any web­man’s fin­gers down on the dock are her fin­gers; now that’s a pretty thing that has noth­ing to do with her face. And Hod, who teaches weapons? She loves her sil­ver-work and grav­ing. She made a dag­ger for her father’s birth­day, with a grip like a leap­ing stag, and yet done so clev­erly that it’s a com­fort in the hand, with not a jag or edge to catch on any­thing. Now that’s a bit of beauty that will live on long after her hair greys or her cheeks wrinkle. Someday her grand­chil­dren will look at that work and think what a clever wo­man she was.’

  ‘Do you think so, really?’

  ‘Cer­tainly.’ I shif­ted, sud­denly aware of how close Molly was to me. I shif­ted, yet did not really move fur­ther away. Down the beach, Smithy made an­other foray into a flock of gulls. His tongue was hanging nearly to his knees, but he was still gal­lop­ing.

  ‘But if noble ladies do all those things, they’ll ruin their hands with the work, and the wind will dry their hair and tan their faces. Surely Ver­ity doesn’t de­serve a wo­man who looks like a deck­hand?’

  ‘Surely he does. Far more than he de­serves a wo­man who looks like a fat red carp kept in a bowl.’

  Molly giggled.

  ‘Someone to ride be­side him of a morn­ing when he takes Hunter out for a gal­lop, or someone who can look at a sec­tion of map he’s just fin­ished and ac­tu­ally un­der­stand just how fine a piece of work it is. That’s what Ver­ity de­serves.’

  ‘I’ve never rid­den a horse,’ Molly ob­jec­ted sud­denly. ‘And I know few let­ters.’

  I looked at her curi­ously, won­der­ing why she seemed so sud­denly down­cast. ‘What mat­ter is that? You’re clever enough to learn any­thing. Look at all you’ve taught your­self about candles and herbs. Don’t tell me that came from your father. Some­times when I come to the shop, your hair and dress smell of fresh herbs and I can tell you’ve been ex­per­i­ment­ing to get new per­fumes for the candles. If you wanted to read or write more, you could learn. As for rid­ing, you’d be a nat­ural. You’ve bal­ance and strength … look at how you climb the rocks on the cliffs. And an­im­als take to you. You’ve fair won Smithy’s heart away from me …’

  ‘Fa!’ She gave me a nudge with her shoulder. ‘You talk as if some lord should come rid­ing down from the keep and carry me off.’

  I thought of Au­gust with his stuffy man­ners, or Regal sim­per­ing at her. ‘Eda for­bid. You’d be wasted on them. They wouldn’t have the wit to un­der­stand you, or the heart to ap­pre­ci­ate you.’

  Molly looked down at her work-worn hands. ‘Who would, then?’ she asked softly.

  Boys are fools. The con­ver­sa­tion had grown and twined around us, my words com­ing as nat­ur­ally as breath­ing to me. I had not in­ten­ded any flat­tery, or subtle court­ship. The sun was be­gin­ning to dip into the wa­ter, and we sat close by one an­other and the beach be­fore us was like the world at our feet. If I had said at that mo­ment, ‘I would,’ I think her heart would have tumbled into my awk­ward hands like ripe fruit from a tree. I think she might have kissed me, and sealed her­self to me of her own free will. But I couldn’t grasp the im­mens­ity of what I sud­denly knew I had come to feel for her. It drove the simple truth from my lips, and I sat dumb and half a mo­ment later Smithy came, wet and sandy, bar­rel­ling into us so that Molly leaped to her feet to save her skirts, and the op­por­tun­ity was lost forever, blown away like spray on the wind.

  We stood and stretched, and Molly ex­claimed about the time, and I felt all the sud­den aches of my heal­ing body. Sit­ting and let­ting my­self cool down on a chill beach was a stu­pid thing I cer­tainly wouldn’t have done to any horse. I walked Molly home and there was an awk­ward mo­ment at her door be­fore she stooped and hugged Smithy good­bye. And then I was alone, save for a curi­ous pup de­mand­ing to know why I went so slowly and in­sist­ing he was half-starved and want­ing to run and tussle all the way up the hill to the keep.

  I plod­ded up the hill, chilled within and without. I re­turned Smithy to the stables, and said good night to Sooty, and then went up to the keep. Ga­len and his fledglings had already fin­ished their mea­gre meal and left. Most of the keep folk had eaten, and I found my­self drift­ing back to my old haunts. There was al­ways food in the kit­chen, and com­pany in the watch-room off the kit­chen. Men-at-arms came and went there all hours of the day and night, so Cook kept a sim­mer­ing kettle on the hook, adding wa­ter and meat and ve­get­ables as the level went down. Wine and beer and cheese were also there, and the simple com­pany of those who guarded the keep. They had ac­cep­ted me as one of their own since the first day I’d been given into Burrich’s care. So I made my­self a simple meal, not near as scanty as Ga­len would have provided me, nor yet as ample and rich as I craved. That was Burrich’s teach­ing; I fed my­self as I would have an in­jured an­imal.

  And I listened to the cas­ual talk go­ing on around me, fo­cus­ing my­self into the life of the keep as I hadn’t for months. I was amazed at all that I had not known be­cause of my total im­mer­sion in Ga­len’s teach­ing. A bride for Ver­ity was most of the talk. There was the usual crude sol­diers’ jest­ing one could ex­pect about such things, as well as a lot of com­mis­er­a­tion over his ill-luck in hav­ing Regal choose his fu­ture spouse. That the match would be based on polit­ical al­li­ances had never been in ques­tion; a prince’s hand could not be wasted on some­thing as fool­ish as his own choice. That had been a great part of the scan­dal sur­round­ing Chiv­alry’s stub­born court­ship of Pa­tience. She had come from within the realm, the daugh­ter of one of our nobles, and one already very am­ic­able to the royal fam­ily. No polit­ical ad­vant­age at all had come out of that mar­riage.

  But Ver­ity would not be squandered so. Es­pe­cially with the Red Ships men­acing us all along our strag­gling coast­line. And so spec­u­la­tion ran rife. Who would she be? A wo­man from the Near Is­lands, to our north in the White Sea? The is­lands were little more than rocky bits of the earth’s bones thrust­ing up out of the sea, but a series of towers set amongst them would give us earlier warn­ing of the sea raid­ers’ ven­tures into our wa­ters. To the south­w­est of our bor­ders, bey­ond the Rain Wilds where no one ruled were the Spice Coasts. A prin­cess from there would of­fer few de­fens­ive ad­vant­ages, but some ar­gued for the rich trad­ing agree­ments she might bring with her. Days to the south and east over the sea were the many big is­lands where grew the trees that the boat-build­ers yearned for. Could a king and his daugh­ter be found there who would trade her warm winds and soft fruits for a keep in a rocky, ice-bounded land? What would they ask for a soft south­ern wo­man and her tall-timbered is­land trade? Furs said some, and grain said an­other. And there were the moun­tain king­doms at our backs, with their jeal­ous pos­ses­sion of the passes that led into the tun­dra lands bey­ond. A prin­cess from there would com­mand war­ri­ors of her folk, as well as trade links to the ivory work­ers and reindeer her­ders who lived bey­ond their bor­ders. On their south­ern bor­der was the pass that led to the head­wa­ters of the great Rain River that me­andered through the Rain Wilds. Every sol­dier among us had heard the old tales of the aban­doned treas­ure-temples on the banks of that river, of the tall, carved gods who presided still over their holy springs, and of the flake gold that sparkled in the lesser streams. Per­haps a moun­tain prin­cess, then?

  Each pos­sib­il­ity was de­bated with far more polit­ical soph­ist­ic­a­tion than Ga­len would have be­lieved these simple sol­diers cap­able of com­mand­ing. I rose from their midst feel­ing ashamed of how I had dis­missed them; in so short a time Ga­len had brought me to think of them as ig­nor­ant sword-wield­ers, men of brawn with no brain at all. I had lived among them all my life. I should have known bet­ter. No, I had known bet­ter. But my hun­ger to set my­self higher, to prove bey­ond doubt my right to that royal ma­gic, had made me will­ing to ac­cept any non­sense with which he might choose to present me. Some­thing clicked within me, as if the key piece to a wood puzzle had sud­denly slid into place. I had been bribed with the of­fer of know­ledge as an­other man might have been bribed with coins.

  I did not think very well of my­self as I climbed the stairs to my room. I lay down to sleep with the re­solve that I would not let Ga­len de­ceive me any longer, nor per­suade me to de­ceive my­self. I also re­solved most firmly that I would learn the Skill, no mat­ter how pain­ful or dif­fi­cult it might be.

  And so dark and early the next morn­ing, I plunged fully back into my les­sons and routine. I at­ten­ded Ga­len’s every word, I pushed my­self to do each ex­er­cise, phys­ical or men­tal, to the ex­treme of my abil­ity. But as the week, and then the month, wore pain­fully on, I felt like a dog with his meat sus­pen­ded just bey­ond the reach of his jaws. For the oth­ers, some­thing was ob­vi­ously hap­pen­ing. A net­work of shared thought was build­ing between them, a com­mu­nic­a­tion that had them turn­ing to one an­other be­fore they spoke, that let them per­form the shared phys­ical ex­er­cises as one be­ing. Sul­lenly, re­sent­fully, they took turns be­ing partnered with me, but from them I felt noth­ing, and from me they shuddered and pulled back, com­plain­ing to Ga­len that the force I ex­er­ted to­wards them was either like a whis­per or a bat­ter­ing ram.

  I watched in near des­pair as they danced in pairs, shar­ing con­trol of one an­other’s muscles, or as one walked blind­folded the maze of the coals, guided by the eyes of his seated part­ner. Some­times I knew I had the Skill. I could feel it build­ing within me, un­fold­ing like a grow­ing seed, but it was a thing I could not seem to dir­ect or con­trol. One mo­ment it was within me, boom­ing like a tide against rock cliffs, and the next it was gone and all within me was dry, deser­ted sand. At its strength, I could com­pel Au­gust to stand, to bow, to walk. The next he would stand glar­ing at me, dar­ing me to con­tact him at all.

  And no one seemed able to reach in­side me. ‘Drop your guard, put down your walls!’ Ga­len would an­grily or­der me, as he stood be­fore me, vainly try­ing to con­vey to me the simplest dir­ec­tion or sug­ges­tion. I felt the barest brush of his Skill against me; but I could no more al­low him in­side my mind than I could stand com­pla­cent while a man slid a sword between my ribs. Try as I might to com­pel my­self, I shied from his touch, phys­ical or men­tal, and the touches of my class­mates I could not feel at all.

  Daily they ad­vanced, while I watched and struggled to mas­ter the barest ba­sics. A day came when Au­gust looked at a page, and across the rooftop his part­ner read it aloud, while an­other set of two pairs played a chess game in which those who com­manded the moves could not phys­ic­ally see the board at all. Ga­len was well pleased with all of them, save me. Each day he dis­missed us after a touch, a touch I sel­dom felt. Each day I was the last free to go, and he coldly re­minded me that he wasted his time on a bas­tard only be­cause the King com­manded him to do so.

  Spring was com­ing on and Smithy grown from a puppy to a dog. Sooty dropped her foal while I was at my les­sons, a fine filly sired by Ver­ity’s stal­lion. I saw Molly once, and we walked to­gether al­most word­lessly through the mar­ket. There was a new stall set up, with a rough man selling birds and an­im­als, all cap­tured wild and caged by him. He had crows and spar­rows, a swal­low, and one young fox so weak with worms he could scarcely stand. Death would free him sooner than any buyer, and even if I had had the coin for him, he had reached a state where the worm-medi­cines would only poison him as well as his para­sites. It sickened me, and so I stood, quest­ing to­ward the birds with sug­ges­tions of how pick­ing at a cer­tain bright bit of metal might un­pin the doors of their cages. But Molly thought I stared at the poor beasts them­selves, and I felt her grow cooler and fur­ther from me than ever she had been be­fore. As we walked her home, Smithy whined beg­gingly for her at­ten­tion, and so won from her a cuddle and a pat be­fore we left. I en­vied him the abil­ity to whine so well. My own seemed to go un­heard.

 

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