9

The Novice

Do I really have to wear this?”

Aislynn looked critically at herself in the three oval mirrors arrayed about her in the shallow alcove of the dressing chamber. The panels of her robe had been fitted in a modestly flattering way but the severe black was unbroken by any other color. The pants and hose under the robe would take a bit of getting used to and the high, pointed collar seemed a bit fussy to her, as did the tightly fitted sleeves that gathered just below the elbow and came to a point at the back of each hand. The hem was several inches above the floor, which to her seemed ungainly. The cut in the back made an easy exposure of her wings, which, she flattered herself, were elegant in and of themselves, but otherwise the entire outfit made her look rather dull.

“It is the garment of the Oraclyn-loi.” Shaeonyn’s voice was several degrees colder than the chill chamber itself. “By this garment we are known throughout the lands of the Fae. It is the recognized symbol of our being set apart from the castes, of the depth of our commitment to the Dwynwyn Seekers and the power of the vision that it represents.”

“But it isn’t much as a statement in fashion,” Aislynn observed as she frowned at herself.

“It is not meant to be a statement in fashion.” Shaeonyn breathed out her words in ice. “It is a statement in power.”

“Hmmm.” Aislynn shrugged. “Well, I suppose it shall have to do for now. Maybe with a few changes it could become rather fetching. Some silver inlay, perhaps, or bright trim—”

“It is what it is because it functions,” Shaeonyn spoke firmly. “It shall remain what it is until a form is found that functions better. That is all that need concern you, Aislynn. You would be better served worrying about learning your craft than about how you look to others. Now, if you are quite finished being critical of the way we all dress, would you accompany me to your quarters in the Lyceum?”

“Of course,” Aislynn answered imperiously. “You are permitted to lead the way.”

“You do not ‘permit’ anything!” Shaeonyn’s lip curled in disdain as she spoke. “Dwynwyn has offered you to me as an apprentice candidate; as my Oraclyn-loi. I have not yet accepted you. If I am to be your mentor, we must be clear: when I speak, you listen; when I lead, you . . . ?”

“Think about it?” Aislynn replied hesitantly.

Shaeonyn swallowed her own reply before turning toward the portal. The dark strands of the door contracted at her approach, pulling themselves aside. Beyond the portal was a deep and chilling darkness. Shaeonyn passed into it without a glance behind.

Aislynn hesitated in the door, shivering at the sight of the ghastly space beyond. The enclosed forecourt of Dwynwyn’s tower plunged down nearly forty feet from the ledge on which they stood to the cobblestone floor below. There, the dead flowed into the forecourt through three sets of iron doors, each portal forged with horrible figures in wide-mouthed torment. The dead then took flight on their green-flecked wings, following the black shafts of polished stone that rose up from below in columns melded into the surrounding walls, ribbed as though formed from the spines of some great beast. They moaned as they drifted upward past where Aislynn hovered with unsure fluttering of her wings. The dead continued past Aislynn upward another thirty feet, at which point the sickening columns bent into a sweeping curve over a high wall and into a dark and foreboding place deeper into the keep beyond.

The portal slammed shut behind Aislynn, nearly catching the back of her new robe. She yelped involuntarily and was instantly reprimanded by a look from Shaeonyn.

“Please respect this place,” the Seeker said quietly. “These are the newly arrived. They are lost and confused. They cannot find rest until they have been given tasks to keep their minds and their bodies occupied. Come with me. We’ll watch the ceremony of their induction as your first step into—”

“No,” Aislynn said with a shudder.

“No?” Shaeonyn raised a cool eyebrow.

“Please, could you just show me to my accommodations,” Aislynn said nervously. “I don’t—I don’t feel well.”

Shaeonyn lowered her eyebrow slowly into a look of disdain. “This way,” she said simply, turning her back on the Princess.

They drifted downward through the vast darkness of the forecourt. At their approach, the constant procession of the dead parted before them. Their images were each uniquely terrifying. They retained the form they had in life and, depending upon how long ago they had died, some retained much of their former material selves. Those longer dead, however, made up for their physical losses by reconstituting their form from whatever materials were at hand. Thus the dead that marched about them were sometimes composed in some measure of brackish seawater, gathered moss, or wet clay. Several were horrifically molded from writhing worms and insects that had gathered to form the corporeal figures. Some were clad in the remnants of clothing representing every caste known to faerykind and of every age. Others wore nothing at all and some less than nothing, as their physical forms had not fully gathered themselves anew. Regardless of their station in life, they were alike in death, and they moved through the hall with agonized purpose.

Shaeonyn was pushing quickly forward on her wings through the right portal of the forecourt and Aislynn was having a little difficulty keeping up with her proposed mentor. The Princess folded her arms tightly in front of her and, setting her jaw with determination, flew through the same portal, brushing past the dead and into the outdoor plaza beyond.

The sight shook Aislynn anew: the Plaza of the Dead. This large open space ran completely around the massive black tower behind her. The damp cobblestones paved every patch of ground in the plaza, each joint so tight that Aislynn was sure no plant would ever take root between them. The open flat space of the plaza ran nearly one hundred feet to the surrounding wall—seven enormous walls that ran between seven watchtowers around Dwynwyn’s central tower. From each of these towers, incredible flying buttresses arched overhead to the huge central tower, all of which supported a complex latticework of spun webbing. Beyond the wall itself, she could make out the dark shapes of the town’s buildings just beyond.

Aislynn had little time to wonder at the sight, for Shaeonyn was moving quickly across the plaza toward a great gate in the wall on the far side of the plaza. At least there seemed to be enough room overhead so that she could fly to the gate. The top of the gate itself, however, was low. Shaeonyn passed through the gate just before Aislynn.

“What is this place?” Aislynn stuttered as she caught up with the Seeker.

“This is Mourning Lane,” Shaeonyn said. “We’ll take a turn down Weeping Way and make our way down the back passages to Lost Way. It’s not badly crowded at this time of night and we should be able to get to the Lyceum fairly quickly—what’s wrong now?”

The avenue ran as a twisted river down among a jumble of buildings all constructed in varying shades of gray stone. Side streets writhed in their own path from where they intersected at the base of the Queen’s Tower, their course vanishing around sharp corners of architectural canyons within less than a hundred feet of where she stood. The buildings which lined these chaotic passageways loomed overhead in a cacophony of styles, all sharply angled and without grace. Spindly towers thrust up into the sky from which a mesh of massive spiderwebs sagged under their own weight and obscured the roiling gray sky above. All around her, the dead continued in their procession, moving around Shaeonyn and Aislynn as a river flowing past rocks in a stream. Shaeonyn alighted on the slick stones of the street and began to press forward through the crowd down the crooked street to their left.

Aislynn was finding it difficult to breathe as she landed behind the Seeker. “Please, couldn’t we just fly over them?”

“Who?”

“The dead—please.”

Shaeonyn continued to make her way down the street but turned slightly as she shook her head. “You do not know the way through the webs as yet and they are intentionally treacherous. The Arachnis serve the Queen of the Dead but are as hungry for living blood as they are zealous in our defense. They have a tendency to eat first and ask who their victim was later. Better we should make our way on foot through the streets.”

Aislynn felt light-headed, a headache building at her temples, but she followed Shaeonyn, the soles of her delicate slippers soiling on the slick stones. The dead choked the street before them, slowing their progress despite their efforts to get out of the way. Aislynn followed closely, still clutching her hands to her chest as she walked.

Aislynn looked up. Shaeonyn was pushing through the throng ahead of them and Aislynn was having difficulty keeping up. The space between them was filling with animated corpses in various states of decay.

“Shaeonyn!” Aislynn called out. “Wait!”

A strong, cold hand took hold of her shoulder, turning her about in the crowd. Aislynn found herself looking into the face of a beautiful faery woman with dark skin and bluish lips.

“Please, help me!”

“What?” Aislynn responded. The woman was holding her firmly now by both shoulders. “What is the matter?”

“My child!” the woman said, anguish contorting her face. “I’ve lost my child! They’ve taken him! Help me, please.”

“Taken him? Taken him where?”

“This way!” the woman said, pointing down a dark, narrow chasm between the tortured buildings. “Please, if we hurry we may save him!”

The woman turned, dashing desperately down the black-shadowed passage, calling back over her shoulder, “Hurry! Please help me! Help my child!”

Aislynn ran after her. The shadows in the alley seemed colder than she had ever felt before. She ran as quickly as she could, but the woman in front of her kept disappearing around the various contortions of the narrow passage. Several times, the alley broke into different paths, an increasingly complex maze confronting the Princess, but each time she saw a fleeting glimpse of the woman and was able to follow.

The alley abruptly opened into a deserted cobblestone square looked down upon by black windows in the surrounding tall buildings. The faery mother knelt in the center of the square, its gray cobblestones stained dark where she knelt. Aislynn hurried toward her. “What is wrong? How can I—”

The woman turned. Aislynn saw a terrible smile on her face.

“Hello, my child!”

Aislynn stopped, her pulse suddenly pounding in her ears. Glancing around, she saw them—the dead—pouring out from the black doorways, sharp tools in their hands. They filled the alleyways. The webs overhead were thick and impassable.

“Don’t worry, my child,” the woman said with a grin. “They’ve gotten quite good at this. They barely leave a mark anymore. Look at how well I turned out.”

The woman split open her bodice, revealing a ragged hole cut between her breasts.

Aislynn took a staggering step back, confusion engulfing her thoughts. “You—you lied to me!”

“You’ll be free, child,” the woman said, taking another step toward Aislynn. “You’ll be free with us!”

Aislynn reached up, grasping at the necklace around her throat.

The blue woman snarled.

Aislynn cast the pearls down to the stones. In a moment, they transformed, uncurling into the massive, powerful form of the Lords of the Dead. Towering faery men formed of foam and sea, they surrounded the Princess at once, their shining blades menacing the throng.

The dead were not intimidated. The crowd screamed at the guardians, circling them as they waited to pounce, adding to their numbers in order to overwhelm the guards. The Lords of the Dead drew in closer to Aislynn, preparing to make a stand.

“Enough!”

The dead quelled and parted before Shaeonyn as she entered the square from the alleyway.

“This Oraclyn-loi is under my protection—and that of Queen Dwynwyn,” said the Sharajin as she walked quickly toward Aislynn and her surrounding magical guardians. “You will allow her to pass in peace or face the displeasure of the Queen. Now, back!”

The dead shuffled away, the square clearing slowly.

“You too, Philida,” Shaeonyn said to the bluish faery woman. “I’m surprised at you trying such a thing with anyone wearing the robes of the Sharajin—and in the middle of the day.”

“Sorry, Shaeonyn,” Philida replied with a smile and a shrug as she skulked off to one of the surrounding structures.

Aislynn peered out between her encircling guardians. The square appeared to be clear once more. “Is it safe?”

“Yes, Oracyln,” Shaeonyn said, sighing. “It is safe.”

Aislynn took in a deep breath. “Deython?”

The tallest of the guardians turned, staring at her with his blank eyes.

“My—my thanks,” she said.

At once, Deython nodded and in that moment the entire group of guardians curled once more into the form of black pearls, strung together on the ground at her feet. Aislynn reached down hesitantly for them, then secured them around her neck once more.

Shaeonyn glared at Aislynn. “When I lead?”

“I follow,” Aislynn responded at once. “It’s just—”

Shaeonyn stopped and turned impatiently toward the princess. “Just what, Aislynn?”

“Please,” Aislynn could not stop shaking. “Please take me away from the dead.”

Aislynn sat in a chair next to the lattice-crossed window at the far side of her room, staring out into the courtyard beyond. The beautiful garden below was surrounded completely by the Lyceum itself, its windows looking inward on this place of loveliness and peace rather than on the terrible ugliness of the city beyond. Just knowing there was such a place at hand had calmed Aislynn’s panic.

“It’s just that it never seems to get any easier for me,” she said in a quivering voice. She did not want to meet Shaeonyn’s eyes. “The dead, I mean. I speak to them and listen to them and watch them but there is always some part of me that wants to scream and run away. You would think that I above all the faery would feel differently. The dead saved my life and my mother’s kingdom. I even knew many of the dead that came to our rescue those years ago, my own guard among them.”

“I remember that part of the history, too.” Shaeonyn nodded. The Seeker sat forward on her own chair. “You knew him as Deython when he lived. Now he’s Lord of the Dead?”

“Yes.” Aislynn smiled slightly at the thought. “He was—well, he was a good man and a loyal subject of the Second Caste. He had such a wonderful warm smile. Even when he was so formal around me on our walks, there was something soft about the way he—” Aislynn shivered suddenly, her hand rising involuntarily to her throat. Her hand hovered there for a moment. “You would think that after all I have been through that the dead would not bother me. But they do. They just do.” She quickly pulled her hand down and folded her arms once more in front of her. “It is hard for me to bear touching them.”

Aislynn saw the Seeker’s eyes drop to stare at the thirty-six black pearls that lay—as they had for many years—as a dark circle around her neck. Her words were a statement of wonder when they came rather than an accusation. “The Lords of the Dead touch you always.”

Aislynn kept her silence.

“I have, of course, heard the story of their coming into the world from the power of the vision—as have all the Sharajin—although I had never thought that I should see them myself. The story is that they are kept below the Queen’s Tower, in a special crypt reserved for them alone. Yet are they here before me?”

“Yes, they are the Lords of the Dead,” Aislynn said, sighing. “And they touch me always. I never said that I like it.”

“May I ask you something?” Shaeonyn spoke quietly.

“Of course,” Aislynn replied quietly.

“Dwynwyn asked me to be your mentor.” The golden-haired Seeker spoke softly. “More than that, she asked that I be your guardian as well—though if the Lords of the Dead are accompanying you, I can hardly see how I am needed in that regard. Still, the journey you have undertaken is more arduous than you might imagine. So I ask: why are you doing this?”

Aislynn turned from the window to face Shaeonyn, tears still staining her face. “Because I cannot deny that I have seen the vision. The magic has awakened within me. I did not ask for it to come, nevertheless it is within me. More than that, it has called me to some purpose I do not yet understand. The wind is blowing in the vision and I must follow it.”

“The wind is blowing, Oraclyn Aislynn.” Shaeonyn nodded with satisfaction. “And we shall follow it together, you and I. I accept you as my Oraclyn-loi and my novice; even as Dwynwyn accepted me.”

“Will you help me find my purpose?” Aislynn asked hopefully.

“You are my apprentice, Oraclyn Aislynn,” she said, taking the hand of the Princess with an easy smile. “We are both called to follow this wind and we’ll find its source together.”

“Yes, Mistress Shaeonyn,” Aislynn said, smiling in gratitude. “Besides, with you and I—and the Lords of the Dead—together, what could possibly go wrong?”