A cobbled brown mosaic passed underfoot, patterned in long swathes of black and gold. From high on the battlements a design might become clear, she supposed, but where Tabitha walked, she felt like an ant traversing a page of holy script, wondering at the curve of each letter.
They were in the heart of the city, and the oblique sunlight began to clip more and more gold capping on the high roofs. Tabitha could not hide her wonder. Garyll Glavenor had downplayed the wealth of Stormhaven.
One piece of roof-capping would make a man rich.
It was not all glory and wonder, though. A powerful odour betrayed the city’s image of sophistication. A shallow gutter ran along the side of the road, and a milky brown rivulet flowed in its confines. There was always a dark side to a city.
They emerged to a great open plaza. The grand Palace of Stormhaven loomed on the far side of the forecourt. Wide steps rose beside it, built upon the transition to the highest grounds of the city. It had a domed roof, surrounded by a parapet which rimmed the walls three stories up. Gold outlined every detail finely, as if a cloud of pure sunlight had rained upon the construction. Below the gold trim, massive pillars of pale stonewood leant together to form an A-frame, inside which doors stood wide open. A grand stairway led up to the doors from the deep green lawns. Some trees, darkwood or mellina, stood sentry in perfect symmetry beside the approach. Closer to hand, the palace grounds were bordered with a fence of gold-tipped spears, which were linked by black iron crossbeams. Five guards stood at the entrance to the palace grounds, each gleaming in the morning sun.
The insistent voice of the Official penetrated Tabitha’s thoughts again.
“For of course you shall have to be presented to the House of Ceremony. Your arrival is premature, and I don’t have the time to train a girl in protocol, no matter what you bear. They will summon a guideling from the House to take you to your hostel.”
Tabitha hadn’t heard of a ‘guideling’ before. Doubtless another aspect of the Court she would have to learn. The Official led her around the city-side of the forecourt. The nearest buildings had low roofs that capped a single floor each. Carved blocks of white marble were mounted before the open doorways, each heralding a different House. The House of Law. House of Coin. House of Ways. Waters. Scribes, Ceremony, Builders. Tabitha’s eyes flicked around the semicircle, marking off the boldly scripted signs in rapid succession. All the Houses had the same tidy look of regular use.
A riot of colourful flowers crammed into a flowerbed outside the House of Waters, and a neatly trimmed vine crept up the wall of the Singers.
The people who ducked through the doorways appeared both hasty and important. They were all dressed in fine clothes. Capes seemed to be in fashion, and from the look of the few women Tabitha spotted, tight-fitting waistcoats over loose dresses. Everyone bustled about with pre-occupied frowns, as if they had a long list of things to do, and were struggling to order it all into the time before noon. No one paid a second glance to Tabitha and her escort.
A vocal man rushed past Tabitha, surprising her out of her reverie. “Unconscionable! Thirteen silver to a gold, yet they won’t exchange it! Unconscionable!” Tabitha couldn’t see anyone to which the outburst had been addressed. She wasn’t even sure she knew what ‘unconscionable’ meant. It had to be something bad. The man was lost to the traffic.
The Official led her toward the wide door of the House of Ceremony. The soldiers halted, and the Official faced her for the first time since the harbour. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead despite the cool morning air, and the armpits of his yellow robe had become damp.
“I have a busy day, and you’ve already made me late. Tell them you are here to await an audience, and that I shall be presenting your case to the King. You should be seen to presently.”
With no farewell or further comment he turned and huffed briskly off toward the palace, his soldiers flanking him.
Unconscionable man, Tabitha decided, feeling better for his departure. She swung back to face the House of Ceremony. Her nervousness grew as she considered her situation. She was alone in the strange wonder of Stormhaven. Her leaden feet took her forwards.
Small pennants fluttered stiffly against their bonds beside the door. A whiff of parchment, ink and burning wax passed her on the breeze. The House of Ceremony looked dark inside, when compared to the reflected light of the street, the burning gold of the rooftops, the white of the heavy marble sign.
“Come girl, be about your way, be about your way!” urged a deep voice from behind. A strong hand pushed her in haste, not in anger. She was swept through the door and the man passed her by without a backward glance, scarlet cape swirling in his wake. Tabitha was left in the foyer, gazing about like a startled mouse.
The House of Ceremony appeared gloomy at first, but as her eyes became accustomed to the pale light from the windows, Tabitha noted the drapes which were spaced along the walls. Embroidered heraldic shields woven in rich colours were centred upon the dark fabrics, and tassels of copper and gold dangled from their lower edges. The hallway stretched in an elongated semicircle before her. It contained a few low couches set against the walls, and ended with two counters which thrust out from the walls at obtuse angles. The gap between the counters admitted visitors to a wide corridor which led deeper into the rooms of the House.
A soft, peaceful voice reached her ears.
“Marriage, celebration, birth or death?”
A woman watched her from behind the one counter. A large woman, with a kindly face. Dimples pulled at her cheeks. Her thick forearms rested on the countertop, tucked beneath her bosom.
“You’ll be new to Stormhaven, then,” the woman said in a slow, soft voice.
“Aaahh, y-yes,” stammered Tabitha. “I don’t really know where to go,” she spread her hands wide, and dropped them to her side once more. The lady of the House smiled generously at her, and Tabitha felt welcomed for the first time since she had stepped onto the King’s Isle.
“I’m Maybelle Westerbrook, but you can call me Miss May. I am the Lady of Ceremony, which means I am the historian of Stormhaven too. Now who are you?”
“Tabitha Serannon, Lady Westerbrook, and I have requested an audience with the King, but the Official seemed to think I needed to learn some protocol, he wouldn’t believe that I sought sanctuary—” Tabitha stopped short. She wasn’t sure if she should divulge all of her dark tale.
“Trisha’s child? Trisha Serannon?” Tabitha nodded. Lady Westerbrook looked delighted. “A better Lightgifter one could not find. I see there is more to your tale, but let it wait until you are ready. You know you’ll have to wait awhile for your audience?”
“Yes, he—he told me so when we came up from the harbour this morning. He said he’d see to the requesting of audience.”
“You have arrived this morning? Which Official received you, only to leave you unheralded in my hallway?”
She couldn’t remember his name, though she was sure he had mentioned it at some point in his litany.
“It was a plump little man in a yellow robe, with two guards. They escorted me up here, but he left. He said he had important business.” She paused. “He wasn’t very nice.”
May pursed her lips, and inked some details into a large register.
“Lethin,” said May, “Lethin Tarrok. Possibly the most unattractive man on the Isle. If he weren’t the King’s nephew, he would have found poor fortunes in Stormhaven.” She shot Tabitha a sympathetic glance. “Even for a spinster like me, there is better company to be found in the alleys behind the Journeyman’s Cider on a midwinter’s night. An ill fate that you should have him as your first company. I wonder why he deigned to escort you? He’s usually far too busy stirring his spoon in the King’s court.”
“I don’t think he came to meet me. I was delivered by a man whom he considers a smuggler.”
“A smuggler? Really, I wouldn’t take much heed of anything Tarrok says. Who brought you here?”
“Mulrano of Sou
thwind.”
May’s eyebrows shot up so high they threatened to leave her face.
“He must have had a mighty powerful reason to offer you passage. He’s not too welcome on the King’s Isle, not too welcome at all.”
“What did he do wrong?” Tabitha asked. “He’s such a nice man, even though he can’t speak.”
“He could speak before his tongue was branded. Better that than death, I suppose.”
Tabitha’s jaw dropped. They made him into a mute?
“But why? What did he do?”
May glanced down the corridor behind her, then beckoned Tabitha closer. “He ran foul with others of his kind,” she whispered. “It was his boat that was seen in the harbour on the night Prince Bevn was abducted. Whatever bargain he had struck with the criminals turned sour, for they silenced him. And so it was that when the King arrested him for questioning, he maintained that he knew nothing, and that his boat had been stolen. Tarrok headed up the investigation, and it’s no secret that Tarrok wanted the fisherman dead. The King pardoned his life for lack of evidence. That was an act of great mercy, considering it was his own son who was gone.”
“When was the Prince—abducted?”
“Two months ago to the day. It has been kept quiet—at least, beyond Stormhaven, that is.”
No wonder Mulrano had received such a cold reception at the harbour. He was considered a traitor, and had only been partially pardoned.
A group of people came into the reception hall and approached the counter where May and Tabitha stood. May spread her hands apologetically.
“I would hear more of your tale, Tabitha, but for now I must attend to my duties. A guideling will be here soon, to take you to the Boarding. Tell her of your needs, should you have any. You do have coin to pay for your stay?” she added, with a concerned note in her voice. She sounded motherly though, not wary.
“No—ahh, yes!” Tabitha answered, remembering the coins in her bag. It was strange to have so much wealth.
“Good then, until later,” May said. She dismissed Tabitha with a broad gesture, then greeted her next customers. Tabitha drifted across the hall and sank onto a couch. She closed her eyes, and knuckled them gently to ease her tiredness.
It really had gone on too long; the fight, the running, the hiding and riding, the long dark night crossing Amberlake, and the march through the city. Underneath it all, her mourning spirit lurked like dark water under cracked winter ice, waiting for a misplaced step. She felt delicate and thin—trying to behave normally in all the strangeness was a strain.
* * *
“Excuse me, Miss Serannon?” a little voice enquired.
She opened her eyes. A girl dressed in a pale tunic and indigo pants stood before her. She was very young, maybe eleven years old. Her black hair was tied back.
“I am Pia. I will take you to your room,” she said with rehearsed care. She pressed her hands together at chest height, and bowed.
A guideling. Something about the young girl’s wide-eyed concentration told Tabitha that she was new to her profession, but determined to do well at it. She smiled weakly at Pia the Guideling.
“Thank you. I’d like that.”
Tabitha waved a farewell to the Lady of Ceremony, but Maybelle Westerbrook was surrounded by a press of new customers, and could only smile briefly in acknowledgement. Pia led her from the House of Ceremony into the bright bustle of the street. They turned away from the forecourt and the grand Palace that dominated the skyline.
Tabitha worried about the audience with the King. There was nothing false about the attack of the Shadowcaster, and her desire to seek justice, but demanding the King of Eyri to consider the matter might have taken things too far. The certainty she had felt when facing down the Court Official now seemed like a reckless fervour. It was the Ring’s fault—it made her feel so sure, so clear of her purpose at times, but when the clarity faded she was left with her uncertainty.
Ever since she had first seen the Ring, her life had been changed. It was as if she was being carried upon a river in flood, and the sides of the gorge were becoming higher, giving her less choice in where she was being taken. She followed the guideling through the bustle and clamour of Stormhaven, and tried to avoid gawking at the towering buildings around her. She hoped that she appeared city-wise. She hoped that she had made the right decision, to be there at all.
After traversing a few blocks, Pia led her toward a tall lodge. Inside, they found the matron of the Boarding filling a tally-book with determined vigour. The matron was stout, as wide as she was deep, with skin the colour of fired clay. She looked like she could wallop an ox and leave it bruised for months. The rules of the House rattled off the matron’s tongue as soon as it was established that there was a place for Tabitha.
“Soap to be left dry. One bath a day permitted after the evening meal. Bed to be kept tidy, folded neat with the dawn. Chamber pot to be cleaned in the drop, but never at night. Lights out at nine bells.”
Tabitha scuttled away with Pia as soon as they were allowed. Her room had a tall window, and a view over the bustling capital of Eyri. Stonewood beauty and gold highlighting, mighty walls and cobbled mosaics. Pia assured her that she would return at the Noontime meal, if it pleased Miss Serannon.
The room seemed empty when the little guideling was gone. A lofty dimension to the emptiness made the sounds of the city seem dull and diluted. Sunlight pooled on the bed. Tabitha couldn’t resist its temptation. For a moment, she could escape the rushing current of her life, and be still. She sank onto the blankets and curled up on their warmth.
Something poked her from inside her pocket. She pulled it out; the small, circular mirror, the Riddler’s gift. She could read the inscription carved in the wooden backing.
See thyself as thyself see.
She turned it over, and over. It was finely wrought, the mirror flawless, the binding strong. All along the rim lay a carved serpent, its scales delicately crafted, following a perfect circle before the head found the tail and swallowed its end.
A strange gift, from a strange man; Twardy Zarost. She gazed at the image within the serpent. A tired pair of deep brown eyes stared back at her, framed by her slack, dark brown curls. Her reflection became unfocused. She felt the smoothness of her blanket against her cheek.
Sleep took her, despite the fact that it was early morning.
15. SURVIVAL
“If you fall, get up.
This is the secret of life.”—Zarost
Kirjath’s day began badly. He crawled from the chill waters of the Amberlake only moments before dawn. A place where the rushes were thick and farms few. He wasn’t sure how far from the village of Southwind he was, but nobody had seen his arrival, or spotted him where he lay. He hugged the ground shamefully as if it were a saviour, then beat it with his bare hands when his exhaustion eased. He howled with fury as he tore at the earth, then howled with pain as his softened wounds exploded under his rage. The girl had evaded him.
A girl!
And now she was in the safety of Stormhaven, where he could not risk his magic. She was safe in the protection of the Sword and the King’s Isle.
Failed. To return to Ravenscroft without the Ring.
The lake had almost drowned him. At first his heavy cloak had weighed him down. He remembered tearing it from his neck, then tearing his tunic free, keeping only his trousers and boots. The lake was cold, and had begun to mist over in the dead of night. He had paddled like a dog, snorting bubbles into the water with each laboured breath, his eyes yearning for the distant shore which had seemed to retreat rather than near as the hours passed. The strength had leached out of his limbs, his head had sunk deeper with each stroke. The moon had set. Only his bloody-minded anger had kept him going through the night. He found no Dark essence to aid him. It had been a cruel lesson. He was flawed with weakness as if he was an ordinary man.
Later, when the Morrigán found him on the lake shore, he wanted to tear it apart. A useless gesture, he
knew—but he wanted to destroy it nonetheless. He needed it to feel pain, needed something to cry out as he twisted it limb from limb. He needed something to ease his rage.
The Morrigán cawed loudly, mocking him. The bird was a creation of essence, and would merely scatter to the breeze, feeling nothing. It would be from Ravenscroft. He couldn’t dare to spurn it. The black raven maintained a circling distance until he accepted its missive by raising his arm.
He knew what it would say before it dispersed, before the motes struck his skin. Motes! He drew them eagerly into his wounds, though their power was already diminished by the spell they had been part of.
The Darkmaster’s hissed command lingered in the air. “You will come to Ravenscroft immediately!”
Kirjath cursed the sun, cursed his suppurating wounds, cursed every Lightgifter that had been whelped from their miserable mothers, but he headed away from the lake. He could explain his refusal of the first summoning, but this one was undeniable.
When he found the road, he turned east towards Fendwarrow and beyond, where the pass to Ravenscroft lay concealed. There would be no pursuit of the girl now, no chance for him to turn his failure to success.
Walking was painful. His leather boots had not dried properly, and his toes had begun to chafe. His thighs cramped from the strain of the ride followed by the swim, and his skin suppurated where it had been burned. Kirjath cursed whenever his legs failed him—his stride wobbled across the road like a drunkard. It was unforgivable, that a body should fail so.
Having a purpose helped to keep the jagged edge on his anger, which kept his exhaustion at bay. Anger at the Darkmaster, anger at the girl, anger at the canoe which had failed, anger at the wagoneer, the one who’d claimed to be the Riddler. He had sat so still on the jetty, frozen and overpowered, but Kirjath couldn’t get rid of the nagging suspicion that the hatter was somehow responsible for his downfall. He didn’t like things he didn’t understand—they made him feel cheated, as if everyone was laughing but he didn’t catch the joke. He would have to ask the Darkmaster about the Riddler.
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