The Tower at Stony Wood

Twenty-five

Cyan Dag, having gone through fire and water for the lady in the tower, found himself at a loss. No embroideries fluttered across the village cobblestones to point his way. No crones with eyes as black as a raven’s shadow appeared unexpectedly to tell him where to go to find the tower with or without the lady in it. As each day passed in Stony Wood, he felt himself regain strength, but with it came a gnawing worry, a restlessness that impelled him to move without knowing where to go. The image of the dragon laden with gold, burning like the sun through the rain-lashed sky, haunted him. It would find its way to Gloinmere, he had no doubt; he had to return to warn Regis Aurum. But he could not leave Skye without knowing if the woman the king thought he had married was alive or dead. He had seen the dead turn into thread before; that he had been too distracted by dragons and selkies to rescue Gwynne of Skye from such a fate filled him with horror. He held her delicate, troubled face in his hands, still visible behind the clouds and jagged lightning bolts that warped the disk. He gazed at her intently, thoughtlessly, as if she might become aware of him, turn her eyes to him, and tell him what to do. Others had answers for him; she remained silent.

Find her, the bard had told him. Free her.

You cannot free her, the king’s snake-eyed wife had told him. You will only kill her.

She freed herself, Sel had said.

She was alive or dead, free or thread, his harrowed thoughts told him; he had to find her to know which.

Or would he find her only to cause her death?

He wanted to question Sidera, but like her sister, she seemed to vanish when he tried to find her. She was with Sel in the stone wood, Gentian told him, or with Sel among the tors, or here, just a moment ago; she would be back soon. Even Melanthos had disappeared, seduced by the magic leafing and branching out of Sel. It seemed a private matter between Sel and Sidera, and not, Cyan remembered warily, without danger. But, desperate, he found his way into it one morning, walking along the cliff to the broken tower, where he discovered Melanthos and Anyon sitting on the ring of stones, watching Sel make trees.

Sidera was with her, standing between tower and wood, as still and dark as if she had been rooted with the stone trees. But her eyes flicked at Cyan and she smiled, turning human again for a moment. Melanthos, leaning against Anyon and looking oblivious of him, patted the tower stones beside her for the knight to sit.

“She’s making a riddle in the wood,” Melanthos said softly to him as Sel wandered through the stone wood, pulling new stones, or old trees, out of the earth, so like the real wood that Cyan could not see the difference.

“They even cast a shadow,” he murmured, astonished. Melanthos nodded, her eyes sparking with the muted fires within the stones.

“I can see through them,” she said. “I can tell the difference between stone and air. But I don’t know how she makes something out of nothing.”

Having broadened the small wood, spilled it beyond its familiar boundaries, Sel followed Sidera’s instructions, and pulled a cloud out of the sky. It fell like sea mist over the wood; sky and sea and village vanished behind it. So it seemed to Cyan. Melanthos, pushing closer to Anyon in the sudden chill, saw it from a different perspective.

“She’s hiding something from the villagers.”

“What is it?” Anyon asked.

“I don’t know yet. Watch.”

Cyan, watching, saw Sel turn herself into stone, her eyes flat, dark, reflecting nothing. She spoke. The word split the air with fire as abrupt and pure as lightning. The mist grew bright, pearly around them. Cyan, gripping the tower stones, felt for an instant that he was back in the dragon’s tower, with Thayne Ysse pulling fire out of gold. Anyon had disappeared. Cyan, blinking away the brilliant aftermath from his eyes, saw him pulling himself out of the tower ring, where he had fallen in surprise. Almost before he got himself settled again, Sel spoke another word. This one kindled the cloud around them gold, and toppled a stone out of the ring. Cyan felt the force of it in his bones. He stared, amazed, at the woman who had, scant days before, stood mute before him in the tower, cloaked and masked by threads, trying to find a way out of her life. Now she was a stranger with wild crackling hair, speaking trees and stone and fire into existence. Even Melanthos was speechless, one hand gripping Anyon’s shoulder as she watched the stranger, her face turning the luminous hues of the clouds.

Finally Sidera spoke, and the storm ended. The stranger turned into Sel again, weaving her hair back into its braid, and mildly expressing a misgiving.

“It’s more magic than I’d ever need for Stony Wood. Or all of Skye, for that matter.”

Sidera only gave Sel a fox’s unfathomable glance, and said, “You never know what you might need to know.”

“For instance,” Anyon said, with unexpected enthusiasm, “if the boats are lost at sea. You could light their way.”

“More likely set them on fire,” Sel suggested wryly, bending to pick her hair tie out of the grass, and startling Cyan with her smile. It might have been a mermaid’s smile, something that barely surfaced on her face, yet shone everywhere out of her, as if her bones were alight. Around them, the strange mist was dispersing, revealing, beyond the mystifying wood, a cluster of astonished villagers trying to see through Sel’s illusions.

She looked a question at Sidera, who said calmly, “You know them. Do what’s best.”

The maze of stony stumps around the true wood vanished. The villagers, mothers with children, tavernkeepers, old fishers with hands lumpy and crippled with age, moved cautiously toward Sel. A tall, massive, fair-haired woman, clutching a child to her thigh, her eyes as round as kelp bladders, said uncertainly, “Sel?”

It was, Cyan thought, a fair question.

“It’s me, Brenna,” Sel said. The smile still hovered within the bones of her face, just beyond sight. “I’m learning some magic.”

They were dumbfounded again. One of the old fishers shifted, planting his feet as if the ground rocked like a boat beneath him. He asked, “What for?”

“Because it’s there. Because it might come in handy. You never know.”

“You never do,” Brenna echoed faintly. “But your own private lightning storm?”

“Well. Not all of it is practical. But suppose the ovens go cold around my bread? Suppose one of your children falls sick, and you need more warmth than your fire can give? Or your animals in the barn need a less dangerous fire? Besides, it’s not all fire. I can knot up a torn net in a breath, untangle a tide under a full moon, tease a wind out of a tantrum. I could always do those things. I just forgot.”

“That high tide some years back,” a man with a leather needle stuck in his shirtsleeve said suddenly. “Raging under the full moon so that the boats were trapped after dark beyond the harbor. The waves began to quiet for no good reason, each one sliding in slower than the last, and breaking with no more force than wash water tossed out the door so that the boats could come home—was that you?”

Sel nodded, a splinter of light flickering gold in one eye, as at a memory. “I wasn’t married very long then,” she said softly. “I wanted Joed safely into harbor, out of his boat and into my arms. It was after that, with Melanthos and Gentian growing up, I began to forget things. Now I’m remembering them again.”

They gazed at her, their eyes no longer apprehensive, Cyan saw, but full of wonder, and calculating their good fortune at having a sea witch wash ashore into their lives.

“I’ve missed your visits to the tavern,” Brenna said. “I wondered what you were doing instead.”

“I was trying to remember. Ale helps, for that, but it doesn’t go deep enough.”

“But what about the bakery?”

“What about it?” Sel answered, surprised. “I’m not going anywhere. Except maybe to your tavern. I could use a splash of ale.”

Melanthos slid off the tower stones, went to Sel’s side; Anyon followed. Sel put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, threw a look like a plumb line into her daughter’s eyes. Melanthos smiled. Cyan looked beyond them then, for Sidera. But only a dark, glittering stump stood where she had been, asking its constant questions: Stone or tree? Once alive or never? He sighed noiselessly, and followed the villagers back to Stony Wood.

The next morning, after he had dressed himself again in his towers, packed the loaves and the salted fish that Gentian had given him, slung pack and sword onto the gelding’s saddle, and prepared to mount, he found Sidera beside him.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

He pulled himself into the saddle, looked down at her. “I have no idea. Somewhere in Skye.”

She only nodded, as enigmatic, he thought, as one of the stumps in the stone wood. She smiled up at him, stroking the gelding’s head. “I will see you in Gloinmere,” she said.

“I thought you disliked courts.”

“I will see you there,” she repeated, as if she was giving him the answer to some riddle he hadn’t thought to ask. She stepped back, her eyes as lucent and unreadable as polished shell. “Be careful,” she added as he turned the gelding. “This is the most difficult tower.”

He twisted in the saddle to stare at her. “More difficult than what?” he demanded. “Than dying?”

“It’s the most difficult to see. Look at it with your heart, Cyan Dag, and you will survive it.”

“What about the lady?” he asked desperately. “Will she survive?”

But the gelding was already moving, leaving Sidera behind, looking, with her face and hands hidden within her hair, like a peculiar smudge of shadow in the morning light.

He rode south along the coast, away from the three hills, the stone wood, all the towers he had found. When the road he followed wandered inland, around a steep, impassable mountain looming over the sea, he went with it. The road met a river, meandered along it through orchards whose trees had lost the young fiery green of spring; hard buds of apple and pear clustered among the summer leaves. The water curved westward again at a leisurely pace. The valley broadened around it; fields of barley and rye and shallots scented the tranquil air. People passed him on the road: farmers with their harrows and carts, merchants, young, laughing riders with hawks on their fists or bows and arrows trailing ribbons from their shafts. In the distance, where the river flowed toward the ocean, he saw what seemed the walls and houses and sea-misted towers of a small city. Perhaps the folk within it could help him, he thought: suggest a direction, remember an odd rumor. The river had grown broad and slow; trees shadowed him, lining both sides of the road. He smelled a sweet, unexpected scent blown across the water and glanced toward it. On a small island in the middle of the river, white lilies massed along a stone wall half-hidden by trees and vine and the warm, dusty cloak of shadow and summer light. It seemed a small fortress. Separating shadow and leaf and light as he rode beside it, he discovered the dark, worn crenellation of four towers joining four walls. Sunlight glancing off the slow river trembled on the stones, blurring them slightly, as if he were seeing it underwater. Most of the windows had been blinded by a green web of ivy. Those he could still see were opaque; nothing stirred within them. Still he studied it idly, wondering who had built it and abandoned it, and why. As the gelding’s steady, even pace took him past the foremost tower, he saw something flicker in a high window. A shard of light splintering from something very bright caught in his eyes. He blinked away the blur of fire-white light, and saw a face within the silver disk on the window ledge.

He reined sharply. The sounds of murmuring water, the distant voices from the fields, the rooks he had disturbed in the trees behind him, all spun to a fine clarity in that moment. He felt his heart pound. He looked up again, swallowing dryly. For a moment he saw only the ornate mirror on the window ledge, the tower’s eye gazing at what passed down the road.

And then the mirror fell, shattering against a cornerstone into a rain of glittering fragments at a careless sweep of sleeve, as a woman leaned over the ledge to look down at Cyan.

He felt his heart crack like the mirror before he shouted, “No!”

He wrenched at the reins, sent the startled gelding splashing into the river, where it had to swim a pace or two through a tangle of water lilies. Cyan, drenched and trailing lilies, waded onto the island beside the gelding. He searched frantically for a door, tearing great swaths of ivy from the walls, sending a cloud of small gold birds fleeing across the water. He uncovered a rotting portcullis closed across an archway near the tower. Ivy trailed across the far arch, hiding the inner yard. He slammed into it. The old wood groaned under him, rattled like bones. Something flying over his head startled him before he tore through the portcullis. It changed shape as it descended, elongating, wrinkling, growing new wings. It hit the water and floated. The slow current tugged it straight. Cyan, staring, saw circle after circle of embroidery on an endless length of linen: the changing images of the woman’s silent, changeless days.

He hit the cracked wood hard and fell through it onto a damp tangle of grass and weed within the archway. He paused then, drew his sword, and spilled the river water out of its sheath. He sheared impatiently through the cascading ivy that hid the courtyard. The yard was choked with weed and wildflower, brambles and climbing roses. The stone fountain in the center of it was dry and filled with dead leaves; the figure in the fountain’s basin poured ivy from its urn instead of water. He waded through weed as through water, feeling it drag at him as he made his way toward the door in the inner wall of the tower. The only other way out for her was through the window. He could only hesitate a breath before he guessed, door or window, and he dared not change his mind.

The arched wooden door was warped and blackened with moss; it did not give at his first pull. At the second, the iron ring he gripped came out of the door into his hands. He stared at it incredulously, then flung it away, and began to pry between wood and stone with his sword. The door made a sound like a tree split in two, and fell suddenly, ponderously, out of the stones on top of him.

He remembered, after a moment or two, why he was lying underneath a door. He pushed himself out from under it, and stood up shakily, wiping blood from a cut on his forehead. The tower steps made a neat, marble-white fan unfolding around their central core. They might have been freshly laid, never walked on until he came up them, leaving the first faint stains of grass and earth on them, wearing down the first shadow-thin layer of stone. He heard nothing as he moved but his own steps, his own breathing. The tower was as still as death. She had turned into thread, he thought numbly. Or she had gone out the window while he came through the door. She had flung herself into the river, wound herself in her embroidery and let it drag her down among the water weeds and lilies.

He reached the door at the top of the tower and opened it.

She stood at the window, her back to the world, her hands clenched, hidden in her skirt, watching him enter. He saw the face in the silver disk, lovely and white as marble, her pale hair rippling down her back, her eyes as blue as the summer sky behind her. She was trembling, he saw. She could not seem to speak. She let a tear fall instead. He watched it slide down the curve of her cheek, pass her mouth, and trace the long, graceful line of her throat before he remembered to move.

He said nothing, either, simply knelt and bowed his head to the true Queen of Yves and the North Islands and Skye.

She whispered, “You looked at me.”

He raised his head, not making sense of the words then, or much of anything at that moment, except that he had found her and she was alive.

He said, “My name is Cyan Dag, my lady. I was sent from Gloinmere by the Bard of Skye to find you.”

She shifted slightly; her voice found its timbre. “Idra.”

“She said—she said you would die if you looked at the world. If you leave the tower—”

“You looked at me,” she repeated. He was silent, still looking at her, perplexed. Color flowed beneath her skin; her eyes grew bright again, heavy. She moved then, crossed the room quickly and knelt in front of him to take his hands. He shook his head a little, feeling her wonder, and a sense of sorrow past endurance. Tears stung his own eyes; her face blurred.

“I don’t understand.”

“They knew I was here. Farmers passing to their fields saw my mirror every day. Knights pointed to my window, told one another about me; I could see them talking. Sometimes I even heard them. Fishers moored their boats among the water lilies and wondered aloud what I was doing here. I was cursed, they guessed; I would die if I looked past the mirror, at the world out of my own eyes. They were half-right. I was some magical, fey being, fit to tell stories about to pass the time of day, to wonder about and pity, and try to imagine what might be so compelling to me that I might fling my life away to look at it.” She was trembling again, he felt as she gripped his hands; her voice was dry and hollow, still not yet freed. He wanted, only a little less than his own life, to put his arms around her, hold her and her fear and grief, until she no longer felt the tower around her. “They passed me every day, the fine knights, the poets, the folk of the city and the fields. I was part of their lives, like the rooks, the tower, winter, sun. They knew me. But you are the only one who ever looked beyond the mirror at me. You are the only one who ever saw that I was real, and came to help me.”

“I still don’t—”

“If I looked at the world I would die. If the world looked at me, saw me with courage and compassion, and reached out to help me—how could I not live? How could that not make me free?”

He tried to answer, could not. She brushed at the tear furrowing down his own face, then touched the disk that had fallen out of his shirt.

“My face,” she said wonderingly. He raised her face with his fingers, felt her poised in his hands like a bird, to stay or fly. She stayed. He kissed her very gently, feeling Regis Aurum’s eyes on him across two lands.

He stood up, suddenly as drained as if he had fought a battle and lived. “You’re not afraid of leaving?”

She gave him the beginnings of a smile. “It’s the world,” she answered. “I should be a little afraid. Will you take me to Gloinmere?”

“Shall I take you to your father, first?”

“No. I want to see Regis.” She turned, for one last glance out the window. “I have lived in Skye all my life, yet I have no idea where we are. You will have to guide me.”

He followed her down the steps, keeping his sword unsheathed. He was still wary of the woman far away in Gloinmere, who wore the mask of the queen’s face, and drank out of her cup, and who would turn a black venomous eye their direction when she found her tower empty. But he found nothing to disturb him until he reached the bottom step. He paused there, his taut face easing into a smile as the Lady from Skye, moving eagerly out of the tower into light, reached up with both hands toward the sun.

Her shadow swept back across the weeds and fallen leaves to Cyan’s feet. On the white marble of the threshold he saw her hands.

Six fingers, his stunned eyes told him, on each shadow hand opened to the light. He made some sound. He saw her look back at him before the sun seemed to rise behind his eyes in an explosion of light that blinded him. I have ridden across Yves and across Skye, he thought bewilderedly, to free the evil that threatens the king. He felt his body move, though he knew he must be still frozen with horror and confusion on the threshold of the tower. The dazzling light faded a little; he saw her through a pounding wash of red, watching him as he crossed the tangled yard. He could not see her face, only the blurred shape of it within her hair. She did not speak; she raised one hand. He did not falter; he moved in fury and desperation to meet whatever deadly magic she conjured out of the air against him.

It was a small thing compared with the sorceries he had met in Skye: a splinter of silver that caught briefly in his eyes. But it brought him to a halt.

He stood staring at her, his sword poised to strike, his body trembling with the effort that stopped the blow. She did nothing else: her upraised hand, long-boned and slender, with the plain band of silver on the longest finger, was the only magic he recognized. He saw her clearly then, the face that had terrified him, that he had worn like a talisman over his heart, that he had hated, that for an instant and forever he had loved.

He could not move.

When, or how, she disappeared, he did not know; she had already blurred behind his tears before she left him. Still he did not move for a long time after that, feeling the pain of his failure, his helplessness, like a weight over his thoughts and body, as if he had been cast in iron and left like a statue in the abandoned courtyard. Finally, wearily, he sheathed his sword, remembering the long road between Skye and Yves, and the dangers still converging on Gloinmere. He swallowed the rust and charred, cold ash of bitterness, and walked out of the dark archway through the tower walls to find his horse.

Three Sisters rose around him, flooded with light from the setting sun. He stared at them, at the meadow grass under his feet, at the little stream where the gelding was drinking, at the squat black tower he had just left. The confusion welled through him again; he wanted to beat answers out of the tower with his fists, but it would not answer, he knew; it never did.

“How do I find my way out of you?” he shouted at the blank, dreaming faces of the hills. “When will you let me go?”

They did not answer, either. He called the gelding, and mounted slowly, wondering if all the paths to come in his life would loop forever back to those three hills, that tower. He turned the gelding away from the sun, toward what he hoped with all his heart was Yves.

Someone cried, “Wait!”

He reined, recognizing Melanthos’s voice. She rode up beside him, barefoot and tangle-haired, her horse whuffing nervously at the stolid gelding. Cyan did not look at her; she had to wheel her mount close to his to see his face.

She whispered after a moment, “What is it? Was she dead?”

His head rose abruptly; he found her eyes. “What do you—how do you—”

“I found this,” she said, her voice small, shaken. “In the tower in the stone wood. It’s not one of mine. I came looking for you. I wanted to know.”

He gazed wordlessly at the embroidery she opened. The dark-haired knight with the three gold towers on his surcoat walked out of the dark tower onto a swath of light from the setting sun. He was alone, except for the face in the silver disk over his heart, barely visible, a stitch or two of blue and gold beneath the jagged lines of power worked across the silver.

Cyan raised a hand to the disk, pulled it out of his shirt. She was still with him, harrowing his life. His hand closed over it, to snap the chain, fling the disk into the grass. But he kept it; it had saved him, he remembered starkly, from water, from fire, from Thayne Ysse’s blade, from the dragon.

Melanthos was still watching him, her strange eyes questioning, disturbed. He said painfully, “She is free. But I think—there is a reason that she was trapped in the tower, and I might have set someone very dangerous to Yves loose in the world. I must get back to Gloinmere to warn the king. Also—” He sighed, shook his head, one hand splayed over his eyes. “There is the matter of Thayne Ysse and the dragon. He took it, to help him war with Yves. While I stayed here to free—” He stopped again. Melanthos’s hand closed around his wrist.

“My mother,” she finished. He dropped his hand, oddly surprised. “I’m sorry. We kept you here. No one—no one would have guessed that the tale would end like this. We never thought the woman in the tower might be dangerous.”

He was silent, gazing at Melanthos, remembering how her face had changed, when he had last seen it, beneath the changing colors of her mother’s power. He whispered, words transforming an image in his mind, “The woman in the tower.”

“Which?” Melanthos asked, perplexed. “My mother? Or the woman in your disk?”

“Your mother. She has grown very powerful. I saw Thayne Ysse take the same fires from the dragon that your mother drew out of herself.”

“Because of you.”

He shook his head quickly, remembering the strange, masked face of the selkie. “No. She sewed my towers back together, and then she freed herself. I did nothing.”

“You went with her into the sea. You wouldn’t let her go alone. She had to return to the human world to rescue you.”

“I didn’t dare let go of her.” He smiled a little, brushed her tangled, smoky hair with his fingers. “It was you who called her back. Thank you for finding me again.”

“I had to, when I saw this. You, walking out of the dark tower alone—she must have embroidered it.”

“She saw me coming,” he said bitterly.

“Then she was here in this tower all the time?”

“She must have been. Sidera said that this tower is best at seeming.” He gathered his reins, an eye to the setting sun. “I must go. I want to find my way out of these hills before nightfall.”

“Come back to Stony Wood,” she begged. “Tell my mother about the woman, about Thayne Ysse’s dragon and the danger to Gloinmere. I don’t know anything about war, or the world outside of Skye. But if Gloinmere is in danger because of sorcery from Skye, then how long can Skye itself stay peaceful?”

“I don’t know. But at least you have Sel to fight for you. I can’t stay any longer in Skye; I have been away far too long.” He urged the gelding again toward Yves, and raised a hand in farewell to the selkie’s strange-eyed daughter, whose eyes, as they watched him, seemed to have lost their glinting lights and become as dark and secret as the stones behind her. He took her fey smile with him out of the hills.