Shards of Time (12 page)

“He’s a ya’shel himself,” Seregil mused. “That must have been a difficult thing for him, under the occupation—a mixed blood but not a slave. Did you see the look on his face when he realized that one of his new masters was a pure-blooded ’faie?”

“I did,” said Alec. “Why would he hate other ’faie?”

“I suspect someone beat the shame of it into him from an early age. For all his life, it was slave blood.”

“The rest of the household is nice, though, and they seem to like us. How many people can the house accommodate, I wonder?”

“As many as come to us,” Seregil replied.

“You’ll have your own village here in no time,” said Micum, puffing away on his pipe.

“That’s my hope.”

Micum blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. “Are you anxious to go off hunting for ghosts?”

“Murderers,” said Seregil, reaching for the wine.

Micum smiled. “I think I’d like to meet up with a ghost or two. Friendly ones, anyway.”

“You can have my share,” said Alec.

They lit the candles Dorin had left for them and made their way upstairs to their quarters.

As Alec stepped into their room, he was surprised to find it dark and damp, with the smell of guttered candles heavy on the chill air. The small side-hinged window near the bed had been left open, and the sea mist had found its way in. He pushed it shut and latched it.

The bed had been turned back for them and Seregil ran a
hand over the sheets. “Damp, damn it. Who in Bilairy’s name lays a fire and leaves the window open?”

There were no fire chips to be found, so Alec made do with flint and steel over the wood that had been laid in the fireplace. He struck sparks half a dozen times before the tinder caught, and even though the kindling was cedar, it was slow to burn. He blew gently on the flames, trying to coax them higher. The wood caught at last, but the fire was dull and smoky.

“What’s wrong?” Seregil asked from the couch, where he’d curled up in his cloak.

“The wood must be damp, too.” Alec joined him, legs stretched out toward the hearth. Without much hope of the bed drying anytime soon, he pulled his cloak over him and went to sleep.

A loud knocking woke them both sometime later. The fickle fire had burned down to embers, the candles were guttering, and the room was colder and damper than ever. The knocking came again, sounding from somewhere down the corridor. It was loud, even at a distance, more of a dull pounding.

Alec went to the door and peered out.

Micum was at his door across the hall. “Is there a fire?”

“That’s what I was wondering.”

They walked down the corridor together, toward the sound. Many of the night lamps had gone out.

“Who’s there?” Alec called softly, not wanting to wake the whole house. “Dorin, is that you?”

There was no answer, but the knocking stopped and they both heard someone walking off in the other direction, toward the stairway.

“Must have been one of the servants,” Micum said with a yawn.

“Knocking the whole house awake? And all the rooms at that end of the corridor are empty.”

“Very odd. Well, it seems to have stopped. Good night, Alec.”

“What was it?” Seregil grumbled as Alec returned to the couch.

“Nothing, I guess. No one’s raising the alarm and the noise has stopped.”

“Thank the Light. I’m exhausted.” Seregil burrowed down into the folds of his cloak again.

Alec was headed for the bed to check the state of the sheets when he noticed that the side window was open again. He closed it and checked the latch; it didn’t appear to be loose. The sheets were damper than ever, though, so he blew life into the embers, rebuilt the fire, and rejoined Seregil. “I guess we’re spending the night here,” he sighed, pulling his cloak around him and resting his head against the back of the couch.

Seregil’s only answer was deep, even breathing.

Alec was nearly asleep when he heard a tiny rattle from the direction of the window. As he watched, it slowly swung open again. That latch clearly needed replacing.

He gave the fire a stir with the poker and threw on another chunk of wood to brighten the room, but even that couldn’t banish the dank chill. As he approached the window, tendrils of sea mist curled into the room, then dissipated in the marginally warmer air. Going to the window, he felt a deeper chill here that he suddenly knew had nothing to do with the fog. As he leaned out, he felt wetness under his fingers. Two wet handprints had appeared on the windowsill, just where he’d rested his fingers—where anyone would rest their hands—dark against the weathered wood, and so wet that they dripped down the wall underneath. He pulled back quickly, wiping his hands on his coat. Just then he sensed movement to his right, through the panes of the window.

There was a face there, and it wasn’t his reflection; a haggard woman gazed back at him, her image carved into diamond-shaped puzzle pieces through the leaded glass. Frozen with fear, Alec stared back at her. Her eyes were lost in shadow, long hair hanging limp and dripping over bare shoulders. She wore an ornate necklace of antique design at her throat—a person of rank rather than a servant or slave. Her pale lips moved as she tried to tell him something. He
couldn’t hear the words, but a wave of crushing sadness rolled over him, pushing aside the fear. He couldn’t move, but felt the tickle of tears rolling down his cheeks.

He had no idea how long he stood there like that, lost in grief, before Seregil whispered behind him,
“Artha dom alika, sala.”

She bowed her head, then slowly faded away, taking the deeper chill with her.

“That—That was—” Alec stammered, wiping his cheeks with shaking fingers.

“Our first ghost, yes. Are you all right?”

Alec looked down at the sill, where the wet handprints still showed. “I don’t know.”

Seregil touched the handprints and licked his finger. “Salty. Seawater, probably. Our sad lady must have drowned.”

Delayed shock was setting in, and Alec began to tremble in earnest. Seregil pushed the couch closer to the fire and made Alec sit down, then put his cloak around him.

“What did you say to her? What language was that?” Alec asked through chattering teeth.

“Middle Konic. I told her ‘Go to your rest, my lady. Be at peace.’ It’s the language that would have been spoken when the house was new.”

Seregil latched the window, lit fresh candles on the mantelpiece, and settled down beside Alec with an arm around his shoulders.

“Did you feel the sadness?”

“No, but you did, didn’t you?”

Alec let out a shaky breath. “It was like she was making me feel what she felt.”

“Anything beyond the sadness?”

“No. Well, fear, but I don’t think that was her doing. Do you think she’ll come back, after what you said to her?”

“I doubt a few kind words will lay her to rest after all these years. I’ll speak to Dorin about shifting rooms.”

As Alec gradually calmed down, he noticed that the fire was burning brighter than it had before, spreading more warmth. The damp was gone. Whoever their night visitor had been, she seemed to be gone, too.

Despite that, his dreams were uneasy.

The room was cold again, and stank of seaweed and mud. Despite Seregil’s arm around him, Alec felt the short hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Someone was standing behind him
.

Seregil didn’t wake as Alec slipped from his embrace and stood. The woman was standing by the window, looking as solid as the wall behind her. Her ragged gown was sodden, and as Alec watched a crab scuttled out from under the hem of it and scrabbled away into a shadowed corner. As she slowly walked toward him, Alec could see that her eyes were moon snail shells and that her tangled, dripping hair was crawling with sea lice and tiny crabs. A spiny green urchin clung to the bodice of her gown like a brooch
.

The couch stood between them, and she stopped just behind it. Seregil was no longer there; Alec didn’t dare take his eyes off the woman to look for him
.

The hand she raised to point at him dripped with mud, spattering the fine carved wood and upholstery. She pointed first at the bed. The bed curtains were gone, and something hung by a thick string from one of the posts: a dead owl, hanged by the neck
.

More mud dribbled over her chin as she gagged out, “Only the dead can walk with the dead.”

Terrified, he found she was pointing at him now, as if she could see with those blind shell eyes. “Only the dead can walk with the dead.”

Alec jumped up from the couch and twisted around toward the window, expecting the woman to be standing there, dripping. But the window was still closed and there was no one there but Seregil, looking up at him with concern. The bed curtains hung in neat folds; no dead owls there.

“What’s wrong, talí?”

Alec shuddered, overcome with dread. “The woman—she was back. Right there behind you. There was a dead owl hanging from the bedpost, and she told me that only the dead can walk with the dead, just like that madman said to you!”

“Interesting. And an owl, you say?” Seregil frowned and made a sign against ill fortune. “Come back, Alec, and sit
down before your knees give out. I can see you shaking from here.”

Instead, Alec went to the bed and felt the sheets. They were dry. “I’d rather sleep here.”

It was farther from the window.

B
ETWEEN
the night’s terrors and the unforgiving mattress, Alec woke tired and out of sorts. Seregil didn’t ask any questions, just gave him his space.

By the time they entered the dining room Micum was already at breakfast, waited on by a very cheerful Willow and her son. Dorin was there as well, a dour presence in dark livery as he oversaw the breakfast.

Morning light slanted in through diamond-paned windows. Bands of colored glass at the top of the casements cast rainbow hues over the silver chargers and delicate porcelain on the table. The previous night’s events seemed even more impossible to Alec in daylight.

“I’m afraid we didn’t sleep very well,” Seregil said, stifling a yawn. “Dorin, our room was very damp. Is it always like that?”

“I’m so sorry, my lord,” the steward replied. “I’ll have your things moved to the purple suite at once.”

“There was someone making a racket, too, knocking on doors,” said Micum, and Alec saw Willow exchange an uneasy look with Vhadä.

“A ghost?” Seregil suggested.

“She’s—” Vhadä began, but Dorin cut the boy off with a dark look.

“Who?” asked Alec. “Please, continue.”

“There is a ghost here, my lord—”

“Please, just Alec.”

Willow nodded. “It’s just that the ghost is most likely what you heard.”

“What sort of ghost?” asked Micum.

“Oh, nothing to concern yourself with,” she assured him. “As the story goes, a few hundred years ago the noblewoman who owned Mirror Moon disappeared mysteriously, and her lover was hanged for murder, though her body was never found. It’s said she walks the corridors on misty nights, dripping with seawater and knocking on the doors, looking for him. She doesn’t hurt anyone, and she doesn’t appear often, but is known to when there’s a new master or mistress in the house. She’s just a lost soul, or perhaps only a memory.”

“How sad,” said Seregil.

“So she just knocks on doors?” asked Alec.

“Well …”

“Go on then, tell them,” Dorin snapped.

Willow nodded. “It’s just that the chamber you had last night was her room and she’s known to haunt it, as well.”

“She opens the window and lets the sea fog in,” Vhadä added.

“Not for many years, my lord,” said Dorin. “I’ll have the latch seen to. It’s probably just loose.”

“Is there anything about a dead owl in the room, in the old stories?” asked Alec. “A hanged owl?”

Vhadä and his mother both made a warding sign on the air.

“No. But it’s terrible bad luck to kill an owl on Kouros!” Willow told them.

“Thank you,” said Seregil. “You can leave us for now. I think we have all we need.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Dorin led the others out.

“Seregil, did you know it was a ghost?” asked Micum.

“Ask Alec. He saw her.”

“Just for an instant,” Alec explained. “But we both felt her. And then I dreamed about her. There was a dead owl in the dream.”

“I’d say that would be bad luck anywhere, especially to a ’faie.” Micum stroked his moustache. “Well, we’re off to quite a start.”

Dorin returned as they were finishing to inform them that
more refugees had arrived. “I have them in the front hall, my lords, if you’d care to look them over.”

Seregil slammed his knife down. “Damn it, Dorin, they are not livestock! I will thank you to treat any ’faie who come here with more respect than I’ve seen thus far. You may hate your own lineage, or have been mistreated because of it, but it is time you let go of that, or I shall have to find myself a new steward.”

The color drained from the man’s face and to everyone’s amazement, he fell to his knees. “Please accept my apology for my behavior, Baron! I—this has always been my home. I couldn’t bear it.”