The Catswold Portal (8 page)

T
he banquet hall was noisy—laughter and drunken shouts rose over the music. Melissa glanced in as she slipped past the serving door. There were three visiting kings with their queens and entourages. She had glimpsed King Ridgen of Mathe in the grand foyer, and Terlis had pointed out the king of Wexton and Siddonie's brother King Ithilel of Xendenton. Market Festival was the biggest celebration of the year. All day the scullery had seethed with strange servants added to the Affandar kitchen staff. And the courtyard had been in a turmoil of workers setting up the market booths and stringing colored banners. The visiting soldiers and the lesser servants were camped outside the castle, as were peasants from all over Affandar who had brought their wares for sale, their jewelry and weavings, their carvings and livestock.

Though the palace seemed bursting with people, surely at this moment with everyone at banquet, the upper halls would be empty. Melissa hurried up the back stairs and along the empty corridor toward the king's chambers, strung with nerves. She had vowed to herself that tonight she would find the Harpy's mirror, that she would learn her past, learn the spell to free the rebels, and get out of there. Leave the palace, get away from Siddonie's tests and training. Now as she reached for the knob to the king's chamber, from beyond the door she heard a woman laugh, a breathy giggle. She drew back against the wall, heard the king say, “It's only a little ruffle, come let me remove it,” and the woman giggled again. Melissa fled for the back stairs and up to the safety of her attic chamber, both shocked and amused. The king had
deliberately missed the banquet, flaunting his dalliance with some visiting serving girl, or perhaps with a visiting wife of royalty.

But not until the next morning in the scullery did she hear that the king had taken ill before the banquet, and of course she said nothing. The scullery was a turmoil of confusion as pastries and hams, sweets and sausages were prepared for the booths, as loaves were pulled from the ovens, and venison and game birds put to broil for royal breakfasts. As dawn touched the scullery shutters, Melissa stacked warm pastries onto a cart. She had been chosen to have a booth, and under the envious glances of the other girls, she wheeled her cart away to the courtyard. She was wearing one of the new dresses—a plain green wool that pleased her.

The courtyard was bright with draped booths and with colored banners blowing against the granite sky. When she had settled into her booth and laid out the pastries, she watched folk streaming in through the gates. The crowd was a mix of queen's peasants and visiting servants. Soon she was busy selling turnovers and meat pies as folk flocked to break their fasts. In the booth across from her, cider was sold, and in the next booth a jester juggled silver balls. Farther down the row, the puppeteers were warming up with smutty jokes. The music of lute and rota, horns and vielle echoed against the sky like a dozen bands.

How quickly her pastries vanished. Twice she sent a page for more. It was mid-morning when she saw King Efil descend the marble stairs, swinging a red cape over his purple jerkin and trousers. He began to tour the booths, stopping to throw darts, then to laugh at the puppets. He was so young, hardly older than she. She wondered where his partner was from last night, which of the visiting young women. Though it was common practice, she found the promiscuity of royalty unsettling. This was not the way of the peasant families; there could be nothing of loyalty or deep love in such a life. When the king turned suddenly toward her booth, she felt her face go hot.

A young page followed him, carrying two mugs of ale.

“Pastries, then!” the king said, laughing, his dark eyes fully on her. “A dozen pastries. The lamb, the currant—four of those peach—some scones.” His gaze never left her. As she wrapped the pastries in a linen cloth, he leaned close across the counter. She backed off, handing him the package, but his hands lingered on hers and his voice was soft.

“Come out from the booth, Melissa. My page will relieve you. You've been in there since daybreak.”

“I—I can't do that.”

His eyes hardened. “Come out now. You will join me for a picnic in the orchard.” He took the mugs from the page and nodded, and the boy slipped under the counter into the booth beside her. The king balanced the mugs in one hand. The twitch at the corner of his mouth deepened, his eyes darkened with excitement. “Wander the fair for a moment, my dear, then come through the east gate to the vineyard. Don't be long. Come while the pastries are still hot and the ale has not gone flat.” He gave her a last deep look that made her giddy, then he turned away and was gone into the crowd.

She looked after him, cold and still. She felt heated. Shamed. Uncertain.

One did not defy a king's orders.

Beside her the page was rearranging napkins over the pastries. He didn't look at her. She supposed he knew every lover the king took. Embarrassed, she slipped under the counter and moved away.

She watched the puppet antics of stag and dragon, hardly aware of them. She told herself she would share the king's picnic, that she need do nothing more. He couldn't force her; she didn't think he was strong enough to force her. Yet beyond her resolve her own heat built, and she saw again the dark, needing look in his eyes. She moved nearer the gate, but then paused beside the stall of a jeweler.

She need not go to meet the king. She need not if she was afraid.

Idly she examined the old dwarf's jewelry. It was plain, unremarkable work. But suddenly a different light shifted across his necklaces, suddenly she saw a brighter jewel shin
ing above the common jewelry like a thin dream: she saw in a vision a tear-shaped emerald, a magnificent stone. It was a pendant: the oval emerald was circled by two gold cats standing on hind legs, their paws joined as if they guarded the gem. The pendant was so lovely she reached…

The vision vanished. The dwarf's jewelry lay dully across the counter.

She stood clutching the edge of the booth, trying to understand what she had seen. The dwarf looked at her absently as he traded with a peasant family, taking their uncut diamonds in exchange for a small pig he had tethered inside the booth. Giddily she moved away, confused and light-headed.

Had the jewel been a true vision? Some heightening of perception she didn't understand?

Or had it been a memory from her past?

Still seeing the emerald pendant, she moved unaware through the crowd until she realized she was approaching the east wall. She stood uncertainly before the small gate.

If she didn't obey the king, he would make her wish she had. She decided she would just go out and explain to him that she didn't want to share his bed. Be direct was what Mag always said. She would be nice to him, but firm. She reached for the latch but then drew back.

To be nice to a man when he was primed for the bed, could lead a girl straight into that bed.

She turned away. King or not, she wasn't going out there to share his picnic.

She began to wonder how long he would wait in the vineyard. Suddenly, feeling giddy, she knew what she must do.

She fled for the scullery and the back stairs. At this one moment she knew exactly where the king was, and if she was fast, she could be in his chambers and out again with the Harpy's mirror while he waited for her in the vineyard.

“U
niversity of Chicago,” Olive Cleaver said, dusting cake crumbs from her flowered dress. Under her brushing hand, orange birds of paradise jabbed across a purple field. She sat opposite Braden at his terrace table drinking coffee and eating the cake she had baked. Her frizzy gray hair and sallow face were not flattered by the bright afternoon light and the Woolworth dress, but her eyes were intelligent and lively. “The carbon fourteen test was developed there. It's a wonderful new test; it will entirely change historical research.”

Braden watched Olive, amused not by her facts, which were perfectly correct, but by her enthusiasm. She had come down the garden bringing the carrot cake, wanting to talk. Such gifts embarrassed him, but he had made fresh coffee, brought some plates and forks out on the terrace, wiped off the table. Olive never bothered him when he was working, but seeing him on the terrace in the middle of the day was all the invitation she needed.

“I took only one splinter from each of the five planks,” she said. “I wanted to know if they were all the same age. They were.” She nodded when he lifted the coffeepot, accepting a refill. “All they do is burn the material. The gases from the burning are converted to carbon and put into a special Geiger counter—well, I'm sure you know more about it than I do. I know you do read something besides art magazines.”

She blew delicately on her coffee. “Of course the test will tell only the age of the timbers, not of the carvings them
selves. But still, it isn't so likely that new carvings would be made on very ancient timbers.

“I do wish, though, they wouldn't take so long. I suppose they have a backlog, and of course legitimate research comes first.” She looked up the garden toward the oak door. Anne Hollingsworth's orange cat was sitting in the ferns staring intently at the door, almost as if drawn to it. Olive said, “If the door
is
very old, I feel as Alice did, that it should be in a museum. Yet I can't bear to think of removing it. That door is why I bought the house, it was the door that first led me into the garden.” She cut her cake into small bites. “And after all, maybe it is a copy. Anne thinks it is.”

And of course Anne would, Braden thought. Their neighbor, Anne Hollingsworth, had a mathematical mind that would never believe something so improbable as a valuable antique standing forgotten in their garden. He looked up the garden, fixing on Anne's staid Cape Cod house, traditional and unexciting. Anne wasn't given to Olive's fanciful flights and enthusiasms. Nor did she succumb, either, to Morian's brand of keen relish for living.

It amused him that he had three female neighbors who were his good friends. He toyed with his cake, wondering why, in his thoughts, he wanted to defend the antiquity of the door against Anne's unimaginative turn of mind.

Olive said, “If it
should
prove very old…” She didn't finish, but looked at Braden intently, her glasses catching the light. She was trying to say something she didn't know how to say. Above them the orange cat had risen and was coming down the garden toward the veranda.

She said, “The door makes me feel sometimes that it has more to it than…I don't know.” She looked embarrassed. “Even if it should prove valuable, I would not like to move it from the garden.” Some nebulous idea had taken hold of her. Olive got these hunches, went off on tangents. Braden really didn't want to hear it.

She watched him quietly. “You don't like the idea of it being an antique?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You know my research is solid.”

He nodded, trying to shake off the strangeness he felt. For all her quirks, Olive was a competent researcher; she didn't go off on wild chases in that respect, didn't use spurious sources. She was just so damned intense. Well, hell, maybe the door
was
ancient. He knew she had done weeks of careful work before she sent the splinters off to be analyzed. The orange cat came onto the veranda and lay down at Olive's feet, looking up at her expectantly. She cut a bite of cake and gave it to him.

Braden watched Olive, both amused and annoyed because he really didn't want to think about the damned door. But hell, she just wanted to talk. He said, “I know the test is supposed to be accurate, but did they say anything about possible misreading, a false result through some—oh, chemical change in the door itself, something unnatural?”

“Unnatural?” Olive said, her interest rising.

“Like garden chemicals,” he said quickly, “something sprayed or spilled on it.”

“Oh no, I didn't ask about that. Perhaps I should. Yes,” she said, “I guess I'd better write and find out.”

After she left, he wondered why he'd said that. He wondered why he felt so strongly that the door ought to be left alone.

M
elissa slipped quickly into the king's chamber. With any luck he would stay in the orchard for a while, waiting for her. The pastries would get cold, the ale would get warm, and he would be furious, but she would worry about that later. Maybe she would have found the mirror and escaped to the cellars before he left the orchard.

The king's chamber was dark, the purple draperies were drawn closed. The shadows were dominated by a huge canopied bed, its thick black bedposts were carved with four Hell Beasts: basilisk, hydras, lamia, and manticore. She had a quick, unwanted vision of making love with the king, observed by those beasts.

She tried to open the wardrobe but could not. She tried one spell then another, and had begun to think she would fail when, on the eighth spell, the door snapped open wide. Velvet and cashmere coats burgeoned out. Kneeling, she reached behind the rich garments and behind the soft leather boots, feeling for a hidden door.

But the wardrobe wall was smooth. She felt its floor. He must have twenty pairs of boots. She moved each pair, felt under it then put it back. She whispered all the opening spells she knew, but no part of the wardrobe stirred. She was standing on tiptoe, feeling beneath the upper shelf, when behind her the chamber door creaked open.

The king did not seem surprised to see her there. He shut and bolted the door, and with a flick of his hand he made the mantel lamp burn. “My dear, this is a much better place for
a tryst. How clever of you.” He took her hands and drew her close; she held herself very still.

He kissed her lightly. “I will do nothing you do not wish, my Melissa. But I can see in your eyes that you do wish it.” He stroked her cheek. “Have you ever made love, sweet Melissa?”

She felt as nervous and spell-cast as a trapped beast. Her mind spun and fought, and still she stood frozen. He watched her knowingly, but then he released her and moved away.

He poured wine from the decanter on the mantel and handed her a goblet. “You did not come to join me in bed, sweet Melissa. What were you looking for?” Looking into his eyes was like swimming in black seas. As his look changed from heat to suspicion, she wanted to bolt out the door.

He said, “It takes a lot of nerve to search the chambers of royalty.” He drew his hand down her cheek, letting it rest on her shoulder. “You are of value to the queen, Melissa. Surely you know that. Just as you are of value to me.” He stroked the back of her neck. His touch was uncomfortably soft; she flinched with an almost animal repugnance.

“Why…” She choked. “Why should I be of value to the queen?”

He drew her close again, stirring her desire despite her repugnance. “How old are you, Melissa?”

“Seventeen.”

“And where do you come from?”

“From Appian.”

He smiled. “You do not need to tell me the lies you tell the queen. And, of course, she does not believe you. Melissa—do you remember your mother?”

“Of course I remember her. Why would you ask about my mother?”

“Perhaps we can make a bargain.” He began to unbutton her dress.

She moved away. “You—could have any girl in the kingdom.”

“Why should I have
any
girl, when I can have the loveliest? Melissa…” He drew her close and kissed her throat.

“If you breed me a healthy heir, Melissa, by the laws of the Netherworld you will be the new queen of Affandar.” Again he smiled, his look too intent. “If you were queen of Affandar, Melissa, what would you do?”

Excitement gripped her suddenly with the heady challenge. If she were queen of Affandar, she could free the peasants. She could free other nations, and dethrone Siddonie's puppet kings. She stared at him, mute.

He said, “Do you know that Siddonie fears you?”

She laughed.

“Do you call me a liar?”

“No.”

He moved to the mantel to refill his glass, then turned, watching her. “Siddonie and I are locked in battle for Affandar. All the kingdom knows that. Siddonie would destroy me if she could. She wants no one to share her rule.

“You, Melissa—she sees in you the power to help her enslave Affandar and enslave the Netherworld.”

“I don't understand. She mistakes me for something I am not.”

“No, she sees truly. She would use you to enslave Affandar. But, Melissa, together you and I could defeat her.”

She watched him intently, convinced that he wasn't lying and that this man could tell her all the secrets that had been locked away from her.

“Tell me, Melissa…Tell me what you remember of your childhood.”

“The usual things. Working in the garden, caring for the sheep, collecting honey, learning to ride the pony—”

“Stop it. What do you really remember?” He held her shoulders hard, searching her face. “What do you remember? If you really remember nothing, why were you searching for the Harpy's mirror?”

“What is the Harpy's mirror?” she said dumbly.

He shook his head. “I can see it in your eyes. You do not lie very well. You have been to the Harpy in the cellars. She
begged you to steal her mirror. What,” Efil said softly, “would you trade for the Harpy's mirror, my Melissa?” He began again to caress her; he was so changeable, emotions danced and flickered across his face. She felt there was no real core to him, no one person. He stroked her throat, kissed her neck, until she pulled away. He turned from her, folding back the velvet bed cover, revealing dark satin sheets. He said, “Afterward, I will give you the Harpy's mirror.”

“Give me the mirror first.”

He only looked at her.

She looked back steadily. He might be selfish and quickly enraged, but underneath she sensed that he was weak. She said, “The mirror first.”

“Your promise to come to my bed?”

“My promise.”

He opened the wardrobe and pulled aside jackets and breeches, whispering a sharp, short spell—one she had never heard before. A panel slid away revealing a small cupboard. He took from within a mirror no bigger than her hand. It was oval, its platinum frame jeweled with opals and topaz and moonstones flashing in the lamplight. He placed it in her hands; it was surprisingly heavy. But it gave back no reflection. She could not see her face, or Efil's. Across its clear surface ran one fleeting shadow deep within, then its surface burned clear.

He said, “Did the Harpy promise to give you visions for this?”

“She—she did.”

“You have the mirror. Now come to bed.”

“Wait,” she whispered.

His rage flared; he took her shoulders. “You will not take the mirror from this chamber until you have paid for it.”

“That was my promise. But I cannot promise you a healthy child until the woman-spells are complete.” She held the mirror tightly. “If you force me to bed too soon, there will be little chance of a healthy child.”

Anger flashed in his eyes, and then uncertainty. “You can't think…”

A noise from the solar stopped him. He froze, listening to movement in the next room. She panicked, not knowing where to run. He pushed her toward the draperies and behind them. “She's in the solar. Stay hidden.” He straightened the heavy draperies, hiding her. She stood in darkness that smelled of dust from the thick velvet, her heart pounding, clutching the Harpy's mirror. She heard the chamber door open and close, then silence, and knew he had gone out to distract Siddonie. For the first time she was thankful for Siddonie's presence.