19. They Take a Ferry and Yarrow Does a Favor for the Lady

19. They Take a Ferry and Yarrow Does a Favor for the Lady

"I can't go," said Yarrow. "Grey Tower is depending on me. I can't ."

She dug her heels into the grass, but only left two brown trenches as Sardonyx pushed her to the ferry. Peregrine, meanwhile, lashed Tertius to one of the willows with the ladder.

"She's called," Sardonyx said, and gritted his teeth as Yarrow's feet hit a root and she had to be lifted over it.

Yarrow was well aware that the Lady had called. The noise of it still vibrated in her bones. They ached with a sick, feverish ache, and that was all that kept her from struggling with any strength. She would throw up again if she went out on the hot, stinking water. If she touched the tower, she would vomit until her intestines unspooled from her mouth. If the Lady spoke again, Yarrow would beg to be killed just to unhear that voice. O, for the empty Bedchamber!

Sardonyx dragged her down the short marble quay and, when her legs would not let her into the ferry, tore a strip from his robe to lash her feet together. Peregrine arrived, and though he too was weak and shaking, between the two of them Yarrow was lowered into the boat and set up against its high carved stern, propped like a rolled-up rug.

"Why is this happening?" said Yarrow. Her teeth were chattering. Ants seemed to be crawling under her skin. Tears flowed from her eyes and snot dribbled from her nose. It tickled, and she wanted to wipe it, but her hand wouldn't quite obey her. The taste of bile burned in her mouth. And in the back of her mind, over and over, she saw Tertius casually crushing the ape. "Why does it feel like this? What's wrong with the tower?"

"I told you, little Mother," said Peregrine. "The Lady's dreams."

Sardonyx, in the middle of shoving off from the quay, shook his head. "Not quite."

With a long black pole, he punted the ferry out onto the lake. The rotten odor was stronger, but there was more of a breeze. Yarrow could breathe a little easier, though only in time to the pulsing air. Yellow Tower still left no reflection in the water; against the sky, the wheeling white birds were dark.

"It was never safe to approach the Ladies in the old days," Sardonyx said. Then, as if remembering this was a sacred story, he tuned his voice to a singsong register and said, "When the petals of the Rose Era were not yet fallen—"

In the midst of everything, that formula was some small comfort. Children's stories began that way in Grey House. Yarrow heard the women speaking it as they boiled laundry or told, in their perfunctory, elliptical way, the beginnings of Grey Tower.

"Are you listening?" said Sardonyx sternly.

"Yes," said Yarrow. The lake was very calm, but even so, the boat's motion did her stomach no favors, and she put her hand over her mouth.

"When the petals of the Rose Era were not yet fallen, every Lady of every tower was a luminous being. All loved them, and they loved all, with a love so strong and incandescent that it burned those who approached. The Ladies are the lights of the palace, and its hearts."

Sardonyx's voice slipped into his normal register. "I don't remember all the lore. It goes on for quite a while. But of the five Ladies, the originals, four are gone. Dead or departed, it doesn't matter. Only Citrine the Golden, she of Yellow Tower, is left from those days. And she wasn't always like this."

They were nearly halfway across the lake. The drone had not grown louder, but it was steadier, and Yarrow found herself thinking of sleep and rest . Her hand, she discovered, was trailing in the lukewarm water. How nice it would be to slip over the side and rest in that warmth. The dark green water would close over her head. The swaying lakeweed would be the softest of beds. She'd never hear the birds again, never be disturbed by the bilious sun or troubled by the choleric moon. To forget the North and the South, to let her vast body slip the shackles of East and West—

A hand shook her, and Yarrow blinked. She was leaning over the side, with her face practically in the water. Peregrine's hand tightened on her shoulder and he pulled her back to rest against the stern.

" Her holiness has curdled," said Sardonyx. "The valley has been full of it for centuries, like a pan of sour milk. She's been this way since Thistle for certain, possibly since Bellflower—maybe even since Lily, if anyone can tell a true story from that far back. The other Ladies have gone, but she continues, and it gets worse and worse. By now most people have moved to Red or Black, I think. Those of us who know our duty to her remain, and we are few."

"What went wrong?" said Yarrow.

"The Night of Bones, my predecessor told me. But our Mistress of the Library says it was the comet at the end of Lily, as recorded on the starry ceiling of her reading room. And the Father of the Cellars says it was the earthquake midway through Bellflower that did it. Some disaster shook the tower, and her great foot slipped, maybe, or in her fear she acted rashly. However it happened, she killed her minstrel."

"And?" said Yarrow. The ferry bumped against a pillar of the tower's portal.

"He had no apprentice yet, so his music was forgotten. After that she could not sleep," said the Keeper, making the ferry fast against the worn stone steps. "She has not slept in ages and ages. And it has driven her mad."

The droning was less on the short dock under the corbel arch. Yarrow could stand and walk, though her stomach and head felt full of tadpoles. The portal opened onto a blank, bone-colored wall. A passage ran away to the right, dimly illuminated by globes of some warm, flameless light. The walls and floor sweated. Yarrow turned on the threshold. Sardonyx was already casting off.

"Don't keep her waiting," he said, poling the boat so fast he was rapidly going out of earshot. "Get it over with as soon as possible."

Peregrine grinned mirthlessly at her. "The Lady banned loud voices in the valley centuries ago," he said. "She punishes anyone who disturbs her repose, whether it was intentional or not."

"Has anyone ever done it intentionally?"

"It's one way out of the valley."

Yarrow repeated the Litany of Roots under her breath, getting up to mandrake before her legs steadied enough for her to walk. She went into the passage.

The sunlight was swallowed up instantly, leaving only the gold light from the globes. The passage hit the corner of the tower and turned sharply left. Its walls went up to dizzying heights, perhaps all the way to the roof, which was lost in darkness.

A footstep sounded behind her. Yarrow jerked in shock. The Lady—? No. Peregrine had followed her. She almost told him to go back, but to go on alone… impossible. And this way, if she gave out, someone could, well, could make sure the Lady's will was done.

As they walked, the air became warmer and the dampness thicker and stickier. Their feet squelched in it, and it stretched in gooey bridges from sole to floor with their steps. The passage turned again. Clear jelly now coated the walls and floor and wrapped around the globes, dimming them. There was a dark blot against the bright circle of the nearest globe, and Yarrow paused to investigate it.

A tiny, coiled figure floated in the jelly. Like a little woman, it wore a simple dress with a stiff, bell-shaped skirt. Instead of a head, a horn or talon grew between its shoulders. A thin brown vein connected its abdomen with the globe.

"It's an embryo," said Yarrow.

They moved on. All the globes now had a small woman within them, and as they went farther, the lights were dimmer and the embryos larger. Their horns began to have little divots, and the dresses sprouted the beginnings of lace and ruching. At last they came to a turn beyond which all was darkness, and the last globe was wavering. Yarrow leaned toward it.

The embryo before her was roughly the size of a chicken and far more developed than the others. There was lace and embroidery on its gown, and its little hands were perfectly formed. It even moved a little, stirring as if in uneasy dreams. As Yarrow's face came near it, her breath shivered on the surface of the jelly, and the divots in the horn opened, revealing dozens of miniscule eyes. All of them rotated to look at her.

Yarrow jumped back and slipped. Peregrine had to catch her, and while they grappled, trying not to fall into the slime, the egg sac burst and the baby fell to the ground. They froze. The baby squeaked and struggled in the slime.

"I have to help it," said Yarrow. There were no birthing songs for Ladies of Yellow Tower—when she'd asked Old Yarrow why, she was brushed off, and now she knew the reason. The Lady of Yellow Tower had never needed help giving birth. So Yarrow sang, in a low but melodious voice, the song for Ladies of Grey Tower, and helped the baby stand up and scrape off the worst of the slime from its delicate, pretty dress.

The baby shook itself and, on unsteady legs, curtsied most beautifully to Yarrow, then to Peregrine. It toddled off through the slime and, before they could lose it in the darkness, they followed. It turned the corner and led them down the shadowy passage. Little lights pulsed under its skin and within its eyes: not enough for Yarrow and Peregrine to see by, but enough to lead them. It was picking up speed.

The first time it rounded a corner, Yarrow nearly screamed again and stopped walking, for the lights seemed to wink out. What if something had happened to it? But a moment later they appeared again: the baby was beckoning to them. The second time it happened, Yarrow was prepared, and they did not stop. The third time, a faint light was growing and the baby was visible against it. They were getting close to the Lady.

After the turn, before either of them was prepared, they stumbled over a low sill in the floor and fell into the warm heart of Yellow Tower: a high, wide space filling the entire triangular center of the building.

The baby trotted ahead, past mountains of bright jellied globes, toward a blank wall of dim yellow. It was laughing. The laugh was so infectious that Yarrow smiled, but her smile died in the making as the wall shifted. It was in fact no wall. She was looking at the skirts of the Lady.

Yarrow had thought the fresco was symbolic. Perhaps exaggerated, at worst. But no.

A hand bigger than the great hall of Grey House lowered from the heights. It gleamed like polished ivory, its portcullis-sized nails shining and perfect. The baby scrambled up its side, using the ridges of its fingerprints as handholds. As the hand lifted back up, the baby waved to them, as small in proportion to the hand as a grain of sand to Yarrow's own.

The hand went up and up, past acres of yellow silk fringed with forests of lace. The Lady appeared to be sitting with her knees drawn up to her chin, if Yarrow was seeing correctly—if anything so small could perceive anything so huge. Past the knees were ropes of pearls, each as big as a house, resting on landscapes of embroidery broken by ranges of ruffles. Then the collar began.

While she wore a green lace collar like her image in the Last Schoolhouse, it was not neat and symmetrical. It seemed to grow from her skin like ivy, and had woven its way into the very fabric of the tower. There was enough slack for her to move her head and shoulders about—if she chose, she could stoop down to the floor—but she could not leave the tower without tearing it. Every fine strand of the lace shone with unsteady fungal light, and interspersed along them were huge wet eyes. Some of these eyes were pressed to openings in the walls. Others were shut. Others rolled here and there. It was only a matter of time before she would see Yarrow and Peregrine.

From this nimbus of watchful green, the Lady's head loomed. It was birdlike, covered with feathers that were each bigger than the ferry. There were two eyes in the head as well, but gold rather than luminous green, and they reflected the others as a myriad of starry pinpricks. The beak was as big as the hands, and gleamed like polished copper. It opened as the hand came nearer, showing slick pink insides, and the bright speck of the baby vanished within it.

Yarrow let out a gasp. It echoed up the core of the tower, and the piles of eggs shuddered as the Lady's bulk shifted. Her three hands were upraised, one to the ceiling, one to each wall beside her, and every eye turned to Yarrow.

It's you, said the Lady. Welcome, sister. I love you. It has been ages.

Yarrow curtsied. "You're very kind," she said. "But I'm no sister of the Ladies."

Then you and your noise are subject to punishment, said the Lady. It is my law.

One great hand drifted down toward them, thumb and forefinger outstretched to pluck them from the floor.

"May I ask a question first?" said Yarrow quickly. "In memory of the Grey Sister."

The hand slowed and stopped just above her head. The Lady's own head rotated and pointed down, and she bent over them. One hand came down on a pile of eggs, extinguishing them and releasing a smell like moldy bread. The other came down near a second pile, shaking the eggs out of their pyramid and into a shapeless blob of lights. The third came down beyond Yarrow and Peregrine. The beak and golden eyes were above them. If they squinted, they could see their reflections in the Lady's eye, as if she held them in her mind.

You know the way to my heart, said the Lady. Are you certain you are not my sister? There were six sisters to cross the river .

"Quite sure," said Yarrow. How was the Lady speaking? Her beak did not move. There was no voice to be heard. She simply communicated.

Then in her memory I will answer, said the Lady. And to her memory I will dedicate the savor of your flesh.

"Why has winter fallen on Grey Tower?" Peregrine's hand gripped her arm, whether in fear or warning she did not know.

"Ahh," sighed the Lady. It was the first sound she had made, proper, real sound with the breath of her body, and the gale of it nearly bowled Yarrow and Peregrine over. All around the tower, she blinked her golden eyes.

"Please," said Yarrow. "I must know. And I need to know if those still there can undo whatever they've done to be punished."

The Beast, said the Lady. Winter falls; the Beast rises. It is the way of things.

"What beast?" said Yarrow.

The Beast, said the Lady. Soon she will break the surface and go down the West Passage, devouring as she moves, and the guardian of the West Passage will stop her, and all will be as it was before. It is the way of things. Why, sister, epitaph-bearer, do you not know this?

"I'm not your sister," said Yarrow. Peregrine's hand tightened briefly, as if to say Pretend to be, it's your only way out . But Yarrow could not lie to a Lady.

If you were ten times my sister, I would yet devour you. Oh, I am so tired. A bite before bed. Perhaps they will bring me a sip of milk, too. Be still. You are honored. The pain you will feel in my mouth is a sacrament. It is love. None of my true sisters felt that love. Let me punish you. Let me love you. Let me love you for disturbing me.

A hand stretched above them again, as if the ceiling of the great hall meant to grasp them. Peregrine was crying. Yarrow was not. She knew death too well to fear it. But she would not die without trying again.

"You're tired," said Yarrow. "Don't you want to sleep?"

The hand hesitated.

How can you help me sleep? said the Lady. You are nothing except loved and desired. If the stars cannot sing me to sleep, how can you?

Yarrow was gambling, and the risk made her head swim, but she answered. "There is a lullaby. We sang it to your sister. I can sing it for you."

"Lullaby?" said Peregrine.

Lullaby, said the Lady. (The hand relaxed and sagged to the floor.) She sang that to me once. My proper song. I can't sleep without it. Help me sleep and I won't punish you.

Proper song chilled Yarrow. The Lullaby of Reeds might be specific to Grey Tower. It might not work here. Or perhaps it wouldn't have long ago, but now, with a Lady mad from fatigue, it might. Regardless, she had nothing to lose by trying.

"I'll do it," said Yarrow. "If you let me and him go, I will sing for you."

I want to sleep, said the Lady fretfully. Help me sleep and I will give you the key to the wheel of the seasons. I will give you the crown of Yellow Tower and its orb. I will make you my true sister if you help me sleep. I want to sleep.

Her eyes filled with tears. One of them welled over and fell, splashing a pond's worth of hot salty water over Yarrow and Peregrine.

"I will," said Yarrow.

The Lady lowered her hand. Come closer to my face.

Swallowing her nerves, Yarrow stepped onto the hand. The yellow dress flowed past her, then the pearls and embroidery, then the head rising into place as the Lady resumed her position in the corner of the tower. The lace collar and its eyes settled into cobwebby shreds around her shoulders.

Sing, said the Lady.

There were words to the song that the old Yarrow had recited for her. Neither Yarrow had ever sung them. The words and music were not to be put together unless the song was performed for a Lady, which had not happened in Grey House since eras long gone. But it was a simple melody with simple words, not terribly hard to figure out.

Hush now, little girl

In the waving reeds

Mother's gone to fetch the moon

Father's gone to sow the stars

Sleep now, little girl

In the waving reeds

For the river sings

All the song you need

As she sang, the Lady's collar paled from green to yellow. The golden eyes closed, the heavy lids slipping like mudslides. The lullaby curled back on itself and repeated.

Hush now, little girl

The green eyes twisted shut and winked out. Bit by bit the collar turned white and withdrew its tendrils, sinking back into itself until it was a ruff of symmetrical rays around her mighty neck. The hand holding Yarrow sank back to the floor, and Yarrow climbed down it, still singing.

Sleep now, little girl

The Lady's body sagged. Freed from her restraints, she slumped toward her knees; then, with a sigh, rolled onto her side, crushing the remaining eggs. Yarrow and Peregrine leaped back as her limp arms fell like rafters, boom, boom, boom . Last of all her head hit the floor, ruffling its feathers with the wind of its impact. The beak struck the stones, and the whole tower trembled from its foundation to its crown.

Silence fell. Shafts of sunlight came in through the windows. The great sleeping form of the Lady lay curled up like one of her embryos. Her indrawn breath broke the silence. She did not exhale. Her chest expanded further and further. Yarrow and Peregrine stepped back.

Stitches like hawsers snapped in her bodice. Pearls tumbled and rolled like boulders, grinding the remains of the eggs into a yellow-brown paste. Still she kept inhaling. Yarrow and Peregrine ducked into the passage, peeping around its edge to see what came next.

At last her inhalation slowed and stopped. With another vast sigh, the Lady burst into ivory-colored birds. They whirled like a cyclone, filling the tower with the deafening rustle of their wings and the sharp sweetness of their voices. Some of them foraged among the squashed eggs for a moment, but most wheeled up, up through calm beams of sunlight and out the windows, and in another moment they were gone.

The empty dress of the Lady was left in hills and valleys of yellow silk, spotted white with bird shit. Nothing remained of her body except the beak, sharp and glistening on the sticky floor. And that was the end of the Lady of Yellow Tower.