CHAPTER THREE

Ivory Tower

---

Two days passed, identical and endless. Vincent spent many hours in the library, the walls of which were covered in gold-stamped leather so ancient it crumbled at a touch. The room was two stories high, lined with folios to the ceiling. Motes of dust hung in the air like powdered gold. Shafts of light from tall arched windows illuminated a long narrow table and a comfortable chair that faced away from marble busts of Anya's predecessors in witchcraft. On the ground floor, the statues stood on pedestals. Rolling ladders slid along the shelves and there was a little railed balcony halfway up. Around the walkway the statues fitted into niches in the walls. All the women had been formidable, and their characters showed in their faces. A sibyl with a cone of hair like the tiers of a temple glowered at a blind seeress, who glared back at her with sightless orbs. A thaumaturgist pressed marble fingers to her brow as if she were attempting to re-animate a corpse by the power of thought alone. Anya's mentor, who was a haruspex, held the place of honor; she brandished a curved dagger poised to strike. Under the window, an evocatrix caressed a leafy skull and seemed to nudge a pythoness whose stone hair curled with serpents. Their expressions would have startled a visitor, but Vincent was accustomed to their frowns.

On the long table, which was littered with book-binding materials, he set up a chessboard and summoned Jacob to a match. He arranged a set of ebony chessmen touched with silver -- the black -- while Jacob accepted pieces made of silver inlaid with ebony -- the white. The board was made of the same precious materials.

An hour later he said, "Checkmate," and pushed himself back from the table. "Three times in a row. I would have thought that being a spirit would give a man otherworldly powers. Special knowledge. Incredible insight. I suppose I was mistaken." His lips twitched in a smile; he and Mary couldn't resist baiting the old philosopher.

A pen and paper had been provided for Jacob's replies. "I have read two books a week for the past several centuries and can honestly claim to know everything. Everything essential. I have not wasted my intellect practicing childish games."

"Apparently not," Vincent agreed mildly. "I didn't see much evidence of practice." He stretched his legs out, crossed his boots at the ankles, and linked his hands behind his head. The silver shot-silk of his doublet winked in the light, as did the garnet buttons. The doublet was buttoned only halfway down, to reveal a blue silk shirt.

"You are mocking me, I know. Feel free, if it amuses you. I am of a lofty temperment and disregard such pettiness. "

"You spelled 'temperament' wrong, Jacob, if it's not too petty to mention it."

The word was instantly smudged out with a phantom finger.

"I shall withdraw and leave you to your own devices," Jacob declared with haughty disdain, and sailed out the open window.

Vincent chuckled, but his amusement soon faded, leaving his face weary and drawn. A few moments later the brush of a breeze let him know that Mary had entered. A different handwriting appeared on the paper.

"Jacob claims he let you win."

"How could it be otherwise." Absently he placed the chessmen in an ebony case with silver hinges.

"Let me shut the window, you'll catch your death!"

He heard the latch click behind him, and felt like saying, 'Catch my death? I've caught it already. I've been dead for years and years.' Out loud he merely said, "No, we wouldn't want that."

She reacted to the repressed bitterness in his tone. "Vincent -- why did the traveler depart in such haste?"

"Can't you guess? After catching one glimpse of me, he realized I intended to litter my dining table with his bones, and resolved to depart, as you say, in haste." He closed the box with a sharp snap.

Mary exploded with indignation, whipping around the table like a whirlwind, scattering papers and scribbling wildly. "The dolt! The bonehead! The ninny! If he were here I'd shake him as a cat shakes a rat."

He smiled faintly. "I've often cursed the forest and the barrier but now we both know how necessary they are. If I am to survive, I must be here; and the others must remain beyond. Delusions bring only pain, Mary; the only way to find peace is to accept the truth." Mary had helped raise him; often she had admired the courage with which he faced his destiny. Never had she honored him more than at that moment, when he faced so unflinchingly the death-agony of all his hopes.

There was nothing she could say; he felt a touch on his shoulder, as light as the brush of a butterfly, and knew it was her sympathetic hand.

*

Carrying an axe, spade, and pick, he crossed the arched bridge and pushed through a wilderness of gnarled trees to a grotto built into the side of a hill. As a boy, he had amused himself by digging tunnels and shoring them up with timbers and stones. He dropped the tools beside the tunnel entrance, which was almost hidden by underbrush. Again and again he swung the axe at a twisted root, then seized it and pulled until every muscle in his back was screaming. The earth held it tightly. It was a struggle that did him good and kept him from brooding over what might have been. After all, this castle was his home, the only one he would ever know; and to neglect it seemed ungrateful.

Tomorrow he would busy himself repainting the wooden bridge. The garden, too, was in a disgraceful state. Perhaps if he weeded and cultivated the flower beds, one of the rosetrees might put forth a crimson bloom once again. And when he became weary, there were all those leather-bound books that needed rebinding. He raised the axe high and slammed the blade into the knotted wood once, twice, three times; then tossed the axe aside and began to spade around the stubborn root. The grotto had been a pleasant hideaway, once, when silver lace vines drooped over the entrance and twined up into the trees. As a child he often took a handful of fruit and hid himself deep within the cave and dreamed of feasting with a brave company of knights and ladies. Or even one fair maiden, who called him her champion.

He paused to wipe his forehead with his rough woolen sleeve and leaned for a moment on the spade. Charles must have reached the village by now. He imagined how the merchant's family was reacting to his safe return.

He mused, "Charles brought his three daughters no rich gifts, only a withered rose and a tale of dread. At this very moment, perhaps the youngest is asking him questions with her quick hands, and the second clings to her betrothed as Charles recounts to them his miraculous escape. And she... the most beautiful of all... what are her thoughts as she hears of the enchanted castle, and the beast? Does her heart burn with hatred for the creature, or does she sit alone -- apart from her persistent suitor -- and wonder?" Speculating was pointless. He would never know. Resolutely he drove the spade into the earth again, determined to put his foolish dreams aside.

That night he leaned out a tower window and thought about the brown bird he had freed. Did its small sleek head hold a memory of its captivity -- did it tell its mate somehow that the castle in the forest held terror, but kindness too? Vincent smiled up at the night sky, though the curve of his lips was infinitely sad. "Visit me, bring your mate. Build your nest here. It is a safe place, though a little... cheerless." Returning to his bed, he fell into dreamless sleep, for which he was grateful.

*

The following morning, after a meal of fruit and oaten bread, he sat down on the wooden bridge, leaned back against a curtain of ivy, and strummed his lute. The notes poured out like a running brook. A new theme flowed through the melody -- a woman's name set to music -- a name he did not know. Beauty and courage shimmered from his fingers, all radiance of a shining spirit. The song came from his deepest being, and it was all for her, though she would never hear it.

He sat on the bridge for hours, weaving into the melody the image of a face that shone in his dreams. Eyes that looked straight into his own, and a low voice that drew the soul out of his body with words of tenderness he had heard only in sleep. A slender body that moved with an easy grace, so that every movement was beautiful. There was no falsity in that true spirit. The music was becoming too painful, for the image vibrated through his body as well as his soul. Leaving the lute behind, he left the garden and climbed to a domed pinnacle connected to the lookout tower. The round room was crammed with odd instruments invented to measure height and distance and time. On a dusty table stood an astrolabe, a brass telescope, and a compass. Calculations were still chalked on the wall. In this room Vincent had suffered through lectures on philosophy and natural science. Jacob had called this his 'ivory tower,' and claimed the height was conducive to rarified thought. Vincent suspected the pinnacle was chosen because it made escaping from lessons more difficult.

He brushed dust from the telescope with his sleeve of rust-colored velvet, and peered out the arrow slit. All he could see was a haze of clouds. Turning the eyepiece, he focused on his own garden wall, far, far below; and beyond it, to the fog-haunted trees. What he spied made him gasp and adjust the telescope again, for he could hardly believe his own eyesight. He saw a horse and rider galloping hell-for-leather through the haunted wood. The horse reared up as they approached the high black wall, and the rider's brown cloak blew like a flag. It was not Charles who was nearing the gates. This traveler was a woman.

Vincent let out one cry, whirled, and began to run down the stairs. Though the twisted tower was utterly dark, he did not pause to light a lantern. In a headlong run he circled again and again and again and again; with every turn of the staircase his heart beat more madly. More than once he stumbled, leaped to his feet and kept on running, his boots slamming on the rough-hewn steps.

The threats he had uttered to Charles never occurred to him. Nor did the possibility that one of the other two daughters might be approaching. Or even a complete stranger.

Panting, he said, "She didn't believe her father's tale of horror -- she came to see for herself if an enchanted castle might truly exist."

It was his charming guest -- he was sure of it. This very evening she might sit across from him in the great hall, and tell him of her day.

"Idiot, idiot, you're an idiot," he derided himself. "Give her time, for mercy's sake. She's never seen your face. She hasn't dreamed of you as you have dreamed of her. Just hurry down the avenue and open the main gates for her in a courteous way. So she will not be frightened by your appearance, as Charles was. Oh, Charles! What did you tell her about me?"

Out of breath, he charged through a connecting bridge into the lookout tower. At full speed he passed a wooden door streaked with runes and a splintered portal behind which a gargoyle hissed. He kept one hand on the wall as he circled dizzyingly, again and again, past the landing of the door that leaked white smoke. He was nearing the base of the tower at last.

"You brave woman. You heroine. Yes, the castle is here. There is a beast, just as your father said, but he is no one you need fear. Don't be afraid -- please." The thought was unbearable -- Vincent had felt through his whole body Charles' terrified reaction.

The fourth door with its blinking eye was behind him. Stumbling and gasping, he reached the final landing, shoved open a door that vibrated to unheard music, and ran through a maze of corridors into the entry hall. Torchlight illuminated rows of mounted antlers and an iron-studded door eighteen feet high. Shoving it violently, he lurched out into the courtyard.

The woman had already opened the gate. She was riding up the avenue, fighting her fear-maddened horse every inch of the way. She did not see Vincent, for with all her strength she was pulling on the reins, trying grimly to control her panic-stricken mount. Despite her valiant efforts, the horse reared and bucked violently. Rear hooves lashed out, smashing against a cedar tree. With terrible force, her head struck an overhanging limb. Stunned, she raised one hand a little, then slumped forward in the sidesaddle. A twisting plunge sent her flying. The horse leaped right over her and galloped back down the avenue, its reins flying free.

Heartstricken, Vincent ran down the avenue and bent over her quiet form. He would have wept, yet knelt gasping like a man who doesn't know how. Gently he pushed back the hood of her cloak. Blood smeared her pale forehead and matted her soft brown hair.

He uttered a hoarse and terrible cry. "No. No! " With infinite care he lifted her light body in his arms and carried her across the courtyard and up the marble steps into the castle. Her arms swung limply; her head lolled against his shoulder, stained his rust-colored clothing a deeper red.

He carried her past the rows of mounted skulls that snarled and frowned on the walls, and up a flight of stairs. Ancient weaponry passageway: iron swords and mighty crossbows, wicked barbed spears and fan-shaped displays of daggers. Up one more flight he climbed, to a hallway paneled in rosewood. Two life-sized pegasi flanked the entrance to his chamber, their marble wings upraised as if poised for flight.

Into his bedchamber he carried her, and placed her on the black silk quilt. His own face was as white as hers as he bathed the ugly gash on her forehead. His hands shock a little as he gently wiped back her blood-soaked hair. The wound was a deep one; if she lived, she might be scarred.

"She must live. There's nothing in me that can bear it if she does not." He pulled a chair beside the bed and watched the white face on the pillow. She was so quiet that he became worried and bent nearer to listen to her breathing. Her face was lovely despite the cruel wound that cramped his chest with anxiety.

Mary circled the chamber. "Let me tend her."

He shock his head, no. "I am asking you and Jacob to find the herbal books in the library, on the second shelf above the bust of the pythoness. Both of you, study them and be able to tell me what to do when she wakes."

"Vincent… "

"Please."

Reluctantly, Mary obeyed.

She still wore the brown striped cloak; it seemed to Vincent that the clasp was too tight. Carefully he unhooked the fastening and let the cloak fall free. She wore a simple traveling dress of dark blue broadcloth. The skirt was pinned up in front, revealing a linen underskirt. Her slender hands rested quietly, palms up. Her stillness was so deep that as the slow hours passed, Vincent's face grew haggard.

Apart from occasionally wiping a drop of blood from her forehead, there was little he could do. He kept the fire blazing, hoping it would warm her; and tucked the quilt around her as best he could. He did not light any lamps. Eventually the log fell into halves and a golden heart of fire leaped up. The glow would give him a chance to retreat into the shadows if she should awaken suddenly.

She sighed, a faint sound, and her head turned away from him.

Fear felt like splinters in his chest. Because she seemed too far away, he dared to clasp her small cold fingers between his own.

"Come back, " he said softly. "There's nothing in that direction but emptiness. Here there is a warm fire, and ... and ... "

A warm fire didn't seem appealing enough to entice her back to life. "And everything beautiful that life can hold, and friends to help you. Friends you've yet to meet. There's a kind woman who was a mother to me. She wants to be a mother to you, if you need one at all. And an elderly man of wisdom who longs to tell you everything he knows, whether you want to hear it or not. And I'm here."

He swallowed and then went on. "I'm here, holding your hand. So that's three. You mustn't leave us. We hardly know you yet. We know you're courageous and beautiful, but there is so much more. Do you like music? Have you a garden of your own? You see, we don't know that yet. I suppose it rains and snows where you live. Tell me all about that, and how it feels to walk in the snow. I'll never know unless you tell me. So you see, you have to come back. I don't even know your name!" His voice broke on the last word and he rested his forehead against the side of the bed.

She made no sign, but somehow he felt that she heard. When he held her hand and tried to pour his own strength into her frail form through that simple touch, it seemed to him that some hidden part of herself understood and responded to his plea. As the long hours wore on, though, his faith in that tenuous connection began to falter. Perhaps the bond was only his imagination. Perhaps she had traveled too far into the realm of death, and could not come back, no matter how earnestly she was called. If that were true, he had a wild yearning -- he knew it was irrational -- to go with her, so her soul would not be traveling alone across the bridge from which there was no returning.

When his voice grew hoarse, he simply waited beside her, sometimes wiping her pallid face and hands, sometimes praying silently to every deity he'd ever heard of or read about -- even the marble busts in the library.

'Let her live -- that's all I ask. You have the power to bring her back -- don't let her swoon into death. How can I persuade you -- how can I make you care? In the world beyond the wood, you watch with indifference as thousands upon thousands of fair women decline away, and strong men, and beautiful children. Families have been desolated when one word of power would have kept their dear ones here. Prove to me that you are worth worshipping, and I will worship you... or else cease to torment me with mocking promises that only shatter my life with grief.'

He sent up a silent plea to the woman of the portrait. 'How can I make you see how important she is -- this one courageous maiden? How essential. If any vestige of power still lingers around this castle, show it now.' But the portrait was lifeless, and the quiet form in the bed did not stir.

Cold gray dawn seeped through the window. In the faint light, Vincent could see that her slender hands still rested limply, folded like the wings of a fallen bird. The curve of her averted cheek was colorless. Loosened from her chignon, light brown curls drifted to her shoulders.

His face was gaunt with worry as he rose to dampen the reddened cloth in a basin of water. When he turned back, clear green eyes were staring at him. Unable to bear her gaze, he leaped into a corner of the chamber where the shadows were deepest.

Blackness engulfed her again. Vincent stood without moving or breathing, his palms pressed to the wall behind him. A moment later she uttered a faint moan, then reached out one hand and found the bedpost, as if wondering where she might be. She touched the wound that gashed her forehead.

Wincing, she whispered, "It hurts."

She was coming back. Back to life! Vincent stumbled against the table, spilling the basin of water.

The sound roused her to wakefulness and to fear. Her eyes turned toward him, and she said, with a gasp, "Who is there? I can't see you."

She had to know the truth. He took his life in his hands and stepped out of the shadows. Though he spoke very softly, his heart hurt him with every slamming beat. He said, "Please don't be afraid. No one will harm you. You are safe here." Something deep within him began to tremble with unspeakable joy. She was looking at him directly.

"Safe?" She didn't believe him, and stared around the chamber. "I don't know you. I don't know where I am."

"I am Vincent. Will you tell me your name?"

Choking, she managed to say, "Catherine."

Joy streamed through him like rays of light. Hers was the name woven into the melody of his lute-song. "Catherine."

Something in his gentle tone reassured her. "Light a lantern, kindle a fire, the night is terrible."

He didn't understand what she meant. "The fire burns brightly, and morning is here."

Maddened by terror, she drew away from him, her face a white mask of fear. Out of a despairing heart she cried aloud and gripped her head with both hands. Moan after moan of pure terror broke from her. "Then it is my eyes -- I cannot see!"

Grief exploded within him -- grief for her. Forgetting his own sorrows, Vincent approached the bed. "Let me help you."

She cowered back, and he halted, stricken.

"Don't come near me."

He couldn't bear to see the fear in her face. "I will not, unless you wish it. But if you could only trust me a little."

Panting, she said, "I know your voice."

"Do you?" he asked in wonder.

"I was going down into blackness and you called me back. I was sinking in a whirlpool of darkness and then I felt you calling me. You wouldn't let me go. It was like a rope thrown to someone drowning. I held on and you pulled me up." .

In his mind he uttered a prayer of gratitude to every deity who might ever have existed. He sat down beside the bed, speaking very gently. "Then you know that I mean you no harm."

She whispered, "Are you a prisoner, too?"

Puzzled, he answered, "In a way ... "

She gripped his shirt, pulled herself close, and hid her face against his chest. "Hide me, don't let him seize me until I'm well and strong again, and can defend myself. Don't let me die a helpless victim!"

Stunned and shaken, he could only repeat, "Victim?"

"The beast!" she said, panting. "I took my father's place, and rode away from the village by night. In my belt there is a dagger, for the monster's black heart. Hide me from his hunger, and we may both escape this accursed den. But how can I ever escape? I am blind!"

Vincent swallowed a sob. "The beast will not harm you -- I swear it, on my own life. If you can find it in your heart to trust me a little, I will prepare a poultice for your eyes. A cloth soaked in healing herbs." Very cautiously he reached his arms around her back, soothing her fears with a gentle touch.

Tremors of fear trembled through her slender form; he felt every one in his own body. His encircling arms steadied her as she fought to regain her self-command. Her hands twisted convulsively in his shirt. Pride prevented her from shrieking out, but every strangled whimper lacerated his soul.

Into her soft hair he whispered, "It's dreadful, I know, but no harm will come to you -- I'll see to that."

As before, she held on to his voice like a lifeline. Gradually she regained her self-control, and her shudders eased. "I am forced to trust you, Vincent," she said at last, and attempted to smile bravely. With a tremendous effort of will, she released her grip on his shirt and tried to sit up straight. "We are both in his power, but together we will defeat the creature."

He rose, opened a cabinet, and tried to read the faded markings on a handful of vials. Tears blurred his sight. With his back turned, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and said very quietly, "He is already defeated."