higher than the sun
My students have midterms, so I actually have some free time-- wonder of wonders. Time enough to post this.
This is a short story that I wrote a while back . . . although "short" is something of a contradiction in terms; it's 21 pages long. And given that it is so long, I'm going to break it down into sections and post them as specific days and thus get myself up to quota. No one can accuse me of cheating because, you know, this story is 21 PAGES LONG.
The story is an Emrys and Nghia one, although Nghia actually isn't in it very much. It's from the perspective of Emrys's sister, Winnifred. That he has a sister, one who is more than two thousand years younger than he is, is a story in and of itself. Sven is a former lover of Nghia's; he was also the High Priest of Corinth Nghia, one of the two branches of Nghia's church. Tor, of course, was Emrys's adopted son.
Some small details about the world: the setting for this story is in a country very much like Japan. Emrys travels a great deal, so I have an entire world to play with. It means that I can have him visit just about every Earth culture I want, which is fun. Prothen Zar, for instance, is vaguely Middle Eastern; Esledes Castle is in a country much like England; the Kruth'gar herd is nomadic and rather Mongolian. Of course, things can get complicated: Nghia, for instance, is racially Native American but comes from an African-type tribe and has a Vietnamese name. Go figure.
Oh, and incidentally, there are three intelligent species on Emrys's world. There are humans, there are horses, and there are dragons. Humans and horses are the most common. Sometimes they live together, sometimes separately. Sometimes they war on each other, sometimes they don't. As with our own planet, there is a great deal of diversity.
Without further ado!
May 14: Emrys and Nghia: Cooking Radish and Painting Bamboo, part I
Nghia was waiting for her on the path up the mountain, his back against a tree and his elbow resting on one of the roughly-carved stone shrines that were so prevalent in that particular country. Winifred shook her overgrown forelock out of the way and flicked her ears in answer to his welcoming grin, thinking that he made quite the picture with the dappled shade like a filigree of lace over the tattoo on his chest.
She told him as much when he got up and wrapped his arms around her neck in one of his strong hugs, and he laughed. "You sound just like him when you say things like that. Always thinking about how things look."
"I haven't seen you in half a decade and already you're insulting me." She shook him off with good-natured humor. "I take it you’re doing well?"
"Well enough. A bit busy lately, though. The King of Whitlans converted to the Church of Nghia a few years back, and since then there's been an influx of prayers. I've been having a hard time keeping up."
"Whitlans? Isn't that where Esledes is?"
Nghia nodded. "Precisely. I'm sure it's your brother's fault, but I can't pin it on him."
"Why is it that whenever he's being annoying, he's suddenly my brother?" Winifred swished her tail. "I see that you still have time to babysit him despite that. Where is he, anyway?"
"Up at the house. It's not far, but the way is a little steep."
"Do you want a ride?"
"I've never quite gotten the hang of riding, really. I'll walk." Without anything so mundane as a prickle in the air, Nghia's human form was gone, and a rangy blood-bay horse with long black legs stood in his place.
Winifred snorted in surprise. "I guess an old stallion really can learn a new trick. Where did you pick that one up?"
"Who's old? I decided to experiment a little, is all. There's not much else to do on this mountain, and it gets bloody cold in the winter. Fur is more comfortable than clothing any day." His liquid brown eyes shuttered for a brief moment. "He's up at the tea garden-the stairs are steep, you'll have to be human to get there. We can get you a spare robe up at the house."
"What is it with this country? I want trousers, Nghia, and I don't care if you have to miracle them up for me."
Nghia shot her an amused look past his shoulder as he led the way up the path. "Why don't I just miracle in some of your wardrobe in from Esledes?"
"I don't want to wear something musty, and with all the rain that Esledes gets . . ."
"Winnie, Esledes is Emrys's castle. He has all of the clothing aired out at least once a fortnight."
"Ah, right, how could I forget?" Winifred cast a dubious eye over the wild forest that framed the path, as if she could pick out the late-summer cicadas that filled the air with incessant humming from the leaves in which they sheltered. "What is he doing out here, anyway? It's a far cry from his usual choice in residences, that's for sure."
"Moping around, mostly."
"He has to do something other than sit around and sigh, Nghia."
"Really?" Nghia kicked a stick out of the path with one casual hoof. "Well, he paints and he reads and he plays and he cooks. He takes care of his business interests when it's particularly important, although mostly he doesn't bother. He even cleans, if you would believe that. The first time I saw him up to his elbows in a tub of dishwater I thought I'd taken leave of my senses."
"Emrys? Cleaning? I don't believe you. He doesn't have any servants up here?"
"They only come once or twice a week, and even so it's hardly a full staff. There's a gardener who also takes care of the house if it needs repairs, and a villager who brings up food and also does his laundry, but other than that . . . he's been cooking his own meals, washing his own brushes, and even drawing his own bath. For all five years that he's been up here."
"And you've been hanging around the whole time? It must be horribly boring for you."
"Well, I have other things to keep me busy. The Whitlans thing, as I mentioned, the odd miracle here and there. But . . . quite frankly, I'm getting worried. He used to talk about politics, about economics, about new developments in magic or medicine or the arts. He knew more about what was going on in my church than I did, and he used to badger me about it all the time. Now . . . he just doesn't seem to care about any of that. He'll listen when I talk, but he doesn't show any interest."
"Five years after and he's still . . ." Winifred trailed off. "I knew he would take it hard, but I didn't realize it would be this bad."
"Is that why you stayed away so long?"
Nghia could be astoundingly perceptive as long as it didn't involve a certain Dragon Lord. Aloud she said, "Partly. I needed some time, myself. That boy . . . that boy was something special, Nghia."
"I know."
They were silent for a while, listening to the cicadas, to the faint scrape of a claws on bark as a squirrel shifted to remain out of sight. "It's different for us, though," Winifred finally said. "We've both dealt with loss before."
"Yes." Winifred knew that the god's thoughts mirrored her own, that he recalled those who were taken from him centuries upon centuries before. It was not something that he ever spoke of. "It doesn't really prepare you, but it is different . . . I thought I was ready, when Sven died." Nghia laughed, a short and sharp whinny. "We argued about it, you know."
"You two are always arguing about one thing or another."
"Yes, but usually not . . . we argued about Sven, and then about Tor, and I was too upset to be rational. I shouldn't have brought up Tor. I've never seen him so angry, not ever." Nghia snapped half-heartedly at a low-hanging leaf. "So I saw this coming, I guess, but even so I'm surprised."
She hesitated a moment before she asked. "How bad was it? The argument, I mean."
"Bad. He wouldn't talk to me at all for a full two months afterwards, and I don't think he's ever forgiven me for it. And it's been thirty years."
That would have been very shortly after Sven's death, Winifred realized, counting back the time in her head. Nghia's mourning for him had been extravagant, as only a god's could be. Undoubtedly Emrys's conflicting emotions regarding it had left him open, had magnified his vulnerability regarding his love for his aging son. Emrys was vicious when it came to defending himself; the double blow of Nghia’s grief coupled with accusations regarding Tor would have evoked a terrible response indeed. "He always makes it seem like he's untouchable, invulnerable. It's all deception, of course, all defenses. Tor got past that, and this is the result. But he's wallowing, now. It's not good for him, Nghia. He needs to get back to the rest of the world."
"I know. Short of picking him up and tossing him off this mountain, though, I can't get him to leave. So I'm glad you're here."
Winifred wasn't sure his confidence in her was justified, but at that moment the trees that framed the path fell away in a sloped clearing. There was a magnificent view across a narrow valley to the steep and wooded mountain slope on the other side. But it was the house that drew the eye, a good-sized thatched structure built of weathered wood atop an embankment of stacked stone. A simple platform porch rose over a neat wood pile, with larger logs stacked against the outer wall. The thatch itself was bearded with vegetation and moss. Though a good size, and beautiful in its way, it was exceedingly simple.
It was also a drastic departure from any house of Emrys's that she had ever seen. "It's . . . he's living here?"
Nghia rolled an amused eye at her. "I told you."
"He's worse off than I thought." She hopped neatly onto the porch after him, hooves ringing on the wood.
Nghia was human again, ducking inside. "Use the bucket over there before you come in. You know how he is about cleanliness."
She did. Her nose identified the spell over the top of the curved wooden container before she could see it. Delicately she stuck one front hoof in. When she removed it, she left the dirt from the path behind.
The room inside was dim, lit only by the sunlight that crept under the eaves and the twin fire pits in the middle of the floor, one of which burned beneath an iron kettle suspended from the rafters. The wood of the broad floorboards was dark with age and use, worn smooth. Three banners hung at one end, bleached linen bearing dyed indigo crests of triplicate oak leaves. A folded screen of paper and wood was neatly leaned against one wall. Simple lanterns, also of wood and paper, stood unlit near the squared-off wooden timbers that supported the roof.
Nghia had hung a familiar set of clothing over a convenient hook on one of the columns and politely turned his back. Winifred snorted-- as if she cared-- and shifted back to human as well. The floor was surprisingly cool to her bare feet, a marked contrast to the summer air. It took only a moment for her to change, but she couldn't help but enjoy the feel of cloth against skin after so long in fur and scales. Nghia knew her preferences, but Emrys had his own taste, and he was the one who bought the clothing. The outfit Nghia had retrieved for her was simple, as she required, but evenly dyed in green and cream, and finely woven.
She braided the uneven fall of her hair with quick fingers and accepted the green ribbon he gave her to tie off the end. "There's not much here, is there?"
"The main room, a loft for storage, a work room with his piano in it, the bath house . . . his studio's in a separate building just beyond, where the light's better. He's up at the tea house now. The kitchen . . . he'll want to show you that himself."
"Let's hope so, otherwise he may be beyond help."
"This way. There are sandals waiting for you on the porch." He led the way back out to the raised ledge, and there were in fact sandals there, where there hadn't been before. They looked more like foot-shaped pieces of wood to Winifred, but it was fairly apparent that the raised loop at one end was intended to go over the top of the foot. When she tried them, she found they were surprisingly comfortable.
Nghia pointed out the way from the edge of the porch, a set of stone stairs beyond a simple yet graceful wooden bridge.
She raised her eyebrows at him when he stayed on the porch. "You're not coming?"
"He can talk to me any time. I have other things to attend to. But I'm not abandoning you, don't worry. I'm bringing in food tonight. Any requests?""
"Roast lamb," she said, without hesitation, "and glazed potatoes and stuffed artichokes and three kinds of cheese and good wine and that fluffy bread with raisins. And a citrus sherbet for dessert."
He laughed. "You've been away from civilization for a while, I can tell. Very well, and I'll even bring silverware."
She gave him a somewhat suspicious look, but he waved her on. Beyond the gate, the trees quickly moved in close to the path. Their shading branches met overhead in a cooling canopy, a welcome relief from the strong sun. Squat, weathered lanterns of rough grey stone crouched at intervals on the steps or by the path, so old they looked as if they had grown there naturally. Moss clung to the deepest shadows and crevices. Her sandals made a pleasant clopping sound on the steep stone steps as she ascended.
The tea house, when she came to it, was significantly smaller than the house, though the steep thatched roof and rectangular construction was the same. These walls were smoothly spackled, though, unlike the rough outer wooden wall of the house, and painted the soothing yellow-white shade of ancient ivory. The path itself split, one half leading to a stone step and a door only big enough to crawl through in the teahouse wall, and the other curving to another gate set in a barrier of carefully maintained and concealing trees and bushes.
She chose the gate, and the garden that abruptly opened up beyond it made her catch her breath in surprise. It was a combination of nature and art, carefully maintained and yet wild at the same time. An irregularly-shaped pond spread darkly beneath overhanging branches and trailing leaves. An arch of bridge spanned it, connecting to the far shore, where the trees grew somewhat larger. At one end, a tiny waterfall descended a series of rocks, providing a more gentle counterpoint to the sound of the cicadas.
Emrys was sitting on the wooden porch of the teahouse, a vision in white, his red eyes focused on the garden. He wore a simple robe of deep blue and white, boldly patterned and sashed in matching blue. His hair was pulled back in a neat tail and caught with a scrap of indigo, the end coiling in a graceful whorl on the worn planks. The sight of him there, with his elegant slim lines against the jewel-like greens of the garden, made her catch her breath at the perfect, serene beauty of it. Even after knowing him so long and so well, even though his face was as like to the one that looked back at her from every mirror as to be no different, still the sight of him was a surprise. There was something unearthly about him, a perfection that somehow went beyond what should have been possible.
He turned his head, then, and met her eyes precisely and without surprise. She couldn't help a thrill of pleasure at the small but genuine smile that widened the corners of his mouth when he looked at her. It was only there for a moment, but the truth of it lingered; his smiles were too often bitter and sarcastic.
But it was not her nature to remain speechless or overawed for long, and she grinned broadly at him from the gate. "Hullo, Emrys. I found you."
"I was not aware that I was hiding," he said, and the faint, familiar edge of amused sarcasm colored his words to fine art. "Hello, Winifred. Would you care to join me?" He gestured to the porch beside him, and she saw that a round wooden tray held two roughly glazed clay mugs, their sides beaded with moisture.
She raised her eyebrows at that. “"ou were expecting me?"
"Not precisely. But Nghia has been positively fidgety all morning, and even volunteered to bring in dinner tonight, so it was fairly clear that a guest would be arriving. Since he didn't tell me about it, it could only be you."
"Not even half a decade on a lonely mountainside can dull your edge," she commented teasingly, crossing the garden to his side. She left the sandals on the path when she leapt up to the porch beside him and stooped to plant a kiss in the silver-white silk of his hair. He was not one to encourage such familiar behavior, but she had always cheerfully ignored that and had no intention of stopping now. "What's in the cup?"
"Tea. A kind particular to this country. It's normally served hot, but in the summer I prefer it cold."
She settled next to him and accepted one of the cups. A cautious sip rewarded her with a delicate, roasted flavor, slightly bitter, but the cool liquid was welcome and more on the hot day, especially after her climb.
Emrys, flawlessly polite, had also taken a sip from his cup. His eyes were once again on the garden, and his face gave no hints as to his thoughts. Winifred could usually tell what he was thinking anyway, but this time she had no idea, and she knew better than to try to get a feel for his mood by other means.
"It's been a while, eh?" she started, when it became clear that he wasn't going to continue with the necessary preliminaries of conversation.
"Five years, one month, and two days." His voice did not carry its usual dryness; he was simply stating exactly how long it had been.
She waited, but he continued to stare out at the peaceful stillness of the garden. A whole minute was far too much. "Aren't you going to ask me where I've been and what I've been doing?" she finally burst out.
Now he turned from the garden to look at her, far too calm. "You're going to tell me, aren't you? So why ask?"
That was disturbingly unlike him; he had always delighted in the most obscure niceties of etiquette and politeness and insisted on carrying them out save during the most dire of emergencies. She surprised first the urge to be contrary and not tell him, and second the urge to sigh, and filled him in on the year she had spent in the mountains as a dragon-- mostly to see what it was like-- and the four she had spent running with the Kruth'gar Herd on the expansive plains well to the east of Prothen Zar. But his response was less than what she had hoped. He mildly commented that he hoped she had stayed away from the dragons themselves during the time she had spent as one, and made only personal inquiries regarding her life with the herd. He did not so much as mention the political position of the herd or their influence over the broad area that they ranged. He was still interested in her life, that much she could deduce; he cared about her no matter how loathe he was to admit it. But he did not seem to care about anything else.
He collected her empty glass when the sun began encroaching on the surrounding mountain peaks and disappeared with it into the tea house. When he emerged he was empty-handed, and offered her one so that she could rise. "We should head to the main house. Nghia will be coming soon with dinner, I expect."
She grinned at him, brushing the faint traces of dust from her trousers. "I made some menu requests."
"I'm sure you did. Did he show you around?"
"Only the main house."
He considered this as he stepped into the sandals he'd left at the edge of the porch. "He probably didn't think to show you the kitchen. Well, I can do that before we eat. The equipment is excellent, but very different from what you're used to. Or not, after four years with the Kruth'gar Herd."
She smiled at his back as she slipped on her own shoes and followed him out the gate. That was hope, at least; perhaps her task was not impossible after all.
This is a short story that I wrote a while back . . . although "short" is something of a contradiction in terms; it's 21 pages long. And given that it is so long, I'm going to break it down into sections and post them as specific days and thus get myself up to quota. No one can accuse me of cheating because, you know, this story is 21 PAGES LONG.
The story is an Emrys and Nghia one, although Nghia actually isn't in it very much. It's from the perspective of Emrys's sister, Winnifred. That he has a sister, one who is more than two thousand years younger than he is, is a story in and of itself. Sven is a former lover of Nghia's; he was also the High Priest of Corinth Nghia, one of the two branches of Nghia's church. Tor, of course, was Emrys's adopted son.
Some small details about the world: the setting for this story is in a country very much like Japan. Emrys travels a great deal, so I have an entire world to play with. It means that I can have him visit just about every Earth culture I want, which is fun. Prothen Zar, for instance, is vaguely Middle Eastern; Esledes Castle is in a country much like England; the Kruth'gar herd is nomadic and rather Mongolian. Of course, things can get complicated: Nghia, for instance, is racially Native American but comes from an African-type tribe and has a Vietnamese name. Go figure.
Oh, and incidentally, there are three intelligent species on Emrys's world. There are humans, there are horses, and there are dragons. Humans and horses are the most common. Sometimes they live together, sometimes separately. Sometimes they war on each other, sometimes they don't. As with our own planet, there is a great deal of diversity.
Without further ado!
May 14: Emrys and Nghia: Cooking Radish and Painting Bamboo, part I
Nghia was waiting for her on the path up the mountain, his back against a tree and his elbow resting on one of the roughly-carved stone shrines that were so prevalent in that particular country. Winifred shook her overgrown forelock out of the way and flicked her ears in answer to his welcoming grin, thinking that he made quite the picture with the dappled shade like a filigree of lace over the tattoo on his chest.
She told him as much when he got up and wrapped his arms around her neck in one of his strong hugs, and he laughed. "You sound just like him when you say things like that. Always thinking about how things look."
"I haven't seen you in half a decade and already you're insulting me." She shook him off with good-natured humor. "I take it you’re doing well?"
"Well enough. A bit busy lately, though. The King of Whitlans converted to the Church of Nghia a few years back, and since then there's been an influx of prayers. I've been having a hard time keeping up."
"Whitlans? Isn't that where Esledes is?"
Nghia nodded. "Precisely. I'm sure it's your brother's fault, but I can't pin it on him."
"Why is it that whenever he's being annoying, he's suddenly my brother?" Winifred swished her tail. "I see that you still have time to babysit him despite that. Where is he, anyway?"
"Up at the house. It's not far, but the way is a little steep."
"Do you want a ride?"
"I've never quite gotten the hang of riding, really. I'll walk." Without anything so mundane as a prickle in the air, Nghia's human form was gone, and a rangy blood-bay horse with long black legs stood in his place.
Winifred snorted in surprise. "I guess an old stallion really can learn a new trick. Where did you pick that one up?"
"Who's old? I decided to experiment a little, is all. There's not much else to do on this mountain, and it gets bloody cold in the winter. Fur is more comfortable than clothing any day." His liquid brown eyes shuttered for a brief moment. "He's up at the tea garden-the stairs are steep, you'll have to be human to get there. We can get you a spare robe up at the house."
"What is it with this country? I want trousers, Nghia, and I don't care if you have to miracle them up for me."
Nghia shot her an amused look past his shoulder as he led the way up the path. "Why don't I just miracle in some of your wardrobe in from Esledes?"
"I don't want to wear something musty, and with all the rain that Esledes gets . . ."
"Winnie, Esledes is Emrys's castle. He has all of the clothing aired out at least once a fortnight."
"Ah, right, how could I forget?" Winifred cast a dubious eye over the wild forest that framed the path, as if she could pick out the late-summer cicadas that filled the air with incessant humming from the leaves in which they sheltered. "What is he doing out here, anyway? It's a far cry from his usual choice in residences, that's for sure."
"Moping around, mostly."
"He has to do something other than sit around and sigh, Nghia."
"Really?" Nghia kicked a stick out of the path with one casual hoof. "Well, he paints and he reads and he plays and he cooks. He takes care of his business interests when it's particularly important, although mostly he doesn't bother. He even cleans, if you would believe that. The first time I saw him up to his elbows in a tub of dishwater I thought I'd taken leave of my senses."
"Emrys? Cleaning? I don't believe you. He doesn't have any servants up here?"
"They only come once or twice a week, and even so it's hardly a full staff. There's a gardener who also takes care of the house if it needs repairs, and a villager who brings up food and also does his laundry, but other than that . . . he's been cooking his own meals, washing his own brushes, and even drawing his own bath. For all five years that he's been up here."
"And you've been hanging around the whole time? It must be horribly boring for you."
"Well, I have other things to keep me busy. The Whitlans thing, as I mentioned, the odd miracle here and there. But . . . quite frankly, I'm getting worried. He used to talk about politics, about economics, about new developments in magic or medicine or the arts. He knew more about what was going on in my church than I did, and he used to badger me about it all the time. Now . . . he just doesn't seem to care about any of that. He'll listen when I talk, but he doesn't show any interest."
"Five years after and he's still . . ." Winifred trailed off. "I knew he would take it hard, but I didn't realize it would be this bad."
"Is that why you stayed away so long?"
Nghia could be astoundingly perceptive as long as it didn't involve a certain Dragon Lord. Aloud she said, "Partly. I needed some time, myself. That boy . . . that boy was something special, Nghia."
"I know."
They were silent for a while, listening to the cicadas, to the faint scrape of a claws on bark as a squirrel shifted to remain out of sight. "It's different for us, though," Winifred finally said. "We've both dealt with loss before."
"Yes." Winifred knew that the god's thoughts mirrored her own, that he recalled those who were taken from him centuries upon centuries before. It was not something that he ever spoke of. "It doesn't really prepare you, but it is different . . . I thought I was ready, when Sven died." Nghia laughed, a short and sharp whinny. "We argued about it, you know."
"You two are always arguing about one thing or another."
"Yes, but usually not . . . we argued about Sven, and then about Tor, and I was too upset to be rational. I shouldn't have brought up Tor. I've never seen him so angry, not ever." Nghia snapped half-heartedly at a low-hanging leaf. "So I saw this coming, I guess, but even so I'm surprised."
She hesitated a moment before she asked. "How bad was it? The argument, I mean."
"Bad. He wouldn't talk to me at all for a full two months afterwards, and I don't think he's ever forgiven me for it. And it's been thirty years."
That would have been very shortly after Sven's death, Winifred realized, counting back the time in her head. Nghia's mourning for him had been extravagant, as only a god's could be. Undoubtedly Emrys's conflicting emotions regarding it had left him open, had magnified his vulnerability regarding his love for his aging son. Emrys was vicious when it came to defending himself; the double blow of Nghia’s grief coupled with accusations regarding Tor would have evoked a terrible response indeed. "He always makes it seem like he's untouchable, invulnerable. It's all deception, of course, all defenses. Tor got past that, and this is the result. But he's wallowing, now. It's not good for him, Nghia. He needs to get back to the rest of the world."
"I know. Short of picking him up and tossing him off this mountain, though, I can't get him to leave. So I'm glad you're here."
Winifred wasn't sure his confidence in her was justified, but at that moment the trees that framed the path fell away in a sloped clearing. There was a magnificent view across a narrow valley to the steep and wooded mountain slope on the other side. But it was the house that drew the eye, a good-sized thatched structure built of weathered wood atop an embankment of stacked stone. A simple platform porch rose over a neat wood pile, with larger logs stacked against the outer wall. The thatch itself was bearded with vegetation and moss. Though a good size, and beautiful in its way, it was exceedingly simple.
It was also a drastic departure from any house of Emrys's that she had ever seen. "It's . . . he's living here?"
Nghia rolled an amused eye at her. "I told you."
"He's worse off than I thought." She hopped neatly onto the porch after him, hooves ringing on the wood.
Nghia was human again, ducking inside. "Use the bucket over there before you come in. You know how he is about cleanliness."
She did. Her nose identified the spell over the top of the curved wooden container before she could see it. Delicately she stuck one front hoof in. When she removed it, she left the dirt from the path behind.
The room inside was dim, lit only by the sunlight that crept under the eaves and the twin fire pits in the middle of the floor, one of which burned beneath an iron kettle suspended from the rafters. The wood of the broad floorboards was dark with age and use, worn smooth. Three banners hung at one end, bleached linen bearing dyed indigo crests of triplicate oak leaves. A folded screen of paper and wood was neatly leaned against one wall. Simple lanterns, also of wood and paper, stood unlit near the squared-off wooden timbers that supported the roof.
Nghia had hung a familiar set of clothing over a convenient hook on one of the columns and politely turned his back. Winifred snorted-- as if she cared-- and shifted back to human as well. The floor was surprisingly cool to her bare feet, a marked contrast to the summer air. It took only a moment for her to change, but she couldn't help but enjoy the feel of cloth against skin after so long in fur and scales. Nghia knew her preferences, but Emrys had his own taste, and he was the one who bought the clothing. The outfit Nghia had retrieved for her was simple, as she required, but evenly dyed in green and cream, and finely woven.
She braided the uneven fall of her hair with quick fingers and accepted the green ribbon he gave her to tie off the end. "There's not much here, is there?"
"The main room, a loft for storage, a work room with his piano in it, the bath house . . . his studio's in a separate building just beyond, where the light's better. He's up at the tea house now. The kitchen . . . he'll want to show you that himself."
"Let's hope so, otherwise he may be beyond help."
"This way. There are sandals waiting for you on the porch." He led the way back out to the raised ledge, and there were in fact sandals there, where there hadn't been before. They looked more like foot-shaped pieces of wood to Winifred, but it was fairly apparent that the raised loop at one end was intended to go over the top of the foot. When she tried them, she found they were surprisingly comfortable.
Nghia pointed out the way from the edge of the porch, a set of stone stairs beyond a simple yet graceful wooden bridge.
She raised her eyebrows at him when he stayed on the porch. "You're not coming?"
"He can talk to me any time. I have other things to attend to. But I'm not abandoning you, don't worry. I'm bringing in food tonight. Any requests?""
"Roast lamb," she said, without hesitation, "and glazed potatoes and stuffed artichokes and three kinds of cheese and good wine and that fluffy bread with raisins. And a citrus sherbet for dessert."
He laughed. "You've been away from civilization for a while, I can tell. Very well, and I'll even bring silverware."
She gave him a somewhat suspicious look, but he waved her on. Beyond the gate, the trees quickly moved in close to the path. Their shading branches met overhead in a cooling canopy, a welcome relief from the strong sun. Squat, weathered lanterns of rough grey stone crouched at intervals on the steps or by the path, so old they looked as if they had grown there naturally. Moss clung to the deepest shadows and crevices. Her sandals made a pleasant clopping sound on the steep stone steps as she ascended.
The tea house, when she came to it, was significantly smaller than the house, though the steep thatched roof and rectangular construction was the same. These walls were smoothly spackled, though, unlike the rough outer wooden wall of the house, and painted the soothing yellow-white shade of ancient ivory. The path itself split, one half leading to a stone step and a door only big enough to crawl through in the teahouse wall, and the other curving to another gate set in a barrier of carefully maintained and concealing trees and bushes.
She chose the gate, and the garden that abruptly opened up beyond it made her catch her breath in surprise. It was a combination of nature and art, carefully maintained and yet wild at the same time. An irregularly-shaped pond spread darkly beneath overhanging branches and trailing leaves. An arch of bridge spanned it, connecting to the far shore, where the trees grew somewhat larger. At one end, a tiny waterfall descended a series of rocks, providing a more gentle counterpoint to the sound of the cicadas.
Emrys was sitting on the wooden porch of the teahouse, a vision in white, his red eyes focused on the garden. He wore a simple robe of deep blue and white, boldly patterned and sashed in matching blue. His hair was pulled back in a neat tail and caught with a scrap of indigo, the end coiling in a graceful whorl on the worn planks. The sight of him there, with his elegant slim lines against the jewel-like greens of the garden, made her catch her breath at the perfect, serene beauty of it. Even after knowing him so long and so well, even though his face was as like to the one that looked back at her from every mirror as to be no different, still the sight of him was a surprise. There was something unearthly about him, a perfection that somehow went beyond what should have been possible.
He turned his head, then, and met her eyes precisely and without surprise. She couldn't help a thrill of pleasure at the small but genuine smile that widened the corners of his mouth when he looked at her. It was only there for a moment, but the truth of it lingered; his smiles were too often bitter and sarcastic.
But it was not her nature to remain speechless or overawed for long, and she grinned broadly at him from the gate. "Hullo, Emrys. I found you."
"I was not aware that I was hiding," he said, and the faint, familiar edge of amused sarcasm colored his words to fine art. "Hello, Winifred. Would you care to join me?" He gestured to the porch beside him, and she saw that a round wooden tray held two roughly glazed clay mugs, their sides beaded with moisture.
She raised her eyebrows at that. “"ou were expecting me?"
"Not precisely. But Nghia has been positively fidgety all morning, and even volunteered to bring in dinner tonight, so it was fairly clear that a guest would be arriving. Since he didn't tell me about it, it could only be you."
"Not even half a decade on a lonely mountainside can dull your edge," she commented teasingly, crossing the garden to his side. She left the sandals on the path when she leapt up to the porch beside him and stooped to plant a kiss in the silver-white silk of his hair. He was not one to encourage such familiar behavior, but she had always cheerfully ignored that and had no intention of stopping now. "What's in the cup?"
"Tea. A kind particular to this country. It's normally served hot, but in the summer I prefer it cold."
She settled next to him and accepted one of the cups. A cautious sip rewarded her with a delicate, roasted flavor, slightly bitter, but the cool liquid was welcome and more on the hot day, especially after her climb.
Emrys, flawlessly polite, had also taken a sip from his cup. His eyes were once again on the garden, and his face gave no hints as to his thoughts. Winifred could usually tell what he was thinking anyway, but this time she had no idea, and she knew better than to try to get a feel for his mood by other means.
"It's been a while, eh?" she started, when it became clear that he wasn't going to continue with the necessary preliminaries of conversation.
"Five years, one month, and two days." His voice did not carry its usual dryness; he was simply stating exactly how long it had been.
She waited, but he continued to stare out at the peaceful stillness of the garden. A whole minute was far too much. "Aren't you going to ask me where I've been and what I've been doing?" she finally burst out.
Now he turned from the garden to look at her, far too calm. "You're going to tell me, aren't you? So why ask?"
That was disturbingly unlike him; he had always delighted in the most obscure niceties of etiquette and politeness and insisted on carrying them out save during the most dire of emergencies. She surprised first the urge to be contrary and not tell him, and second the urge to sigh, and filled him in on the year she had spent in the mountains as a dragon-- mostly to see what it was like-- and the four she had spent running with the Kruth'gar Herd on the expansive plains well to the east of Prothen Zar. But his response was less than what she had hoped. He mildly commented that he hoped she had stayed away from the dragons themselves during the time she had spent as one, and made only personal inquiries regarding her life with the herd. He did not so much as mention the political position of the herd or their influence over the broad area that they ranged. He was still interested in her life, that much she could deduce; he cared about her no matter how loathe he was to admit it. But he did not seem to care about anything else.
He collected her empty glass when the sun began encroaching on the surrounding mountain peaks and disappeared with it into the tea house. When he emerged he was empty-handed, and offered her one so that she could rise. "We should head to the main house. Nghia will be coming soon with dinner, I expect."
She grinned at him, brushing the faint traces of dust from her trousers. "I made some menu requests."
"I'm sure you did. Did he show you around?"
"Only the main house."
He considered this as he stepped into the sandals he'd left at the edge of the porch. "He probably didn't think to show you the kitchen. Well, I can do that before we eat. The equipment is excellent, but very different from what you're used to. Or not, after four years with the Kruth'gar Herd."
She smiled at his back as she slipped on her own shoes and followed him out the gate. That was hope, at least; perhaps her task was not impossible after all.