Frost 1, 124
The night was dark, cold and storm-strangled, marred by rain and wind and bursts of thunder, but a lone figure pushed slowly onward down the country road. This far from Zaichaer there was no light visible from the city, not even from the new floating district, for any building high enough to be seen over the intervening mountain would have been smothered by the storm. No automobile headlamps cut through the darkness either; there were only very occasional snatches of light from cottages and homesteads visible through the trees.
It was a night for a coach, certainly, and the traveler had money enough for a taxi- but coachmen were notoriously free with their talk, and she had no wish to be tracked, just yet. So she walked, cloak buttoned up tight, wide-brimmed travel hat tied to head. Nobody would have glanced twice at a travel lantern in this weather, but she didn’t own one. Thankfully, she didn’t need the light.
The traveler gained some shelter from the driving rain once she turned off the highway and onto the mile-long road leading deeper into the woods. Like many manors of its time, Sharp’s Edge sat atop a hill, positioned therewith to offer its lord a commanding view of the wide vale. When the trees had all been cleared and farms spread out in all directions, it would have been easy for one or two men to spot raiders and raise a general alarum. It was like a motte, but for a whole community of farmers and farmhands rather than a castle bailey.
But those times were long gone, and with them the farmers, who had migrated south to find better soil over a century past. Most of the fields were new-growth forest now, with the oldest trees beginning to spread dark canopies over the dilapidated stone frames where barns and farmhouses once stood. Only a few clearings remained around the hill, sites for necessary outbuildings, for the apiary and riding-track, the stables and so forth. As a result, the traveler spent most of her remaining walk beneath the branches of the new trees, shifting smoothly around the road to avoid the heaviest run-off.
Even keeping a brisk stride, it was well into the wee hours of the night when the manor revealed itself, the hill and buildings cresting the sea of leaves all at once. It was a handsome place, in the old Zaichaeran style, taking clear inspiration from Gelerand before the great technological revivals revolutionized the architectural landscape.
The building was substantial, large enough to comfortably house dozens (or, as it had once been built to do, uncomfortably house a hundred), and had served over the last fifty years as offices, a site for parties, and hotel space for those people with business in the city of Zaichaer who wanted both substantial comfort and to avoid the watching gaze of the Order. The base of it was stone–doubtless it had once featured castle battlements, when it was meant to be a vale fort–but the top had been finished with wood and slate, after the fashion of its time. Decorative ivy cloaked the remnants of the fortress, climbing up to a series of balconies meant for outdoor dining and parties above an internal stables.
Through the dark and the wet, the traveler maneuvered deftly around to the front, where a canopied landing surrounded by an ornamental balustrade finally saw her out of the cold. The traveler reached hesitantly for the door, then gave it three sharp raps, knocking firmly thereon. She waited for a minute, well aware that at this time of night there might be only one person awake within, and in the back at that, then knocked again.
On the third set of knocks, the doorway opened, revealing the expressionless face of a dark-uniformed man, peering out into the darkness. Though he seemed perfectly calm, the traveler took note of his belt, which bore a hastily-concealed firearm; an expensive Gelerian affectation, but one which didn’t surprise her, not in the least. Not from him.
The servant took in the traveler’s state of affairs in one look, her damp cloak and wilted hat, her short stature, fair skin and black hair. She was pretty, certainly, and looked like she came from money, but she was also entirely foreign to this valley. The man’s brow knit politely together
“Please, come in out of the rain.” an unusual thing to say to a stranger in the night, these days, but this house kept certain older traditions alive, “May I take your cloak?”
The traveler gladly surrendered the garment, which was more a damp rag than anything with real structure, and moved inside to the foyer, where she let out a long, relieved sigh. The servant gave her a curious look.
“Do make yourself comfortable, miss. Might I inquire as to your business here?”
“Linus,” she said, speaking for the first time in hours, “It’s Imogen.”
Linus stumbled, fumbling the wet cloak, which hit the ground with a wet splot-ing noise.
In a new, dry shift, but still in human form, Imogen lounged on the couch in Ansel’s old office. Linus had started up a fire in the ornate fireplace, and was presently at the drinks cabinet to the side, pouring a sherry. The witch took the opportunity to glance at the walls of the room, eyes crawling across the familiar aristocratic faces on the portraiture on the walls. The uniformed and greying men in the gallery seemed to glare at her through the years and the veil of death, and she gave them a delicate little wave with one hand, as though they could see.
“Master Gerhard said you would show up at some point.” Linus remarked, finishing his pour, “But that was months ago. I’d fairly given up hope.”
“Please, you’ve never been that lucky. You won’t be easily rid of me.” The servant walked over to the couch and handed her the glass. She motioned to a nearby chair, and he reluctantly took a seat as she shifted to an upright position, sipping at the sherry.
“I’ve been delayed on business for the last year. I just got his letter asking me to come. I hadn’t expected him to…” There was a wistful, slightly pained lilt to her voice.
“Don’t sell the Master so short, ma’am.” Linus said, a mild rebuke, “He was an able hand, guiding and guarding refugees through here after you and Mr. Kavafis brought him back round. But with the crisis at the Sanctuary, he hasn’t had the time to manage this estate. I suppose he thought you might.”
“Of course.”
Unspoken was that, a decade ago, Ansel Gerhard would not have let any amount of chaos or strife separate him from Sharp’s Edge. He had fought through old age like any other battle, but Velar was a foe who could never be bested. For a man like Master Gerhard, simplifying his responsibilities was a lot like preparing for death.
But he wouldn’t have wanted her to dwell on that. And although she hadn’t expected him to leave her the manor to manage, she could see the logic of it. She had the years of seniority among the Coven to have found some posting, but neither the interest nor social skill to enter the leadership. It was a gift, of course, and of enormous scale and value, but it was also a way to finally tie her down, a posting where she could be helpful even without commanding any other knights.
“Well, I’ll take inventory of the place in the morning… mngh. Actually, make that the afternoon. I don’t see any reason to make adjustments to the manor’s routine, just now. Anything I need to deal with?”
Left unsaid- anything you need a witch for, right now?
“It’s been quiet since the refugees returned to Zaichaer.” Linus acknowledged, “There have been a few monster sightings, but the army’s swept around the road. A few reports of what might be dread mists… but perhaps just mists, also. But… er-”
Imogen turned her head to look at the servant, squinting. “What?”
“Well, it’s only that when I saw you last, five years ago, you were…”
“What, green?”
Linus shrugged, helplessly. The petite human on the couch snorted, a deeply unladylike noise. “The way I see it, there have been enough indications of the Coven’s presence here; tales on the lips of all those refugees, so forth. Ansel had the deed to the manor delivered to me, which means the fact that it’s in the hands of a non-human is public record somewhere, but might not actually have come to the Order’s attention. If I stay disguised, the locals and travelers will suspect nothing- we can come up with some sort of story. Maybe I’m Ansel’s niece, or something.”
Linus laughed, “Given how big his grandson got, I think you’d fit the role better as an Orkhan. But no matter. I’ll have a word with all the other servants about it.”
“Will they all know me?”
“Mostly.” the man shrugged, “We’ve had only one new girl since you lived here as the Master’s apprentice. But they all know what this place is.”
Imogen nodded. Long before her birth, Sharp’s Edge had been the home of Ansel’s ancestors, who were sympathizers of Ailos. When the Sunsingers arrived from the isle, bearing their secret burden, this had been one of the first safehouses opened to the fledgling coven, prior to the establishment of their three great Sanctuaries. As a result, the coven had, of necessity, established deals with the families of the locals, giving them money and magic in exchange for goods, services, and strict oaths of silence.
Linus’ own family, if she remembered aright, had lived on a ranch at the valley mouth, on the other side of the highway, and provided horses and cattle in exchange for the coven’s favor. Linus had only just begun his service here when she’d spent her time under Gerhard’s wing, and though the two had not been intimate as such, she thought well of the boy. Well, man, now.
“I’ll speak with them tomorrow and start going over the papers.” that was the last thing she wanted to do, but it was certainly her duty- and anyway, until her aether recovered, it was best to avoid anything more rambunctious. “And then I’ll have to start preparations.”
“...preparations, ma’am?”
“Don’t call me ma’am, not when we’re alone.” Imogen snapped, “It makes me feel like I’m sixty years old. But yes, preparations. The coven is going through interesting times, Linus, and I don’t intend to just sit here and sip brandy while the world goes to pot.”
Linus smiled, closing his eyes, as he heard in Imogen’s voice the echo of the fire he’d once heard in Ansel’s. He stood in a single, smooth motion, bowing, every inch the suave butler.
“Of course, Imogen. What will you need first?”
Silence filled the room, and after a moment Linus took the initiative and cracked open one eye. Imogen had fallen asleep on the couch, delicate human features distorted against a pillow as she breathed deeply, a hint of drool beginning to emerge from one corner of her mouth. Her discarded glass of sherry had tipped out of her fingers and spilled a small puddle upon the wooden floor.
Ah. Right. He’d forgotten all about the ork’s proclivities (which bordered, some might say, upon narcolepsy).
Linus walked over to the office’s closet and rummaged through it until he’d found a rolled-up blanket, a quilt so old that the panels had all faded. He laid it carefully over the witch’s sleeping body, carefully extracting the mostly-empty glass of sherry, then moved over to the fire and shuttered it, casting Ansel’s old office into shadows, before he moved to the door.
“Sleep well, Imogen.” the servant said, before slowly, quietly, closing the door.
In the dark office, two golden cats-eyes opened. Unobserved by gods or men, Kitty emerged from the shadow of his mistress and began to lick the floor clean of spilled alcohol.
It was a night for a coach, certainly, and the traveler had money enough for a taxi- but coachmen were notoriously free with their talk, and she had no wish to be tracked, just yet. So she walked, cloak buttoned up tight, wide-brimmed travel hat tied to head. Nobody would have glanced twice at a travel lantern in this weather, but she didn’t own one. Thankfully, she didn’t need the light.
The traveler gained some shelter from the driving rain once she turned off the highway and onto the mile-long road leading deeper into the woods. Like many manors of its time, Sharp’s Edge sat atop a hill, positioned therewith to offer its lord a commanding view of the wide vale. When the trees had all been cleared and farms spread out in all directions, it would have been easy for one or two men to spot raiders and raise a general alarum. It was like a motte, but for a whole community of farmers and farmhands rather than a castle bailey.
But those times were long gone, and with them the farmers, who had migrated south to find better soil over a century past. Most of the fields were new-growth forest now, with the oldest trees beginning to spread dark canopies over the dilapidated stone frames where barns and farmhouses once stood. Only a few clearings remained around the hill, sites for necessary outbuildings, for the apiary and riding-track, the stables and so forth. As a result, the traveler spent most of her remaining walk beneath the branches of the new trees, shifting smoothly around the road to avoid the heaviest run-off.
Even keeping a brisk stride, it was well into the wee hours of the night when the manor revealed itself, the hill and buildings cresting the sea of leaves all at once. It was a handsome place, in the old Zaichaeran style, taking clear inspiration from Gelerand before the great technological revivals revolutionized the architectural landscape.
The building was substantial, large enough to comfortably house dozens (or, as it had once been built to do, uncomfortably house a hundred), and had served over the last fifty years as offices, a site for parties, and hotel space for those people with business in the city of Zaichaer who wanted both substantial comfort and to avoid the watching gaze of the Order. The base of it was stone–doubtless it had once featured castle battlements, when it was meant to be a vale fort–but the top had been finished with wood and slate, after the fashion of its time. Decorative ivy cloaked the remnants of the fortress, climbing up to a series of balconies meant for outdoor dining and parties above an internal stables.
Through the dark and the wet, the traveler maneuvered deftly around to the front, where a canopied landing surrounded by an ornamental balustrade finally saw her out of the cold. The traveler reached hesitantly for the door, then gave it three sharp raps, knocking firmly thereon. She waited for a minute, well aware that at this time of night there might be only one person awake within, and in the back at that, then knocked again.
On the third set of knocks, the doorway opened, revealing the expressionless face of a dark-uniformed man, peering out into the darkness. Though he seemed perfectly calm, the traveler took note of his belt, which bore a hastily-concealed firearm; an expensive Gelerian affectation, but one which didn’t surprise her, not in the least. Not from him.
The servant took in the traveler’s state of affairs in one look, her damp cloak and wilted hat, her short stature, fair skin and black hair. She was pretty, certainly, and looked like she came from money, but she was also entirely foreign to this valley. The man’s brow knit politely together
“Please, come in out of the rain.” an unusual thing to say to a stranger in the night, these days, but this house kept certain older traditions alive, “May I take your cloak?”
The traveler gladly surrendered the garment, which was more a damp rag than anything with real structure, and moved inside to the foyer, where she let out a long, relieved sigh. The servant gave her a curious look.
“Do make yourself comfortable, miss. Might I inquire as to your business here?”
“Linus,” she said, speaking for the first time in hours, “It’s Imogen.”
Linus stumbled, fumbling the wet cloak, which hit the ground with a wet splot-ing noise.
~~~
In a new, dry shift, but still in human form, Imogen lounged on the couch in Ansel’s old office. Linus had started up a fire in the ornate fireplace, and was presently at the drinks cabinet to the side, pouring a sherry. The witch took the opportunity to glance at the walls of the room, eyes crawling across the familiar aristocratic faces on the portraiture on the walls. The uniformed and greying men in the gallery seemed to glare at her through the years and the veil of death, and she gave them a delicate little wave with one hand, as though they could see.
“Master Gerhard said you would show up at some point.” Linus remarked, finishing his pour, “But that was months ago. I’d fairly given up hope.”
“Please, you’ve never been that lucky. You won’t be easily rid of me.” The servant walked over to the couch and handed her the glass. She motioned to a nearby chair, and he reluctantly took a seat as she shifted to an upright position, sipping at the sherry.
“I’ve been delayed on business for the last year. I just got his letter asking me to come. I hadn’t expected him to…” There was a wistful, slightly pained lilt to her voice.
“Don’t sell the Master so short, ma’am.” Linus said, a mild rebuke, “He was an able hand, guiding and guarding refugees through here after you and Mr. Kavafis brought him back round. But with the crisis at the Sanctuary, he hasn’t had the time to manage this estate. I suppose he thought you might.”
“Of course.”
Unspoken was that, a decade ago, Ansel Gerhard would not have let any amount of chaos or strife separate him from Sharp’s Edge. He had fought through old age like any other battle, but Velar was a foe who could never be bested. For a man like Master Gerhard, simplifying his responsibilities was a lot like preparing for death.
But he wouldn’t have wanted her to dwell on that. And although she hadn’t expected him to leave her the manor to manage, she could see the logic of it. She had the years of seniority among the Coven to have found some posting, but neither the interest nor social skill to enter the leadership. It was a gift, of course, and of enormous scale and value, but it was also a way to finally tie her down, a posting where she could be helpful even without commanding any other knights.
“Well, I’ll take inventory of the place in the morning… mngh. Actually, make that the afternoon. I don’t see any reason to make adjustments to the manor’s routine, just now. Anything I need to deal with?”
Left unsaid- anything you need a witch for, right now?
“It’s been quiet since the refugees returned to Zaichaer.” Linus acknowledged, “There have been a few monster sightings, but the army’s swept around the road. A few reports of what might be dread mists… but perhaps just mists, also. But… er-”
Imogen turned her head to look at the servant, squinting. “What?”
“Well, it’s only that when I saw you last, five years ago, you were…”
“What, green?”
Linus shrugged, helplessly. The petite human on the couch snorted, a deeply unladylike noise. “The way I see it, there have been enough indications of the Coven’s presence here; tales on the lips of all those refugees, so forth. Ansel had the deed to the manor delivered to me, which means the fact that it’s in the hands of a non-human is public record somewhere, but might not actually have come to the Order’s attention. If I stay disguised, the locals and travelers will suspect nothing- we can come up with some sort of story. Maybe I’m Ansel’s niece, or something.”
Linus laughed, “Given how big his grandson got, I think you’d fit the role better as an Orkhan. But no matter. I’ll have a word with all the other servants about it.”
“Will they all know me?”
“Mostly.” the man shrugged, “We’ve had only one new girl since you lived here as the Master’s apprentice. But they all know what this place is.”
Imogen nodded. Long before her birth, Sharp’s Edge had been the home of Ansel’s ancestors, who were sympathizers of Ailos. When the Sunsingers arrived from the isle, bearing their secret burden, this had been one of the first safehouses opened to the fledgling coven, prior to the establishment of their three great Sanctuaries. As a result, the coven had, of necessity, established deals with the families of the locals, giving them money and magic in exchange for goods, services, and strict oaths of silence.
Linus’ own family, if she remembered aright, had lived on a ranch at the valley mouth, on the other side of the highway, and provided horses and cattle in exchange for the coven’s favor. Linus had only just begun his service here when she’d spent her time under Gerhard’s wing, and though the two had not been intimate as such, she thought well of the boy. Well, man, now.
“I’ll speak with them tomorrow and start going over the papers.” that was the last thing she wanted to do, but it was certainly her duty- and anyway, until her aether recovered, it was best to avoid anything more rambunctious. “And then I’ll have to start preparations.”
“...preparations, ma’am?”
“Don’t call me ma’am, not when we’re alone.” Imogen snapped, “It makes me feel like I’m sixty years old. But yes, preparations. The coven is going through interesting times, Linus, and I don’t intend to just sit here and sip brandy while the world goes to pot.”
Linus smiled, closing his eyes, as he heard in Imogen’s voice the echo of the fire he’d once heard in Ansel’s. He stood in a single, smooth motion, bowing, every inch the suave butler.
“Of course, Imogen. What will you need first?”
Silence filled the room, and after a moment Linus took the initiative and cracked open one eye. Imogen had fallen asleep on the couch, delicate human features distorted against a pillow as she breathed deeply, a hint of drool beginning to emerge from one corner of her mouth. Her discarded glass of sherry had tipped out of her fingers and spilled a small puddle upon the wooden floor.
Ah. Right. He’d forgotten all about the ork’s proclivities (which bordered, some might say, upon narcolepsy).
Linus walked over to the office’s closet and rummaged through it until he’d found a rolled-up blanket, a quilt so old that the panels had all faded. He laid it carefully over the witch’s sleeping body, carefully extracting the mostly-empty glass of sherry, then moved over to the fire and shuttered it, casting Ansel’s old office into shadows, before he moved to the door.
“Sleep well, Imogen.” the servant said, before slowly, quietly, closing the door.
~~~
In the dark office, two golden cats-eyes opened. Unobserved by gods or men, Kitty emerged from the shadow of his mistress and began to lick the floor clean of spilled alcohol.