“Deerskin,” said her friend. “What is wrong?”
Silky fur between her fingers; the reality of one dog, one dog’s life, bringing her back to her own, as it had several times before. Her fingers clutched, hard, too hard, but Ash only stood where she was, bearing what she could for her beloved person’s sake. Lissar, looking down into those brown eyes looking up, thought, Who can tell what she remembers of that night? But she is here as am I, and if I am to die of that night’s work, let it not be before this man who gave me good work to do, and who has tried to speak to me as a friend.
I did not lie to him about everything, she thought. I told him that I liked dogs. And without conscious volition, her fingers searched out the lump at the back of Ash’s skull. Ash had not carried her head as if it were sore in many months, not since Lissar had woken up wearing a white deerskin dress for the first time; but the lump was still there, for fingers that knew where to look.
“Forgive me,” she said; her brain, still stunned, could not come up with even a bad reason for her faintness; any reason, that is, other than the truth, which she could not tell him, even to change her habit of lying to him. “Forgive me. It is over now. Will you”—her lips were stiff, and she could not think what question she might ask, to lead him away from her own trouble, and so she asked a question bred of memory and confusion: “Will you marry Lissar?”
Ossin smiled. “Not I. Not a chance. I am far beneath her touch. Her father is a great king, not a hunting-master with a rather large house, like mine. She’s his only daughter, and …” He hesitated, looking at her, seeing her distress in her face, but seeing also that she did not wish to speak of it, and trying to let her, as he thought, lead him away from the source of that distress. He did not want to talk about Lissar; but the fate of a princess in a far-away country should be a safe topic. “After his wife died, the story was that he went mad with grief, and when he got over it, he grew obsessed with his daughter, and believed that no king or prince or young god with powers of life and death was good enough for her. Had I wished to run at that glass mountain I would have slid off its slick sides even before I was banished for my arrogance in wanting to try.”
Lissar thought he looked at the painting almost with longing; perhaps he was remembering the first-class dog he had lost in a moment’s romantic whim. “But you were sent a painting,” she said, her mouth still speaking words that her brain was not conscious of forming. “You must have been considered an eligible suitor.”
The longing look deepened. “I have wondered about that myself. My guess is that it was part of her father’s wealth and importance that he could send paintings to every unmarried prince and king in his world.” After a moment he went on: “I quite like the painting—who I imagine the person painted to be. She is watching from behind her eyes, her princess’s gown—do you see it?” But Lissar was watching him. “Her mother was said to be the most beautiful woman in seven kingdoms, and that her daughter grew more like her every year. She is beautiful, of course, the glossy hair, that line of cheekbone, the balance of features; but it’s not her beauty that I keep seeing in that painting. It’s her … self, her humanity. Or maybe I just like the way her hand rests on her dog’s head, and the way the dog is looking out at us, saying, mess with my lady if you dare, but don’t forget me. I like thinking that Ash is appreciated.” He turned away, embarrassed. “Pardon me. Here I’ve just been telling you that these portraits are invariably fraudulent, and now I am spinning a fairy-tale about a woman I have never met as painted by someone whose whims and imagination I have no guess of.” Another pause. “Perhaps I was sent a painting in acknowledgement of the dog I bred; who knows how great kings think? I received no other acknowledgement, except Mik, who delivered the pup, was favorably taken by Lissar as a potential dog-owner.”
Lissar dared to turn around and look at herself once more. “It is a very handsome dog.”
“Hmm?” said Ossin. “Oh. Yes. It is a very handsome bitch.” He smiled a little, again, sheepishly. “Perhaps I give myself permission to believe in how this painter presents the princess because the dog is so well done by. She looks so like her mother; that same wary look, when I was asking her to do something she considered of dubious merit. She would certainly have looked just so had I required her to sit for her portrait.”
There was a longer pause. Lissar thought that Ossin would stir from his reflections, and suggest they leave, and they would leave; although Lissar’s ghosts would go with her. But then they had been with her all along; now, only, she had names for them. And was not naming a way of establishing a pattern, of declaring control? She remembered the Moonwoman’s words to her, and she wanted to say, It is not enough. I am sorry to be one of your failures, but I cannot bear it. I still cannot bear it.
Lissar straightened a little, still sitting on the edge of the table. “Whom did Lissar marry, after all?”
“She didn’t. Although it’s rather murky what exactly did happen. Usually we get quite good gossip at this court—we all like hearing how the real royals live—but somehow this story never quite got to the circle of our friends. I think she is supposed to have died; there was this uproar, and the king went very strange again, like after his wife died. No one would say if Lissar had actually died or if so what of. There was even a story that a lion leaped over the princess’s garden wall and seized her; as soon say a dragon flew off with her, I think. But it was definitely given out that the king was now suddenly without heir.
“I favor the story that she ran off with a farmer and is happily growing lettuces somewhere. And raising puppies, although I don’t like thinking what she might find to cross Ash with. I’d offer her any dog in my kennel for the pick of the litter, even now, when she probably doesn’t have too many litters left. Her mother had her last litter at twelve, her idea, I didn’t mean to have her bred any more, and those last five were as fine as any puppies she’d borne in her prime.… I suppose the king will marry again. I don’t believe he’s all that old, even though this now happened, oh, must be five years ago.”
The king will marry again. The words went through her like swords; she barely heard Ossin’s final words, and did not at first register them. The king will marry again. But Ossin was still speaking, Ossin, her friend, and the sound of his voice staunched her wounds, and she found that she was not plunging into the chaos and terror after all. She had paused on the brink to hear what he had to say, trying to distract herself as she felt her strength running out; and now she found that she had regained her balance, at least, while she listened. She was still weak and shaken, but she could stand without straining; there was little further call on her diminished strength. She could still hear the roar of the fire demons at the bottom of the pit, behind Ossin’s voice; but it was not now her inevitable fate to fall to her death among them.
She listened, half attending to the prince, half attending to the knowledge that her own skin still enclosed her, that she was alive and aware and herself, feeling her chest rising and falling easily with her breathing, newly feeling the elasticity of her skin, and the sun’s warmth on it, and Ash’s long hair under her fingers. Feeling herself, with all that meant: as if her consciousness were a gatekeeper, now going round to all the doors of a house just relieved of a siege it had not thought to win.
The king will marry again.… No, no, it could not happen; it would not happen; she could not think of it, she saw her mother’s blazing eyes striking down any who stood before the king’s throne, her mother’s eyes burning in the more-than-life-size portrait that hung on the wall behind. It would not happen.
She would win out. She was winning; she was here and she was not mad, and she remembered. She supposed it was necessary for her to take her life back, even when her life had been what it was. She risked taking a deep breath … and raised her eyes to Ossin’s face.
She could not tell him.
“Please?” said Ossin.
The sound of his voice had been her lifeline, but she did not know
what words he had said. She smiled, glad to have him there to smile at, embarrassed that she did not know what he was asking; delighting in her own ability to decide to smile, to speak, to walk; afraid of the moment when she would turn too quickly, lose her balance—for the chasm was there. What had happened to her the night she had fled her father’s court and kingdom was a part of her, a part of her flesh and of her spirit. It was perhaps better to know than not to know—she was not yet sure—but the knowing did not make the chasm any less real, the grief any less debilitating, it only gave it a name, a definition. But the fact of definition implied that it had limits—that her life went on around it. They were only memories. She had lived. They were now only memories, and where she stood now the sun was shining.
Five years ago.
The Moonwoman had said, I give you the gift of time.
Time enough to grow strong enough to remember. Maybe the Moonwoman had known Lissar well enough after all.
“It is, you remember, only one evening,” finished the prince. “Let’s get out of here; it’s a depressing place, the vain hopes and dreams of generations of my family. You’re looking a little grey—unless you’re just trying to buy time to think up an excuse to say no.”
Time, she thought. I have all the time in the world. Only one evening is … I lay four years on a mountaintop, till the shape of my and my dog’s bodies had worn themselves into the mountain itself. If we went back there, we would still see the little double hollow, like two commas bent together in a circle.
One evening. “Do I need an excuse?” she said cautiously. She stood up, and found that she could walk slowly after him to the door; she did not look at the painting of Lissar as she passed.
“My mother and her ladies will be raiding their wardrobes anyway so that anyone who wants to come may, so you will have a dress for the asking. Camilla’s old dresses are only for children, it will be a few years before she’s much of a resource; although being who she is she has rather to be forcibly restrained from having dresses made to give away. She’ll be a queen like our mother, I think; I hope she finds the right king to marry.
“So you can’t beg off because you have nothing to wear. And I doubt that you’ve been invited to any other grand performances that evening; this is a small place, and we’re the biggest thing in it.”
Lissar finally grasped that he was asking her again to come to the ball. “Oh, no, I couldn’t!” she said, and stopped dead.
Ossin stopped too, looking at her. “Have you really not been listening? Or did you only think I couldn’t be serious?” Or did something in the portrait room disturb you that much? I am sorry, Deerskin, sorry, my … it was a rude trick to play, I had not thought. “I am serious. Please do come.”
“I can’t,” she said again; she had only just remembered her last royal ball, remembered how it fitted into her new pattern of memory.
“Why can’t you?”
She shook her head mutely.
“What if I order you to come? Would that help? Offer to throw you in the dungeon and so on, if you don’t? We do have dungeons, I believe, somewhere, someone probably knows where they are, or we could simply put you in the wine-cellars—with no cork-puller.”
She laughed in spite of herself and he looked pleased. This was a different ball they were discussing, she said to herself, she was not who she had been, and this was not the man who had led her through those old dancing figures. “Do you have many herbalists’ failed apprentices at your royal balls then?”
“Then you’ve remembered!” he said, and her eyes were on him as he said it, and she saw the dreaded ball disappear from his face. “You’ve remembered!”
She had told him, those long nights with the puppies when she was too tired to remember what she could or couldn’t say, should or shouldn’t, that she had been ill, and lost much of her memory. She was both frightened and heartened by his interest now, and she said, smiling a little, “I don’t know how much I’ve remembered”—this was true; the fire still burned, reflecting off surfaces she did not yet recognize—“but your portrait room, I’m not sure, it shook something loose.”
“Looking at Trivelda makes me feel a trifle unsettled myself,” said the prince. “I did think you were looking a bit green there; you should have said something to me earlier. But see, then you must come to the ball.”
“I do not see at all.”
Ossin waved a hand at her. “Do not ruin the connection by analyzing it. Come meet Trivelda, and rescue me.” Impulsively he seized her hands, standing close to her. He was shorter than her father, she noticed dispassionately, but bulkier, broader in both shoulders and belly.
“Very well,” she said. “The kennel-girl will scrub up for one night, and present herself at the front door. Wearing shoes will be the worst, you know.”
“Thank you,” he said, and she noticed that he meant it.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE NEXT DAY WHEN SHE RETURNED FROM TAKING THE PUPPIES FOR a long romp through the meadows, despite a thick drizzly fog and mud underfoot, there were a series of long slender bundles waiting for her, hung over the common-room table. She dried her hands carefully, and loosened the neck of one, and realized, just before her fingers touched satin, what these must be: dresses for the ball. A choice of dresses: a wardrobe just for one night, like a princess. Even her fingertips were so callused from kennel work that she could not run them smoothly over the slippery cloth; there was slight friction, the barest suggestion of a snag. Not satin, she thought.
She dropped the bag, whistled to the puppies, and put them in their pen. They looked at her reproachfully when she closed the door on them. “Have I ever missed feeding you on time?” she said. One or two, convinced that she was going to go off and have interesting adventures without them, turned their backs and hunched their shoulders; the others merely flung themselves down in attitudes of heartbreak and resignation.
Ash, of course, accompanied her back to the common-room; Hela was there this time. “Queen’s own messenger,” she said, nodding toward the bundles on the table.
“Oh,” said Lissar, a little startled; she had not taken Ossin’s suggestion seriously that his mother would be willing, let alone prompt, to provide the kennel-girl with a ball-gown, and with a choice of ball-gown at that. The further thought intruded: anyone can go who wishes to: but they will not all be wearing satin.
“Better you than me,” said Hela.
“Have you ever been to a ball?” said Lissar.
Hela shook her head. “I was a maid-servant up there when I first came to the yellow city, till Jobe rescued me. I waited on a few balls. I like dogs better.”
“So do I,” said Lissar feelingly, but she took her armful up to her room, and spread the dresses out on the seldom-used bed. After teaching the puppies to climb stairs she found she was more comfortable on the ground floor after all, unrolling a mattress in their pen which, now that they were old enough to understand about such things, always smelled clean and sweet with the dry meadowgrass the scrubbers bedded it with. From the ground floor also it was easier to creep out-of-doors in the middle of the night, seven soft-footed dogs at her heels, and sleep under the sky. It was late enough in the season that even the night air was warm; Lissar began to keep a blanket tucked in a convenient tree-crotch, and she and the puppies returned to the kennels at dawn, as if they had been out merely for an early walk. She did not know how many of the staff knew the truth of it. On the nights it rained she most often lay awake, listening to the fall of water against the roof, grateful to be dry but wishing to be away from walls and ceilings nonetheless.
The last time they had all slept in Lissar’s room was the day after they had found the little boy. She had stayed awake long enough that morning to walk down the hillside to the village, where a royal waggon, much slower than the prince’s riding party, lumbered up to them, and where Lissar was made intensely uncomfortable by the gratitude of the boy’s mother—the woman who had found her in the meadow the evening before
. The woman had ridden home in her husband’s market-cart, having managed not to tell him where she had gone and who she had seen during her long absence from their stall; and when she got home again she had kept vigil all night. She had known the Moonwoman would find her Aric.
Lissar had not liked the longing, hopeful, measuring, cautious looks the other villagers, attracted by the commotion and the royal crest on waggon and saddle-skirt, had sent her when they heard the story, and it was a relief in more ways than one when she could climb into the waggon, well bedded with straw and blankets, and collapse. Ossin had offered her a ride behind him on his big handsome horse, when they had met upon the hillside; but she had preferred to walk to the village—though she found herself clutching his stirrup, for she was so tired she staggered, and could not keep a straight line. He, at last, dismounted too, but she would not let him touch her; and so the party had come slowly down to the village, everyone mounted but Ossin and Lissar and ten fleethounds; the boy lay cradled in the arms of one of Ossin’s men, and the short-legged scent-hounds the prince’s party had brought rode at their ease across saddle-bows and cantles.
She remembered the scene as if through a fever; the euphoria of the night before, that queer, humming sense of knowing where she was to go, had departed, leaving her more tired and empty than she could ever remember being; so empty that the gaps in her memory did not show. She had stayed awake just long enough to tell the prince how to find the thing in the tree; and then even the jerking of the (admittedly well sprung) waggon over village roads could not keep her awake.
She thought of all that now as she shook the dresses free of their sacks, thinking that the queen had sent the kennel-girl four dresses to choose from, dresses of silk and satin and lace. She had slept through the bringing-home of the thing in the tree; she had slept through the first conversations, first responses, to her adventure. She had been glad to sleep through them. But she wondered, now, with four ball-gowns fit for a queen spread out before her in the plain little room of a member of the royal kennel staff, what version of the story might even have penetrated to the heart of the court: wondered and did not want to wonder. Wondered what version of the story of the six doomed puppies might have been told. Wondered what the version of the kennel-girl’s friendship with the prince might be.