Page 46 of Claiming the Tower
“Tonight, do what you think needs to be done. I am not, I cannot place a limit on that. I don’t even know what limit would make sense. It is a mystery, in the religious sense, it cannot be known. Certainly not by me. But yes, it feels a little odd to dress you for everyone else’s gaze.”
“Later, then, you may look forward to undressing me, mm?” Hereswith offered it as a gift.
“And you’ll likely be exhausted. Not the best moment for new intimacies. I would like you to stay awake to appreciate them properly when we have some.” Bess was rewarded with a laugh. “Now, sit, please, so I can do your hair. You wanted to do the cosmetic charms, yes?”
“Yes. And I can do that while you work on my hair.” They settled into that companionably enough. The charms were not extravagant ones, more an enhancement of her lashes, roses in her cheeks, a salve for her lips. Bess worked to brush out Hereswith’s curls again, then braiding and coiling, before taking the step of sewing the braided coils in place for stability. Hereswith held still patiently through it all, even that.
It was only when Bess was done that she spoke again. “It does feel like armour. A helmet, at least. But a secure one. I did not want to risk my hair coming down in my face at the worst moment.”
“So many things that men do not need to consider. All right. Shoes, and then jewellery?” Hereswith nodded and stood, as Bess bent to do the last few things. The shoes were easy enough. Then the last touches were a necklace with a single emerald and smaller protective stones, a family piece, apparently, earbobs to match, and a bracelet on her off-hand.
The whole effect was stately, the look of a woman who did not need to complicate the eye to rule the room. At last, Hereswith moved to what she’d set out on the table by the window. There were a series of small items going into each pocket, deliberately, along with a golden chatelaine that attached to a hidden ring beneath the yoke of the dress. Only then did she draw on the gloves. “There.”
“And perfectly on time, of course.” Or rather, five minutes early. “Let me get my own gloves, and we can go down.” Bess got them and her reticule from her room, and then they made a slow procession downstairs. The men did not fully appreciate the details of the ensemble, of course, but they made appropriate noises, and the women definitely thought it was the right mode.
The group came out of the portal at Dinas Emrys, the Council Keep, to find the weather still pleasant. The change in the altitude and the angle of the sun dazzled Bess for just a moment. Hereswith was quiet, but pleasant, when one of the staff met their party and escorted them in. Two of the other Challengers had already arrived— Edric Fitzroy and Antinous Groves. They were both dressed in duelling gear, as Bess had expected. Basileus Martin had apparently withdrawn his intent to Challenge, for reasons unexplained.
It was a far easier choice for men, tight breeches and jackets over free-moving shirts. If Hereswith had dressed for the same, there would have been no small amount of scandal. Instead, she had trusted to Magistra Ventry’s advice that presuming it would be a physical challenge was small-minded. Hereswith knew how to use clothing, the dance of manners and protocol, to her advantage, and she had dressed with that in mind.
Their party was seated in a circle of chairs, with Hereswith’s father’s basket chair tucked in beside Bess, with his sons nearby. Marcus had taken the seat next to Bess, and he and Hereswith made a few comments to each other in a comfortable shorthand. Bess would ask about that later, perhaps.
Five minutes later, a hair late, Euphremia Sibley swept in. She was in a rather overdone gown of Council purple. That was an assumption that required a great deal of confidence to carry off. Bess thought from the reactions around her that everyone else in the room considered it was overstepping.
It was, however, the cue for the four Challengers to proceed to the front of the room. Hereswith stood, forming up last in the small processional line. She let the others jostle for status. That was a thing Bess had long since noticed. The Challengers all lined up, one of the Council members behind each one. Magistra Ventry was in black, as she always was, but she spoke softly to Hereswith. Bess noticed that the others gave her something of a cautious distance.
The actual ritual of it was reserved. Gervase Merriweather, the current Head of the Council, had the lead role in that, of course. That was right and proper. Merriweather was not a particularly prepossessing ritualist, but he spoke clearly and didn’t fuss about with his hands, keeping the focus on his words. He was an alchemist, with a cautious set of movements, though of Owl House, rather than the Fox House that was true of many of the Council. He made a brief speech of welcome, then explained the drawing of lots for the order of the entrances to the Challenge.
Hereswith was first, it turned out, and Bess caught the look of surprise on her face. But then, all four of them were led away through doors at the centre back of the hall, and to some secret stair that climbed the tower. The last Bess saw of Hereswith was the flash of the green skirt, as Hereswith went resolutely ahead into whatever waited for her.
Chapter 31
That evening at Dinas Emrys, the Council Keep
Hereswith climbed the stairs, step by step. She could hear the others behind her. She did not know any of the other three Challengers terribly well, though they’d all exchanged the appropriate mild pleasantries. Hereswith was fairly certain all three considered her not worth bothering about. She was not skilled with flashy magic like Edric or Antinous, and she didn’t have Euphremia’s broad range of skills and devoted supporters. What Hereswith had was her wits, her knowledge of people, and her intuition. The first and third might be a help, but she doubted the second would be tonight.
Blanch was just ahead of her, her own skirts just brushing the stairs. They arrived, finally, after several flights, at a small landing, big enough for the men, but not quite sufficient for the women’s skirts. Of course, it would have been designed in an era when a woman might well have a train or draping sleeves, but far less width and bulk of the petticoats. No matter. She would not be here long, none of them would be. She was grateful, though, that her hems were a little above brushing the ground. The inch of clearance they’d settled on made a difference in how delicately she needed to walk.
Council Head Merriweather nodded once, turning to face them, as he stood in front of a deep brown oak door. Hereswith couldn’t help but notice that there was a scar across the wood, a black mark like a strike from a storm. “From here, you will each enter the chamber, one at a time, at five-minute intervals. You will come out in due course. Time passes differently within that space, you may exit in an entirely different order. One or more members of the Council will be here as you leave, and we have a range of supplies for immediate needs. A Healer is waiting downstairs in case of more substantial injuries. Once you can descend, those unsuccessful will be allowed back to their families.”
“And the successful candidate?” That was Edric Fitzroy, leaning one shoulder against the wall, a pose of studied insouciance.
“We will ask the successful candidate to wait in a private room until all have completed the Challenge and emerged. Questions?”
Hereswith had dozens, but they wouldn’t be answered, so she shook her head slightly. No one else spoke up. Council Head Merriweather nodded. “In that case, Magistra Rowan, when you are ready, enter through the door.”
Now, she wanted to do one last check of her pockets, of her jewellery, of her hair, of all the details, as if she were about to enter a gathering. And, just like those events, she could not. It would show. Fortunately, she was used to this feeling. She knew, with her head, if not entirely with her heart, that she had made all her arrangements well. Her hair would stay put, and every other facet was as she’d planned. So she simply nodded. “Thank you, Council Head.”
Blanch nodded at her once, no further advice or comment, and so Hereswith took several steps forward, toward the last few steps up to the door. She put her hand on the handle, expecting it to feel different. There was only cool smooth metal under her hand, and it turned smoothly, with almost no pressure. Once she was inside, she turned to make sure the door closed behind her fully. Then she turned back around.
The room inside looked like hundreds of rooms she’d seen over the past decade. It was, she thought, rather smaller than the tower itself, the size of a smaller dining room or meeting room. There was one long table with a chair at each end, three down each side. Eight, that was an interesting number. There were cups of tea left, but no other food or drink. No one had cleared the table, though, and that was curious.
Part of her knew this must be some magical creation. Not illusion, not precisely, she didn’t think. There were too many sensory details, with too much precision. It wasn’t just the room or the decorations, the size and shape and light, but the scent of the tea was still in the air, and the lingering smell of someone’s cologne.
It was not remotely clear what she was supposed to do. Blanch had shrugged and said they didn’t talk about their challenges, but they were different for everyone. She’d seen people coming out in smoke and blood, at least deep scratches. There had been people who’d looked as if the fear of the Silence had run through them unchecked. One had come out with a shock of suddenly white hair. Sometimes, though rarely, there were deaths or injuries that led to death, and those had signs of violence as often as not.
Nothing here seemed dangerous, but Hereswith knew better than to assume. So she made a slight bob— not quite a bow, not quite a curtsy, but a gesture of acknowledgement, and then she circled the table. No windows, but there were two doors at the far end. Passing by the first, she heard what sounded like quiet voices. Too soft for her to make out what they were saying, certainly. The next, right beside it, looked exactly the same, but there were louder voices. This time, she could make out a few words here and there. It seemed to be a debate between two or three about some key action or event.
Hereswith circled the table, taking in the cups of tea. Eight chairs, seven cups. All had a sip or two left at the bottom, two had more. It seemed to be the same blend, but she would not stick her finger in and taste it. That seemed foolish for several reasons. And it was tea, not alcohol. A working discussion between people of Albion or Britain, most likely. If there had been a mix of French or other countries, she suspected there’d be other drinks in the mix. Or some who just had no tea cup. That eighth seat was a little askew, as if waiting, but she did not sit, either. She did not know who ought to have a place at this table, and who ought to observe.
