"Didn't send for anyone tonight," said the man.
She smiled a helpless smile and shrugged. "Bryla said to me go to Enni's place, and so that's what I done," she said.
She smiled a lopsided smile and waited, waited. The man looked at her. Wait. She felt the click and a thread sprung up, seething, bloodred.
There were two kinds of male lust, Sela knew. One was a desire to possess, to grab, to take something away. The other was an opening up, an exquisite longing for communion. This was decidedly the former.
Sela stepped forward a bit and the thread deepened. Sometimes when it was this thick she found herself knowing things. "You're ... Obin, right?" She reached out and touched his collar.
"All right, come in," said Obin. "But don't get your hopes up. It's dead in here tonight."
"The rain," she tried. Yes, that was right. Rain was bad for business.
The door opened onto a narrow hallway. Obin led her through it and into a small parlor where three women sat, all heavily perfumed and tightly corseted, as Sela was. They all looked tired and bored. When they saw Sela, a tension sprung up in the room. A green-brown web of suspicion and contempt formed among the women.
"Who's she?" said one. She was thin and pale, with dark hair, and delicate hands. There were circles under her eyes.
"Bryla sent her," said Obin. "Don't know why."
"She can't just come in here on a night like this," said the dark-haired woman. "That's silver out of my purse."
"Now now, Perrine," warned Obin. "Let's be ladies, shall we?"
Sela sat primly on a vacant love seat and waited, ignoring the glares from the other women. After a minute or so, their attention drifted and they began a desultory conversation that Sela ignored.
A knock came at the door and Obin went to answer. A young guildsman, nervous and polite, entered the parlor and looked at the women. Sela waited for him to find her with his gaze. The instant his thread appeared, she pushed back against it. Not me. His gaze slipped past her, the thread evaporating. The guildsman settled on the dark-haired woman, Perrine, and she led him through an arch in the back of the room.
Two more men came, and each time Sela pushed them away. For a little while, she was the only girl in the parlor. Obin tried to strike up a conversation with her, but she pushed back against him as well, and he lost interest in her.
Perrine reappeared after half an hour, followed by the young guildsman. His eyes were glazed, and he had a dopey smile on his face. Perrine looked haggard and stumbled a bit. She flopped down on the couch and took a cigarette from a box on the center table.
"Young ones," she said after he'd gone. "Hate the nervous young ones."
They sat in stony silence for several long minutes. Then another knock, and in came the man Sela had been waiting for. He was just as in his portrait, with cape and cane and a wide mustache. He bowed low when he saw the dark-haired woman. "Lady Perrine," he said in a booming voice. "So good to see you this lovely evening."
Perrine smiled and waved, suddenly alert and attentive. She stood and curtseyed, and Sela followed her lead.
The man looked Sela's way. When his thread sprang up she leapt at it, dragged at it. He looked at her, bewildered for a moment, then smiled.
"Ah, whom have we here?" he said. Sela felt Perrine's thread go purpleblack. It stung, but she ignored it, smiling.
"Sir," she said.
"Perrine," said the man, "you are first in my heart, of course, but I would very much like to get to know this new friend of yours."
"Of course, Guildsman Heron." Perrine seethed.
Heron took a silver khoum from his pocket and pressed it into Perrine's hand. "You're a treasure, my dear."
Sela smiled and took Heron's hand. To Obin, she said, "Where shall I take him?"
"Upstairs, second on the left," said Obin. "Everything you need is in the room already."
Sela nodded. "Thank you."
They went upstairs without a word. Sela found the room Obin had indicated, and they went inside. There was a bed and a small table upon which were laid out a bowl, a candle, a packet of herbs, and a stoppered glass bottle.
"I trust your preparation is of adequate strength," said Heron, removing his cape. "I prefer an intense level of connection."
"You won't be disappointed, love," said Sela. She unstoppered the bottle and poured its contents into the bowl, then mixed in the herbs. The potion shimmered momentarily. It was an Insight preparation, similar to icthula, but with a decidedly different purpose.
Heron undressed while Sela prepared the draught. He climbed into the bed, and the bedsprings rattled beneath him.
"I'm ready, ready, ready," he said. His thread, bloodred flecked with brown, throbbed.
"Almost there, dear," said Sela.
She knelt on the bed and brought the bowl to his lips. He drank and lay back, impatient. She lifted the bowl and pretended to drink.
"Now come here and give us a kiss," he said.
Sela placed the bowl on the bed and leaned down toward him. She put her hands in his hair, ran her fingernails down his cheeks. He sighed happily, the effects of the potion beginning to affect him.
Heron's eyes closed. Sela took a small knife from her bodice and drew it across his neck. His eyes opened wide. He tried to speak, but only managed a thick gurgling sound. He pawed at her, grabbed at her hair and yanked at it.
"You're not real," said Sela.
Once she was certain he was dead, she stood and walked out of the room.
Indirect problems require indirect solutions.
-Fae proverb
ilverdun maintained consciousness as his captors dragged him roughly town the stairs and outside. He felt the sun on his face, but his vision was blurred; he saw only blue sky and moving shadows. He was lifted into the back of a closed wagon, and presently the wagon began to move.
With each bounce over the rough cobblestones, Silverdun's wrist shot pain up his arm. One of the guardsmen had bandaged it, and the bandage was already wet with blood. That deep, deep red blood. The light in Annwn, its red sun? Silverdun shuddered; his body wanted to die, but Silverdun refused to allow it. He'd never experienced anything similar.
The wagon turned, and its wheels rolled onto smooth stones. Silverdun smelled hay and horse dung. He tried to sit up and made it to his elbows. Ironfoot was slumped next to him. His eyes were open, and he looked back at Silverdun.
They were pulled from the wagon and carried inside a cool place that reeked of urine. There were calls and shouts. Silverdun was placed on a straw mat on a dirty stone floor, and he heard Ironfoot grunt next to him. There was the sound of metal on metal. Silverdun raised his head again. He and Ironfoot were in a small jail cell. He closed his eyes and slept, despite the pain from his wrist. A little while later he came awake and felt something cool and soothing on his right hand. He looked over to see someone, an old woman, applying a salve to the stump of his wrist.
"Surprised he's not dead," said the witch.
Silverdun almost wished he were.
Perrin is studying for his fifth-year exams when a message sprite alights on his windowsill.
"Hey, Perrin Alt, Lord Silverdun!"
Perrin looks up from his studies, scrutinizing the sprite. "I'm not Lord Silverdun, foolish sprite," he says. "That's my father."
"Well good news!" shouts the sprite. "You are now! Your father's dead!"
Perrin grabs the thing around its waist. "What? What are you talking about?"
The sprite blanches. "Aw, shucks. I was hoping you were one of those guys who didn't like his dad and was going to be happy to find out he was thrown from his horse and killed instantly. Then you'd probably want to offer me candy!"
Perrin throws the sprite at the wall, but it veers off and lands on top of a bookcase. "Hey, it wasn't my fault. Sheesh."
"Get out of here!" shouts Perrin.
The sprite pauses at the window. "So ... where are we on the candy issue?"
The next day a carriage arr
ives to take Perrin back to Oarsbridge Manor, where his father is to be buried in the family plot. Mother is waiting for him at the front door. She embraces him, and he lets her. Father's body is laid out in the parlor, on the carved wooden bier that has been in the family for hundreds of years.
Perrin feels almost nothing when he sees his father. He examines his emotions carefully, and can come up with nothing other than a bland annoyance at having been summoned away from school during exams.
Mother is standing in the doorway, watching him. "Whatever you're feeling is all right," she says.
"I don't feel anything," says Perrin.
"That's all right, too."
"Everyone always tells me that he was a great man, a great lawmaker," he says. "I never really paid that much attention to his career."
"He never paid that much attention to you, either."
"He was extremely cordial."
Mother laughs, and raises her hand to stifle it. "I suppose he was, at that."
The funeral is well attended-seemingly by every member of Corpus, both lord and guildsman alike-and goes on for hours. It is dusk by the time the last statesman completes his encomium and sits. Perrin watches his father go into the ground, and suddenly he is filled with regret. He squeezes his mother's hand, and she squeezes back. She sees his tears and seems to understand them, even though he himself does not.
Afterward, Perrin's uncles Bresun and Marin take him aside. Bresun is father's twin brother, the younger by ten minutes, and Marin is much younger, the child of Grandfather's second wife.
"My deepest condolences ... Lord Silverdun," says Bresun, emphasizing the "Lord."
"Thank you," says Perrin. He's known that the title would someday be his, of course, but he'd assumed that it would be many years in the future. "It's all a bit much. I confess I am somewhat overwhelmed."
"And who could blame you?" says Bresun. "Title is a great obligation, and not one to be taken up lightly."
Perrin nods. He has never liked Bresun.
"Since you're not yet of age, you'll need to appoint an overseer for the estate," Bresun continues. "I will, of course, be more than happy to assume that role."
Marin smiles weakly. "It's a fine idea, I think."
"Thank you," says Perrin. "I will consider your offer."
This is not the response Bresun wants. "I can assure you, son, that there is no one better acquainted with your father's affairs than I."
"Fine," says Perrin, suddenly not caring. "I accept."
Over the next few days, Perrin spends most of his time with a quill in his hand: penning thank-you notes to the many attendees of the funeral and signing a never-ending flood of documents for the solicitors. He falls asleep at his father's desk and is woken in the early morning by his mother's touch on his shoulder.
"Come, Perrin," she says. "There is something I want to discuss with you."
They walk out the south entrance, onto the lawns where Perrin played as a boy, and down the grass to the row of peach trees. The trees are in bloom, and they smell sweet and full.
They pass through the small gate set in the wall and continue down the path to the knoll that overlooks the river and the fields. The stone bridge after which the manor is named is still there after all these years, still in daily use.
"These are your lands now," says Mother.
"Yes," says Perrin, though he finds it hard to accept.
"Your father managed them well," she says. "He was always fair to his tenants, and they respected him."
"Everyone respected him, apparently."
"And rightly so. But I do not think you have any interest in managing our estates, do you, Perrin?"
Perrin stops walking and looks at her. "Of course I do. It's my responsibility."
"Your responsibility, yes. But not your desire."
"What are you getting at, Mother?"
"I want you to donate these lands to Aba."
"To the Arcadians, you mean."
"To Aba, I mean."
"Doesn't Aba already own everything anyway?" Perrin smirks.
"You're too old for that snotty attitude, Perrin," says Mother. "You demean us both. I have considered the matter prayerfully for some time."
"Mother," says Perrin. "You can't expect me to just ... hand over my estate. It's madness."
"You have an enormous trust that will give you income for the rest of your life, Perrin. You don't need the money."
"It's not about the money. I don't care about that."
"The Church will manage the estate with love and care. They will treat the people with respect, even those who do not believe."
"Oh, yes. I'm sure they will. And I'm sure they'll happily pocket the income as well. Don't be naive, mother."
"I am many things," she says, her voice trembling, "but I am not naive."
"Mother," says Perrin. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. Honestly."
"I know."
"You're right, of course. I don't have any interest in being a landholder. Or in being a member of the House of Lords, for that matter. But Bresun and Marin will-"
"Bresun cares about nothing but money and status, and Marin is a fatuous cretin!" says Mother, her voice rising. She's breathing heavily.
"Well, as soon as I'm of age I'll be in charge and I'll make sure that they stay in line."
"By the time you come of age, Bresun will have found a way to take all of this from you."
"He can't, Mother. It would be unlawful."
Mother laughs, but it is not her usual warm laugh. It's more of a cackle. "Oh, Son. There is only one law that cannot be bent by money and influence. That is Aba's law, and it will punish Bresun, but not in this life. Bresun wouldn't dare go after your father, but he'll have no qualms taking you on."
Perrin pauses. He has never known his mother to be a cynic.
"Look out there," she says, pointing at the fields. "See those farmers? In two years' time they'll be groaning under Bresun's whip. And if you don't believe me, go visit his little estate and see how happy his tenants look.
"We called them noblemen, remember? Descendants of kings, each and every one of them. Don't they deserve better than that?"
Perrin has no idea what to say.
"I told you then that one day you would have to decide what kind of man you wanted to be. Now perhaps that day has come. Make the right choice. If not for Aba, then for me."
She leaves him there on the river path. One of the farmers spies him and waves, beaming.
The next day, Perrin sits Bresun down and explains that he's considering donating Oarsbridge and Connaugh estates to the Arcadians. Bresun smiles patiently, and explains in no uncertain terms what a terrible idea this is. He is charming and convincing, and within the hour, Perrin and he are sharing a drink and Perrin is laughing at himself for ever having considered such foolishness.
"Your mother is a wonderful woman," says Bresun. "But she's not the most realistic person in Faerie."
Silverdun smiles knowingly. He returns to school the next day and finishes his term with excellent marks.
Silverdun awoke to the sound of singing, the ethereal wail of Chthonic hymns. The tune was an old one, and familiar. Silverdun knew the same tune but with different words; the Arcadian peasants in Oarsbridge had sung it in the fields when he was a child. His mother had told him once that it was the singing that first drew her to Aba. Silverdun couldn't understand these words, sung in the vowelless glottal language of native Annwni, but he assumed it was about more or less the same thing: freedom from suffering, the walk of the soul, release.
There had been a few Arcadians at Crete Sulace, the prison where Silverdun had been held with Mauritane and the others. They sang the same sorts of songs. Silverdun had resented it then, and he resented it now. The notion of freedom in captivity, of the release of earthly bondage. How long were you supposed to keep singing before deciding that nobody was listening? Silverdun had left the monastery, so he supposed he'd reached his limit, assuming he'd e
ver truly been singing to begin with. Still, it was pretty music.
He opened his eyes and struggled into a sitting position to find Ironfoot awake, and eating. Ironfoot glanced over and pushed a tin plate of bread and greens toward him. Silverdun wasn't hungry, but he ate anyway, taking great care with his right arm.
Midwinter 02: The Office of Shadow Page 22