Luya Sevrein
December 22nd, 2010, 02:17 PM
Sorry for not updating the Queery thread, I have been working on this and preparing for Christmas.
It's a little long for a Preface, so I'll have to edit that down, and it is a new idea/work - the first draft, in fact, so please don't be expecting much.
If this needs to be in the stories thread, please just say so. I'm a little unclear.
Critique and feedback would be loved.
---
The gardens were silent as the first snow fall, hiding a deep rumbling within themselves as shadows flickered back and forth in the lit windows. The white powder hung tight to the branches of apple trees, dragging them down with the threat of breaking. The fountain made no noise, it’s once flowing water now crystalized in ice, leaking over the many ornate rims. A single drop had been melting throughout the day, and escaped, only to fall onto the lower layer of ice where it vanished. No night birds sung, no owls hooted, no wildlife disturbed the hedgerows and bushes. Even the stars in their far away sky waited silently, lighting the night for a better view.
The first noise was a crunch of weight on snow, and once it had struck the symphony began. The bushes parted and a white fox darted from his cover. More footsteps came, echoing at different times until they formed an ordered melody. One of the fountain’s icicles fell, shattering off the side of the stone tier as they rounded the corner. There was six of them, half with closed or wery eyes, half alert, stricken with a soldier’s panic – the type you could not show.
“Her Lady wants them brought indoors immediately,” The man with the wild fare hair ordered as he passed the fountain, smashing whatever ice survived the fall into splinters underfoot. “This is swift, do you understand? The layfolk cannot know.”
A near-bald man spoke for the others. “Understood.” His eyes were slanting closed, his mouth pulled down into a frown. He likely did not appreciate being woke halfway through the night. It had not been his turn for the Watch, and he had not ventured to bed until late as it was.
Every man wore white and purple, none of them in their armour. That had been another order of the Lady Nevary. “You will not greet Royal Officials as if you intend to meet them in Battle.” She had told her Castellon. Which was perhaps for the best, as each man had found it a struggle only to get himself dressed. The only symbol of their house was a silver broach clasping their cloaks at their shoulder. The Crescen Stargil was awaiting, with it’s one obsidian eye and it’s silver wings outstretched. Only the Castellon – the wild haired man – had the bird sewn into his tabard.
The scout had come running to the Barracks, announcing shadows on the horizon. The Captain of the Guards had woken all of his men to collect their weapons and carry out the procedure they had discussed, though there had been no need. A second scout returned with news of their banners – The Royal Griffin, the shining blade in its claws. The Castellon was awoke to inform the Lord and Lady of the house, who promptly woke their entire staff. That was when the Lady Nevary had begun with her orders.
Vesper had been Castellon at Siering Vale long enough to know that he need not look to his Lord for confirmation, not even for the sake of politeness. The Lord Colny Crescen was a man of war, his best words were weaved into the pages of time with a Great sword, not said to a Royal visitor in the dead of night. He had no skill with occasions of state. There had been times when Vesper saw him stiffen up even, or excuse himself.
Lady Nevary was straightening her dark green gown when he had seen her, her hair a whimsical mess. “There is another banner, Mi’Lady.” If he had waited any longer, her anger would only have grown. Certain things needed to be said, no matter the time, and Vesper had always been a man of words.
Sure enough, her head raised, amber eyes watching him like a hawk. “Another?” Her cheeks were pale and gaunt, as if she expected it already.
“The Scaiah.”
That was when the chaos had begun, hidden behind the thick stone walls of Nightshold, so the gardens could savour their silence.
Now striding the ice-stained pathways, Vesper approached the oncoming wagons and cartridges. Word had been sent ahead to the Gatehouse and the company had already entered Nightshold. He felt the uneasy panic flowing from the men at his back – they knew that their Lord and Lady should be here to meet the Royal Brigade themselves, though Lady Nevary had refused with the same vigour she ordered him to bring them inside. It was Vesper’s job to do as his Lady pleased, wither he disagreed or agreed, he had to find faith in her words. He had seen a group of men, once, who found faith in a burnt tree stump, so he was sure he could manage.
A white Destrier came to a halt in front of Vesper and his small collective. The man who dismounted was half a giant, with hair farer than Vesper’s own and fine as winter grass. It had blanched in his old age, it seemed. “Is this the only greeting we deserve?” He asked before his second foot had touched ice. He was the man Vesper remembered, with the same art for taking words and placing them in others’ mouths.
“Our Lord apologizes,” Vesper began, hands clasped behind his back. He had been well versed in saying ‘Lord’ whenever he meant ‘Lady’. “Though, he would have you come into the warmth of the Hold instead of waste time outside. It is a night to freeze, Ser.”
“Freezing or not, we Midland men like to observe custom.” The frown on his face did not falter. “My name is Ser Letto Greyw-“
“Greywyth, I know.” Vesper offered him a submissive smile. “I believe you taught me the art of swordplay for a small time at Dal Nitae.”
The silence returned as Greywyth studied his once pupil. “I did?” He paused, for a moment his old face unwound, and his frown subsided. “I likely did, lad, but these are the eyes of an old man.” He almost sounded
apologetic.
Behind him, the retinue was dismounting. The half-bald man at Vesper’s side walked on with promises of stables and warm beds for the night. “We shall not be staying the night.” Vesper heard a sharp voice dive over the sea of crushed snow and hushed voices.
Still, he turned back to Greywyth. “An old man, is it?” He dared, “Well, we can’t have an old man left out in the snow.”
Greywyth’s face contorted twenty times in a mere moment, at first anger flashed in his eyes, though it dwindled to a mere fire, and he let out one, controlled snort. “I do remember you, Vesper. Not much at the swordplay, yet you made up for it with the lashings of your lounge.” He gave him the smile of an old friend.
“My tounge can be honey, too, Ser, when it must.” He turned, gesturing towards the Hold. “Now, to be a fine example, as I must ask you and your company to join me in the warm for the sake of all our health.”
Greywyth agreed, albeit reluctantly. It seemed he was trying to please the voices behind him as Vesper was trying to please his Lady. As their horses and wagons were attended too, the procession made their way passed the weeping fountain and up towards the carved iron doors of Nightshold. The head of a Stargil lurched out from the stonework and loomed over the entrance, each of the two doors fashioned into one of its wings - folded downwards - ornate layers of iron overlapping each other and falling like a waterfall, frozen to ice.
The snow crushed beneath the feet of a few dozen walkers as they trudged drowsily inside the Enterance Hall. The cold followed them inside defiantly, until two Guards pulled the doors closed behind them, condemning it back to the night. Vesper watched men rubbing their hands together, taking shallow, long breaths, their cheeks burnt red. He had forgotten how cold it could get during the Winters of Sierring Vale. He had been the same, when he first came as a lad, worse, even, afraid to walk on ice.
Inside, the fires had been lit. The Entrance Hall was long, but not as tall as some of the other Noble Halls. If a room was too large, it would be too difficult to keep heated. Every alcove held a small fire, which flickered and hissed at the sudden intrusion of cold air. Though, it was every pillar that enticed the Royal party. Each seemed to be made of ice itself, though when one young man laid a hand against one, he had to pull back, cursing loudly from the heat.
“It’s frozen fire,” Vesper admitted proudly. “A gift of our late mage Ceria. See the specs of red and glistening orange-?”
He was cut off by the voice who had answered the bald man, a thin, sharp voice like cruel birdsong. A tall man walked forward. “We did not come here to marvel at your tricks, Ser.” His eyes were firm and unblinking. “Do you suppose we may be greeted by your Lord anytime this Night?” There was clear disgust in his voice.
Thankfully, Vesper did not have to answer him.
The quickening noise of footsteps had entered the room as Lady Nevary rushed through the upstairs doors. When she saw that the visitors were already waiting she stopped her pace, and pulled one strand of hair behind her ear like a girl, eager to not look rushed. “My Lord Registrar, I had no idea we would be entertaining you in person.” She came to the bottom of the steps more gracefully than she had entered, dropping her skirts.
“I wrote the letter in person, did I not?”
Nevary flushed and choked on her soft laugh only to change the topic. She took both of the tall man’s hands in her own. “Has no one seen to their needs? Vesper, fetch a servant to dry their clothes and bring hot food. There should be bread baking for the morning-“
The man with the voice like steel on steel clasped her hands gently, a warm but inexcusable fake smile upon his face. “Save your energies, Mi’Lady.” His words sounded to Vesper as more of a threat than anything. He understood words themselves, not only as the content of a man’s sentence, but as the power that built realms and shattered them. Then, the man let go of his Lady’s hands all at once. “Show me the girl.”
There was no silence in that moment, but for the timeless horror on Lady Nevary’s face. The fires cracked and burned, the soldiers in the retinue, of which there were sixteen, removed their overcoats and travelling capes while the remaining members stood still and staring. Servants came and went, bringing pitchers of hot water and mulled spice-wine when they entered, and carrying out damp cloth as they left. Vesper noticed the Lord Colny had entered the room at the head of the stairs.
Of the remaining eight members, three of them were mages. A mage had at least two ways of being identified – the first, and most common, was the one dark eye. The colour of the pupil, usually in the left eye, was missing. The second was their dress, a simple white robe attached around their chests by several metal bands, and strips of motionless material winding around their arms. If a Mage was acting in the service of a particular House or Town they would usually have flecks of colour decorating the silver links of their chests, though none of these three did. The fourth, a small, shrivelling woman, dressed in the same way, all though a white band was obscuring her eyes. The remaining four members, including the tall man, wore the Royal Red. Their armour looked identical to that of Ser Greywyth’s, of course Vesper knew there was a difference, hidden underneath.
Lady Nevary took one, deep breath and then shook her head. “No, Mi’Lord. It would be most undue to wake a child in the dead of night, the poor girl will not have a clue-“
The tall man looked over her head, with blunt impatience. “Mi’Lord. Your daughter, please.”
Nevary looked as if she were about to shout out, and Vesper found himself at her side, steadying her hand. “No, Mi’Lady.”
“Who do you think you are?” She hissed into his ear.
“A humble servant, who would advise against this, Mi’Lady.” The tall man and his retinue, all but the soldiers, passed by her then to speak to her husband. Vesper thought he could feel her shaking as he lay a hand on her shoulder, yet, she did not speak. She had always been more accustomed to these occasions than Lord Colny. Vesper urged her on in his mind, begging her to keep her cool for only a while longer.
“My daughter is asleep.” The Lord repeated bluntly.
“We come by Royal Order, Lord Crescen.” The tall man had the pressing urge of someone being disrespected. “I am High Registrar Alunaea, and I am carrying out my orders as you have done many a time passed.” He gave the man a look of ice then, colder than the night outside. The silence in the Hall was defied only by the fire, once again, who’s dancing shadows mocked the scene. When Lord Colny did not answer, Alunaea frowned. “What would you have me tell the King?”
“Tell him you saw my daughter, and saw her well.” He frowned and stepped backwards, gesturing the way down the third corridor and into the shadows. “Her’s is the third chamber. Wake a child from her sleep if you must.” He dropped his arm, turning his face away.
Alunaea pressed on past the man. When her Lord did not move, Nevary rushed up the staircase once again, green gown fighting with lush, purple carpet. She followed the procession into her daughter’s room. The soldiers had grown curious, and hurried after, which relieved Vesper, giving him a chance to do the same.
What he found was Nevary pushing past one of the Mages. “I shall wake my daughter myself.” Her eyes were hot, as if she had wanted to spit the words, though she was a true Lady, and knew better.
Silence fell.
The woman with the raven hair lowered down onto her daughter’s bed. She had always wanted her chamber to be white and silver, and glistening, like the palace of some Feral Ice Princess. There had to be a fire, of course, given the weather, though it was shielded by a Coral-print cloth screen, which made the flames burn blue and beaming. The sheets of her bed were the finest Fenn silk, woven in undefined stripes of white and silver until they rippled like ocean waves across every corner and curve. The room, despite all it’s warmth, had always felt cold, and even colder as Vesper stood, waiting.
Her daughter slept, curled beneath her blanket of snow so only her curls of ebony could be seen sprawling across the pillow. Nevary stroked a pale hand through her daughter’s hair, while, with the other, she shook her shoulder gently – as if she were riling a tiny animal. “Maridiae, sweet Maridiae.” Her words sounded more like a mother wishing her daughter good night than a waking call, though the word summoned up a knot in Vesper’s stomach. His own mother had been a Nightswoman, and called his sister the same name when she was a babe. A Maridiae was, for all purposes, a star. In Legends, they were the beautiful daughters of a God, who were found to bright to join the living world. Their sorrow was unknowable, for they had each found a love in the realm of Mortals, and could not do anything but flee to the sky to watch over their loves for all time. He had heard the story a thousand times over, it seemed to be Nightwomen’s favourite.
The girl stirred as the words were whispered in her ear, making a soft whimper and trying to burrow away. Her mother caught her and pulled the sheets from her, pulling the girl into her lap as the child tried to nestle into her chest and continue her sleep. Her eyes were bright, sparkling with water and crusted with sleep, she did not seem to be aware of strangers.
“How old’s the bern?” The old woman croaked as Nevary fought to keep her daughter awake.
“Three years.” She answered in nothing but a formal tone.
The old woman’s face remained a map of uncertain destination. It was an Inquisitor who spoke, eyes piercing. “it is a disgrace to our Order that she has gone so long without the Rite.”
Vesper watched. Nevary stiffened, but did not retaliate. He felt a warm swell of pride in his chest. No, he need not agree with his Lady, though he often did.
“Mama?” The small voice echoed in the tiny chamber, causing Nevary to wrap her arms more tightly around her babe. “Story?” A smile was at her lips for a second. It was true, Lady Navery rarely attended her child – it was the job of a maid as it would be in any other house. That must have been confusing enough for the small girl, before she realized there were half an army of strange men staring at her. The girl raised a hand, rubbed her eyes, and then reached out towards them, bouncing her hand up and down. For a short time they were unsure what she was doing, and none spoke, though Vesper heard a few amused chuckles.
“M’a witch! Witch, witch of the snow, Witch!” She sung.
“Hold her still.” Alunaea cursed immediately, turning to the old woman. “Strasah, now.”
Obediently, the old woman shuffled forward. Vesper moved to help her, though she did not appear to need the help. She moved as well as if she could see the path ahead of her, until she stood in front of mother and child.
Where she could be more quiet, Nevary asked in a hushed tone. “Will you hurt her?”
“’Course not, Mi’Lady.” The woman replied in the common accent. “I’ll just be lookin’, that’s all, lookin’ with me eyes.” She gave a gap toothed smile that made the child turn back into her mother’s breast. Nevary, with a reluctant glance, turned her back around until babe and old woman were staring directly at each other.
Strasah reached upwards to undo her blindfold. Nevary’s whole body tensed, expecting some grotesque sight – perhaps her eyes were not intact, or rotting… She clasped her daughter’s hand, expecting a wail from the girl. Though, nothing came. The woman’s eyes were surprisingly normal, with one green pupil and one empty ring. They strained to see, and fluttered as the light filtered into them.
The shifting of men was heard a millennia away, like far, running water. Vesper watched the woman clasping her child until her knuckles were white. He did not know what to expect, he had only experienced the Rite like everyone else, as a child.
The old woman craned her neck, eyeing the girl up and down. Her eyes were a delta of thin red lines and so dry at the edges the skin had cracked and blistered. It was surprising she could go so long without blinking, or see anything at all.
“Well?” Alunaea pushed.
Strasah struggled to straighten her back. “White, Registrar.” She confirmed. “White as snow.”
It's a little long for a Preface, so I'll have to edit that down, and it is a new idea/work - the first draft, in fact, so please don't be expecting much.
If this needs to be in the stories thread, please just say so. I'm a little unclear.
Critique and feedback would be loved.
---
The gardens were silent as the first snow fall, hiding a deep rumbling within themselves as shadows flickered back and forth in the lit windows. The white powder hung tight to the branches of apple trees, dragging them down with the threat of breaking. The fountain made no noise, it’s once flowing water now crystalized in ice, leaking over the many ornate rims. A single drop had been melting throughout the day, and escaped, only to fall onto the lower layer of ice where it vanished. No night birds sung, no owls hooted, no wildlife disturbed the hedgerows and bushes. Even the stars in their far away sky waited silently, lighting the night for a better view.
The first noise was a crunch of weight on snow, and once it had struck the symphony began. The bushes parted and a white fox darted from his cover. More footsteps came, echoing at different times until they formed an ordered melody. One of the fountain’s icicles fell, shattering off the side of the stone tier as they rounded the corner. There was six of them, half with closed or wery eyes, half alert, stricken with a soldier’s panic – the type you could not show.
“Her Lady wants them brought indoors immediately,” The man with the wild fare hair ordered as he passed the fountain, smashing whatever ice survived the fall into splinters underfoot. “This is swift, do you understand? The layfolk cannot know.”
A near-bald man spoke for the others. “Understood.” His eyes were slanting closed, his mouth pulled down into a frown. He likely did not appreciate being woke halfway through the night. It had not been his turn for the Watch, and he had not ventured to bed until late as it was.
Every man wore white and purple, none of them in their armour. That had been another order of the Lady Nevary. “You will not greet Royal Officials as if you intend to meet them in Battle.” She had told her Castellon. Which was perhaps for the best, as each man had found it a struggle only to get himself dressed. The only symbol of their house was a silver broach clasping their cloaks at their shoulder. The Crescen Stargil was awaiting, with it’s one obsidian eye and it’s silver wings outstretched. Only the Castellon – the wild haired man – had the bird sewn into his tabard.
The scout had come running to the Barracks, announcing shadows on the horizon. The Captain of the Guards had woken all of his men to collect their weapons and carry out the procedure they had discussed, though there had been no need. A second scout returned with news of their banners – The Royal Griffin, the shining blade in its claws. The Castellon was awoke to inform the Lord and Lady of the house, who promptly woke their entire staff. That was when the Lady Nevary had begun with her orders.
Vesper had been Castellon at Siering Vale long enough to know that he need not look to his Lord for confirmation, not even for the sake of politeness. The Lord Colny Crescen was a man of war, his best words were weaved into the pages of time with a Great sword, not said to a Royal visitor in the dead of night. He had no skill with occasions of state. There had been times when Vesper saw him stiffen up even, or excuse himself.
Lady Nevary was straightening her dark green gown when he had seen her, her hair a whimsical mess. “There is another banner, Mi’Lady.” If he had waited any longer, her anger would only have grown. Certain things needed to be said, no matter the time, and Vesper had always been a man of words.
Sure enough, her head raised, amber eyes watching him like a hawk. “Another?” Her cheeks were pale and gaunt, as if she expected it already.
“The Scaiah.”
That was when the chaos had begun, hidden behind the thick stone walls of Nightshold, so the gardens could savour their silence.
Now striding the ice-stained pathways, Vesper approached the oncoming wagons and cartridges. Word had been sent ahead to the Gatehouse and the company had already entered Nightshold. He felt the uneasy panic flowing from the men at his back – they knew that their Lord and Lady should be here to meet the Royal Brigade themselves, though Lady Nevary had refused with the same vigour she ordered him to bring them inside. It was Vesper’s job to do as his Lady pleased, wither he disagreed or agreed, he had to find faith in her words. He had seen a group of men, once, who found faith in a burnt tree stump, so he was sure he could manage.
A white Destrier came to a halt in front of Vesper and his small collective. The man who dismounted was half a giant, with hair farer than Vesper’s own and fine as winter grass. It had blanched in his old age, it seemed. “Is this the only greeting we deserve?” He asked before his second foot had touched ice. He was the man Vesper remembered, with the same art for taking words and placing them in others’ mouths.
“Our Lord apologizes,” Vesper began, hands clasped behind his back. He had been well versed in saying ‘Lord’ whenever he meant ‘Lady’. “Though, he would have you come into the warmth of the Hold instead of waste time outside. It is a night to freeze, Ser.”
“Freezing or not, we Midland men like to observe custom.” The frown on his face did not falter. “My name is Ser Letto Greyw-“
“Greywyth, I know.” Vesper offered him a submissive smile. “I believe you taught me the art of swordplay for a small time at Dal Nitae.”
The silence returned as Greywyth studied his once pupil. “I did?” He paused, for a moment his old face unwound, and his frown subsided. “I likely did, lad, but these are the eyes of an old man.” He almost sounded
apologetic.
Behind him, the retinue was dismounting. The half-bald man at Vesper’s side walked on with promises of stables and warm beds for the night. “We shall not be staying the night.” Vesper heard a sharp voice dive over the sea of crushed snow and hushed voices.
Still, he turned back to Greywyth. “An old man, is it?” He dared, “Well, we can’t have an old man left out in the snow.”
Greywyth’s face contorted twenty times in a mere moment, at first anger flashed in his eyes, though it dwindled to a mere fire, and he let out one, controlled snort. “I do remember you, Vesper. Not much at the swordplay, yet you made up for it with the lashings of your lounge.” He gave him the smile of an old friend.
“My tounge can be honey, too, Ser, when it must.” He turned, gesturing towards the Hold. “Now, to be a fine example, as I must ask you and your company to join me in the warm for the sake of all our health.”
Greywyth agreed, albeit reluctantly. It seemed he was trying to please the voices behind him as Vesper was trying to please his Lady. As their horses and wagons were attended too, the procession made their way passed the weeping fountain and up towards the carved iron doors of Nightshold. The head of a Stargil lurched out from the stonework and loomed over the entrance, each of the two doors fashioned into one of its wings - folded downwards - ornate layers of iron overlapping each other and falling like a waterfall, frozen to ice.
The snow crushed beneath the feet of a few dozen walkers as they trudged drowsily inside the Enterance Hall. The cold followed them inside defiantly, until two Guards pulled the doors closed behind them, condemning it back to the night. Vesper watched men rubbing their hands together, taking shallow, long breaths, their cheeks burnt red. He had forgotten how cold it could get during the Winters of Sierring Vale. He had been the same, when he first came as a lad, worse, even, afraid to walk on ice.
Inside, the fires had been lit. The Entrance Hall was long, but not as tall as some of the other Noble Halls. If a room was too large, it would be too difficult to keep heated. Every alcove held a small fire, which flickered and hissed at the sudden intrusion of cold air. Though, it was every pillar that enticed the Royal party. Each seemed to be made of ice itself, though when one young man laid a hand against one, he had to pull back, cursing loudly from the heat.
“It’s frozen fire,” Vesper admitted proudly. “A gift of our late mage Ceria. See the specs of red and glistening orange-?”
He was cut off by the voice who had answered the bald man, a thin, sharp voice like cruel birdsong. A tall man walked forward. “We did not come here to marvel at your tricks, Ser.” His eyes were firm and unblinking. “Do you suppose we may be greeted by your Lord anytime this Night?” There was clear disgust in his voice.
Thankfully, Vesper did not have to answer him.
The quickening noise of footsteps had entered the room as Lady Nevary rushed through the upstairs doors. When she saw that the visitors were already waiting she stopped her pace, and pulled one strand of hair behind her ear like a girl, eager to not look rushed. “My Lord Registrar, I had no idea we would be entertaining you in person.” She came to the bottom of the steps more gracefully than she had entered, dropping her skirts.
“I wrote the letter in person, did I not?”
Nevary flushed and choked on her soft laugh only to change the topic. She took both of the tall man’s hands in her own. “Has no one seen to their needs? Vesper, fetch a servant to dry their clothes and bring hot food. There should be bread baking for the morning-“
The man with the voice like steel on steel clasped her hands gently, a warm but inexcusable fake smile upon his face. “Save your energies, Mi’Lady.” His words sounded to Vesper as more of a threat than anything. He understood words themselves, not only as the content of a man’s sentence, but as the power that built realms and shattered them. Then, the man let go of his Lady’s hands all at once. “Show me the girl.”
There was no silence in that moment, but for the timeless horror on Lady Nevary’s face. The fires cracked and burned, the soldiers in the retinue, of which there were sixteen, removed their overcoats and travelling capes while the remaining members stood still and staring. Servants came and went, bringing pitchers of hot water and mulled spice-wine when they entered, and carrying out damp cloth as they left. Vesper noticed the Lord Colny had entered the room at the head of the stairs.
Of the remaining eight members, three of them were mages. A mage had at least two ways of being identified – the first, and most common, was the one dark eye. The colour of the pupil, usually in the left eye, was missing. The second was their dress, a simple white robe attached around their chests by several metal bands, and strips of motionless material winding around their arms. If a Mage was acting in the service of a particular House or Town they would usually have flecks of colour decorating the silver links of their chests, though none of these three did. The fourth, a small, shrivelling woman, dressed in the same way, all though a white band was obscuring her eyes. The remaining four members, including the tall man, wore the Royal Red. Their armour looked identical to that of Ser Greywyth’s, of course Vesper knew there was a difference, hidden underneath.
Lady Nevary took one, deep breath and then shook her head. “No, Mi’Lord. It would be most undue to wake a child in the dead of night, the poor girl will not have a clue-“
The tall man looked over her head, with blunt impatience. “Mi’Lord. Your daughter, please.”
Nevary looked as if she were about to shout out, and Vesper found himself at her side, steadying her hand. “No, Mi’Lady.”
“Who do you think you are?” She hissed into his ear.
“A humble servant, who would advise against this, Mi’Lady.” The tall man and his retinue, all but the soldiers, passed by her then to speak to her husband. Vesper thought he could feel her shaking as he lay a hand on her shoulder, yet, she did not speak. She had always been more accustomed to these occasions than Lord Colny. Vesper urged her on in his mind, begging her to keep her cool for only a while longer.
“My daughter is asleep.” The Lord repeated bluntly.
“We come by Royal Order, Lord Crescen.” The tall man had the pressing urge of someone being disrespected. “I am High Registrar Alunaea, and I am carrying out my orders as you have done many a time passed.” He gave the man a look of ice then, colder than the night outside. The silence in the Hall was defied only by the fire, once again, who’s dancing shadows mocked the scene. When Lord Colny did not answer, Alunaea frowned. “What would you have me tell the King?”
“Tell him you saw my daughter, and saw her well.” He frowned and stepped backwards, gesturing the way down the third corridor and into the shadows. “Her’s is the third chamber. Wake a child from her sleep if you must.” He dropped his arm, turning his face away.
Alunaea pressed on past the man. When her Lord did not move, Nevary rushed up the staircase once again, green gown fighting with lush, purple carpet. She followed the procession into her daughter’s room. The soldiers had grown curious, and hurried after, which relieved Vesper, giving him a chance to do the same.
What he found was Nevary pushing past one of the Mages. “I shall wake my daughter myself.” Her eyes were hot, as if she had wanted to spit the words, though she was a true Lady, and knew better.
Silence fell.
The woman with the raven hair lowered down onto her daughter’s bed. She had always wanted her chamber to be white and silver, and glistening, like the palace of some Feral Ice Princess. There had to be a fire, of course, given the weather, though it was shielded by a Coral-print cloth screen, which made the flames burn blue and beaming. The sheets of her bed were the finest Fenn silk, woven in undefined stripes of white and silver until they rippled like ocean waves across every corner and curve. The room, despite all it’s warmth, had always felt cold, and even colder as Vesper stood, waiting.
Her daughter slept, curled beneath her blanket of snow so only her curls of ebony could be seen sprawling across the pillow. Nevary stroked a pale hand through her daughter’s hair, while, with the other, she shook her shoulder gently – as if she were riling a tiny animal. “Maridiae, sweet Maridiae.” Her words sounded more like a mother wishing her daughter good night than a waking call, though the word summoned up a knot in Vesper’s stomach. His own mother had been a Nightswoman, and called his sister the same name when she was a babe. A Maridiae was, for all purposes, a star. In Legends, they were the beautiful daughters of a God, who were found to bright to join the living world. Their sorrow was unknowable, for they had each found a love in the realm of Mortals, and could not do anything but flee to the sky to watch over their loves for all time. He had heard the story a thousand times over, it seemed to be Nightwomen’s favourite.
The girl stirred as the words were whispered in her ear, making a soft whimper and trying to burrow away. Her mother caught her and pulled the sheets from her, pulling the girl into her lap as the child tried to nestle into her chest and continue her sleep. Her eyes were bright, sparkling with water and crusted with sleep, she did not seem to be aware of strangers.
“How old’s the bern?” The old woman croaked as Nevary fought to keep her daughter awake.
“Three years.” She answered in nothing but a formal tone.
The old woman’s face remained a map of uncertain destination. It was an Inquisitor who spoke, eyes piercing. “it is a disgrace to our Order that she has gone so long without the Rite.”
Vesper watched. Nevary stiffened, but did not retaliate. He felt a warm swell of pride in his chest. No, he need not agree with his Lady, though he often did.
“Mama?” The small voice echoed in the tiny chamber, causing Nevary to wrap her arms more tightly around her babe. “Story?” A smile was at her lips for a second. It was true, Lady Navery rarely attended her child – it was the job of a maid as it would be in any other house. That must have been confusing enough for the small girl, before she realized there were half an army of strange men staring at her. The girl raised a hand, rubbed her eyes, and then reached out towards them, bouncing her hand up and down. For a short time they were unsure what she was doing, and none spoke, though Vesper heard a few amused chuckles.
“M’a witch! Witch, witch of the snow, Witch!” She sung.
“Hold her still.” Alunaea cursed immediately, turning to the old woman. “Strasah, now.”
Obediently, the old woman shuffled forward. Vesper moved to help her, though she did not appear to need the help. She moved as well as if she could see the path ahead of her, until she stood in front of mother and child.
Where she could be more quiet, Nevary asked in a hushed tone. “Will you hurt her?”
“’Course not, Mi’Lady.” The woman replied in the common accent. “I’ll just be lookin’, that’s all, lookin’ with me eyes.” She gave a gap toothed smile that made the child turn back into her mother’s breast. Nevary, with a reluctant glance, turned her back around until babe and old woman were staring directly at each other.
Strasah reached upwards to undo her blindfold. Nevary’s whole body tensed, expecting some grotesque sight – perhaps her eyes were not intact, or rotting… She clasped her daughter’s hand, expecting a wail from the girl. Though, nothing came. The woman’s eyes were surprisingly normal, with one green pupil and one empty ring. They strained to see, and fluttered as the light filtered into them.
The shifting of men was heard a millennia away, like far, running water. Vesper watched the woman clasping her child until her knuckles were white. He did not know what to expect, he had only experienced the Rite like everyone else, as a child.
The old woman craned her neck, eyeing the girl up and down. Her eyes were a delta of thin red lines and so dry at the edges the skin had cracked and blistered. It was surprising she could go so long without blinking, or see anything at all.
“Well?” Alunaea pushed.
Strasah struggled to straighten her back. “White, Registrar.” She confirmed. “White as snow.”