A Glimmering Girl (11 page)

“I know it’s dangerous.”

“No, you don’t. Turn around.”

The abbess flicked her wrist, and a comb appeared in her hand. She untangled Igraine’s hair and continued her lecture.

“You know, it was my great aunt Morwenna—not Merlyn—who taught transmogrification to Artros. Artros was an obtuse boy with a desperate need for empathy, and the lessons made him a better king. But you seem to have been born with a profoundly empathetic soul.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not in this. Your natural empathy leaves you open to possession. When you transform, you take on more than the shape of a thing. You take on its essence—and risk being lost to your own.”

“I don’t think so.” Igraine scoffed. “Could a rabbit or an eagle replace my true self?”

“Not rabbit, not eagle. Not fish or fowl or any four-legged beast,” Zoelyn said. “But feed your empathetic impulses, and they will grow. They’ll become more fluid and accessible to a human looking for a way into your mind. Someone with conviction of purpose and an unyielding will.”

Zoelyn’s words conjured the image of Prior Quinn, the horrible monk at Rozenwyn’s deathbed. The memory made Igraine sick to her stomach, and she regretted laughing.

Why couldn’t she ever think first, before expressing her feelings?

“Or worse, a creature of the Dark,” Zoelyn continued. “Brienne has lost control of the Sarumos court. Her fae have gone dark, and the Dark has found purchase in the west. The Dumnos fae are especially vulnerable with that pretender on the Moonstick Throne.”

“For someone who shuns the fae, you seem to know a lot about them.”

“Obey me in this, Igraine. Tell Sir Ross nothing about Lowenwyn. I’m not saying you should lie, but don’t seek him out.” It was the abbess of Avalos speaking, not Zoelyn. “At least wait until we know more.”

“But he has the right—”

“The baron is an honorable man. He prays to the high gods. He reveres Igdrasil. But his son has spent years with Lord Sarumen. If Sir Ross has aligned with the monasteries, we could lose Lowenwyn forever. Worse, when he becomes Lord Tintagos, we could lose Dumnos forever.”

“Ross’s traveling companion is Prior Quinn.” Igraine shuddered to say the name, as she’d shuddered to hear it this morning on the road. “He’s a bishop now. He’s come to see the baron.”

“Prior to bishop in three years,” Zoelyn said. “But then Quinn has the right connections for rapid advancement.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s Sarumen’s nephew,” Zoelyn said. “I’ll wager he’s come not to see the baron but with questions for the baron’s son. Is Sir Ross still my lord’s creature, now that he’s home safe in his bed? Sarumen wants assurance that Tintagos will support Stephen against Mathilde, now that Aethelos is dead.”

Igraine hadn’t seen Quinn since the day Wennie was born, and she’d hoped at the time never to see him again. “Zoelyn, when Quinn was here last, he asked Marrek about the faewood and if Marrek knew where there was a portal.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“It seemed unimportant, that he only wanted to avoid the fae. But… do you think he actually wanted to find them? Enlist the regent to help destroy us?”

“I do, and I think Idris would jump at the chance. Since Queen Sifae died, the fae have mistrusted the wyrd.”

“I don’t like that man,” Igraine said. “Quinn. He’s evil.”

“Evil is a strong word,” Zoelyn said. “But he does sound damaged. And he might well enlist the regent in his cause. Thank the high gods for the goblins.”

“Goblins.” Igraine felt the grimace carve into her face—despite having never seen a goblin. Or any fae, for that matter—as far as she knew.

“Don’t be confused by a goblin’s ugliness,” Zoelyn said. “They are the highest and best of the fae, true at heart, builders and craftsmen and bakers and jewelers—their every endeavor pursued as art.”

Aha!
Some
goblin must be the source of Zoelyn’s fae intelligence. “But a goblin made the quarrels that killed the fae queen.”

“No goblin fired the crossbow,” Zoelyn countered. “A goblin created glimmermist. And that same goblin forged
Mistcutter,
the Sword of Mist and Rain. A goblin devised summoning candles. And joy in life? You’ve never witnessed joy in life until you’ve seen a goblin dance.”

“Now you’re just teasing me.”

“They weren’t always ugly,” Zoelyn continued. “It is said that once upon a time, the goblins were the most beautiful of the fae. Though, contemplating Prince Dandelion, I doubt it.”

A faraway look came over the abbess. Her features softened, and she seemed young again.

“Zoelyn, you didn’t,” Igraine said, scandalized.

“It was wonderful. And fun,” Zoelyn said.

“You… consorted with a fairy?”

“As I said, it was fun. And wonderful. It meant nothing—just as your visits with Velyn every third full moon don’t mean a thing.”

Igraine let her hair fall forward and stole a look at the boat on the lake. She should have known she couldn’t keep her trysts with Velyn from Zoelyn. “Well, they don’t.”

“That’s what I said.” Zoelyn grinned. “You’re a grown woman, Igraine. You have needs, the same as anyone. The wyrd celebrate life’s pleasures. And I’ve had no complaints from Velyn.”

“Abbess.” Igraine had an idea, and she wanted to change the subject. “If the fae are such a danger to us, shouldn’t we consult Elyse?” Igraine said. “They say she’s half fae, immortal—and she wears the oracle’s ring.”

“The wyrding woman of Glimmer Cottage?” Zoelyn spat out the words. “A chimera. A mere legend.”

“Mere legend. Then why are we forbidden to seek out what is only a tale?” Igraine said.

The abbess stared at the lake, her eyebrows knitted together.

“I knew it! Don’t look away from me. Elyse is real. Vain to deny it; I see the truth on your face.”

“You must never search for her, Igraine. Promise me. Yes. Elyse lives. And yes, the oracle’s ring was never lost. She wears it to this day.”

“But… that’s wonderful! What an ally she’d be. A faeling
and
of the wyrd.”

“No, Igraine. Elyse is diseased, dangerous. She
should be
both wyrd and fae, but she’s neither. She’s lost in a liminal hell.”

“Then we have to help her.”

“Impossible. Her prison is of her own making and can only be of her own breaking.”

“But—”

“A soul sickness infuses the boundary she’s set around Glimmer Cottage. And it’s a strong boundary too; no glimmer glass can confound it.”

“Then you’ve seen it—seen her?”

“Never her, and not even the cottage, not really. For as long as I’ve been abbess, from time to time I cast a locater spell for the ring. As did the abbesses before me back to the time of King Jowan and the tragic fall. It’s imperative that ring not fall to the Dark. The locater spells always swarm over the same place at the edge of the faewood and send back sickening feelings, overwhelming sorrow and rage. I’ve had to break the connection every time. She’s terrifyingly powerful.”

“Sun and moon,” Igraine said. “She must be overcome with guilt.” At the abbess’s raised eyebrow, she added, “Because she couldn’t save Galen and Diantha. They do still tell the story in Tintagos.”

“Grainie! Auntie! Look at me!” Wennie was feeding the swans from the rowboat, with Velyn’s arm around her waist to ensure she didn’t fall out.

Igraine sighed. In another life, she could have been happy with Velyn. Handsome, thoughtful, sexy, good with the magics. Loved children and animals. Why wasn’t that enough?

What made people go over cliffs for each other? Risk their families’ punishment and the gods’ wrath to be together?

“I don’t love Velyn,” she said. “But I would like to love someone one day.”

“You will,” Zoelyn said, but with a note of sadness. She spread Igraine’s combed hair over her shoulders. “You’re so pretty today, dear one. Your hair is as white as apple blossoms… and that gives me an idea.”

The abbess crooked a hand toward the orchard.

Wind gusted through the trees and carried a handful of intact blossoms over and dropped them on the carpet. Zoelyn tossed up a swirling, sparkling wyrd of silver and gold light, and the blossoms were caught up inside. One by one, they fell out of the wyrd and settled into Igraine’s long tresses.

Igraine held up a lock of hair with two blossoms clinging side by side. “How lovely!” The petals of one were rimmed in silver, the other in gold. When the light struck just right, they glimmered.

“Adornment for a glimmering girl,” Zoelyn said. “These blossoms will never fade.”

Velyn helped Wennie out of the boat and watched from the lakeshore until she reached the carpet on the grass. With a friendly nod to Igraine and an admiring nod at the flowers in her hair, he pushed off and rowed away, his muscles flexing in the sun.

“I might stay here at Avalos a few days, until Bishop Quinn returns to London.”

The abbess smiled the knowing smile Igraine hated.

“What? What aren’t you telling me?” 

“You might stay. You might not.” Zoelyn shrugged. “Aeolios is blowing winds of change over all of Dumnos. We’re as powerless against those winds as the apple blossoms.”

“Grainie! Be a goose again,” Wennie said.

“Oh, a goose was too frightening for me. How about a falcon?” Igraine said. For Zoelyn’s benefit she added, “And this will be the last time.”

For her own benefit, she silently added
the last time today
.

Wennie cried
hurray
and ran in a circle, flapping her arms like wings, and Igraine once again pulled off her tunic and dropped it on the rug. She closed her eyes and willed the change. No model was necessary. She’d transmogrified into a peregrine falcon so often the animal was imprinted in her muscle memory.

“Yeeeaah!” she screamed out of her falcon beak as she soared up into the sky. This was the best feeling!

Wennie danced on the grass below, and Igraine swooped down, careful not to dip too low. In peregrine, she retained a strong awareness of her human self, but as Zoelyn had warned, the bird’s animus was strong. Wennie was small and so enticing. It would be easy to reach out and clasp that shiny red hair with a talon…
No!

Igraine lifted higher and circled. She sensed Zoelyn’s discomfort, and their eyes met. The depth of the abbess’s emotion came through. Zoelyn wasn’t angry. She was truly afraid, and Igraine felt her fear.

That’s it,
she decided. This
would
be the last time.

So she’d make the flight worth it.

« Chapter 10 »
The Iron of Dumnos

A full month after the
White Lady
disaster, Ross at last reached home. Bishop Quinn brought a retinue of bodyguards and servants, and the usual itinerant followers added to the train along the way.

At twilight the procession turned onto the Ring road, and Ross glimpsed the mist-cloaked towers of Tintagos Castle. Years of struggle and homesickness fell away, and tears of gratitude filled his eyes.

Quinn sent a servant ahead to announce their arrival, but it was unnecessary. The conspicuous party arrived to find an open gate at the castle keep and Lord Tintagos waiting to greet them.

“My son, my son!”

Ross flew off his mount and into his father’s welcoming embrace. But when he pulled back and really saw the man, Ross’s spirits dropped. In four years, Lord Tintagos had aged twenty.

“You’ve changed, Ross.” Father clasped son again in a great bear hug. “You’ve become a man.”

“I believe I have, sir.” Ross’s heart was full. It was as if the rift between them had never been, thank Sun and Moon.

“I must speak with you, Tintagos. Privately.” Bishop Quinn’s thin, entitled voice cut through the reunion’s joy. “And immediately.”

“Yes, yes. I’m sure it’s important,” the baron said. “I’ve ordered rooms prepared for you. Have a bath and a meal and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow I’ll hear all you have to say.”

“But my lord—”

“Tomorrow.” With the word, the baron’s congeniality faded. “Tonight I would spend time with my son, just home after four years in harm’s way.”

Tintagos led Ross into the castle proper, his tone now somber. “Son, come with me. I would speak with you.”

“Privately and immediately?”

Lord Tintagos didn’t take up Ross’s joking manner, and they ascended the long-missed stone stairs in silence. His room in the topmost tower was unchanged. Servants were still fussing with bed linens and fresh curtains, but the baron dismissed them.

“Very good, very good,” he said. “Go now, all of you. Out. I would speak with my son.”

Standing beside the table in front of a welcoming fire, someone Ross was very relieved to see was laying out a meal of bread and meat and wine.

“Braedon.” He clasped his squire’s shoulders.

“I knew you’d make it, sir,” Braedon said. “I opened a cask of the Bordeaux wine for your homecoming.” He nodded at the flagon on the table and took his leave.

Ross stabbed a piece of venison and greedily bit into a mouthful. “Ah… I’ve dreamed of this,” he said. “So much better than the tough-as-leather stuff at Windsor.”