Seraphina(14)

No unwanted vision had seized me in four years, but I could not relax my vigilance. The headache I’d developed after Prince Rufus’s funeral meant the grotesques in my garden were agitated; that was when a vision was most likely to hit me. After Orma left me on the bridge, I hurried back to Castle Orison as quickly as I could, anticipating an hour’s work attending to my mental hygiene, as Orma called it, putting my mind back in ard.

My suite at the palace had two rooms. The first was a parlor where I practiced. The spinet Orma had given me stood by the far wall; beside it was a bookcase with my own books, my flutes, my oud. I staggered into the second room, containing wardrobe, table, and bed; I’d had only two weeks’ acquaintance with the furniture, but it felt sufficiently mine that I was at home here. Palace servants had turned down the bedclothes and lit the fire.

I stripped to my linen chemise. I had scales to wash and oil, but every inch of me whimpered for the soft bed and there was still my head to deal with.

I pulled the bolster off my bed and sat on it cross-legged, as Orma had taught me. I shut my eyes, in so much pain now that it was hard to slow my breaths sufficiently. I repeated the mantra All in ard until I had calmed enough to see my sprawling, colorful garden of grotesques stretching all the way to my mind’s horizon.

I endured a moment of confusion as I got my bearings; the layout changed each time I visited. Before me squatted the border wall of ancient, flat bricks; ferns grew out of its every cranny like tufts of green hair. Beyond it I saw the Faceless Lady fountain, the poppy bank, and a lawn with bulbous, overgrown topiaries. As Orma had instructed, I always paused with my hands upon the entrance gate—wrought iron, this time—and said, “This is my mind’s garden. I tend it; I order it. I have nothing to fear.”

Pelican Man lurked among the topiaries, his slack, expansive throat wattle dangling over the front of his tunic like a fleshy bib. It was always harder when I ran into a deformed one first, but I plastered on a smile and stepped onto the lawn. Cold dew between my toes surprised me; I hadn’t noticed I was barefoot. Pelican Man took no note of my approach but kept his eyes upon the sky, which was always starry in this part of the garden.

“Are you well, Master P?” Pelican Man rolled his eyes at me balefully; he was agitated. I tried to take his elbow—I didn’t touch the hands of a grotesque if I could help it—but he shied away from me. “Yes, it was a stressful day,” I said mildly, circling, herding him toward his stone bench. Its hollow seat was filled with soil and planted with oregano, producing a lovely smell when one sat on it. Pelican Man found it soothing. He headed for it at last and curled up among the herbs.

I watched Pelican Man a few moments longer, to make sure he was truly calmed. His dark skin and hair looked Porphyrian; his red baglike throat, expanding and contracting with every breath, looked like nothing of this world. As vivid as my visions were, it was disturbing to imagine him—and others still more deformed—out in the world somewhere. Surely the gods of Porphyry were not so cruel as to allow a Pelican Man to exist? My burden of horribleness was light compared with that.

He remained tranquil. That was one settled, and it hadn’t been difficult. The intensity of my headache seemed disproportionate, but maybe I would find others more agitated.

I rose to continue my rounds, but my bare feet encountered something cold and leathery in the grass. Stooping down, I found a large piece of orange peel, and then several more scraps scattered among the towering boxwoods.

I had given the garden permanent features peculiar to each grotesque—Fruit Bat’s trees, Pelican Man’s starry sky—but my deeper mind, the hidden current Orma called underthought, filled in everything else. New embellishments, peculiar plants or statuary, appeared without warning. Refuse on the lawn seemed wrong, however.

I tossed the peels under the hedge and wiped my hands on my skirt. There was only one orange tree that I knew of in this garden. I would put off worrying until I’d seen it.

I found Miserere pulling out her feathers by the rocking stile; I led her to her nest. Newt thrashed about under the apple trees, crushing the bluebells; I led him to his wallow and rubbed mud onto his tender head. I checked that the lock on the Wee Cottage still held and then picked my way barefoot through an unanticipated field of thistles. I could see the taller trees of Fruit Bat’s grove in the distance. I took the lime walk, ducking into leafy side gardens along the way, clucking, soothing, putting to bed, tending everyone. At the end of the walk, a yawning chasm blocked my way. Loud Lad’s ravine had shifted positions and now blocked my path to Fruit Bat’s date palms.

Loud Lad represented the Samsamese piper I’d seen. He was a favorite; I am ashamed to say I gravitated toward the more normal-looking denizens. This avatar was unusual in that it made noise (hence the name), built things, and sometimes left its designated area. This had caused me no end of panic at first. There had been one other grotesque, Jannoula, who’d been prone to wander, and she’d frightened me so badly that I’d locked her away in the Wee Cottage.

The visions were like peering into someone else’s life with a mystical spyglass. In the case of Jannoula, she had somehow been able to look back at me through her avatar. She had spoken to me, pried, prodded, stolen, and lied; she had drunk my fears like nectar, and smelled my wishes on the wind. In the end, she began trying to influence my thoughts and control my actions. In a panic, I’d told Orma and he helped me find a way to banish her to the Wee Cottage. I barely managed to trick her into entering. It was hard to fool someone who could tell what you were thinking.