Chapter 45: He Will Come Himself

Carol came down a hundred and forty steps in the dark, and across the whole width of the castle, and knocked on my door at ten past two in the morning.

She knocked properly. Three times, soft, the way you knock when there's a baby asleep on the other side of the wall. That was the first thing that frightened me. Carol has never once in her life knocked on my door. When we were small she came through it. When we were older she came through it and sat on my feet. She has a whole twin-room in the middle of her chest that opens straight into mine, and she has never in twenty-three years needed to knock on anything to tell me she was there.

But the twin-room was shut. I'd felt it go, a little after I came in from the court, the way you feel a draft stop when someone closes a window two rooms away. I'd lain awake for an hour telling myself she was only asleep.

Seraphina was already sitting up when I opened my eyes.

"That's Carol," she said.

"I know."

"She knocked."

"I know."

I opened the door.

Carol was standing in the corridor in her nightgown and Ignatius's old green coat, barefoot on the cold stone, with her hair down her back. Ignatius was behind her, a step back, with a candle, looking the way he looks when he's been told very firmly not to fuss and is fussing with his whole body anyway.

She held her hands out to me. Not to be taken. Just so I could see them.

They were white with frost. Not her frost. I know her frost better than I know my own handwriting. Hers comes in ferns and feathers and long curling lines, like something growing, like something alive. This was flat and thick and perfectly smooth, the way ice is on the inside of a cellar door in January. It covered her fingers to the second knuckle, and it didn't melt, and it didn't spread, and it didn't do anything at all. It just stayed.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't want to come in without asking."

"Come in," I said.

* * *

Seraphina had the brass teapot going before Carol was through the door. She does it without thinking. She puts her palm flat on the side of the pot on the windowsill, and the water in it goes from cold to boiling in about the time it takes to say so, and the little sitting room fills up with the smell of Helena's chamomile. She pushed the window seat cushions into a heap and put Carol in the middle of them, and put a cup on the sill beside her, and then sat down very close to her and didn't touch her hands.

"May I?" said Seraphina.

Carol looked at her.

"I don't know what it'll do," she said. "If you touch it."

"Then we'll find out," said Seraphina. "May I?"

Carol held out her hands.

Seraphina took them in both of hers. Gently. The way she holds little Uriah's feet when they're cold in the mornings. And I felt the First Flame come up in her, slow and deliberate, not the fire she uses for teapots, but the deep one, the old warm one that sits at the bottom of her like coals at the back of a hearth.

The frost on Carol's fingers didn't melt.

It didn't fight, either. It just held. Exactly the way it had been. Seraphina's hands began to glow faintly red at the edges, and the air in the sitting room went warm, and then hot, and the window behind them misted over, and Ignatius, standing by the door with the candle, said, "Sera," very quietly.

Seraphina let go. Her palms were pink. The frost on Carol's fingers was exactly as thick and as smooth and as white as it had been before.

"Oh," said Seraphina.

"Yes," said Carol. "That's what I thought."

She looked down at her hands in her lap.

"It isn't mine," she said. "Not the way my frost is mine. It's the river. The thing I kept from the river." She swallowed. "It's holding. I'm holding the cold on my own hands. And I don't know how to stop."

* * *

"Tell it from the beginning," I said. "Wherever the beginning is."

She told it.

She'd gone to bed late. She'd stood at her west window after supper for a long time, looking out toward Westmere in the dark. She'd been thinking about the letter. About we will come ourself. About we will wait to be asked in.

"And I thought," she said, "I wish he'd just stay where he is. That's all. I didn't do anything. I just wished it. Standing at the window. And the glass frosted over in front of me. Just that one pane. And I watched it, and I thought, that's not mine, and I put my hand on it, and it cleared." She looked up at me. "Did you see it? From the court?"

"I saw it."

"Then I went to sleep," said Carol. "And I dreamed."

She'd been standing on a shore. Not our shore. The sand was pale gold and very fine, finer than any sand on the Avarran coast, and the sea in front of her was perfectly flat. Not calm. Flat. Like a floor. Like a sheet of gray glass laid down from where she stood all the way to the edge of the world, without a single wave in it.

"Draum," said Ignatius quietly.

"I think so." Carol turned her cup in her frozen fingers. "I could feel him under it. Holding it down. Like a hand on a table."

And across the sea, very far away, where the sea met the sky, there was a light.

Gold. Not like a lamp, or a sunrise, or a fire. Like a city. A whole city, lit from inside, so bright it hurt to look at, sitting at the very edge of the world like a coin on the rim of a plate. And in the city, she could see, the way you can see things in dreams that you could never see with your eyes, a tower. And in the tower, a room. And in the room, a man.

"He was standing at a window," said Carol. "Like I'd been standing at mine. Looking out across the sea. Toward us." She stopped. "Only it wasn't a window. Not really. The room didn't have any windows. It didn't have any doors. Not shut ones. Not locked ones. None. It was just walls, all the way around, gold walls, and he was standing with his hand flat against one of them, looking through it, the way I'd been looking through the glass."

"What did he look like?" said Seraphina.

Carol thought about it for a long time.

"Gold," she said at last. "That was the first thing. Like the city. Like the light was coming out of him and not shining on him. Tall. Not old. Not young. His face was..." She frowned. "It was a very ordinary face. I didn't expect that. I thought he'd look like a statue. He looked like a man who hadn't slept for a long time."

And then he'd taken his hand off the wall, and turned, and looked straight across the whole width of that flat gray sea, at her.

"He saw me," said Carol. "I'm sure of it. He looked at me the way Iselle says he looks at things. Like he was making a note of where I was." Her voice went very steady, which is what it does when she's frightened. "And then he reached out."

* * *

She showed us. She lifted one frozen hand off her cup and held it out in front of her, palm down, fingers spread, slowly, the way you'd reach for something on a high shelf in the dark.

"Like that," she said. "Across the sea. And his arm didn't stop. It just kept on coming. Over the water. Gold, and long, and slow, and careful. Not grabbing. That was the worst part. He wasn't grabbing at all." She swallowed. "He was reaching the way you'd reach for a bird. So as not to frighten it."

Ignatius had set the candle down on the end of the windowsill. His hands were shaking. He put them in his pockets.

"And I knew him," said Carol. "That's the thing. That's why I came down. I knew him. I'd felt that hand before. In the river. When it came down the Ilvane and closed around mine a hand's width away and I couldn't make it let go." She looked at me. "It was the same hand, Garrick. It was the same grip. The one I kept. The one that's in me now."

"The holding," I said.

"His holding." She drew her hand back into her lap. "I'd thought, all this time, that what came down the river was one of the Chained. Kessavel, or Draum, or one of the held gods with his hand on their neck. But it wasn't. It was him. Reaching down the river himself, to see what was on the other end." Her mouth went thin. "And I kept a piece of it. And tonight he decided to come himself, and the piece in me heard him decide, the way your hand hears the other end of a rope go tight. And it went to the window. And it frosted the glass. And then it pulled me across the sea in my sleep to look at him."

Nobody said anything.

Little Uriah, in the nursery, turned over in his cradle with a small grumbling sound, and was quiet again.

"What happened," said Seraphina, very gently, "when his hand got to you?"

Carol looked up.

And for the first time since she'd knocked on the door, something came into her face that wasn't fear.

"It didn't," she said.

* * *

"I didn't move," said Carol. "I couldn't, at first. It's a dream. You know how it is. Your feet go into the sand. And the hand came over the water, slow and gold and careful, and it got closer, and closer, until it was so close I could see the lines on the palm." She held up her own frozen hand, and looked at it. "And then I thought of Rysa."

"Rysa?" said Ignatius.

"Stop," said Carol. "The fourth rule. The one we learned when we were two. You say it, and the other person stops. Not because they have to. Because that's what the word is for." She closed her fingers slowly. "So I said it. Out loud. On that beach. To him. Stop."

"And he stopped?" said Seraphina.

"No," said Carol. "He didn't stop."

She opened her hand again.

"I stopped him."

I didn't understand, at first. Then I did. And the back of my neck went cold in a way that had nothing to do with the frost on her fingers.

"You held him," I said.

"I held him." Carol's voice was very quiet. "The way I hold a candle flame. The way I held the sparrow. I didn't decide to. I said stop, and the holding came up out of me all by itself, and it went out across that flat gray sea, and it closed on his hand." She looked at me. "A hand's width from my face. Exactly where he held mine, in the river. I held his hand still, in the air, a hand's width away. And he couldn't move it."

Seraphina had gone very still beside her.

"Then what?" she said.

"Then he looked at it," said Carol. "At his own hand. Hanging there in the air over the water, not moving. He looked at it for a long time. The way you'd look at a dog that's just spoken to you." She paused. "I don't think anything has ever held him before. I don't think he knew it could happen. I watched him find out."

"Was he angry?"

Carol thought about that for a long moment.

"No," she said slowly. "That was the strangest thing. He wasn't angry at all. He looked..." She searched for it. "Interested. Like someone who's been reading the same book for a thousand years and has just turned a page and found a word he doesn't know."

She was quiet.

"And then he looked at me again. Over his hand. And he said something. In Kethran. I didn't understand it. And I said, My name is Carol Grey. You may not. And I let go of his hand. And I woke up in my bed, with Iggy holding a candle over me, and my hands like this."

* * *

For a while none of us said anything at all.

The brass teapot ticked on the windowsill as it cooled. Somewhere far below us, in the walls of the old keep, the pipes knocked once and were quiet. It was nearly three.

"That's good," said Seraphina at last. "Isn't it? Carol. That's good. He reached for you and you stopped him. In his own dream. With his own power." Her voice was rising. "That's the best thing that's happened since the ships came."

"I know," said Carol.

"Then why are you frightened?"

Carol looked down at her hands.

"Because I liked it," she said.

Nobody moved.

"It was so easy, Sera." Her voice cracked, very slightly, for the first time. "I've been afraid of this thing since the river. I've been sitting at the top of the tower holding my own hands so they don't hold anything else. And tonight it came up out of me, and it closed on him, and it was the easiest thing I've ever done. Easier than lightning. Easier than frost. It felt like..." She stopped. "It felt like setting down something heavy. Like everything in the whole world would be quiet, and safe, and still, if I just held it all. And I wanted to keep holding him. I wanted it so much." She pressed her frozen hands together in her lap. "That's why they won't thaw. I let go of him. But I haven't let go of the wanting. I'm still holding. I'm holding my own hands. And I don't know how to stop."

Ignatius made a small sound by the door.

And I understood, then, why she'd come down a hundred and forty steps in the dark and knocked on my door instead of coming through it.

Because she'd known what she needed. And she'd needed to ask.

"Carol," I said.

She looked up.

"We made a pact," I said. "After the river. After I went unnoticed and you went cold. Every morning, we say each other's names. Out loud. The whole thing. So I can't disappear and you can't start holding." I knelt on the floor in front of the window seat, so our faces were level. "And either of us can say stop to the other. And the other has to listen. Especially if they don't want to."

"It's not morning," said Carol.

"It's nearly three," I said. "That's close enough. May I?"

She looked at me for a long time. Her eyes were very bright.

"Yes," she said.

I didn't touch her hands. I didn't need to. I just looked at her, my sister, who I've known since before either of us had a name, and said it.

"Carol Grey."

Then, because it's the pact, and because I meant it:

"Stop."

* * *

It didn't happen all at once.

It happened the way the ice goes off Greymere in the spring. First nothing. Then a sound, very small, like something deep down giving way. Then, at the very tip of her first finger, one bead of water. Clear and round and trembling, catching the candlelight.

It fell onto her nightgown and made a dark spot the size of a coin.

Then another. And another. And then the flat white cellar-cold was running off her fingers in little streams, dripping off her knuckles into her lap, and underneath it her hands were pink and ordinary and hers, and the twin-room in the middle of my chest swung open all at once like a door in a gale, and she was in it, the whole of her, warm and furious and frightened and laughing, and so was I.

"Garrick Grey," she said, wet-faced, before I could ask her to. "Garrick Grey. Garrick Grey."

"I'm here."

"I know you are. I'm just saying it."

Seraphina put her arms around both of us at once and held on. Ignatius, by the door, sat down very suddenly on the floor, put his head on his knees, and said a long word in old Concordian that his mother would not have wanted him to know.

And in the nursery, little Uriah woke up, and stood up in his cradle under Carol's little white light, and said, very loudly, "Up."

* * *

We were in the little kitchen by four.

None of us had gone back to sleep. There didn't seem any point. Little Uriah certainly wasn't going to, now that he'd discovered that everyone he loved was awake at once in the middle of the night, so Seraphina carried him down the east stair on her hip, and Carol came behind her in Ignatius's green coat, holding her own two warm hands in front of her as if she couldn't stop looking at them, and Ignatius came behind Carol, and I came last, with the candle.

My father was already there.

He was sitting at the scrubbed table in the dark in his old gray socks, with the darned heel, and a cup of coffee in front of him that had gone cold so long ago it had a skin on it. He hadn't lit a lamp. He hadn't lit the stove. He was just sitting there, with his elbows on the table, looking out of the window at the pear tree in the garden, black against a sky that was only just beginning to think about going gray.

He looked around when we came in. At Carol first. He always looks at Carol first, when something's wrong, and at me second, and I've never once minded.

"You too," he said.

"Did you dream?" said Carol.

"No." He rubbed his face with both hands. "I didn't sleep. I've been sitting here since one, trying to work out what a man who has never once left his own house wants so badly that he'd cross a sea for it." He looked at her hands. Then at her face. "Tell me."

So she told him.

She told it shorter, the second time. The flat sea. The gold city. The room with no doors. The hand, reaching, slow and careful. Stop. The holding going out across the water and closing a hand's width from her face. The look on his face. My name is Carol Grey. You may not. And then the cold, the cellar-cold, staying on her fingers, and the wanting staying under it, and coming down the tower in the dark to ask me to say her name.

My father listened to all of it without saying a word.

When she'd finished, he got up, and went to the stove, and knelt down in front of it in his socks, and lit it. He didn't use lightning. He used a taper, and a twist of paper, and three bits of kindling, the slow way, the way Helena does it. He watched the flame catch. Then he stood up, and filled the big kettle at the pump, and set it on the hot plate, and came back to the table and sat down across from Carol and took both her warm hands in his cold ones.

"You said stop," he said.

"Yes."

"And then you let go."

"Garrick helped. With the second part."

"That's what he's for." My father looked at me across the table. Then back at her. "But you let go of his hand yourself. In the dream. Before you woke. Before anyone helped you. You held the most powerful man on the other side of the sea, with his own power, a hand's width from your face, and you wanted to keep him." He tightened his hands on hers. "And you let go."

Carol's chin trembled.

"Yes," she said.

"Then I'm not worried about you," said my father. "Not even a little. Not about that." He let go of her hands, and sat back, and for the first time since we'd come in, he smiled. A tired, crooked, early-morning smile. "I'm a bit worried about him. I think he's had the worst night of his life, and he doesn't know it yet."

* * *

Helena came down at a quarter past four, in her apron, with her hair already pinned, the way it always is, so that nobody in the house has ever once seen it down. She stopped in the doorway of the little kitchen and looked at all of us. At my father in his socks. At Carol in Ignatius's coat. At Seraphina at the end of the table with little Uriah standing in her lap, banging a spoon. At the kettle, already on, already beginning to tick and mutter on the stove, three quarters of an hour before she'd have put it there herself.

She didn't ask a single question.

She went to the cupboard, and got down the big oats tin, and the cinnamon, and the heavy blue teapot, and began.

* * *

Iselle came down at six with Roderic, which nobody remarked on.

She stopped in the doorway, the way she always does, and checked that the garden door was still there. Then she came in and took her place at the table, and Helena put a bowl in front of her, and Carol, who had been very quiet for the last hour with her hands around her porridge, looked up.

"Iselle," she said. "May I ask you something? About a word. In Kethran."

"Yes," said Iselle.

Carol said it. Three sounds. Long vowels, soft at the edges, the way all their words are. She said it carefully, the way you'd repeat something you'd heard only once, in a dream, across a sea.

Iselle's spoon stopped halfway to her mouth.

She put it down. Very slowly. Roderic, beside her, didn't touch her, but he turned his whole body toward her on the bench, the way you'd turn toward a fire to keep it company.

"Where did you hear that?" said Iselle.

"I'll tell you," said Carol. "I promise. All of it. But what does it mean?"

Iselle looked at her for a long moment. Her face was doing the thing it does. I watched it.

"It's what you say," she said quietly, "when you've been looking for something for a very long time. Something you'd stopped believing was there. And you turn around, and it is." She swallowed. "In the common tongue, it would just be... There you are."

The kettle sang on the stove. Helena took it off.

Carol sat with her warm hands around her bowl, looking down into her porridge, for a long time.

"Here I am," she said at last. To the porridge. To the window. To the whole of the flat gray sea, and the gold city on the far side of it, and the man in the room with no doors. "Here I am. And you still may not."

* * *

My father finished his coffee. The hot one, the one Helena had put in front of him without being asked. He set the cup down on the table, very precisely, in the ring the cold one had left.

"Mary," he said, to nobody. Then, louder, toward the stair, because Mary is always up by six and always knows when she's wanted, "Mary."

Mary's cat-ears appeared around the door of the little kitchen a moment later, followed by the rest of her, with her reading glasses already on and her black Council book under her arm.

"Majesty."

"Council," said my father. "Noon. Everyone who'll come."

Mary opened the book and wrote it down. Then she looked up over her glasses.

"And the business?" she said. "For the book."

My father looked around the little kitchen. At Carol and her warm hands. At Seraphina and the baby and the spoon. At Iselle, very pale, with Roderic turned toward her on the bench. At Ignatius, asleep at last with his head on his folded arms beside Carol's bowl. At me.

"Spring," he said. "Write spring."

Mary wrote it.

Then he got up, and went out through the garden door into the gray beginning of the morning, in his socks, to stand under the pear tree and look west.