EPILOGUE
Winter came early, up in the hills. By November they woke every morning to a world rimed in frost; by December it snowed as often as not, turning the roads to filthy freezing slush over a layer of compacted ice. The stream of visitors and letters, never frequent so far from London, trickled to a halt, and the estate closed in on itself to await the return of spring.
Children do not heed the turn of the seasons, however, and Coby found herself spending most of her daylight hours making new clothes for Kit, or altering the ones he already had when she ran out of sufficient fabric to make them anew. Not that he was growing especially fast, but they had brought little with them from London and he could hardly wear his courtly finery to ride his pony or play in the walled orchard.
“My lady?”
Their ancient steward hobbled into the parlour.
“You should not have come all the way upstairs, Lynwood. I told you to send one of the lads with messages.”
“I know, my lady. But even my old sinews need stretching from time to time.”
She put down her sewing. “What is it?”
“I was thinking, my lady…” He wrung his hands together. “Next Friday being the coronation as well as New Year’s Day, I reckon it might raise the household’s spirits to broach a cask of claret, to toast the new king’s health.”
“The new king?”
“Arthur, my lady.”
“Oh. Of course.”
Robert’s brother had been declared King after Henry was killed in the explosion at the Tower. The work of traitors, according to Lord Grey; the same men who had assassinated King Robert and laid the blame at the skraylings’ door. Grey had produced an extensive list of their names, compiled by his loyal servant Sir Maliverny Catlyn shortly before his tragic death at the hands of the same villains.
“We could make do with beer, my lady–”
“No, open the claret. It will not keep forever.”
“Thank you, my lady.”
“Only the one, mind. More than that will lead to rowdiness, in my experience.”
“Yes, my lady.” He turned to go. “I… I had thought you and the young master might have gone down to London.”
“Perhaps in the spring, when the theatres reopen.” Wild horses would not drag her to a coronation, not after last time. “Master Parrish has been nagging me to go, and I cannot put him off forever.”
The steward bowed and took his leave. Coby sat down, picked up her sewing and abandoned it again. A visit to London would do them both good, in truth. She could stay with Lady Frances for a while; Kit needed the company of other children, and the duchess’s little boy was of an age to play with him now.
The pale winter sunlight moved across the parlour floor and she watched it dully, wrapped around the ache in her chest that she had thought was beginning to heal. If they did not go to London she would have to send for a tutor for Kit, but after all he had gone through he needed time to be a normal boy for a while. Normal? No, he would never be that, even though he had become more Kit and less Kiiren in the months since Sandy’s death and Mal’s… She swallowed. Kiiren had said that Erishen, in Mal’s body, had gone into the dreamlands, but Erishen himself had once told her that no one knew what happened to someone who got trapped there.
Rapid footsteps sounded in the gallery outside, and the door burst open.
“Mamma, mamma, look who’s here!”
Kit burst into the room, eyes bright and cheeks flushed as if he’d been outside playing in the snow, but his clothes and hair were dry.
“What are you talking about, lambkin?”
“Look,” he said, turning back to the doorway.
Coby followed his gaze, and her breath caught in her throat. A familiar figure stood there; gaunt and wearing naught but rags and dried blood, but unmistakable.
“Mal?”
Throwing her work aside she leapt to her feet and ran to catch him as he fell.
He opened his eyes, blinking against the light that burned like the midday sun. It was a candle, set in a pewter candlestick. He watched the wax drip down one side, but no matter how hard he stared it took its own path, heedless of his will. Then it was true. He was back in the waking world.
He tried to sit up but fell back, his head spinning. He raised his hand to the light, wondering why he no longer had manacle scars on his wrists from his time in Bedlam. Of course. He was Mal now, not Sandy. The spareness of his flesh had fooled him for a moment.
A movement at his side caught his eye, and he realised that Kiiren was asleep on the bed next to him, fully clothed and curled up like a puppy. He reached out and stroked one of the dark curls with a fingertip, reluctant to disturb him.
“You’re awake.”
She stood in the doorway, her face alight with joy. His wife. Jacomina. He tried to speak, but his throat was dry as dust. She hurried over to the bed and poured him a cup of some pale, sour liquid.
“It’s just small ale,” she said, when he wrinkled his nose. “The doctor said you weren’t to drink anything stronger until you’re up on your feet. I’ll send for some broth when you’re ready.”
He let her fuss over him.
“You’ve been asleep for three days.” She helped him into a sitting position and straightened the blankets around him. “Kit never left your side. How…?”
“How did he find me? The same way he always does, by not giving up.”
“He said you turned away, you chose to stay there, in the dreamlands.”
“I had no choice.” He stared into the distance. “I couldn’t let those creatures get away, they were too dangerous. So, I drew them off, and when they tired of chasing me I hunted them down.”
“You killed them.”
He shrugged. “What would you have me do, take them back to the skraylings in chains, like Ilianwe? We know how well that turned out.”
“And now?”
“Now we are safe. They are gone, and England is free.”
She toyed with the chatelaine in her lap. “When… when I last saw you, in the Tower… you told me you were Erishen, and that Mal is no more.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Her head jerked up. “You lied?”
“No. But I had to surrender to Erishen, for the healing of our souls to work. For those first few hours he had free rein, and I could only stand by and listen.”
“You were possessed.”
“I suppose that’s one way to describe it.”
“And now?”
“Now… Now I know what Sandy meant. He is part of me.” He took her hand again. “He is part of me, not I part of him.”
“Sandy, or Erishen?”
“Both. But mostly Erishen. Sandy is gone, all but a few memories.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too. But it was the only way to defeat the guisers.”
“And now they’re gone, you’ll stay.” It was not a question.
“Aye, I’ll stay.” He sighed. “For a long time I hoped the skraylings would take us back, Kiiren and me. But I fear they will not. Not me, at any rate. Kiiren was an innocent in all this, and he is still young, with many lifetimes ahead of him.”
“You can put aside your dearest companion so easily?”
Mal scanned her face, trying to read her thoughts without invading her mind. Was she talking about Kiiren still, or herself?
“I may not give him the choice,” he said. “But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, eh?”
He held out his free arm, and she lay down on the bed at his side, head pillowed on his chest. After a moment she leaned up and kissed him, tentatively, like she was afraid he might disappear again. He hesitated, expecting Erishen’s memories to overwhelm him as they had on the journey to Venice, but the taste of her lips brought back newer and more joyous memories of his own and he returned her kiss at last with a passion he scarcely had strength for.
“Ssh, you need to rest,” she said at last, and pulled him down so that she could lay her head upon his shoulder.
He watched the western sky darken from turquoise to cobalt to deep lapis blue. Rest now, but afterwards? He and his family might enjoy a respite for months, even years, but the guisers would be back; he would wager his soul on it.
The truth was, he could hardly wait.