Ch. 236 Two years

Chapter 236: Two Years

The twins woke before the birthday bells.

This did not surprise anyone.

What surprised me was the silence.

I opened my eyes because the nursery was too quiet.

Evelyn was already awake beside me.

“Do you hear anything?” I whispered.

“No.”

We looked at each other.

Then got out of bed at the same time.

Carol and Garrick were sitting between their new beds.

The beds had begun the night on opposite sides of the room.

They were now touching.

Neither child appeared willing to explain how that had happened.

Between them stood a tower made from wooden blocks, two cups, the cloth horse, and one of my boots.

A thin layer of frost covered the top block.

A flower grew from the cup beneath it.

The cloth horse stood on a little ridge of stone.

Garrick pointed at the tower.

“House.”

Carol corrected him.

“Castle.”

I looked at Evelyn.

She looked at the boot.

“How did they get that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You were wearing it yesterday.”

“That does make the mystery more serious.”

Carol placed both hands on the floor.

The little ridge of stone began to rise.

“Name first,” Evelyn said.

Our daughter stopped.

“Carol.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Make room.”

“For the horse?”

Carol nodded.

“Ask your brother.”

She turned.

“Garrick?”

He considered the horse.

Then moved his cup away.

“Room.”

Carol raised the stone only far enough to widen the ridge.

The horse remained upright.

Nothing else moved.

Evelyn knelt beside them.

“Good.”

I crouched to examine the tower.

“May I have my boot?”

“No,” Garrick said.

It was an unusually clear answer.

Breakfast had been moved to the smaller hall.

Mary claimed this was because the larger hall was being prepared.

Melody claimed it was because the larger hall had already been prepared, then partially unprepared by a disagreement involving banners.

Neither would explain further.

The twins entered holding hands.

That lasted until Carol saw the colored cloth hanging above the windows.

She released her brother and ran toward it.

Garrick continued two more steps before discovering he was alone.

Then he shouted her name.

“Carol!”

She stopped.

Turned.

And came back for him.

Rysa, watching from beside the hearth, smiled.

Nobody wrote anything down.

I noticed Mary’s hand move toward her book anyway.

She caught herself.

Garrick Valewood stood when the children approached.

Their grandfather had carved two small stools for them.

He had also built the beds.

And repaired the nursery chest.

And adjusted the legs of the little table after Evelyn mentioned that Carol had grown again.

Helena looked at him.

“You understand that presents may come from other people.”

“I have been told.”

“Repeatedly.”

He set the stools beside one another.

Each had a different mark carved into the seat.

A horse for Carol.

A boat for Garrick.

Our son touched the boat.

Then looked up at his grandfather.

“Mine?”

“Yes.”

Garrick climbed onto the stool.

The matter was settled.

Helena gave them little wool coats.

Carol’s was green.

Garrick’s was blue.

Both had deep pockets.

Evelyn examined the stitching.

“These are beautiful.”

“The pockets are reinforced,” Helena said.

I looked at her.

“Why?”

She looked at our children.

Carol had already placed a wooden block in hers.

Garrick attempted to put his cup in the other.

“Experience.”

I nodded.

It remained formidable.

Aurelia arrived carrying the cloth book.

It had become thicker.

New pages had been sewn into the binding.

There was the house.

The door.

The tree with removable leaves.

Now there was also a castle with a little grey wall.

Behind it, Aurelia had added a city.

The buildings could be folded upward.

Tiny figures stood in the streets.

Some carried baskets.

Some held tools.

One wore a crown so small that I nearly missed it.

I looked at Aurelia.

“You added me.”

“I added a king.”

“He appears to be carrying turnips.”

“He lives in a city.”

Carol took the book from her.

The king vanished into her pocket.

Rysa’s gifts were two soft figures made from wool and cloth.

They had simple faces.

No crown.

No divine mark.

No indication of what they were supposed to become.

“This one needs a name,” she told Carol.

Our daughter held the figure close.

“Blue.”

It was yellow.

Rysa nodded.

“Blue.”

Garrick named his figure Spoon.

I thought this showed a certain consistency.

Rysa sat with them on the floor while they introduced Blue and Spoon to the cloth city.

The tiny king remained in Carol’s pocket.

Government continued without him.

More people arrived throughout the morning.

Not all at once.

That had been Rysa’s suggestion.

A room full of gods, soldiers, builders, healers, priests, grandparents, and one determined recorder might have been too much for any two-year-old.

Even unusually powerful ones.

Eliza came first.

She brought two wooden shields no larger than plates.

They bore no crest.

“Their choice later,” she said when I noticed.

Melody arrived behind her carrying two padded practice sticks.

Evelyn folded her arms.

“No.”

“They’re cloth.”

“No.”

“They can barely bruise anyone.”

“No.”

Melody handed them to me.

“For when their mother isn’t looking.”

Evelyn was still looking.

I put them on a high shelf.

Eleanor brought a box.

Perrin carried the other end, though the box did not appear heavy enough to require two people.

Inside were pieces of polished wood cut into arches, pillars, bridges, and walls.

“They fit together,” Perrin explained.

He demonstrated three possible joints.

Then a fourth.

Then began explaining why one should not be used above shoulder height.

Carol took two pieces and fitted them together differently.

Perrin stopped.

Eleanor examined the result.

“That works.”

Perrin turned it over.

“It shouldn’t.”

“It does.”

He looked delighted.

Damar brought six stone blocks.

They appeared heavy.

When I lifted one, it weighed less than the wooden pieces.

“Hollow?” I asked.

“Not exactly.”

He tapped the side.

The block gave a clear note.

“I asked the mountain for stone that remembered strength without insisting upon weight.”

“That sounds useful.”

“It took three attempts.”

“What happened to the first two?”

“One was still heavy.”

“And the other?”

Damar looked toward the courtyard.

“Eleanor is using it as an anvil.”

Carol placed one of the stone blocks on her head.

We removed it.

Talven’s contribution was easier to understand.

Dried pears.

Small cakes.

Two jars of berry preserve.

He had also brought a narrow wooden box divided into little spaces.

“This is for choosing,” he said.

The compartments held different foods.

A piece of bread.

A dried apple.

A seed cake.

A bit of cheese.

A berry.

The twins were allowed to choose one at a time.

Garrick selected the cheese.

Carol took the berry.

Then both reached for the seed cake.

They looked at one another.

I prepared to intervene.

Carol broke it.

The pieces were not equal.

Garrick took the smaller one.

She looked at his piece.

Then traded.

Evelyn leaned against me.

“Did you see that?”

“Yes.”

Mary’s hand moved toward her book again.

This time, Rysa gently placed a cup in it.

Mary accepted the cup.

Kesra came with a dog.

Not as a gift.

She made that clear before the animal entered the room.

The dog was old.

Brown around the muzzle.

Slow in the legs.

He had spent years sleeping near kitchen fires and following children who dropped food.

His name was Moss.

“Moss chooses where he stays,” Kesra said. “You may ask him to visit. You may not climb on him.”

Carol approached first.

She stopped an arm’s length away.

“Carol.”

Moss lifted his head.

“Touch?”

His tail moved once.

Kesra nodded.

Carol held out her hand.

Moss smelled it.

Then pressed his nose against her fingers.

Garrick watched.

“Spoon,” he said.

Rysa covered her mouth.

By midday, the hall had become warm and noisy.

The gods who had arrived most recently remained near the edges.

Some had never attended a mortal child’s birthday.

One had apparently never attended any birthday.

He watched Helena light the two little candles on the cake with open suspicion.

“What are those for?” he asked me.

“They blow them out.”

“Why?”

“It marks the years.”

“By extinguishing fire?”

“When you say it that way, it sounds less cheerful.”

Thor would have approved.

The cake had become the subject of several negotiations.

Beatrice had wanted honey.

Talven suggested preserved plums.

Helena preferred apples.

Aurelia said the children liked berries.

Damar had wisely offered no opinion.

The final cake contained honey, apples, plums, and berries.

It leaned slightly to one side.

Melody called it a triumph of coalition government.

Mary asked whether that should go in the official account.

“No,” everyone said.

She wrote something anyway.

We seated the twins at the lowered table.

Their new stools placed them at exactly the right height.

This pleased Garrick Valewood more than anything else that had happened.

Evelyn sat between the children.

I stood behind them.

The room quieted.

Two candles burned.

Carol stared at the flames.

The edges turned blue.

Garrick’s eyes brightened.

A breeze moved across the table though the windows were closed.

Both flames bent toward him.

A thin line of frost formed around the cake plate.

Somewhere beneath our feet, stone answered with a low hum.

The gods around the room became very still.

Rysa did not.

She crouched beside the table.

“Names first.”

The light in Carol’s eyes faded slightly.

“Carol.”

“Garrick.”

“What do you want?”

Carol pointed.

“Fire dance.”

Garrick considered.

“Wind.”

“Only the candles?”

They nodded.

“Then only the candles.”

Carol made the flames rise.

Not far.

Only a finger’s breadth.

Garrick sent a small breath of air around them.

The flames turned together.

Gold.

Blue.

Gold again.

For a few seconds, they circled one another without going out.

It was beautiful.

I felt Aurelia’s compassion in the gentleness of the light.

Thor’s lightning in the little blue edges.

My storm in the turning air.

Damar’s steadiness in the table beneath it.

Talven’s abundance in the cake.

Kesra’s companionship in the old dog resting nearby.

Other shapes were there too.

Some I knew.

Some I did not.

The children had carried all of them into one small working.

Then Carol looked at her brother.

“Stop?”

Garrick nodded.

They let the power go.

The flames became ordinary.

Everyone breathed again.

I wanted to praise the light.

The control.

The number of domains they had held without strain.

I remembered Rysa’s warning.

I bent down between them.

“You stopped when you chose to.”

Carol smiled.

Garrick clapped.

“That was very good,” Evelyn said.

Then she pointed at the cake.

“Now blow.”

They did.

Garrick produced enough wind to extinguish both candles and scatter powdered sugar across my shirt.

The hall erupted in laughter.

I decided ordinary breath could be taught next year.

The twins received small pieces.

Carol put one hand directly into hers.

Some traditions survived godhood.

Garrick used his spoon with great seriousness for three bites.

Then abandoned it.

Moss sat beside the table.

Kesra had warned him not to beg.

He did not beg.

He merely occupied the place where fallen cake was most likely to occur.

His understanding of probability was excellent.

Carol dropped a berry.

Moss caught it.

She stared.

Then deliberately dropped another.

Kesra cleared her throat.

Carol ate the third berry herself.

After the cake, we opened the doors to the courtyard.

The day was cold but clear.

The twins wore their new coats.

Carol filled both pockets with blocks.

Garrick placed Spoon in one pocket and a piece of cake in the other.

Helena discovered the cake.

He objected to its removal.

Outside, people from the city had gathered along the inner wall.

Not for a formal appearance.

We had refused that.

They had come because the children were two, and because the castle doors were open, and because birthdays had a habit of becoming public whether kings intended them to or not.

Someone began singing.

Others joined.

The song had no mention of divinity.

No prophecy.

No crown.

It concerned growing taller, losing mittens, and refusing to sleep.

I approved of it immediately.

Carol stood on the low step.

She looked at the people.

Then back at us.

“Many.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Home?”

The question could have meant the castle.

The city.

The people.

Perhaps all three.

“Our home,” Evelyn told her.

Carol considered that.

Then waved.

The crowd waved back.

A dozen little lights appeared above them.

They came from the people, not the twins.

Lantern charms.

Household workings.

Bits of harmless color sent into the air.

Garrick reached toward them.

I felt his power stir.

He stopped himself.

“Ask?”

“Yes,” I said. “You may ask.”

He lifted both hands.

“More?”

The courtyard filled with light.

The twins did not take the working from anyone.

They answered it.

Carol sent a thread of golden brightness through the little lanterns.

Garrick carried them higher on a mild wind.

The lights gathered above the courtyard in the shape of no symbol I recognized.

They were simply lights.

Many colors.

Moving together.

Rysa stood beside me.

“This is better,” she said.

“Than what?”

“Than everyone watching only what they might become.”

I looked at Carol laughing beneath the lights.

Garrick had begun turning in a circle with both arms raised.

He became dizzy after the fourth turn and sat down abruptly.

“Yes,” I said.

“It is.”

They slept in the afternoon.

Both of them.

At the same time.

This was the rarest miracle performed that day.

The new beds remained together.

Carol slept with Blue beneath one arm.

Garrick held Spoon by the leg.

Moss had followed them upstairs and lay outside the nursery door.

Kesra sat against the passage wall beside him.

“You don’t have to guard them,” I said.

“I know.”

“Then why are you here?”

She scratched behind Moss’s ear.

“He does.”

I accepted that.

Evelyn and I stood over the beds.

Two years.

The phrase felt both too small and impossible.

I remembered carrying them through rooms that no longer existed as they had then.

The first nights.

The fevers.

The fear that one of them would stop breathing if I slept.

Their first steps.

Their first words.

The first time power had moved because they wanted it to.

Now they lay in beds their grandfather had built, surrounded by gifts from gods who had come to our home for safety.

Evelyn slipped her hand into mine.

“They look older,” I said.

“They are older.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes.”

Their growth had slowed.

It had not become entirely ordinary.

Carol’s face had lost some of its baby softness.

Garrick’s legs already seemed too long for a child who had only just turned two.

But they were sleeping with cloth figures named Blue and Spoon.

That mattered more.

“Are you frightened?” Evelyn asked.

“Yes.”

She leaned against my shoulder.

“Me too.”

I looked at the twins.

“Rysa says we shouldn’t raise the possibility instead of the children.”

“She’s right.”

“I know.”

“That doesn’t make it easy.”

“No.”

Evelyn was quiet for a moment.

“Today helped.”

“The cake?”

“The way everyone listened when they stopped.”

I thought about that.

Nobody had applauded the power.

Not until the children released it.

Then the room had praised their choice.

“Today helped,” I agreed.

The adults gathered again before supper.

The children remained asleep.

Mary brought four boxes into the council chamber.

Greyhaven.

Havenreach.

Stonecross.

Our Place.

Each name had been written on a wooden card.

The final city vote would begin the following morning and remain open for three days.

Citizens could place a marked token into one box.

Those unable to come to the castle would vote at the market hall or the southern construction office.

The Castellan had created identical sealed containers.

Mary had created procedures for opening them.

Eliza had created procedures for guarding them.

Melody had created a wager.

Mary had forbidden the wager.

This had not stopped it.

I picked up the card marked Our Place.

The name had begun on a child’s drawing.

A house.

Several figures.

Two suns.

One dog larger than the castle.

Mary watched me.

“You are not allowed to endorse a name once voting begins.”

“I wasn’t endorsing it.”

“You were looking at it sentimentally.”

“Is that prohibited?”

“It may influence nearby voters.”

Melody moved closer.

I put the card down.

“There. The election is safe.”

“It was never safe,” Melody said. “Stonecross is going to lose.”

Mary pointed toward the door.

Melody left before she could be formally removed.

Aurelia remained after the others went to supper.

She stood beside the four boxes.

“Hearthvale did not survive,” she said.

“No.”

“I liked it.”

“So did I.”

“Did you vote for it?”

“I am not telling you.”

“You are the king.”

“I have been informed that this makes my opinion more dangerous.”

Aurelia smiled.

Through the ceiling came a faint thump.

Then another.

We both looked up.

“The miracle has ended,” I said.

We found the twins awake.

They had left their beds.

The wooden building pieces covered the nursery floor.

Stone blocks formed a low wall around them.

The cloth city book lay open in the middle.

Carol had placed the little turnip-carrying king outside the castle.

Garrick was building a bridge.

It led from one bed to the other.

Evelyn stood in the doorway with her arms folded.

“Did either of you move the beds this morning?”

“No,” I said.

“Aurelia?”

“No.”

We looked at the children.

Garrick set another piece into the bridge.

“Together,” he explained.

Carol nodded.

“Together.”

I sat on the floor.

“May I help?”

They considered the request.

Carol gave me a block.

Garrick pointed to the far end of the bridge.

I placed it where he indicated.

Aurelia joined us.

Then Evelyn.

The structure spread across the rug.

It possessed too many towers.

Three bridges that led nowhere.

A wall with a deliberate hole because Moss needed a door.

When Helena called us to supper, none of us moved immediately.

The city could wait until morning to receive its name.

The pantheon could wait for another charter.

Othellos could wait beyond whatever court he still believed belonged to him.

For a little while, there was only the nursery floor.

Two children.

Three adults.

And the home we built between us.