The Office of Shadow (14 page)

Stil-Eret,''At Sail on the Inland Sea;'
from Travels at Home and Abroad

small ship struggled across the surface of the Inland Sea, tacking toward
the island of Whitemount. In the sky, formless masses of late-autumn
clouds moved in pompous procession, now blocking, now revealing the sun.

Silverdun stood in the bow, gripping the railing and trying to remain
steady on his feet. He tried to recall the little cantrip he'd learned in prison
to subdue nausea; it was a useful thing to know there, given the quality of
the food. The syllables faltered on his tongue-best not to say it rather than
foul it up, as it would no doubt make the feeling worse.

The ship was called Splintered Driftwood. All ships of the Inland Sea were
so named, the captain had told Silverdun, laughing. In the harbor Silverdun
had seen a three-master dubbed This Way to Drowning. Gallows humor, he
supposed. Hilarious.

There were five crewmen on the ship, not including the captain; they
went through their duties without speaking, ignoring Silverdun completely.
When a swell came and tilted the deck up to a sincerely alarming angle, the
quiet sailors paid it no notice whatsoever.

He gripped the rail tighter.

The railing was of smooth, polished wood, furbished to a rich luster,
secured by gleaming brass fixtures. Silverdun clung to it as though it were
the only steady thing in the universe. The harder he clutched, however, the
more he felt the rolling gait of the ship beneath him. And if Silverdun looked
too long at it, the bile began to stir in him again. He followed the advice he'd
been given and fixed his gaze on the island toward which they were headed.
It helped a little.

"Enjoying your voyage immensely, I can see," came a smooth voice
behind him. Captain Than strolled toward Silverdun, having no trouble
crossing the rolling deck. He was of middle age, though it was difficult to
tell just how old. As young as forty, maybe as old as sixty. He was trim and
broad-shouldered, and had clear green eyes that evoked the surface of the sea.

"I've never enjoyed another more," Silverdun said, scowling.

Than patted him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit," he said. He looked
up at the sky. "Long crossing to Whitemount, but not too bad. We'll be there
before nightfall."

"With all this wind I'd have thought we'd get there faster," said
Silverdun.

"Plenty of wind, yes, but all blowing in the wrong direction, I'm afraid."
One of the crewman brushed by Silverdun, pulled hard on a rope, and tied it
back. The dance of canvas and rope was a type of wizardry unto itself, one
that Silverdun would never comprehend.

"What if," said Silverdun, "I could get the wind blowing in the proper
direction? Would that get us there faster?"

"Aye," said the captain, a curious smile working across his face. "That it
would."

Silverdun stepped toward the stern of the ship and looked up at the sails.
There were two of them, wide and full, canted heavily toward starboard to
force the boat across the current of the wind.

Despite his nausea, Silverdun was well rested, full of energy and essence.
It would be nice to actually do something. For far too long, he realized, he'd
allowed life to simply happen to him. After his long year of military service,
Silverdun had been happy to be at play in the court of Queen Titania, wooing every lady-in-waiting he could get his hands on and steadfastly ignoring his
duties at Corpus. He'd wanted nothing more than what life handed him.

Unfortunately, Silverdun's uncle, who had been managing his estates of
Oarsbridge and Connaugh in his absence, had decided that he'd prefer to be
lord himself, and had had Silverdun exiled to the prison of Crere Sulace.

There, he'd been drafted into service by the great Mauritane, and had followed the man on his mission for the queen, barely understanding why he was
doing it. They'd landed themselves in the middle of an Unseelie invasion at
Sylvan, after Mab had used the Einswrath weapon just to the north, at Selafae.
Mauritane had led them into battle, and Silverdun had become a war hero.

But again, Silverdun hadn't become a war hero through much choice of
his own; Mauritane had practically led him out of Crere Sulace at knifepoint.
Silverdun had allowed Mauritane to drag him across half of Faerie, just as
he'd allowed his uncle to steal his inheritance out from under him.

And after Mauritane, then what? He'd wanted nothing to do with life at
court any longer; prison and adventuring had faded that particular blossom
well and truly. He'd had no interest in returning to his family lands to try to
wrest his estate from his uncle. No interest in regaining his roguish reputation at court.

During his travels with Mauritane he'd met the abbot Vestar at the
temple Aba-E in Sylvan. There was no disputing that Vestar was a holy man,
that he'd found a spiritual peace beyond knowing. Meeting him and
spending time among the monks at the temple had revived Silverdun's
longing for something, a longing his mother had implanted in him, and
which he'd struggled with all his life. Silverdun had always wanted to believe
in Aba, the way his mother so effortlessly had, but he'd never been able, no
matter how hard he tried.

And so he'd ended up at the Temple Aba-Nylae, enrolling as a novice,
hoping that a steady diet of prayer and instruction would be enough to ignite
something in his soul. It had become abundantly clear, however, that his soul
had been in no way set aflame. It was clear to everyone ... including, Silverdun reluctantly admitted, himself. And Prior Tebrit was a git, pure and
simple. If nothing else, Silverdun could revel in the fact that he never had to
see Tebrit's smug face ever again.

And now here he was, following someone else's plan for him. And as
before, he had little idea of what it was he was getting himself into.

Silverdun leaned into the wind, reached out toward it with his mild Gift
of Motion. Using re felt good, especially when he was full to spilling over
with it. It was a kind of warmth, not physical, but almost spiritual. He'd
tried to explain it to the human Satterly, but it was like describing color to a
blind man. Re was simply re. There was no describing it.

With Motion he inexpertly reached out and caught hold of the wind. He
grabbed it hard with his mind and pushed. There was no binding, no words,
nothing formal about this; his will against the wind and to the victor go the
prize. He hurled the wind against the sails and waited for the boat to lurch
forward, begin racing toward the island.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, pouring himself entirely into the task. He was strong,
and it felt good to flex. With a colossal effort he flung what felt like the entire
atmosphere of the world at the sails.

The ship seemed to rock slightly, although that might have been his
imagination.

Silverdun looked down at the ship's deck. The captain was there,
watching him, laughing.

"How goes it?" shouted Ilian.

"You whoreson!" Silverdun called back. "I believe I've been set up!"

Ilian strolled toward him, smug laughter fading to a friendly grin. "You
university boys are all the same," he said, gesturing up to the sails. "You see
the sail, big and white, and you assume that you've got to bridle the wind in
order to get the job done."

"And I take it this was the wrong thing to do," said Silverdun.

"It was the obvious thing to do," Ilian answered. "You cannot wrestle the
wind, son. The wind is connected to everything: the waves, the sun, the
moon. You can blow a breeze on land by twiddling your fingers, but out here
you're just pissing into it."

"So what do you recommend I do instead?" Silverdun asked.

"Sit and wait, and let the wind do its job." Ilian chuckled and walked
away.

The sun was just touching the horizon, its light melting into the water,
streaming across the sea toward them when the Splintered Driftwood touched
up against the empty wooden dock at the island of Whitemount. The island
was a great slab of granite thrust out from the sea, speckled with the few scrub
pines in Faerie foolhardy enough to attempt to grow from it. On the island's
highest point was an ungainly heap of stones in the shape of a castle. A steep
trail had been cut into the rock leading up the rocky hillside toward it.

Than leapt from the ship at the bow and caught the mooring line that one
of the silent crewman threw at him. He tied it with practiced grace, then
walked to the stern and did the same thing. The Splintered Driftwood now nestled against the dock, its motion subdued. "We've arrived," called Ilian.
"Come ashore!"

A rattling noise sounded behind Silverdun, from multiple directions. He
turned to see the crewmen, all five of them, coming to an awkward standstill,
their limbs relaxing, bowing at the waist. The air shifted as multiple glamours faded away, and in the sailors' places stood five automatons, constructions of silver and brass in the shape of men. Silverdun was impressed.

He stepped carefully onto the dock and looked at Ilian, nodding toward
the ship. "Interesting crew," he said.

"You like them, do you?" said Ilian. "Master Jedron doesn't like visitors
of any kind to the island. Only his students, whom he barely tolerates, and I,
whom he loves dearly."

"Shall I simply go up and announce myself, then?" said Silverdun,
pointing at the castle.

"Oh, no. I'm to come and present you. I'm Master Jedron's valet, after
all. It's part of my job."

Silverdun frowned at Ilian. "I assumed that you were only the ship's
captain."

Than waggled his fingers in Silverdun's face, his eyes wide, mocking.
"Nothing is as it seems!" he said.

The trek to the castle was steep and dismal; a brisk, wet wind licked at them
all the way, now at their faces, now at their backs as they struggled up the
switchbacks on the mountainside. By the time they reached the castle, Silverdun was exhausted and damp. It was dark, and the wind here at the
island's summit was even stronger.

Up close, the castle Whitemount was more intact than it appeared from
a distance. It consisted of a single tower surrounded by a square courtyard.
The outer walls were fallen, but beyond them the courtyard was well maintained. The interior walls of the castle were straight and in good repair; the
glass windows clear and unbroken. The courtyard was deserted. If Master
Jedron had any retainers other than Ilian, they were nowhere to be seen,
though Silverdun would not have blamed them for remaining indoors on
such a bleak night.

"Come on, then," said Ilian, waving Silverdun on. He pushed open a
heavy wooden door and entered the castle without further comment.

Inside, the castle was dry and cool. The main hall was decorated, though
sparsely, in a style from decades past-clearly there was no lady at Whitemount. Than passed briskly through the spacious hall toward a set of wide
spiral stairs that hugged the tower's interior. Silverdun followed. The stairs
continued up several flights, with witchlit sconces evenly spaced along its
length. Their light was tuned to orange, providing a glow that appeared
warm but provided no actual warmth.