heavy, you understand. They are very fragile. Wool or even silk weights them down so they cannot walk, but must crawl about the floor like crippled beggars. I do not come to view them often, but when I do, I expect them to appear presentable."
"Not wool or silk," said Aeriel, watching the wraiths; "then what shall I weave?"
"You must find it yourself—something grows in the garden perhaps." He half-turned away, as if to leave.
"Which one of them is Eoduin?" said Aeriel, her voice fallen to a whisper as she realized one of these creatures must once have been her friend.
The darkangel shrugged. "Surely you do not expect me to remember which one is which?" He left her standing in the middle of the room.
Aeriel ran after him a pace or two. "Where are you going, my lord?" she cried.
He turned and said impatiently. "What business is that of yours? You are but a servant, and I have spent enough time on you."
"But... what if I should need to find you?" stammered Aeriel.
"Why should you need to find me?" said the vampyre. "Your duties do not concern me."
"But...," groped Aeriel, "I shall be all alone."
"Alone?" cried the icarus. "You have twelve mistresses and one." Then he turned and strode off down the hall, leaving Aeriel in the room with no windows, and the wraiths.
3. The Duarough
"We will not hurt you," said one of the wraiths. "We cannot," said another. "Most of us are too weak to stand."
"It is the weight of these garments," another said, or perhaps it was the first again. They all moved about constantly, rocking or pacing, before and behind her. Aeriel could not keep her eye on them all. And all of them had the same face, save that some were more or less withered than others.
"Our garments and our bones," another told her.
"And the years."
"And the tears."
"The other one wove us garments she said were of seedsilk," said one of the wraiths, "but we are growing so thin that already they drag us down."
They moved a little closer, and Aeriel fell back until she pressed against the wall. A musty fragrance came from them, reminding her of ashes and root cellars. She watched the wraiths.
"You must weave us kirtles of finer stuff."
"Mouse-hair."
"Or birdsong."
"Or breath."
They looked at her with their hollows for eyes, and some of them nodded. Aeriel shrank away.
"Which one of you is Eoduin?" she whispered. Her voice would not stay steady otherwise.
"Oh, we have all lost our names by this time," they replied.
"Which one of you was the first to come here?"
The wraiths looked at one another in puzzlement. "We do not know," said one. "Our memories fade, then come again. None of us can now remember back much farther than a day-month, and there were always many of us a day-month ago."
Aeriel suppressed a shudder. "Why does he keep you here?"
"We keep ourselves," said the wraiths. "If we wandered freely about this great castle, we would surely lose ourselves—what little there is left of ourselves to lose."
Aeriel grimaced at the creatures' closeness.
"Why are you afraid of us?" said another of the wraiths.
"What has he done to you?" cried Aeriel softly, able to keep her revulsion hidden no longer. "You were women once."
"True," said one.
"We were like you."
"But prettier."
"What has he done to you?" cried Aeriel again.
"Drunk up our blood."
"Stolen our souls."
"Torn out our hearts and thrown them to the gargoyles."
Aeriel turned away from them, groped for the door.
"Where are you going?" cried the wraiths.
"I," began Aeriel, finding the doorway with her hand.
"Do not leave us!"
"I... I must find the garden."
"We have no one to talk to," said one of the wraiths.
"You have each other," stammered Aeriel, brushing away one slender mummy-hand that reached to catch a pleat of her kirtle and tug her back.
"We are all almost the same," sighed the wraiths. "Talking to each other is only a little more or less like talking to oneself."
"I—I must go," choked Aeriel, gathering her kirtle more
"Not wool or silk," said Aeriel, watching the wraiths; "then what shall I weave?"
"You must find it yourself—something grows in the garden perhaps." He half-turned away, as if to leave.
"Which one of them is Eoduin?" said Aeriel, her voice fallen to a whisper as she realized one of these creatures must once have been her friend.
The darkangel shrugged. "Surely you do not expect me to remember which one is which?" He left her standing in the middle of the room.
Aeriel ran after him a pace or two. "Where are you going, my lord?" she cried.
He turned and said impatiently. "What business is that of yours? You are but a servant, and I have spent enough time on you."
"But... what if I should need to find you?" stammered Aeriel.
"Why should you need to find me?" said the vampyre. "Your duties do not concern me."
"But...," groped Aeriel, "I shall be all alone."
"Alone?" cried the icarus. "You have twelve mistresses and one." Then he turned and strode off down the hall, leaving Aeriel in the room with no windows, and the wraiths.
3. The Duarough
"We will not hurt you," said one of the wraiths. "We cannot," said another. "Most of us are too weak to stand."
"It is the weight of these garments," another said, or perhaps it was the first again. They all moved about constantly, rocking or pacing, before and behind her. Aeriel could not keep her eye on them all. And all of them had the same face, save that some were more or less withered than others.
"Our garments and our bones," another told her.
"And the years."
"And the tears."
"The other one wove us garments she said were of seedsilk," said one of the wraiths, "but we are growing so thin that already they drag us down."
They moved a little closer, and Aeriel fell back until she pressed against the wall. A musty fragrance came from them, reminding her of ashes and root cellars. She watched the wraiths.
"You must weave us kirtles of finer stuff."
"Mouse-hair."
"Or birdsong."
"Or breath."
They looked at her with their hollows for eyes, and some of them nodded. Aeriel shrank away.
"Which one of you is Eoduin?" she whispered. Her voice would not stay steady otherwise.
"Oh, we have all lost our names by this time," they replied.
"Which one of you was the first to come here?"
The wraiths looked at one another in puzzlement. "We do not know," said one. "Our memories fade, then come again. None of us can now remember back much farther than a day-month, and there were always many of us a day-month ago."
Aeriel suppressed a shudder. "Why does he keep you here?"
"We keep ourselves," said the wraiths. "If we wandered freely about this great castle, we would surely lose ourselves—what little there is left of ourselves to lose."
Aeriel grimaced at the creatures' closeness.
"Why are you afraid of us?" said another of the wraiths.
"What has he done to you?" cried Aeriel softly, able to keep her revulsion hidden no longer. "You were women once."
"True," said one.
"We were like you."
"But prettier."
"What has he done to you?" cried Aeriel again.
"Drunk up our blood."
"Stolen our souls."
"Torn out our hearts and thrown them to the gargoyles."
Aeriel turned away from them, groped for the door.
"Where are you going?" cried the wraiths.
"I," began Aeriel, finding the doorway with her hand.
"Do not leave us!"
"I... I must find the garden."
"We have no one to talk to," said one of the wraiths.
"You have each other," stammered Aeriel, brushing away one slender mummy-hand that reached to catch a pleat of her kirtle and tug her back.
"We are all almost the same," sighed the wraiths. "Talking to each other is only a little more or less like talking to oneself."
"I—I must go," choked Aeriel, gathering her kirtle more
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