out of the question, of course, and Emily looked around the room for the night-blue uniform of the wizards. She felt, of all the people she had spoken to this evening, that Giles Scavian would keep her confidences, and he might have revelations of his own in return.
The young Warlock was not in the room, and she guessed the newly anointed wizards had been taken somewhere else to rest. Deerlings was a sprawling mansion, but she decided he could not be far away, so while the King took the guests’ attention with another fine speech, she slipped unobtrusively from the room.
Heavy with memory, the cold quiet of Deerlings enveloped her. As the ballroom doors closed, so the sound of human joy was shut off behind them. The chamber beyond was empty of life, dominated only by the dead. Portraits of the family glowered down on her: warriors dressed in military garb or armour; women laced and whaleboned into aristocratic poses; men in the dark robes of the King’s Warlocks, many sporting proudly the handprint brand of their office. A huge bear menaced one corner vacantly, tall enough that the flat crown of its head brushed the ceiling, bared teeth and hooked claws raised to threaten the man who had slain it, himself now generations dead. Perhaps his likeness was somewhere on the wall, staring down at his great prize, the two of them locked in an endless rivalry.
She passed down a long hallway, the windows of which faced onto a walled courtyard long untended. The overgrown vines and weeds and bushes reached up as if to ensnare dark statues of winged angels taking flight. To Emily it seemed that they were striving to escape the foliage, and that it was dragging them down, seeking to bind them to the earth. She could see no door opening onto that garden, as though the house itself had closed it off and forgotten it, angels and all.
She paused at the doorway of the next dim chamber she came upon. From the darkness within, armour glinted on the walls: breastplates dulled with age, crossed sabres and antique broadswords beneath them; the bygone tools of the soldier’s trade arrayed now as heirlooms and prizes. Pikes and axes, she saw; helms and flags of all the nations that Lascanne had warred against. Perhaps there would be a Denlander flag here soon; at least she hoped so. Emily moved forward, brushing against a pike beside the door, which scraped across the face of a scarred shield.
There was a strangled cry and something lunged at her, slicing the air. She had taken only a single step into the room, and now reeled against the wall with a clatter of armour, sending a curved scimitar bounding angrily across the floor. She flinched, arms up to protect her face – and her eyes met those of Lord Deerling.
He had his drawn sabre halfway towards her, but the hand of one of his savages had stayed him from delivering the blow. The man’s old face was drawn and pale, aghast at himself. In the gloom she had not spotted him or his attendants, or had taken them for mere exhibits.
‘My lord, please, I apologize, I did not mean to . . .’
‘I’m so sorry,’ the old man said, his voice almost a whisper. With a heaving breath he lowered the sword, let it follow the long-familiar path back into its scabbard. ‘Please forgive me, young lady.’
‘My lord . . .’ she began, but did not know what to say. The two savages stared at her with eyes as round and orange as the orbs of owls. Their hair was feathery, brown and white and grey, blending with their cloaks. Their muscular corded bodies were dark and lean, with nails like talons. Close to, they did not look so human as she had thought. ‘My lord, is something wrong? I did not mean to intrude.’
His tension-drawn face essayed a smile, which made him look infinitely older and more fragile. ‘I came away from it all – the music and the crowds – because I cannot live amongst such things any more. I am unfit for company, young lady. I . . . have been at war such a long time. One can only witness so many terrible things before one becomes . . . unsuited for polite society.’
She saw he was trembling like a child. ‘My lord, will you sit?’
Gratefully he folded himself into a chair, tilting his head back until it