Chapter 32: The Manor
My waterskin was empty.
The map showed two streams running through the birch forest, but what I found on the ground was a stretch of dry riverbed. I'd checked every small depression I could scrape out from the bottom—every pebble was bone-dry.
I needed water.
I let myself follow the descending terrain. In mountainous country, water flows downward; following the slope was the surest method. I walked for perhaps an hour before the birch forest began to thin, the density of light filtering through the canopy increasing, and ahead appeared a more open valley floor.
At the center of the valley stood a structure.
The building was constructed of stone, its architecture belonging to the style I'd seen in Aldenmere—the kind northern nobility had used many years ago. A three-story main hall rose at the valley's center, with a slightly lower wing extending westward. The stone surfaces bore the marks of wind erosion, their color faded to a blackish-gray, every edge worn smooth and rounded. These were traces left by centuries of wind. The first-floor exterior walls were covered in great swaths of ivy, blanketing nearly half the facade.
The main entrance was a set of double wooden doors, their height reaching perhaps three men tall, their faces carved with deep relief work. From this distance I couldn't make out the relief's content clearly, though I could discern roughly human figures and some kind of intertwining pattern. Above the lintel sat a circular rose window, its colored glass intact, the interior colors appearing dark from outside.
The walls showed evidence of once-meticulous decorative carving. A band of ornamental work circled the lintel—patterns I couldn't name, their details weathered away by a layer of erosion, though the original refinement remained in their outlines.
I stopped at the entrance.
I saw the garden.
The garden had returned to a wild state. What should have been geometrically ordered flower beds now had blurred boundaries, plants crowding together, climbing vines creeping up stone retaining walls.
But the plant species were wrong.
These plants were temperate-zone species. Greenvine, Sunbell, several low-altitude broadleaf herbaceous varieties I could identify. They were thriving here.
This mountain region's elevation was, by my judgment, considerable. The air was thin, the temperature cool—temperate plants in such an environment should have been barely surviving. The condition I was seeing belonged to a different climate zone entirely.
This meant sustained magical intervention.
When I saw the snakes, I understood the purpose of these plants' existence.
The first emerged from beneath a Greenvine leaf. I'd thought it an ordinary snake until the second appeared and I realized something was wrong. Their movement patterns showed directionality, purposefulness—emerging from different positions, heading toward different angles, distributing themselves into positions from which they could observe me.
I counted roughly six or seven visible ones.
They had all noticed me.
They maintained their respective distances.
My hand moved to my knife hilt.
"Lost."
A woman's voice rang out from ahead. Hearing her voice, the snakes vanished back into the undergrowth in an instant.
She was perhaps forty years old, dark hair pinned back behind her head. She wore a long dark dress, the velvet fabric lending her an air of dignity. The hem swept to her ankles—it appeared she'd altered the style herself to facilitate walking. She regarded me calmly, her expression revealing neither emotion nor age.
I relaxed my grip on the knife hilt slightly.
"I'm looking for water."
"Water is inside the manor," she said. "You may enter."
Before I could speak, she continued:
"I must tell you something first—if you harbor ill intent, you will not be able to pass through this door."
She looked at me.
"You may choose to turn and leave."
Her manner of speaking was steady, without a trace of threat. She was offering me a choice, and she'd laid out the consequences beforehand. She wasn't concealing the manor's defensive mechanisms.
This frankness was a form of power. Only someone with sufficient strength could speak this way. She had no need for pretense.
I walked forward.
I stepped over the entrance threshold where one step had collapsed.
Nothing happened.
She glanced at me, gave a small nod, and stood aside from the door.
"Come in."
Before I followed her into the entrance hall, my gaze paused on the far side of the garden.
In that corner stood a grave.
The headstone was stone, its edges rough, as though hand-worked bit by bit. The grave was overgrown with a flowering plant I'd never seen before—the flowers were deep purple, their petals shaped like small bells.
There was writing on the headstone. I was too far away to read it clearly.
She followed my line of sight for a moment, said nothing.
I followed her into the manor.
The interior of the manor and its exterior were two different worlds.
The entrance hall floor was laid with wooden planking, polished to a shine, each board's seams perfectly flush with the next. Several paintings hung on the walls—landscapes, their pigments appearing fresh. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystals catching fragments of afternoon light.
The air carried the scent of flowers—drifting from a bouquet of Sunbells arranged in a porcelain vase deeper in the hall.
The entire interior of the manor was impeccably maintained. This was the home of someone who knew how to live well.
She led me through the entrance hall to a sitting room. A fire burned vigorously in the central hearth. She indicated one of the chairs for me to sit in, then settled into the one opposite, leaning against the backrest with the ease befitting a host. She appeared so natural, as though I weren't a stranger at all.
"I'm called Sevan."
"Mia."
My posture remained cautious, but I returned the honesty she deserved.
Then I heard a sound.
The sound came from beneath us. Somewhere underground, something had struck something else, the force of the impact making the sitting room floor tremble lightly.
I glanced at Sevan.
Her gaze hadn't moved from the fire.
The sound ceased after a few seconds.
After it stopped, she studied me for a while, her brown eyes seeming capable of seeing through to my soul.
"You don't look like an ordinary traveler," she said. "But I won't ask. It's been a long time since anyone came to my manor. It's nearly dark outside, and from here to the next inhabited place is still a day's journey. You may spend the night here."
I'd already sensed the strength and composure she'd displayed. If I could spend the night somewhere safely, I naturally wouldn't refuse.
"Thank you."
Dinner was in the dining room on the main hall's first floor.
The dining table was long, capable of seating at least twenty people. A white tablecloth covered its surface, upon which sat two place settings, positioned at opposite ends of the table. Sevan sat at the head; I sat in the first position to her right.
The entire dining process made me reconsider the meaning of the word "magic."
The kitchen was next door. From the angle I could observe, there was no one in the kitchen. I could hear sounds from within—knife striking cutting board, pans sizzling on the stove, water pouring from one container into another. But there were no human footsteps, no sound of human conversation.
The cookware was working by itself.
Then the dishes arrived.
What carried them was not human.
They were several small figures made of wood.
They stood perhaps to my knee height, their bodies carved from single blocks of wood, metal hinges at the joints allowing them to walk. As they walked, the wood made soft creaking sounds. Each wooden figure's face bore simple features, carved just enough to give that face a hint of expression.
The first wooden figure approached the table carrying a deep dish.
"Soup," it said. "Today's is made with Greythorn root from the western mountains, with Sunbell flower nectar added."
Its voice emerged from its chest cavity—a genuine voice, carrying a resonance inherent to wood itself.
I struggled to maintain composure, not wanting to appear unsophisticated.
"They can speak."
"Magic grants them that," she said. "I've been alone here for many years. Even if they're not living things, I wanted someone to talk with."
The wooden figure set down the dish and turned toward the kitchen. Halfway there, it turned back to address me again.
"The soup has some spice added," it said, its voice carrying a clicking quality. "It's seasoned to the mistress's taste. If you don't like spicy food, you can tell me."
"I can eat spicy food, thank you for the warning." I felt my own voice sounded unnatural—after all, conversing with a wooden person felt strange—but I maintained politeness in my tone.
"I'm glad it suits you."
It continued toward the kitchen.
The soup's flavor was surprisingly excellent.