“Is it . . . is it a fairy, my lord?” the second guard asked.
“A Sitha, you mean? Or a Norn?” Pasevalles sighed. He had half-anticipated something like this ever since the king and queen had set out for Rimmersgard, some major crisis that would push aside the things he had planned to do during their absence. “I guess that she is Sithi, although I have never met one myself.” He took the soiled cloth of her sleeve in his fingers and felt its smooth weave, slippery as southern island silk. Now that she was uncovered, he could see a shallow movement of her chest. “God save us, she still breathes. Help me.” He rolled her onto her side and sucked in his breath at the sight of three broken arrows that had pierced her, as well as all the dried blood they had let out of her slender body. “Quick,” he told the forester. “Run to the city and find someone with sailcloth or a heavy blanket—something we can use to carry her. And have a cart ready when we get her up to the top.”
“Carry her where, my lord?” asked one of the guards as the forester scrambled away up the slope.
“Back to the Hayholt. It’s our misfortune that Master Tiamak is with the king and queen, but I will find someone to take care of her. Did she say anything, make any sound that you heard?”
“No! We thought she was dead, my lord.”
“And so she should be. Any mortal would have died from those wounds long ago.”
? ? ?
Princess Lillia was waiting for him in the outer throne hall when he pushed through the doors from the Garden Court.
“I heard the noon bell a very long time ago,” the girl said. “You didn’t tell the truth. You said you would tell me a story when noon came, and I’ve been waiting and waiting—”
“I am so very sorry, Highness.” Pasevalles held the door for the guards and their burden. “But we found this woman sick in the forest, and I must help her. Do you know where Lady Thelía might be?”
“She went to the market today,” said Lillia. “I wanted to go but Auntie Rhoner said I couldn’t.”
“Ah. Well, I have a bit of a problem and need some help, Highness. Would you please go and ask Countess Rhona to come to me?”
“I don’t have to do that! I’m a princess!”
Pasevalles took a long breath. “No, you don’t, you’re right,” he said. “My apologies, Princess.” He turned to the guards as they staggered up carrying the blanket with the wounded Sitha. “Put her down there, men,” he told them. “We’ll be taking her somewhere else when we find a clean room.”
“Who’s that?” asked Lillia, eyes wide. “Is she dead?”
“No, but she’s badly hurt.” He turned back to the men. “One of you go find the Mistress of Chambermaids, and the other go fetch Brother Etan, the apothecary. Look for him in the herb garden behind the mews.” He turned back to the princess. “And I promise I’ll tell you that story soon. But you want me to help this poor lady, don’t you?”
Lillia frowned, but kept staring at the indistinct figure in the blanket-sling. “Suppose. Maybe I could go tell Auntie Rhoner for you.” The princess was clearly of two minds, but at last she tucked her hands behind her back and skipped slowly off to find her more-or-less nursemaid, the countess.
? ? ?
“Here you are! What are you doing hiding in one of the guest chambers? I have been searching and searching!” said Rhona. “You are a popular man today, Lord Chancellor—both princesses, mother and daughter, desire your company.” She took a step into the room and stopped, eyes wide, when she saw the figure stretched on the bed. “By the Black Hare, what is this?”
“A Sitha-woman, found nearly dead in the Kynswood,” said Pasevalles. He needed a moment before what she said sank in. “Both princesses? I know Lillia wants a story, but what does her mother want?”
“What Princess Idela wants is a mystery to me, as always.” Countess Rhona was the one who began the joking custom of calling Idela “the Widow,” because she still wore black so many years after Prince John Josua’s death, despite few other signs of actually being in mourning. “But what of this poor woman here?”
“She has arrow wounds—several—and she lay among the trees for days, but still lives. Now you know as much as I do.”
“She still lives?” The countess bent over the motionless body, seeming caught between fascination and pity. “And you are certain she is a Sitha?”
“Look at her. What else could she be?”
“One of the White Foxes, just as easily. By the good gods, are you sure it is wise to bring her into the Hayholt?”
“There is nowhere else we could keep her alive—and safe, too, if she lives. Someone tried to kill her, Countess! And no, she is not one of the White Foxes—no Norn has golden skin like that. She is only paler than usual.”
The countess had a faraway look in her eyes. “I was a young girl when the Sithi came to Hernystir. Their tents filled the fields as far as the eye could see, and the cloth was every color on the gods’ Earth. My mother said it was like the olden days come back.”
“Did your mother also tell you how to keep one of them alive?” Pasevalles immediately regretted his surly tone: Rhona was a valuable ally, the queen’s best friend and a member of the Inner Council. “I’m sorry, Countess. I beg your pardon. I seem to have left my manners out in the Kynswood.”
She smiled. “No need to apologize, Lord Chancellor. I can imagine this day has tested you, and it is scarcely past noon. But what did you want with me? I am not much use as a healer or bedside nurse. Did you send for Lady Thelía?”
“I am here, my lord, I am here!” Brother Etan, his youthful face red and shiny with sweat, staggered through the doorway. “I am sorry it took me so long—I had to run back to my room for my things.” He quickly examined the woman on the bed. “Goodness! The guard was right! A Sitha!”
“She has three bad wounds. The arrowheads are still in them,” Pasevalles said. “And she has been exposed in the forest for several days. Oh, and Lady Thelía is gone to the market. Can you do anything for this poor creature, Brother?”
The monk mopped his face with the sleeve of his robe. “I cannot answer until I see what I can see.”
Pasevalles pointed to the two chambermaids who had been waiting discreetly in the corner of the room since they had finished preparing the sickbed. “For now, these good women will help you to nurse her, Brother. If she wakes or tries to talk, please send one of them for me immediately, no matter the time of day or night. The victim herself may be the only one who can help us unpick this crime. Because make no mistake, this was no accident. Whoever shot her intended murder.”
“But why?” asked the countess. “And why is she here? We have not seen the Sithi inside our walls for years.”
“And we would not have this time, had a poacher not stumbled onto her where she lay, half covered by forest leaves,” said Pasevalles. “Brother Etan, I leave you to your work. Remember, if she wakes or speaks, send for me with all haste.”
“Of course, Lord Chancellor.”
Countess Rhona walked with him down the long hall of the Royal Gallery. “She was dressed for riding,” the countess said at last.
“Yes, she was. I half-suspect she is a messenger from one of the king’s and queen’s friends among the Fair Folk. That is one of the reasons I am so desperate to be there if she speaks. It has been so long and the Sithi have been so silent. King Simon and Queen Miriamele would never forgive me if I let this messenger die.”
The countess took his arm. She was the wife of Count Nial of Nad Glehs, an important noble; she had a fine wit and a keen observer’s eye, and she and Pasevalles agreed on court matters far more often than they did not. “You take too much upon yourself, my lord,” she told him. “You have done all you can.”
“But that is the problem with royalty,” he replied, “although I hasten to say that our monarchs are different than most. But still, they do not easily relinquish responsibility. Once disappointed, they will seldom bestow it again in the same place.”
Countess Rhona laughed. “As I said, you take too much upon yourself. But I still do not know why you asked me to come to you. Clearly it was not because of my skills as a healer.”
“Ah, of course, I’d nearly forgotten. This morning you said you were going to send a message to your husband with the post rider. Is your noble lord, the count, still at Hernysadharc?”
“He will not leave before Elysiamansa is celebrated here.” She smiled sadly. “I miss him.”
“Of course. I wonder if your messenger would also carry another message—one that your husband might discreetly deliver for me . . . ?”
“There you are, Lord Pasevalles!”