‘Do you find Tor charming?’ she asked, and was amused to see the girl frown with annoyance. ‘In his own strange way?’
‘I find him . . . annoying. His people murdered my people. It’s not easy to brush that aside because he . . .’ the girl scowled at her toast – ‘looks more like a sculpture than a real person.’
Vintage nodded. ‘I was once charmed by an Eboran, long before I met Tormalin the Oathless. I couldn’t have been much younger than you, I suppose, and she was beautiful and clever. She came to my home to negotiate a trade agreement with a group of merchants, but really she was there to study the Behemoth remains on our land. A very dangerous pursuit, but she was full of curiosity and nothing would hold her back, certainly not the direst warnings of my father. She was full of fire, a need to know everything. I looked at her and an entire landscape opened up for me.’
Vintage shrugged.
‘I went with her into the forest, against my father’s wishes. When she talked about the Jure’lia and the parasite spirits, I realised how little we knew about them, and they became a source of wonder instead of terror. Through her eyes, I saw how much I had to learn and it was wonderful. She was generous, and kind, and— by all the bloody buggerations, would you look at that?’
Vintage put her teacup down on the table with a clatter and moved back to the grapes. The bunch was three times as big as it had been, and the new grapes were full and ripe to bursting. The leaf, previously brown and black and half crumbled to pieces, was now green and shining with health.
‘Oh damn it all, I missed it!’
Noon appeared at her shoulder. ‘What happened?’
‘The substance we collected from the artefact, it has made the grapes grow in a matter of minutes and I’ve never seen anything like it. Damn and buggeration. Pass me that pencil, will you? I will need to get drawings of this. How do you feel about eating these grapes? I will need to know if they taste unusual.’
Tor chose this moment to arrive home. The tall Eboran looked strangely bedraggled, with dark circles under his eyes and his hair lying limp across his shoulders. It was a sight unusual enough to distract Vintage from the grapes; she had never seen him looking so unwell, even after a night consuming several bottles of her cheapest wine.
‘Tor! What has happened to you?’
He went to the far end of the table and sat heavily in the chair nearest the food. ‘Is there tea in this pot?’
‘There is,’ said Noon. He poured himself a cup, daubed a liberal spoonful of honey into it, and drank it down in one go. He poured himself another cup.
‘Really, Tor.’ Vintage placed her hands on her hips and gave him the look she normally reserved for her nieces and nephews.
‘I’ve had a rough night,’ he said. He was trying to summon his usual aloofness, but his eyes were moving restlessly around the room, lingering here and there on the books and maps, and the sketches of the Jure’lia fleet that adorned the walls. His fingers found a piece of bread, and he began to tear it into pieces.
‘I was with Ainsel—’
‘Who is Ainsel?’ asked Noon.
‘My lover.’ Tor frowned at Noon as if he wasn’t sure why she was still here. ‘We have a pact under the Auspices of the House of the Long Night, and I . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Afterwards, she slept and it became obvious that she was having a nightmare. A particularly bad one, judging by the look on her face. So I dream-walked into it, thinking to bring her out.’
The witch raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s true, then? Eborans can see into your head?’
‘Only sleeping minds, only when they’re dreaming, and only those of us who are skilled at it.’ He shook his head and grimaced slightly. ‘I am mildly skilled at it, but not enough, it seems.’
‘What was Ainsel dreaming of?’ asked Vintage. There was a worm of worry in her gut now. She had never seen Tormalin so unnerved, even when facing down parasite spirits.
‘She dreamed of the Jure’lia, Vintage.’ His voice was almost plaintive now. ‘A woman who could never have seen them, dreamed of the Jure’lia in such detail, that I . . . The colour and the noise, the smell of them. How could Ainsel, Lucky Ainsel from Reidn, whose grandfather wouldn’t even have been born when the Eighth Rain fell, dream about the Jure’lia as if she had lived through every battle?’
‘Well, you know, Tormalin, my dear, that dreams can seem very real, and perhaps you were caught up—’
‘What happened? In the dream.’ Leaning against the table with her arms crossed over her chest, Noon had gone very still. She was looking at Tor through the messy curtain of her hair, almost as if she couldn’t quite bring herself to face him. ‘What did you see?’
Tor took a breath. ‘I saw her comrades consumed by the feeders, crawling like black beetles out of their mouths and eyes. I saw a Behemoth hanging in the sky above a beach, and then I saw one of their giant maggot creatures covering a city street in varnish. It ate people, and excreted this mess.’ His mouth screwed up in disgust. ‘And then we were somewhere else, and there was a figure behind us. It had a woman’s voice, and it said, into my ear, “We’re coming back”.’
‘And where is Ebora now?’ Noon’s voice was a dry husk. ‘I’ve had this dream. I saw it too.’
There were a few long moments of silence. The sounds of the inn waking up for the day drifted up from below; the clattering of pans in the kitchen, someone emptying a bucket in the courtyard.
‘How?’ said Tor. ‘How could you have the same dream?’
‘I saw people I knew eaten all away inside by those black bugs, and I saw the corpse moon hanging over the Winnowry. And then the woman. It ends with the woman.’ Noon reached over and picked up the cup of tea Vintage had discarded and curled her fingers around it, as though to warm them. ‘It’s why I ran away from the Winnowry. I couldn’t just stay there. Not when I knew they were coming.’
‘What do you mean, you knew they were coming?’ Tor was glaring at the girl as if the whole incident was her fault.
‘Didn’t you believe her?’ asked Noon. Her voice was soft and faraway, as though she were talking to someone she’d known years ago, a memory. ‘You listen to those words, in that voice, and you know. It’s true.’
‘Are you seriously suggesting . . .?’
Vintage held up her hand. ‘Ainsel. Lucky Ainsel? Lucky because she sometimes has feelings about things. Isn’t that right, Tor? It is she I am thinking of, is it not?’
Tor nodded reluctantly. ‘She knew not to board the ship, and later it sank. If the company she’s with want to ambush someone, they listen closely to her advice, because she always seems to know which way it will go. And no one will play cards with her.’
Vintage lowered her hand. ‘A vision of the Jure’lia. What I wouldn’t give to see such a thing.’