The castellan found her hours later, nose-deep in a story entitled Sir Cuthsome and the Weredy-Wigs of Tuften. A dozen other books stood on the table beside her. “Ah, the wise witch-mother knows well her daughter, unaled-unaled,” he said, nodding his head. “Most assuredly, you have found no trouble, as you were asked.” Noting the book cover, he asked, “May I enquire, what is a ‘weredy-wig’?”

“I’m not sure the author ever learned,” she replied, setting it aside.

“Young miss enjoys herself?”

By his smile, Tildy judged he already knew the answer, but she responded enthusiastically, nonetheless. “I love it here! I had no idea there were so many books in the world! Although I should have guessed because it’s a noble’s castle, but to take the time to acquire quantities like this and to keep them so preserved! It’s astonishing, is it not?”

The castellan confirmed this with his little nod and said, “It is. You warm this one’s heart with your appreciation, bright-smile. Truly, you seem like a young Obsequiant who has learned her first understanding of another.”

But she wasn’t done yet. “You were right when you spoke yesterday about the magnificence of the Southershard treasure. I can’t even imagine what else there is to discover! Oh, if only I’d visited here last night – I’ve wasted so much time already.” She craned her neck around, but stopped, seeing him waiting patiently for her to finish. “But how rude I’ve been! You came for me?”

“A most delicious lunch awaits your pleasure,” he said. “Though perhaps a timely attention to it would prevent the other servants from clearing up before young miss ate her fill.” With that, Tildy followed the castellan from the room. As they descended to the second-floor dining room, he pointed out peculiarities of the stairway, like a war-banner used as a burial shroud (later recovered), the eighth-floor window protected by spell-glass that kept out the weather but not birds, and a painting whose eyes followed you wherever you stood. They were all tiny details, and they delighted Tildy. They also gave her an idea.

* * * * *

“You know the Southershard very well,” she said, beginning polite conversation. Her mother had always stressed the importance of the “small talks” between people, especially strangers.

“Thank you, young miss.”

“Have you served the baron long?”

He paused, thinking. After a time he said, “I have served the Southershard for more years than I can remember.”

“What is he like?”

“What would you like to hear?”

“Hmm,” she mused, considering the best topic that would allow her to segue to the real question she wanted to ask. She searched her memory for stories of castle lords. “Are there tournaments with jousts or feats of strength? Do people yet travel these roads?”

“Sadly, no longer,” he replied, shaking his head. “As you are aware, these lands have become more treacherous this last year. The baron hosted a tourney last autumn, to celebrate the first anniversary of his betrothal, but the turnout was abysmal. It cost a fortune and the winner’s purse went to,” he lowered his voice, “a nameless vagabond. It was quite a scandal.”

Tildy didn’t understand the apparent disgrace, but the Obsequiant had provided her the opening she desired. He has a way of knowing things. “I had heard the baron didn’t believe the danger was real.”

“Mmmm, yes, those who witnessed the truth may forgive my noble lord for the deception he laid upon his folk. For their own safety, he prudently chose to feign indifference, whilst secretly sending scouts into the wilderness.” He shook his head and added, “While never was there proof or reliable witness, my noble lord somehow understood that an evil walked his lands. Not even I determined how he knew. But that is a longer tale for a day when luncheon does not await,” he finished as they reached the second floor.

“Oh,” Tildy replied, disappointed. “Of course, uh, unament-unament,” she added, her face hesitant. She thought she understood his language, though she certainly didn’t want to offend the Obsequiant.

The castellan clasped his hands in delight. “Oh, most lovely miss understands! Very good, very good. I suspected you would be one who knew – so clever, yes! Very few try and even fewer succeed, although your young friend made an attempt most valiant yesterday.” He paused in his delight, becoming serious as he contemplated something, tugging one end of his linen stole. Apparently making a decision, he clasped her hand, his touch warm and soft. “This changes much, for Obsequiant language creates a bond. The moment for lunch is now, but the time for answers is later. Perhaps tomorrow morning you will find an excellent tree in the courtyard for catching sunrises. Not the dead one. The blue mirador. Your golden friend would agree.” He nodded and left.

* * * * *

His words left Tildy’s mind in a whirl. She placed her hand against the hidden Mum, but the amulet remained silent. What did trees and sunrises have to do with her questions? She supposed he understood that she liked to watch the approaching dawn, but that seemed unconnected to their conversation. Her thoughts were interrupted as Marklin hailed her from behind a pile of food.

Through mouthfuls, he described his time with the blacksmith and the sword-work a guard taught him. She saw her own disinterest reflected on his face when describing the library to him. As she began to talk about what she’d learned from Fillofillo, he politely excused himself and returned to the courtyard.

She finished her meal distractedly, and much of the day passed the same. She found she could neither concentrate on books nor eating, thanks to Fillofillo’s cryptic words. The witch missed dinner for being caught up in something in her room and the baroness was privately entertaining the emissary from the Shimmer Pale. Both women sent their regrets via the castellan, who would say no more about the tree.

Back in her room, Tildy sat cross-legged on her bed, holding Mum in cupped hands. In response to her question about the castellan’s words, it said, “I know nothing of blue miradors, save they are tall trees with bluish leaves. Nor have I ever seen a sunrise, though countless masters have spoken of their beauty.”

Tildy loved the dawn, and this revelation saddened her, but she wanted to keep to the topic at hand. “Why did he think you would agree?”

“Your Obsequiant friend believes I will advise you to listen to him.”

“Do you?”

“He guesses that I already find him beyond reproach. And so I do. Curious,” Mum said, its eyes going dark as it considered its next words. “I am generally not predictable nor am I this trusting.”

“That concerns you?” she replied, somewhat frustrated by its self-indulgence.

“Were it any other person, perhaps. However, I haven’t met a more trustworthy figure, and I am one privileged to have lived with Elves.”

“But I thought he’d only spoken to you once?”

“This is true. Yet, we each know who the other is. I do not think you can understand, though perhaps I would name him a sort of kindred spirit.”

“So, what do you think?”

“I think you should always trust in your friends.”

Weary of this unhelpful conversation and wanting to get up to see the sunrise, Tildy went to bed early and woke before dawn.

* * * * *

The bailey was largely quiet, and she found the tall tree with blue-tinged leaves that stood near the north-western corner of the curtain wall. Even though she hadn’t seen a soul this morning, she trusted to caution and kept her wings hidden. For a girl who’d spent her childhood in trees, climbing it posed no challenge.

After a few minutes, she perched impossibly upon the topmost branch of the mirador. She removed Mum from around her neck, recalling it had never seen a sunrise. The normally talkative amulet watched the approaching dawn in silence. She looked down at the golden face, which glowed softly in the growing light, its sapphire eyes briefly transformed into rubies. She knew its expression could not change, but she imagined she saw awe there.

She recalled this ritual in Dappledown during which she wondered about her lost family. Had it really been months since she’d last visited the treetops? Guilt began to unsettle her stomach. She’d assumed her family had been headed to the Eastwen Road when they were attacked at Caraban Losh. Here she was, further east than she’d ever been, and she hadn’t once thought about her longing desire to determine where they’d been headed. Was it foolish? They could as easily have been going south or west or north. She sighed.

“I have no words,” Mum said in a quiet voice. “Thank you for this.”

“It’s the solstice, that some call the Mother Sun’s Triumph. It’s the best sunrise of the year.”

The courtyard awoke with metal clangs and shouted greetings, and as she looked around, a glint from the north side of the Shard caught her eye. A small window, barred with iron, lay hidden in a recess and resonated like another forgotten memory – like expecting to see nagweeds – but she could not place where she might have seen it before. When a bit of music drifted up to interrupt her thoughts, and she looked down to see Marklin, humming that tune he loved. She put Mum around her neck and hid it beneath her dress. She began to descend and was about to call out when the witch joined him in the shadow of the tree, shaking her head.

He said, “I wanted to speak without Tildy. I need your help.”

* * * * *

Intrigued, she remained silent on her branch. The witch had mostly been gruff with him, distant, as though she didn’t want to get attached. And so Tildy lingered, even though she knew better. Besides, it was too late to announce herself, and her curiosity quieted the guilt she felt for eavesdropping: What could he be asking the witch that he couldn’t ask of Tildy herself? Weren’t they friends? They certainly had confided in each other like friends. Even if it was awkward, they should be able to talk, right? It occurred to her that maybe she herself was the topic he wanted to discuss.

Marklin shifted uncomfortably beneath the witch’s gaze. He looked around, perhaps hoping to take inspiration from the wind. When he finally spoke, his words ran together, as though he wanted to say them all before he could change his mind. “I can be helpful, you know. I’m not a piece of luggage on this journey.”

This surprised the witch. “What? Of course you are not.”

“Sometimes I’ve felt I’m just a burden. Or a strong back to carry the packs.” Tildy thought this a ridiculous notion, though she didn’t laugh like she normally would. She had never heard him so somber.

“Is that truly what troubles you?” she asked, and Tildy recognized the tone. Already her adoptive mother understood the real question that was, as yet, unasked.

Marklin shook his head. “I can’t get it out of my mind. All the things that have gone wrong. They can’t be fixed. And I’m worried. All the time. It chokes my heart with fear. Life wasn’t great in Grey’therton, but it was a life. I had a purpose. And it’s all,” he paused, taking a deep breath, “and now it’s all gone.”

Tildy realized he was crying, and her guilt blossomed like an accusatory flower. But there was no way to depart without being heard or seen! She wanted to jam her thumbs in her ears yet stopped when her mother spoke again. “I thought I sensed a darkness upon you when first we met,” she began. “No no, nothing evil. But a dark cloud that obscured the sunshine of your smile. Some days the clouds clear, do they not?”

“Yes,” he said with a sniff.

“And some days they descend, crashing down until you fear the storm will wipe you from existence.”

“Yes,” he said again, a little stronger than before. “How do you know?”

* * * * *

“How do you think?”

Silence came as Marklin considered the question. Finally, he said, uncertainly, “You can read my mind?”

“Try again,” the witch replied, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Tildy heard the warmth in her voice. Well she had learned how her mother’s encouragement would help a person get to the right answer. But what the answer was, Tildy certainly couldn’t guess.

Again, a pause, and then Marklin confidently said, “You know because you’ve experienced the same thing.”

“Yes,” said the witch. Tildy reeled, heart breaking for her friend as she pictured the descending shadow that sometimes obscured her mother.

“How do you deal with it?”

“There’s more than one answer to that. Let me ask you something. How many days have passed since we found you?”

Marklin thought for a moment. “Twenty-four, I think.”

“You are correct. But these feelings started before that, didn’t they?”

His response was so quiet Tildy couldn’t hear it. But the witch seemed to have heard something expected. “This means you have conquered your worry fifty times. And when you wake up tomorrow, your number will be fifty-one.”

Tildy did the math and nearly fell from her perch. Something had happened three weeks before the attack on Greywetherton. But what?

Marklin said, “It can’t be as simple as that.”

“Some days it is. It is so simple, it tricks you into thinking the feeling is not deadly serious. And others,” the witch said, her voice quieting, “it is much more complicated. Those are the times you need to be careful lest you slide into shadows beyond all light.”

“What do you do on those days?”

“Sometimes, a little herb named harmonaria helps. Here, take my last vial.” Tildy saw her retrieve something from the assorted pouches on her belt. “It convinces the mind that things are fine.”

“That sounds like a trick,” Marklin noted in a voice as skeptical as the thoughts in Tildy’s head. He peered into the sealed crystal container.

* * * * *

“The darkness is also a trick of the mind,” replied the witch. “The thoughts feel real, though they are not the genuine you. The harmonaria restores the balance. Think of it as placing additional weight on an unbalanced scale.”

“Thank you,” said Marklin. “But it doesn’t always work, does it?”

She stood silently so long, Tildy thought she might not answer. “No,” the witch replied, looking into the distance, her voice barely a whisper. Tildy lowered her head to hear more. “There are times when the clouds turn to blackness and they rain down nothing but despair, and you would rather the world end than live another day. On those days, the welcoming escape of nothingness becomes irresistible, and the Abyss is only too willing to accept you.” The witch reached out her arm, fingers reluctantly eager to clutch something.

Tildy covered her mouth and held back her tears. Her mother had never talked about her dark moods, never discussed the conflict that caused such struggle. Thinking back to Ospin’s story, she wondered how many times the witch had previously resisted the call of the Abyss. And how many more times she could withstand it.

“Will it ever get that bad for me?” he asked, a note of dread in his words.

His words brought the witch back from whatever precipice she envisioned. She turned to him, kindness in her voice. “Do you know the real reason I allowed you to join us? It wasn’t simply to protect you. I learned something immediately: you were dealt a grievous injury, one the unafflicted do not truly understand. You could have lain down and died. Many in your place would have chosen that path, even ones who outwardly appear stronger. You didn’t. You got up, and you have done so fifty days since. Like wounds of the flesh, this too shall heal. It might leave a scar, yes, but you shall survive it.

“I saw this strength in you, and my heart tells me that one day you will recognize this when you truly need it.”

“So, there is hope?”

She touched his cheek. “My dear lad, there is always hope. Even the blackest night can be held at bay by a solitary flame. Sometimes, people like you and I need others to carry the candle for us.”

“Like Tildy.”

“Yes. She is a person who will help you get through this, no matter how much you think you will not.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t. More happened in Grey’therton than I’ve said.”

The witch nodded. “I think I already know.”

Before Marklin could share this secret, however, Fillofillo interrupted. “My lady baroness bids me to ask your attention,” he announced to the witch. “Young master and clever mistress need not attend, unamard-unamard,” he said, looking upward. Marklin and the witch followed his gaze.

* * * * *

Tildy froze. She hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, of course, and she’d heard far more than she’d wanted. The betrayed look on Marklin’s reddening face said more than any words he could have spoken.

No! This was a Thing That Should Not Be! Tildy’s thoughts screamed.

He ran from the scene, and as she scrambled down after him, she lost her grip and fell, hitting many branches before landing painfully on the ground.

The reproachful look on her mother’s face was unbearable. The castellan’s was little better. Tildy wanted to explain, but she needed to plead with Marklin first. She had to apologize and tell him she didn’t care what secret he had about this home! She scrambled to her feet and ran after him, certain she’d broken the relationship with her first true friend.

Dammit, Tildy. How are you going to fix this? Chapter 23 – The Poison Garden coming soon!

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