The Greykeep Chronicles

The invitation came on a card.

It was the size of my palm, cream-colored, with a single line written across it in a hand I’d known since before I could read. Small, upright, unhurried.

The Council sits on the third morning. You and your sister are expected. Bring nothing. — A.

I turned it over. There was nothing on the back.

”Expected,” said Carol, reading over my shoulder.

”Expected.”

”Not invited.”

”No.”

We looked at each other.

Carol and I have attended the Council before. Everybody in the family has, at some point. It meets in Greykeep, after all, and our great-great-grandmother chairs it, and when you are small and someone in your family is a goddess, you end up under the Council table more often than you’d think. Carol and I once spent a whole session underneath it, building a fort out of the gods’ feet. Brannoc’s boots were the walls. Nobody noticed until Nyxa sat down and found us.

But we’d never been expected.

”What do you think she wants?” I said.

Carol took the card from me and held it up to the window, as if there might be something written in the light.

”I think,” she said, ”we’re about to find out what it means that we kept the seeds.”

* * *

The Council Hall stands against the chapel on the south side of the inner court.

Eleanor built it the year after the stream, when there were suddenly more gods in Greykeep than anyone knew where to put. When the old Accord was first signed, it was signed in a room so small that the gods had to take turns sitting down. Eleanor said she would not let that happen again. She built the hall round and high and full of light, with a ring of plain wooden chairs and nothing else at all. No dais. No throne. No head of the table, because there is no table.

Aurelia asked for it that way.

She said she had sat in enough halls where someone was higher than someone else.

The gods came in ones and twos, the way they always do. Nobody announces them. The Castellan stopped announcing gods years ago, at Aurelia’s request, after it took eleven minutes to get through the arrivals for a single session. They just come. Some of them come through the door and some come through the light and some, like Nyxa, are simply there, in a chair that was empty a moment ago, as if they’d been sitting in it all along.

I knew most of them.

I’d grown up with them. Meriel, in her grey veil. Brannoc, broad and scarred, who held the gate. Corra beside him, smelling of leaf-smoke and apples, with her hand on his arm. Kaedra with her bow unstrung across her knees, because Aurelia doesn’t allow strung weapons in the hall. Vaust leaning on his staff with his little brass bell at his belt, and Halemar beside him, who keeps the ferries and still looks faintly surprised whenever he finds himself on land.

Thesra came and sat down beside me without saying anything and patted my hand. She has done that since I was born.

Rysa sat across the circle with a cloth bag of toys at her feet. She brings it to every session. Nobody has ever asked why, and I have never once seen her open it. She caught my eye and smiled, and mouthed, very clearly, across the whole hall: Name?

I mouthed back: Garrick.

She nodded, satisfied, as if this were still in some doubt after twenty-three years.

Carol made a noise beside me that she turned into a cough.

There were others I knew less well. Damar, built like a section of wall, who holds the deep roads. Veyra, who keeps the weather records and always arrives with damp hair. Elyan, with mud on his boots, and Vaerun beside him, the god of hurricanes, who sat very still in his chair as if he were afraid of knocking something over. Ilyra came last, with her small white lamp, and sat at the end of the row, and set the lamp down beside her chair, where it burned without flickering.

Forty chairs. Thirty-four filled.

Then the door at the back of the hall knocked.

Not someone knocking on it. The door itself, very softly, three times, as if somebody on the other side had placed his knuckles against the wood and was asking.

The hall went quiet. It always does.

”Come in,” said Aurelia.

The door opened, and Ansel came in.

* * *

He was Othellos once.

I’ve never known what to do with that. I don’t think anyone does. He was the god of order, head of the old pantheon, and for a thousand years he ordered shrines abandoned and gods bound and roads closed. Everything Father spent his first years in this world fighting, Othellos had either built or allowed. He was the one who first reached for a lamp in a window and was burned, and who was told in the dark afterward that it was the lamp’s fault, and who believed it.

He was also Ansel, before any of that. A young man in a valley, standing outside a house with a light in its window.

Near the end of everything, he remembered his name. He opened his doors so others could walk out. Then he walked toward the Keeper’s lamp himself, and Hollis watched him stop in front of it and knock three times, very softly, like someone who has finally learned how.

Carol and I brought him back.

We didn’t decide to. We were three. When Varrick fell and everything he’d taken came pouring into us, Ansel’s domain was in there with all the rest, and we spent the next four years handing them back, one god at a time. And one day, when I was six, Carol and I were sitting on the floor of this very hall with Aurelia, giving back the last of the domains of order, and a young man was suddenly standing in front of us, holding it.

He looked down at us. He looked at his hands.

Then he turned around and knocked three times on the nearest door, and waited until Aurelia said come in.

He has knocked on every door he’s walked through since.

He came round the edge of the circle now and sat in the empty chair nearest the door, the one he always takes. He’s a slight man, quieter than anyone would expect, plainly dressed, with very old eyes in a face that looks about thirty. There’s a faint gold light at his side that comes and goes, like something remembered.

He saw Carol and me. He nodded to us, the small careful nod he gives everyone.

Then he folded his hands in his lap and waited, like a man in a chapel who isn’t sure he’s allowed to pray.

Aurelia looked round the circle once. At every face. At the six empty chairs.

Then she looked at Carol and me.

”Thank you for coming,” she said. ”The Council sits.”

* * *

The first matter was a river.

Mary was there, of course. Mary attends every session of the Council with a book specifically for the Council, separate from the household book. It’s black, and she’s on her ninth. She sat in a chair just outside the ring, because she says she is not a god and does not intend to be mistaken for one, and she read the petition aloud in her clear dry voice.

”Lorn, god of the River Varrow,” she read, ”against Imme, goddess of the Hallow Spring. Concerning the pool at Hallow Ford, where the spring enters the river. Each claims the pool as their own. Each claims the offerings left there by the village of Hallowmere. Each describes the other,” Mary paused, very slightly, ”in terms I have not copied.”

Lorn stood up.

He was a big slow god, gray-green and heavy-shouldered, with water running continually off the hem of his coat onto the floor. Halemar shifted his feet out of the way with the ease of long practice.

”The pool is in the river,” said Lorn. His voice was deep and patient and sounded like weight. ”The river runs through it. Therefore it is the river’s.”

Imme stood up.

She came about up to his belt. She was small and sharp and bright, with hair the colour of very clean water and a habit of bouncing slightly on her toes, as if she couldn’t quite keep still.

”The pool is made of the spring,” she said. ”The spring fills it. Without the spring it’s a puddle. Therefore it’s mine.”

”It is in the river.”

”It is from the spring.”

”The villagers call it the river pool.”

”The villagers call it Hallow Pool, which is my name.”

Lorn turned slowly to look down at her, and water ran off his sleeves.

”The villagers,” he said, ”are not consistent.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Beside me, Carol had gone very still in the particular way she goes still when she is trying not to laugh.

Aurelia let them argue.

She always does. I’ve seen her do it a dozen times. She listens the way Father listens, all the way to the end, without interrupting, without a flicker on her face. I used to think it was patience. It isn’t. I understood that years ago, watching her across a council floor while I sat underneath a table. It’s that she wants them to hear themselves.

After about ten minutes, Lorn and Imme had both said everything three times and run out of new ways to say it. They stood there in the middle of the ring, glaring, the big slow river and the small bright spring.

Aurelia looked at Carol and me.

”Garrick,” she said. ”Carol. Would you listen to the pool for us, please?”

Every god in the room turned to look at us.

I hadn’t expected that. I don’t think Carol had either. But I understood, all at once, why the card had said expected.

We kept the seeds. Of everything Varrick released. Somewhere in that great tangle of gods’ work we had held and handed back when we were children, there had been rivers, and springs, and the meeting of waters. We kept a little of all of it.

Aurelia wasn’t asking us to judge.

She was asking us to listen, because we could hear both of them.

Carol reached for my hand.

I reached into the seeds.

It was like Meriel’s chapel, but larger, and wetter, and very much colder. Somewhere a long way off, a pool lay in a fold of green hills. I could feel the slow, heavy push of the Varrow coming down from the mountains, the weight of it, the patience. And I could feel the Hallow Spring coming up from underneath. Quick and cold and bright, welling out of the rock at the bottom of the pool, pushing up into the river’s current like a child pushing into a crowd.

I felt them meet.

And I felt something else, something I wasn’t expecting. The spring didn’t stop at the pool. Neither did the river. The cold bright water of the Hallow kept going, inside the Varrow, for a long way downstream. You couldn’t see it, but it was there, a thread of colder water running through the warmer, all the way down past the village, past the mill, past the next village and the one after that.

All the way down to the sea.

And the Varrow, for its part, didn’t only flow over the spring. It pressed down on it. It held it. Without the weight of the river on top, the spring would have scattered across the hillside in a dozen little rills and lost itself in the grass. The river was what made the spring into a pool at all.

I opened my eyes.

Carol opened hers at the same moment.

We looked at each other.

Then Carol, who has always been better at saying things than I have, turned to the two gods standing in the middle of the ring.

”You don’t stop at the pool,” she said to Imme. ”You go all the way down. You’re inside him the whole way to the sea. Every village on the Varrow drinks a little of you, and none of them know it.”

Imme opened her mouth. Then she closed it.

Carol turned to Lorn.

”And without you on top,” she said, ”she’d be a wet hillside. You’re what holds her together. You’re what makes the pool.”

Lorn didn’t move. Water ran off his coat onto the floor.

Nobody said anything for a long moment.

Then Imme looked up at Lorn, a very long way up, and said in a much smaller voice, ”All the way to the sea?”

”So it seems,” said Lorn slowly.

”I’ve never been to the sea.”

Lorn looked down at her.

”It is very large,” he said. ”And very salt. You would not care for it.” He paused. ”But I could show you. If you liked.”

Imme bounced, very slightly, on her toes.

Aurelia hadn’t said a word. She didn’t need to. She looked at Mary.

Mary wrote: Hallow Pool. Held jointly. She underlined it once.

* * *

The second matter was very small.

Ilyra brought it.

She stood up from the end of the row and picked up the white lamp beside her chair, and carried it into the middle of the ring, and set it on the floor. Then she knelt beside it and cupped her hands around the flame, and blew on it, very gently.

Something came out of the lamp.

It was no bigger than a moth. A flicker of yellow light, wavering, uncertain, rising out of Ilyra’s flame and hanging in the air in front of her face. It had no shape. It was just a light that seemed to be trying, very hard, to be something.

”There is a village called Sedge,” Ilyra said quietly. ”On the western road, near Hesketh’s shelter. It burned in the war. When the people came back, they put a lamp on a post at the crossroads in the middle of the village, so the dead would know the way home. They have lit it every night for twenty years.”

The little light wavered.

”Twenty years is a long time to be lit every night,” said Ilyra. ”By people who mean it.”

I understood.

So did everyone. I watched it go round the circle like a breath.

”It’s new,” Rysa said softly, leaning forward. ”Oh. It’s brand new.”

”It came to my lamp three nights ago,” said Ilyra. ”I keep the lights beside those who die alone. It found me because it thought it was one of those. It’s very small, and very frightened, and it doesn’t know what it is.” She looked up at Aurelia. ”It asks the Council to recognize it. And it asks for a name.”

The Council was very quiet.

Aurelia looked at the little light for a long moment.

Then she turned in her chair and looked across the whole of the hall, past all of us, to the chair nearest the door.

”Ansel,” she said. ”Would you?”

Ansel went still.

I watched it happen. I watched him understand what she was asking, and why. The man who had once reached through a window for a lamp, and been burned, and spent a thousand years blaming the light. She was asking him to name a lamp.

He stood up slowly. He came round the circle to the middle of the floor, and knelt down beside Ilyra, a careful arm’s length from the flicker of light, the way Surtr had knelt in front of Roddick on the bridge.

He didn’t reach for it.

He looked at it for a long time.

Then he said, very quietly, ”What would you like to be called?”

Rysa made a small sound across the circle. I looked at her. Her eyes were wet.

The little light trembled.

It rose an inch. It sank. It wavered toward Ansel and away again. And then, so faintly that I’m still not certain I heard it with my ears and not my seeds, it spoke. One word, in a voice like a wick catching.

”Morning.”

Ansel closed his eyes.

”Because they light you at dusk,” he said softly, ”and you burn until morning.”

The light flickered yes.

”Then you are Morning,” said Ansel. ”Of the crossroads lamp at Sedge. And the Council knows your name.”

He got to his feet, and went back round the circle, and sat down in his chair by the door, and folded his hands in his lap.

He didn’t look at anyone.

The gold light at his side was brighter than I had ever seen it.

Mary wrote: Morning. Of the crossroads lamp at Sedge. Recognized. She underlined it twice.

* * *

The Council rose at noon.

The gods went the way they came, in ones and twos, through the door and through the light. Lorn and Imme went out together, still arguing, though it had turned into a different sort of argument, about whether the sea was really as salt as he said. Ilyra carried her white lamp out with the little flicker of Morning sitting on the rim of it, quite still now, like a bird that has found a branch. Nyxa was simply not in her chair anymore.

Ansel was the last to go. He stood, and knocked three times on the inside of the door, and waited.

”Go on,” said Aurelia gently.

He went.

Then it was just the three of us, in the round bright hall with forty empty chairs.

Aurelia stood up and came round the circle and sat down in the chair beside Carol, and for a while she didn’t say anything. She just sat there, looking at the empty ring.

I’m told she looks young. People who meet her for the first time always say so. Silver hair, a simple white robe, a face you’d think belonged to a woman of thirty. But I have never once seen her as young. Father says the first time he met her, standing under a sky full of stars with the stars beneath his feet as well, he thought her eyes held the patience of mountains.

I think that’s right. I’d add that they hold something else as well. Something I didn’t have a word for until I was older.

She has lost a great many people.

She gave her son to a door for two hundred and twenty-two years. She watched his wife go through a passage in the dark carrying a child she would never see grow up. She watched that child become a man in a world she couldn’t reach, and his son become a boy who lost everyone. She watched that boy throw himself in front of a truck for a stranger, and then she reached down and caught him, and set him in a ruined castle, and told him stones don’t make a kingdom.

That boy was Father.

She is our great-great-grandmother. She sat beside our cradle every night for the first year of our lives. She taught Carol to make light. She taught me that a thing you can do and a thing you should do are different things.

And sometimes, when she thinks nobody is watching, she looks at the people she loves the way Grandpa Garrick looks at a joint that’s held. Checking.

She was doing it now.

”You did well,” she said.

”We listened,” said Carol.

”Yes.” Aurelia smiled faintly. ”That is the whole of the work. Most gods never learn it. They hear what they are, and they think it’s the world.” She folded her hands. ”Lorn has been the Varrow for nine hundred years. He did not know there was a spring inside him all the way to the sea. You had to tell him.”

”We didn’t know either,” I said. ”Not until we listened.”

”No. But you could.”

She was quiet a moment.

”That’s why I asked you to come,” she said. ”Not today. Not for a pool. I wanted the Council to see you listen. I wanted them to know you can.” She looked at the empty chairs. ”Because I think, before very long, I am going to need people who can hear more than one god at once.”

Carol and I looked at each other.

”Why?” Carol said.

Aurelia didn’t answer at once.

She reached into the sleeve of her robe and drew out a folded piece of paper. Heavy, yellowed, very old. She unfolded it on her knee.

”Before the Accord was signed,” she said, ”I wrote to every god in Avarra who could be found. Some came. Some didn’t. Some wrote back to say no, which is their right. Your father insisted on that from the beginning, that no one should be compelled.” She smoothed the paper. ”And I wrote across the western sea.”

”To who?” I said.

”To whoever was there.” She looked at the paper. ”There are gods on the far shore. There always have been. Some of them were here once, long ago, before the old pantheon fell into Othellos’s keeping, and went west when things grew difficult. I knew a few of their names. I wrote to those. I wrote three times, over twenty years. Once before the Accord. Once after Varrick. Once more, when the Council was formed.”

”And?”

”Two letters were never answered.”

She turned the paper round so we could see it.

”This came back after the third.”

It was a single sheet, folded once. It had come a very long way. The edges were stained with salt and the fold had gone soft as cloth. And there was nothing written on it at all.

Nothing except a seal.

It was pressed into dark red wax at the bottom of the page. The wax had cracked with age, but the image was clear enough. A hand, seen from the back, with the fingers closed tight around something you couldn’t see.

I looked at it for a long time.

I didn’t like it. I couldn’t have said why. It was a perfectly ordinary seal. Kings use hands on their seals all the time; Lyradon’s has an open one. But this hand was not open. It was closed so tightly that whoever carved it had taken care to show the knuckles going white.

”Whose is it?” Carol asked.

”I don’t know,” said Aurelia. ”I’ve never seen it before. Mary has been through every record in Greykeep and found nothing. Neither has Ashby at the college, though he was very excited to be asked.” She folded the page again. ”It may mean nothing. A blank page can be a refusal. They have every right to refuse.”

She put the paper back in her sleeve.

”But a refusal usually says no,” she said. ”This didn’t say anything. It just showed me a hand. And I have been alive a very long time, and I have learned that when someone has a great deal to say and chooses to say nothing, it is usually because they intend to say it later, in some other way.”

The hall was very quiet.

I felt Carol through the bond. Not frightened. Not quite. Something like the moment on the quay, when the crackle went out of the air around her and the fish in her lap went cold.

I didn’t say anything about the sailor. Neither did she.

I don’t know why. I think, looking back, we both believed that if we didn’t say it aloud, it would stay a story.

* * *

The door at the back of the hall knocked three times.

All three of us looked up.

Ansel was standing in the open doorway. He hadn’t left after all. He was standing on the threshold with one hand still raised from knocking, and he was looking past us, at Aurelia’s sleeve, where the paper was.

”Forgive me,” he said. ”I heard.”

”Come in,” said Aurelia.

He didn’t come in. He stood in the doorway, the way he stands in all doorways, as if he still isn’t certain they will let him through.

”A closed hand,” he said quietly. ”I knew a god once, long ago, who used that sign. Before I was Othellos. When I was still a young man in a valley.” His face was very still. ”He wasn’t a god of anything you’d call evil. Not then. He was a god of wanting. Of reaching for things.”

He looked down at his own hand. The gold light at his side flickered.

”He was the one who told me the lamp was mine,” said Ansel. ”If I only reached far enough.”

Nobody spoke.

”I don’t remember his name,” Ansel said. ”I gave a great deal away, when I became what I became. That went with it.” He lowered his hand. ”But I remember the hand. And I remember that when he closed it around something, it did not come back.”

He stood there a moment longer.

Then he knocked again, softly, on the frame of the open door, and went away down the corridor, and we heard his footsteps going down the stairs into the court.

Aurelia sat very still.

Carol’s hand found mine.

It was cold.

Outside, in the court, someone was laughing. A cart went by. Somewhere in the castle, faint and far off, a baby was shouting about something, and I knew without thinking about it that it was my son, and that he was hungry, and that Seraphina would be looking for me.

It was a bright spring noon in Greykeep. Everything was exactly as it should be.

I looked at the empty chairs, forty of them in a ring, and I thought about a hand closed so tightly the knuckles went white.

Aurelia stood up.

”Go and see to your son,” she said, and touched my cheek, and Carol’s. Her fingers were warm. ”And don’t worry about the seal. Not yet.”

”Not yet?” said Carol.

Our great-great-grandmother smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes.

”I’ll tell you,” she said, ”when it’s time.”