Chapter Seventeen
The Crenellation
‘A bold and architectural stitch that combines a chevron with a box stitch to create a stately design, excellent for borders or for pieces with symbolic weight.’
—An Exhaustive Compendium of Stitches
The dark hair on the pillow beside me startled me for a moment.
My first flash of thought was: Had Patrick climbed into bed with me while I was asleep?
But no, I could see him still slumbering by the dead fire.
I remembered the night before—the dye—and let one strand, oil black and shining, run through my fingers.
It felt as if it didn’t belong to me at all.
I hadn’t realized how much I felt my Hair’s constant awareness until it lay there as if asleep, and I missed it.
Baldbeak woke, ruffling his feathers. He hopped over to the bed and onto the pillow, where he took a strand of the Hair in his beak and tugged at it. It responded weakly, rather than twisting away in irritation as it would usually. He cocked his head and examined it critically.
“I know it looks strange,” I said.
It’s just lying there like a worm, he said.
“Well, don’t eat it.”
Patrick was still asleep. Sleeping, he looked younger, almost boyish. He muttered something and turned over, flinging out an arm. I crept out of bed and put my shoes on as silently as I could. When he woke, I was fully ready and sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I thought you said we would leave at dawn,” I said.
“Well, what is time, really?” he said, and yawned.
“How philosophical.”
He had breakfast brought up to the room, and I ate while he readied himself. He shrugged on the many-colored coat that I had first seen all those days ago, by the Tower. He saw me watching.
“I will change to this when we get far enough from the inn,” he said. “Being recognized as a nobleman has its advantages, but not when you want to pass unremarked on the road.”
“I see the repair held,” I noted.
“More than held.” He looked at me for a moment, then seemed to come to some decision. He held it out to me. “Look.”
I looked. The slender, decorative line of stitches that I had sewn—oh so long ago, it felt now—had spread. Shining and strong as a spiderweb, they wound between the colored patches, covering almost half the coat.
“That’s not possible,” I said.
“You speak of impossible? I have seen you heal a wound to the bone. A magical coat repair hardly boggles the imagination by comparison.”
“But I didn’t mean …” I traced its lines with my finger. “I didn’t intend this.”
“Interesting, isn’t it?” he said. “It seems that your embroidery is a way of … focusing your magic, perhaps. How’s your finger, by the way?”
I splayed my hand, and we both observed the pale, shining line that encircled my ring finger. There was no evidence it had been nearly severed the night before.
“Fascinating,” he said, and traced the line lightly with his own finger. I swallowed.
“Sorry,” he said, drawing back. “I just still can’t quite believe it.”
“It’s not the only odd thing that happened,” I said slowly. “Baldbeak …”
“You healed his injury.”
“It wasn’t just an injury, Patrick.” I met his eyes. “He was dead.”
I expected him to tell me that I must have been mistaken, that he must merely have been stunned, but instead he stared back at me, his eyes very green.
“Remarkable,” he said softly. “Truly. And he is fully recovered? Nothing about him changed?”
“You’ve seen for yourself.”
“Remarkable,” he said again, and led the way to the courtyard shaking his head.
When we reached it, I saw Fane had already been saddled and bridled. The ostler held her, waiting for us.
“I have sent the carriage back to my home,” he said. “We will take only Fane, so as not to be noticed.”
Patrick loaded her saddlebags with the few things we had, then swung himself into the saddle. Baldbeak perched on his shoulder, seeming quite comfortable there. But was I imagining it, or did Patrick look rather wary when he reached up to pet the bird?
“Come on,” Patrick said when he was settled, holding out his hand to me.
I hesitated. “I’ve never …”
“Ridden a horse? Luckily, Fane is far from young and extremely sedate.”
I crossed my arms. “And why does a noble lord ride an old white mare? I saw the horses pulling your carriage. You could have any mount you wanted.”
“Call it sentimentality.” He gave a crooked grin, and I rolled my eyes.
“I am no longer accepting your glib explanations. Tell me, or I’m not getting on her.”
He relented, laughing. “The truth is unflattering. Would you believe that I, too, am far from a confident rider? I was never at ease in the saddle. This old mare suits me more than any of the fine horseflesh in my stables. And she is unremarkable. I strive to be unremarkable. Come.”
He held out his hand again. I took a deep breath and braced myself in the stirrup, taking his hand and heaving myself up.
I tried to sit sidesaddle because of my skirts, but it felt terribly unstable, so I arranged them as best I could and swung one leg over to sit astride.
I might as well have been teetering on a tightrope.
“Hold on tightly around my waist, and you will not fall,” said Patrick.
I huffed a breath, but obeyed. He urged Fane into a walk, and we were soon out of the gates and on the dirt road beyond.
“Apologies for the manner of travel,” he said over his shoulder, “but we have to be inconspicuous. We will be there by tomorrow morning. Are you comfortable?”
“Not at all.”
“Wait until tomorrow. That’s when the ache will really set in. And the saddle sores.”
“Lovely, thank you.”
When we had ventured a little distance from the inn, Patrick stopped to change his clothes behind a clump of bushes, emerging looking much as he had on the day I first met him, colored coat and all. He stood with arms outstretched so that I could see it in its full glory.
“Hideous,” I said, but I was smiling.
The landscape around us was farmland, dotted with solitary farmhouses. We rode in silence for the most part. Baldbeak sometimes got bored with riding on Fane’s haunches or our shoulders, and would fly away on his own mysterious bird business from time to time.
When he returned, Patrick would click his tongue and call in an almost perfect imitation of the raven’s sounds, and Baldbeak would respond, very much as if they were having a conversation.
He could not speak to Baldbeak in the same way I could, however—nor could I communicate with other ravens in the way Patrick did.
Whatever was between Baldbeak and me was something very particular.
I did not understand our bond, but even after finding out that Baldbeak had been ferrying messages to Patrick while I was in the Tower, I remained grateful for it.
“How exactly do you communicate with the ravens?” I asked Patrick. “Baldbeak told me that it is different—that you do not hear their words, as I hear his.”
“No, it’s more like … pictures,” he said thoughtfully.
“And I can give them pictures of my own, and they are able to pass those images on to whomever I choose. You can convey a surprising amount of detailed information using only images, particularly if you have agreed upon a code beforehand. But even if we haven’t, I can usually make myself understood. ”
“So the ravens can communicate with anyone then, if they choose?”
“They are … a conduit for the pictures I give them, I suppose. They can convey my messages to any human mind, but cannot pass on messages of their own. As far as I know, until Baldbeak, none have been able to speak with humans independently. Certainly not as fluently … and in actual words! No, Baldbeak is something special.”
I am, Baldbeak agreed.
I learned immediately that Fane refused to be hurried.
She had the air of being out for a nice stroll, stopping to crop at every patch of dandelions we came across and rub her flank on every fence.
And Patrick hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he wasn’t much of a horseman, seeming content to let her meander at her own pace rather than to master her.
I held my tongue, although impatience rose in me like a tide, and concentrated on just staying in the saddle.
Its hollow forced my pelvis against Patrick’s tailbone, which was merely uncomfortable at first, but after the first few hours became excruciating.
“Are you all right?” he said at last.
“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth.
“You’re fidgeting.”
“Well, your back is remarkably bony.”
“I do apologize for, let’s see, having a spine.”
“When the hero and heroine share a steed in the stories, it always sounds so romantic,” I said. I realized what I had said, flushed, and hurried on, “Although strictly speaking, I should probably be across your pommel.”
Thankfully, he laughed. “I think that’s for shorter journeys. Fleeing a dragon, for example. I can’t imagine that a pommel would be any more comfortable over long distances.”
“We need to rest soon.” I shifted my weight. “Either that, or I’m going to need to tie one of the blankets around your waist before I lose the ability to walk for good.”
“Perhaps if you relaxed a little, rather than sitting like a maiden aunt on a Temple pew.”
“How can you tell how I’m sitting? You can’t see me.”
He looked over his shoulder. “I can feel you. You’re completely rigid. You’ll never make the journey like that. Just … try to soften. Just a little. And hold on more closely.”
I grimaced, but tried to relax, letting myself move more naturally with Fane’s movements and allowing myself to lean more of my weight against Patrick’s back.
He was right, but I wouldn’t admit it out loud.
Although relaxing brought me in closer contact with him, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, it did mean that my muscles shaped themselves around his better and eased some of the discomfort.