Sunrise Gate

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

We enter the Manor’s yard to find a few servants grooming the hedges. The courtyard is elaborate, the masonry intricate, polished, and chiseled. Black stone makes up a large elevated patio, which transitions to a lower tiered grass yard with hedges in the shapes of warriors and shields and hawks, all looking out high over the city. A fountain stands in the middle - a towering granite Guardian standing over a Sabre, his sword struck clean in the chest. Water cascades from the chest of the Guardian, down his arm and sword into the heart of the Sabre, spilling out to the bowl beneath them. A bloody reminder.

Moss and ivy scatter the yard, climbing roman columns or creating a patch of ground for the flora, whose flowers are vibrant reds and whites and blacks. They shimmer in the sun and it chills the spine to look at them while thinking of Lord Arnith. They speak to his demeanor. Perhaps that’s why he picked them. Then again this Manor is centuries old, here since the founding of Ebonhawke. It’s also the only building that has a classic style turret on it - and why is it so large? It has been put to neglect, though. While the shrubbery is trimmed and the masonry buffed, the grass is overgrown and the fountain has ivy climbing it and the columns have cracks and chunks missing. While the sun shines this place feels like forgotten holy grounds. At night, I can only imagine the demons that roam.

We walk to a woman in the patio, none other than his wife. But before we get there, the man from Bard’s leans over to me to ask my name. “Lyra,” I tell him, “Yours?”

“I’d rather not. Best not put my neck out there.” He has changed tone very quickly, banishing his joy with absolute seriousness. He carries himself poised, cautiously, glancing to his pickaxe from time to time, ensuring it does not hit anything. He refuses to stop fussing with his belt, worried it may be too low or too high, even though altogether the man looks like a miner and there’s just no escaping that. We walk towards the woman carrying stacks of papers and inkwells, clearly heavily involved in documentation or some form of writing for the Manor. “And there she is,” he speaks calmly to me, with formality, “The lady of the house.”

As we come closer I note her gown, a typical long dress of ivory color, very simple, clean and cut. She appears not old, perhaps mid forties, her face still young but her eyes far too aged for the years they’ve seen, wrinkled and weary, holding a strong but broken gaze over the yard. A strand of deep black hair runs free down the side of her face, the rest hidden by a matching ivory scarf covering her head and neck. I can only wonder who the person is inside.

“Who is this -” the man quickly cuts her off before she says his name.

“Hun, it’s important you understand no names. This is a matter in which we best save the small talk for later.” She looked to him confused and angry.

“What trouble did you cause now! You don’t owe her anything, do you?” She looks to me, “Whatever my husband has done I can assure you he will repay you in full,” she sneers at him, “be it time or money.”

The man prepares to protest but I rest my hand on his arm indicating it’s okay. “Your husband has done nothing wrong, my lady. He has rather helped me.” He wears a snooty look, which his wife ignores allocating her full attention to me. “Your husband has indicated you are the personal servant of Arnith, no?”

“That is correct. Is there a reason you need me?”

“Yes, on behalf of the Guardians,” I lie again. Whatever it takes to get the information and get out. She quickly places the few parchments and feathers and inkwells she is carrying down, now partly afraid, partly relieved. I notice, trying to disarm the situation. “You of course are in no danger,” I look to her husband, “And the both of you will remain anonymous. For my purposes, we never met.”