C
onfined as she was to study, the two weeks crawled by for Tildi.
The housekeeping staff was under strict orders to keep her from helping, and plucked dust rags, brooms, and brushes out of her hands whenever they found her at any work other than her own. Plenty of activity was going on around her, and she itched to be part of it. Every corner of the kitchen was full of gigantic pots and stacks of trenchers and dishes. The twin footmen polished mountains of silver cutlery. The housemaids carried piles of linens up the stairs and made up dozens of beds in the guest rooms. Some of the guests would be staying in suites, the likes of which she had never dreamed existed outside of a fairy-tale castle. The rich, red brocade bed curtains alone in one grand room would have bought the entire contents of Clearbeck!
And every time she tried to help, she was shooed out of the room like an errant cat. She had never felt more useless in her life.
Despite his promise, Olen was too busy to spend more than a few minutes a day checking her work. Forced to apply herself, she learned to distinguish a hundred general runes, and manipulate a few simple specific ones, like that for a stone and a piece of wood that she found in the garden. She attempted to dissect the impenetrable, difficult runes in the page he had assigned her, and practiced warding. Despairing of ever being able to push thunderstorms around like Olen, Tildi sat despondently looking out over the gardens as Olen’s grooms put up temporary stables for dozens of horses to supplement those hidden among the small trees at the perimeter of the estate. She wondered why the housemaids were carrying candlesticks and toilet mirrors into the nearest bank of stalls, but no one had time to answer her questions.
With her book in front of her, Tildi ate her lunch at the table in the servants’ hall. Liana, beside her, sat poring over notes while the staff ran around them with heaps of linens and baskets of candlesticks.
“Mistress,” one of the footmen said, dashing up, “we can’t find the extra washbasins!”
Before Liana could put her finger on her notes to keep her place, Tildi piped up. “Second storeroom in the fifth attic.”
Liana and the footmen both stared at her. “Master Olen had me fetch one for studying water runes,” she said sheepishly.
“She’s right,” the housekeeper said, her smile lightening the look of concentration she wore. The footman ran off. “Well, you’re not supposed to be helping, but I can’t say I’m ungrateful that his current apprentice isn’t as snooty as the previous apprentice but one. Lord of this land or that, that boy was. Ended up joining the Knights of the Book and leaving Olen in the lurch, wretched boy. As if he was worth a damn anywhere but washing retorts and scribing down spells.”
One of the bells on the wall over their heads began to jangle. They both glanced up. “Front door,” Liana observed. She went back to her lists, but the bell overhead went on and on. She smacked her palm down on the tabletop. “Where is that Samek?”
“I’ll go and get the door, Liana,” Tildi offered, jumping down from the pad perched on the bench.
Liana eyed her. “You’re Olen’s apprentice. Properly you should not.” The bell rang again and again. She sighed. “I suppose you had better. I think Samek’s gone off to get drunk, curse him. Crowds worry him. He
prefers it when it’s just the usual household ménage, but that’s not his choice, is it? Go. Thank you.”
Loud hammering from without alarmed Tildi as she flew toward the tall entry doors. Whoever sought entry was trying to hammer his way through the wood. She could almost see the timbers of the frame thicken as Silvertree protected itself from damage. Tildi reached for the round door handle, but whomever was on the other side had decided to resort to magic. Tildi jumped back just in time to avoid having the doors fly open in her face.
A woman peered down at Tildi. Her long white hair was braided and tied with glinting ruby and emerald pins. Her skin was a warm golden hue, set off by the pale green of her fine gown. Over that floated a white silk cloak tied at the neck with a ribbon. At first Tildi thought she was an elf like Irithe, but her ears were of the human shape.
“Hello, child,” the human said kindly. Her large black eyes, as timeless as Irithe’s with only the faintest hint of a wrinkle at the outer corners, widened a trifle. “Ah, but I see you are not a child. Are you new here?”
“My name is Tildi, honored one.”
“Greetings, Tildi. I am Edynn. I apologize for bursting in, but as you can see”—Edynn gestured with the long staff in her hand—“the doorstep is becoming very crowded. I knew Olen would not want us standing in the street.” Tildi gawked. Behind the old woman was a crowd spilling down the stairs and down the path, all most distinguished and clad in gorgeous clothes of brilliant colors and winking gems. They were too dignified to press forward, but quite a few of the people looked impatient and peevish. They were not precisely in the street, which was a distance behind them, but the courtyard was filling up fast.
“No, of course not,” Tildi stammered, gesturing feebly at the hall behind her. “Please enter and be welcome. May I have your cloak?”
“You are not a door ward,” Edynn said, divesting herself of her own outer garment. She undid the white ribbon, and the cloak lifted itself away from Tildi’s hands, making for the endmost peg. “What is your place in Olen’s household?”
“I’m his new apprentice, honored one,” Tildi explained. The wizardess beamed and extended a long hand to her.
“Ah, then we are colleagues! Call me Edynn.”
Tildi was abashed and gratified. She would not dare address such a grand lady by her given name, but she accepted the hand with pleasure.
The next person in the door was a younger, slimmer version of Edynn.
Her hair was as black as her eyes, and filled with golden pins winking with blue stones. Peevishly, she draped her ochre silk cloak over Tildi’s outstretched arms and swept in, leaving the scent of a heavy floral perfume in her wake.
“Mother! This way.”
Edynn’s shoulders lifted slightly in apology.
“My daughter, Serafina.” With a small smile, the older woman followed the girl through the towering doors and toward the stairs that led up to the great hall.
Tildi’s arms soon became filled with the outer garments of the visitors who streamed into the foyer in Serafina’s wake. Elegant men and women streamed in, laying cloaks, capes, and shawls on top of the heap. Some of the visitors greeted her. Many strode past without looking down. Tildi was too fascinated to complain. It was like watching a pageant or a wedding, with everyone wearing their very best to impress one another.
She had never seen jewels like those, or such fine clothes. As she made common homespun for work clothes on the family loom she knew a little about weaving. The visitors’ garments were made of fabrics with complicated weaves and must have cost a great deal. A lot of the cloth looked coarse by her standards, but cut exquisitely, better than by any tailor who lived in Clearbeck. Some of it, she was sure, must have come from the Quarters. With a start of surprise she recognized the fabric in one swirling cloak as having come from her own village, made by Gorten. It was absolutely unmistakable. Tildi and her friends had lusted after that very fabric with the oak leaf pattern repeated over and over, with a touch of genuine golden thread as fine as hair that had been imported from over the sea. Gorten had been justifiably proud of the complex loom he had made, which could produce intricate motifs in five or six colors. She and a few of her friends had priced a length or two, but Gorten had been asking so much for it that it would have been a wrench even to pay for enough to make a sash. Not long afterwards the bolt had disappeared, no doubt in the pack of a passing peddler who knew he could find a market for it among the wealthiest patrons in the human lands. Linens, woolens, and even silks from the Quarters were known to be much in demand for their fine web. Now Tildi had the proof of it. She gave the fine tunic a fond glance before turning to the next guest over the threshold. Even being reminded of a story with an acrimonious argument in it made her homesick and glad at the same time. Though
the cloak was covered up in the next moment by a shiny damask capelet in dark red silk, she felt contented to know it was there.
Humans, elves, werewolves in their dormant phase, and some stocky people she imagined must be dwarves, all passed into Silvertree’s halls. The parade of guests seemed to be never ending. Every time Tildi thought she could withdraw and begin to hang up the cloaks in her arms, someone else whisked in through the door.
“Greetings, honored one,” she repeated over and over, feeling like Olen’s talking bird. “Welcome to Silvertree. Greetings. Welcome. Greetings.”
One wag of a gentleman with bright blue eyes took off his peaked, feathered cap and plunked it down on Tildi’s head. The brim went right down to her shoulders, encasing her head in a felt bucket. Now she was immobilized with the weight of her burden and she was no longer able to see. What was the polite thing to do in this case? If she had been at home she would have nodded off the hat onto the nearest bench, dumped the heap of cloaks on top of it and started firmly directing the men to hang up their own coats, if they hadn’t the sense to figure that out for themselves. Her face was hot with shame. She didn’t want to make Olen angry, but she did feel that she was entitled to some consideration.
“What have we here?” asked a pleasant tenor voice. “That’s no place to put one’s hat!”
The hot cap was removed, leaving Tildi, flushed and embarrassed, gazing up at her rescuer. A young man smiled down at her with bright yellow-green eyes. His long hair was a riot of color, white, chestnut, and black. Tildi was surprised to realize she had seen him before. He had been riding into the Quarters on the day she had left. Her thoughtful gaze brought an unwitting grin to his lips, which startled her into recalling her manners. He could not possibly have seen her that day. It was unthinkable for her to behave as though she knew him.
“Forgive me staring, honored one,” she said, flustered. “May I take your coat?”
“Thank you, little lass,” the handsome youth said, swinging his cloak up out of her reach and hooking it onto a peg. “I’ll hang it up myself. No need for you to climb a ladder just to show courtesy. Looking at the size of you I can’t imagine what my fellow guests were thinking. Where is Samek?” He hoisted the armload of coats away from her and tossed it into a corner.
“He’s gone to the stables, sir,” Tildi said, scrambling to retrieve them
and Samek’s pride. What would her master say to her if his guests’ things were damaged? Would he hold her responsible?
“You mean down in the wine cellar,” the youth said, with a humorous nod. “Sampling the vintages before we do. Just to make sure we’re not poisoned, and all. Oh, leave those alone, lass. Let Samek clear them up when he returns. I’ll wager it’s not
your
responsibility.”
This young man was clearly a habitué of the house. He tossed his fine velvet cap toward a peg. It caught by the band and rotated almost a complete circle before settling to hang flat. He grinned at Tildi.
“Party trick,” he said. “I’ve won many a drink in a pub betting I can do that. Very useful when one hasn’t the price of a pint about one, and they won’t accept a song in payment. I like to keep in practice, even when it annoys my betters.”
That last was aimed at a regal man just behind him, who had a thick gold circlet holding down his curling yellow hair. This man’s clothes were of the finest silks, scarlet and white, embroidered so finely that Tildi could find no fault, and he wore a single glowing yellow stone set into a medallion that hung by carved golden links about his neck. Behind him stretched a string of courtiers and soldiers, each wearing a badge of scarlet and white with the image of a winged horse pawing the ground.
“My lord Halcot,” the young man said, with a deep bow. He swept his hand along the floor and came up in a graceful flourish. King Halcot seemed unimpressed.
“Magpie, what do you do here?” he asked.
The young man smiled at him impishly. “I am bidden to the council, the same as yourself.”
Halcot snorted. “This was to be of the highest ranks only. I will speak to Olen about that.”
Samek returned at that moment, just in time to catch the fur-lined cape that Halcot pushed off his shoulders before it hit the floor. He gave Tildi a sheepish look.
“You won’t tell, will you, lass?” he asked, leaning close to whisper to her. She could smell the wine on his breath. His eyes were somewhat bloodshot.
“I won’t have to, will I?” Tildi retorted. “Olen sees everything, and what he doesn’t see the house will tell him.”
“Aye, so yer right,” Samek agreed sadly. “Sorry to leave yerr mindin’ the door.”
“It’s all …” Tildi glanced out of the open portal, and forgot what she
was about to say. Standing on the threshold were the most exotic creatures she had ever seen in her life.
With dark brown skin, large, lustrous eyes, and thick, flowing hair, Tildi might at first have thought that these tall beings were kin to the messenger who had visited two weeks before, but the resemblance ended at the waist, for they were only half human. The bottom half of each was that of a horse. Centaurs! Tildi had heard many stories of the fabled herds of Balierenn. Their eyes were large and lustrous. Not all brown as most of the ponies in the Quarters had been, but hazel-green, dark brown, black, and a rare dark blue. Their hair—or ought Tildi to say manes?—whether wavy or straight, was thick and springy, bound around the brow with fillets of leather or gold. The lengths were braided or woven, some with brightly colored ribbons and beads. One female’s black-streaked hair had been divided into countless small braids each terminating in a faceted, glittering bead. Their horse halves were mainly black, but frequently striped, streaked, or spotted with a pure silver-white. One beautiful lady had silver hooves set off by jingling bunches of silver bracelets around her fetlocks. Their human halves were clad in fine silks, leathers, and velvets, breathtakingly embroidered in gold and silver.