The Skeleth

Chapter 21

So tell me, Edmund Bale. When will it be your turn to drive the cart?"

Edmund jolted up. "What?" He sat on the edge of Gilbert Wainwright's best wagon, his legs dangled down so that his heels nearly brushed the turning wheel below. He held the Paelandabok on his lap, arms braced along the pages to hold them flat in the wind.

"The cart, Edmund, the wagon." Mercy Wainwright sat beside her husband at the front, bouncing their infant son on her knee. "When will you drive one of your own, and who will sit beside you when you do?"

The words of the book swirled in Edmund's mind . . . for his loyal men came death within life, for his enemies an end without a grave. He gained dominion over kin and kine, and set up his throne over all things on two feet and on four, but it did not last, it could not last . . . He tried and failed to understand what Mercy was getting at. "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't play dense, Edmund." Mercy loosened her baby's hold on a hanging lock of her hair. "You stand to inherit the inn one day, and you're not even all that ugly. So, who will be sitting on your wagon when you do?"

"Oh, let him be, love." Gilbert drove the wagon with one hand upon the reins and an arm around Mercy's waist. "Edmund's got plenty of time to find a wife."

"Tourney days are lovers' days, man of mine." Mercy kissed Gilbert on his stubbled cheek. "Or have you forgotten?"

Their daughter, Celia, looked up at Edmund from her game of dolls on the floor of the wagon. Emma Russet nudged Miles Twintree and turned to smirk at Edmund from her seat on the back. Of all the passengers on the cart, only Geoffrey seemed to find Mercy's inquest into Edmund's marriage prospects as uninteresting as Edmund did himself. Edmund let his eyes slide back down to the lead-ruled line of words: As there is no alliance between water and fire, nor is there concord between the wolf and the lamb, so is there no faith to keep between living men and That Which Waits Within the Mountain.

"Very well, Edmund, you force me to guess." Mercy tapped her angular chin. "Molly Atbridge?"

Edmund looked up from the book again. "What—who? No."

"Ah. Then—Siffy Twintree?"

"No." Edmund spoke over a chorus of retching sounds from Miles and Emma.

"Anna Maybell?"

Edmund sat up rigid. "No!"

Mercy's smile sharpened. "Someone else, then." She exchanged a look with her husband. "Thought so."

"Who?" said Emma, and then to Edmund: "Who?"

Edmund looked away, flushing hot to the roots of his hair.

"Let him read his books, Mercy." Gilbert twitched the reins to steer them over the bridge across the Swanborne stream. "Edmund Bale goes his own way in the world; no one doubts that anymore."

"Reading some dusty old book on his way to a joust, though." Mercy tutted, and winked at Edmund. "Don't you know how hard girls try to pretty themselves up on days like this? Don't let it go to waste!"

Edmund shook his head and returned to the open page before him. Gilbert's wagon bore him south out of Moorvale, down the Longsettle road toward the castle and the jousting field. The sun shone white, warm and kindly for an autumn afternoon. The folk of Moorvale were ranged along the road in carts, on horseback and on foot, chattering in clumps at a holiday volume as though their world could never fail and fall apart.

"What are you reading?" Miles Twintree thrust his shadow between Edmund and the page. He was Geoffrey's age but looked younger, a mousy-haired boy burned berry-brown from his labors in orchard and field. "Come on, what is it? Some kind of magic spell?"

Edmund shrugged Miles aside. "If I told you what I was reading, you wouldn't understand a word of it, so I'm not going to bother."

"You don't tell me anything, anymore." Miles turned away sulking. "Just because I didn't go to that stupid mountain."

Geoffrey looked up from the floor of the wagon, where he sat sorting his arrows for the archery tourney. He cast a glance at Miles. "What's wrong with him?"

"He wishes he had gone to see the Nethergrim." Edmund shook his head and returned to his studies.

Gilbert leaned back from his seat. "Now, what are you kids whispering about back there?"

"Nothing, Master Wainwright." Edmund nodded to him with a fake smile. "Just talking about the joust. We're all excited about it."

"Especially for Harry's turn!" said Emma. It occurred to Edmund that her hand-embroidered dress and carefully arranged hair were quite possibly done in hopes that somehow Harry might notice her in the crowd.

"Ha!" Gilbert shook his head. "Just don't go making wagers on our lad Harry."

"Oh—no, Master Wainwright." Edmund laughed. "Very bad bet, so I hear."

Gilbert leaned back to the reins. "I just hope he falls quick and easy, and doesn't get too badly hurt. Last thing I want is to lose Elverain's only heir."

"It's just a joust, though." Emma started to look genuinely worried. "Blunt lances. It's all for show, isn't it?"

Gilbert shook his head. "Men die jousting from time to time, Emma, blunt lances and all. It's a sport for rich fools, you ask me."

"Gilbert!" Mercy swatted his shoulder. "Don't scare my little sister like that!"

"Why, what's the trouble?"

Mercy leaned to whisper in his ear.

"Father's thunder!" Gilbert laughed and whipped the reins to speed them. "Is there a girl in Elverain who is not in love with Harry?"

The road descended gentle and sure, turning past cottages, byres and fields on the way down to Longsettle, then through it and up again toward Northend and the castle. Bright banners and pennants had been hung about the square in the colors of Elverain, dark green and silver-white, above a milling crowd. Pavilion tents stood on the field at the foot of the hill before the castle, each flying its own colors and devices.

"Who's that coming up the road, there?" said Gilbert. "That's Katherine, isn't it?"

Edmund stood up to look. Katherine wore her best blue dress, and her hair had been worked into an elaborate, ribboned braid that matched its color. She wore a closed and inward expression, the way her father always looked when someone asked him to tell a brave old war story.

"I'll walk from here, Master Wainwright." Edmund hopped off the back of the wagon.

"Thanks for the ride." He joined Katherine at the verge, avoiding the knowing, smiling gazes of the Wainwrights. The wagon pulled away along the road, Emma giggling and whispering into Miles's ear on the back.

"I came to find you as soon as I could." Katherine turned back south again, following the disappearing wagon down toward the jousting field. "Some things have happened."

"I know they have." Edmund wanted to give Katherine a compliment, but it came out all wrong: "Why are you dressed like that?"

Katherine would not look at him. "Even maidservants get holidays sometimes." She walked a few more paces with her brows drawn low. "Edmund, I have come to warn you of the danger you're in."