Page 51 of Claiming the Tower (Council Mysteries #1)

O n the evening of November twenty-first, there was a modest procession through the Dinas Emrys portal to somewhere Hereswith had never been.

There were charmlights glowing along a path that led into a circular garden.

Of course, it was both late November and nighttime, so she couldn’t see much of the plants, nor anything else.

Just the faint scent of yew and some other evergreens, along with a hint of incense.

Everyone else, all six of them, were in bright ritual gear, jewel tone silks over gowns and suits.

Hereswith was still in her black, though with an open-sleeved black ritual robe over her dress.

Hereswith came last in the little line of the procession, though, as the most junior and almost certainly the least well prepared.

Gervase had instructed her that her role was to observe, not do anything.

Not this time. She was not the only woman, but there were only two of them.

Hereswith paid attention, of course, with every ounce of skill and experience she had.

The space was almost oddly neutral. There was very little to indicate preferences, mood, anything like that.

The lights were a clear golden hue, steady.

The few plants she could see growing were entirely seasonal, but unassuming.

Beneath her feet, the ground had a circle of paved stone in a ring, with grass in the middle and between the four directional markers.

The grass was empty, no seats or dais or any other sort of object, and so smooth it might have done for a game of croquet or even cricket.

It was a bare stage, waiting to be filled.

Or rather, it had been empty. Between one breath and another, it suddenly had seven figures in it.

All women, all wearing draping classical robes, with a palla or veil— perhaps palla wasn’t the proper term— over their hair.

Hereswith couldn’t see anyone else there, not around or behind them, but she felt like there were many more people than that.

Gervase stepped forward, making a brief speech in a language Hereswith did not know.

It was only a phrase or three, and she could tell that he’d learned it by rote.

Sometimes that was necessary, of course, but she felt it lacked a certain dignity.

Certainly it lacked artistry. The other members of the Council here— five, besides Hereswith and Gervase— spread out slightly.

Hereswith took her place, at the tail end of a shallow V shape with Gervase as the point.

As Gervase spoke, Hereswith did her best to make sense of what she could see.

Seven women, all of uncertain ages. The line of the veil didn’t cover their faces, just their hair, but it also made it hard to see details.

That and the dim light. The bodies beneath the clothing were certainly not wearing corsets.

But that almost made it harder to determine age or health or any of the other things a body might suggest.

In form, these women seemed perhaps Bess’s age to perhaps fifteen or twenty years older, but that was only a very rough guess.

And of course, logic told her that was entirely the wrong scale of years.

If these women were Fatae— and they were Fatae— they were thousands of years old.

Whatever that age looked like, the eye did not know what it was seeing.

Gervase switched into English then, speaking clearly.

He did not offer an introduction to anyone there, and the seven women did not offer any sort of introduction.

That was not unreasonable. For one, in this context especially, names had power.

And for another, presumably everyone knew sufficiently who they were dealing with.

There were several back-and-forth exchanges, each of the seven women speaking a sentence or two, and Gervase responding.

Hereswith couldn’t hear all of it clearly, not what Gervase said, given he was facing away from her, and not projecting his voice to be heard.

After those comments, there was the meat of the negotiation.

It began the way Hereswith expected, with each side laying out specifics.

She didn’t follow all the details. Several of the points were obviously couched in metaphor and symbolic phrases that meant more than the words themselves.

What she knew, as the conversation went on, was that it was not going well.

And not for any reason that Gervase seemed to notice.

It was not Hereswith’s place to say anything.

She was the most junior here by far. She had been explicitly told to stay silent, and it was not as if she knew what the precise negotiations were about.

But she was certain, as sure of it as she was the breath in her lungs, that something important was being missed.

Instead, she forced herself to breathe evenly, to give every show of calm and grace and proper attention.

Hereswith was excellent at that. She’d had decades of practice now, of the matching the expression to the moment— and not just her face, but her body.

She knew it to be correct, and so it was startling when one of the seven women lifted her chin, then one hand, saying something Hereswith couldn’t quite hear.

Gervase stopped, awkwardly, in the middle of what he was saying. The woman said something to him, and he turned his head. “Hereswith, step forward, please.”

Hereswith did, moving almost before she understood what he’d said.

It wasn’t a magically enforced command, not in any of the ways that usually meant, but she was responding to his authority, certainly.

She took careful steps, coming to stand beside him, but half a step behind, in the space between Gervase and Anselm.

Once there, she made a proper formal curtsey.

That was a sign of deference, and it was not always the right choice.

But here and now, she was junior, in all the ways that mattered.

She certainly wished to indicate her respect to these seven women.

“Kyria.” She knew that these women, wherever they came from, favoured the Greek modes as much as anything else, and she could at least use an agreeable term.

“You wear black. Is there a reason for that?” The woman’s voice was, Hereswith thought, deliberately neutral.

There was no warmth in it, but there was no chill, either.

It was like some great temple, making and holding space for specific rites.

Hereswith aspired to being able to do that one day, making that space clear without cutting words or harm.

Cathedrals in the syllables, or a great abbey church.

Now, of course, she had to make an answer.

And she did not know how much the Fatae knew of such human customs as wearing mourning.

She didn’t even know— not more than lore suggested— whether they had some sort of geas about speaking about death.

First, she took a breath. That was the first best advice.

Then she spoke as clearly as she could, “I wear mourning for my beloved father, kyria. He left us twenty-four days ago.”

“You wear black in memory?” The question was, perhaps, a tad less distant. The Fatae woman leaned forward slightly. “Please explain, I wish to understand.” Then, perhaps, she saw something in Hereswith’s face and added, “You have not broken a prohibition, but your customs are not ours.”

That at least gave Hereswith a way to thread through the topic.

“Such things are cultural, kyria. In ours, in the place and time in which we live, wearing black is a reminder to the wearer— and to all who see them— of the loss, of a different set of social customs. At its best, a reminder of gentleness and how to show care.” Some imp made her add, “It is often not so, because we humans are flawed. Some would challenge my presence here tonight.”

“For what reason, please?” The question was again clear.

Hereswith suspected her answer would not please Gervase, but she was not actually in conversation with Gervase.

“The matter is different for women than for men. Men may return to their work, even their pleasures, quickly. There is a somewhat satirical text from a century ago about how a man, losing his wife, might not be seen in the chocolate houses for a week, but then could return. A place of social interaction, debate, sometimes rowdy behaviour. And a man might, in the same text, take a mistress in the third week, if he had not had one. For consolation in his grief, you understand.”

“And a woman?”

“A woman,” Hereswith said, “In the same text, might attend church the second week, handkerchief visible. She might attend a tragedy in the theatre the first month, and no one would press on whether she wept for the tale on the stage or for her husband.”

“But she might not take a man into her bed. Not without marriage.” The Fatae woman looked amused at something. “Do you have a family beyond your late father?”

“Not without marriage, no. And in such advice, not for some months, to ensure there was no child with her late husband.” Hereswith could not duck the second question, for all it was not one she particularly wanted to answer with her colleagues behind her.

“Two older brothers, half-brothers, their wives and children and now a growing number of grandchildren. I live with a companion, in the home I have always lived in.” She hesitated slightly, then said, “I never wished to marry and leave that land. We are not Lords of the land, not like other estates. But there are the orchards and the stream and the way the meadow flows down to it, the way the windows frame the sky and trees and ground.”

“No marriage bed for you.” The woman nodded. “We take men to our beds— or we have at times. But marriage has been a tool to bind, rather than support. Tell me, what do you understand about our problem tonight?”