Shards of Time

by Lynn Flewelling

  “There’s the old city,” Dorin said, pointing at the hills ahead.

  Seregil shaded his eyes. Menosi was just visible in the distance, in a broad, shallow valley up in the hills. Its distant walls glowed white as bleached bone in the morning light, and it appeared from here as if it were floating above the pale spring green blanketing the gently rolling hills.

  “It looks like the river flows down from the city,” said Micum. “Are there springs there?”

  “Some of the sweetest on the island, my lord.”

  “I believe menosi means ‘clear water,’ ” said Seregil.

  “You’re well versed in ancient Konic, my lord,” Dorin replied in surprise.

  Alec laughed. “He’s a walking compendium of languages.”

  “The advantage of a long life,” Seregil said, looking sidelong at the steward. The man made no response.

  They crossed a mossy stone bridge over the same rushing river that flowed down from Menosi, and then came at last to their new holding up a small rise overlooking the distant harbor.

  As much as Seregil had resisted the idea of the title, he was instantly taken with the place. The main house was built of local granite with a steeply pitched slate roof bristling with chimneys. It was a huge, rambling, two-story place built in a U shape facing a very large, almost perfectly round pond. A thick profusion of wild white roses crowded around one side of it, and cattails and rushes grew in the shallows.

  “Is it the pond that gives the estate its name?” Alec asked.

  “It is, my lord,” Dorin replied. “On a clear night the full moon looks big as a millstone on its surface. And the roses are white, rather than the usual pink, as you see. Quite rare on the island, and lovely in the moonlight.”

  More ducks and several stately wild swans glided in pairs across the water, and as Seregil watched some sort of large fish jumped.

  “That looked like a trout,” said Alec.

  “It’s well stocked, my lord. Good fishing in that pond, and a tasty catch, if you care for fish. The cook is ’faie, and she does them up in meal, herbs, and butter.”

  “Etrai son sela!” Seregil exclaimed. A flavor from home.

  Dorin frowned slightly. “I’m sorry, my lord. I don’t understand you.”

  Seregil laughed. “I beg your pardon. I was overcome by nostalgia. That’s how my sisters cooked the fish I brought home.”

  Meadows stretched away behind the house, and the farm roads that ran through it were edged with wildflowers. Colorful patches of red starbrush grew in the ditches. There were small cottages and large barns up there, and large herds of horses grazing and gamboling across the gentle green slope.

  “Did the former owner bring in those horses from Aurënen?” asked Micum.

  “No, my lord. Those are island horses, bred from the time of the first settlers. There’s no finer on the island.”

  “I’ve a mind to ride up there and see them. Seregil, do you mind?”

  “Not at all. See if you can find the herd master.”

  Micum nodded and galloped away up one of the farm roads.

  “How old is the house?” asked Alec.

  “Twelve centuries, my lord.”

  Seregil nodded. “Some of the last Hierophants could have visited here.”

  “Indeed they did, my lord. We had various articles given as guest gifts. Sadly, the previous owner carried them off.”

  Inside the house its original style had been largely preserved; the stone-walled rooms were decorated with wooden vaulting and carvings of marvelous beasts. Some were recognizable as dragons, stags, rabbits, and the like, but others were strange and alien, like the ones they’d seen at the governor’s house. One had the body of a catamount, but with a woman’s head, its face twisted into a leer. Another was a horned serpent with a bull caught in its muscular coils. At the peak of the vaulted ceiling, frozen in time-blackened wood, three naked winged women were caught in midflight holding the long chains of gold and crystal hanging lamps. Sunlight streamed in through round windows with bull’s-eye-glass panes. Everything was polished and dusted to perfection. The air smelled of polishing oil, beeswax, and the sea.

  At the back of the room stood three ’faie women—two old and careworn, the third much younger and rather pretty—and a ya’shel boy who looked about Mika’s age. All of them bore the marks of collars around their necks.

  “Your servants, my lord,” Dorin said. “This is the housekeeper, Rose.”

  The eldest woman curtsied. “My lords, welcome.”

  “Alda, the cook.”

  The other older woman curtsied.

  “And this is Willow, the chambermaid, and her son Boot.”

  “Are those your true names?” asked Seregil, aghast.

  For a moment no one said a word, then Rose stepped forward. “No, my lord, not for my sister and me. They were given us by our first master in Plenimar when we were first sold as girls. But we still remember the names our parents gave us.”

  “What are your true names?”

  “Khiria ä Mariel Ronia Ylanti, my lord,” the housekeeper replied. She gave no clan name.

  “And you?” he asked the cook.

  The words came awkwardly, dusty with disuse. “Sabriel ä Mariel Ronia Ylanti.”

  “Sabriel and Khiria.” Seregil bowed to them, then turned his attention to the younger woman and her son. “Willow is a pretty name. Will you keep it or would you take a ’faie name?”

  Willow gaped at him. “I’ve never been called anything else, my lord, and I don’t know who my mother was. I’d just as soon keep my own name, but if you could find something for my son, I’d be obliged.”

  Seregil walked over to the boy and bent down to shake his hand. “What’s your favorite thing?”

  The boy looked at him shyly. “I like the pond out front, my lord. I catch frogs there and fish sometimes, when I’m free to play.”

  “It’s a special place for you, somewhere you’ve been happy.”

  The boy nodded.

  “Well, now you can play there anytime you like. In our language, vhadä means ‘spring’ or ‘pool.’ What do you think of that?”

  “Vhadä?” The boy grinned, showing off a missing front tooth. “It’s lots better than Boot!”

  “Do you approve, Mistress Willow?”

  “I like it, my lord.”

  “Then Vhadä of Kouros you are, son of Willow of Kouros.” He turned to the others. “None of you is a slave. Please consider this your clan house, if you wish to stay, and that of any other ’faie or ya’shel who comes here. My hope is that you will live here in ease and dignity.”

  “Ease!” Sabriel scoffed, then gave him a fond smile. “What would I do with myself without my kitchen?”

  “And someone has to see to the housekeeping,” said Khiria.

  “All right, then, but think of it as doing for your family. My name is Seregil í Korit and this is my talímenios, Alec í Amasa.”

  “Are you both from Aurënen, Baron Seregil eee—um—?” Vhadä stopped, brow furrowed as he tried to puzzle out the rest.

  “Just me, but Alec has been there,” Seregil told him. “We’ll tell you tales of dragons and pories sometime if you’re very good.”

  Vhadä grinned and gave them a nodding bow.

  “Perhaps you’d like to see the rest of the house, my lords?” said Dorin, who’d watched all this with a hint of disapproval.

  “You don’t have to call us ‘my lord’ anymore,” said Alec.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to maintain the proper forms of address,” the man replied stiffly. “I was not a slave, but a valued servant of the house, and I hope to remain so.”

  Seregil clapped him on the shoulder and felt him flinch. “Then I guess we must remain lords. Please, show us the house.”

  “As you can see, this is the main hall, preserved very much as it was originally constructed, as is the rest of the house.”

  “It’s beautiful!” Alec exclaimed, turning slowly to
take it all in.

  “I hope you will be very happy here, my lord,” said Dorin.

  “We won’t be here often,” Seregil informed him. “However, I’ve had word given out that this house is to be a refuge for any Aurënfaie and ya’shel who wish to live here. Please make them welcome and give them a room.”

  “I—of course, my lord.” The man’s smile was forced.

  “Very good. Mistress Sabriel, please, would you make up a cold lunch, and dinner for tonight? I’d like to test your abilities.”

  The old woman gave him a warm smile and strode away with Vhadä at her heels.

  Dorin took them around the first floor first, showing them the ornate dining rooms—one large for company, one small for family—several drawing and retiring rooms, a large formal parlor, and a library with a few tattered volumes on the shelves.

  “The previous owner had a substantial collection, but he took most it with him, as well,” Dorin explained. “All that remains are some papers and histories regarding the manor.”

  “A pity, that,” said Seregil. “I’d like to see the kitchen, as well.”

  Dorin gave him an impassive nod and led them to the back of the house, where Sabriel and Vhadä were already at work on the meal. A dozen plump trout lay gutted on the chopping block. Both servants looked very happy at their work.

  “Are these all the household?” asked Alec. “It seems a small staff for such a large house.”

  “There were others,” Dorin told him. “Some went away with the Plenimaran lord. Others—slaves—ran away. I don’t know what’s become of them.”

  “Hopefully they’ll return,” said Seregil. “And now the upstairs?”

  The second floor had enough bedroom suites to host a royal delegation, though most were unfurnished and closed up.

  “The master suite, my lords,” Dorian said, swinging open an ornate set of doors into a sun-washed room the size of the upper floor at the Stag and Otter. It was lavishly appointed, with carved cornices, fine tapestries, blue velvet hangings with silver bullion edging on the massive bed, and some excellent Aurënfaie statuary. Evidently their predecessor had been a man of good taste. Two tall windows and smaller side ones overlooked the pond and the sea beyond. Another equally impressive suite with red hangings had been prepared for Micum.

  “This is very fine. Very fine, indeed, Dorin,” said Seregil. “I’m most impressed. But where are the baths?”

  “There is a separate bathhouse adjoining the house, my lord, built several hundred years ago. Before that, tubs in the kitchen were used.”

  Alec chuckled. “You’d better show him. If the baths aren’t up to his standards, we may have to build new ones.”

  The bathhouse, reached by a long covered walkway, was as finely appointed as the rest of the house, with separate rooms for men and women, heated stone floors, its own spring, a special furnace to heat the water, and tubs carved from blocks of polished basalt. The room was outfitted with fretted golden lamps, clothing racks and bath stands carved from fragrant wood, and various other luxuries.

  “Even you must approve of this, talí.” Alec laughed as Seregil walked around, inspecting it.

  Seregil nodded. “Beautiful, immaculate, and properly heated. Are the other members of the household allowed to use it?”

  “Certainly not, my lord!”

  “That changes today, Dorin. Aurënfaie are by nature fastidious.”

  “But my lord—!”

  Seregil raised an imperious eyebrow. The steward shut his mouth and bowed.

  They enjoyed Sabriel’s cold lunch, then rode out to inspect the herds and look for Micum.

  He found them, accompanied by a sandy-haired, bearded man who appeared to be about the same age. He was mounted on a handsome bay mare. She was a few hands taller than the ’faie horses, but had the same fine lines and arched neck.

  “Here they are,” Micum said as they reined in. “Master Carpis, these are your new lords, Baron Seregil and Baron Alec.”

  “Honored to meet you, my lords,” Carpis said with the thick burr of a Kouros accent.

  “If your mount is an example of the rest of the herds, then they must be fine indeed,” said Alec.

  “She is, my lord,” Carpis replied, rubbing the mare’s neck. “You’ve the best horses on the island and there’s none who’d dispute it.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Micum agreed. “We’ll be doing some horse trading before I head for home.”

  In addition to Carpis, the herds were tended by servants who lived in stone cottages scattered among the fields. All of them were islanders who, like Dorin, had served the estate for generations. Carpis and his family had a cozy house next to a stream.

  The horses were magnificent, robust and tall, with varied markings from golden with pale manes to parti-colored ones of all colors.

  They spent the afternoon exploring the boundaries, then turned back to the house for dinner.

  “I like it already,” said Alec. “The house and the horses. I think I’d like to spend some time here, Seregil.”

  “I have to agree.”

  “You wouldn’t like it half so well if it was an orchard, rather than horses,” Micum said with a grin.

  When they got back to the house they found seven former slaves waiting for them in the kitchen, three of whom had been servants in the house before the emancipation: two gardeners and a maid. The other four included a man who’d been a weaver in town and a woman with her two teenage daughters, one of whom was visibly pregnant.

  “We’d like to come back, if your lordships will take us,” said the maid, a middle-aged woman named Yrani.

  “As I’ve told the others, you can live here as family,” said Seregil.

  “We’ve been talking with Mistress Rose—Khiria, that is, and the others, my lord,” Yrani replied. “If you’ll accept our service, we’d like to keep at our occupations and be useful.”

  “Of course. Choose whatever rooms you’d like and make yourself at home.”

  “If you have a little cottage, I’d be much obliged to set up and make cloth for the house,” said Anri, the weaver.

  “And we’ve got rooms in the servants’ wing, my lords,” the gardeners told him.

  “Settle in as you like. Master Anri, consult with the housekeeper or my steward on the cottage. I’m sure we can find you something.”

  The seven thanked them profusely, and Seregil thought he saw the not-pregnant daughter making long eyes at Alec, who was, as usual, oblivious.

  The evening meal was simple but satisfying. Spring greens and vinegar, pan-fried trout with wild sage and thyme, a casserole of winter vegetables from the root cellar, and jam tarts. The servants chose to eat in the kitchen and Seregil left them to it.

  He sat up late with Alec and Micum in the small dining room over wine and nuts.

  “That steward of yours is an odd character,” Micum said, taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch. “I don’t think he cares for your plan to make this house a refuge for displaced ’faie.”

  “He’s a ya’shel himself,” Seregil mused. “That must have been a difficult thing for him, under the occupation—a mixed blood but not a slave. Did you see the look on his face when he realized that one of his new masters was a pure-blooded ’faie?”

  “I did,” said Alec. “Why would he hate other ’faie?”

  “I suspect someone beat the shame of it into him from an early age. For all his life, it was slave blood.”

  “The rest of the household is nice, though, and they seem to like us. How many people can the house accommodate, I wonder?”

  “As many as come to us,” Seregil replied.

  “You’ll have your own village here in no time,” said Micum, puffing away on his pipe.

  “That’s my hope.”

  Micum blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. “Are you anxious to go off hunting for ghosts?”

  “Murderers,” said Seregil, reaching for the wine.

  Micum smiled. “I think I’d like to mee
t up with a ghost or two. Friendly ones, anyway.”

  “You can have my share,” said Alec.

  They lit the candles Dorin had left for them and made their way upstairs to their quarters.

  As Alec stepped into their room, he was surprised to find it dark and damp, with the smell of guttered candles heavy on the chill air. The small side-hinged window near the bed had been left open, and the sea mist had found its way in. He pushed it shut and latched it.

  The bed had been turned back for them and Seregil ran a hand over the sheets. “Damp, damn it. Who in Bilairy’s name lays a fire and leaves the window open?”

  There were no fire chips to be found, so Alec made do with flint and steel over the wood that had been laid in the fireplace. He struck sparks half a dozen times before the tinder caught, and even though the kindling was cedar, it was slow to burn. He blew gently on the flames, trying to coax them higher. The wood caught at last, but the fire was dull and smoky.

  “What’s wrong?” Seregil asked from the couch, where he’d curled up in his cloak.

  “The wood must be damp, too.” Alec joined him, legs stretched out toward the hearth. Without much hope of the bed drying anytime soon, he pulled his cloak over him and went to sleep.

  A loud knocking woke them both sometime later. The fickle fire had burned down to embers, the candles were guttering, and the room was colder and damper than ever. The knocking came again, sounding from somewhere down the corridor. It was loud, even at a distance, more of a dull pounding.

  Alec went to the door and peered out.

  Micum was at his door across the hall. “Is there a fire?”

  “That’s what I was wondering.”

  They walked down the corridor together, toward the sound. Many of the night lamps had gone out.

  “Who’s there?” Alec called softly, not wanting to wake the whole house. “Dorin, is that you?”

  There was no answer, but the knocking stopped and they both heard someone walking off in the other direction, toward the stairway.