gentlemen of the Keep chosen for their grace and beauty, carrying the gifts the Lord was to present. The setting sun shone gold on the boughs of the oak and willow hanging out over the water. A path of grey stone led deeper into the forest. Standing inside the first line of trees was a household servant, wearing a white robe that covered everything but a respectful smile. ‘Welcome to the House of the Second Moon, my Lord of the Red Keep.’ Atop his ebony tray were a hollow gourd resting on a silver stand and several small wooden cups. ‘May I offer refreshment?’
The Lord took the gourd. Calla took one of the cups and thanked the man, who nodded in response. The concoction tasted of cinnamon and cream and clover, and she could feel the kick almost before she had set it down.
‘The Prime awaits you in the central pavilion,’ the servant continued, and gestured, wide-armed, further into the wood. ‘If you please.’
The Eternal had no conception of hereditary nobility. All were equal before the code of law that had been created at the foundation and passed down unchanged in the millennium since. All could trace their line to that period as well, and often did so, an hour-long monologue that Calla had heard the Aubade perform on more than one occasion. Each was fabulously wealthy, heir to the income of the great farms surrounding the city as well as to a portion of the tithes presented to the Roost by the human nations of the continent – though, in general, money meant nothing to them, and in practice Calla herself was responsible for keeping track of the Aubade’s finances.
Thus the Prime could not be said to rule exactly; she gave no orders, possessed no special powers or rights. It was her quality that imbued the rank with meaning, rather than the reverse. For even amongst this race of near-divines, there were none to match her – not in wealth, not in dignity, not in beauty nor in accomplishment. Her estate was the largest in the Roost, a sprawling thing that dwarfed even the Red Keep, itself one of the larger of the Eternal’s estates. She was regarded as the greatest practitioner of all the arts that defined their culture – her incense was the subtlest and most pleasing, her brushwork finer than any other, her skill with harp and lute unparalleled. In the Conclave her counsel was regarded as much the wisest and most temperate, though in the last war against Aeleria she had been at the vanguard, and acquitted herself with noteworthy ferocity. Across the length and breadth of the First Rung, which was to say the Roost, which was to say the world, there was simply none to match her.
None but the Aubade – Calla had her pride, after all.
But even she could not pretend that there was anything in the Red Keep to compare with the grandeur of the Prime’s estate. The woods they walked through made the east aviary seem positively diminutive by contrast. It had been three hundred years since the Lord’s father had brought the first cuttings to the Red Keep, but the Lady’s forest was far older, went back almost to the Founding. Each seedling had been carefully chosen, planted in some infinitely distant past, lovingly cultivated, pruned and shaped. It was a living masterpiece, a millennium of careful planning married to virtually unlimited resources.
The path got smaller before disappearing altogether a half-cable into the forest. Calla held her breath in expectation.
‘They’ll find us soon,’ the Aubade said.
Calla blushed. ‘Is my excitement so obvious, my Lord?’
He neglected to answer, continuing forward into the wood, seemingly without direction. Even with the path gone the walk was easy, the ground a soft carpet of moss, undisturbed by weed or prickly bush. The late-summer foliage would be gone within a week, and in defiance it seemed to throw itself into one last explosion of colour, fireweeds and flecks of white hellebore and bright yellow strands of trumpet vine. Threads of sunlight leaked
The Lord took the gourd. Calla took one of the cups and thanked the man, who nodded in response. The concoction tasted of cinnamon and cream and clover, and she could feel the kick almost before she had set it down.
‘The Prime awaits you in the central pavilion,’ the servant continued, and gestured, wide-armed, further into the wood. ‘If you please.’
The Eternal had no conception of hereditary nobility. All were equal before the code of law that had been created at the foundation and passed down unchanged in the millennium since. All could trace their line to that period as well, and often did so, an hour-long monologue that Calla had heard the Aubade perform on more than one occasion. Each was fabulously wealthy, heir to the income of the great farms surrounding the city as well as to a portion of the tithes presented to the Roost by the human nations of the continent – though, in general, money meant nothing to them, and in practice Calla herself was responsible for keeping track of the Aubade’s finances.
Thus the Prime could not be said to rule exactly; she gave no orders, possessed no special powers or rights. It was her quality that imbued the rank with meaning, rather than the reverse. For even amongst this race of near-divines, there were none to match her – not in wealth, not in dignity, not in beauty nor in accomplishment. Her estate was the largest in the Roost, a sprawling thing that dwarfed even the Red Keep, itself one of the larger of the Eternal’s estates. She was regarded as the greatest practitioner of all the arts that defined their culture – her incense was the subtlest and most pleasing, her brushwork finer than any other, her skill with harp and lute unparalleled. In the Conclave her counsel was regarded as much the wisest and most temperate, though in the last war against Aeleria she had been at the vanguard, and acquitted herself with noteworthy ferocity. Across the length and breadth of the First Rung, which was to say the Roost, which was to say the world, there was simply none to match her.
None but the Aubade – Calla had her pride, after all.
But even she could not pretend that there was anything in the Red Keep to compare with the grandeur of the Prime’s estate. The woods they walked through made the east aviary seem positively diminutive by contrast. It had been three hundred years since the Lord’s father had brought the first cuttings to the Red Keep, but the Lady’s forest was far older, went back almost to the Founding. Each seedling had been carefully chosen, planted in some infinitely distant past, lovingly cultivated, pruned and shaped. It was a living masterpiece, a millennium of careful planning married to virtually unlimited resources.
The path got smaller before disappearing altogether a half-cable into the forest. Calla held her breath in expectation.
‘They’ll find us soon,’ the Aubade said.
Calla blushed. ‘Is my excitement so obvious, my Lord?’
He neglected to answer, continuing forward into the wood, seemingly without direction. Even with the path gone the walk was easy, the ground a soft carpet of moss, undisturbed by weed or prickly bush. The late-summer foliage would be gone within a week, and in defiance it seemed to throw itself into one last explosion of colour, fireweeds and flecks of white hellebore and bright yellow strands of trumpet vine. Threads of sunlight leaked
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