“Sometimes I can, though. It’s just—I hate being so helpless.”
“What’re you gonna do, teach yourself to live without sleeping because you don’t like what you dream?”
There was a smile in Cade’s voice as he suggested, “I could nap during the performances.”
Mieka elbowed him, but gently. “Shut up. And—dare I say it—go to sleep.”
Chapter 22
Now that Cade had trusted him with at least some of the truth, Mieka daily expected the rest of it. Not that he was waiting for a casual,
Oh, and by the bye, when I dream I see what might happen in the future—pass the toast, won’t you?
Being the Master Tregetour he was, Cade would find some dramatic opportunity, fraught with feeling, wherein he could anguish himself to his heart’s content while finally revealing all of the truth. Mieka didn’t mind that sort of thing; indeed, such were the emotions he mined for performances, his own and those of everyone around him. In a way, he didn’t even feel that bad about the Prickspur incident. He now had an experience of genuine humiliation to add to his arsenal.
But no confession was forthcoming. It was as if that long talk in the darkness on Wintering Night had never occurred.
Perhaps he wouldn’t have minded so much if he hadn’t been in that stage of illness when he wasn’t getting better fast enough. This year’s cold had lasted a long, long time, exacerbated by travel and work and, he had to admit it, a bit too much thorn of one sort or another. He wasn’t used to being this sick for this long. By the afternoon of their arrival at Castle Eyot, his temper was a match for Cade’s at its worst.
New and luxurious surroundings didn’t help. Castle Eyot was, as its name suggested, situated on a small island in the middle of a river. The castle’s crenellations towered over a snowy little valley so pristine that it seemed someone had flung white velvet across the ground. There was a jewel box of a chapel just across the eastern bridge, and across the western bridge the usual garnishes of workshops and cotes for those who served a nobleman’s needs but were not lodged in the castle itself. The view from Mieka’s bedchamber was exquisite, the food and drink were superb, and he’d never been so bored in his life.
Cade fussed. He hovered. For two solid days he brought books from Lord Rolon Piercehand’s considerable library to Mieka’s room and sat reading by the fire, ever alert for any indication that Mieka might exert himself to do anything better done by the small army of servants—such as pour water into a glass or push the curtains aside to look at the mountains.
On the third morning, Mieka kept his door locked until he’d washed and dressed. Cade did not appreciate this and told him to get back into bed. Mieka slipped past him and went exploring. Well, not so much exploring as escaping down any hallway that presented itself, until he was hopelessly lost. He wandered about a while longer, gradually coming to the conclusion that if this was what Wistly Hall had once looked like, when the Windthistles enjoyed practically limitless wealth, he much preferred his home as it was. Gilt mirrors and gigantic porcelain vases, carved wooden chairs and elaborate tapestries, plus souvenirs from His Lordship’s exotic travels—not his sort of place at all.
He meandered through, more and more lost, encountering whole walls of imagings that featured landscapes both beautiful and frightening, and stained-glass windows depicting personages who seemed to peer down at him as he passed. He was making a face at a stodgy old stained-glass scholar when he turned a corner and yelped, stumbling over a thick rug as he backed away from a massive display of mounted stuffed animal heads. Most of them were posed with jaws agape, vicious teeth gleaming. Once recovered from the initial shock, he crept forward, fascinated in a sick sort of way by the trophies—until one and then three and then the whole wall started snarling at him. He tore out of the long hall and ran smack into Rafe.
“I thought I heard your sweet voice raised in song,” he said. “Met our fellow houseguests, have you?”
“What the fuck
are
those things?”
“One of His Lordship’s collections. There’s a roomful of musical instruments, and another of clocks, and on the other side of the castle there’s a hallway devoted to wood carvings from some island kingdom someplace. Most of them,” he added musingly, “are quite indelicate.”
“There oughta be signs posted. C’mon, let’s have lunching. I’m thirsty.”
There was a packet of letters waiting for them at table. At every performance stop on the Winterly, a packet had arrived with letters. Crisiant had organized this. She went round to the Threadchasers, Jeska’s mother, the Windthistles, and the Silversuns to collect whatever they wanted to send their boys, stuffed everything into a large envelope, and posted it in time to reach them. It worked the other way round, as well: though Rafe was the only one who wrote regularly, whenever the others had a letter he would include it with his latest to Crisiant, and she would deliver it. Mieka had taken advantage of this exactly twice, both times with a short note for Jinsie to tell her everything was fine, we’re a smashing success as usual, don’t worry, love to all. Rafe, of course, wrote pages and pages; Cade had written to Blye and Derien several times; Jeska merely trusted Crisiant to give his mother all the news, for he was as inept at writing as he was at reading.
Mieka sat down at table, relieved that Cade had something to distract him from the inevitable scold—worse than Mieka’s own mother, he was, and with a much nastier vocabulary. All the letters were in response to Wintering gifts, which was surprising since it hadn’t been that many days since the holiday. The Royal Post must be getting more efficient, Mieka thought, tearing open the seal on a letter from his mother. This proved to include a note from Jinsie and drawings from Tavier and Jorie. These he passed round the table, and when a servant whispered a suggestion that perhaps he might like the items framed, he readily agreed. It would be a lovely reminder of home from now on, to take from his satchel pictures of the dragon Tavier intended to become and the big vase of Wintering flowers Jorie had arranged herself, and place them where he could see them.
“What’s Blye have to say?” Jeska asked, and Mieka looked over from his own letter from Jinsie to see Cade’s deep frown.
“Somethin’ we already knew, mainly. Black Lightning. Pirro came to see her about having withies made.” He slanted a look at Mieka.
“Did she sell him any?”
“Not a one. He brought Thierin along.”
Rafe nodded. “She doesn’t like him, either. Good girl.”
“If they’re taking over for the Wishcallers,” Jeska said, “that means they’ll be at the Castle Biding Fair, right?”
“And exhausted.” Cade smiled as he tucked Blye’s letter into a pocket and helped himself to more pigeon pie. “Lilyleaf all the way to Scatterseed, back down to New Halt, prob’ly only a day or two here to rest before Bexmarket, Clackerly, and Coldkettle—that’s a lot of traveling and a lot of shows.”
Mieka shook his head. “You’ve got it all wrong. They’ll prick just that much more thorn, and the performances will get even wilder.”
“How do you know they’re using?”
“I know Pirro.” But it was Kaj Seamark as had the look about him: skinny as a stick, pale and edgy, living on bluethorn instead of sleep and food. That was what happened to you, Mieka reflected, when you didn’t know what you were doing with thorn, or when the thorn you were using wasn’t as carefully prepared as Auntie Brishen’s.
He received an unwelcome demonstration of this latter truth on the fifth night of their stay at Castle Eyot.
Lord Piercehand was absent from his favorite dwelling, off exploring some remote shore to find further curiosities to embellish his home. The servants behaved as if each member of Touchstone was His Lordship’s dearest friend. This sort of thing made Jeska fidgety; he was as unacquainted to being waited on hand and foot as the rest of them, but where Rafe seemed unimpressed by it, Cade took diffident advantage of it, and Mieka fairly wallowed in it, it simply made Jeska nervous—probably because his mother was herself a servant. Yet he was also the most polite and thoughtful of any of them, and it was his suggestion that they express their gratitude to the staff by giving them a brief performance.
Without Mieka.
They argued about it from lunching until tea. Cade was adamant: Mieka was almost well, and nothing was going to jeopardize that, certainly not the strain of a show they didn’t even have to play. A mildly loud discussion turned into a shouting match, which ended only when Mieka flung himself out of the room in a fury. An hour later he was back, armed with his own contentions: he was perfectly fine, by now he could work “The Dragon” in his sleep and Cade had never done the glisking for it at all, it wasn’t fair not to give these people the best show they could offer—
“No,” Cayden announced, and went back to his reading.
Mieka went back to his room.
Preparation was simple, really. Light a candle and pass the thorn tip through the flame three times. Empty a twist of powder into a spoon, and hold it over the heat until it liquefied. Wait a bit until it cooled some, then carefully drain the liquid into the wide end of the glass thorn. And then choose a vein.
Some people would sit back and wait for the first effects—the soft flush of heat, the building sense of strength and awareness—but Mieka had been strictly taught by Auntie Brishen to use these minutes in tidying up. He burned the paper twist in a little bowl on the dressing table. He rinsed the spoon in water and then poured a bit of brandy into it, which he then emptied into the bowl. His next task was to similarly rinse the glass thorn; he’d toss the liquor into the garderobe later. His attention caught by his own gaze in the dressing table mirror, recognizing the way his eyes had turned the familiar blue-green, the first slight contraction of his pupils, the rush of blood to his cheeks. This must be powerful, he thought, to work so fast. Usually he was all finished with cleaning up everything and was sitting back with a tot of brandy before he really started feeling it. Suddenly fascinated by the spread of rosy color across his cheekbones and down to his throat, he watched his own face in the mirror while groping absently for the glass thorn so he could wash it with brandy and put it away.
It bit him.
In the next instant he realized there was no blood on his finger. “Silly,” he muttered. It did look like a tooth—one of those nasty sharp teeth displayed downstairs on a wall he hoped he never saw again in his life. He cleaned the thorn, packed it in its little wooden box, smiled at Jorie’s framed drawing of Wintering flowers on the dressing table, and went looking for Cayden to show him he was perfectly fine, had energy and to spare for a performance of “The Dragon” tonight.
Humming to himself, he hopped down the back stairs two and then three steps at a time. At the bottom was a rug patterned with flowers that disguised a mud pond so deep that he sank to his ankles and nearly lost his balance arms flailing body twisting to keep upright and mud sucking at his boots and—
But the floor beneath the rug was solid stone, he could feel it underfoot.
What in all hells was in this bluethorn, anyway?
Whatever it was, he could maintain for the length of a performance. No trouble at all.
So when the huge porcelain vases either side of the garden door sprouted stubby legs and began to march in place, he only grinned. When the hanging lamps in the hallway over his head grew spindly limbs and crawled across the ceiling like big silver spiders, he stuck out his tongue at them.
Rafe appeared around a doorway. Oh, bless all the Gods for Rafe, he’d know where Cayden was. He opened his mouth to ask, but all that came out was, “Quill?”
“Over to the entrance hall. We’re using the stairs for seating. I think he’s primin’ a few withies.” He paused, came closer. “Mieka? You all right?”
“Fine!” Maintain. Maintain. Even though Rafe’s black hair and beard had turned to running rivulets of tar that dripped down the white front of his shirt to the floor. This wasn’t bluethorn. He must’ve misread the label. Had there been a label? He didn’t remember.
He had to find Cayden. He’d be safe with Cayden. He remembered feeling safe with him. Warm in the darkness, with good smells of soap and whiskey and ink and paper and woodsmoke and blood from the cut on his finger where the glass thorn had bit him—
Mieka was lost, and he needed finding.
He searched the mansion warily, not wanting to come upon that wall of heads, frightened that if he did, they’d grow bodies and leap down from the wall and come after him. Bad enough that things kept changing colors, that his finger was bleeding again, that flowers were growing up from the carpets and the spaces between the tiny gardens rippled like white water so he had to leap from rug to rug and the flowers were dropping petals that turned into blue and pink and yellow spiders and skittered across the floor and then finally he saw Cade.
He nearly sobbed with relief.
Cade looked up from the glass baskets with a smile, and it was the most beautiful smile Mieka had ever seen. Why did he worry so about the way he looked? It was a magnificent nose he had, and wonderful eyes the color of silver raindrops.
“Well? Are you speaking to me again?”
“What? Oh. Yes. Speaking.” He knew how bizarre he sounded by the quirking frown on Cade’s face. Turning away, he walked around the hall. No carpets, so no flowers. Black marble floor, not a single rippling wave. He was safe. He was with Cade. Looking around the vast space, he said, “Big. Weird ceiling bounce, yeh?”
“I’ve been thinking, and if you’re really feeling better, then—”
“Me? Fine!”
Cade frowned more deeply as Mieka danced over to his side and picked up a withie. It felt cold, like a twig of ice. As if there was no magic in it and never had been and never would be, poor dead little thing—
“Mieka?”
The cold and lifeless withie wriggled in his hand, coiled around his fingers, up his wrist, hissed at him. With a frightened cry he shook it off him, dropped it, and it shattered.
“Mieka! What the fuck did you do that for?”