The Frostwoven Crown (Book 4) (6 page)

“Let me see it,” Uncle Tinjin’s voice spoke from behind, startling Garrett.

“Huh? Oh,” Garrett said, turning to lift the black clothes for Tinjin’s inspection.

Tinjin stepped forward. Powdery dust covered the sleeves and knees of his purple robe, and he carried a dusty leather satchel in one hand. “Very nice,” Tinjin said, studying the spider silk outfit. “The headdress lends it a certain… nobility.”

“Yeah,” Garrett said, “thanks. You just missed mister Jannis.”

Tinjin nodded. “I’m afraid I was busy.”

“What’s that?” Garrett asked, pointing at the dusty satchel.

Tinjin lifted the case, brushing away the powder from the cracked black leather with one hand. “Something that I am quite relieved the Templars did not find when they searched the house,” he said, “Go and get dressed, and I will tell you more before you leave.”

Garrett nodded sharply and ran upstairs with his new clothes tucked under his arm. Caleb was in Garrett’s room, standing in front of the smudgy mirror, motionless. The zombie slowly turned his head to look at Garrett as he entered the room, and his milky eyes went wide for a moment. Then his usual, unfocused gaze returned, and he resumed his silent watch over Garrett’s looking glass.

Garrett removed the headdress with some difficulty and laid it in a heap on the bed. He peeled off his robe and dressed himself in the black silk kurta and pants. The smooth fabric caressed his skin like warm milk. He tried not to think about where it had come from, but was grateful for the comfortable fit.

He looked down at his bare feet, frowning. He wrenched open the door of the old wardrobe, and it hung crookedly on the loose hinge, damaged by the Templar’s looting. He stared at the muddy pile of boots at the bottom of the cabinet and shook his head. At last, he reached into the back corner and hauled out the red Chadiri boots that he had worn back from the campaign in the swamps. They never fit quite right and had seen little use since he had gotten his things back from the auction house, but they were, at least, clean.

He sat down on his chair and pulled on his thickest pair of wool socks, and they seemed to make up the difference between the size of Garrett’s feet and those of whatever fallen soldier had given up the boots. A cold thought ran through Garrett’s mind then, that the young man who had worn these boots before might still be alive, if it weren’t for him. How many people had died in the swamp because of what Garrett had done?

He shook his head and stamped his heel into place on the floor. If it weren’t for men like the Chadiri, Garrett’s family would still be alive. He would waste no pity on the war priests. If Garrett hadn’t been there, his friends might be dead now too, and these boots would have been marching, even now, to conquer the city and put everyone here to the sword.

He stood up, admiring the way the toes of his red boots peeked out from beneath the black silk of his trouser legs. He thought about tucking them in, but decided that he preferred the black to the red.

Garrett retrieved the headdress from the bed and looked it over, trying to make sense of it. He walked over to the mirror and nudged Caleb aside.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I gotta remember how to do this.”

Garrett put the bowl of the cap on top of his head and then fumbled with the long streamer of indigo cloth, trying to wrap it back around his face and neck. After a few moments of trying, he had only managed to make himself look like a heap of dirty laundry with eyes. He groaned and unwrapped it, trying again.

Then he felt someone tug the wrap from his fingers, and he saw that Caleb was standing behind him. The zombie reached up to straighten the cap atop Garrett’s head and pulled the wrap out into a long loop over one arm. Garrett started to turn to look at him, but Caleb put his hand on Garrett’s shoulder, facing him to the mirror again.

Caleb looked at the mirror over Garrett’s shoulder, his eyes distant. He lifted the wrap and pulled it into a snug band across Garrett’s forehead and around again behind and beneath his chin, as though recalling some half-forgotten ritual.

“You know how to do this?” Garrett asked.

Caleb made no sound, seemingly lost in a trance. He wrapped the fabric again and again around Garrett’s head, snug, but not too tight. Then he was done, and Garrett’s eyes looked back from the mirror through a thin slit in the indigo wrapping.

“Wow!” Garrett said, his voice slightly muffled, “Thanks.”

The hint of a smile played at the corner of Caleb’s lips. He slowly reached up and pulled down the swath of fabric covering Garrett’s mouth and nose, revealing the rest of his face.

Garrett grinned. “That’s not something you remember from being human, is it?” he asked, turning to face the zombie, “You’re starting to remember being a satyr now too, aren’t you?”

Caleb looked confused. His fingers went to his forehead, as though searching for horns there. He took a step back, stumbling on his human legs before catching himself and standing straight again. The zombie stared at the mirror once more, his self-awareness seeming to drain away into the blank look of the mindless undead.

“Thank you,” Garrett said, patting Caleb’s shoulder, “and keep working on it. It’ll come back to you.”

Caleb moaned softly in response, but his eyes never left the pale refection in the cloudy mirror.

Garrett headed downstairs, finding Uncle in his study. The old man looked up from a book as Garrett entered the room. He smiled.

“You look very nice, Garrett,” Uncle Tinjin said.

“Thanks,” Garrett said, “Caleb helped with the hat.”

Uncle’s eyes narrowed, but then he shrugged and closed the book he was holding. Garrett caught a glimpse of a hexagonal, blood-red rune graven into the black leather of the book’s cover before Uncle placed it inside a small wooden coffer and closed the lid. The rune looked somehow familiar, though Garrett could not recall where he had seen it before.

“What is that?” Garrett asked.

“It is a gift,” Uncle Tinjin answered, “for Mrs. Veranu… and Marla.” The old man turned his attention to a half-finished letter that he was writing, his quill pen scratching out long, looping sigils that Garrett did not recognize.

“What language is that?” Garrett asked, leaning forward to get a closer look.

“It is considered rude to read over another person’s shoulder,” Tinjin muttered, “But, since you wish to know, it is Laebran.”

“Huh?”

“The Laebran were a race of seafaring folk,” Tinjin explained, “Unfortunately, their island was destroyed many years ago, and most of them perished with it. Very few people alive today can read their language.”

“And you’re writing to someone who can?” Garrett asked.

“Marla’s mother,” Tinjin said, “She may be the last of that race still alive in the world. I do not know. She and I have always found it useful to correspond in her native tongue. Fewer chances of the information falling under a casual glance that way.”

“What’s it say?” Garrett asked.

Tinjin lifted his head, frowning. “If I wanted everyone to know that, I wouldn’t have taken the trouble of writing it in a dead language,” he said.

“Sorry,” Garrett said.

Tinjin smiled. He cleaned his pen and set it aside, letting the ink dry. “I am sending this book and letter with you tonight,” he said, “It is better that it come to the Veranus through you and not me. You must make no mention of what it is or who sent it. Simply give it to Mrs. Veranu directly. Tell her it is a gift. If you see only Marla, let her know that it must go to her mother right away, but make no mention of the contents of the box.”

“But you said it was for Marla too,” Garrett said.

“It is,” Tinjin said, “but it must come to her through her mother, when her mother wishes it.”

“Why can’t she know what it is?”

“It is her mother’s right to choose the way in which she receives it,” Tinjin said.

Garrett looked at the little wooden box. “Then why were you hiding it until now?” he asked.

“Because that is what Marla’s father wished,” Tinjin said.

Garrett fell silent, recalling the crimson rune he had seen in the portrait of Marla’s father. The same rune on the cover of the black book...
Drinker of Sorrow
.

Uncle Tinjin sealed the letter and handed it and the box to Garrett. “Have a good time tonight, Garrett,” he said, “Look not to the pillars of inexorable fate for true meaning in this world, but rather to the little moments of happiness that lie between them.”

Garrett stopped by a small bakery on his way to the Thrinnian Embassy. Marla had warned him that he might want to eat before he came, so he wolfed down a couple of cinnamon rolls as he hurried past all the shops doing their last business of the evening before Curfew. He dusted the crumbs off as best he could, one-handed, since he held Uncle’s package for Mrs. Veranu in the other. He wore a hooded overcoat over his party clothes, but had chosen to leave his satchel behind, with only a handful of coins tucked inside a belt pouch beneath his kurta to pay for expenses. He hoped he wouldn’t need any essence tonight. It was just a party after all.

The first warning chime sounded through the streets, and Garrett picked up his pace. Marla had promised him safe conduct home after the play, but she had not specified how, and this was starting to worry him. Curfew was once again in full effect in the city of Wythr, and he had no desire to risk another run past the skeletal guardians, especially without any magical essence.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of red, and he stopped to look. A lean, dark-haired girl in a sand-colored tunic was packing up her table of wares in front of the nameless little shop front that she shared with several other hopeful young entrepreneurs. The flash of red came from a brooch of colorful feathers that shimmered in the lamplight like glittering jewels before the girl tucked it away into her rucksack.

“Wait!” Garrett called out, hurrying to the girl’s table, “How much is that feather thing?”

The girl looked up, smiling, her eyes going to the puffy headdress that protruded from the front of Garrett’s hood. “Oh, you mean this?” she asked, pulling the feather brooch back out again.

Glossy feathers in red, purple, and orange were woven together in the shape of a teardrop. Their colors seemed unnaturally vibrant, almost blazing with warmth against the cool shadows of twilight.

“How much is it?” he asked, fumbling for his coin pouch.

“One hundred suul,” she said, biting her lip.

“Oh,” Garrett said, digging the coins out and spreading them across his palm with his thumb, “I only have twenty-seven… sorry.”

The girl’s eyes fell. She hesitated a moment and then pushed the feather brooch back inside the pack.

“Thank you anyway,” Garrett said, “Have a good night.” He turned to walk away, cursing himself for not thinking of getting Marla something earlier.

He made it about twenty paces before the shop girl caught up with him and tapped him on the shoulder.

“You really only have twenty-seven?” she asked.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said.

Her eyes went back to the empty table and her bulging rucksack atop it. She sighed and held out the feather brooch. “It’s yours for that, if you want it,” she said.

“Oh,” Garrett said, handing her the money, “Are you sure?”

She nodded and gave him a thin smile. Then her stomach made a low rumbling noise, and she flushed red.

Garrett pretended not to notice. “Thank you,” he said, reaching to take the brooch. His sleeve drew back up his forearm as he did, and the girl saw the pale burn scars. She flinched as his hand touched hers.

Garrett looked away, mumbling his thanks once again. He should have worn the gloves.

“I’m sorry,” the girl said, “I… have a good evening, sir.” She clutched the coins tightly to her chest and fled back to her table as the second warning chime rang out, hollow and mournful, above the city.

Garrett stroked the feathers between his fingertips, feeling their softness and warmth. He wondered if the bird that gave them might come from the same place that Uncle’s shimmerfleece did. Somewhere bright and sunny, no doubt. He sighed and hurried on his way.

He arrived at the Foreign District as the final chimes of Curfew tolled above the silent city. He ducked inside just as the Templars were shutting the gates for the evening. He made his way to the Thrinnian Embassy and pulled the bell rope at its mahogany and amber door, waiting to be admitted within.

An unusually long time passed as Garrett stood there outside the door, and he began to grow more nervous by the moment. From somewhere beyond the district walls, Garrett heard a muffled scream. The Watchers were out.

He shrank deeper into the shadow of the embassy doorway, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. As far as he knew, Watchers were not allowed within the walls of the Foreign District, but Templars patrolled the streets at night, and Garrett did not want to push his luck with them. He doubted his status as an honorary Templar would impress the cudgel-wielding soldiers that had given him so much trouble, and so many contusions, on the night they had tried to arrest him.

As if summoned by his fear of them, he heard the dull clop of Templar boots, echoing through the street as the patrol began its nightly rounds. He pushed his back against the wall, wondering if he would be better off announcing his presence to the guard and answering their questions, or keeping silent and trusting the shadows to hide him. If they found him trying to hide from them…