Mar wrote three careful words on the parchment in front of her. She wished she didn’t mind looking poor and frowsy next to the glittering sisters… but she did. Would it scandalize the lady page even more if she were to ask for needles and thread with which to stitch her clothes into a more up-to-date look? Or was that a task some other servant was supposed to do for her? Mar sighed. This was an area which Parno Lionsmane hadn’t touched on.
“Those two couldn’t be more ignorant and foolish if they took lessons, and I hope you don’t let them bother you more than you can help.”
Mar jumped, startled into looking directly at the older woman sitting on the far end of the bench, where the sunlight shone on the embroidery she held in her lap. Mar had forgotten that Lan-eLan was even there. A widowed cousin-by-marriage Mar had been told, Lan was older than herself, but still young, small, and pretty, with smooth olive skin and thick dark hair.
“The Weavers were all I had,” Mar said. “I’m not ashamed of them.”
“If you were, you’d be even more foolish and more ignorant than those two.” Lan snipped off a hanging thread with a tiny pair of gold-handled scissors. “Do you think the Tenebroso can’t read and write? Can’t add up figures? Can you imagine how those two are going to be cheated by their servants, if we’re ever lucky enough to find Households for the conceited little half-wits?” Lan-eLan turned her embroidery over and frowned at it. “They wouldn’t know accounts from a country dance.”
Mar could feel her mouth hanging open with shock. Lan-eLan looked up and smiled, and suddenly Mar burst out laughing.
“Is there anything else worrying you, my dear?” Lan asked when the laughter had finally died away. “Anything important, I mean?”
Mar smiled at her older cousin. Somehow Lan’s sweet-voiced “my dear” was better than her formal name, but not as warm and comfortable as the Wolfshead’s gruff “my Dove.” Which reminded Mar of one of her worries.
“I didn’t get a real chance to say good-bye to the Mercenary Brothers who brought me here, and to thank them,” Mar said. “I was with them almost a moon, and they were dismissed so quickly…” Mar hesitated to ask anything directly. So far, at least, no further mention had been made of her part in bringing Dhulyn Wolfshead and Paron Lionsmane to Gotterang. Was it possible they were still in the House?
Lan’s dark brows drew together as she thought, head on one side. “Oh, yes, I remember seeing them. Most impressive, I must say, particularly the Outlander woman. I think they had a short interview with the Kir, but then they left.” Lan smiled, turning her attention back to the embroidery in her lap. “Perhaps you could send a message to their House. It might catch them before they take their next assignment.”
Mar nodded, conscious of an unexpected disappointment; she hadn’t realized how much she was counting on their still being in the House. But either the Mercenaries hadn’t been wanted after all, or they’d turned down whatever work the Kir had offered them. No point in us all being stuck here. Mar blinked, half surprised and half frightened by a feeling she hadn’t admitted before.
“You still look a touch worried, Mar. Are you sure there isn’t anything else?”
“There is something.” Mar took a deep breath and looked directly at Lan. “I know the Tenebroso is… is very busy,” Mar substituted for the more honest but less tactful “very old” she’d been about to say. “But when would it be right to ask about the restoration of my Holding? And who should I ask? I don’t even know if the land still belongs to the Family, or…” Mar let her question trail away.
The older woman had recovered her poise very quickly, but not before Mar had seen the look that crossed Lan’s face.
“Well, it would be the Kir you should ask, though Dal-eDal handles a great deal of the House business for him just lately,” Lan said with her warm smile. “But you know what my advice is? Let it be for now, give yourself a chance to settle in. After all, it’s a great honor to be received in the House, and you don’t want to look unappreciative. I know you don’t feel so at the moment, but given the chance you might come to like it here, and you might prefer, as I did, to remain a part of this House.”
“Of course,” Mar cleared her throat and forced her lips into a smile to match Lan’s. “That’s very sensible. I thank you for your counsel.”
And all was as it should be. Except that Mar had seen how Lan’s face had changed, how surprised she’d been by Mar’s question. Obviously, Lan-eLan had absolutely no idea what Mar was talking about.
When a servant came to call them in to luncheon, Mar was able to smile pleasantly, rise, and follow her cousin-by-marriage into the House. Not at all as if her whole world had just been turned upside down.
THE TALL THIN MAN STANDS BEFORE HIS MIRROR THAT IS NOT A MIRROR. THIS TIME IT SHOWS HIS REFLECTION. HIS HAIR IS LONG AND UNKEMPT. IT APPEARS HE HAS NOT SHAVED IN MANY DAYS, NOR EATEN. HIS EYES ARE NO LONGER THE COLOR OF OLD ICE, BUT THE COOL GREEN OF JADESTONE. HE HAS THE SAME LONG SWORD IN HIS HANDS AND HE CUTS DOWNWARD, SLASHING AT HIS IMAGE IN THE MIRROR FRAME. IT IS AS IF HE LOOKS AT HIS REFLECTION IN A POOL OF WATER. THE SWORD PASSES THROUGH IT AND LEAVES IT RIPPLING AND DANCING UNTIL IT SETTLES AGAIN.
THE MAN SLASHES AT HIS IMAGE AGAIN AND AGAIN…
A CROWDED STREET, A HOUSE WITH A SQUARE TOWER. PEOPLE WEARING CRESTS OF TEAL AND BLACK ARE KILLING GUARDS DRESSED IN DARK RED. THE BLOOD LOOKS BLACK IN THE MOONLIGHT…
A GOLDEN-HAIRED CHILD IS RUNNING WITH A SHORT SWORD IN HIS HAND. HE TRIPS OVER HIS DOG AND CUTS HIS CHIN…
Fresnoyn was the thought that chased the Vision through her head and followed her mind to consciousness.
From the taste in the back of her throat, and the way the inside of her head felt like a very large space, the drug One-eye had given her was fresnoyn. But from the way her hands and feet seemed so remote, the basis of the mixture was poppy, so perhaps there was not so very much fresnoyn in the mix. She began taking long slow breaths. Breathing alone would not clear the drug from her body as quickly as sleep or heavy exercise, but it would help somewhat.
Fresnoyn was a truth drug, and Dhulyn wondered how the Kir had managed to obtain a supply. Made from the mold which grew on the bark of a particular tree in the rain forests of the lands across the eastern sea, fresnoyn was ruinously expensive. She herself had trained with it twice while studying the poison Shora. She only hoped she could remember what she had been taught. Even though Dorian the Black had been given his particular supply of fresnoyn, he could not afford to waste any in extra training.
Dhulyn continued to breath deeply and slowly, and in her mind began a chant which, if she remembered it correctly, was intended to help channel her thoughts. She would have to answer with the truth, otherwise her skin would flush a deep red as the drug reacted to the lie, but clarity of thought would enable her to answer with the truth she chose.
“Dhulyn Wolfshead.” The silky voice had already said her name twice.
Dhulyn opened her eyes. There he was, right in front of her, the one-eyed son of a diseased inglera.
She smiled her wolf’s smile. One-eye pulled his head back. Dhulyn laughed. That was fun. She resumed her measured breathing. She could not really afford such tricks.
“Wolfshead,” he said. “Will any of your Brothers come for you?”
She considered the question for the space of a slow breath.
“Parno Lionsmane will come,” she said. That was easy, no more than the real truth.
“Parno Lionsmane is captive and cannot rescue you,” the Scholar said. “Will someone else come for you?”