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rainbowfic2024-06-18 09:18 pm
thisbluespirit) wrote in rainbowfic2024-06-18 09:18 pm
Heirloom Silver Saturation; Beet Red #10 [Starfall]
Name: Inheritance
Story: Starfall
Colors: Heirloom Silver; Beet Red #10 (Run before you walk)
Supplies and Styles: Saturation + Canvas + Giftwrap (for the last section)
Word Count: 4598
Rating: PG
Warnings: mentions of blood and death.
Notes: 1290-1313, Eseray. Viyony Eseray, Karpeldis Reohrsyn, Isiyan Eseray, Laiyna Eseray, Guileot Fazhey, Viltarn Miramy, Imoren Fioris. Another of my attempts to do the February Saturation challenge; this one intended as a companion set to the Leion & Portcallan one.
Summary: Viyony, and Eseray.
Branding (1305)
Whenever things go wrong at Eseray, someone around the place will say, "It's the Heyal curse." Even Grandmother sometimes, though she sucks in her lips in disapproval, will shake her head and mutter about it.
It tries Viyony's patience. "Since when," she demands, "are we related to the Heyals? How would anyone even know if we were?"
Her little sister, who's nearest, only shrugs.
Viyony knows, though. She's been right through the family record books, as far as they go— nearly two hundred years. She once hefted a great tome of history from Mirambridge's library to read up on what was known about Commander Heyal, and there's nothing in that to link her to Eseray.
"I wish people would stop. It's complete nonsense," she tells Father.
"Well, of course," he agrees. "Curses aren't real."
Viyony huffs and leans back against the wall, arms folded, watching as he finishes making notes on the outcome of today's experiments. "And we aren't Heyals!"
"Well, as to that," says Father, and then pauses. He pushes aside the notebook and perches on the table close to her. "Most likely you aren't, but the family name must have been something else before Eseray, mustn't it? And I'd imagine, after what happened, any Heyals left found something else to call themselves. Even aside from the fact you don't have to go more than three hundredlengths north from here before nobody's name stays the same for even two generations. It's not impossible some branch of Heyals became Eserays somewhere along the way. But, really, that's not the point."
"It's the whole point!"
Father gives his head a little shake before he speaks. He leans forward. "It's not about the facts, when they say that, is it? It's the name—the idea. You're being too literal."
Viyony peels herself off the wall and flounces out of the room. Father is even worse than the rest.
She can't stop thinking about his words later, though. Heyal is a byword for traitor in the Eister Ranges. That's what Father means—it's not who they might be related to, but that perhaps one of her ancestors betrayed someone, and now that's woven together with the old Commander's story, never to be disentangled.
It's the Heyal curse.
collectible (1313)
Eseray is built into the mountainside. The larger part of the house is around two hundred years old, but it stands on the site of a border fort that was destroyed during the Eisterland invasion and occupation, in the days of Commander Heyal. Some sections of the house are even older than the vanished fort—part of what was once an old Cyroyen structure of complex tunnels, water channels and pillars carved out of the bones of the mountain.
The moon gallery has been restored many times over the centuries, but its original builders would still be able to recognise the stone balustrade and piped arches and the view out over the ravine below, even if the floor tiles of white flowers and vines on slate grey are new, along with the more obviously ephemeral blue drapes and matching large cushions. Its shutters are kept closed in winter, when the gallery too cold to use, save as an alternative to a walk outside. In summer, it's a refuge from the heat.
When Viyony and her siblings were younger, they all used to wind up sleeping in there on the hottest days, scattered about on the cushions and the bedding they'd carted in there with them, much to Grandmother's disapproval. "It's undignified," she'd say, shaking her head.
Sometimes Viyony is still driven there, falling asleep at last on one of the couches. When she wakes, as often as not, one or more of her siblings are there too—sometimes even Mother or Father.
"I'm ashamed of you all," says Grandmother, whenever they troop into breakfast the morning after. She can always tell, even when she claims she hasn't been near the gallery. "I told you no good would come of you marrying that man, Isiyan!"
Father smiles and bends to kiss Grandmother's cheek as he passes her chair. "Good morning, Mother."
"Good morning, Reohr," she returns with perfect civility, not missing a beat. Father's supposed shortcomings are Mother's crimes, not his.
Mother exchanges a look with Father, then turns to Grandmother. "The weather ought to break today. It won't happen again, Muma."
"All very well, but I did not bring you all up to litter yourselves about the house in that untidy manner."
Mother bites her lip. "No, we did that ourselves."
"Hmph," says Grandmother.
experience (1302)
Viyony is twelve when she wakes from her first seeing dream. She's sweating; hot and cold at once, and the images in her mind refuse to melt away in daylight.
(She's standing at the top of the ravine. Rain falls around her; drops run down her face. Rags of dark green clothing catch on the rockside and float down the river Mira below. A trickle of red blood stains the stones and she tastes copper on her tongue. Her heart beats out an erratic rhythm. Someone's dying and she's got to stop it.)
Breakfast is impossible. She picks her flatbread into pieces and eats only the tiniest sliver of river-caught fish. What little she gets down sits in her stomach like rocks. Everything sticks in her throat, so when Mother and Father and Grandmother ask in her in turn what's wrong, she can't get the words out.
"I have to go out," she says. "Down to the river."
Mother strokes her arm. "My lovebird, it isn't safe."
She wants to say: I had a dream—I had a dream and someone is going to die if I don't. But she can't. It sounds stupid and small out loud when she makes herself try.
"A bad dream, is that it?" Father says. "Never mind. Go to the schoolroom with the others. You can't go out in this weather."
Viyony does the only thing she can. She runs away, out of the estate, and into the ravine.
It's too late. She makes her way right down to the river Mira rushing through the bottom of it. The rain and nearby waterfalls fight to drown each other out, but there's a line of red running through the Mira when she gets there. It's not dye. Viyony moves on, pulled forward as if she's still dreaming. She doesn't want to see, but she can't stop. If it's not true, after all, then everything is all right; it was nothing but a nightmare. If it is real, then someone is hurt and she must help.
She stumbles over something lying at the edge of the water. It's a mass of sodden clothes that, as she looks along it, turns out to be a person. Their head is bent at a terribly wrong angle. Blood spills over the rocks, like in the dream. The rain washes it on into the river in red threads.
The world falls in on Viyony.
service (1302)
Isiyan walks across the bedroom to where Viyony is huddled up on the window sill. The girl's body is rigid as she gazes outwards; her scowl reflected dimly in the pane of glass.
"Time for bed," Isiyan says.
Her daughter hunches up even harder. "I can't. I won't. I'll stay here. I'll stay awake forever."
"You'll fall asleep there as well as anywhere else eventually," Isiyan tells her. She steps nearer and leans against the wall. "I'm sorry about your dream. I'm sorry we didn't listen. If anything happens like that again—and, my lovebird, it might not—we won't ever make the same mistake."
Viyony shivers. "I'm a murderer."
"No," says Isiyan. She draws back the curtain, and puts her arm around Viyony. Her daughter remains stiff in her hold for a moment, before giving in and leaning into her. She's cold in her arms. "That isn't true. You didn't make it happen. And we don't know what your dream was. You may not have been able to stop it, no matter what you did. There's no telling." She strokes Viyony's hair. "Whatever the truth, we know now. If another one comes, we'll help."
Viyony sniffs. "But I knew, deep down, I had to do something." She presses her hand to her chest. "And I didn't."
What can Isiyan say to that? She hugs Viyony more closely. "It's still not your fault, darling. Now, get washed, undressed and in bed before your father gets here."
"Father?"
Isiyan nods. "He's mixed up something for you."
"I'm not going to sleep, though," says Viyony, although her voice has lost some of the intensity that has worried them over the this past day and a half. She didn't sleep last night, at least not enough to notice, or to make her fit for anything today.
Isiyan kisses her head. "We'll see about that. Don't hurt your father's feelings, at any rate. He's made this specially."
"I'm not sleeping," Viyony repeats, sitting upright in bed, arms folded. "I won't have that dream again!"
Isiyan looks to Reohr.
"Hey, now. It was an accident. It wasn't your doing."
"I should have stopped it!"
Reohr gives a shake of his head. "No. We didn't let you out—the ravine isn't safe for you children. That's our fault, not yours. We'll do what we can to help that poor family, and we'll have to make our peace with failing the Powers. Besides, dreams don't work by logic, do they? Who says even that kind of dream does?"
Viyony swallows a yawn. When Reohr hands her the warm mug, she takes it.
"You'll sleep all right with that," he promises her. "No dreams, either. I mixed it up, so I know."
Viyony hesitates. "Do you mean it?"
"Yes. Drink up, and I'll tell you one of my stories."
"I'm much too old for that."
"Not tonight. Not for this one," Reohr says, not allowing for argument.
Isiyan rises, touching his shoulder lightly as she passes by on her way out of the room.
"I don't approve," says Isiyan's mother, catching her in the hallway. "What did you give the child?"
Isiyan raises an eyebrow. "Mother. Honestly. That ruse was supposed to fool Viyony, not you. Milk, honey, cinnamon—although Reohr did add a little hayiba powder for her headache, but that won't hurt this once."
"And what if it doesn't work?"
Isiyan laughs. "Oh, it will, for now. She'll grow out of believing in her father's magic tricks soon enough, but we're not there yet."
"That man is a bad influence," says Mother, with a sort of pride in it, much as she's been doing ever since Isiyan first brought Reohr home.
Isiyan shakes her head, but her smiles fades. If only she and Reohr could make a magic potion to take Viyony's dreams away. All she can do is hope that there won't be another, but she fears that there will.
unique (1290)
Laiyna Eseray has run the whole place for years. She has an endless and ever-growing list in her head of all the various flowers, berries, roots, bark, fungi, metals and anything else that will make pigments; which fixatives to use for wool or linen or silk, and what provides the best finish. She balances the books, finds sellers of fabric and buyers of their dyes and finished cloth, and knows precisely which couriers she's never using again.
Absurd stories circle the hamlets scattered around Eseray, about the works, and Laiyna herself—the colours they create are unique—that she's got a gift of the Powers for uncovering secret sources for dyes. It's exaggeration—the Eister Ranges and the lands either side are known as dye-producing regions. Half the colours of the world are made there. But Laiyna likes to think there's a kernel of truth in the tales—something special about her personal kingdom.
Who will inherit Eseray when she dies or retires is something the family haven't yet decided. Some have moved away, like her younger daughter and her sister and are therefore out of the question. Eseray belongs to Eseray. Her eldest child Isiyan hasn't got the business drive, no matter how helpful her marriage to Karpeldis Reohrsyn, with his chemical expertise. Tarn, her second, has always done most of the travelling and sales work, which suits him—but perhaps when the time comes, he'll be of an age to want to give that up. Perhaps, between them, he and Isiyan could share the responsibility.
But, now, here's another possibility: Laiyna holds her newest grandchild in her arms, warm and kicking. Her hair is a black fuzz; her eyes already open with interest at the world she's found herself in. Laiyna has other grandchildren, but they're over in Eisterland; they haven't got Eseray in their blood, not like this one.
Viyony, Isiyan and Reohr are calling her. It's for healing, for the legendary flower, and after her father's brother, Viyon, even if Laiyna doesn't believe anything and anyone outside Eseray really matters enough for that.
It's too soon to say, but Laiyna can hope.
hype (1311)
Guileot loves her, Viyony loves him, and his family have the money hers need right now. It's all fallen into place, like magic—a fairy tale solution to Eseray's growing problems.
Except there's no such thing. The dreams don't warn her about that.
Guileot doesn't even make it up to Eseray to tell her. He summons her down to Mirambridge, and meets her outside its only large eatery.
"What's wrong?" Viyony asks. When she searches his face for the answer, it's as if a stranger is gazing back; his eyes hard. "Guil?"
He ushers her away from the door, away down the narrow passageway between it and the next shop. It only takes a few more lengths further along it before it's opened up into a lane and they're almost out of the town and into the countryside already. A tree laden with blossom leans over the muddy lane, dropping petals and scenting the air with something over-sweet.
"The game's up," Guileot says.
Viyony stops. Breath catches in her throat; her pulse thuds in her ears. "What do you mean? What game?"
"I know the truth," he says. "And fair enough—no hard feelings. We both played each other. Well—better luck next time, is all I say."
"I don't understand. If this is a joke -" She blinks away tears. "It isn't funny. Stop it."
"I know, Viyony," he says, spelling it out as if she's simple. "You thought I had money—I thought you had money. We were both fooling each other."
Viyony swallows. "But that's not possible! I never told you that—and everyone around here knows our business too well for me to bother lying about it. You must have known!"
"My mistake, then," he says. His mouth curls. He still doesn't believe her.
"I loved you," she says, more to herself than to him. It's already past tense. Unsteady, she props herself against the low wall behind her. Pink-tinged petals float gently down to the ground over her shoulder. "Wasn't any of it real?"
Guileot shrugs. He takes another step back, as if to disclaim all responsibility for her feelings. He sought her out; he lied to her. Perhaps Viyony wanted a fairy tale so hard she abetted his efforts, but is that such a terrible crime as to warrant this punishment?
"You're pretty enough," is all he gives her. He shrugs. "Hard work, though—probably not worth it. You should have mentioned your financial problems sooner, if you weren't out to catch a wealthy spouse."
Viyony draws herself up. She lifts her chin. There's a core of steel that runs right through her, and he's just cut right through to it. Tears can wait. "Oh? Did the dreams scare you away?"
"Gave me pause, I'll admit."
"Good," she says. "Well, then—I curse you! I curse you by Imora and Shara and Enna all, who gave me the power to see true. If you ever play this game again with somebody else, the rocks of the ravine will fall on you and the waters will rise up and drown you."
"Rubbish!" He collapses into laughter against the opposite wall. "You can't do that."
Viyony raises her chin. "Oh? Are you sure? Haven't you heard all the rumours about me? You'd better watch your step from now on."
She walks away, from what was, it seems, even less than a dream. Guileot never knew her at all.
network (1297)
The dyeworks are out of bounds to Viyony and the rest of the children, but today the sheds have ceased their usual operations, and instead a swarm of workers are carrying out older parts, and bringing in new pieces. She swings on Grandfather's hand as she stands with him to watch.
"What's wrong with the vats and the machines? Are they broken?"
"Not yet. That's the point, you see. Replace a few bolts and suchlike before they rust or snap—and update some of that machinery properly, like your grandmother's been wanting to for years. All those people down in Portcallan, worrying about how much starstone people are using—got to make sure we keep up with all their new rules."
"Do we use starstone?"
"Not as much as some," Grandfather tells her. "But we can cut it down—all for the best, in the end. And I know a good engineer—owes me a favour." He lifts his hand to Ohayel, the engineer in question, as he passes.
Grandfather always knows a person, whatever wants doing. Or if not, he knows a person who knows a person. His family have a metalworks west out of Mirambridge, and he was something important on the Town Council for a long while. "Nothing to worry about," he says, and winks at Viyony.
They watch Grandmother stalk past them, heading for Ohayel with such set intent that she barely looks at them. She does worry—about stopping work, about the expense—although Grandfather says that's hardly anything. Most of the parts came from the Miramy works anyway, and a distant cousin of his helped with with getting the goods up here. He can sort anything.
"Do you know everyone?"
Grandfather glances down at Viyony. His face creases into a smile at every corner. "Oh, yes, lovebird. Absolutely everyone."
rare (1302)
Viyony dreams of vivid orange flowers she's never seen before, growing in tight clusters on the mountainside. They're important. She shields her eyes against what should be midday sunlight, but it's hazy, almost as pale as the moon, and gazes around, trying to make the view stay sharp in her mind, enough so that she can take it back with her to the waking world. She frowns into the light, searching for distinctively shaped mountain peaks that she can use to guide herself back to this place.
In the morning, she sketches the flower as best as she can to show to Grandmother. When she passes it over, Grandmother's frown clears; she's suddenly no longer tight-lipped and stiff against the unwelcome mention of Viyony's affinity.
"Eister sunblazes," murmurs Grandmother. She straightens, holding the paper tight. "I thought there weren't any more—if we can find these—well! We can have them growing everywhere round here, the way they used to." She squeezes Viyony's arm. "Tell me again what you saw—exactly."
Viyony does, and when she's done, she takes this chance to ask Grandmother a question she's always refused to answer till now. "Were there others like me before, in our family? You said once that there were. Please."
"It wasn't something we talked about," Grandmother says, drawing back into a stance of upright disapproval. "My grandmother, if you must know. Terrifying woman. She used to look right through us and say the oddest things, and she haunted the Moon Gallery like a ghost in her last days." She shoots a sharp, dark look at Viyony. "Don't you go getting like that."
Viyony shakes her head. "She dreamed, too?"
"I don't think so. She saw things in the looking-glass."
"Was there anyone before her? Is that what people mean when they say we have the Heyal Curse?"
Grandmother shakes herself out into her usual, brisk self. "Nonsense! That's not it at all. As to the rest, I don't know—I think not. Not on that side of the family anyway. Does it matter?"
"I just wanted to know." Viyony nods to the picture of the sunblazes. "Will it help Eseray if you find these?"
"It won't hurt," says Grandmother.
wanted (1312)
"It might do." Imorennu Fioris—Imoren—surveys Eseray. He is older than Viyony, steel-haired, pale-skinned, coldly handsome. He gives little away, although once they turn from the dyeing sheds to the house, there's a gleam in his eyes as they head up the path towards it.
Viyony breathes more easily to think he's not immune to the beauty of Eseray—the drama of the view over the ravine, the fascination of the Cyroyen roots of the house, or the charms of the Moon Gallery. It's a business matter, but it's also a love affair with Eseray, and it's better if that's not one-sided.
"Yes," Imoren says, more surely. "This will do very well—provided we come to full agreement on all terms."
Viyony tries a smile. "I expect so, once we've haggled it all out."
"Wait," he murmurs. He puts a hand on her arm. "There are some things best discussed in private first."
She nods. It's reassuring to know he feels the delicacy of the situation, too. She'd feared someone too keen on her rather than less so. Moren she can work with, and that is the point, isn't it? Work.
The dream looms in her mind: all of Eseray smothered with alionrel vines, crumbling down into the ravine until she chokes along with it.
"You want to save your business. I want to build up a new family outside of Lialia. The unjust scandal mongering there has been about my mother, my aunt, my brother—I intend to leave it behind. I have the money, you have the name with a reputation and a history."
The nightmare recedes. Eseray stands before her, house and works and ancient border site, not yet given over to the alionrel farmers. If Imoren and she can agree, and get through the legal wrangling, there's no reason for Eseray not to flourish again. What's brought them so low isn't mismanagement or declining business, but a personal run of bad timing and misfortune.
"Yes," she says. Tiny flakes of snow fall; too early and light and slow to be quite real. It's only autumn.
They walk along the path around the garden, making their way over the thorniest ground of what is and isn't to be required of this marriage.
Imoren is contained—direct. He wants Eseray and, even if not in the usual way, he wants Viyony. She's desperate for anything that will save Eseray and end the dream that keeps pressing down on her. Today, that weight is finally lifting.
She believes now that they can work together. She can strike up a fair bargain, and expect him to keep his word. The marriage only has to last for long enough for them both to achieve their aims. It need not be forever.
So—she wants this. They want each other, maybe they even need each other.
It's as cold and perfect as the frosted moon gallery on the unseasonable night that follows.
heirloom (1300)
Ten is an important birthday, and while Viyony is too young as yet to make any final decisions, the family have hopes she'll one day be Eseray's heir. It's a natural choice, the eldest daughter of the eldest daughter; that makes it easier for everyone, and she's already interested in the business.
Isiyan has never wanted it for herself—so little that she feels a twinge of guilt at passing it over to Viyony. Still, she reminds herself—not to worry, her mother will outlast them all.
It's one of the reasons they hold the full traditional ceremony outside in the ravine for Viyony's tenth anniversary. Isiyan dresses her for it -a swathe of vivid pink silk draped over a pale green underdress, hanging from shoulder to ankle like a sash, and a gauzy scarf of the same shade of pink pinned over her hair. She has light green embroidered slippers on her feet. Isiyan holds up a finger when she wriggles, about to move away. She draws back to examine her from top to toe, and with one last tug at the pink silk before she fastens it with a silver brooch, she lets go with a smile of satisfaction.
Viyony runs to the mirror to look, twisting about to see herself from all angles. Her little brother Niyno, five years younger, watches in fascination.
"Don't prance about," says Mother, arriving beside Isiyan without due warning. She has an ornate wooden box in her hands that Isiyan knows well. Mother often had to scold her for playing around with the jewellery inside when she was Viyony's age.
Viyony stops, but casts a look at Isiyan, eyes bright with laughter.
"Come here," says Mother.
Viyony hurries over, sliding over the polished wooden floor, and Mother opens up the box. She pulls out a pair of long silver earrings, shaped into a pattern of leaves studded with tiny amethyst berries, Eseray's symbols. It's not a surprise—Viyony had to have her ears pierced ready for today, to wear them.
"Can I?" says Niyno, reaching for them, not much daunted by his grandmother's glare.
Isiyan pulls Niyno back gently. Mother cocks a glance in her direction, and her face softens momentarily. "You don't mind, Isiyan? I've no wish to deny you anything that's yours."
"Of course not," Isiyan says. Perhaps she feels an ache for something she's never had—perhaps she wonders—if she were more like Mother—if she ought to be—but here they all are, and she's not being cheated. She fears it's the other way around.
Mother nods, and then after ordering Viyony to stop hopping about, she does the honours, and when she lets go, Viyony skips back over to admire them in the mirror.
"I was given these on my tenth birthday," says Mother. "And before that, they were my grandmother's." She sniffs, and then shakes herself. "Well, well—I had better go outside—someone will only make a mess of something if I don't go and check."
Isiyan laughs suddenly and bends to kiss Viyony's cheek, pressing her hands down lightly on her daughter's thin shoulders. "Now, you're all dressed up—are you ready?"
Viyony turns, wide eyed, and nods.
The official ceremony is what follows—the walk down to the river Mira below with a visiting Pollean priest, and standing by its side as she blesses Viyony by each Power in turn—but Isiyan thinks then, and ever after, the truest part of the ritual has already been performed.
"How do you feel?" she asks Viyony afterwards, removing the bright silver pins from her hair and the brooch from her dress.
Viyony, freed from those restraints, flops back into the chair behind her. She touches the earrings, not yet ready to let Isiyan take them off. "Very grown up."
Isiyan laughs again. "Not yet, my lovebird," she says, kissing her head, and smoothing down her hair. "Not for a long time yet."
Story: Starfall
Colors: Heirloom Silver; Beet Red #10 (Run before you walk)
Supplies and Styles: Saturation + Canvas + Giftwrap (for the last section)
Word Count: 4598
Rating: PG
Warnings: mentions of blood and death.
Notes: 1290-1313, Eseray. Viyony Eseray, Karpeldis Reohrsyn, Isiyan Eseray, Laiyna Eseray, Guileot Fazhey, Viltarn Miramy, Imoren Fioris. Another of my attempts to do the February Saturation challenge; this one intended as a companion set to the Leion & Portcallan one.
Summary: Viyony, and Eseray.
Branding (1305)
Whenever things go wrong at Eseray, someone around the place will say, "It's the Heyal curse." Even Grandmother sometimes, though she sucks in her lips in disapproval, will shake her head and mutter about it.
It tries Viyony's patience. "Since when," she demands, "are we related to the Heyals? How would anyone even know if we were?"
Her little sister, who's nearest, only shrugs.
Viyony knows, though. She's been right through the family record books, as far as they go— nearly two hundred years. She once hefted a great tome of history from Mirambridge's library to read up on what was known about Commander Heyal, and there's nothing in that to link her to Eseray.
"I wish people would stop. It's complete nonsense," she tells Father.
"Well, of course," he agrees. "Curses aren't real."
Viyony huffs and leans back against the wall, arms folded, watching as he finishes making notes on the outcome of today's experiments. "And we aren't Heyals!"
"Well, as to that," says Father, and then pauses. He pushes aside the notebook and perches on the table close to her. "Most likely you aren't, but the family name must have been something else before Eseray, mustn't it? And I'd imagine, after what happened, any Heyals left found something else to call themselves. Even aside from the fact you don't have to go more than three hundredlengths north from here before nobody's name stays the same for even two generations. It's not impossible some branch of Heyals became Eserays somewhere along the way. But, really, that's not the point."
"It's the whole point!"
Father gives his head a little shake before he speaks. He leans forward. "It's not about the facts, when they say that, is it? It's the name—the idea. You're being too literal."
Viyony peels herself off the wall and flounces out of the room. Father is even worse than the rest.
She can't stop thinking about his words later, though. Heyal is a byword for traitor in the Eister Ranges. That's what Father means—it's not who they might be related to, but that perhaps one of her ancestors betrayed someone, and now that's woven together with the old Commander's story, never to be disentangled.
It's the Heyal curse.
collectible (1313)
Eseray is built into the mountainside. The larger part of the house is around two hundred years old, but it stands on the site of a border fort that was destroyed during the Eisterland invasion and occupation, in the days of Commander Heyal. Some sections of the house are even older than the vanished fort—part of what was once an old Cyroyen structure of complex tunnels, water channels and pillars carved out of the bones of the mountain.
The moon gallery has been restored many times over the centuries, but its original builders would still be able to recognise the stone balustrade and piped arches and the view out over the ravine below, even if the floor tiles of white flowers and vines on slate grey are new, along with the more obviously ephemeral blue drapes and matching large cushions. Its shutters are kept closed in winter, when the gallery too cold to use, save as an alternative to a walk outside. In summer, it's a refuge from the heat.
When Viyony and her siblings were younger, they all used to wind up sleeping in there on the hottest days, scattered about on the cushions and the bedding they'd carted in there with them, much to Grandmother's disapproval. "It's undignified," she'd say, shaking her head.
Sometimes Viyony is still driven there, falling asleep at last on one of the couches. When she wakes, as often as not, one or more of her siblings are there too—sometimes even Mother or Father.
"I'm ashamed of you all," says Grandmother, whenever they troop into breakfast the morning after. She can always tell, even when she claims she hasn't been near the gallery. "I told you no good would come of you marrying that man, Isiyan!"
Father smiles and bends to kiss Grandmother's cheek as he passes her chair. "Good morning, Mother."
"Good morning, Reohr," she returns with perfect civility, not missing a beat. Father's supposed shortcomings are Mother's crimes, not his.
Mother exchanges a look with Father, then turns to Grandmother. "The weather ought to break today. It won't happen again, Muma."
"All very well, but I did not bring you all up to litter yourselves about the house in that untidy manner."
Mother bites her lip. "No, we did that ourselves."
"Hmph," says Grandmother.
experience (1302)
Viyony is twelve when she wakes from her first seeing dream. She's sweating; hot and cold at once, and the images in her mind refuse to melt away in daylight.
(She's standing at the top of the ravine. Rain falls around her; drops run down her face. Rags of dark green clothing catch on the rockside and float down the river Mira below. A trickle of red blood stains the stones and she tastes copper on her tongue. Her heart beats out an erratic rhythm. Someone's dying and she's got to stop it.)
Breakfast is impossible. She picks her flatbread into pieces and eats only the tiniest sliver of river-caught fish. What little she gets down sits in her stomach like rocks. Everything sticks in her throat, so when Mother and Father and Grandmother ask in her in turn what's wrong, she can't get the words out.
"I have to go out," she says. "Down to the river."
Mother strokes her arm. "My lovebird, it isn't safe."
She wants to say: I had a dream—I had a dream and someone is going to die if I don't. But she can't. It sounds stupid and small out loud when she makes herself try.
"A bad dream, is that it?" Father says. "Never mind. Go to the schoolroom with the others. You can't go out in this weather."
Viyony does the only thing she can. She runs away, out of the estate, and into the ravine.
It's too late. She makes her way right down to the river Mira rushing through the bottom of it. The rain and nearby waterfalls fight to drown each other out, but there's a line of red running through the Mira when she gets there. It's not dye. Viyony moves on, pulled forward as if she's still dreaming. She doesn't want to see, but she can't stop. If it's not true, after all, then everything is all right; it was nothing but a nightmare. If it is real, then someone is hurt and she must help.
She stumbles over something lying at the edge of the water. It's a mass of sodden clothes that, as she looks along it, turns out to be a person. Their head is bent at a terribly wrong angle. Blood spills over the rocks, like in the dream. The rain washes it on into the river in red threads.
The world falls in on Viyony.
service (1302)
Isiyan walks across the bedroom to where Viyony is huddled up on the window sill. The girl's body is rigid as she gazes outwards; her scowl reflected dimly in the pane of glass.
"Time for bed," Isiyan says.
Her daughter hunches up even harder. "I can't. I won't. I'll stay here. I'll stay awake forever."
"You'll fall asleep there as well as anywhere else eventually," Isiyan tells her. She steps nearer and leans against the wall. "I'm sorry about your dream. I'm sorry we didn't listen. If anything happens like that again—and, my lovebird, it might not—we won't ever make the same mistake."
Viyony shivers. "I'm a murderer."
"No," says Isiyan. She draws back the curtain, and puts her arm around Viyony. Her daughter remains stiff in her hold for a moment, before giving in and leaning into her. She's cold in her arms. "That isn't true. You didn't make it happen. And we don't know what your dream was. You may not have been able to stop it, no matter what you did. There's no telling." She strokes Viyony's hair. "Whatever the truth, we know now. If another one comes, we'll help."
Viyony sniffs. "But I knew, deep down, I had to do something." She presses her hand to her chest. "And I didn't."
What can Isiyan say to that? She hugs Viyony more closely. "It's still not your fault, darling. Now, get washed, undressed and in bed before your father gets here."
"Father?"
Isiyan nods. "He's mixed up something for you."
"I'm not going to sleep, though," says Viyony, although her voice has lost some of the intensity that has worried them over the this past day and a half. She didn't sleep last night, at least not enough to notice, or to make her fit for anything today.
Isiyan kisses her head. "We'll see about that. Don't hurt your father's feelings, at any rate. He's made this specially."
"I'm not sleeping," Viyony repeats, sitting upright in bed, arms folded. "I won't have that dream again!"
Isiyan looks to Reohr.
"Hey, now. It was an accident. It wasn't your doing."
"I should have stopped it!"
Reohr gives a shake of his head. "No. We didn't let you out—the ravine isn't safe for you children. That's our fault, not yours. We'll do what we can to help that poor family, and we'll have to make our peace with failing the Powers. Besides, dreams don't work by logic, do they? Who says even that kind of dream does?"
Viyony swallows a yawn. When Reohr hands her the warm mug, she takes it.
"You'll sleep all right with that," he promises her. "No dreams, either. I mixed it up, so I know."
Viyony hesitates. "Do you mean it?"
"Yes. Drink up, and I'll tell you one of my stories."
"I'm much too old for that."
"Not tonight. Not for this one," Reohr says, not allowing for argument.
Isiyan rises, touching his shoulder lightly as she passes by on her way out of the room.
"I don't approve," says Isiyan's mother, catching her in the hallway. "What did you give the child?"
Isiyan raises an eyebrow. "Mother. Honestly. That ruse was supposed to fool Viyony, not you. Milk, honey, cinnamon—although Reohr did add a little hayiba powder for her headache, but that won't hurt this once."
"And what if it doesn't work?"
Isiyan laughs. "Oh, it will, for now. She'll grow out of believing in her father's magic tricks soon enough, but we're not there yet."
"That man is a bad influence," says Mother, with a sort of pride in it, much as she's been doing ever since Isiyan first brought Reohr home.
Isiyan shakes her head, but her smiles fades. If only she and Reohr could make a magic potion to take Viyony's dreams away. All she can do is hope that there won't be another, but she fears that there will.
unique (1290)
Laiyna Eseray has run the whole place for years. She has an endless and ever-growing list in her head of all the various flowers, berries, roots, bark, fungi, metals and anything else that will make pigments; which fixatives to use for wool or linen or silk, and what provides the best finish. She balances the books, finds sellers of fabric and buyers of their dyes and finished cloth, and knows precisely which couriers she's never using again.
Absurd stories circle the hamlets scattered around Eseray, about the works, and Laiyna herself—the colours they create are unique—that she's got a gift of the Powers for uncovering secret sources for dyes. It's exaggeration—the Eister Ranges and the lands either side are known as dye-producing regions. Half the colours of the world are made there. But Laiyna likes to think there's a kernel of truth in the tales—something special about her personal kingdom.
Who will inherit Eseray when she dies or retires is something the family haven't yet decided. Some have moved away, like her younger daughter and her sister and are therefore out of the question. Eseray belongs to Eseray. Her eldest child Isiyan hasn't got the business drive, no matter how helpful her marriage to Karpeldis Reohrsyn, with his chemical expertise. Tarn, her second, has always done most of the travelling and sales work, which suits him—but perhaps when the time comes, he'll be of an age to want to give that up. Perhaps, between them, he and Isiyan could share the responsibility.
But, now, here's another possibility: Laiyna holds her newest grandchild in her arms, warm and kicking. Her hair is a black fuzz; her eyes already open with interest at the world she's found herself in. Laiyna has other grandchildren, but they're over in Eisterland; they haven't got Eseray in their blood, not like this one.
Viyony, Isiyan and Reohr are calling her. It's for healing, for the legendary flower, and after her father's brother, Viyon, even if Laiyna doesn't believe anything and anyone outside Eseray really matters enough for that.
It's too soon to say, but Laiyna can hope.
hype (1311)
Guileot loves her, Viyony loves him, and his family have the money hers need right now. It's all fallen into place, like magic—a fairy tale solution to Eseray's growing problems.
Except there's no such thing. The dreams don't warn her about that.
Guileot doesn't even make it up to Eseray to tell her. He summons her down to Mirambridge, and meets her outside its only large eatery.
"What's wrong?" Viyony asks. When she searches his face for the answer, it's as if a stranger is gazing back; his eyes hard. "Guil?"
He ushers her away from the door, away down the narrow passageway between it and the next shop. It only takes a few more lengths further along it before it's opened up into a lane and they're almost out of the town and into the countryside already. A tree laden with blossom leans over the muddy lane, dropping petals and scenting the air with something over-sweet.
"The game's up," Guileot says.
Viyony stops. Breath catches in her throat; her pulse thuds in her ears. "What do you mean? What game?"
"I know the truth," he says. "And fair enough—no hard feelings. We both played each other. Well—better luck next time, is all I say."
"I don't understand. If this is a joke -" She blinks away tears. "It isn't funny. Stop it."
"I know, Viyony," he says, spelling it out as if she's simple. "You thought I had money—I thought you had money. We were both fooling each other."
Viyony swallows. "But that's not possible! I never told you that—and everyone around here knows our business too well for me to bother lying about it. You must have known!"
"My mistake, then," he says. His mouth curls. He still doesn't believe her.
"I loved you," she says, more to herself than to him. It's already past tense. Unsteady, she props herself against the low wall behind her. Pink-tinged petals float gently down to the ground over her shoulder. "Wasn't any of it real?"
Guileot shrugs. He takes another step back, as if to disclaim all responsibility for her feelings. He sought her out; he lied to her. Perhaps Viyony wanted a fairy tale so hard she abetted his efforts, but is that such a terrible crime as to warrant this punishment?
"You're pretty enough," is all he gives her. He shrugs. "Hard work, though—probably not worth it. You should have mentioned your financial problems sooner, if you weren't out to catch a wealthy spouse."
Viyony draws herself up. She lifts her chin. There's a core of steel that runs right through her, and he's just cut right through to it. Tears can wait. "Oh? Did the dreams scare you away?"
"Gave me pause, I'll admit."
"Good," she says. "Well, then—I curse you! I curse you by Imora and Shara and Enna all, who gave me the power to see true. If you ever play this game again with somebody else, the rocks of the ravine will fall on you and the waters will rise up and drown you."
"Rubbish!" He collapses into laughter against the opposite wall. "You can't do that."
Viyony raises her chin. "Oh? Are you sure? Haven't you heard all the rumours about me? You'd better watch your step from now on."
She walks away, from what was, it seems, even less than a dream. Guileot never knew her at all.
network (1297)
The dyeworks are out of bounds to Viyony and the rest of the children, but today the sheds have ceased their usual operations, and instead a swarm of workers are carrying out older parts, and bringing in new pieces. She swings on Grandfather's hand as she stands with him to watch.
"What's wrong with the vats and the machines? Are they broken?"
"Not yet. That's the point, you see. Replace a few bolts and suchlike before they rust or snap—and update some of that machinery properly, like your grandmother's been wanting to for years. All those people down in Portcallan, worrying about how much starstone people are using—got to make sure we keep up with all their new rules."
"Do we use starstone?"
"Not as much as some," Grandfather tells her. "But we can cut it down—all for the best, in the end. And I know a good engineer—owes me a favour." He lifts his hand to Ohayel, the engineer in question, as he passes.
Grandfather always knows a person, whatever wants doing. Or if not, he knows a person who knows a person. His family have a metalworks west out of Mirambridge, and he was something important on the Town Council for a long while. "Nothing to worry about," he says, and winks at Viyony.
They watch Grandmother stalk past them, heading for Ohayel with such set intent that she barely looks at them. She does worry—about stopping work, about the expense—although Grandfather says that's hardly anything. Most of the parts came from the Miramy works anyway, and a distant cousin of his helped with with getting the goods up here. He can sort anything.
"Do you know everyone?"
Grandfather glances down at Viyony. His face creases into a smile at every corner. "Oh, yes, lovebird. Absolutely everyone."
rare (1302)
Viyony dreams of vivid orange flowers she's never seen before, growing in tight clusters on the mountainside. They're important. She shields her eyes against what should be midday sunlight, but it's hazy, almost as pale as the moon, and gazes around, trying to make the view stay sharp in her mind, enough so that she can take it back with her to the waking world. She frowns into the light, searching for distinctively shaped mountain peaks that she can use to guide herself back to this place.
In the morning, she sketches the flower as best as she can to show to Grandmother. When she passes it over, Grandmother's frown clears; she's suddenly no longer tight-lipped and stiff against the unwelcome mention of Viyony's affinity.
"Eister sunblazes," murmurs Grandmother. She straightens, holding the paper tight. "I thought there weren't any more—if we can find these—well! We can have them growing everywhere round here, the way they used to." She squeezes Viyony's arm. "Tell me again what you saw—exactly."
Viyony does, and when she's done, she takes this chance to ask Grandmother a question she's always refused to answer till now. "Were there others like me before, in our family? You said once that there were. Please."
"It wasn't something we talked about," Grandmother says, drawing back into a stance of upright disapproval. "My grandmother, if you must know. Terrifying woman. She used to look right through us and say the oddest things, and she haunted the Moon Gallery like a ghost in her last days." She shoots a sharp, dark look at Viyony. "Don't you go getting like that."
Viyony shakes her head. "She dreamed, too?"
"I don't think so. She saw things in the looking-glass."
"Was there anyone before her? Is that what people mean when they say we have the Heyal Curse?"
Grandmother shakes herself out into her usual, brisk self. "Nonsense! That's not it at all. As to the rest, I don't know—I think not. Not on that side of the family anyway. Does it matter?"
"I just wanted to know." Viyony nods to the picture of the sunblazes. "Will it help Eseray if you find these?"
"It won't hurt," says Grandmother.
wanted (1312)
"It might do." Imorennu Fioris—Imoren—surveys Eseray. He is older than Viyony, steel-haired, pale-skinned, coldly handsome. He gives little away, although once they turn from the dyeing sheds to the house, there's a gleam in his eyes as they head up the path towards it.
Viyony breathes more easily to think he's not immune to the beauty of Eseray—the drama of the view over the ravine, the fascination of the Cyroyen roots of the house, or the charms of the Moon Gallery. It's a business matter, but it's also a love affair with Eseray, and it's better if that's not one-sided.
"Yes," Imoren says, more surely. "This will do very well—provided we come to full agreement on all terms."
Viyony tries a smile. "I expect so, once we've haggled it all out."
"Wait," he murmurs. He puts a hand on her arm. "There are some things best discussed in private first."
She nods. It's reassuring to know he feels the delicacy of the situation, too. She'd feared someone too keen on her rather than less so. Moren she can work with, and that is the point, isn't it? Work.
The dream looms in her mind: all of Eseray smothered with alionrel vines, crumbling down into the ravine until she chokes along with it.
"You want to save your business. I want to build up a new family outside of Lialia. The unjust scandal mongering there has been about my mother, my aunt, my brother—I intend to leave it behind. I have the money, you have the name with a reputation and a history."
The nightmare recedes. Eseray stands before her, house and works and ancient border site, not yet given over to the alionrel farmers. If Imoren and she can agree, and get through the legal wrangling, there's no reason for Eseray not to flourish again. What's brought them so low isn't mismanagement or declining business, but a personal run of bad timing and misfortune.
"Yes," she says. Tiny flakes of snow fall; too early and light and slow to be quite real. It's only autumn.
They walk along the path around the garden, making their way over the thorniest ground of what is and isn't to be required of this marriage.
Imoren is contained—direct. He wants Eseray and, even if not in the usual way, he wants Viyony. She's desperate for anything that will save Eseray and end the dream that keeps pressing down on her. Today, that weight is finally lifting.
She believes now that they can work together. She can strike up a fair bargain, and expect him to keep his word. The marriage only has to last for long enough for them both to achieve their aims. It need not be forever.
So—she wants this. They want each other, maybe they even need each other.
It's as cold and perfect as the frosted moon gallery on the unseasonable night that follows.
heirloom (1300)
Ten is an important birthday, and while Viyony is too young as yet to make any final decisions, the family have hopes she'll one day be Eseray's heir. It's a natural choice, the eldest daughter of the eldest daughter; that makes it easier for everyone, and she's already interested in the business.
Isiyan has never wanted it for herself—so little that she feels a twinge of guilt at passing it over to Viyony. Still, she reminds herself—not to worry, her mother will outlast them all.
It's one of the reasons they hold the full traditional ceremony outside in the ravine for Viyony's tenth anniversary. Isiyan dresses her for it -a swathe of vivid pink silk draped over a pale green underdress, hanging from shoulder to ankle like a sash, and a gauzy scarf of the same shade of pink pinned over her hair. She has light green embroidered slippers on her feet. Isiyan holds up a finger when she wriggles, about to move away. She draws back to examine her from top to toe, and with one last tug at the pink silk before she fastens it with a silver brooch, she lets go with a smile of satisfaction.
Viyony runs to the mirror to look, twisting about to see herself from all angles. Her little brother Niyno, five years younger, watches in fascination.
"Don't prance about," says Mother, arriving beside Isiyan without due warning. She has an ornate wooden box in her hands that Isiyan knows well. Mother often had to scold her for playing around with the jewellery inside when she was Viyony's age.
Viyony stops, but casts a look at Isiyan, eyes bright with laughter.
"Come here," says Mother.
Viyony hurries over, sliding over the polished wooden floor, and Mother opens up the box. She pulls out a pair of long silver earrings, shaped into a pattern of leaves studded with tiny amethyst berries, Eseray's symbols. It's not a surprise—Viyony had to have her ears pierced ready for today, to wear them.
"Can I?" says Niyno, reaching for them, not much daunted by his grandmother's glare.
Isiyan pulls Niyno back gently. Mother cocks a glance in her direction, and her face softens momentarily. "You don't mind, Isiyan? I've no wish to deny you anything that's yours."
"Of course not," Isiyan says. Perhaps she feels an ache for something she's never had—perhaps she wonders—if she were more like Mother—if she ought to be—but here they all are, and she's not being cheated. She fears it's the other way around.
Mother nods, and then after ordering Viyony to stop hopping about, she does the honours, and when she lets go, Viyony skips back over to admire them in the mirror.
"I was given these on my tenth birthday," says Mother. "And before that, they were my grandmother's." She sniffs, and then shakes herself. "Well, well—I had better go outside—someone will only make a mess of something if I don't go and check."
Isiyan laughs suddenly and bends to kiss Viyony's cheek, pressing her hands down lightly on her daughter's thin shoulders. "Now, you're all dressed up—are you ready?"
Viyony turns, wide eyed, and nods.
The official ceremony is what follows—the walk down to the river Mira below with a visiting Pollean priest, and standing by its side as she blesses Viyony by each Power in turn—but Isiyan thinks then, and ever after, the truest part of the ritual has already been performed.
"How do you feel?" she asks Viyony afterwards, removing the bright silver pins from her hair and the brooch from her dress.
Viyony, freed from those restraints, flops back into the chair behind her. She touches the earrings, not yet ready to let Isiyan take them off. "Very grown up."
Isiyan laughs again. "Not yet, my lovebird," she says, kissing her head, and smoothing down her hair. "Not for a long time yet."
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I like all of the pieces of this installment in its own right, but I also like this parallelism with Leion and his own complicated chain of inheritances (whatever name the family have chosen to use these days).
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