The Fifth City (9 page)

Thirteen

Upon rising from the bath and finding the clothes in the wardrobe to her size and liking, she belatedly realized that she was missing her weapons and her pack, so she decided to go out in the castle and do a little exploring.

Oliver and Lady Naomi hadn’t actually said she was to stay in her rooms, so she went back into the washroom and removed the box of hairpins.  She slipped the box into a pocket of the long black tunic she now wore, draped over soft knit leggings.  She found a pair of leather house shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe and put them on.  After one last glance at the looking-glass, she turned the door handle that led into the hallway.

It wasn’t locked, so she took that as a sign that she was allowed to leave; or at least perhaps they didn’t expect her to.  She bent down and carefully placed a hairpin on the floor by the door frame, then turned left, the direction from which Oliver had brought her.

She walked for several minutes down the long corridor, encountering no one.  She placed a hairpin at each intersecting corridor, pointing in whichever direction she took, wedging them into the corner where the floor met the wall, hoping they would go unnoticed.

After a while, she eventually located the staircase that she and Oliver had taken down to this level, and was just about to retrace the path to her room to study the pattern, when someone called her name from above.

She turned in a circle and her leather shoes effortlessly pivoted on the smooth floor.  Oliver was coming down the staircase, smiling, as he held the banister and hopped down the stairs.

“I was just headed to your rooms, but what are you doing out here?” he inquired kindly, but his blue eyes showed a hint of a warning.

“I got bored,” she said flippantly, flashing him a smile.  “I’m not used to sitting still for long.”

Oliver nodded and gestured for her to walk with him.  “Lady Blackwater has invited you for tea,” he said, taking her arm briefly and leading her down a different hallway than the one she had taken to get here.

Sylvia didn’t see a single hairpin on the floor the whole way back, and was surprised when Oliver stopped at a door and let her into her rooms, void of any hairpins. 
There’s that plan failed
.  Perhaps
that
was how they planned to keep her in her rooms.

There was a woman inside her suite, standing before her fireplace, but it wasn’t Lady Naomi.  It was an older woman, about her mother’s age.  Her chestnut hair was bound in a thick braid that wound neatly around half her head and down her back.  She wore a simple tan dress that fell to her ankles, with soft black slippers.  The sleeves of the dress were black, with silver threads that glinted in the light of the fire.

“Medina,” Oliver said warmly, “this is Sylvia Thorne.  Sylvia, meet Medina.  She will prepare you for tea with Lady Blackwater.”

Prepare me?
  Sylvia mentally cringed, but smiled politely at Medina, who had sharp brown eyes, identical to the color of her hair.

“It’s wonderful to assist you, Miss Thorne.”  The woman beckoned Sylvia closer to the firelight.

Oliver let himself out while Medina looked Sylvia up and down, assessing her.  Sylvia stood still and wondered how much of an occasion tea with Lady Blackwater was going to be.

She hardened her resolve.  She would do whatever it took to win over the Lady, and Seascape.  This was only another mission she had to undertake.

After several minutes of scrutiny, Medina ran three fingers across her sleeve in an odd motion, and nodded to herself.

The woman went over to the wardrobe and pulled out a long crimson dress that hadn’t been there when Sylvia had left.  Medina brought it into the washroom and instructed Sylvia to change.

The Rider obeyed, and shut the washroom door behind her.  She stared at the dress that Medina had draped over the drying rack.  Sylvia ran her fingers along the same curious fabric Lady Blackwater seemed to wear, the same that Medina was wearing.  Woven opposite the red strands were thick silver threads, just as soft, but seemingly carrying more weight.  She raised the dress above her head and slipped it on, letting the fabric fall around her.  The back of it would lace up, so she went out to meet Medina.

With a kind smile, the older woman motioned for Sylvia to turn around, and she obeyed.  The laces took quite a while, and then it was time to have her hair arranged.

Medina clucked at the state of Sylvia’s hair, telling her that she would have to bring someone in to cut it evenly—but there was no time today.  So she wound Sylvia’s hair up into a smooth knob on top of her head, tucking in all the ends.

Finally, Medina seemed to have finished, and just as she was setting the hairpins back in the washroom, a knock came at the door.  Medina answered, and Oliver stood there waiting.

Sylvia didn’t bother to guess how he had known she was ready, already frustrated with the denizens of the castle and their mysterious ways; so she said goodbye to Medina, and thanked her for all her help.  She had gotten a look at herself in the reflection of the looking-glass and hardly recognized herself.

“Brilliant,” Oliver said with a grin, and led her down the corridor, to the right this time.

Medina had given her some silken red slippers to match her dress, and Sylvia felt as if she were walking barefoot down the corridor.  Her dress clung to her torso thanks to the laces, but it cascaded down from her hips to the floor and
swooshed
as she walked
.  She had never worn anything so fine in her life.  The most elegant dresses she had ever seen had been worn by Governor Gero’s wife, Anna, and even those weren’t this elaborate.  All of a sudden she didn’t know what to do with her hands, which were becoming clammy.

Sylvia slowed as she heard running water, and dropped her hands by her side.  The corridor opened up into an impossible garden—the walls must be looking-glasses for them to show floor-to-ceiling views of the outdoors, because she was sure they were still inside, and underground, for that matter.

The stone floor of the corridor turned into a rustic stone path that led to a picturesque wire table set with tea and surrounded by flowers and decorative hedges.  A wooden lattice draped with vines hung above their heads, and through it, she could see blue sky and clouds—on a massive looking-glass that made up the true ceiling.  The Lady had created a fine garden patio overlooking the sea in the bowels of her castle. 
What else could these people do?

Lady Blackwater sat on a delicate metal chair, dressed in a fine gown of royal purple, with shiny black jewelry at her throat and wrists.  Sylvia was suddenly glad to have had Medina dress her, even if she did resent the overly puffy gown.

The Lady beckoned Sylvia to enter.  “Come in, Sylvia, sit down.”

Sylvia edged forward into the false sunlight.  Once inside the room, surrounded by the looking-glass walls, she felt like she was truly outdoors—the only thing missing was the sea breeze.

“Thank you, Oliver,” the Lady said, and the cheery man quickly faded back down the corridor, leaving Sylvia uneasily facing the ruler of this incredible island.

Sylvia sank into the empty chair, careful of her gown.  The entire surface of the table was covered by various cups, saucers, and trays of confectioneries, sandwiches, and pastries.  A large white teapot sat in the middle of the table, from which Lady Naomi now poured two steaming cups.

“Thank you for joining me for tea, Miss Thorne.”  The Lady grinned and took an experimental sip from her cup, then let out a satisfied sigh.

“Please, call me Sylvia.”

“Sylvia.”

She couldn’t help but study Lady Naomi, now that she sat so close to the woman.  She was tall even when sitting, and her long face and neck were framed by curly black hair.  Her skin was impossibly smooth, except for the few wrinkles around her bright grey eyes, which seemed to be evaluating Sylvia’s appearance as well.

Sylvia did not look away as she reached for her tea and took a sip, finding it the perfect temperature.  She smiled at Lady Naomi, waiting for her to pounce; for the Lady seemed to always remind her of a cat, or a mountain lion, with her stately posture and predatory eyes.

The Lady carefully selected a scone from a tray, and placed it on her plate before scooping some cream onto it with a small knife.

Sylvia suddenly remembered
her
missing knife, and pack.  “Lady Blackwater,” she started, and put down her teacup, “do you know if my belongings were collected when I collapsed on the shore?” she said as politely as she could. 
When you tortured us with shocking pain until we were unconscious
, was more like it.

The Lady smiled so slyly that Sylvia wondered whether the Lady knew
exactly
what she was thinking, but replied, “They were recovered, yes.  I can have the bag sent to your rooms; however, I cannot allow you to possess weapons while you reside in the castle.  We do not permit citizens to carry weapons within the castle, and since you are living here, well, you can see that it couldn’t be allowed.”

Sylvia nodded, seeing no way to argue with the Lady, and instead swallowed her anger below the surface.  She would find a way to get them back eventually.  She still had the iron fire tools in her room.

She watched as Lady Naomi took a neat bite of her scone, and then traced a pattern on the sleeve of her dress.  Sylvia narrowed her eyes, recognizing that both the Lady and Medina had the tendency to make these strange motions.  She decided to ask.

“Lady Blackwater, may I ask what you’re doing when you—” she mimicked the finger motion on her own crimson sleeve.

The Lady smiled, and paused with her scone halfway to her lips.

“The fabric is
datawoven
, my dear, neurologically connected to my earlink, which processes the commands.”  Lady Naomi turned her head, and Sylvia saw a small, silver nub tucked inside her ear.

Beyond that, she couldn’t decipher a word the Lady had just said.  It must have shone on her face, so the Lady continued.

“The earlink allows me to communicate with others in the castle, and the fabric allows me to carry out these commands, and store data from the earlink.  In short, I’ve just asked for your bag to be returned to your rooms.”

Sylvia blinked. 
Lady Naomi could communicate with others with a flick of her fingers?
   She let out a shaky breath, and brought her teacup to her mouth to hide her bewilderment.

“It’s rather convenient, I must say,” the Lady continued, perhaps to intimidate Sylvia even further.  “We developed it ages ago, and have perfected the processors in the datawoven threads over the years.  You’re wearing it yourself,” she added.

Sylvia looked down at her dress, knowing at once what the silver thread represented.

“You can’t access the data, but I suspect Medina manipulated it to such a fine shade of red; it complements your fascinating hair color.”

“It’s normally blonde,” Sylvia said haltingly, grasping for something—anything—she could understand.  “I shaded it darker so I wouldn’t be recognized in Lightcity.”

The Lady took another bite of her scone, and made a little moan.  “Delicious.  Sylvia, you really need to try something,” she gestured to the various goodies on the table.  Sylvia forced herself to choose something, and blindly scooped up a tart and took a bite to appease the Lady.

She sipped her tea in silence as she tried to process what Blackwater had told her.  Her hand ran along the fabric draped over her thigh in wonder.

Oliver appeared sometime later to collect her, and Sylvia couldn’t have been more grateful to see the ever-smiling man.  Lady Blackwater had put her on edge, with her sly smiles and overwhelming power of technology; but in order to gain their help, Sylvia must prove her worth, and she would sit through as many excruciating teas as it took. 

She resolved never to let her confusion show again.  The Lady would only sense it as a weakness.

When she returned to her rooms, her pack sat perched on the bench at the end of her bed.  She gathered it up and flung herself onto the bed, hugging the pack as she curled herself into a ball.  It was her one piece of home.

Fourteen

The wooden practice sword cracked loudly as Rolfe’s shoulder nearly collided with Ven and the two jumped apart, ending the spar.  Rolfe chuckled and reached out for Ven’s cracked sword to assess the damage, and Ven dragged a tired wrist across his forehead, wiping away the sweat.

The burly woodcarver put a little more pressure on the crack, and the sword split in two.

“You owe me another sword,” Ven said, grinning at him.  Rolfe chuckled and rolled his eyes, checking his own sword for damage.  He was already supplying the Defenders the wooden training swords for the war effort.

Ven told Rolfe to join another sparring group, so he could make his rounds through the rest of the trainees.  He walked through the field and offered suggestions to some of the other fighting pairs.  Overall, Ven had seen drastic improvement since they had begun training, but knowing how to wield a sword was only one step in getting the Defenders ready for war.

Toward the back of the field, the Gatekeepers and Riders were aiming their bows at a line of straw targets.  The seasoned fighters were already skilled in swordplay and had moved on to archery.

As he wandered over to the shooting line, Ven spotted Flint lining up his shot, feet planted wide and the bow drawn taught.  Ven watched as the arrow sliced through the air and sunk into the target, just above the center mark.

Ven let out a low whistle as he came near.  Flint was already nocking another arrow.

“Good one,” Ven remarked, making sure to stay back from the shooting line that was marked in the muddy grass.

Flint flicked his head back to acknowledge Ven before returning his attention to the target.  He pulled the string back to his cheek, fingernails pressing into the flesh, and aimed.  He narrowed his eyes at the straw circle, and the black paint that had been dabbed in the center.  His fingers released.  The arrow nestled itself directly under the first one.

The other archers down the line methodically emptied their quivers, sinking their arrows into the straw, with the occasional shaft burying itself in the field after missing its target.  Once they were done, Flint gave a loud whistle through his teeth and the archers went to collect their arrows.

Ven grabbed Flint’s arm before he could make it down field.

“We need to talk,” Ven muttered.

Flint called to the archer at the next target, “Charwood!  You mind?” he pointed at his target.

After wrenching one of his own arrows out of the grass, Charwood waved and went on collecting for both targets.

“What happened?” Flint demanded.

Ven sighed. “Nothing—much—but, Vince was up on the parapet last night, and around dawn, he saw a big group of Scouts heading north.”

Flint bit his lip, and Ven continued in a low voice.

“I don’t know if they’re heading to Lightcity, but Greyling’s got something going—”

“What do you want to do?” Flint asked seriously.

This was why Ven had come to the Riftcity native first.

“I think we should take some Defenders and go to Lightcity.  Sylvia’s there and—”

“But Gero gave her a month, it’s only been two weeks,” he reasoned.

Ven closed his eyes briefly.  “I know, but what if Greyling’s making a move?” he pressed.

The other archers were returning to the line, quivers full.

“Give it ‘til Winter’s End,” Flint said.  “And we’ll go.”

Ven nodded as the archers began shooting again at Flint’s whistled command.

It was sound advice, he knew.

But he went back to the sparring rings and picked up a sturdy new sword, looking for a fight.