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ADRISELLE BATHED IN a stack of three wine vats joined together for that very purpose. Here she was, stuck in the midst of Astocath’s dusty yard, at the foot of his single crooked tower that reached maybe three storeys high, which served as his home. The skinny, dishevelled mage stood peering over the barrel rim. He appeared to believe doing so was his right; having no doubt—kindly enough—brought her some towelling bailed over one arm. She found the warm soaking an ordeal as opposed to a treat. At home, it was a regular pleasure without anyone leering at her.
“What are you looking at?” she asked with a sneer, her arms covering her breasts. Had he saved her for his own nefarious pleasures?
“Your neck.” His reply was posed simply and plainly. There was not a hint of apology in his tone.
“Never seen a woman before?” Her voice was brazen, and she regretted her words, hoping at least that tales of wizards being sexually impotent were true.
Astocath flinched. With a frown, he said, “I’ve shown you care and charity. I deserve some respect at least.” He bit his lip and looked away.
“And you to me!” She began to feel guilty for this person had done her no harm, and yet she felt as if she had to defend herself.
Astocath mumbled something which Adriselle did not catch, though she thought it was something most certainly derogatory, not having the nerve to make himself plain. He draped the towels over the rim with an unceremonious gesture and coldly turned towards his tower. Without moving, Adriselle watched him stride indignantly away.
Adriselle admitted to herself that perhaps she had been overly rude. Then her conscience began to defend herself. In this early morning that had a slight chill to the air, she had espied a housekeeper who surely ought to have brought out the towelling. There was no one else in sight. No, she had every right to defend herself, she determined. It did not matter how casual his interest had been. He had not made any unwelcome move towards her—but even so, he shouldn’t have gaped. And furthermore, where be the dignity of bathing out here in full view of the tower? Amidst even these chickens! In a fit of bad temper, she splashed an arm’s worth of water at a hen that was experimentally pecking at the hem of a towel. Her immediate impulse was to scorn the bird flapping away in alarm, until she realised she would soak her towels.
“It’s his fault!” she seethed, and hit the water with her fist, imagining her reflection to be the mage’s face. “Ye gods! If he hadn’t come as such a surprise in the melee—so abruptly at the point of fear of death, then I wouldn’t have ...”
‘... Wet myself.’ She could not bring the shame fully to mind, though it was through fear, a real fear she had never known before.
A couple of leathery-looking red-speckled hens squabbled nearby; it was all too aggravating! Enough was enough, she decided angrily. She would finish her wash forthwith. She had been stupid enough to suffer this in the first place. ‘Had I been too proud to go about soiled? Of course I had to ask for a bath! And why should I be proud? I am humiliated.’ Towel soaked or not, this scenario would not be entertained a moment longer.
She stood with the barrel between herself and the old grey-stone tower. If the lecher were looking—spying upon her—he would be sorely disappointed. She took a breath and looked again at this single finger of a tower that leaned slightly to one side. She realised there would be precious little room at all for a bespoke bath. This was it. The mage would have had little more pleasure himself.
And now, as if on cue, Astocath approached her again, calling pleasantly, “Are you decent?”
“No!” she called back, her ire rising even more so.
Adriselle stood behind the vat, holding a towel against herself. He stopped close enough to allow his gentle voice to carry with ease, but not so close as to infringe upon her sense of privacy. She was about to complain, “Why don’t you leave me alone?” when he said quite defensively:
“You should not confuse me with lusty intentions. I rarely wash.” He flapped his hands, to dismiss his comment as something she would have to work out later. “What do you want to eat?”
Adriselle was taken aback at this moment of generosity. “Well if you know so much, you’ll know full well what I eat!” Her heart cried out for Mordrak to come and take her away from this horrible skinny dishevelled man. He had always chased away unsuitable suitors. Now, why should she not just leave on her own? She believed she could until she realised she had no coin earlier and even less idea as to her location. Astocath spoke her language but he was definitely foreign. She looked at the gangly wizard and intuitively sensed he hid his real self behind his grey wispy beard.
Astocath was returning to his tower. Adriselle began vigorously drying herself down with her damp towel. She slipped on her unwashed light-blue dress and as she looked down to place her feet in her sandals her heart dropped a beat; she had forgotten the urine stain a little above the knee length hem. She cursed herself as one who surely looked no more than a peasant girl wearing her best holiday dress. At a loss Adriselle groaned loudly; giving vent to her frustration she wished she was brave enough to pull out her hair. She gave in to seething curses: wizards were a bad lot, hexing everything they touched.
Gathering herself together, she looked up to see the mage approach once more. She braced her shoulders, certain she was already growing to hate him. It was a rare feeling and not a satisfying one. She didn’t feel so sure she should hate anyone, afterall he did save her. And what about Mordrak? What about her brother? Did he survive? She had not given much thought to his outcome. She simply assumed he would have ended victorious.
In the morning she had been left very much to her own devices. Astocath was a very rude host in terms of seeing to her well-being and needs. The housekeeper spoke little of her language.
Finally, in the late afternoon, Astocath bore her a cooked chicken upon a tray that the housekeeper must have prepared. Upon the tray was also a plate of parsnips and green beans. “Thought we’d dine out here while the weather’s nice for it.” He smiled. “Find somewhere to sit?” His instruction was carried kindly. The weather was warmer here than where she had come from and most certainly a heatwave compared to the room she had escaped.
Followed by the mage, she walked away from the vat and sat upon a low tor that overlooked the valley. She yearned to ride in the forest that spread through the basin below the jagged slopes. Otherwise, she was happy to look upon the sprawling village that straddled a wide, shallow river on the far side of the valley, away from the basin. The land was rugged but welcomingly hospitable.
“Who’s the overlord of that village?” She nodded her head in its direction, wondering if perhaps she ought to bid her leave and seek help there.
“Oh, just some tin-pot knight.”
“Does he give you much in the way of trouble?” she asked.
“Me? No, my dear. Not at all. Have some dinner.”
Perhaps it will be easy for this mage to return me home, she hoped, though with little optimism. If he could, he would surely have offered.
“Sorry I couldn’t reach your brother. It would have been too dangerous for us all; he was so far from me. Ifhrd too. He is dead now.”
Adriselle had told him only a sketching of Mordrak’s quest for Ifhrd.
Astocath offered chicken to her with a brush of his hand; he had already served himself. Greedy pig. Her hands shook as she tried to carve the breast. Then his hand gently gripped hers. His touch was warm and firm, kindly. Somehow she overcame her natural reaction to pull her hand away. Her conscience was beginning to tell on her emotions. She was being unreasonable when he was being kind.
He was saying, “Don’t worry, dear.” He almost sounded like her father. “’Tis only right to feel nervous after an ordeal as you’ve been put through. You’ve landed somewhat strangely, haven’t you? My dear.” Astocath smiled warmly, and she felt encouraged by his concern, ignoring his condescending tones. Her throat tightened; she thought she might cry. But she knew she was stronger than that. “I’ll carve for you, dear. ‘Twas thoughtless for me not to,” he said more amenably.
‘You forgot to add, my dear,’ she thought cynically. All the same, she whispered a begrudging, “Thank you.” She supposed he had risked his life for her and was thus due some allowance. After all, he likely was not skilled in the ways of women—at least ones who were not trollops. She sniffed and allowed Astocath to serve her, although she had lost her appetite. “Not too much, please?” she asked.
“Of course, my dear.”
They ate in mute silence, although Astocath chewed noisily.
“What was that horrible creature?” Adriselle asked.
“It was a troglodyte, come from the reaches of Faerie for some reason. Quite malevolent. Killed Ifhrd. It’s a very powerful spirit creature that must have been summoned by someone, and that someone must have known just when to issue it.”
“And that someone is a wizard?”
“Indeed.”
“Are you safe?”
“Mostly. I know in your lands Tell has outlawed us. But there is no such ban here.”
“I mean, will the troglodyte come after you?”
Astocath puckered his lips. “No, I don’t think so.”
She paused and asked, “Are you sure Mordrak’s safe?”
“Quite sure. He’ll be here for you before you know it, I’m certain.”
“Why should we women be expected to be so reliant on men?” Adriselle snapped. “I can take care of myself!”
“It’s a cruel world, dear—”
“My name is Adriselle! I am Lady Adriselle!”
“You would never survive a journey on your own.”
“You can take me back the way you brought me. You can take me back ...”
“Not possible, I’m afraid.” He leaned on his side and bit into a chicken leg. He put the meat down and sighed. “I’m sorry.”
Adriselle looked with dismay at the mage. It occurred to her that he was sympathetic to her plight, but she could not understand why he couldn’t take her back. ‘Who is this man?’ she asked herself, holding him in contempt once more. Again he was eating quickly, perhaps wanting to get back to his studies.
She wondered how he financially supported himself. Sold learned works to other magi, she supposed. He had this land and farm. Perhaps, again, this was it. “Why can’t you take me back? Where are we?”
“South across the sea from Escavia, in a land called Ellador upon the continent of Olfounand. It will be a difficult journey home. To reach Ifhrd’s tower would take a couple of months, at least. But there are other ways if you will be patient.”
“Are you wanting to meet Mordrak?” She felt suddenly inspired.
“So many questions! So many questions, my dear.” Astocath looked away. “We don’t sit in our studies contemplating how to reach the moon. I am a busy mage, and I cannot leave at present. I’m sure your brother will come for you. Ifhrd’s apprentice will know how to get here. I’m sure they’ll come for you.”
“But—”
“No buts. Listen, dear. You’re safe. Be satisfied, and I’ll find a way of getting you home one way or another, soon enough. There’s little difference being here as there, in any case. After all, what do you do with yourself? Life goes on outside your castle and my tower, you know.”
“You don’t have any loved ones, do you?”
“Yes, of course, dear. I haven’t forgotten.”
She wondered that he had not listened to her. Every tale told the story of a singular mage or intrigues amongst magi who dwelled together. Primarily they were lonesome creatures trusting no one, even when in familiar company. Their lives were arcane words on paper and their essence the power of the spoken word. It seemed they thrived on power in one form or another—quite different to the Judezzeks, some of whom had similar powers but had their God accomplish their miracles rather than wizardry spells. A God who claimed to be the only God. Yet, this wizard? He had power over her at present. She wondered, what room do magi have for love?
“You know I care,” said Astocath, sounding a little embarrassed, or perhaps he was lying. She had no reason not to believe he cared, let alone doubt he would entertain such a virtue. But she wasn’t going to concede.
“What do you care about?”
“We live in a world run on the whims of ordinary - but elite men. As a woman, you fall as much victim to their standards as we magi. Because we’re distrusted, our plight is little balanced by our goodwill. Although my Circle does not involve us in the politics of monarchs and dukes, many of us are still sogged and staked. And here’s you wanting me to help a power-mongering King.”
“Everyone knows wizards don’t drown when they’re sogged.”
“Pah! Who does? Though it is rare a true wizard worth his salt can’t escape a warband.”
“Even so. We hoped Ifhrd would help us against a power-hungry wizard. You care about your place in the world, and it could be made better. Why not have a plan? You won’t alleviate the plight of my King and help my brother? You know he’s got the ear of our King Tell. We can change all this.”
“Why be sure of what I intend or do not intend to do, my dear?” Astocath remained calm, unhurried by her outburst. “As I said, I have some things to do.” He stuffed some more chicken into his mouth, and continued with his mouth full, “Some things can only be done at the changing of the seasons. Don’t you know different seasons have different sources of power? Eh? Don’t you know the importance of timing? Of course not. But every day brings different lessons to different meanings.”
“That means nothing but the obvious!” Adriselle stared hard at him. She looked then towards his tower and thought how appropriate it would be were it to be in the midst of Faerie and away from reality. She looked again at the village in the valley below, and her heart cried out in longing. It was only late afternoon; she could be there easily by evening. Astocath surely had horses.
He looked at her with disarming sincerity. “They don’t speak your language, dear.”
Her heart sank as she realised there might just as well be no folk in the village at all for the assistance she could expect. “Nor do you,” she snapped bitterly at him.
He put a hand upon her shoulder, at which again she surprised herself by not flinching away. She remained silent for what seemed like a couple of minutes though was only quiet for a matter of seconds. “I’m as good as your prisoner!” she cried out. “From one devious warlock to another!” Let alone having been left to the mercy of that horrible hunchback. It was excruciating and utterly degrading. She braced herself and looked up at him. “I’m harder to crack than you think, Astocath.”
She had wanted to enjoy her meal more than eat for hunger’s sake, and she cursed her previous attitude when she was with Mordrak and in the hands of Jorlon. ‘Are we to die? How long shall we be kept here?’ She had dreamed of adventure: this was adventure. In many fire-side legends, some women were said to be warrior-like; how she had always wanted to be so! No matter they had little more origins than serfdom and peasantry, theirs was surely a better life: a life for which she had never been equipped. “I have been taken by surprise, Astocath,” she said boldly. “Now that I have my wits once more, I am undeterred. A mage must be found to relieve King Tell of the curse over him, and over a whole city. Not to mention my brother! I shall find a mage.”
“Well,” said Astocath at length. “I’m glad we can reason together. Perhaps if opportunity presents itself I shall help. Many of us are difficult to hire.”
“What would you want?”
“Ho! Would I tell you?”
Adriselle thought of the strange feather Mordrak had described. Strange that such a creature as a cockatrice should wander from its world to ours? Surely, it had to be so... yet had she not seen a troglodyte?
“Why not tell me?” she asked, deciding against revealing her limited knowledge of other worlds to him. “I have something from Faerie, so I am told. Is there such a place?”
Astocath swallowed.
She made him an offer of the basilisk feather, feeling out of her depth for the item seemed so insignificant.
“I shall think upon that,” he said.
“Very well. But an offer is made though clearly you don’t know what you want. Yet you obviously have powerful craft.” Crafty ways, she would have said, but that would have been fearful talk. She laughed a little. “Yet, as I say, you don’t know what you want!” She wondered if she was too bold, or perhaps the other way, susceptible as the next person to spells of enchantment. Maybe he was already enchanting her. What would she care? Would battling him help matters? Nevertheless, she would be alert to watch out for him.
She piled the dishes upon the tray. “Thank you,” she said lightly, attempting to correct his manners by example. But the mage said nothing. “I’m not a menial servant,” she said sharply, “but I have no desire for you to wait upon me hand and foot.”
“Glad to hear it,” said he. “I have a servant.” He rose to his feet and walked towards his tower, leaving Adriselle to do as she pleased.
She followed him, carrying the tray. She found herself wondering how old he was. His looks seemed elusive, sometimes a young man bordering upon middle age, and other times older, even an elderly man. She supposed he would outlive her children. She suddenly resented the possibility of some folk not reaching maturity before others aged and withered away. It seemed so unfair.
Arriving at the kitchen doorway, Adriselle peered into the gloom and laid the tray on a shelf. There was no sound of the housekeeper, and she walked cautiously through the clutter to an old stone staircase leading upwards. Astocath would have gone up there, she supposed. And everything in this place was comprised of this old stone. It was cold and cheerless, bearing an archaic feel, and had a sombre mood all of its own. As she climbed the confined stairs, she thought how worn and battered the tower looked from the outside—it positively leaned at an angle. How many years could possibly be left to these foundations?
She found Astocath scribbling notes within a dingy room. Stuffed owls and cats adorned shelves. Bottles with horrible looking things and liquids of different colours were also scattered about the shelves. She tapped gently upon the open door.
He looked up from his seat below a dirty glass-paned window. His face was difficult to gauge. He looked back to his work and scribbled some more.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He did not look up at her. “Why? Broken the dishes?”
“No, for being horrible. And you saved my life ... probably.”
“Perhaps. You’re worth saving, no doubt. Anyway, horrid is a woman’s prerogative, especially when they’re being ... well, you know. That devil, Hel, breathes her sorrows into the spirit of girl children at birth.” His tone was matter of fact.
Astocath’s observation took her by surprise. “Oh, please!” Adriselle protested, for he must be deluded. “Have you always been hurt?”
He bit his lip; she could barely discern the action, but it touched her heart. Surely he had worked a charm upon her. “I’m a mage, dear—a wizard, not a courtesan.”
“That’s a woman!” she corrected him, amused by his ignorance.
“There’s my point, my dear. I’m not a courtier to harry after your ... well, I am not wanting to be a ... I’m trying to say my life is far more interesting than hanging around palace gardens and halls.” At that, he lifted his head, and their eyes met. His crystal blue eyes sparkled. She found this man strange. There was something about him that was compelling. He said, “I’m not very familiar with it all, courtship ‘specially. Now I’m busy, and you’ve distracted me beyond reproach. I like your dress.”
She grimaced at the thought of the stain and dared not look down at it. Instead, she ran a hand over the light green stitching that decorated the shoulder. Taking her hand away, she asked, “Will I see you later?”
He turned a sheet of black vellum over his work. “If you must, I suppose,” he said, his voice far away. “I could play my flute if it is anywhere to be found.”
“I’d like that.”
He looked towards her. Now his eyes were glittering; glistening? Were they moist? “You’ve not heard me play.”
“We shall see.” With that, she excused herself and returned downstairs, finding herself contemplating life. Why should she suddenly care about him now? Care about an old, wizened wizard? Was he quite as vulnerable as sometimes he seemed? There were men, plenty of men; and plenty of men who were more suited to her. She had seen much in her father that made him as difficult to deal with as any other. As her father planned, Mordrak was saving her for the best marriage the family could have. However, to the question of Astocath enchanting her, she found herself saying, very quietly, “I’d know—even if it was just a little bit.”
***
THEY SAT UPON THE TOR where they had lunched together. It seemed they had an eternal space to themselves now the sky was clear and starry. They ate more chicken. The tower leaned in shadow behind them. Below, down in the valley, the village was lit, flickering lights of many candles. They looked to the moon that rested upon the darkened shadows of the forest.
“I’ve travelled quite far, really, Astocath, before. Rode over twenty miles to some horrid city with my parents. Talk about saddle sore! There was a big fair there, though my father had gone for a tourney. I didn’t know there could be so many people.”
“Well.” Astocath blew a note upon his flute. “You’ve travelled even farther now, my dear. And there’s even more people in these lands. This continent is said to be larger than that of Escavia. However, Escavia actually has more lands above the northern mountains, I understand. I don’t know if they’re counted—I should imagine not.” He sighed. “The world is a vast place.”
“How far from home am I?”
“Oh, across the sea. Don’t rightly know, my dear—hundreds, if not thousands of leagues. I’ve never actually travelled the distance as you would. Now, you’re far from home and would not walk it in a month, I daresay. You’d need to spend a week or so at sea as well, of course.”
“Just think.” Adriselle twisted around to look away from the village. “I might be looking towards home right now. Isn’t it strange?”
“Stranger if you were looking at the village that really was your home and you were deluded,” he replied.
She gasped and looked around to allay her fears, that it really was not Noanoak. She was not deluded. “Why did you say that?” she asked.
“Because the nature of magic does things. And there are strange things that people deny because they are not strong enough to bear up. It is like you asked about Faerie—there is such a place. More to the point, the world of Scavia is huge and round. It sits in an ocean of nothingness. Just lots of space with stars shining down from a great expanse.”
“How do you know the world is round?” She could not believe it.
“On a clear day, it is said, you can see the world curl at the edges if you are high enough; or, as the sailors will tell you, when there is nothing to get in the way.”
“Oh! Sailors and their mermaids.” Adriselle paused, above believing naive tales. “But it’s all a trick of the eye. Things are bound to seem round over a distance. After all, the eye is a ball. No, you’re teasing me!”
He chuckled, which seemed to her to prove her point. “Caught in the act of mischief brings a boy to chuckle,” her nurse had frequently said.
“No, you certainly are are teasing me!”
His laughter rang with delight, and Adriselle felt peaceful. She turned away from him, and he began to play a sprightly tune upon his flute. She ignored the occasional missed note and showed genuine pleasure as he played. He impressed her by playing with heart. Some musicians were very clever with their instruments, but without heart or soul, they were merely bland to her ears. How would one define it? Nevertheless, she had heard better at court, but Astocath was hardly a practised performer. The tune reminded her of tales of forests, of elves and fauns. Perhaps real, perhaps fiction based on reality. Who would care as long as it told a good story? It had happiness and sadness all in one long tune. She was glad he had not chosen to begin with a shorter tune that might round off the evening.
Astocath stood upon one foot with his other tucked behind his supporting knee. He played a fast melody and rocked from side to side as the rhythm led him. His sense of balance and timing was extraordinary. The mage looked mystical, shadowed by the moon; his long cloak across his shoulders fell down his back, and a crumpled, leathery, pointy hat tottered upon his head which almost hid his face with its hairy beard. It was as crumpled as his worn leather breeches. Phylacteries and scarabs adorned his tunic and glittered like the stars above. The tune, in its way, was enchanting, especially so with his hypnotic pose. Adriselle wished for every girl a minstrel to perform for her like this. Perhaps the music was more than enchanting. She lay back watching him with some admiration; her hands tucked behind her head until, to her regret, he finished piping. Then she sat up and clapped, laughing in delight as he swept off his hat and bowed deeply.
“My!” said he. “They’ll hear you in the village!” He sat down beside her, and she could see the happiness upon his brow and within his sparkling eyes.
She put an affectionate arm around his shoulders and dared to look into his eyes. “You’re a funny old man.”
“Pah! That would be an insult if I were an old man, young lady.”
“Venerable mage, then,” she conceded. She didn’t understand what he meant, of not being an old man, and didn’t care to know. Adriselle was content to let the mystery present itself a while. Maybe he was an elf—or worse, a faun!
“I’m not used to company,” he said, almost with a hint of apology. “Perhaps I ought to be.”
“Your language is very good for being foreign to my tongue,” she said. “If you know few people, why do you speak it so well?”
“I find language comes easy. But anyone can have too much of anything.” She saw a pain in his eyes, barely veiled, and she was perceptive enough to see through him—or perhaps he wanted her to understand. He was a wounded spirit. In sympathy, Adriselle leaned her head against his shoulder. “I wish I knew you,” she said.
“Oh, I’m just a wizard with more wine in his belly than is good for him. Here.” He lifted the jug. “Have some more.”
Adriselle felt herself warming to him, dangerously so, as it might grow with desire. Was this a love for the mage? She lay back and felt as if she were slipping into a dream. It seemed Mordrak’s hand was trying to hold her back from that sense, from the awful moment of Ifhrd's battle to awakening now, but she was not awakening. She felt herself begin to float away into something deeper than sleep. Without knowing if she were asleep or awake, she was aware of the moonlight upon her face. An unseen force supported her head, and her hair felt as if it were wavering, swept in a wind that caressed her whole body, back and front. She must be flying. Her hair streamed about her cheeks, brushed carelessly by the wind, tangling and blowing. She cried out in pleasure, sensing herself to be weightless, and her skin tingled in every sensitive part. She felt she must be in uncharted skies. She opened her eyes. All was so vacuous and yet so peaceful. Dark velvet clouds skated by, and an array of stars seemed to dance upon the veil of the great expanse. Aware now that Astocath gripped her, she knew overwhelmingly that she was safe and in an ecstasy she had never before known, flying upon a broom of wind.
Ecstatic with a desire to be fulfilled, she cried out to be caressed more. As her senses tingled, she felt herself hurtle ever deeper and deeper into the dark space above. Between the stars that Astocath had spoken of, she imagined they must soon land upon the moon. Then she saw a haze, a mist of cobwebs glistening with dew that veiled peoples' faces behind it; faces that were distorted - hopefully by the haze. A rhyme she had heard as a child was being sung, and she found her inner voice singing along with it:
There is a woman who sweeps clean the stars,
(The silver dulls,)
(The silver dulls,)
I know this old woman sheens them shiny,
(Sheens them shiny,)
(Sheens them shiny,)
And keeps putting their dust into golden jars ...
At first, the voices were a disjointed harmony; and as she revelled in the increasing speed at which Astocath carried her—she knew not whether to fear or embrace this experience. Adriselle listened to the chanting melody and felt drawn to them, terrible as they were. Astocath was carrying her away. Then different, less fearsome figures changed the words and made deeper tunes within the song:
Come to us, Astocath, Astocath
Come to us for a chosen son.
Come to us Astocath, Astocath
Make the evil day undone.
Farther into the mists, many hands reached out to them. The couple hovered nearer to the creatures, nearer to their hands, their fingers stretched out to grasp them both. The hands were stretched from unseen bodies, and the disembodied faces were like mere mist or reflections upon dusty mirrors. Adriselle felt a fiery essence tingle against her soul.
She screamed as she began to fear her surroundings. There were things here too terrible to know: things not good for a mortal to know, and she prayed she would never find herself alone in a place like this. She prayed not to come here when she was passed away from the world. She prayed she would never pass completely away from the world she knew, from the home she loved well.
They both cried out aloud as one, their cries reaching over the cacophony of voices that called for Astocath to consummate her.
Adriselle lay alone in her cot. Had she just awoken, looking up at the stone ceiling, blinking her eyes? How did she get here? Her breath was steady, and she pondered upon the substance of dreams. How had she been betwixt imagination and reality? How had she come here to Astocath’s tower? Here she lay in a spare chamber. It was not familiar to her. Had she bathed that day, or even yesterday in the vat? Had she sat upon the tor with Astocath fluting that evening?
“Aye, I had,” she said. “He has undressed me. Here I lay naked in a pallet bed.” She pulled the blankets closer to herself, feeling defensive that he should have looked upon her—worse to somehow have taken her. Adriselle's body felt he must have. She must certainly have been as one in union with him that night. He had surely enchanted her.
She looked through the window at the stars in the sky. ‘Have I been there? Had he been there?’ It was all so far away. The sun, she thought, ought to have risen by now, and she shivered for it was cold at this hour. Time, for a while, had been of no meaning. Fearful of the unknown, she found herself beginning to gently weep.