We walked out to the courtyard, into the sun; the brightness and cool wind nearly brought me to my knees again, the relief snapping my joints. Until I saw that the old man was still being whipped, tied between two posts a few yards away. His back was flayed open, his blood spilling over the cobbles. And there stood Lord Burke, witnessing the punishment, cold and silent as a statue.
I forced my eyes away, even though the crack of the whip made me jump. Not yet, I told myself. Do not react until you are alone. . . . “I need to thank you,” I said to Allenach. “For offering me a place at your home.”
“Although the royal castle is beautiful,” he replied, “I think you will find Damhan far more enjoyable than remaining here.”
“Why is that?” As if I truly needed to ask.
He offered me his hand again. I took it, his fingers politely holding mine as if he understood Valenian sensibilities, that a touch was supposed to be delicate as it was elegant. He began to lead me away, blocking my view of the flogging.
“Because I have forty Valenians lodging at my castle, for the hunt of the hart. You will feel right at home among them.”
“I have heard of the hart,” I said as we continued to walk in perfect stride with each other; I was mindful of the sheathed sword swinging at his side, as he was careful with the swell of my skirts. “I take it your forests are full of them?”
He snorted playfully. “Why do you think I invite the Valenians every autumn?”
“I see.”
“And you have come alone, with no escort?”
“Yes, my lord. But I have a coach waiting outside the gates. . . .” I led him to it, where the coachman all but blanched at the sight of Lord Allenach with me.
“My lord.” He hurried to bow. I noticed he wore a green cloak, which meant he must be one of Lannon’s.
“I would like you to bring Amadine to Damhan,” Allenach said to him as he helped me up into the coach. “You know the way, I trust?”
I settled on the bench as the lord and the coachman spoke. So I appeared at ease when Allenach leaned into the cab.
“It’s several hours of travel to Damhan,” he said. “I’ll be riding behind you, and will greet you in the courtyard.”
I thanked him. When he finally latched the door and I felt the coach bump forward, I slid deeper into the cushions with a shudder, the last of my courage slowly crumbling to ash.
TWENTY-ONE
THE MADEMOISELLE WITH THE SILVER ROSE
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.