The Frostwoven Crown (Book 4)

by Andrew Hunter

  “No one lives forever, Garrett,” Uncle said, “not even vampires.”

  “But a really long time, right?” Garrett said, “Why don’t you want to do it?”

  Tinjin smiled. “Because I don’t want to change,” he sighed.

  “Into a vampire?”

  “Into someone else,” Tinjin said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Tinjin looked out across the garden to where two gray squirrels were chasing each other around a tree. “When you drink dragon’s blood,” he said, “it changes you forever. You are still yourself inside, but forever after, you will share your body with a part of the dragon’s soul. You take on all its infinite sadness and rage, and it changes you… seldom for the better. It would be as if someone offered you immortality, so long as they could climb inside your skin with you and live there for the rest of your very long life.”

  “But, if you’re going to die anyway, why not?” Garrett asked.

  Uncle Tinjin looked troubled. “Why should I fear death, Garrett?” he asked.

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  Tinjin laughed. “Garrett, I’m an old man,” he said, “Every year, more and more of my life… my dreams and memories… are drawn away into that shadow country where we all must go. So much of me is there already now that I hardly feel alive anymore. I feel like a wraith, a faint reflection of the man I once was. So much that I love is gone beyond that dark door… It waits for me there, patiently, for me to finish my task here and hurry after it. Why would I want to delay that? Why would I sell my soul in some dark bargain that would only keep me from that gentle sleep and cheat my shadows of their beloved Tinjin?”

  “But we love you here!” Garrett said, “… we need you here.”

  Tinjin put his hand on Garrett’s hand. “I’m not dead yet,” he chuckled, “There is still plenty for us to do here, you and I… But, when the time comes, I will go through that door. Then, it may be that I will become one of your shadows, waiting for you in the dream beyond. There is nothing sad in that… nothing terrible… A vampire’s life is like a fruit that hangs too long upon the tree, red and ripe, never falling, never tasted. It hangs there, smooth and unblemished, forever out of reach. It robs the world of its sweetness, and it will never know the fulfillment of surrendering to its purpose, of giving itself completely, one final offering to the world that made it.”

  Garrett said nothing, lost in thought.

  “Come,” Tinjin said, clapping him on the shoulder, “Let us get something to eat… another perfectly good reason not to become a vampire!”

  *******

  Garrett was drying up after his bath when he heard a knock at the front door. He tugged on his underpants, grabbed an old robe, and headed downstairs. Uncle had gone down into the cellar, looking for something, and had not yet reappeared.

  Garrett hurried to the door and opened it. Master Jannis stood on the doorstep, wrapped in a high-collared black overcoat with a broad-brimmed felt hat snugged down low on his brow. Only his pale nose poked out from beneath a pair of dark-lensed eyeglasses. He carried a package, wrapped in red paper beneath one arm, in his other gloved hand, he clutched a bundle of indigo cloth, bound with a gold-threaded cord.

  “Good evening, Garrett,” the vampire said, “May I come in?”

  “Yeah, please,” Garrett said, stepping aside to let Jannis enter.

  Jannis handed Garrett the red package before removing his hat and glasses.

  Garrett looked down at the package, noting the spider-shaped sigil, stamped in black ink in the center of the paper.

  “Go on, open it,” Jannis said.

  Garrett tore one end of the package open and peeled back the red paper to reveal a long-sleeved black kurta and matching pants. The black silk shimmered in the dim light of the entryway, and Garrett ran his fingers over the countless tiny skulls embroidered into the slightly thicker breast panel. Other than that simple ornament, the weave felt as smooth as the icy surface of a winter pond. Garrett rolled the sleeve of the shirt between his fingertips. There were no seams. He looked up at the vampire tailor in amazement.

  “Do you really use spiders to make this?” he asked.

  Jannis unbuttoned his collar to reveal his face. He was grinning. “They do fine work, do they not?”

  “Yeah,” Garrett said, running his fingers over the silk again.

  “Do you like it?” Jannis asked.

  “Yeah… I do!” Garrett said. He set aside the paper wrapping and held out the two pieces to admire them, trying to hide his disappointment at the lack of hood.

  “And this as well,” Jannis said, holding out the bundle of indigo cloth, “I picked it up on the way here. I thought you might like it.”

  Garrett stared at the bundle, uncomprehending.

  “Let me show you,” Jannis said. He shook out the bundle, letting a long streamer of the soft cloth hang to the floor from a central cap of corded cloth in the shape of an inverted bird’s nest. He placed the cap atop Garrett’s head and then proceeded to wrap the long tail of the cap around his neck and shoulders. At last, only Garrett’s face showed through the gap in the front of the headdress. “Now you look every bit the Cashuunite gentleman.”

  Garrett reached up to feel the top of the headdress with his fingers. “What are the holes for?” he asked, feeling the two gaps in the cloth on either side of his forehead.

  “Those are for your horns,” Jannis chuckled, “Most satyrs are quite proud of them.”

  “Oh,” Garrett said, remembering the satyrs he had seen in the Foreign District.

  Jannis sighed. “I know it seems a bit odd, but it’s better than a hood, and people would expect you to remove a hat indoors. Wearing a Cashuunite wrap and dressing in the style of the Zhadeen will give people the impression that you are a great traveler, that you take your style where you find it. It gives you an eccentric charm, and, if they find fault with you at all, it will be for your unconventional dress, and not for your… well, the things that you are trying to cover up.”

  Garrett laughed.

  “A great deal of fashion is simply misdirection,” Jannis said, “If you are worried about being judged for something that you cannot change about yourself, simply give your audience something else to occupy their attention. It is better to be scandalous than to be dismissed. It is better to be remembered than overlooked, and, if you are to be remembered for something, let it be for something you choose.”

  Garrett nodded. “Thanks,” he said.

  Jannis smiled. “Well, I’d better be going,” he said, “Good luck at the party.”

  “Are you going to be there?” Garrett asked.

  Jannis shook his head. “I no longer find such things… amusing,” he said.

  “Well, thanks for this,” Garrett said, hefting the silk clothes in his arms, “and tell the spiders thanks too.”

  “I will,” Jannis laughed, then his face became suddenly serious. His eyes darted toward the hall, and he lowered his voice before speaking again. “Be very careful tonight,” he said, “The Valfrei is a dangerous woman. If she takes notice of you, I would recommend that you make yourself seem as inconsequential as possible.”

  “Huh?” Garrett asked.

  “You do not ever want her to see you as a threat or a potential influence on the young Lady Veranu.” Jannis said, “If she thinks you pose even a remote threat to her purpose in her training of Marla, she will not hesitate to have you put out of her way.”

  “You want me to lie?” Garrett said, “I’m not really very good at that.”

  “That’s fine,” Jannis said, “I wouldn’t even try lying to her myself, and I’m a master. Senzei can sense deception, so you are far better off just avoiding her, but, failing that, simply be the most non-threatening, shallow version of yourself as possible. In her case, it is better to be dismissed than remembered.”

  Garrett nodded, suddenly not looking forward to the evening as much as he had been.

  “And don’t mention your u
ncle… unless it is to save your life,” Jannis said.

  “Save my life?” Garrett almost gagged.

  Jannis gave a nervous chuckle. “Don’t worry,” he said, “Just… enjoy yourself.”

  “Yeah,” Garrett said.

  “Well, I’m off then,” Jannis said, putting on his hat and glasses again.

  “I’m sure Uncle Tinjin will be back any minute,” Garrett said, “I’m not sure what he’s doing, but I can go check on him, if you want to talk to him”

  “No,” Jannis said, shaking his head, “I really must be going… Oh, and one other thing… I wouldn’t mention me in any of your conversations at the embassy either. I’m, well… well, I must be going.”

  A chill breeze scattered a few dead leaves across the threshold as Jannis opened the door and stepped out into the early evening gloom. The vampire seemed to retreat into the shell of his overcoat as he glanced left and right. Then, with four long strides, he was off and around the corner, out of sight.

  Garrett shut the door and bolted it.

  “Let me see it,” Uncle Tinjin’s voice spoke from behind, startling Garrett.

  “Huh? Oh,” Garrett said, turning to lift the black clothes for Tinjin’s inspection.

  Tinjin stepped forward. Powdery dust covered the sleeves and knees of his purple robe, and he carried a dusty leather satchel in one hand. “Very nice,” Tinjin said, studying the spider silk outfit. “The headdress lends it a certain… nobility.”

  “Yeah,” Garrett said, “thanks. You just missed mister Jannis.”

  Tinjin nodded. “I’m afraid I was busy.”

  “What’s that?” Garrett asked, pointing at the dusty satchel.

  Tinjin lifted the case, brushing away the powder from the cracked black leather with one hand. “Something that I am quite relieved the Templars did not find when they searched the house,” he said, “Go and get dressed, and I will tell you more before you leave.”

  Garrett nodded sharply and ran upstairs with his new clothes tucked under his arm. Caleb was in Garrett’s room, standing in front of the smudgy mirror, motionless. The zombie slowly turned his head to look at Garrett as he entered the room, and his milky eyes went wide for a moment. Then his usual, unfocused gaze returned, and he resumed his silent watch over Garrett’s looking glass.

  Garrett removed the headdress with some difficulty and laid it in a heap on the bed. He peeled off his robe and dressed himself in the black silk kurta and pants. The smooth fabric caressed his skin like warm milk. He tried not to think about where it had come from, but was grateful for the comfortable fit.

  He looked down at his bare feet, frowning. He wrenched open the door of the old wardrobe, and it hung crookedly on the loose hinge, damaged by the Templar’s looting. He stared at the muddy pile of boots at the bottom of the cabinet and shook his head. At last, he reached into the back corner and hauled out the red Chadiri boots that he had worn back from the campaign in the swamps. They never fit quite right and had seen little use since he had gotten his things back from the auction house, but they were, at least, clean.

  He sat down on his chair and pulled on his thickest pair of wool socks, and they seemed to make up the difference between the size of Garrett’s feet and those of whatever fallen soldier had given up the boots. A cold thought ran through Garrett’s mind then, that the young man who had worn these boots before might still be alive, if it weren’t for him. How many people had died in the swamp because of what Garrett had done?

  He shook his head and stamped his heel into place on the floor. If it weren’t for men like the Chadiri, Garrett’s family would still be alive. He would waste no pity on the war priests. If Garrett hadn’t been there, his friends might be dead now too, and these boots would have been marching, even now, to conquer the city and put everyone here to the sword.

  He stood up, admiring the way the toes of his red boots peeked out from beneath the black silk of his trouser legs. He thought about tucking them in, but decided that he preferred the black to the red.

  Garrett retrieved the headdress from the bed and looked it over, trying to make sense of it. He walked over to the mirror and nudged Caleb aside.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “I gotta remember how to do this.”

  Garrett put the bowl of the cap on top of his head and then fumbled with the long streamer of indigo cloth, trying to wrap it back around his face and neck. After a few moments of trying, he had only managed to make himself look like a heap of dirty laundry with eyes. He groaned and unwrapped it, trying again.

  Then he felt someone tug the wrap from his fingers, and he saw that Caleb was standing behind him. The zombie reached up to straighten the cap atop Garrett’s head and pulled the wrap out into a long loop over one arm. Garrett started to turn to look at him, but Caleb put his hand on Garrett’s shoulder, facing him to the mirror again.

  Caleb looked at the mirror over Garrett’s shoulder, his eyes distant. He lifted the wrap and pulled it into a snug band across Garrett’s forehead and around again behind and beneath his chin, as though recalling some half-forgotten ritual.

  “You know how to do this?” Garrett asked.

  Caleb made no sound, seemingly lost in a trance. He wrapped the fabric again and again around Garrett’s head, snug, but not too tight. Then he was done, and Garrett’s eyes looked back from the mirror through a thin slit in the indigo wrapping.

  “Wow!” Garrett said, his voice slightly muffled, “Thanks.”

  The hint of a smile played at the corner of Caleb’s lips. He slowly reached up and pulled down the swath of fabric covering Garrett’s mouth and nose, revealing the rest of his face.

  Garrett grinned. “That’s not something you remember from being human, is it?” he asked, turning to face the zombie, “You’re starting to remember being a satyr now too, aren’t you?”

  Caleb looked confused. His fingers went to his forehead, as though searching for horns there. He took a step back, stumbling on his human legs before catching himself and standing straight again. The zombie stared at the mirror once more, his self-awareness seeming to drain away into the blank look of the mindless undead.

  “Thank you,” Garrett said, patting Caleb’s shoulder, “and keep working on it. It’ll come back to you.”

  Caleb moaned softly in response, but his eyes never left the pale refection in the cloudy mirror.

  Garrett headed downstairs, finding Uncle in his study. The old man looked up from a book as Garrett entered the room. He smiled.

  “You look very nice, Garrett,” Uncle Tinjin said.

  “Thanks,” Garrett said, “Caleb helped with the hat.”

  Uncle’s eyes narrowed, but then he shrugged and closed the book he was holding. Garrett caught a glimpse of a hexagonal, blood-red rune graven into the black leather of the book’s cover before Uncle placed it inside a small wooden coffer and closed the lid. The rune looked somehow familiar, though Garrett could not recall where he had seen it before.

  “What is that?” Garrett asked.

  “It is a gift,” Uncle Tinjin answered, “for Mrs. Veranu… and Marla.” The old man turned his attention to a half-finished letter that he was writing, his quill pen scratching out long, looping sigils that Garrett did not recognize.

  “What language is that?” Garrett asked, leaning forward to get a closer look.

  “It is considered rude to read over another person’s shoulder,” Tinjin muttered, “But, since you wish to know, it is Laebran.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Laebran were a race of seafaring folk,” Tinjin explained, “Unfortunately, their island was destroyed many years ago, and most of them perished with it. Very few people alive today can read their language.”

  “And you’re writing to someone who can?” Garrett asked.

  “Marla’s mother,” Tinjin said, “She may be the last of that race still alive in the world. I do not know. She and I have always found it useful to correspond in her native tongue. Fewer chances of the information falling
under a casual glance that way.”

  “What’s it say?” Garrett asked.

  Tinjin lifted his head, frowning. “If I wanted everyone to know that, I wouldn’t have taken the trouble of writing it in a dead language,” he said.

  “Sorry,” Garrett said.

  Tinjin smiled. He cleaned his pen and set it aside, letting the ink dry. “I am sending this book and letter with you tonight,” he said, “It is better that it come to the Veranus through you and not me. You must make no mention of what it is or who sent it. Simply give it to Mrs. Veranu directly. Tell her it is a gift. If you see only Marla, let her know that it must go to her mother right away, but make no mention of the contents of the box.”

  “But you said it was for Marla too,” Garrett said.

  “It is,” Tinjin said, “but it must come to her through her mother, when her mother wishes it.”

  “Why can’t she know what it is?”

  “It is her mother’s right to choose the way in which she receives it,” Tinjin said.

  Garrett looked at the little wooden box. “Then why were you hiding it until now?” he asked.

  “Because that is what Marla’s father wished,” Tinjin said.

  Garrett fell silent, recalling the crimson rune he had seen in the portrait of Marla’s father. The same rune on the cover of the black book... Drinker of Sorrow.

  Uncle Tinjin sealed the letter and handed it and the box to Garrett. “Have a good time tonight, Garrett,” he said, “Look not to the pillars of inexorable fate for true meaning in this world, but rather to the little moments of happiness that lie between them.”

  Chapter Four

  Garrett stopped by a small bakery on his way to the Thrinnian Embassy. Marla had warned him that he might want to eat before he came, so he wolfed down a couple of cinnamon rolls as he hurried past all the shops doing their last business of the evening before Curfew. He dusted the crumbs off as best he could, one-handed, since he held Uncle’s package for Mrs. Veranu in the other. He wore a hooded overcoat over his party clothes, but had chosen to leave his satchel behind, with only a handful of coins tucked inside a belt pouch beneath his kurta to pay for expenses. He hoped he wouldn’t need any essence tonight. It was just a party after all.