Lady of Drith

by Chad Huskins

  Drea put on a brave face for her friend. “It isn’t so bad. I only fear for you. Tell me, how is your family, and your work?”

  “Work is the same. I continue to be underappreciated. If it wasn’t for what I and the tender workers do, the pipes would fail and there would be a backup of such pressure it would probably destroy half the Great Generator.”

  “I hate thinking of you in such danger,” Drea said. “Does your father and brother do well with you gone so often? Do they need anything? I would love to help, if I can.”

  “Father’s health waxes and wanes like the phases of the moons. And on top of my regular work, I now have to clean for both he and my brother, and I—what? Why are you laughing?”

  Drea fought to hold back the snicker, but it had slipped out. “Clean?” Drea said. “You?”

  Thryis looked indignant. “Yes, and what of it?”

  “Nothing, I just…I just never imagined you with a mop!”

  “Well, things have changed a lot, haven’t they? You went off to marry an Imperator and I learned to clean,” she said. “We’ve all suffered.”

  This time, Drea couldn’t contain it. She busted out laughing, and Thryis obviously bit her tongue to keep from doing the same. It was her way to maintain a taciturn air, especially when others were laughing at her.

  “Oh, Thryis,” she said, “look at us. Did you ever think that we would end up like this? This wasn’t how our adulthoods were meant to be. I’m among total strangers now, and you…you…” Drea reached out to touch Thryis’s rough hands. “Your poor hands.”

  Thryis sighed and waved off her pity. “I didn’t come here to talk about portraits and callused hands,” she said. Both her tone and her face now seemed most severe. “I came here to tell you of an event most alarming. This happened to me only yesterday. Drea luv…I saw two men killed in the street.”

  “Gods below!” Drea gasped.

  “It happened right in front of me. Well, behind me, actually.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Another impatient wave. “Of course, of course. But these men…they molested me on my way to the Great Generator, and they were shot dead by a woman as I left.”

  She must be playing games with me. Drea smiled. “A woman?”

  “Yes! I tell you, a woman clad all in black, and carrying a shortpistol. She gave me something, and then identified herself as Lady Blackveil. Have you ever heard of such a woman?”

  Drea suddenly recalled the message that Izyru Omp had whispered to her. And there was the song she had heard on Street of Stone. “I have heard the name, only two days ago on the Street of Stone. The slaves working the breakrock machines were singing about her.”

  Thryis nodded. “Yes. I’ve also heard these songs recently sung by the slaves of the Collegium.”

  “Where do the songs come from?”

  “Father says from traveling bards, who bring the songs from other bards in other cities. He says that people sing of her like some dark legend, a folk hero.”

  “That’s strange. Why would some woman claim to be her?”

  “I don’t know. But my father told me not to come here and give you the message. He’s afraid of what she is.”

  Drea shook her head. “I don’t understand. What message?”

  Thryis rummaged into a bag she had slung over her shoulder. From it, she produced a strange ceramic container, which Drea recognized at once. Such containers had sometimes been used by her father when sending an important document to faraway places—the container would keep scrolls from getting wet or seeing other damage in their long journeys.

  “The woman gave me this,” Thryis said, passing it over. “And she said it was for you.”

  Drea felt the weight of it, then looked up at her friend. “For me?”

  “Yes. Father and I tried to open it, but it’s no use. Lady Blackveil said it would only open for you. And she also said something about keeping the ‘old man’ close? Do you know what that means?”

  “I can’t even guess.” Drea now looked at the container mistrustfully, as if there might be poisonous vipers hidden within.

  “She said she wanted to meet you in one week in the Forum, near the statue of your family’s sigil, at the Hour of the Crow.”

  “But why?”

  “She didn’t say. But if you can indeed open the container, Drea…well, perhaps it will give us some clue?”

  Drea looked back at the thing in her hand like it emanated a curse. She shook it. It was heavy, and something inside was rattling around. She felt around its top and found the small clasp keeping it shut. She pulled on it, and it came open. Drea walked over to her bed, and Thryis followed her. She dumped the contents onto the mattress.

  A rolled-up scroll no bigger than her thumb fell out, along with some large object wrapped in white linen.

  “What is that?” Thryis whispered.

  Moving carefully, with trepidation in her heart, Drea peeled back the layers of linen. She gasped. Beneath it, to her astonishment, was a large pistol, one made of some blackened steel and with odd protrusions hanging beside its bullet cylinder. Along its barrel were what looked like kudrai runes—glyphs.

  Where have I seen glyphs like this before? Then she remembered. They looked rather like the ones she’d seen etched into Lord Hiss’s armor. Yes, very similar.

  Across the gun’s blackened, sandalwood grip, there was a circle of bronze. And, etched into that bronze, were three words.

  The Old Man

  Drea’s heart filled with darkness. She couldn’t say why, but she felt like she was looking at something she ought not to be. There was something about the gun that resonated with her, like some childish fear returning from a long forgotten dream, or else some warning being given from the gods. And Drea heard…voices? Screams? Yes…yes, almost certainly there were screams. Coming from somewhere far away. Voices permeating the walls of the cottage itself, and dripping off the inside of her brain.

  “Do you hear that?” Drea whispered.

  Thryis took Drea’s hands and pulled her close. “Yes. Drea, my blessed goddess…I fear I was wrong again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I misled you when I said you ought to surrender to the Syphenus, and now I’ve exposed you to a cursed object.”

  Drea didn’t want to touch the gun. She didn’t even want to see it ever again. She knew that much at once. The Old Man was not of this world, and no mortal was meant to touch it. She knew it. In the marrow of her bones, she knew it. As sure as she knew of her mother’s love, she knew it.

  Drea listened to those screams—they sounded like they came from some long tunnel. The people they belonged to sounded like they were in agony.

  Eventually, thankfully, the screams subsided, and Drea made her way slowly back over to the bed and lifted up the scroll. She unrolled it, and they read it together. It said,

  Guard yourself, and know that you have come to live in a house of vipers. The Old Man is powerful, so be careful when and where you use it. Your father’s death was no accident, and your mother did not kill herself. I have proof. Come to me, Drea Kalder.

  There was no signature.

  For a long while, Drea just sat with those words. She reread them several times, imbibing every last bit, making sure she hadn’t misunderstood.

  Father’s death? No accident? What does she mean? And my mother…of course she killed herself, I’m the one who found her! I found the blade lying beside her, and the note she left was in her handwriting. I’d know her writing anywhere.

  And yet, Drea found the message compelling. And every time she reread it, she felt the familiar Kalderus rage building within her. In fact, her hands were quivering, just like that day when the boy had shoved her to the ground, and her hand had found the knife…

  Drea shook the memory away, but recalled the words from Izyru Omp, the wizened old man at the offices of the Steamwright Collegium. When she extends the offer to meet, you should accept, those had been his exact words.<
br />
  Is this what he meant? If so, how did he know this woman was going to reach out to me?

  “When did you say she wanted to meet with me?” Drea asked.

  “A week from yesterday,” Thryis said. “At the Hour of the Crow.”

  “That’s the middle of the night. Why so late? And why can she not just pay me a visit?”

  “Perhaps because of something my father said.”

  Drea looked at her. “And what’s that?”

  Thryis hesitated, then spoke in a whisper, as if saying the woman’s name too loud might summon her. “Lady Blackveil is a fell-sorceress, he says. Gifted in the art of Alchemy, and well versed in the handling of pistols. Apparently, she has some grievance with House Syphen from many years ago. She hounded them, she killed many of them, but Father said he’d heard that the Syphenus hunted her down and killed her in some faraway place.”

  Drea reached out to pick up the pistol. The Old Man, as it was called, was heavy. Very heavy. Not only that, but it was surprisingly warm, as though it had been laying by a fire all this time. She hefted it a few times, then turned and pointed it at her own reflection in a silvered mirror hung from the wall. Her hand quivered just trying to sustain her grip.

  Your father’s death was no accident, and your mother did not kill herself. I have proof. Come to me, Drea Kalder.

  She lowered the weapon, and looked at Thryis. “Will you go with me?”

  “Of course. Where?”

  “To meet with her.”

  Thryis’s eyes went wide. “Drea, you can’t—”

  “You wouldn’t have brought this message to me if you didn’t think I had a right to choose.”

  “But I had no idea what was inside that container!”

  “And now that you do, you know I can’t simply ignore this. You read the letter.”

  “Yes, but this…this…this…” Thryis searched for the words. “This is a terrible idea, is all I can say.”

  “Before Halorax and Fritt almost convinced me to leave Drith forever, you said that it was my choice. Do you remember?”

  Thryis looked indignant. “Of course, I remember. I never forget a thing, you know that. Smack your bottom!”

  “Then it’s my choice now, too, Thryis.”

  Thryis stomped her foot and growled, as if she intended to get the attention of a rude and stubborn child, but Drea stood her ground. For a moment her friend fumed, but then she sighed and said, “Gods above and below, the next time I try to meddle in your affairs, remind me to slam my head in a door first.”

  “You couldn’t hold your tongue if you were paid,” Drea said.

  “And I must also say that I disapprove of this new independent streak of yours. I dislike it when you go against me.”

  Drea smiled. “I know you do.” She reached out and took Thryis’s hands, pulled her close. She kissed her cheeks, and said, “Will you go with me?”

  Thryis’s face softened, yet somehow she looked more insulted than ever. “Wherever Drea Kalder goes, Thryis Ardenk goes.”

  Drea smiled, and nodded. “Every fool knows this.”

  Hand in hand, they walked across the lawn and into the foyer, where Drea escorted Thryis out. She never told Thryis about what she had heard transpire between Lords Syphen and Dustrang. That would only worry her to no end, and she’d never leave me alone here. The guards would have to drag her away, kicking and screaming.

  For the time being, Lord Dustrang’s wish to kill her, and Lord Syphen’s plans to make her into a “broodmare,” was her secret to keep.

  After she saw her friend away, Drea made sure to hide both the Old Man and its container. She wrapped them in some of her shifts—slaves typically stayed away from the nightclothes of noblewomen—and she stuffed them under her bed. The scroll she burned in the fireplace, for she had already memorized its contents.

  I have proof. Come to me, Drea Kalder.

  That night, while watching the first snowflakes of the season come tumbling down from the sky, illuminated by Hirgus and Gaidus, Drea took out a sketch journal and began working on a few items that she believed would make Taja Osween happy.

  However, the sleepier she became, the more her hand took on a life of its own, and before she passed into slumber, she found she had done a workup of the Old Man. That she mostly certainly would not show Osween tomorrow.

  In her dreams, she was running from something. She didn’t know what it was, but it was certainly lethal, and it was just on her heels. Drea ran until she fell over a cliff. She fell into darkness for an eternity.

  When eternity ended, she landed on a dark street. It was familiar to her, and frightening. No, she thought. No, not here.

  The dreams were intent on showing her this moment.

  She saw the shouting match.

  The boy standing in front of her, shoving her.

  He kicked her while she was down.

  Thryis tried to pull the boy off of Drea, but he smacked her hard, and she fell to the ground.

  Drea saw her own hand going for the knife…

  …the boy rushed at her…

  …and before she knew it, she had plunged the blade into the boy’s belly—

  Suddenly, light was all around her. She was now in the field of whispering grass, with the sun shining on her. The Charred Temple was directly ahead of her. The Man was up in his balcony, smiling down on her.

  “What do you want?” Drea woke up shouting the question. She could hear the sparrows chirping in the eaves outside her window.

  It was morning.

  She rose out of bed and walked over to the window to look at the darkness fading from the sky. The dream was still fresh in her mind, and the fact that the Charred Temple wouldn’t leave her dreams alone made her think, Am I losing my mind?

  Drea looked at the picture she had drawn of the Old Man. She remembered the words in the note. Your father’s death was no accident, and your mother did not kill herself.

  Was it true? If so, what did it mean?

  The allure was too great.

  Unconsciously, Drea had begun fondling the signet ring on her finger. “Kalder does not bend,” she whispered, looking down at it.

  On the bedside table was The Way. She walked over to it, cracked its spine, and started reading on the Third Precept. She figured she could squeeze in a bit of studying before she reported to Taja Osween.

  : Truth and a Festival:

  The Festival of Hyra was a weeklong celebration that came twice in the year—once in spring, and again in autumn. Hyra was the goddess of change, and the priests said that she was known to take the form of a human twice a year to walk among mortals. All doors and gates were flung open to welcome her.

  The Iron Gate, the largest gate of Drith’s protective walls, was also left open. All homes, businesses, and temples had their doors propped open, whether morning or night, so as to allow Hyra admittance whenever she pleased. It was considered a great blessing to have Hyra pass through one’s home, and every year a few people claimed that a woman dressed in white passed through their home to share a fire.

  Leaving doors open in the spring was all well and good, but during the winter it meant letting chill winds flutter in through the house. Harsh winds were said to be mischievous vehl, and they loved to scatter clothes and papers of those homeowners that neglected to keep things anchored.

  This particular Festival had some of the most bitterly cold winds anyone could remember. Great roaring fires were stoked around the clock by slaves in the house of the Syphenus.

  Since her visit to the Forum with Daedron and her new-sisters, Drea had come to view the slaves in her home with renewed interest. They raced around like insects, only not so noisy. Indeed, the goal of a slave’s life was to maximize the comfort and convenience of their masters while minimizing the sense of their presence. Fengin was the only one she had built any kind of rapport with, and he seemed to feel uncomfortable every time she thanked him for some small service.

  Four days before the date
that Lady Blackveil told her to meet, Drea sat at her open window bundled in furs, watching the slaves race across the yards on their errands.

  They are to be fast, but never seen, she scribbled into her journal, which she was now using for more than just simple sketches. They have to be effective in all things, they must be organized, and they must never, ever speak unless spoken to.

  I confess my ignorance of their persistence and their ability to remain invisible. My father kept some slaves in our house, but he always granted them their freedom. And as freedmen, they almost always returned to his service to be paid fair wages.

  Now that she had picked up on this, Drea couldn’t let it go. She became more observant of them. She started drawing them going about their chores. She recorded their even, unreadable faces, and wondered what must be going on inside their minds.

  At some point, she had an epiphany. I recognize in them something familiar, she wrote. I see the eyes of indifference. They’ve given up. They’re resigned to their station in life, exactly as I had when my father told me I was to be Fedarus’s wife.

  It was strange to suddenly see what had been staring her in the face all along.

  Looking at them makes me wonder how much else I miss that’s staring me in the face, she wrote. I find myself trying to put them at ease, especially Fengin, who attends to my cottage whenever I’m away.

  As Drea watched the slaves, she noticed a scratching noise from the eaves just above her window.

  There are sparrows making a nest above my window. I’ve noticed birds digging in all over the city. The winds are getting stronger, they seek safety in numbers…

  There came a knock at her open door, and she snapped her journal shut. She turned to greet her visitor, and found her governess standing there, bundled in her own furs and carrying a large burlap bag of books and supplies.

  “Good morning, Taja,” Drea said.

  “Are you prepared, girl?” Osween asked, sweeping in without waiting for an answer.

  “Of course, Taja.”

  Drea’s lessons with Osween took place inside her cottage, for it had become far too cold and windy outside to practice her arts.