by Anne C Miles
She stiffened, dropping her hands and took a quick step back. “I-I can’t believe you iron them,” she said. Sara held up the sodden white fabric like a shield between them. “I think I’ve ruined this one.”
“Keep it.” Peter hesitated, but claimed her hand again. He pulled her into the next section of the vast space. Huge shelves contained every sort of bottle and trinket from times gone by.
“How did your mom take it when you told her all that?”
He stepped carefully around a pile of magazines, leading her back around large wooden monkeys. A carved wooden palm tree leaned over the monkeys, daring them to climb.
Sara shoved the handkerchief in her pocket. “Mom left,” she said. “It’s her classic move, the one she’s really good at.”
“Is your dad home or gone?”
“He’s in London, playing for some music festival. He’ll fly home next week,” Sara said. “It doesn’t matter. When he’s home, it’s like he can’t stand to look at me. I know it hurts. He sees Rilla. Heck, I see her when I look in the mirror. I think he and Mom might finally divorce, but she’s too wrapped up in work to care that he’s not around. They keep going, because it’s easier than dealing with it.”
Peter let go of her hand and faced her. “You ought to reach out to your dad.”
Sara sputtered, but Peter held up a hand, halting the tirade he knew was coming. “Yeah, I know. Your dad was always gone. He found another girlfriend, hurt your mom. But they stayed together. You’ve told me. I’ve been here for you, remember?
“He was never there when you needed him. And when Rick and Rilla broke up, Rilla nearly killed herself...” Peter didn’t finish. “I get it. I do. I know you think it’s their fault. But the thing is, they probably think that too. So tell your dad, talk to him. Yell at him, scream at him, have it out. Don’t hold it in.
“You did great today, finally saying it to your mom. Make them talk to you.”
Sara shook her head.
“You don’t understand, that’s not how my family works. Everything must be perfect. Everyone is doing great. Always. Problems? No, the Moore’s don’t have problems. If we do, we deal with them on our own. We don’t argue. We don’t ask for help, and we don’t speak of anything unpleasant, especially in public.” Her laugh was bitter. “I committed the unpardonable sin today. I made a scene. Mom probably won’t ever speak to me again.”
“I doubt that. But I do know that sometimes you have to fight with people to love them. Sometimes the love is the fighting.”
“Well if that’s true, I have the most loving and yet the most oddly hateful family on the planet.” Sara shrugged. She looked into Peter’s eyes, holding his gaze, her lower lip trembling. Sara backed away. In another moment she would kiss him. “Come on, we better go. I gotta work tonight. I’m okay now...and Peter? Thanks.”
It would take half an hour to wind back through the maze. Sara’s hoodie caught on a gargoyle that loomed on a shelf, bringing her up short as she tried to escape. She unhooked herself from its stone fingers. “Race you to the ramp,” she called behind her, and took off running. She laughed as he clomped at her heels, cursing when he bumped into a sharp corner.
“I’ll catch you yet, Sara Moore,” he yelled. “You just wait and see. I don’t give up.”
Sara burst into her apartment and threw her keys on the side table in the entryway, shimmying her boots off as she half ran to answer the phone. Jane had a night class on Thursdays; she wasn’t there to get it. It could be the long-term care home. She nearly yanked the thing off the wall.
“Hello?” she answered, out of breath.
A rich bass voice on the other end said, “Sara? Honey, is that you?”
“Hi, Dad.” Sara slumped into a kitchen chair. Of course it was him. She forced herself to try, but couldn’t resist a dig. “How’s tricks?”
“The performance sold out, if that’s what you mean,” he replied, his voice gaining an edge.
Awkward.
“Great, Dad, that’s really great. And you’ll be home next week?”
“I will. Listen, your mother asked me to speak to you. I don’t have much time. We have decided to move Sara from the Nero facility to that long-term care place on the East Coast where she will be more comfortable. It’s better suited for her condition. The costs will be manageable.”
“Marilla, Dad. You’ve decided to move Marilla.” Sara was proud of herself for not shouting. “I’m Sara. I’m here, you’re talking to me. The person in the bed who doesn’t move or speak? She looks like me, but she is my twin sister, Marilla.”
Sara’s voice rose in pitch and volume as she continued, “I know you haven’t seen her in six months, but our names have not changed. Her condition has not changed. I have not changed, other than I do speak and move. I hear you loud and clear. You want to move Marilla to a place fourteen hours away, where she won’t remind you of how you have failed us.
“Mom was a coward for not telling me herself today, she could have. She hid it. She knew. That’s a lie. She lied to me. You guys are not moving her!”
Now Sara really was shouting, but she didn’t care.
“I have to go,” he said.
She was shaking. A click on the other end of the line. Typical. He would deposit money in her bank account next week, the latest in a long line of guilt gifts.
Somehow, her dad thought money would undo every mess he made. It never did. Sara pulled Peter’s handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her eyes. She looked at the linen square, tracing his monogrammed initials with her thumb. Then she took a deep breath.
Sara named the colors in the room. She took more slow breaths, counting back from ten. She waited for the shaking to stop. Slowly, she got up and wandered into her room, pulling on sneakers and a hoodie. She had to get to work.
I refuse to waste tears on Dad, she thought. Him or Mom, either one, they’re not worthy.
Sara went to the sink, splashed water on her face, and filled a glass. She took a long drink. She named the colors in the room. She took ten more deep breaths. She could do this. She could pull herself together. Go to work. Act normal. She could be strong. Not fall apart.
But what was she going to do about Marilla?
CHAPTER NINE
ABOUT A QUARTER of an hour passed before Trystan spied Tabor, running. His white robes flopped open, revealing black garb underneath. Tabor’s bald head shimmered with sweat.
Trystan watched, mystified as Tabor stopped in the middle of the roof, pulling a tunebell and a small flute from his satchel. He began to play. The scent of the bloom wafted into the night. The tunebell chimed softly. The Watcher tracked Tabor. “Identify yourself.”
The Watcher’s voice reminded Trystan of rocks falling down a hillside.
Trystan hoped desperately it had not woken any servants or house guards—or worse.
The flute’s gentle lilting filled the air. Trystan tore his eyes from the gargoyle and watched Tabor. What was he playing?
Tabor played peace. He played joy. He played a soft gentle breeze and a cool springtime sky filled with stars. He played birdsong. He played children’s laughter and a message. All is well. All is well. All is well. Soft starlight coalesced around him. Trystan could see it shimmer in the air, forming a web.
The Song.
The Watcher turned away.
Tabor kept playing for a few more minutes and let the tune fade. He slipped out of the acolyte’s robes, stowing them in his satchel and threw down the rope, hitching his bag over his shoulder. He shimmied down. Trystan followed. Tabor just used the Song with an enchanted instrument, only this time he controlled a Watcher. What else could he do?
Trystan could almost feel Tabor brooding. The carriage rumbled along the road, creaking and swaying, with Tabor huddled in a corner. They hadn’t exchanged more than a few words since escaping the manse.
Finally, Trystan could stand it no longer. “You acquired the scroll?”
Tabor looked up, as if surprised he wa
s not alone.
“What? Oh, yes. It might be more valuable than we originally thought.”
“And the Watcher didn’t rouse an alarm. We’re safe then.”
“Safe? Safe?” Tabor gestured to the widow. “No, I only delayed the hunt.”
“I don’t understand. The Watcher turned away. We escaped.”
“The Watchers in the Lady’s quarters saw me. There’s no doubt it raised an alarm even though I wore these robes. When I played the flute, I only interrupted them.
“They will be...questioned...regardless. My features may be examined. If a chymaera investigates, it will see what occurred through the Watcher’s eyes. I could be identified. However, if only a Conclave monitor investigates? They will receive only something like a sketch, not much more. My chances improve much if chymaera are not involved.” He sighed. “I just hope they are all otherwise occupied.”
Trystan exhaled, leaning forward. “The chymaera work with the Conclave. They did in Bestua as well, but I wasn’t sure they did everywhere.”
Tabor nodded, his face a grim mask. In the dappled moonlight, Trystan saw it only in flashes. “What do you know of them?”
“Not as much as I’d like to know. We’ve collected lore over the centuries. The shape-shifters themselves say very little when they are among us. No matter how anyone tries, they get little information. That’s why we must liberate pertinent documents.” He pointed to his satchel. “In every city, chymaera come and go, working with the Watchers, Takers, and Speakers. Rumors persist of skycarts, but I don’t know if ’tis true.”
Trystan nodded. “I met a few of them. They would come in to use our library but were always silent. I’ve heard rumors they are feared by country folk.”
“More revered than feared,” said Tabor. “If a chymaera is threatened, of course it can transform and rip you to pieces. So would you attack one?” He raised an eyebrow at the idea. “Even the lowest, most base of men hesitate to try. There have been reports of a few bravos starting a fight, but not one ends well for the man.”
Tabor looked out the carriage window. They were moving along the outskirts of Baehnt now, passing ancient crumbling ruins. They passed the city gates and headed southeast. Tabor looked at Trystan, his gaze somber.
“I’ll ask the chymaera, when I present this scroll, if I was identified.”
Trystan’s mouth dropped open, but for once he was speechless. His mind whirled. “You retrieved the scroll for the chymaera? But they don’t work with men outside the Conclave. I thought they despised us.”
“Some do,” Tabor said. “We retrieved the scroll for our own archives, but yes we’re allowing a chymaera to borrow it. You’ll meet him soon enough,” Tabor said. “Lady Aracine would never relinquish one of her precious artifacts without inconvenient questions. The theft couldn’t be helped."
Trystan shook his head, marveling.
“What? Spinners have important work to do. It isn’t all galas and thievery.” Tabor pulled a black tricorn hat from under his seat, placing it jauntily on his head. His voice slurred, his posture relaxed, and he took on the mannerisms of a common sailor. “Aye, sirrah. ’Twill be a daisy morn, it will. Buck up milord, yer gettin’ yer shiny stuffing right enough.”
“Stuffing?”
Tabor straightened, speaking again in his true voice, “Stuffing means contraband. In this case, your lute. We speak in a cipher, the Spinner’s Cant. You’ll learn quickly. We have a lot of training to do, but you’ve passed your first tests with flying colors.”
Trystan’s eyes narrowed as they rolled up to a warehouse.
“Tests?” Trystan said. Nothing made any sense. He shook his head, refusing to be put off. He had joined in with Tabor’s mad errand without question, trusting it would all come clear. Instead, he only had more questions.
“Of course. You didn’t think we were just going to let you buy a truly starbound lute and waltz away with it, did you? You’d be captured or killed, or both, within a week. No. We watched you for a while, then offered you a small mission. Now your training begins in earnest. You didn’t panic. You kept your head, avoided the Watchers. You followed instructions. Trusted me. You did well. In particular, the bit of fun you chose to have at my expense. Making me dance.” Tabor chuckled and adjusted his hat.
“You’re not the ugliest I’ve had to partner.”
“It was well done. Quick thinking. If any had suspected us, it would put them off our game. And you made my sister laugh.”
Trystan’s lips twitched. “Glad to be of service.”
The carriage slowed. Tabor’s shoulders relaxed, and he sank back into his sailor persona, opening the carriage door to clamber out. Tabor pivoted and affected a sweeping bow.
“Congratulations, milord, you have officially become an apprentice Spinner.”
Trystan entered the half-timbered warehouse via a side door, passing large wooden shelves and racks. Barrels and crates rested in neat rows. Tabor held the glowstone aloft. In one corner, wooden stairs led up to a loft area. Tabor stopped before the stairs and asked Trystan, “What do spiders regret?”
Trystan thought a moment, recalling the lyrics. “Mercy. They regret mercy.”
“Remember it. ’Tis the greeting we exchange. By this, we know each other.”
The wooden stairway flipped upward, revealing another passage that descended underneath. Tabor led the way down. The staircase dropped into place behind them. They descended a short flight of steps and reached a landing. Tabor stopped and looked up. There, perched on a high shelf, was a small man. He waved jauntily and winked.
“That’s Seth, guarding the door today. You’ll meet him later,” said Tabor. He returned the wave and continued down the stairs. “The Spinners’ main nest is here in Baehnt. We have others throughout the Weldenlands. Baehnt was built on top of another, far older city, destroyed in the War during an earthquake. However, a few comforts survived. We have put them to good use.”
They turned down two more flights of stairs. As they descended the third, Trystan smelled the sea. The stairs opened into a massive landing that gave way to a vaulted chamber. Buttresses fluted into branches like trees. Between these flutes, the vaulting formed lacy and intricate lines that interconnected in the pattern of a spider’s web. Marble floors stretched underneath, while hundreds of glowstones flickered from sconces on every pillar and wall. Rows of tall wooden shelves filled most of the huge expanse, filled with books and scrolls. Individuals moved among the shelves and shadowed arches led out of the large chamber.
“This must honeycomb half the city. The spider spun a home, indeed,” breathed Trystan. “It’s amazing.”
Tabor nodded agreement. “There are tombs as well, at deeper levels. We believe the majisters reinforced this structure with the Song, which is why much of it held up. Portions have collapsed, but we managed to dig out and reclaim many. All of this was once under the protection of the Majisterium. The Conclave mimics their old structure in a way.”
Tabor flashed a smile and beckoned for Trystan to follow. He strode along the edge of the cavernous room to the nearest arch and turned down a wide corridor. They passed several closed doors before he stopped. They entered a sizable room, furnished with thick carpets and overstuffed furniture.
Tabor flopped in an upholstered chair with a sigh and pointed to an overstuffed settee.
“Now, tell me what you have been doing on your trips to Siarad.”
“I’ve been getting to know the guards. High King Tenneth rotates them every few weeks, but I’ve made a few acquaintances and have learned more regarding the Cursed City’s local customs, about the Caprices and their oracles. I’ve been working on my composition as I can. The path from here to Siarad, through the Puzzlewood, grows darker each time I take it. Shadowkin. I feel them even when I can’t see them. I’m Forge-bred yet have little songsteel. If they attack me en masse, I’ll not survive.”
Tabor pursed his lips. “You of all people should have a songsteel blade. They’re ma
de in the Forge.”
Trystan winced. If only you understood. We are desperate. “I have one I do not use. It is irreplaceable. The Forge has been unreliable at best for the past few years. The blades they sell are made at a much higher cost. Pelegor is simply fortunate there have been no massed attacks. Since the steel degrades when used, they’ve focused more on producing arrowheads, throwing knives and spears, less on making swords.
“The last message I received from father said the Forge had gone completely cold.”
“What does that mean?” asked Tabor.
“It means that the songsteel we have is all we will ever have unless the Forge can be relighted. It means Pelegor could be overrun with Shadowborn. Everyone dead. It means the Weldenlands and the world, are likewise vulnerable. Without dewin, without songsteel, we are completely reliant on the Conclave for defense against all the forces of Dissonance. Shadowkin. The other monsters and Shadowborn. Goblins and the like.”
Tabor shuddered. “A grave problem, indeed,” he said.
Trystan nodded. “Father was sending an envoy to the High King and to the Tree to see if any solution could be found or even an explanation given. He believes the songlines have been blocked in some manner. The songlines radiate from the World Tree to send power to the Forge. Its flame cannot be sustained apart from them. A lordling from Perrhil named Gisle de Clelland visited and seems to have influenced his thinking.”
Tabor snorted. “As well he might—de Clelland can be most emphatic and persuasive. He travels the breadth of the world with a small army, hoping to convince any who might listen of his views. High King Tenneth allows it. I believe he enjoys tweaking the arch cantor’s nose.
“Gisle believes the Conclave to be corrupted beyond imagining. He is correct, unfortunately.”
Trystan settled back against the settee. “How do you know that?”