Андреа Хёст - The Pyramids of London

Thinking only of putting her bag down, Eluned was not pleased to discover two people in Forest House’s vestibule, one tugging the entry bell. The stranger turned as they crowded the outer door, and Eluned saw with faint dismay that it was a member of the Order of the Oak, her distinctive creamy brown surcoat featuring a triple row of dark brown oak leaves woven into the hem.

The woman at least wasn’t frowning, and the very large man with her didn’t even seem to notice them, staring vaguely at an umbrella hanging from the coat hooks. He and the woman made something of a matched set in their Oak-mark garb, both with glossy brown curling hair and skin tanned almost dark enough to match. On the chest of the man’s surcoat a single large oak leaf was woven, showing he was a Wise of the Order of the Oak—a dryw. He would have a grove of his own to look after, and people would come to him for foreseeing.

“There seems naught home, children,” the woman said, a border accent softening her words. “The price paid for rudely arriving without writing ahead.”

“Aunt’s probably upstairs,” Griff said, as Eluned put her bag on the nearest bench. “It takes an age to get down, unless you run.”

Before the woman could respond, the towering man made a pleased noise—the same sound Griff would make spotting a thick wedge of cake—and caught up Eluned’s left hand in both of his.

“What—?” Eluned started to flinch away, but the Wise’s hold was careful and she realised that it was the bite mark that had caught his attention.

“The Horned King’s blessing,” he said, his voice a gentle rumble. “To see His mark fills the day with light.”

Eluned supposed it was new to have people stare at her left hand rather than her right, but the man, although a little strange, radiated such genuine delight that it was impossible not to smile back at him.

“What does he mean?” Nabah asked, clearly fascinated.

Difficult. They were not supposed to talk about their visit to the Great Forest. “There was a little amasen in the grove,” Eluned began, and was saved from more when the main door of the house opened. Aunt Arianne looked out, along with the man from Sheerside, Dem Carstairs, and a blond man and woman behind them.

“Lost the key?”

The smile dropped from the Wise’s face, and he let go of Eluned’s hand, turning and straightening as he did so to a rigid uprightness that looked painful.

“The unfinished ones,” he said, breathless yet the words ringing out. “The near hounds. The knife of echoes. The path of cobweb. The shattered dragon. The trials of Albion are set.” He was shaking, and made a horrid gulping sound, as if he had swallowed his tongue, and then one of his arms jerked upward to point at Aunt Arianne. “Land’s throat. The quartered glance. Heart’s blood falls.”

Then, like a lamp switched off, all the light went from his eyes and he slumped. The woman with him caught him adeptly by the arms, and despite his considerable size slowed his fall and eased him into a sitting position.

Aunt Arianne’s face had gone completely blank, and everyone was staring from the Wise to her, but then she gave a little shrug and produced the faintly amused smile that made it seem like nothing ever touched her.

“Indeed the one thing the day lacked was a doom-laden prophecy. Perhaps you’d care to come in?”

Aunt Arianne sailed through drama as if it was a light headwind, asking Dem Carstairs and the tall blond woman to carry the barely-conscious Wise into the nearest sitting room, and sending the South London Orientation and Expeditionary Force to the kitchen to get themselves something to drink. Melly, perhaps catching signs of strain on Griff’s face, helpfully brought the Expedition to an end, and tidied everyone off, leaving only the adult visitors to deal with.

“Tea tray,” Eleri said, and kept Griff occupied hunting down the teapot so a fresh brew could be made.

Aunt Arianne must have tidied her own visitors away as well, since by the time Eluned led the way into the long, thin receiving room it held only their aunt, the Wise lying on one of the divans, and his companion sitting beside him, expression rueful.

“…first time it’s sent us will-ye nill-ye to London,” she was saying. “But once he’s taken the oakfire, there’s no other path until he’s spoken. And if it’s a foreseeing for a particular person, he must seek them out.”

“You’re his coafor?”

“Yes. Thede came to the Order soon after we married, when he discovered his gift, and so recording naturally fell to me. Ah, and I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Nedani Tyse, Keeper of the Banebury Grove. I’d love one, thank you, lad,” she added, as Griff held up a cup.

“Are you a dryw as well?” Griff asked as he poured, his chin still tucked and shoulders stiff, clearly wanting to be angry because he’d been frightened. “I thought the Keeper was always a dryw, except for here.”

“Sometimes the oakfire takes them strongly,” the Keeper said. She looked down at her big husband, and smoothed brown curls back from his forehead. “Then it falls to their coafor to manage the day-to-day needs of the Grove, along with recording all visions. Thede will begin to recover himself, now that he’s spoken, but he is never fully in this world any more.”

This seemed an awful thing to Eluned. The Keeper of the Tasset Grove, near Caerlleon, had been a sharp, humorous man, showing no sign that the poisonous brew of mistletoe and oak bark used to bring on visions had any permanent impact. His official recorder—his coafor—had been his younger brother, and had loved to tease him about whatever he might have said under the influence of the oakfire, since he couldn’t remember his visions at all.

“Is it you who sends the ravens?” Griff was still trying to be angry, but revealed his sympathy by dumping several spoonfuls of sugar into the cup of tea he was preparing.

“Rav—?” Keeper Tyse stopped short, then clicked her tongue. “How senseless. Yes, if you’re being plagued by ravens, it’s most likely members of the Order. I do apologise.”

“The folies kill them,” Griff added, clearly pleased by the knowledge.

“I gather this appointment would be hotly contested,” Aunt Arianne said.

“Oh yes. Outside White Hill Grove, there is none more desirable, but no need to fash yourself. The vampire Makepeace is beloved of the Horned King, and there is no arguing that, even if he doesn’t stir himself over the day-to-day duties. Because Forest House has sat empty there has been a deal of talk, but nothing can come of it.” Keeper Tyse accepted the cup Griff offered, and bravely took a sugary sip. “The foreseeing will complicate matters a touch.”

Aunt Arianne’s response to this massive understatement was forestalled by the dryw, who abruptly tried to sit up. Griff stepped forward, and Eluned decided to distract him with a murmured reminder about tunnels. Judging Aunt Arianne safe to be left, she and Eleri made their pardons, and followed their brother’s bee-line for the cellar.

By mutual assent they didn’t discuss the dryw’s pronouncement, but simply began pushing bricks and tapping wood, regretting the sweeping efficiency of the cleaning party, which had left little in the way of helpful dust to betray vampiric entry-points.

It was at least half an hour later when Aunt Arianne tracked them down, finding them all crammed between two of the wine racks, intently pressing bricks.

“Is that wall particularly interesting for some reason?”

“Shiny spots,” Eleri replied, steadily winding the dynamo torch they’d fetched for light.

“And they go click!” Griff added, avidly trying another combination. Nothing could have been better designed to soothe over upsets than the prospect of a genuine hidden door. “This can’t be a new tunnel, though. This has been here as long as the house.”