Cassandra

VIII. Under a Fair Outward Face

    A shiver ran through me, and I pulled my wrap closer around me, nuzzling my face down into the soft fur lining. It was a frigid day. Every day was frigid in Whitestone. A heavy mass of gray clouds blanketed the sky, threatening snow, as if the sky was poised to sneeze at a moment's notice. Crisp patches of icy, half melted then re-frozen snow, lay piled under the castles leeward side, and lingered stubbornly in any hollow in the landscape. The tall grass that grew on the ridge's flat treeless top was all flattened by the snow. It lay in traitorous gray mats over the ground that disguised any dip or stubborn root, so that you could trip if you weren't careful. A thin, biting wind was blowing, rushing headlong over the flat ground without resistance. Its sound rushed mournfully through the twisted branches of the single lonely tree that grew at the edge of the road, now leafless and barren in the winter chill.
    Even though I had spent my entire life in this chilly landscape the wind was still bitingly cold, and I could feel it nipping at my fingers and toes, piercing through the layered fir and wool of my winter cloak. I chafed my hands, even though I knew it wouldn't really do any good, and breathed on my fingers before thrusting them back into the warm folds of my cloak. Another swirl of winter wind sent a shudder down my back, and I wished fervently that Ivan would get here soon, the cold was making my nose run.
    With a slight feeling of relief I saw Ivan struggle up the last bend of the road, his head coming into view as the road climbed up the last incline and leveled out, turning towards the castle. I smiled and freed my hand from the cloak to wave at him. He waved back, trudging up the final muddy stretch of road, vaulting the low stone wall at the road's edge, picking his way across the mats of dead grass, and throwing himself down on the ground next to me.
    "You look frosty..." I said, frowning.
    "Quite warm actually." He said, panting hard and mopping his forehead with one sleeve. "Climbing up that hill got up quite a glow, and I'll run on the way home, to keep my blood up."
    "Still, you should wear something warm."
    "I've got a coat!"
    "That coat won't do shit in this weather." I said, beginning to undo my cloak and pull it off.
    "I'm not going to take your cloak Cas!" Ivan said indignantly, trying to give it back to me.
    "I'm bringing and extra one tomorrow."
    "Well do that if it makes you feel better!" Ivan said grudgingly, settling the cloak around his shoulders. "I'm not going to keep taking your clothes."
    "How's the Father?" I asked, changing the subject.
    "All well. Nothing to report." Ivan said absently. I always asked about Father Rynoll everyday, with unfailing regularity. The question and its reply had become a kind of ritual.
"What about you?" I prodded.
"I'm all right. The temple is rather crowded at the moment, we've got a farmer and his eight children sheltering with us. Their home was burned down by Count Tyleeri's men, and they needed somewhere to stay while they rebuild a new home, so we've got eleven beds stuffed into the kitchen."
    "Isn't there room in the sanctuary?" I asked, the image of Ivan and the family stuffed into the kitchen, like so many peas in a pod, making me laugh.
    "It gets too cold at night, so we have to stay closer to the fire." Ivan replied with a shrug. "What about you?"
"I'm alright..." I said with a halfhearted shrug of my own, even though I didn't really mean it.
"Really..."
"Yes!" I shoved him away, laughing, and trying to hide my face from him. "Really, I'm alright. I'm just a little tired...."
   "Well, try to get some sleep." Ivan replied, pulling a folded letter out of his coat pocket, and handing it to me. I took it, and shivered as the cold winter wind blew over me, clutching the letter in my numb fingers. With a stern look that would take no argument, Ivan shook off my cloak and settled it back around my shoulders. Gently he patted my arm, then climbed to his feet, and set off down the road towards Whitestone. Silently I watched him go, his figure getting smaller and smaller, until at last he vanished over the edge of the hill and I was left alone in the chill winter wind.
    Rising to my feet, I gingerly picked my way along the edge of the castle wall, vaulting the low stone fence that bordered the muddy road. The wooden gates of Castle Whitestone loomed over my head as I struggled through the mud up the last short stretch of road. The gate's formidable structure of hard wood and banded iron barred any entrance, and the shadowed arch swallowing me as I came up to the gate. One of the guards grudgingly opened the way for me, tugging one of the huge wooden doors back with all his strength, so that I had a large enough gap to slip through.
    I didn't speak to him, and he never tried to talk to me. The Briarwoods had given strict orders that I was never to speak to any of the castle staff. Most of the servants were already dead, and probably didn't have enough of a living intelligence left to speak with, but a very few of the servants and some of the guards were still living, and I longed to talk to them. But it was forbidden, so I never tried.
    Snow was beginning to drift down as I crossed the castle courtyard, settling on the weathered stones and sticking to them. The flakes muffled the air, deadening sounds, and in the complete silence I could hear them rustling faintly, tumbling to the ground with a nearly imperceptible whisper. For a moment I paused in the middle of the courtyard, standing frozen with my face tilted up, just listening. I loved this sound. It was so indescribable, I could never have put it into words.
After a moment I crossed the rest of the courtyard, mounting the castle steps, and pushing through the thick double doors into the foyer. I shivered as I pushed the door shut behind me, shedding my cloak and shaking the snowflakes out of my hair. Footsteps echoing in the silence, I quickly crossed the wide vaulted chamber, gently opening one of the doors on the left side of the hall.
The door opened into one of the best sitting rooms, where Lady Briarwood, and now myself, spent most of the day. It was a large chamber, lavishly furnished in Vesper's best style, with dark royal blue being the predominant color of both the window curtains and the carpet. A large, richly polished grand piano dominated the center of the room, surrounded by low couches and armchairs, and a giant harp stood in one corner. Light streamed in through the huge glass windows that looked out over the courtyard, and through them I could see the snow starting to fall more thickly. Orange firelight contrasted with the cold winter light, beckoning you into the warmth of the flames, and it gave the chairs and tables around the hearth a cozy look. Framed against the glow of the blaze I could see Lady Briarwood, sitting luxuriously in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, idly stitching a piece of needlework, though it didn't seem to really occupy her full interest.
    Quietly I crossed the room, afraid of distracting Lady Briarwood, and went to one of the window seats where I plopped down on a cushion, tucking my feet up underneath me and pulling out the letter that Ivan had given to me. It wasn't much to look at, written on plain paper, with no seal of any kind. But once I opened the letter Archibald's handwriting made up for all that. The whole letter was written in a flowing script, with large capital letters, and a beautiful signature at the end. It was easy to see that Archibald had once been a powerful person when you looked at his handwriting.
    "What are you reading?"
    I jumped at the sound of Lady Briarwood's voice, so unexpected in the silence, and looked over at her. She had straitened up in her chair, drawing her needle and thread through the fabric with a delicate tug, and she looked up at me with newly kindled attention.
    "A letter from Archibald...Ivan just brought it..." I murmured hesitantly, unused to speaking to her so directly.
    "Well come and read it to me." She said, gesturing at the chair across from her imperiously.
    "It's not very interesting..." I stammered, completely caught off guard by this sudden command.
    "Come here, and read to me." Delilah said, waving away the awkward excuse.
    With nothing left to do but comply, I crossed the room, sinking shyly down into the chair she had gestured at. This was something that had never been asked of me. I spent most of my days alone with Lady Briarwood, but she hardly ever spoke to me, and I spoke even less. Now she not only wanted me to sit near her, but also read to her.
    "I'm not a very good reader..." (Which was completely true).
    "That doesn't matter." She said, drawing another stitch of her needlework tight with the same delicate tug. "I'm in the mood for a little company."
    I had read a book out loud to Mother once, a long time ago, and only once, but I undoubtedly made an even poorer showing now than I had done then. Nervousness made my voice shake, and I couldn't bring myself to speak above a murmur. But more than that, something about the letter felt deeply personal to me, and reading it aloud felt horrible, like telling Lady Briarwood my dirtiest secret. I would hardly have been able to read it at all, if I had thought Lady Briarwood was actually listening. But she didn't seem to care what the letter said, and sat doing her needle work, lost in her own private thoughts.
About halfway through the letter, Lady Briarwood let out a sudden cry of frustration, and pulled too hard on her thread, causing it to break and tear a hole in her fabric. Throwing the needlework, fabric and all, into the fire, she started to her feet and paced away across the room. I sat still in my chair, startled into silence. After standing lost in thought by the window, blindly watching the snowflakes tumble past, she came back to her chair.
"Keep reading."
Meekly I complied, but it was now even clearer than before that she wasn't really listening to what I was saying, and sat compulsively wrapping a piece of embroidery thread around her finger. It only took a few moments for her to grow restless again, and she started out of her chair, going to the piano and standing by it. For a moment I thought she was going to play it, then she turned away, going to one of the small bookshelves in the room and looking at the books.
"Can you play the piano?" Delilah said softly, interrupting me, and still standing with her back to me.
"Not really." I said. For a moment I almost told her that Father had wanted me to, and Whitney had learned, but I never paid attention to the lessons and had promptly forgotten everything taught to me. But as I thought about mentioning my family in front of her, I shrank away from the thought. Quietly Lady Briarwood set her book down, slowly coming back to the piano, and sitting down in front of it. Lifting the lid, she ran her fingers over the keys. Almost reverently as if they were something sacred.
"Come here." She said softly, beckoning me with one hand, and patting the bench next to her. "Come and sit with me."
I felt slightly relieved that she had seemingly lost interest in my letter, but that relief was countered by confusion and apprehension at Lady Briarwood's strange mood. I couldn't understand it. She seemed utterly different than I had ever seen her before. Her eyes were sad, and there was a gentleness in her voice when she spoke to me, a softness to her face that was unlike her. But it was the response within my own heart that truly frightened me. I felt drawn to her, attracted by her new gentleness. I wanted to come closer to her...
"Cassandra, come here." She said, holding out her hand, and my heart ached at the sound of my name. Before I new what I was doing I had come closer, sliding down onto the bench next to her. Gently she took my hand, guiding it over the keys as she named them to me. She taught me how to play a scale, and had me practice until I could play it perfectly.
By the time I had managed it the darkness of night was beginning to fall over the valley, shrouding the city of Whitestone in shadow, and the sitting room fire began to burn down. Servants silently entered, lightning the many candles that were scattered about the room. Delilah started at their intrusion, glancing at the darkened windows as if she had lost track of time.
"You can go." She said, but even as she spoke she took my hand, running her finger over the palm. "I'll teach you more tomorrow..."
The servants one by one left the room, going as silently as they had come, and I rose to follow them. But Lady Briarwood still kept hold of my hand and I couldn't leave her. At that moment Silas entered, and as soon as she saw him Delilah released my hand, her gentleness evaporating as her face hardened.
"Get out." She commanded, shoving me away from her. Feeling confused, and strangely hurt, I complied. Lord Briarwood cast me a disapproving look, and I felt a guilty blush rise over my face, though why I felt guilty was beyond me. As I passed him, he followed me to the door, holding it open. Two guards were standing outside in the hall, and held tightly between them was a dirty Whitestone peasant. What he could possibly be doing here was beyond me, and I stopped in my tracks, watching as the guards silently pulled him into the room I had just left, and Lord Briarwood shut the door.