"Don't worry, Mauritane. I'll keep all of my most heinous acts to myself."
"No," said Mauritane. "You'll tell me everything. I want to know exactly what it is that I need to be forgiven for."
"And Paet. What's your opinion of him?"
"We've crossed paths once or twice over the past year. From aught that I can tell, he's a good man, if a bit strange. But I wouldn't trust him, either."
Silverdun left the Barrack feeling deeply uneasy. He watched the pretty Fae stroll up and down the Promenade, shading their eyes from the sun under parasols. Luxury.
He'd never felt as though he was truly a member of Seelie society; he'd always existed on the edge. He could frolic and strut with the best of them, but something about it had always seemed hollow. There was a hole in him that had never been filled.
And now he was about to become part of something that would only set him apart further. But would it fill that hole, or only widen it? No way of knowing.
He squared his shoulders and stepped into the sunlight, merging perfectly with the perambulations of Seelie life.
Everess wanted to use him. The Arcadians wanted to use him. Mauritane wanted to use him. Even the queen herself had her own hooks in.
For a failed monk, Silverdun was beginning to feel extremely popular.
Sailors call the Inland Sea the One True Queen, and when a man joins the crew of a ship on that sea, he takes part in a secret ceremony in which he renounces his allegiance to his native land and swears to pay fealty only to the waves. It's said that a sailor who refuses the oath is certain to drown and fall into the abyss, to float downward into eternity.
Stil-Eret,''At Sail on the Inland Sea;' from Travels at Home and Abroad
small ship struggled across the surface of the Inland Sea, tacking toward the island of Whitemount. In the sky, formless masses of late-autumn clouds moved in pompous procession, now blocking, now revealing the sun.
Silverdun stood in the bow, gripping the railing and trying to remain steady on his feet. He tried to recall the little cantrip he'd learned in prison to subdue nausea; it was a useful thing to know there, given the quality of the food. The syllables faltered on his tongue-best not to say it rather than foul it up, as it would no doubt make the feeling worse.
The ship was called Splintered Driftwood. All ships of the Inland Sea were so named, the captain had told Silverdun, laughing. In the harbor Silverdun had seen a three-master dubbed This Way to Drowning. Gallows humor, he supposed. Hilarious.
There were five crewmen on the ship, not including the captain; they went through their duties without speaking, ignoring Silverdun completely. When a swell came and tilted the deck up to a sincerely alarming angle, the quiet sailors paid it no notice whatsoever.
He gripped the rail tighter.
The railing was of smooth, polished wood, furbished to a rich luster, secured by gleaming brass fixtures. Silverdun clung to it as though it were the only steady thing in the universe. The harder he clutched, however, the more he felt the rolling gait of the ship beneath him. And if Silverdun looked too long at it, the bile began to stir in him again. He followed the advice he'd been given and fixed his gaze on the island toward which they were headed. It helped a little.
"Enjoying your voyage immensely, I can see," came a smooth voice behind him. Captain Than strolled toward Silverdun, having no trouble crossing the rolling deck. He was of middle age, though it was difficult to tell just how old. As young as forty, maybe as old as sixty. He was trim and broad-shouldered, and had clear green eyes that evoked the surface of the sea.
"I've never enjoyed another more," Silverdun said, scowling.
Than patted him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit," he said. He looked up at the sky. "Long crossing to Whitemount, but not too bad. We'll be there before nightfall."
"With all this wind I'd have thought we'd get there faster," said Silverdun.
"Plenty of wind, yes, but all blowing in the wrong direction, I'm afraid." One of the crewman brushed by Silverdun, pulled hard on a rope, and tied it back. The dance of canvas and rope was a type of wizardry unto itself, one that Silverdun would never comprehend.
"What if," said Silverdun, "I could get the wind blowing in the proper direction? Would that get us there faster?"
"Aye," said the captain, a curious smile working across his face. "That it would."
Silverdun stepped toward the stern of the ship and looked up at the sails. There were two of them, wide and full, canted heavily toward starboard to force the boat across the current of the wind.
Despite his nausea, Silverdun was well rested, full of energy and essence. It would be nice to actually do something. For far too long, he realized, he'd allowed life to simply happen to him. After his long year of military service, Silverdun had been happy to be at play in the court of Queen Titania, wooing every lady-in-waiting he could get his hands on and steadfastly ignoring his duties at Corpus. He'd wanted nothing more than what life handed him.
Unfortunately, Silverdun's uncle, who had been managing his estates of Oarsbridge and Connaugh in his absence, had decided that he'd prefer to be lord himself, and had had Silverdun exiled to the prison of Crere Sulace.
There, he'd been drafted into service by the great Mauritane, and had followed the man on his mission for the queen, barely understanding why he was doing it. They'd landed themselves in the middle of an Unseelie invasion at Sylvan, after Mab had used the Einswrath weapon just to the north, at Selafae. Mauritane had led them into battle, and Silverdun had become a war hero.
But again, Silverdun hadn't become a war hero through much choice of his own; Mauritane had practically led him out of Crere Sulace at knifepoint. Silverdun had allowed Mauritane to drag him across half of Faerie, just as he'd allowed his uncle to steal his inheritance out from under him.
And after Mauritane, then what? He'd wanted nothing to do with life at court any longer; prison and adventuring had faded that particular blossom well and truly. He'd had no interest in returning to his family lands to try to wrest his estate from his uncle. No interest in regaining his roguish reputation at court.
During his travels with Mauritane he'd met the abbot Vestar at the temple Aba-E in Sylvan. There was no disputing that Vestar was a holy man, that he'd found a spiritual peace beyond knowing. Meeting him and spending time among the monks at the temple had revived Silverdun's longing for something, a longing his mother had implanted in him, and which he'd struggled with all his life. Silverdun had always wanted to believe in Aba, the way his mother so effortlessly had, but he'd never been able, no matter how hard he tried.
And so he'd ended up at the Temple Aba-Nylae, enrolling as a novice, hoping that a steady diet of prayer and instruction would be enough to ignite something in his soul. It had become abundantly clear, however, that his soul had been in no way set aflame. It was clear to everyone ... including, Silverdun reluctantly admitted, himself. And Prior Tebrit was a git, pure and simple. If nothing else, Silverdun could revel in the fact that he never had to see Tebrit's smug face ever again.
And now here he was, following someone else's plan for him. And as before, he had little idea of what it was he was getting himself into.
Silverdun leaned into the wind, reached out toward it with his mild Gift of Motion. Using re felt good, especially when he was full to spilling over with it. It was a kind of warmth, not physical, but almost spiritual. He'd tried to explain it to the human Satterly, but it was like describing color to a blind man. Re was simply re. There was no describing it.
With Motion he inexpertly reached out and caught hold of the wind. He grabbed it hard with his mind and pushed. There was no binding, no words, nothing formal about this; his will against the wind and to the victor go the prize. He hurled the wind against the sails and waited for the boat to lurch forward, begin racing toward the island.
Nothing happened.
He tried again, pouring himself entirely into the task. He was strong, and it felt good to flex. With a colossal
effort he flung what felt like the entire atmosphere of the world at the sails.
The ship seemed to rock slightly, although that might have been his imagination.
Silverdun looked down at the ship's deck. The captain was there, watching him, laughing.
"How goes it?" shouted Ilian.
"You whoreson!" Silverdun called back. "I believe I've been set up!"
Ilian strolled toward him, smug laughter fading to a friendly grin. "You university boys are all the same," he said, gesturing up to the sails. "You see the sail, big and white, and you assume that you've got to bridle the wind in order to get the job done."
"And I take it this was the wrong thing to do," said Silverdun.
"It was the obvious thing to do," Ilian answered. "You cannot wrestle the wind, son. The wind is connected to everything: the waves, the sun, the moon. You can blow a breeze on land by twiddling your fingers, but out here you're just pissing into it."
"So what do you recommend I do instead?" Silverdun asked.
"Sit and wait, and let the wind do its job." Ilian chuckled and walked away.
The sun was just touching the horizon, its light melting into the water, streaming across the sea toward them when the Splintered Driftwood touched up against the empty wooden dock at the island of Whitemount. The island was a great slab of granite thrust out from the sea, speckled with the few scrub pines in Faerie foolhardy enough to attempt to grow from it. On the island's highest point was an ungainly heap of stones in the shape of a castle. A steep trail had been cut into the rock leading up the rocky hillside toward it.
Than leapt from the ship at the bow and caught the mooring line that one of the silent crewman threw at him. He tied it with practiced grace, then walked to the stern and did the same thing. The Splintered Driftwood now nestled against the dock, its motion subdued. "We've arrived," called Ilian. "Come ashore!"
A rattling noise sounded behind Silverdun, from multiple directions. He turned to see the crewmen, all five of them, coming to an awkward standstill, their limbs relaxing, bowing at the waist. The air shifted as multiple glamours faded away, and in the sailors' places stood five automatons, constructions of silver and brass in the shape of men. Silverdun was impressed.
He stepped carefully onto the dock and looked at Ilian, nodding toward the ship. "Interesting crew," he said.
"You like them, do you?" said Ilian. "Master Jedron doesn't like visitors of any kind to the island. Only his students, whom he barely tolerates, and I, whom he loves dearly."
"Shall I simply go up and announce myself, then?" said Silverdun, pointing at the castle.
"Oh, no. I'm to come and present you. I'm Master Jedron's valet, after all. It's part of my job."
Silverdun frowned at Ilian. "I assumed that you were only the ship's captain."
Than waggled his fingers in Silverdun's face, his eyes wide, mocking. "Nothing is as it seems!" he said.
The trek to the castle was steep and dismal; a brisk, wet wind licked at them all the way, now at their faces, now at their backs as they struggled up the switchbacks on the mountainside. By the time they reached the castle, Silverdun was exhausted and damp. It was dark, and the wind here at the island's summit was even stronger.
Up close, the castle Whitemount was more intact than it appeared from a distance. It consisted of a single tower surrounded by a square courtyard. The outer walls were fallen, but beyond them the courtyard was well maintained. The interior walls of the castle were straight and in good repair; the glass windows clear and unbroken. The courtyard was deserted. If Master Jedron had any retainers other than Ilian, they were nowhere to be seen, though Silverdun would not have blamed them for remaining indoors on such a bleak night.
"Come on, then," said Ilian, waving Silverdun on. He pushed open a heavy wooden door and entered the castle without further comment.
Inside, the castle was dry and cool. The main hall was decorated, though sparsely, in a style from decades past-clearly there was no lady at Whitemount. Than passed briskly through the spacious hall toward a set of wide spiral stairs that hugged the tower's interior. Silverdun followed. The stairs continued up several flights, with witchlit sconces evenly spaced along its length. Their light was tuned to orange, providing a glow that appeared warm but provided no actual warmth.
At the top of the tower, the stairs ended at a stout wooden door. Ilian knocked, and for a moment there was silence. Then a voice rasped, "Come!"
Master Jedron's study occupied the entire top floor of the tower. It was comfortable without being lavishly appointed; tapestries hung on the walls; tapers were lit and placed in sconces around the room. A well-stoked fireplace burned opposite the door. In the center of the room Master Jedron sat at a large desk made of ebony, his boots propped up on the corner of the desk. Jedron's salt-and-pepper hair hung to his shoulders, neatly combed. His face was deeply lined, giving the semblance of extreme age, but there was clearly nothing frail about him. He had a glass paperweight in his hand, which he tossed absently up and down.
Jedron squinted at Silverdun for a long moment and then said, "Who the fuck are you?"
Silverdun looked back at Ilian, who chuckled, but said nothing. Ilian retreated casually to a spot near the door and motioned Silverdun back toward Jedron with a nod of his head.
"Are you stupid?" said Jedron. "I asked you a question. Who are you?"
Silverdun cleared his throat. What was this? "I am Perrin Alt, Lord Silverdun. I'm here to present myself to you for training."
Jedron looked baffled for a moment; then he burst out laughing, as if Silverdun had just told him the funniest joke he'd ever heard.
"What? You?" Jedron pointed at Silverdun, shaking with mirth. "Oh, that's a good one! Who put you up to this?"
The tips of Silverdun's ears began to burn. "I can assure you, sir, that this is no jest. Lord Everess himself sent me to you."
"Oh, did he?" Jedron's laugh settled down to a chuckle. "You can understand my amusement, of course."
"I'm afraid I can't," said Silverdun. He was going to kill Everess for this.
"Well, look at you! You're so fancy and sensitive, you're practically a woman!" Jedron took his feet down off the desk and leaned forward. "Not that I haven't trained women, of course," he said. "That's not what I mean at all. But most of the women I've trained are quite a lot more manly than you, I'm afraid."
The old man shook his head. "And I thought the other new student was a disgrace."
Silverdun rolled his eyes. "I see. This is some kind of test, to see if I'll lose my temper under stress or some such. Am I right?"
With blinding speed, Jedron reared back and hurled the glass paperweight, which slammed into Silverdun's temple with astonishing force. Silverdun stumbled back; the pain was unbelievable. He reached out for some thing to support himself with, as he suddenly felt dizzy, but there was nothing there. Red and blue spots began to speckle his vision and his knees buckled. He sat down hard.
Silverdun's head throbbed; his entire skull hurt. When he looked up, his vision was blurred and slightly doubled. Jedron stood over him, looking at him with an appraising eye.
"Well, you were right about one thing, boy. That was your first test, and you failed it miserably, I'm sad to say."
"Oh," groaned Silverdun. "And what test was that?"
Jedron looked at Silverdun as if Silverdun were the stupidest person he'd ever met. "Dodging paperweights," he said.
Silverdun awoke in a strange bed, fully clothed, his head throbbing. He touched his temple and grimaced at the tenderness of the welt that had grown there while he slept.
Carefully, he sat up and winced, the previous evening slowly filtering into his mind. The sea voyage, the climb, the old bastard with his paperweight. After that, everything got a bit fuzzy.
The bed was comfortable, the mattress stuffed with down and the pillow large and soft. When he swung his feet gently onto the floor, a plush rug rather than cold stone met his toes. He stood carefully; the rush of pain to
his skull was even worse than he expected.
When his vision cleared, he looked around the room. It was small but not cramped; the furnishings good quality but not ostentatious. A fresh set of clothes was draped over a chair, and his boots were on the floor nearby, cleaned and polished. His sword hung from a hook on the wall.
Silverdun dressed slowly and looked himself over in a mirror of perfectly smooth glass. Despite the purpling knot on his temple, he was still roguishly handsome, in his way. He'd been even more handsome, once. A length of ribbon had been hung from the mirror frame, and Silverdun tied his hair back with it.
Only then did he realize that he was starving-he hadn't eaten since the bowl of fish chowder he'd choked down on the dock yesterday morning. When he bent to pull his boots on, the throbbing in his skull had already dwindled a bit.
Midwinter 02: The Office of Shadow Page 9