‘But it doesn’t mean anything.’ The doubt in Tor’s voice was terrible to hear, and she watched as his hand drifted down to the sword at his waist. ‘It can’t mean anything. It’s just two people having very similar dreams. It happens.’
‘You couldn’t turn to look at her, could you?’ When Tor didn’t reply, Noon nodded. ‘You know what it means. I can see it on your face.’
‘The return of the worm people.’ Vintage pressed the tips of her fingers to her forehead. ‘Pray that it’s not, my dears. Pray that it’s not.’
17
My dearest Nanthema,
Many thanks for your last package. The soaps were exquisite, although I am afraid the bottle of bath oil had shattered in transit – everything smelled quite divine! Luckily, the pages you had hidden within the wooden box were unscathed, and I managed to retrieve them before anyone else saw them. They are now safely hidden in my rooms, the ribbon you gave me tying them securely. I’ve never been one for sentiment, but it seems you bring it out in me.
You have travelled so far in so short a time. I will have to ask you for more details of Jarlsbad. I know you only spent a few days there, but the scattering of lines you gave to the city have made it sound so bewitching. It will be one of the places we will visit together, I am sure of it. The bathing houses you mention I have read about in Father’s library, although, if he caught me reading those books, I would be banned from the place.
Three days ago there was another sighting of a parasite spirit in the vine forest. I know that you wanted me to tell you if the remains were growing more lively, so I have started going along on the patrols – Father is livid but I have pointed out to him that one day this will be my responsibility and I must learn. He is rather taken aback by my sudden interest, and the more wrong-footed he is, the easier it is to get what I want, and need. It was dusk, and we were making our way along the last section of the empty zone (we will need to burn back the foliage again soon, it grows so fast). The forest was dripping with shadows by then, and I was keeping my hand on my crossbow, quite glad that we were making our way back to the house, when the shadows stretched and vanished, and everything was lit up with pale blue light. We only saw it for a few seconds, my dear Nanthema – I don’t think it even realised we were there – but I saw enough to know it was different to the one we observed while you were here. I have enclosed sketches I made as soon as we got back to the house. Please forgive my unskilled hand. I have tried to capture the colours as best I could, but, as you know, no watercolour could do them justice. It was an extraordinary sight. While everyone else was terrified, I could only think how much I long to be out there with you, solving this mystery. But my time will come. Soon Father must let me leave to attend further courses in Silia, and once I am on that road, Nanthema, he won’t be able to stop me joining you.
Copy of a private letter from the records of Lady Vincenza ‘Vintage’ de Grazon
‘Quickly, Aldasair, unfurl that rug and lay it in front of these chairs.’
Hestillion stepped back as Aldasair wrestled the rolled-up rug from where it was resting against the wall and rolled it across the marble floor. A cloud of dust rose up from it, and Aldasair grimaced.
‘It’ll have to do.’ Hestillion stepped onto the rug and pushed some of the creases out with her slippered foot. It was a deep, dark blue, embroidered with a great silver stag, stars in its antlers, and if it was a little grey from years of disuse, it was still a beautiful thing. ‘We just don’t have time. Did you bring the food like I asked you?’
Aldasair moved to the corner of the chamber and picked up a linen sack.
‘Good. Set it out on the table.’
The young Eboran stared at her blankly. ‘I don’t know how to do that. I’m not a servant.’
‘Aldasair, this is hardly the time—’
‘There are, there are proper ways, my mother used to insist on it, the right knives and the right forks in the right places, and nothing has been right for years, I can’t.’
Hestillion forced herself to take a deep breath.
‘It doesn’t matter. These are people from the plains, Aldasair. Normally, they eat off their laps in tents; they won’t know any better.’
Aldasair’s eyes grew a little wider. ‘Do they? Truly? Eat off their laps?’
‘Quickly, come on. I’ll help you.’
Hestillion emptied the bag onto the table, which was already covered in a snow-white tablecloth. The best foods they had to hand were preserves: jars of glass and clay that contained pickled fruits and salted meats, all sealed with cloth and wax. There was wine too, and spirits – she had raided anything that might look respectable – and she had already placed a large portion of what they had in Mother Fast’s rooms. Hestillion had given the old woman and her people her mother’s old suite; that had hurt, a little, but she had been keeping it clean for sentimental reasons, and they needed something workable, fast.
‘Who are these people, Hestillion? Why are they here?’
Hestillion took a silver fork from his unresisting hand and laid it on the table. ‘Go and fetch them, please. Can you do that for me, Aldasair?’
For a moment he looked at her uncomprehendingly, his dishevelled hair falling over his face. She had convinced him to put a brush through it, but he had refused to put it back in the traditional tail. Hestillion thought that perhaps he had forgotten how to do it.
‘Aldasair?’
‘Yes, I will.’ He nodded. ‘I will go and fetch them.’
He left, and Hestillion looked around the chamber. It would have to do. She had chosen someone’s old study, a room with glass doors to one side that looked out across the gardens. It was a cold, bleak view on a day like this, and it made the palace feel all the more empty, but she felt it was better to have some daylight than to meet by candlelight. They had brought some of the paintings out of storage and had hung them hurriedly on the walls, beautiful expressive daubs of paint and ink that captured the wildness of surrounding Ebora and a few stirring portraits of war-beasts, long lost; a great snowy cat, dwarfing the Eboran that stood next to her; a dragon in flight with golden scales. The marble flooring was intact in here, at least. She looked down at herself, peering at her hands for remnants of dust. She had changed into a blue silk robe, simple and elegant, with a padded jacket of darker blue over the top; a white dragon, embroidered in white silk, clung to her left shoulder, and she had pushed a simple black comb into her hair to hold it away from her face. She could do nothing about her chalk-white skin or blood-red eyes, but she would do her best not to be intimidating.