She smelled of lilacs and lost time.
I found my voice, which had no doubt scurried halfway back up the hall. “That one does seem a little . . . harsh, Lady Enid. But the rest of them, if I might be so bold . . .”
“Are hideous,” she laughed, her merriment as musical as the sound of the covered cuckoo was discordant. “I do believe that had Mother lived, we would be happily free of these little tin outrages, no matter how much a part of di Caela family tradition they are. You cannot trust a man’s taste in sound or in color—for in both, loudness pleases them far too well.”
She passed by me on the steps and lifted my coat from the cuckoo in question, who continued with its grating, hysterical call. Reaching under the base of its perch, she tinkered with something, turned some toggle or switch, and the bird at last grew silent and still.
“Of course, you know all about family traditions, being of Solamnic stock and all,” the Lady Enid said, linking her arm in mine and escorting me past the stairwell in a wave of lilac and light. “Don’t you ever find this obsession with bloodline and ceremony just a little . . . tedious?”
I was speechless, this bright thing on my arm.
“I mean, every little gesture is part of some somber Solamnic tradition, the punishment for breaking which is really nothing more definite than losing face, which can be a dreadful thing, but certainly not as lethal as the Knights make it.”
She laughed that laugh of music once again, and I felt my face go warm.
“I beg your pardon, siir. Here I am forgetting that you’re in training for Knighthood, and probably all too concerned with such serious things.”
“Knighthood?” I stopped on the steps.
“Are you not Sir Bayard Brightblade’s squire?”
“Of-of course. Forgive me, Lady Enid. I was distracted by the beauties of this castle.”
And of the lady of the castle. So much so that I was forgetting myself, forgetting to ask where I was going, among other things. Where was she leading me?
“Attractive man, this Brightblade. I saw him approach from the windows of my chamber. A good swordsman, I’d wager.”
“One of the best,” I agreed. “If you fancy that kind of thing in a man.”
“Makes me wish I still had decisions, choices to make,” Enid said desolately, then brightened suddenly and overwhelmingly, nodding at one of the portraits hanging on the wall.
“Mariel di Caela. My great-great-aunt.”
“Lovely,” I responded automatically.
“It’s charming that the Order teaches boys politeness, Galen, but there is no need to parade it in these halls. Look at that face: an owl. A countenance only a troll could love.”
“Did you know her?”
“Dead when I was an infant. Six months before I was born she locked herself in the top of the southeast tower—the tallest one, windowless except for the rooms overlooking the curtain wall. Locked herself in with her pets—a dozen cats. Can you imagine the loose fur in the air? Grandfather was the di Caela then—the lord of this castle. He let her have her way. It’s a tradition that di Caela men make all decisions for their women—until they get old . . .”
She said that with some bitterness. I became more attentive.
“Then, of course, the men let them do whatever they want. Which by that time usually involves making life impossible for the men who have limited their options for years.
“At any rate, around the time I was born, Aunt Mariel began to refuse food. Being the domineering sort she was—remember, she was making up for half a century without being allowed a decision, half a century of following without question di Caela family tradition—she refused food for her animals as well. Of course, she was devoured by her cats.
“After a week of this fasting, the guards complained of Aunt Mariel’s silence. Complained that she no longer shouted instructions and commands underneath the huge door of the tower room.
“Led by Father, the guards tried the door. Led by Uncle Roderick—who died not long after this, but that’s another story entirely—they tried to pick the lock. Eventually, of course, they were forced to break down the door. The rest . . .” she smiled bleakly, “you can guess.”
“Was that part of the curse, too?”
Instantly, of course, I regretted what I had said. But Enid showed no surprise.
“Perhaps indirectly. I never thought of it. Of course, indirectly the curse gets blamed for just about everything that goes on here, Galen.”
She tilted her head and smiled curiously at me.
“You seem to know quite a bit about the di Caela curse. Especially considering you aren’t a di Caela.”
I was too struck by the smile to respond.
“Oh, never mind,” she said dismissively. “I suppose all the Solamnics get wind when old Benedict returns.”
“So it’s the same person every generation?”
“None of us has the foggiest idea. It sounds like a better curse if it is. But whether it’s old Benedict every time, or one of his descendants, or someone else entirely, this generation is supposed to be an important one. That’s why Father called the tournament. He wanted me married to a redoubtable Knight before the curse returned again.”
I nodded knowingly, having absolutely no clue as to how the curse really worked. Or how Sir Robert imagined it working.
We turned left down a hall running off the landing. The keep seemed larger and larger, almost a world in itself, the longer we walked.
As we walked, my thoughts cascaded.
“So it was this Gabriel Androctus who triumphed. Sir Gabriel Androctus, Knight of the Sword. A high-sounding title, but if you ask me, a Knight I find just a little bit wanting,” Enid continued. She pointed down another hallway to our right, lined with windows on one side, with full-sized marble statues on the other.
“The first six fathers of the family di Caela,” she announced.
“Which one is Benedict?”
“Benedict di Caela tried to destroy this family. He may still be trying. Why would we raise him a statue, silly boy?”
A door opened at the end of the hall, and another girl—about Enid’s age, I guessed—emerged and came up the hall towards us.
“Cousin Dannelle,” Enid called. “Come here and meet Galen Pathwarden, eminent squire.” The girl slowed her steps and squinted down the hall to catch a glimpse of me.
“He’s awfully small for an eminent squire,” Dannelle called out.
“But charming nonetheless,” Enid responded. “Come and look.”
I must admit I squirmed a little. I hate being fussed over, and I could see a fuss approaching. Dannelle glided down the hall—she had the di Caela family grace.
But not its looks.
Which is not to say she wasn’t beautiful, too. But instead of the blond hair, the brown eyes, the high cheekbones, her hair was red, her eyes green, her stature short and birdlike. She stared at me, and it felt as though I was looking into a mirror, only to see myself reflected as a lovely girl. In short, it was really disturbing.
“There is a crack in old Gerald’s pedestal, Enid,” Dannelle stated quietly, eyeing me. “This boy looks more Pathwarden than human.”
“Oh, Dannelle, stop it!” scolded Enid. “He can’t be held accountable for . . . Then both the girls laughed, and Enid put a hand on my shoulder, raising the heat and the blush I had felt on the stairs only a short while back.
“Dannelle isn’t all that fond of your eldest brother, though for the life of me I can’t figure why, seeing as he has her coloring and all,” Enid explained. Dannelle hooted in mock outrage, turned and made as though she were leaving us, walking back up the hall.
Enid called her back, and the two of them stared sullenly at one another for a moment or so before bursting into peals of laughter.
It was then I noticed the strongest family resemblance. Both laughs filled the long halls of the keep with warm and appealing music.
The three of us walked to the end of the hall of statues, lit by the afternoon sunlight. We turned right at Dannelle’s door, moving back toward the landing, I guessed. Along the way, each of the girls pointed out various relics of di Caela family history.