David Feintuch: The Still

When I was young, before a wasting illness gripped her, Elena Queen of Caledon took me to the secluded vault that held the Vessels. I was barely twelve, and in the dank windowless corridor a nameless dread prickled my spine. I didn’t want to think about our Power, or behold its implements.

Deep in the bowels of Castle Stryx, at the corridor’s end, a smoky torch hissed and sputtered in a sconce. Brusquely, Mother dismissed Chamberlain Willem and the ever-present sentries.

The Queen withdrew a chain with two keys from her bosom. Facing the massive bronze door that barred the vault, she inserted each key into a recess so deep it swallowed her whole arm.

She paused, and a fleeting smile warmed her eyes. “Don’t worry, Roddy. The locks won’t eat my fingers.”

“I didn’t-I wasn’t …”

“You hadn’t heard? Perhaps it’s best for now.”

The second tumbler clicked; the door swung open. She ushered me into the vault.

Dusty oaken chests filled much of the chamber. I picked at the hasp of the nearest. “What’s inside?”

“Leave it. We’ve not come to muse over keepsakes.”

“How about this one?” I bounded across the cell. “What’s that ewer? Why are these swords-”

She stamped her foot. “Stop racing about. Must you finger everything in reach?”

Sullenly, I threw myself on a trunk, but Mother settled on a dark walnut bench, patted the seat beside. “Rodrigo, never speak of what I show you.”

I sat at her side. “I won’t, not even to Rustin. By the True I swear.”

Her hand shot out to cover my mouth. “Hush. You’re too young for such vows.”

“But Hester says …”

“I say.” Abruptly she was Queen.

“Aye, madam.” I made the short bow of assent. Still, pride coursed within. “I only meant to assure you-”

“And you have. But I include family, not just your playmates. Even Uncle Mar.”

I shifted, impatient at her caution. “You said you’d show me the Vessels.” Somewhere beyond the light, water dripped.

“Then pay attention. We ride this afternoon to Warthen’s Gate, so I haven’t much time. What do you see?”

My eyes darted to an ornate marble stand, on which a crimson pillow rested. Atop sat a gleaming pitcher. I recalled her whispered stories in the night. “Is that the Chalice?”

“Well said.”

I jumped to my feet, peered at its luminous surface. “May I hold it?”

“No you’d better-”

“Please?”

She sighed. “For a moment. But carefully.”

I took the ewer from its pillow, sat to examine it. “This pours the stillsilver.”

“Yes.” Her fingers brushed the damp hair at the nape of my neck. The tenderness startled me. Since my father died, she’d seemed ever more distant, and our quarrels had grown more fierce. Perhaps she was hardening me for the isolation of the throne. Perhaps she preferred my brothers. I never knew.

“Go on, Roddy.”

I tried to concentrate. “You pour into the bowl. The Receiver.”

“Receptor.”

“Then it happens.” I regarded the empty Chalice. “Show me.”

Her laugh was brittle. “I can’t.” Her hand fluttered to the golden clasp in her hair.

“Please, Mother.”

“What did I tell you about my Power?”

“That it’s gone. But not for me. Show me how to use it.”

“When the time nears.”

“Later, always later.” I stamped my foot. “Always you treat me as a child.”

“As you are.” Her tone cooled.

“Or perhaps you fear my betrayal!”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“I’ll bet you showed Elryc, and he’s just eight.”

“Roddy, didn’t I tell you the Power won’t manifest until I die?”

“You love him more! You’re planning to renounce me!”

Her slap stung. “That does it.” She was on her feet. “Out!”

“But I only-”

“Now you’ll go to Willem.” Her voice was low, an omen I should have heeded earlier. “If your father saw you he’d knot his fists in shame. Renounce you? Don’t remind me of it while you try my patience!” She shoved me from the vault, locked the bronze doors behind us. The tumblers clicked loudly as they fell into place.

“Madam, I pray thee …”

She strode down the corridor, a firm grip on my sleeve. Her guards fell in alongside. “It’s too late for courtesy and high speech, Rodrigo. When will you learn to hold your tongue?” She swept me along. “To the Chamberlain, this very moment!”

Afterward, my rump smarting, I yearned for the solace of my comrade Rustin, in his family’s keep that bestrode the harbor, but I was sent in haste to make ready for our journey through the hills to the Warthen of the Sands, Mother’s distant vassal.

Uncle Margenthar, Mother’s spokesman in matters of state, came along, as did his son Bayard and half our court. Were the Duke of Eiber to sweep down from the north, Castle Stryx would be ill-tended. But no mishap befell the realm.

The very day we returned I raced to tell Rustin the wonders I’d beheld. He presented me with a magnificent young stallion he’d trained, the best horse I’d ever seen, and I dissolved in tears.

Summer storms swept the granite battlements, Mother’s peasants scythed wheat in the baking sun, and riding my glorious new mount through fields and town and rutted roads, I began to grow out of my childhood.

It was then I knew the torment.

Thunder rumbled across the ramparts and cobbles of the keep. Gray sheets of summer rain reduced the courtyard of the donjon to an inland sea of mud that lapped at the battlements.

Safe within, I smoothed my damp hair and knocked at Mother’s chamber, exhilarated from a long gallop to outrun the sudden summer storm. Below, Stryx harbor whipped into a froth and hurled whitecaps across the low shore road. Perhaps when the Still of Caledon was mine at last, I would choose my own weather, and ride free of care.

At Mother’s iron-belted door, Nurse Hester met me with her customary scowl. “She’s resting well. Say nothing to rile her, or I’ll-” She subsided, wrinkling her nose at Ebon’s sweat redolent on my leather jerkin. As always, Hester’s speech was too free. She’d nursed me from infancy, as she had Mother before, and our rank held no awe for her.

“Hold your tongue, old woman.” Then, quickly, before she could shrivel me with a fierce reply, “How is she?”

Her gnarled hand whipped round. I flinched, but she only waved a swollen knuckle under my nose. “Think you that lanky and long makes you a man, Rodrigo?” Her voice scratched like a blade on glass. “Courtesy marks a true nobleman, and grace!” With that, she hobbled to Mother’s bedside, dabbed her dozing lady’s forehead with a damp towel.

“My lady, the boy Rodrigo”-I reddened at Hester’s emphasis-“answers your summons.” As if in emphasis, thunder rumbled the windowpane.

Mother blinked, focused her troubled blue eyes on mine.

I bowed to Elena, Queen of Caledon. Mine was the informal bow, the house bow, scarce more than a nod, but required of me nonetheless. I blurted, “How do you feel?”

“Roddy.” A smile eased creases worn by long months of pain. “Sit.” She patted her plump featherbed.

“Madam, he’ll soil the linens; he’s come from that great stinking horse.”

“Then have them changed; it’s past time you let me sit by the window.” Mother tapped the teal coverlet. Obediently, I perched at her side. Her brow wrinkled at the sway of the bed on its ropes. Hester muttered disapproval, but retired to the scarred plank table across the bedchamber.