Chapter 438: Who Asks Permission

Garrick took the news exactly as badly as Adriana had predicted.

We told them at breakfast, a week after Aurelia's visit, on a morning when the sun had come out over Greykeep for the first time in days and the whole castle seemed warmer for it.

Evelyn had wanted it to be an ordinary morning.

It was not an ordinary morning. It was a morning with Carol and Garrick and Seraphina and Ignatius and Lirien and Pell Ardent all at one table, because the nursery had somehow become the place where every child in Greykeep slept, and breakfast had become something closer to a council session.

Roderic lay in his basket beside Adriana's chair, practicing rolling over.

He had become very good at it.

Garrick had become very resigned.

“We have something to tell you,” Evelyn said.

Six heads turned.

Evelyn looked at me.

I looked at Adriana.

Adriana looked back at both of us with an expression that said she had already done this once and it was someone else's turn.

“You're going to have a brother or sister,” Evelyn said. “Another one. In the summer.”

There was a long silence.

Carol's spoon stopped halfway to her mouth.

Garrick's face went through several expressions in rapid succession.

Then he said, “Nobody asked.”

Evelyn put her hand over her mouth.

Adriana made a sound that might have been a laugh or a cough.

Garrick looked around the table with deep, sincere outrage.

“Nobody asked,” he repeated. “First Roderic. Then he started rolling over. Now another one.” He looked at me. “Name first. Then what you want. That's the rule.”

“That's the rule for using your powers,” I said carefully.

“It should be the rule for babies too.”

Carol put down her spoon.

“You can't ask a baby for permission,” she said. “It isn't born yet.”

“Then you ask me.”

“Why you?”

Garrick looked at her as though she had said something unforgivably foolish.

“Because I'm the oldest brother,” he said.

Carol stared at him.

“You're the only brother. Except Roderic.”

“Exactly,” Garrick said. “So I'm the oldest. So someone should ask me.”

Ignatius had been listening with great interest.

“My mother's having one too,” he said.

Everyone turned to look at him.

Io, who had come through the gate that morning with Seraphina and Ignatius and was sitting at the end of the table with a cup of Wenhild's tea, went very still.

“Ignatius,” she said.

Ignatius looked at her.

“You are,” he said. “Aren't you? You pushed the fish away too.”

Io's mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then she looked at Evelyn, and Evelyn looked at her, and something passed between them that I did not entirely understand.

“When?” Evelyn asked quietly.

“Four days ago,” Io said. “Aurelia came. I was going to tell Lexander tonight.” She put her face in her hands. “I was going to tell him over supper. I'd planned it.”

“Wenhild?” Adriana asked.

“Wenhild,” Io agreed miserably.

“The fish?”

“The fish.”

Garrick had been following this exchange with growing horror.

“Two,” he said. “Two more babies. And nobody asked anybody.”

Seraphina, beside Ignatius, set down her cup.

“I'm going to have a sister,” she said firmly. “Not a brother. Ignatius is enough brother.”

“You don't know that,” Ignatius said.

“I'm deciding it.”

“You can't decide it.”

“I just did.”

Pell Ardent, who had been sitting quietly at the end of the table eating porridge and watching all of this with the expression of a nine-year-old who had spent two years in a cell and was still not entirely certain that breakfast tables were real, raised his hand.

Everyone looked at him.

“Can I ask something?” he said.

“Of course,” Evelyn said.

Pell looked down at his porridge.

“When they're born,” he said slowly. “The babies. Can I help? With carrying things. Or watching them sleep.” He paused. “I'm good at being quiet. I had a lot of practice.”

The table went very still.

Evelyn reached across and put her hand over his.

“Yes,” she said. “You can help.”

Pell looked at her hand on his.

Then he went back to his porridge, very quickly, so that nobody would see his face.

Lirien had not said anything at all.

She sat between Carol and Seraphina with her flour-sack blanket around her shoulders, as always, and she was looking at Evelyn.

At Evelyn's stomach.

“Is it a lamp?” she asked.

Evelyn went still.

“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

“The floor said,” Lirien said. “Last night. When I was telling it about my day.” She frowned. “I told it Carol's mama looked tired, and the floor said that was because there was a new lamp in her window. A very small one. Just lit.” She paused. “I thought it meant a real lamp. But there isn't one in your window. I looked.”

Evelyn's eyes had filled.

She did not say anything.

Adriana answered for her.

“Yes,” she said gently. “It's a lamp. A very small one.”

Lirien considered this.

Then she turned to Carol.

“We should light one for it,” she said. “A real one. In the nursery window. With mine and my mama's.”

Carol looked at her.

Then at Evelyn.

“Can we?” she asked.

Evelyn could not speak.

She nodded.

Garrick was still sulking at lunch.

He sulked through his lessons with Rysa. He sulked through his practice with Avarn, where he held his wooden sword so rigidly that Avarn finally stopped and crouched in front of him and asked what was wrong.

Garrick told him.

At length.

Avarn listened to all of it. The rule about names. The rule about asking. The injustice of babies who rolled over without permission and babies who arrived without consultation.

When Garrick finished, Avarn was quiet for a long time.

“When I was very young,” he said, “before I was a god, I had a younger brother.”

Garrick looked at him.

“Nobody asked me either,” Avarn said. “One day there was no brother. The next day there was. My mother handed him to me and said, 'Hold his head.'”

“Did you?”

“I did.” Avarn paused. “He was very small. He cried a great deal. He grew up and took my sword when I wasn't looking and cut himself on it.”

Garrick's eyes widened.

“Was he all right?”

“He was fine. I taught him to hold it properly afterward.” Avarn looked down at the wooden sword in Garrick's hands. “Nobody asked me if I wanted a brother. But nobody else could have taught him how to hold a sword.”

Garrick was quiet for a long time.

“Did you like him?” he asked finally.

Avarn smiled. It was a rare thing. It changed his whole face.

“Not always,” he said. “But I loved him. Every day.”

Garrick looked at his wooden sword.

Then he held it out in front of him. Point up. Elbows in. Feet apart.

The way Avarn had taught him.

“Again,” he said.

Saelis came back from the north that evening.

He landed on the battlements in a gust of black feathers and changed, and stood there breathing hard with the wind in his hair.

“Twenty-two,” he said.

“Shelters?”

“Twenty-two lit. Ysolde's lit every one herself. She won't let anyone else.” Saelis wiped his face. “Tobin reads her the name of whoever kept it. She says the name and lights the lamp. Then she kneels and says her own name and the number of the shelter.”

“The number?”

“She counts them,” Saelis said. “One. Two. Three. All the way up. She says whoever's in that house is counting too, and she wants them to know someone's counting toward them.”

I did not say anything for a moment.

“And the message?” I asked.

Saelis was quiet.

“It changed,” he said.

My heart went still.

“Not the number,” he said quickly. “The number's still there. Eleven hundred and thirteen, last night.” He paused. “But there was something after it. For the first time. A second word.”

“What word?”

Saelis looked out toward the north.

“'Who?'” he said.

I stood on the battlements for a long time after he left.

Eleven hundred and thirteen days.

And for the first time, a question.

Who?

Someone in a stone house on a coast road had been counting for three years. Proving to themselves that the days were real. That time was passing. That the world outside was still turning.

And now, for the first time, they had felt something on the road.

Someone counting toward them.

Twenty-two shelters. Twenty-two lamps.

And they wanted to know who.

The Keeper answered me at the fountain that night.

I knelt on the cold stone and put my hand on the earth and said my name, and the warmth came up at once.

“Ysolde,” I said. “The north road.”

“I hear her,” the Keeper said. “Every night. She says her name and the number of the shelter.” A pause. “She's very precise. She pronounces every name Tobin reads her exactly right, even the ones in the old coast dialect that nobody's spoken in forty years.”

“The person in the house,” I said. “They asked who.”

“I know.”

“Can you tell them?”

A long silence.

“I tried,” the Keeper said. “Last night. When the question came. I tried to carry Ysolde's name back down the road to them.” Her voice wavered. “It didn't reach. Not all the way. The road's still too dark. Twelve shelters left between Ysolde and the house.”

“Then she'll reach it in—”

“Four days,” the Keeper said. “Perhaps five. If the weather holds.”

I closed my eyes.

“Can they wait four days?”

The Keeper did not answer at once.

“They've waited eleven hundred and thirteen,” she said finally. “I think they can wait four more.” A pause. “But they asked a question, Uriah. For the first time in three years, they asked something. That means they've started hoping.”

“Is that bad?”

“No,” the Keeper said gently. “But hoping is harder than counting. Counting you can do forever. Hoping wears you out.”

The southern report came through Melody.

Not by Saelis. Saelis had been north. Melody had sent a rider back to the nearest gate station with a letter, and the letter came through to Greykeep and Mary brought it to me herself.

She did not open it first.

That told me how much she wanted to.

I opened it in front of her, so that she could read it over my shoulder.

It was short.

Melody did not write long letters. She did not see the point.

Halemar tried. First day at the causeway. He stood at the edge where the road goes into the marsh and put his hands out and closed his eyes and didn't move for an hour.

Then the first mile unfolded.

I saw it. The road had looked like it went on forever. Then it didn't. It looked like a mile. One mile. With a broken shelter at the end of it that we hadn't been able to see before.

Halemar fell down. Vaust caught him. He's all right. He slept for a day.

Today he did another mile.

Vaust rings his bell every time Halemar finishes one. Halemar says it helps. He says it's like someone knocking to let you know the door's still there.

Caldris says at this rate it'll take forty days.

Halemar says it'll get faster.

I believe him.

There was a line beneath that, in smaller letters, crowded against the bottom of the page as though she had added it at the last moment.

Tell Mary I'm counting too.

Mary read it twice.

Then she took the letter from my hand, very carefully, and folded it, and put it inside her coat.

Next to her heart.

She did not say anything.

She did not need to.

Merek's letter came the next day.

It came with Maud, who had driven her lamp-oil cart down from the north road and through the gate at the relay station specifically to deliver it.

“He asked me to bring it myself,” she said, handing it over. “Said it wasn't the kind of thing you send by courier.”

It was addressed to Avarn.

I found him in the practice yard. He was alone, for once. Garrick had gone to his lessons with Rysa.

He was standing in front of the shield, not practicing. Just standing there.

I held out the letter.

He looked at it.

At the handwriting on the outside.

He did not take it at once.

“From Merek?” he asked.

“From Whitebrook.”

Avarn was quiet for a long moment.

Then he took the letter and broke the seal and unfolded it.

He read it standing up.

Then he sat down on the low wall beside the shield and read it again.

I stood a little way off.

I did not watch his face.

After a long time, Avarn spoke.

“She has the carving,” he said quietly. “Tavia. The three dogs.” He looked down at the letter. “She put it on the shelf by the door. Where Harlon used to leave his boots.”

I did not say anything.

“Merek told her who carved it,” Avarn said. “He told her about the orchard. The sword. All of it.” He swallowed. “She was quiet for a long time, he says. Then she asked whether I'd carved it myself or had someone else do it.”

“What did he tell her?”

“That I'd carved it myself. And that Perrin helped with the ears.” Avarn's voice cracked slightly. “She laughed. Merek says it's the first time she's laughed since the soldiers came.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“And then she asked something else.”

“What?”

Avarn looked down at the letter.

He did not read it aloud. He handed it to me instead, and pointed to the last few lines, written in Merek's careful hand.

She asks whether you would come to Whitebrook someday. When the roads are safe. Not to apologize. She says you've done that already, with the dogs.

She says Harlon would have liked you. She says he always liked people who didn't know how to carve but tried anyway.

She says the dogs still wait by the door at supper. She says it might be good for them to see someone new come through it.

I handed the letter back.

Avarn held it for a long time.

“Will you go?” I asked.

Avarn was quiet.

Then he folded the letter and put it inside his coat.

“When the roads are safe,” he said.

He stood up.

He looked at the shield.

“Garrick will want to come,” he said. “He'll want to meet the dogs.”

“Probably.”

“He'll ask whether they're allowed to roll over without permission.”

I laughed.

Avarn almost smiled.

“I'll teach him,” he said. “That some things don't ask. They just arrive.” He picked up his wooden sword. “And you love them anyway.”

Bruni went back to the ford two nights later.

This time, Brannoc went with him.

Not into the river. Bruni was firm about that. Brannoc stood on the near bank, in the shadow of the trees above the ford, where the giants on the far side could not see him.

But he was there.

He had the green leaf inside his coat, against his heart.

Bruni waded out into the middle of the ford and sang.

Skarn came.

They talked for a long time.

When Bruni came back, his face was very serious.

He sat down on a log beside Brannoc, and Thor, and me.

“Nine days,” he said.

Brannoc went very still.

“Skarn's next guard rotation at the house,” Bruni said. “Nine days from tonight. Him and three others. Giants who've been letting the leaves go. Who've decided.” He paused. “They'll be the only guards at the house for three days.”

“And then?” Thor asked.

“And then they'll open the door,” Bruni said. “It isn't one of the quiet houses. It's Surtr's. An ordinary lock. The guards carry the key.” He looked at Brannoc. “Skarn says she'll walk out with them. If she wants to.”

Brannoc's hand had gone to his chest.

To the leaf.

“And the army?” Thor asked. “Between the house and the river?”

Bruni was quiet for a moment.

“That's the hard part,” he said. “A day's walk through the burned forest. Surtr's camps are spread along the river for miles. Skarn says there's no way through them without being seen.”

“Then how—”

“Skarn says,” Bruni said slowly, “that giants are seen walking through Surtr's camps every day. Carrying timber. Carrying supplies. Carrying wounded.” He looked at Brannoc. “Nobody looks twice at a giant carrying something.”

Brannoc stared at him.

“Carry her,” he said. “Out. Through the army.”

“In a sack,” Bruni said. “Like timber. Like supplies.” He paused. “Skarn says she's very small. Much smaller than a giant. Nobody would notice.”

Thor had gone very quiet.

“We do not put soldiers in food sacks,” she said slowly, “and hope the court forgets how to count.”

I remembered her saying it. In the map room, before the eleven.

Bruni looked at her.

“She's not a soldier,” he said. “And it's not a food sack. It's a giant carrying something home.” He looked at Brannoc. “Autumn. Things being gathered in. Brought home before the winter.” He paused. “Skarn says she'll like that. He says she'll laugh.”

Brannoc did not say anything for a long time.

He sat on the log at the edge of Lexander's camp, looking across the ford at the dark line of the burned forest.

Then he reached into his coat and took out the green leaf.

He held it up to the moonlight.

The two words were still there, written in the veins.

I know.

“Nine days,” Brannoc said.

“Nine days,” Bruni agreed.

“And then a day's walk to the river.”

“A day's walk.”

“And then the ford.”

Bruni nodded.

“And then the ford,” he said. “Where we'll be waiting.”

Brannoc looked at him.

“Will Skarn come across?” he asked. “After? With her?”

Bruni was quiet for a long moment.

“I asked him,” he said. “He said he doesn't know.” Bruni looked at his metal hands. “He said he's been following Surtr for six years because there was nobody bigger. He said he's not sure yet if there's anybody better.”

Thor stood up.

She walked to the edge of the rise and looked down at the ford.

“Then we'll show him,” she said.

We rode back to Greykeep at dawn.

Brannoc went straight to the garden.

He sat down on the bench beneath the pear tree, under Harlon's lamp, and took out the green leaf, and held it in his lap.

I went to check on him an hour later.

He was asleep. Sitting up. Head tipped back against the trunk of the pear tree.

The leaf was still in his lap.

And above him, on the lowest branch of the pear tree, where nothing had grown since the first frost—

A bud.

Small. Green. Tightly furled.

The first one.

In the middle of winter.

I stood looking at it for a long time.

Then I went to find Wenhild, because I suspected she would know what it meant, and because I suspected she would tell me to sit down and have some tea before she told me.

She did.

She poured the tea. She set a plate of bread in front of me. She sat down across from me at the kitchen table and folded her hands.

“A bud,” she said. “On the pear tree.”

“Yes.”

“In winter.”

“Yes.”

Wenhild was quiet for a long moment.

“Corra was always the one who brought things in,” she said slowly. “Harvests. Leaves. People. Whatever needed gathering, before the cold came.” She looked out the kitchen window, toward the garden. “But autumn isn't only about endings. It's about what comes after. The seeds that fall. The things that wait under the snow.”

“Spring,” I said.

Wenhild smiled faintly.

“She's not just sending leaves,” she said. “She's sending herself. A little at a time. Every morning.” She looked back at me. “And Brannoc's been sitting under that tree for two weeks, waiting for her.”

“So the tree is—”

“The tree is answering,” Wenhild said. “The way the floor answers Lirien. The way the fountain answered her mother.” She poured more tea into my cup, though I had not touched the first. “Things that wait for someone tend to start growing toward them.”

I looked at the tea.

At the bread.

At the kitchen fire, burning steady and warm.

“Nine days,” I said.

“Nine days,” Wenhild agreed.

She pushed the plate of bread closer to me.

“Eat,” she said. “You'll need it. So will Brannoc.” She stood up. “I'll make the fish tonight. Evelyn won't eat it. But Brannoc will need something warm when he wakes up.”

She went back to the hearth.

After a moment, she began to hum.

The fire steadied.

Outside, in the garden, beneath the pear tree, Brannoc slept on, with a green leaf in his lap and the first bud of spring opening slowly above his head.