56. Arnica

56. Arnica

The North Passage ran out of the palace in a clear, straight line. In its center was Black Tower. At its far end was Yellow Tower. Close to its near end was Grey. You just had to keep going past Grey, and you were set.

Arnica passed out of her knowledge very quickly. The ground kept shaking, which made her the more anxious to go, and anyway, having left Grey, she wanted to make a good job of it. After Varlan's Arch, she was in unfamiliar territory: a wilderness of granite walls and caved-in roofs, and snow. So much snow. Who knew how far outside the palace winter might extend? Hopefully not very far.

Arnica's pack was light. She knew enough about plants to survive outside, assuming she ran across any. Her observations of the mountains had shown her flushes of green in spring and summer: something grew out there. And if there were few plants, Arnica would break yet another rule and eat meat. So that was all right. She was old, and she had little life left in her, but South take her if she'd spend one more night of that life inside the walls, no matter what may come.

Then there it was: the fabled North Gate with its towers. Its corbel arch was still strong, but the thick curtain walls on either side were crumbling, the towers half-fallen. The gates themselves were rotten. It had had guards once, according to stories. Now there was nobody.

She paused on the threshold. The Passage ended there, its pavement cut off as if trimmed by a knife. Grass began. Did she really want—

Of course she did.

Arnica knelt on the stone threshold, cracked diagonally across like an old bone, its wounds filled with moss. She touched the stone with a closed hand. A moment later she opened her fingers as if leaving something behind and stood.

The old woman stepped out of the palace. Though icicles draped the outer walls, the morning air was clear and crisp. It was spring, or thereabouts. A long sigh started at her feet and ran up through her whole body, and for a moment she knelt on the sun-warmed grass, her hands wet with dew.

Then she resumed walking.

The ground was level and green, dotted here and there with flowers of many colors. Blue anemones, yellow dandelions, red carnations, and others. She knew them all, and felt a pleasure in knowing. When the meadow tilted up, she had to pick her way on bare brown earth among spicy cedars and outcroppings of granite. Here and there were the marks of tools, weathered and faded—had the stone for the cloisters come from these hills, long ago?

But the old woman was done thinking about that. After the hill was a valley, then another hill, much higher. At its top she halted. She had been walking for hours, and her aching legs needed a rest.

As she rested, there was a horrific rumble. The ground all around her shook and the trees bent as if in a strong wind. She turned.

Over the palace, where the smoke of disaster rose, a tree was opening like a great green flower. Something had happened. The first new thing in centuries.

She found herself laughing for joy and surprise. A new thing in the palace. A new thing, and just when she was leaving. Almost she started back.

But no. As the palace did, it would absorb this new thing, make it a part of itself, make everyone forget it had ever been otherwise. Nothing would really change. The story would go on the same, just with altered scenery. She did not know, of course, about Yarrow's return.

Refreshed by the sight, the old woman resumed walking. Down into another valley she went, and up another hill, and beyond it the earth kept rising more and falling less, until it crested in far blue mountains; and a warm wind moved among the flowers.