The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [84]
“Excuse me,” Octavia said quietly, stopping. “A thousand apologies to address you. May I make an inquiry?”
The women had also stopped. They said nothing in return.
Staring at the wooden floor, Octavia hesitated. “The chatelaine,” she said, “has called for me. Do you know if she is in her chambers?”
“No,” said the woman on the left, disdain in her voice. “She’s in the Ward still, with the palatinate. They’re discussing the return of the benevolent sisters.”
“Who’ve come back,” said the other woman, “to put things right in our city.”
“So she must have forgotten about you.”
Both servants made snorting sounds of laughter.
“That’s right. You’ll see where you stand when the smoke clears. You’ll fucking see.”
Octavia nodded a brief thank you and hurried away. She heard the women talking, heard their muffled, bitter comments.
The area of the Great Hall directly in front of the chatelaine’s bedchambers was deserted. No servants, either way. Octavia listened at the double doors, heard nothing within, and pulled them open. She slipped into the now-familiar room.
The key was there on its hook, next to the cages. Though Octavia tried her best not to look at the pets, she was convinced as she lifted the key from its place that the beasts were actually amused at her antics.
The limbless boy watched every move, as excitement continued to brim in the castellan. With two fingers, he picked up the corpse of the cobali, intending to dispose of it, at least temporarily, to clear the area, but hesitated before starting to pull as many of the thin rods as he could from the stiffening limbs. This proved a difficult task, gory and time consuming, and it was a while before he was able to drop the body down the chute in the floor, where it tumbled down the shaft to the ground far below, landing in the small refuse chamber attended by a grubby kholic known as Cyrus.
As the castellan rinsed his hands in a tub of rust-coloured water, the boy glared with those clear, burning eyes. After removing the stopper from the bottle, vapours slowly rose toward the glass mouth, trickling over the sides and down.
“I only wanted answers,” path said, his voice breaking. “I had visions. There is someone else, or some thing, that’s taken me over. I used to be a drooling idiot—”
“Shhh.” The castellan stroked the boy. “Trust me when I say I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to take care of you.” He poured several drops of the bottle’s contents onto a small rag, which became cold against his skin. He sealed the bottle once more. The rag in his hand made a quiet, hissing sound. “Path,” he said, “in my family—my daughter and I—we believe in destiny and fate. Do you?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“No? You should think about it. Everyone needs something to believe in. Meanwhile, I’m going to give you a bath. And then you’ll take a nap. You know, when I was a younger man, still tossing and turning in the chambers below, nights of fitful sleeps, I dreamed I had a beautiful daughter. She was ten or so. When I woke, I went down to tell the fecund. She was my only friend.” The castellan sighed. “You have no idea what I’m saying, do you?”
“No.”
“And I’m upsetting myself. I’ll stop.” He looked toward the near wall, silent for a moment. “I want you to forget all about that man.”
“The one that brought me here? Tully?”
“No, not Tully. He’s gone back to his hole, wherever that may be. Though you may forget about him, too. I’m talking about the other one.”
Path considered a while, watching gases rise from the rag and wreathe the castellan’s liver-spotted hand. “You mean my father? Forget about my father?”
“Yes. That’s right. Just earlier today I was wishing for a son. Today is a day of miracles here in Nowy Solum. Even I know that, up here. A day of miracles.”
Pinning path firmly with one hand—though the boy struggled as best he could—the castellan clamped down the rag.
A gentle thump at his feet as Anu settled. In the chair, hornblower tried