“Go right,” said Miguil. “Around the stairs.”
Ōbhin nodded. A grand staircase dominated the center, climbing up to the second floor. The walls were covered in plaster painted stark-white, the floor polished stone reflecting Ōbhin’s shadowy form. He rounded the flaring bottom of the staircase, the banister a dark gleam of smooth wood. They passed an open door with a corridor leading from it. A woven carpet, decorated with an array of the seven colors in geometric patterns, ran down the center of the hallway. Dualayn stopped at a stout door, its brass knob heavy, a lock above it.
“The maids have entered once a week to dust it under my supervision,” said Pharon from behind. “Nothing was disturbed, per your instructions, Master Dashvin.”
“Of course, of course,” said Dualayn.
He produced a heavy iron key from a pocket in his waistcoat. He thrust it into the lock. A loud click echoed around Ōbhin. The door lumbered open with a ponderous weight. Diamond lamps burst to life, shedding artificial light with a steady glow no lantern could ever hope to match.
“On the central table,” Dualayn said. “I will do my best, Ōbhin. You have my promise.”
Ōbhin nodded as he stepped into the room. The floor was dark stone, the mortar aged. The walls were unrelieved, not matching the plaster walls of the entry hall. Locked cabinets, all made of heavy oak or other hardwood, lined the wall. The table was also made of heavy wood, though covered in a white sheet. One wall had a workbench with the delicate tools of a jewelchine engineer laid out precisely, coils of metals from cheap zinc to expensive gold lining the back end. Opposite it was a vault door, round and made of a large sheet of dark iron, a knob in the center marked from 1 to 100.
Ōbhin had heard rumors of safes lacking keys, the latest defense against the ever-growing skills of thieves and burglars.
“Yes, yes, right here,” said Dualayn, unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Gently, gently. We do not want to stress your friend more than necessary.”
Miguil and Ōbhin set Carstin’s stretcher down with ease. Miguil’s glower softened when he stared at the injured man. He glanced at Avena as she strode in, her fingers unbuttoning the cuffs of her blouse before rolling them up her arms.
“Ōbhin, we’ll save him,” Avena said, her tone brusque, eyes focused.
He nodded.
“Pharon, if you would show Ōbhin to suitable quarters,” said Dualayn. “I fear we’ll be at this for some time.”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Pharon, a slight touch of a smile on his lips.
Ōbhin nodded, his hands rubbing together, leather rasping on leather.
“Miguil, attend to the master’s horses and belongings,” Pharon said as he placed a hand on Ōbhin’s arm and tugged gently.
As Ōbhin looked back at his friend, Miguil’s flinty gaze met his. He sighed and glanced at Carstin’s pale face. He hoped for his friend’s recovery. A small deed performed in a dark world. Then he was led away by Pharon.
“I’ll put you in the old head gardener’s room,” said Pharon. “He quit rather suddenly. It has a lovely view of the grounds.”
Ōbhin only nodded.
“Meals are prepared three times a day. Servants have a small dining hall off the kitchen. Madam Kaylin does not appreciate those who miss her meals or think to wander into her kitchen at any hour to find food.”
Ōbhin absorbed the information as they left behind the ornate main house for the servant wing. His boots echoed on the unrelieved stone. They passed narrow doors until Pharon stopped before one at the end of a small corridor. He produced a ring of bony, iron keys and thrust one into the lock.
“Your copy of the key is found on the wardrobe,” said Pharon as he ushered Ōbhin inside. “You are responsible for tidying your room. The maids will collect the bedding once a week for washing. If you need anything from me, do not hesitate to ask.”
“I’m fine,” Ōbhin said, crossing the room to the heavy curtains. He threw them open, the tension tightening across his chest.
A massive hand squeezed him. Would Carstin survive?
He hardly noted Pharon’s exit. Ōbhin studied the grounds, what he could see of them. To his right, he caught a glimpse of Lake Ophavin. The ground sloped from his window to the brick fence. A postern gate, narrow and unguarded, breached the wall almost directly off the side. It led to a hill cloaked in patches of thick bramble, perhaps blackberry. Small, yellow flowers dotted the thorny tangle. The broad canopy of an oak tree, its leaves the deep green of spring, shaded the hill’s bare crown.
He thought he spotted movement beneath the tree. His eyes studied it while the tension grew and grew. Fear for his friend played between his shoulders, small pinpricks not unlike the feeling of being watched.
Aliiva, let your nurturing song sustain Carstin, he prayed, black-clad hands clasped behind his back.
Chapter Nine
“What do you need me to do?” Avena asked as Pharon led Ōbhin from the room.
Dualayn closed the primer he’d received from the White Lady and set it beside the cloth-wrapped Recorder lying on his wooden workbench. He turned and faced her. “Start water boiling for the anesthetic. I’ll mix it.”
“Of course.”
Eager to help Carstin, she whirled, her heeled shoes squeaking on the smooth floor. She marched to one of the unlocked cabinets and opened it. Inside was a heating plate, a coil of cast iron on a porcelain plate. A ruby jewelchine, wrapped in cheap tin, sat in the center. She sat it down with care and brushed the activation button on the side. A hum ran through it. The gem flared with a fiery brilliance. A dark blush grew in the iron.
As Dualayn mixed herbs
