The Wonder Tales

2

2

The morning came, but Nynevarre did not.

Oriane woke to a heavy grey sky, rain-infused and swollen with clouds. The biting chill of her room took her by surprise as she threw back the counterpane, accustomed as her body was to the soporific heat of summer. She did not instantly recall the events of the day before, but when her gaze fell upon the velvet gown and the mossy shawl that lay carefully spread upon the chest at the foot of her bed, memory awoke.

She dressed quickly, shivering, and neatened her hair as best she could without the aid of either a mirror or a hair brush. Her mind, she found, did not want to dwell too closely upon her predicament, or the extreme strangeness of her surroundings. Since her tranquillity was best preserved by following its dictates she kept her thoughts focused upon the simple things: buttoning up her gown and lacing her boots, smoothing the caramel-coloured coils of her hair, tucking the thick, dark shawl around her chilled arms. Thus attired, she waited some time longer, trusting in the imminent arrival of Nynevarre, for the brightness of the sky told her that the morning was some way advanced. She spent the time in consuming the remainder of the fruit she had been given the night before, thus silencing the uncomfortable rumblings of her stomach.

At length, when many minutes passed in near silence, no quick step upon the boards outside announcing the approach of a visitor, Oriane abandoned her vigil and ventured out.

The house looked a little different under the more muted light of an ordinary morning. The unnatural brightness of the previous evening was gone, and while the effect was more restful, it also held a degree of oppressive gloom which Oriane’s spirits could ill bear. With no fixed idea as to where she might be going or what she hoped to achieve with her wanderings, she simply followed her feet, choosing at random from among the winding passages, twisting turns and inviting doorways that she passed. She felt that she was progressing higher up into the manor, though she did not for some time climb any stairs; the floors sloped, or seemed to do so, and her straining calf-muscles informed her that she was borne steadily upwards. Each window that she passed afforded loftier and loftier views over the grounds that lay beyond the walls, though to her confusion there was little consistency to be discerned among them. Through one, she saw a large wood of trees all hung about with autumnal array, their leaves tinted copper and russet. From another, she saw a long, narrow lake of green water thick with lily pads, and flanked on either side by sparsely-spaced birch trees. The next showed a village of narrow, crowded houses, thatch-roofed and white-painted, each leaning in an entirely different direction to its neighbour. By the time she at last found herself faced with a real staircase leading upwards, she had seen all this and more: an expanse of tumbling hills scattered with every-colour blossoms; a network of little streams like a maze, each running with silvery water and jumping with glittering fish; and, at the last, nothing but an ocean of thick clouds in every shade of silver and grey and white. Bright lightning bolts shot through from time to time, though no echoing rumble of thunder attended the flashes of light.

The stairs coiled into a tight spiral, and raced steeply upwards. Roses clung to the banisters, and the steps themselves had all but disappeared under a carpet of rose-leaves. Oriane climbed slowly up, taking care where she placed her feet upon the slippery leaf-rug. But her boots served her well, her feet did not slip, and she achieved the top of the staircase without incident.

A howling wind was blowing down the corridor at the top, not a wisp of which she had felt from the bottom of the stairs. The current blew back her hair, tried to race away with her shawl; she clutched the latter more tightly about her. The corridor was flooded with pale morning light, but she could not see where it came from; there was too much light, or too much wind, or some other obstruction. She paused a moment in thought; then, deciding that the source of the wind was likely to prove the more interesting object, she set her face to the gale and strode determinedly forward.

A scant moment later, a door materialised upon her left. It stood open. The room beyond was not the source of the wind, for that swirled ever onward, emanating from some other destination somewhere ahead. But intriguing sounds reached her ears from within: an odd clatter as of machinery, someone muttering under his breath in words she could not understand, and the drip-drip-drop as of water trickling from a great height.

‘Hello?’ Oriane called, unwilling to intrude herself without invitation. But whether the wind carried her words away from the ears of the muttering gentleman, or whether he were too absorbed in his activities to pay her any heed, she could not tell. She only knew that no answer was returned.

She knocked upon the open door and went cautiously in, taking care that the soles of her boots should make a noise upon the bare stone floor. None of these efforts availed her much. The tower-room’s occupant stood with his back to her, intent upon a flurry of rapid-moving machinery before him, and he neither turned nor looked round as Oriane went in.

The room reminded her of the turrets at the Landricourt she knew, at least in shape and proportion. Unusually spacious, its rounded stone walls were clad in rose-vines like the towers of her memory, though these came in many another colour: the blue of cornflowers, violet-purple, amber and marigold, and still more. The gale had not entered here, but many of its gentler siblings had: stray breezes coiled about the floor, wisps tugged at her hair, and the air sang with the melodies of rampant winds. The three long windows each held a different view: the left showed the green-tinted lake she had seen on the way up, the right a vision of a ruined ballroom hung with ragged tapestries, and the centre — the largest by far — looked out upon that sea of lightning-split clouds.

‘Forgive me,’ said Oriane, raising her voice to make herself heard above the mechanical clatter of rolling gears. ‘I do not mean to intrude, only, I am a newcomer here and in trying to find my way about I appear to have stumbled upon your workroom. I do not suppose you might be able to assist me?’

She might just as well have saved her breath, for she received no more reply than she had before. Intrigued, uncertain, dismayed, she took a step nearer the machine, and bent her gaze upon it. It resembled some manner of loom, she thought, though it was far more complex than any she had seen before. It did not appear to be loaded with anything; no yarn spun upon its shuttles. Nonetheless, a length of fabric was emerging, folds of it draping gauzily to the floor. The stuff was as pale as the clouds she saw arrayed beyond that central window, though laced through with threads as vivid-blue or violet as the roses that clustered across the ceiling. It sparkled with something — something like motes of lightning, she thought with sudden inspiration, though chiding herself for so fanciful a notion directly afterwards.

But then, perhaps it was not so fanciful.

‘Forgive me,’ Oriane said again, taking a step nearer. ‘But are you really weaving the clouds and the lightning into cloth? You are, aren’t you?’

‘And the wind-song of the roses,’ said the man, surprising her. ‘Just the two colours, today, though I think of bringing in a third — a waft of summer to warm it up, you understand. It is perhaps a little chilly?’ He cast a critical eye over his handiwork, and it was wintry, Oriane could not deny. But it was gloriously so, the grey of glistening rain and snow-clouds.

‘I couldn’t think it necessary,’ Oriane said. ‘The lightning-sparks save it from insipidity.’

This comment got the weaver’s attention as nothing else had done. He looked at her at last, turned to face her, fixing her with a gaze both bright and curious. He was an elderly man by appearance, with skin like a length of rumpled cotton, his hair a shock of white. One eye was clear blue, the other opaque like milk and pearls. His garb showed off the excellence of his craftsmanship, for he wore a shirt of some airy silk that looked spun from summer clouds, and a waistcoat of something mossy and dark, like her own shawl. Only his neckcloth seemed incongruous, for it was a length of plain, drab cotton, somewhat threadbare, its once-white hue darkened to dull ivory with time and use.

‘Who are you?’ said the man, his loom forgotten.

Oriane explained herself as best she could. Her abrupt appearance and her inability to account for it did not surprise him at all; he was as resigned as Nynevarre, though thankfully he did not seem disposed to dismiss her presence as irrelevant as so many of his fellows had done. ‘Aye, you will be confused,’ he said when she had finished her speech. ‘But Laendricourt has welcomed the likes of you before, and will do so again, I make no doubt.’

‘Laendricourt?’ echoed she, further puzzled, for the word was so close to the one she knew, and yet not the same. Was it only the odd, lilting accent that coloured his voice, or was the house’s name as altered as the building itself? It came to her that she had heard it spoken the same way before. By Nynevarre?

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘The Wind’s Own Tower, and I am Walkelin.’ He surveyed her with a glance that seemed considering. ‘Have you any experience at weaving?’

‘None, sir. I am a winemaker.’

‘Wine?’ He spoke the word sharply, and sat straighter in his chair. ‘They make the wyne at Landricourt, do they? That is most interesting, madam. Most interesting. I’ll ask you all about it, soon enough.’

‘I will gladly tell you all I know, sir.’

‘That you will, that you will indeed.’ His mismatched eyes twinkled at her, and the syllables of his name sounded again in her mind. Walkelin. A memory echoed.

‘You spin draughts as well, sir, do you not? I had the privilege of sampling one of them last evening, by Nynevarre’s direction. Are they cloud-wrought, too?’

‘Which one was it?’ said he, with a shrewd narrowing of his eyes.

‘I do not know its name, sir. A warming elixir, like drinking a waft of hot summer wind.’

‘And there you have it! Exactly like, for ‘tis what it’s made out of. A favourite, that, at this season. Aye, I make ‘em — me and Ghislain, that is. I’m a Fashioner, madam, as you must surely have guessed, and ‘tis the wind and clouds that I use meself. I’m a rare one, at that. The winds in particular are tricksy things; got to keep an eye on ‘em, a close eye, or they’ll spoil a fine piece of work in a blink.’

‘Is that what became of your neckcloth?’

Walkelin looked down at the item in question, as though he had never seen it before. ‘Hm,’ said he and unwound it from his neck. He stared at it, ran it through his fingers, and finally laid it, very carefully, upon a nearby table-top. ‘No, madam, that is not what became of my neckcloth,’ he said thoughtfully, and added, ‘Most interesting.’ He looked again at her, brighter and more alert than ever, and looked her over. ‘Interesting times, methinks,’ he observed. ‘The Brightening, you know, is gone all awry. Few know it yet, but I do. It’s working with air and light up here all day by meself that does it. Sensitive to these things, I am, more so than most, and I tell you: it’s awry. They’ll all notice, soon. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow.’

‘Notice what, sir?’ said Oriane. ‘What do you mean by the Brightening?’

He gave her a bird-like glance of interest, head tilted. ‘Is there no Brightening, where you come from?’

‘N-no, nothing like that. Well, that is — there is the Gloaming, which I fancy must be something similar. Only the other way about.’

‘Ahh,’ said Walkelin, not at all in surprise; rather in recognition. ‘Yes, the other way about,’ he said cheerfully, and turned back to his loom. ‘Exactly the other way! Wait until four, lady-lass, and you’ll see.’

He seemed to fall at once into such absorption with his work that he forgot Oriane’s presence on the spot. She hesitated, uncertain. His labours excited a powerful curiosity in her, and she wanted to offer herself as assistant — beg him to teach her — anything, provided she received some further glimpse into his mystifying arts. But he was frowning in concentration, busy about the loom, involved in some endeavour that struck her as delicate and complicated, and she could not bring herself to be so rude as to interrupt him again. So she murmured a polite farewell, offered a curtsey which he did not see, and quietly withdrew, promising herself that she would return to the tower soon. Once the Brightening came in, perhaps; she might very reasonably seek his further counsel upon that topic.