by John Dalmas
But this far from Ferny Cove or Oz, to daydream of Curtis was to abrade old wounds. She drank half the wine before she slept.
15: Mariil
" ^ "
They slept in-at least Varia did-had a late breakfast and a later start. Apparently Cyncaidh did not intend to gallop home like an eager schoolboy. They rode through wild and rocky forest for more than three hours when the road-a good road for such wild country-brought them to an extensive opening with farms. Halfway across it stood a building, almost a palace, half seen through shade trees. Cyncaidh pulled aside and turned. "Aaerodh Manor," he said pointing.
His words, his gesture, were for the whole party, but it seemed to Varia he'd addressed mainly her. She was impressed with the size of it, not entirely favorably. To her, a house so large could hardly seem like home. But it may to him, she thought. And I'm not going to live there.
As they rode on, it held her attention. At least it was handsome, she told herself. Not like the square gray Tudor castles and manors she'd seen pictures of in books, nor the homes of royalty in the Rude Lands. Its designer had been an artist, with a sense of proportion and grace. The walls were white marble, while the roofs were tiled, some green, some red, others blue, their colors saturated. She wondered how often it required cleaning.
Perhaps most interesting, it had no defensive wall, though as they neared it, she could see a tall fence of ornamental black iron pales surrounding the grounds. But the gatehouse, she discovered, had no guards, and the gate was open. They entered, and a graveled lane led them across a green lawn, with flowerbeds, shrubs, and scattered groups of trees. Their approach had been seen, for a major domo met them at the broad steps, a tall, big-framed, uniformed ylf who'd reached the time of decline, his face and figure aging. Nonetheless he shared a strong embrace with the Cyncaidh.
Cyncaidh stepped back. "It's very good to see you again, Ahain."
"We've been waiting for the day, Your Excellency."
"How is Mariil?" Cyncaidh spoke with concern.
"Well enough to have visitors, sir. I have no doubt that seeing you"-his glance shifted to Varia then-"and you, my lady, will be better for her than anything else."
"Good," Cyncaidh said. "I'd been afraid. Is she available now?"
"Yes sir. Your messenger arrived last evening before she slept, and her ladyship's been up for some time. She's breakfasted, and waiting for you in her suite I believe."
His mother, Varia thought, and in her decline, obviously. Why would she be pleased to see me?
Cyncaidh turned to her. "Varia," he said, "come with me. I want you to meet my wife."
Bewildered, Varia followed him up stairs she was scarcely aware of, and down a hall she hardly saw. He knocked at a door, which opened almost at once. An ylvin nurse let them in, and they followed her onto a deck where a woman sat in the sun, withered and frail on a lounge seat, wrapped in a robe against a breeze that felt balmy to Varia. It seemed to her that Mariil must have been lovely, a decade earlier.
But if her old body was frail, Mariil's spirit showed strong and clear in her aura, which was not depressed by her physical decline. And her ylvin eyes were unclouded; Varia felt thoroughly evaluated by them. "Welcome to Aaerodh Manor," the old woman said. "I'm glad to have you here."
"Thank you. Why?"
The old woman chuckled drily. "Why indeed? I saw strength and endurance in you before you spoke. And the ability to learn, and grow in wisdom. They aren't the same thing, those last two, you know. And I see decency, and an honesty that includes self-honesty. Is that enough for you?"
"Do you see information too? Your husband says he's interested in knowledge he thinks I have. He may overestimate me. I spent more than twenty years on Farside, and I've only been back about sixteen months, most of it as his prisoner or the Dynast's. It may not take long to learn all I know of the Sisterhood, beyond what I suppose you know already."
"Indeed. That's the least of my interest." She turned to Cyncaidh. "Raien, I have questions to ask you. Before we talk to A'duaill. You'll want lunch first, though, I suppose."
"That's right. I'll come again afterward."
Kissing Mariil's dry lips then, he left with Varia, neither of them saying anything, and took her to a study, where he rang a bell. A half-ylf answered, the second steward, and Cyncaidh told him to guide his guest through the book shelves which covered one wall. "I'll be back for you when lunch is ready," he told her. "I need to be sure my men are properly settled."
Varia watched him leave. Don't try to figure it out, girl, she told herself. There's too much you don't know. Just pay attention. It'll sort out for you.
After lunch, Varia was taken to Connir A'duaill, who stood as they entered. The interrogator?, she wondered. A'duaill looked as young as most ylver-yet didn't, the difference lying in his aura, and in eyes that felt as if they'd seen everything, or near enough. She had no doubt he was a master magician like Sarkia; it fitted both his aura and eyes. Though he could hardly be as old as the Dynast.
The room had no window; that troubled Varia at once. Light came from a skylight shaft and several oil lamps. And the doors were thick; she could scream herself hoarse without anyone hearing.
On the other hand, the appointments were more or less aesthetic, not threatening at all. There were no straps or ties on the table, no whips or tongs or pan of coals, no Xader or Corgan. Besides herself there were only A'duaill and Cyncaidh, and an ylvin scribe with stacked vellum, and a row of sharpened graphite sticks wrapped in paper-effectively pencils.
Musing, she'd hardly heard Cyncaidh's introductions; hadn't even caught the scribe's name. When he'd finished, he looked at A'duaill. "I presume I'm to go now."
"If you please, Your Excellency." A'duaill turned to Varia as if he'd sensed the flash of fear that came despite herself. And said the right thing: "You'll not be harmed, physically or in spirit. That's not something we do here, and in any case we value you for much more than whatever knowledge you may have."
That again. She peered closely at him. "Then why no windows? I could scream myself to death in here without being heard."
"Ah. It's not to keep sounds in, but out. Sounds and more than sounds would hamper what I do here." He turned to Cyncaidh, who hadn't left yet. "Your Excellency."
Cyncaidh nodded to A'duaill, then to Varia, and left. When the door had closed, A'duaill motioned to an upholstered chair across the table from himself. "If you please, my lady." When she was seated, he took the plain wooden chair across from her.
"Why do you call me 'my lady'?" Varia asked.
"It's a matter of status and courtesy. You're the Cyncaidh's guest."
"Why am I his guest? Beyond whatever information you may get from me."
"My lady, much will be made clear to you after this interrogation's over, I'm sure. I hope to complete it this afternoon," he added pointedly. "And when I've questioned you, I promise to receive your questions in turn. Tomorrow, if you'd like. Now, was your lunch adequate?"
She looked curiously at him. "More than adequate."
"Good. And I believe no ale or wine or spirits were served?"
"Nothing stronger than a tea of some sort."
"Fine. Have you relieved yourself since eating?"
"Just before I came here. What…?"
"When we've begun, it's much better if no interruption is necessary. Now. Do you have anything on your mind? Anything pressing?"
She peered at him quizzically. "Right now I want very much to know what you're going to do."
"Good. Let's find out. Start of interrogation." He said the latter as if it were a formal opening.
"First we need to find your memories and open them to recall. Think of them as being buried. Deeply. Deeply. You'll need to go deeply to see them. Imagine they're so deep, you can only get to them by a deep spiral staircase, going down and down…"
She recognized hypnotism; she used it herself. But she relaxed, letting it happen, letting his voice take her more and more deeply.
&nbs
p; In time she woke up groggy, remembering nothing. "Thank you, Varia," A'duaill said, "welcome to the waking world. We did well; you've been very helpful. Now, look around the room and tell me something you like."
I don't remember a thing, she thought. She was-not muzzy, but disoriented. A'duaill repeated himself. "Look around the room and tell me something you like."
She scanned slowly, noticing what was there. "That rug on the wall," she said, gesturing. She hadn't noticed it when she'd sat down; preoccupied, she told herself. "It's quite handsome."
"Ah yes," said A'duaill. "Look around and tell me something else you like."
"Hmm! The-carving? Sculpture?" She pointed. "The dwarf on the shelf."
"Either term is appropriate. It's carved soapstone. Tell me something else you like."
She looked and frowned. "In that glass pitcher. Is that ice?"
He laughed. "From our own pond. It's cut each winter and stored in a deep bed of sphagnum moss, in an ice house built of logs. In our northern climate, it lasts from year to year."
Varia frowned. Ice wouldn't last in that pitcher very long. "I didn't notice it before." How long had it been? At least an hour, she decided. Surely that long.
A'duaill smiled. "It wasn't there when you came in. When we finished, I allowed you to rest a few minutes; to 'settle out' as we say, before I brought you back to the present. I had it delivered then. It's a bit after supper, but cook will have something for you. He knows we're done; he sent the ice." He held up a bottle. "Would you like some wine poured over it? There are those who consider that barbaric, but I like it, and the Cyncaidh does too."
After supper!? They'd begun shortly after lunch! She accepted the offer. He poured her only a little, perhaps three ounces. It was as good as Sister-made, she thought, pink and dry, at the edge of sweet. What had he asked? What had she said? The scribe was gone, but presumably he'd written it down, or the gist of it. She doubted anyone could write fast enough to make a verbatim record.
When she'd finished her wine, A'duaill led her to the dining room and left her with the second steward. There she discovered she felt more than hungry. She felt empty! Neither Cyncaidh nor Mariil had eaten with the soldiers; they came in now to eat with her. To the detriment of conversation, she ate like Will after a winter day in the logging woods. And when she finished, felt desperately sleepy, despite having slept, or at least lain unconscious, all afternoon. Something in the wine? A serving girl led her to her room. She was too groggy to bathe. Fifteen minutes after eating, she was in her bed asleep, leaving her clothes for the girl to hang up.
She slept till well after sunup. The first part of the night had not been restful. She'd dreamed strong unpleasant dreams that brought her half awake repeatedly, only to slip back into continuations. The Tiger barracks had been part of it. And a troll, stalking her babies; when she ran to rescue them, the troll turned into Sarkia, who smiled a loving smile and turned her into a frog. Then Cyncaidh had ridden up and cast a spell that turned her not into a woman again, but into a woman-sized frog. He tried several spells, and she grew larger and smaller but remained a frog. Finally he kissed her and said he loved her, and that he'd take her home with him even if she was a frog.
She recalled being reunited with Curtis, too, only to find that the body on top of her was Xader. That time she'd wakened completely, and gotten out of bed shaking. The oil lamp showed her a small wine bottle, but when she'd raised it to her lips, what she swallowed wasn't wine, but something faintly bitter, some medicine. She'd made a face and stumbled back to bed, this time to sleep deeply and unbrokenly.
***
Whatever the drug had been, it left an unpleasant taste. She poured a glass of water and rinsed her mouth, then drank. Her serving girl, an ylf maid named Ardain, came in from the adjoining room.
"Good morning, your ladyship," Ardain said. "I hope you rested well."
Varia assessed how she felt. Neither good nor bad. A sort of medium gray, she decided. "Well enough, I guess," she said, and wondered if this girl read auras. Not likely. She also wondered again what A'duaill had learned from her the day before. He'd said he'd answer her questions today. Or no, that wasn't it. He'd said he'd receive her questions. Pin him down, she told herself.
She bathed, the ylf maid scrubbing her back. What would Liiset say if she could see. She knew what Idri would say, or Sarkia, who as long as Varia could remember, had portrayed the ylver as evil, depraved. She reminded herself then of General Quaie, who'd made the slander convincing. Not that most of the Sisterhood needed convincing; if Sarkia said it, it was so.
I'm well out of all that, she told herself. The trick now is to get out of here, a much more pleasant prison.
Clean clothing had been put out for her, including a frock hanging at her dresser set. Ardain suggested she wear it this morning. It was lovely, a pale green; she was surprised that this house had one so suited to her coloring. If my hair were long, she told herself, I might put it on, then rejected the thought. It wouldn't do to look too pretty, not where Cyncaidh would see, so she dressed in uniform.
She'd expected to eat breakfast with him, and perhaps Mariil. When they weren't there, she told the steward she'd like to see them after breakfast. Mariil, he answered, usually slept through the morning, and the Cyncaidh was out inspecting the property. That, Varia told herself, could take awhile. "Then I'd like to speak with A'duaill," she said.
"I'll leave your message with his scribe," the steward answered politely, "but just now, he can't be disturbed."
Varia wondered if she was being put off. It smelled that way. She ended up asking a reluctant Ardain to eat with her, clearly not the sort of thing a serving girl was supposed to do. But perhaps she could answer some questions.
"Why am I being treated so well?" Varia asked. "I was brought here a prisoner, you know."
"A prisoner? No ma'am, I didn't know that." Ardain seemed to doubt the claim.
"Why do you imagine I'm being treated so well?"
Ardain was uncomfortable now. "The Cyncaidh is a gentleman, and thoughtful, my lady."
He's that, all right, Varia told herself, but it doesn't answer my question. Besides, Ardain sweetie, you know something you're not telling me. She tried another angle. "Ahain told me Mariil would be happy to see me, or something to that effect. Why would he say that, do you suppose? She'd never met me."
The ylf maid's discomfort clearly was growing. "I don't know, my lady."
But you suspect, Varia thought, then told herself to leave the girl alone; she'd hardly tell anyway. "Are you from around here?" she asked.
"Yes, my lady, from Salmon Cove. My family fishes. And harvests seals in their season."
"That sounds interesting. How did you come to work here at the manor?"
"My uncle's been with the Cyncaidh's household troops since he was eighteen. He's first sergeant now," she added proudly. "So I got interviewed by Lady Mariil. I've been here since I was fifteen."
"I'll bet they like you; I do. How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"Suppose you want to get married? Or are those things arranged for you?"
Ardain blushed. "Noble girls get husbands arranged for them sometimes, though they can refuse. For folk like us though, fisher folk or farmers, it's usual to marry a lad who catches your eye." She laughed. "The boy's supposed to ask the girl, but a girl can get him to, if she wants."
"And do the lords ever, um, impose on a girl who works in the house? A lord or his sons?"
Ardain darkened. "Never!" she said.
"I don't mean you, Ardain, or the Cyncaidh. I was thinking about households less well regulated. Less honorable. I'm a stranger in your land, you know."
This mollified the girl somewhat. "I've heard of such, I'll admit," she said, "but it wouldn't happen here. If the Cyncaidh had sons, and they-troubled a serving girl, he'd discipline them severely, I have no doubt."
If the Cyncaidh had sons. "I suppose he would. He's considerate of others." A noble without sons,
whose wife is far beyond child-bearing. "Thank you for answering my questions, Ardain. I think I'll go to the study now."
Vordan, the second steward, took her, and at her request, showed her the shelf on local and family history, then left her to herself.
Varia ate in the small dining room. Would have eaten alone, if she hadn't again requested Ardain's company. The second steward acquiesced gracefully. Clearly there was no taboo connected with it; it was simply something out of the ordinary. Varia could see the value of not hobnobbing with the help. If the staff was like part of the family, there'd be little privacy, and the distinctions between duties and personal relationships could get badly blurred. But she was a guest, wanting company.
When she and Ardain sat down alone, she asked Vordan when she might talk with the Cyncaidh, or A'duaill, or Lady Mariil. Vordan brought the steward, who promised to get her a more specific answer. He was back before she'd gotten to dessert. The Cyncaidh, he said, was with A'duaill and the Lady Mariil in A'duaill's office, where they'd had lunch as they worked, and would remain till they were finished. She'd be informed at once when they were.
In the study again, Varia did as much thinking as browsing. She'd found nothing about any gate in this part of the world. Were there gates in the empire? If there were, Ylver could safely pass through, at least those with talent. What regulations and policies might they have?
From auras she'd seen in the empire, most ylver had only modest talents, probably because among commoners, breedings weren't arranged. Apparently they weren't among noble families, either, but nobility might originally have been a function of talent. In which case, if nobles married nobles more or less exclusively, most noble children would be born with substantial talent, and no doubt be trained to use it.
Fertility was a problem among the ylver; that was well known to the Sisterhood. Sarulin, the founder and first Dynast, had been ylvin, a sorceror's daughter in the court of a high noble. At least in those days, ylvin nobles sometimes warred on each other, took other ylver captive and made slaves of them. And if the story was true, Sarulin had been such a captive. Beautiful red-haired Sarulin; among the mostly black-haired ylver, she'd been conspicuous. Her captor, who was also red-haired, had raped her-impregnated her at any rate-and the story was that he'd been an exceptional magician.
