The Eidolons of Myrefall Page 16

  Ian shook his head. “I can’t imagine how she coped with that. When I met her, she was so strong. So happy she glowed. And when you came along…” He looked at her and smiled.

  Arabel’s breathing was shallow. She tried to imagine what he was saying, tried to feel it. It was horrifying, but it felt like a story about someone else, not her. Not her mother. Why can’t I remember you?

  “I know it’s a lot to hear,” Ian said, poking at his food with his fork.

  Arabel shook her head. “No… it’s just… I wish I could remember.”

  He nodded.

  “You said she had a different way of dealing with the eidolons?”

  “Yes. As much as she recovered, she was never… quite like the rest of us. She’s the only person I’ve ever seen fight a demon without a soul blade.” Arabel’s heart skipped a beat. “She had a different relationship with her eidolons. And with the others. She was more sensitive to them than we were, and more fluid. She didn’t see any of them as monsters. She… related more to them than we did.” He ran a hand across his forehead. “I’m sorry, I wish she were here. She could explain it much better than I can.”

  “No, it’s OK. Thanks.” Arabel pushed some peas around her plate, trying to imagine that laughing, smiling woman who looked so much like her. She felt like a stranger.

  26

  They met in the plaza the next morning after breakfast. Arabel turned towards the practice grounds, but Ian stopped her.

  “No, the best way to learn is with some pressure. Real pressure.”

  Arabel lifted her eyebrows at him, but he’d already turned and was taking the stairs down into the sculpture garden two at a time, his soul blade slung across his broad shoulders. A spark of approval lit in her stomach and she jogged after him. Exactly; this was how education was supposed to work.

  They left by the main gate, crossed the road, and dove into the forest on the other side. She had her sword out, hacking at bushes as they went. He glanced at her, saw she had her blade in her hand.

  “You’re left-handed?” he commented.

  “No,” Arabel said. “I just like holding it like this.”

  He grinned and picked up the pace.

  They came upon a trail which wound through thick stands of hemlock and pine, the bright fall sunshine already warming the ground and drawing from it the rich smell of soil and pine needles.

  “How did she fight them without a soul blade?” Arabel asked, her mind still on the night before. “And if she could do that, why was she killed by one?”

  Ian stepped over a fallen log. A shadow passed over his face. “I don’t know. She was working on something new, something she hadn’t told anyone about, when she disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? You mean when she was killed?”

  Ian looked at her. “No. I mean disappeared. Did you ever see her body?”

  “After they brought it back?” Arabel shied away from the blank spot in her mind where the memories of that day were kept.

  “Yes. I wasn’t welcome in Myrefall. None of us were. We only got word from Cecil that she had died after he had already had the funeral. After she was buried.”

  Arabel’s fingertips went to the emerald pendant where it rested beneath her tunic. She felt the familiar swirling sense of unreality she often got around her father. How had she not considered that even that might be a lie? But if her mother wasn’t dead… Had her mother been a prisoner there in that castle somewhere, too? She stopped in her tracks; her jaw clenched. She was going to go back there. Right now. She’d search every inch of that place herself.

  Ian turned and saw the look on her face.

  “We don’t think she’s in Myrefall, Arabel. If she is in fact still alive. We’ve… looked into it.”

  “Looked into it?” Arabel shot back. “How?”

  “Several of your father’s soldiers work for us.”

  And even they had ignored her?

  “Did they search the library? The servants’ quarters? There are a couple of secret passageways underneath the stables.”

  Ian nodded. “Yes. We believe we’ve looked everywhere.”

  “Unlikely.” Arabel turned around, began marching back along the trail.

  “Arabel, wait.”

  She sped up slightly.

  “Hang on a minute, will you please wait just one minute?”

  She let a branch fly back into his face.

  “We know your father has something planned, with you being here.”

  “All the more reason for me to leave, right?”

  “You’re no good to your mother dead.”

  Arabel kept up her pace, taking a swipe at a branch with her sword as she passed.

  “You’ll dull your blade like that, you know.”

  Arabel rolled her eyes. “That’s what sharpening stones are for.”

  “You’re much more use to us here. Please stay. We think you might have information we can—”

  Arabel whirled around. “Is that why you offered to help? They picked you to take me out into the woods, tell me stories about my mother, and try to get information out of me?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Advancing on him, she glared up into his kind, strong face.

  “Not exactly? What’s that mean? You all sat around one night in Oswald’s office discussing how to get information out of me and you drew the short straw?”

  “Definitely not that.”

  “Then what?”

  He closed his eyes and passed a hand across his forehead. “I… I had planned to talk to you anyway. Oswald has been looking for your mother a long time. We all have. I decided—on my own—to come ask you about it.”

  “Why?” She continued glaring at him. She was out of breath from walking so quickly, and from yelling.

  “Because…” He ran a hand over his hair and scratched at the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “I… I think it is quite possible that… I’m your… well, you see your mother and I…”

  Arabel gaped at him. Only her hours and hours of training kept her from dropping her sword. “What?”

  “I’m not sure, of course. You may have noticed that I’m left-handed as well. I think I...” He took a deep breath. “Whew, this is harder than I thought it would be.”

  “You think you’re my father.” Arabel’s voice was deadpan, but her heart was racing. Not being related to Cecil? All those years of hating him, hating herself for the similarities she saw in them. Wondering how much of her was also a monster. A huge weight suddenly lifted from her chest. She wasn’t the daughter of a psychopath. She was a prisoner. She’d been tortured and held captive by the man who had done the same to her mother.

  “Right. Yes. Sorry, I’ve been trying to think of a better way to tell you. And, of course, I’ve considered not telling you. I mean, maybe you don’t want to—”

  “No.” Arabel stared around at the forest. The incredibly beautiful, sunny forest. Filled with bird song and fresh mountain air and happiness. “No this is… this is great.” She looked at him more closely, suddenly unsure what this meant. His eyes were dark blue like hers. They did look familiar somehow. And they were both left-handed. Were there other similarities, too?

  He returned her gaze, relief spilling across his features.

  “And… I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize how you were being treated there. I don’t think Cecil ever suspected… when I heard… well, I wish I’d come for you earlier.”

  A lump rose in Arabel’s throat. The weight of what he was saying hit her, the enormity of it. She sat down on the ground, arms resting on her knees, trying to get a hold of herself.

  “Cool,” she said at last.

  Ian sat a few feet away, looking out in the same direction, and gave her time to collect herself. Finally, he glanced up at the sun.

  “It’s getting late, we don’t have enough time to continue today. I know you have chores and class still, and I’m leaving on a patrol tomorrow, but I’ll be back in a few weeks.
If there’s anything else you need, or want to ask…”

  How had her mother fought the eidolons? That was what Arabel wanted to know. But the question only sat dimly in the back of a swirling confused mass. Her whole sense of who she was had shifted massively in the last few minutes. She glanced at Ian out of the corner of her eye.

  He sat, his back straight and his arms, like hers, balanced across his knees. His leather boots were battered and covered in mud. He was well-dressed, but in a practical way. There wasn’t any opulence about him, even if his silk tunic was clean and well-trimmed. His arms were scarred, and he was strong, clearly a fighter. Her father, Arabel thought. For the first time she had something to be, rather than something not to be.

  27

  That evening, not feeling up to climbing five flights of stairs after chores and practice, Arabel found an empty seat by the fire and sat waiting for dinner, watching the other guardians drift in. Rody gave her a nod as he passed, dropping into his usual place by the fire. Walt wandered in not long after, his pants covered in dirt and animal hair. The two men sat sipping beer in companionable silence. At the empty place next to them, where Marl used to sit, they placed a full mug of beer, but neither commented on it.

  Moira emerged from the kitchen not long after, a large pot of soup held in front of her. She adjusted it on a wool pad, then bustled off again. Archie appeared, sniffed the soup, and disappeared again through the floor.

  Moira and her helpers filled the table, stacking plates and silverware at one end. An old man, his silver hair neatly combed and his beard sharply trimmed, his arms and legs skinny but his back straight, came in from the plaza. He sniffed the air, grimaced, then approached the table. He leaned over the pot and his frown deepened. Looking around the room, he pulled a paper package from a leather satchel at his side and dumped the contents in, then gave them a quick stir.

  Arabel sat up. “Hey, Rody—”

  “Yeah?”

  “That guy just put something in the food.”

  Rody laughed. “Yeah, that’s just Thorryn.”

  “But…”

  “You’ll see.”

  Moira emerged again a moment later, the kitchen door swinging behind her. She caught sight of Thorryn, who had taken a seat at one of the tables and was in the process of opening a small parcel he’d brought wrapped in a napkin. An array of vegetables was inside it. He picked through them, studiously avoiding Moira’s gaze.

  Her eyes narrowed and she went straight to the pot. She lifted the ladle to her nose and sniffed.

  “Thorryn!” She rounded on the thin old man. He turned politely, his hands resting in his lap.

  “Yes, Moira?”

  “You put something in my soup again!”

  He sniffed. “If by soup you mean that slurry of beans, I—”

  “I’ve told you a thousand times, Thorryn—”

  “Healer Thorryn.”

  “I’ve told you a thousand times not to interfere with my—”

  “If you’d just taken my advice—I can tell you’ve done nothing to balance out the—”

  Moira’s face purpled. “My cooking is just fine. In fact, some people like my cooking. Don’t you, Walt?”

  “Walt is hardly an unbiased—”

  “And Rody you—”

  Rody raised his hands and shook his head, but he was still smiling.

  “I am simply helping to prevent you from poisoning the whole castle, Moira.”

  “Poisoning!?” Moira shrieked.

  “I am clearly the only one who wishes to prevent the air in this room from becoming a sulfurous cloud of intestinal distress.”

  Moira glared at him, her hands on her hips. “You don’t like my cooking. Fine. You don’t eat my cooking.” She took a deep breath. “You are welcome to eat elsewhere.”

  He turned back to his napkin of raw vegetables and popped a sprig of parsley into his mouth.

  “I enjoy eating here.”

  She continued to glare at the back of his head, looking like she was seriously contemplating murder. Then she muttered something under her breath and stalked out.

  “This happen a lot?” Arabel asked.

  “All the time,” Rody said. “Thorryn hates Moira’s cooking. Won’t eat it. Thinks she’s poisoning us. If you ask me, it’s delicious. I don’t mind a little gas now and then.” He massaged his stomach.

  “Right.” Arabel saw Ferne and Charlotte coming down the stairs and rose to join them. “Er, see you.”

  “Have a pleasant evening.”

  Ferne laughed when Arabel told them about the argument they’d just missed.

  “I mean, he has a point about beans,” she commented, slopping the thick soup into her bowl.

  They went to what had become their usual table, and Avery joined them a few minutes later.

  “Get all your reading done?” Charlotte asked.

  “Not even close. There’s so much more,” Avery said, spooning soup into her mouth. She grimaced. “What’s that… strange flavor?”

  “Healer put something in the soup. Moira’s pissed.”

  “Ah.” Avery put her spoon down.

  The room was full now, warm and loud with talk. Ian came in a few minutes later, waving to her as he crossed to join Oswald at a far table. Arabel’s heart felt strangely full and warm, too, as she listened to Ferne, Charlotte, and Avery.

  In a far corner, she noticed Alistair eating alone, staring into his soup. That little niggling question tugged at her. It seemed unlikely that he’d broken into Oswald’s office, or had anything to do with Cecil, but what was he hiding? What had he been doing in Norbury that day? She needed to find out. At worst he was some kind of spy. At best he was broken and lonely, and Arabel, suddenly finding herself not the person she thought she was, with friends and people all around, didn’t want to leave him alone. She considered inviting him to eat with them then, but she had no idea how people did that. What, was she going to get up and walk all the way over there? What would she even say? No. She needed time to plan.

  The next day was Saturday. The only day without any chores or training. It was a heavy, grey day, the sky low and lifeless out the windows, the trees bare of leaves. That afternoon, Arabel found Charlotte and Ferne curled up by the fireplace in the aspirant lounge.

  “Hey,” Arabel said, holding her hands up to the flames, feeling the warmth.

  “Hey Arabel,” Charlotte said sleepily.

  “You know what we should do?” Arabel said. “We should go into Norbury today.”

  “Why?” Ferne yawned and wrapped her blanket more tightly around her.

  “Because… it’ll be fun. I saw a tavern.”

  Ferne looked to Charlotte. “What kind of tavern?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t go in, I just walked past. Let’s go get a drink, hang out, maybe meet the locals.”

  They considered this.

  “It’s Saturday,” Ferne said. “I wonder if they’ll have music.”

  “Oh, definitely,” Arabel said, having never been in a tavern herself. “They all do.”

  Charlotte paused, then threw off her half of the blanket. “Good idea, Arabel. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Awesome. I’ll go see if Avery wants to come. Will you ask Alistair?”

  “Alistair?” the twins looked at each other.

  “Yeah, we should invite him.”

  They looked at her skeptically. “Yeah… all right,” Charlotte said finally.

  After some effort, Arabel managed to coax Avery out of the library, and met Charlotte, Ferne, and Alistair in the courtyard. Alistair’s smile became slightly fixed when he saw Arabel, but he didn’t say anything as they started down the road to Norbury.

  The tavern was on a side street, a low-hanging thatch roof sagging over a red front door and dingy stained-glass windows. It was a low-ceilinged room with heavy oak beams. The stone floor was scattered with dirty rushes, and a fire blazed in a stone fireplace at one end. Arabel coughed, breathing in the smoky air and s
melling burnt ham, and the tavern’s few other customers glanced up at them. There were a few raised eyebrows before the other patrons turned back to their beers. To Arabel’s surprise, there was in fact a skinny musician tuning up in one corner.

  Arabel pulled her father’s coin purse out of a pocket.

  “Drinks are on me,” she said, striding over to the bar. A few minutes later she joined Charlotte, Ferne, Avery, and Alistair at a table near the fire. She distributed the drinks, placing the last one in front of Alistair and throwing herself into the seat across from him.

  Avery sipped her drink and winced as the musician played the first few notes. Ferne took a long swig and eyed the locals. “That one’s cute,” she commented to her sister, eyeing a man with his sleeves rolled up, revealing muscular arms. He noticed them looking and raised his glass to them, lifting his eyebrows. Charlotte blushed and turned away. “Yes, he is,” she said, taking a drink.

  Perfect. Stage one of her plan was complete. Now she just had to get Avery, Charlotte, and Ferne into some long, involved conversation so she could get Alistair to herself.

  “Avery,” Arabel asked loudly, shouting across Ferne and Charlotte. “Have you been to a lot of places like this?

  Avery shrugged. “Quite a few.” There was a beat of silence. Arabel realized that Avery was not the right person to carry the conversation.

  “What do you guys think of the style here?” Arabel asked Charlotte.

  Charlotte shot a withering look at a farmer out of the corner of her eye. “I wouldn’t want to comment on it here,” she whispered.

  Arabel realized that this plan had a flaw. Starting conversations was not one of her many skills. She took a long drink while she reassessed. When she looked up, Alistair was watching her, amused. She blushed, annoyed, and looked away, only to catch Ferne’s eye.