And yes, Silverdun was there. But that wasn't why.
There was a knock at the door of her office, and she quickly hid the papers under a blotter. She had no intention of saying good-bye. She intended to simply leave the packet of documents on the stage, with a bound glamour of herself, waving good-bye.
"Someone waiting to see you in the lobby," said Rieger.
Since the incident in his room, when she'd healed him, Rieger hadn't been able to look her in the eye. Something inexplicable had happened to him that night. He was both grateful and at the same time clearly frightened of her now. They hadn't touched each other since that night.
Faella stood and adjusted her hair in the mirror. She'd deal with whoever was waiting in the lobby and then retire back to her office with a bottle of that cheap wine and finish signing the papers, wait for everyone to go home, and then stage her exit.
The lobby was nearly empty; a few stragglers stood at the door: couples prolonging their dates, lonely men and women with no place better to go. She couldn't see anyone who might be looking for her.
"`Twine' was most remarkable," said a voice behind her.
She turned, and there was Perrin Alt, Lord Silverdun, new face and all. He was dressed not as a nobleman but as a merchant from the City Emerald, a hat pulled low over his forehead. He looked her in the eye and smiled wide.
"Lord Silverdun," she said evenly. "What a surprise." Her heart was bolting in her chest, threatening to break out of her and go running off down the avenue.
"It's good to see you again," he said. His voice was plain, honest, not at all vengeful or contemptuous. Either he'd forgiven her, or he was doing an excellent job of faking it.
"You as well," she said. Was her voice shaking? She prayed it wasn't.
"I need to speak with you," he said. He looked around the lobby. "In private, if we might. It's a matter of some importance."
A matter of some importance.
"Of course," she said. "Come with me." She led him through the lobby, behind the ticket counter, backstage, and into her office. He shut the door behind them.
"What is it that I can do for you?" she asked.
He reached out and took her by the shoulders, pulled her to him. He pressed himself up roughly against her, kissing her.
Oh.
All of her fantasies suddenly realized in a moment, Faella's head swam. She wasn't sure at first how her body was responding, her thoughts spinning so wildly that she almost forgot where she was.
But then she felt his hand on the small of her back, and it was clear that her body was responding just fine without her.
She leaned back on the desk, pushing the blotter out of the way, drawing him on top of her. As her carefully prepared documents fluttered to the floor, she considered simply leaving them there and letting the Bittersweet Wayward Mestina work it out on their own.
"I was wondering how long it would take you to find your way back to me," she breathed.
He stopped kissing her neck long enough to whisper, "I was wondering how long I could resist."
It is the rare man who is both foolish enough to make a stupid decision and at the same time wise enough to profit from it.
-Master Jedron
his had better work," said Everess. "By my reckoning, the invasion of the Unseelie begins any minute now, and we're making these Chthonics angrier by the minute, mucking around in their temple like this."
Four days had passed since Ironfoot's revelation. In that time, war preparations had been completed, troops massed at the border. Jem-Aleth, the Seelie ambassador, had been expelled from the City of Mab yesterday without comment. War had come.
Ironfoot stood on the altar of the Temple of Bound Althoin, carefully composing a set of bindings. The deconstructed cynosure was back in place, floating above the altar, but now it had been rebuilt with some crude additions: a few hard runes, a channeling glass. Several of the paperthin leaves that had once resided within the cynosure were now connected to it by lengths of silver thread, their surfaces etched by Silverdun's Elements with additional markings of Ironfoot's design. "I told you," said Ironfoot, not looking down. "The device is calibrated to work from this location only. If we try to use it somewhere else, we'll end up in the wrong place."
Royal Guardsmen had been posted at all the exits. Guide Throen had been furious when Ironfoot had walked out with his cynosure; now he was livid, having been ejected by the Royal Guard from his own temple. The Church elders were gathering nearby for a protest, and Everess had spent a good part of the morning trying to placate them, to no effect.
Sela and Paet sat in a pew, watching Ironfoot. Sela was nervous; she could feel the tension in the room, and could also sense with Empathy the resonances of old emotions in this space. Strong emotions. Fervent ones.
"I wish Silverdun would get here soon," said Paet. "We've been going out of our way to offend every religious order in Faerie this week, and I'd like to get this operation settled before we're damned to any number of various hells."
"He'll be here," said Sela. "I can feel him."
"He'd better be." Paet stood up. "How much longer?" he said to Ironfoot. His voice rang out in the wide space of the sanctuary.
"Not much longer," said Ironfoot. "But as long as it takes. I assume you'd prefer that we survive this experiment?"
Paet harrumphed, but sat back down without speaking.
Sela watched Ironfoot. He was handsome enough, clever, intelligent. Why couldn't she have fallen in love with him instead? He had his own complications, certainly, but she could happily have overlooked them.
Then again, there was a reason she'd been taken with Silverdun. As much as she hated to admit it, she could never have fallen for Ironfoot. He wasn't hard enough. At Silverdun's core was something dark and bitterly tough, and that was what drew her.
As if her thoughts of him had summoned him, Silverdun appeared at the entrance to the sanctuary, a young woman on his arm. Faella.
She was pretty, but not as pretty as Sela. She was young, too, barely out of her teens. She took in the sanctuary with a glance, her face haughty, her eyes fierce. She was used to having all eyes on her. Sela despised her instantly. She could have happily murdered her right there and then. She knew plenty of ways to do it.
For an instant Faella's eyes met hers, and she sensed that Faella knew exactly who she was, and exactly how she felt about Silverdun. Sela consciously avoided creating a thread with her. She had no desire to feel what this girl was feeling.
Faella smiled at her. Oh, how Sela wanted her dead.
"You must be Faella," said Ironfoot, bowing slightly in her direction. "Silverdun believes that you can help us with this. Is he right?"
Faella strode almost regally down the aisle, her gold-embroidered skirt brushing the carpet. "I'm certain that Lord Silverdun has overestimated my capacities," she said. "But I have a great power and I will do my best."
What horse dung. Great power, indeed. Insecure little girl. Sela couldn't help it; she reached out and let the thread form. It sprung up, perfectly white. Sela was baffled. She'd never seen a white thread before. She didn't know what it meant. Examining it more closely in her perceptions, though, she realized that this thread was actually many threads, of all colors intertwined. Only when she examined it from a distance did it appear white.
Who was this woman?
Her emotions, as she strode toward Silverdun, eased into Sela, and Sela saw something she couldn't believe. This haughty woman, this young ingenue, believed every word she said. Faella really did believe herself to be great, but believed it with a purity that astonished Sela. Not insecurity; quite the opposite. Utter confidence.
Faella stopped halfway down the aisle and looked at Sela. A small smile spread across her face. "Not what you expected?" she said. Embarrassed, Sela looked away.
Silverdun looked to Faella, then to Sela, and cringed visibly. Clearly a fear of his was being realized. So much the better.
Sela needed to stop being
petty. There was work to do here.
"Lord Silverdun explained some of what needs to be done," said Faella, "but he left the technical details to you, Master Falores."
"Ironfoot will be fine, miss."
"As you wish."
Ironfoot began to explain the workings of his plan to Faella. She asked a number of questions, urging Ironfoot to put the more esoteric details into terms she could grasp.
"I must say," she finally said, frowning, "I'm not sure I quite understand."
Sela bit her lip. "Perhaps I can help," she said.
Faella looked at her and smiled that same seductive smile. "Can you?"
Sela walked to the altar and let the threads spring up between her and Ironfoot and Faella. It would be tricky to connect the two of them to one another, but not impossible.
But before she even began to channel Empathy in order to relate the two of them, Faella picked up on what she was doing and handily did it herself. Sela did her best to hide her feelings of resentment, but knew that they were spinning out from her on the thread and that Faella was receiving them.
Images, thoughts, words, incantations flowed freely between Faella and Ironfoot. It was tiring to channel actual thoughts as opposed to emotions, but each new channeling that Sela opened, Faella expanded. Within a few minutes, Ironfoot had shared everything that needed sharing, and they were ready.
"Thank you, Sela," said Faella. And she meant it. Sela snapped the thread away, feeling stupid and inferior. She wanted to hate Faella, but couldn't. Faella was better than she was. Silverdun's love for her was justified.
"Then let's begin," said Ironfoot. "Just to be clear, I have no idea what we'll find on the other side of this fold. As far as I know, we could all be killed instantly. But if all of this re is being folded there, it must be there for a reason, and there must be something there to contain it. Which means that others have gone before us."
Silverdun looked at her. "Sela, I know you don't want any more missions, but we don't know what we're about to face. We need you."
Sela's heart jumped. If anyone other than Silverdun had asked her, she would have said no.
"Of course I'll go," she said.
"Then let's begin," said Silverdun.
"Yes, please," said Ironfoot. "I have a feeling that any minute now a judge in the Aeropagus is going to send an order for us to clear out of here, war or no war. So by all means, let us begin."
"You know what to do?" said Ironfoot.
"I do," said Faella.
Without warning, the world disappeared.
Sela is finally happy. She has Milla.
They sleep in the same bed. They eat their meals together. They play together on the lawns, weaving the daisy chains that Sela has taught Milla how to make. They put on plays for one another, read aloud (mostly Sela reads and Milla listens), sing each other to sleep. They make rude jokes about the crones and even sometimes about Oca. Sela learns a new word from Milla- "eunuch"-about Oca. They are inseparable. Except for Sela's "special studies" each morning.
After bringing Milla, Lord Tanen went away, and so things at the manor have been breezy and light. The crones watch her and Milla playing together, but say nothing. Their constant ministrations have ceased, replaced only by a curious watching.
Before he left, Lord Tanen took Sela and explained that there are some things Milla can never know. And that if Milla discovers them, that she will have to be taken away. Sela didn't have to be told what he meant: the killing.
Sela enjoys killing, and looks forward to her training in the basement of the manor house each day. She has known for as long as she can remember that the killing is a special secret. The unreal enemies that Lord Tanen has been training her to protect against are ever watchful. Milla has been told that Sela's killing time is her time for "special studies." Milla has no interest in studies, though.
"What is it you do down there all morning?" Milla asked her once.
"I train to use my Gift. I have Empathy."
Milla shrugged. She has no use for the Gifts, possessing none of her own. She smiled. "You're so lucky."
Sela knows that Milla is not very bright. She is sweet and kind and trusting, but she has a very hard time understanding things that are simple to Sela. At first this bothered Sela, but now she's used to it.
Sela makes her very first thread, with Milla, one evening after supper. They are in their bedroom, laughing about the wart on Begina's face. Begina is one of the crones, the coldest one, the one most likely to slap Sela with a ruler.
They are laughing, laughing, and Sela takes Milla in her arms and holds her as tight as she can. Milla tickles her and they fall over laughing; then Milla falls backward and hits her head on the floor.
"Ouch!" says Sela, holding her head.
"Why are you ouching?" says Milla, sitting up, laughing, holding her own head. "I'm the one that fell."
"I don't know," says Sela. She looks at Milla, and there it is: a fat, fluffy, pink-and-gold thread, made of light, extending from her to Milla. It's not a real thread, like in the sewing box. And it's not actually made of light, either. It's a connection of some kind, and Milla's thoughts and feelings mingle with her own along it. Sela has never felt so close to anyone before, believes that it isn't possible to feel so close to anyone.
"What's happening?" says Milla. "I feel very strange."
"I feel like I could just let go and disappear forever," says Sela, her voice soft and airy. She's starting to forget who's who. Is she Sela, or Milla? Is she anyone at all?
She gets a glimpse of something, something that is powerful and true. As Sela slips into Milla and Milla and Sela slip away together, something deeper and more real than either of them begins to appear in its place. Sela is filled with a rush of emotion she can't explain.
"I don't like this," says Milla. Sela looks at her and sees the thread that isn't a thread convulse, thick runnels of purple and green and brown now coursing through, spoiling the pinkness, pulling it taut, making it ugly.
Revulsion. Milla's or hers? Milla is afraid of her: has always been afraid of her. Has always found Sela unsettling.
No, Sela's revulsion. Disgust at Milla's betrayal.
Who is feeling this?
The door slams open and Lord Tanen bolts into the room. He is not supposed to be here!
"Sela!" he shouts. "She is one of their spies! Milla is an assassin of the unreal!" "No!" screams Sela, jerking back, away from Milla.
Milla and Sela are terrified. Milla and Sela want to be away.
Lord Tanen is carrying something, something that shines. Milla and Sela are afraid of it.
No, Milla is afraid of it. Sela wants it. Sela reaches out for it.
Lord Tanen puts the knife in Sela's hand, and the thread between her and Milla goes black, black, black.
"You know what must be done," says Tanen.
Milla skitters backward. Sela can feel her confusion and terror. Terror of Sela. She knows who is who now.
Sela advances on Milla and, with trembling fingers, kills her. It's so easy; the ones that Lord Tanen provides for her lessons have far more fight in them. The thread vanishes not in an instant, not as the knife slices the flesh, but slowly, sluggishly.
"Congratulations," says Lord Tanen. "Today you have completed your training."
Sela turns on Lord Tanen, the knife wet in her grasp. A girl's blood looks just like anyone else's. A real girl? An unreal girl? Sela draws the blade of the knife across her wrist, severing the vein there. The blood is just the same. No difference.
"It's too much for her," comes a voice behind Lord Tanen. One of the crones. She's not sure which one. "You went too far with this one, just like we told you."
"Hush!" shouts Lord Tanen, wheeling on the crone. "She's just fine. She's stronger than any of the others."
Too far. Sela lets go of the knife. It's a meaningless object, a protrusion into space of lines and angles. A weight, nothing more. A minute ago she'd almost seen something, something bey
ond all of this meaninglessness. She has it in her grasp, but knows that if she looks there again, she will cease to be.
"Come along now," says Lord Tanen. "It's time you and I had a long conversation."
Sela's body is, she realizes, unreal. It too is simply space and lines and angles. Machines moving and humming, insensate, collaborating in the illusion of being. It is coming at her again, the thing she saw, from a different angle. The thing that will consume her.
"What is it?" asks Lord Tanen, looking into her eyes. A thread forms. Very unlike the first. Sela sees him and knows him. Knows who and what he is and what he wants and why, but it's much too much, and the thing that wants to eat her is reaching up to swallow her into everything, and so she shows it to Lord Tanen instead.
Lord Tanen makes a funny sound. Not just odd, but humorous. Sela almost giggles. Everything is too big and horrid, and this thing that wants to eat her is consuming Lord Tanen and his only response is to make such a silly little noise.
Someone screams. One of the crones, she assumes. She shows the thing to the crone, too. Why not? It will eat everything sooner or later, she knows. Only a matter of time. Might as well save Sela for last.
More screaming, and now running, slamming. Sela has closed her eyes; she doesn't want to see any of this, no thank you.
It goes on like this for quite some time. Hours. Sela is waiting for the thing to return and show itself to her, but instead something hits her from behind, hard, and she bites her tongue.
"Get that accursed thing on her now," comes a frightened voice.
Someone is sliding something up over her wrist. A bracelet? A gift for me? Up over her elbow, and then snug against her arm. The thing she's been showing to everyone loses its teeth, yawns, goes to sleep.
What was that thing? Sela is certain that it was big and dangerous, but can't quite picture it anymore.
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