8
Lurien slept late into the next day. His dreams were fleeting and few, made so by the leaden pall of exhaustion. Even after waking, he remained motionless in bed, staring at the vacant ceiling as he searched for the resolve to rise. Eventually, he found it and fought free of the sheets. With a groan, he stood and donned his cloak. Every inch of him ached, but he couldn't place why. He lifted his mask from the bedstand and emerged into the rain-murmur of his common room. Even half-asleep, he set to lighting candles with familiar ease. Sparks flew from his metal striker, and soon enough an amber glow draped the old furniture.
It was a fond ritual: bringing light to his home. How many times had he performed it over the years? How many more did he have left? The thought was sobering, like a cold splash of water on his neck.
Few, he surmised…
Lurien pushed that aside and strode toward his office. There was work yet to be done, matters still to put in order. Though, as he passed the guest chamber, a low snoring stopped him in his tracks.
Of course. He had nearly forgotten about the children.
As quietly as he could, Lurien cracked the door and peeked inside.
Hornet lay in her bed, a snarl of limbs and tangled sheets. Her head lolled over the edge, swaying with the rise and fall of her chest.
It seemed like a miserable way to sleep. Lurien considered rectifying her posture but decided against it. That might wake her, and he was not about to squander the quiet moment.
Just as Lurien was closing the door, the Vessel stirred. It shifted beneath smooth sheets and looked at him. Lurien just shook his head, hoping the gesture would be a sufficient command. The door shut, and Lurien was off.
In defiance of his common room, Lurien's office was fairly organized, a necessity of his bitter war with bureaucracy. However, this had not always been the case. During his early years as Watcher, it was common for the scrolls and tablets that passed his desk to be misplaced. He and Belvedere had spent many a night in this room, sifting through unlabeled heaps in desperate search of time-sensitive legislation. As Lurien sat, he ran a claw over his desk, appreciating the uncluttered expanse of polished shellwood. In the end, he truly had acclimated to this role, just as the King promised.
Soon enough, his new role would come.
Could he acclimate to it as well?
Again, he pushed that aside, puzzled by the welling emotion. Mawkishness was unlike him.
Lurien rooted about in his desk for a distraction, some burden of office to occupy his thoughts. What emerged was a letter, sealed in wax with the signet of the Soul Sanctum.
Ah, yes, the nuisance.
Lurien broke the seal with a flick of a digit and scanned the perfumed paper within. There was little point to this. He already knew its contents. A dozen of its like had arrived in the last month, and he'd sent the same reply time and again.
Satisfied that this was indeed the case, Lurien tossed the letter into the fireplace. How generous of the Soul Master to provide him with kindling.
As Lurien resumed rooting, there came a creak from across the room. The door gave a low protest as it swung wide. Lurien expected a groggy little girl, or perhaps an attendant, but instead, he spied the Vessel. It stood on the threshold, saying nothing, doing nothing, as though awaiting permission to be.
Lurien hummed. "Come in, Vessel."
It hopped into motion and installed itself at his right claw, an exemplary guard in everything but stature.
Lurien felt himself circling, marching the same path that had formed a trench in his brain, but he let it go. Further speculation would do no good.
Some minutes passed—perhaps hours, he couldn't say. Edicts were edited, requisitions were approved. All the while, the Vessel was still, watching his work in that alien way. Lurien struck up no conversation, though the urge did take him when the silence grew too deep.
Gradually, Lurien's stomach began voicing its discontent. He disregarded it at first, thoroughly ensorcelled by his task, but the pain grew too intense, and he pushed free of the desk.
"Shall we recess for breakfast?" Lurien asked.
In lieu of its usual stare, the Vessel reacted. It shuffled after Lurien and grasped the folds of his robes in one claw, affixing there like a spiny seed on the shell of a Mosscreep.
Despite himself, Lurien chuckled and led the way.
The commissary was a high-ceilinged chamber on the fourth floor, complete with gilded chandeliers and spacious dining tables. As it did every mealtime, the aroma of fine food lured hungry bugs from the farthest reaches of the Spire. Atop its serving counters sat lidded pots and steaming platters. A line of would-be breakfasters stretched half its length.
Lurien scanned the sea of bodies, endeavoring to identify as many of his underlings as he could. He lacked Monomon's fabled memory, so rarely managed more than half, but the Spire was vast, and its staff ever-expanding. He felt a glimmer of camaraderie at every remembered face.
Lurien situated himself at the back of the line, Vessel still firmly attached. He exchanged pleasantries with a cluster of scribes, sometimes answering questions or signing the documents they thrust at him. Any comments on his diminutive companion were swiftly deflected.
After a few start-stop minutes, one of the chefs—a rotund bug in his twilight years—spotted Lurien and the Vessel in line. He hustled up with two plates of food, bowing and lifting them up like a courtly tribute.
Lurien's first reaction was to protest; his turn had yet to come. But that would have only created a scene. He allowed himself and the Vessel to be led to his private table atop a dais on the far side of the commissary.
He was not fond of this table.
Whenever he sat here, with so many eyes upon him, his shell began to itch. He felt like an idol, a deific totem on display before the masses. The pomp was expected of him, he realized that, but the knowledge did little to ease his discomfort.
The chef lingered, claws clasped, until Lurien took his first bite and affirmed its excellence.
The Vessel sat across Lurien in an oversized chair usually reserved for noble visitors. It peered at its meal as though struggling to understand.
As the contents of Lurien's plate dwindled, and the contents of the Vessel's plate cooled, Lurien spied Belvedere at a common table across the room. He was seated in a posture of great focus, with a scroll before him. In one claw he held a quill and in the other a meat bun from which he nibbled. To Lurien's eye, it looked a decidedly laborious task. He wondered if Belvedere had forgotten the previous night's mandate.
Lurien retrieved the Vessel's untouched plate—Hornet would soon be in greater need of it—and strolled over.
"Come, Vessel," he said.
As Lurien's shadow fell over the scroll, Belvedere made a harried noise and shifted back into the light.
"Good morning, Belvedere," Lurien said. "What have you there?"
The attendant's head snapped up. "Oh, Watcher, it is you." He quickly set the quill aside. "Just a touch of reading."
"Regarding what, if may ask?" Lurien leaned in. Even inverted, he could see that the scroll was his own itinerary.
"Nothing of note, nothing at all. Recreation, yes, that's it." Belvedere slid the scroll beneath his plate.
Lurien nodded sagely. "I see." For perhaps a bit too long, he basked in Belvedere's unease.
"H-How are the children faring?" Belvedere asked. "Was it a challenge putting them to bed?"
Lurien occupied the opposite seat, revealing the Vessel from behind his robes. "Hardly. Gram's sparring bouts saw to that." Something occurred to Lurien, and he paused. "Tell me, do you know much of children's stories?"
Belvedere cocked his head in that Maskfly way. "Fleetingly. Why do you ask?"
"The girl requested a bedtime story… and I could not deliver."
Belvedere considered. "Perhaps the Spire library? The scroll-keepers are always so boastful that its shelves house every subject known to bug. This would be a fitting test of that."
"Yes, that seems a prudent place to begin—were I not otherwise occupied, of course."
"Oh, certainly," Belvedere bobbed. "You've far more pressing concerns in the coming week. The year's tax codes are due to be updated, and if you are to finish them, then we must allot at least eight hours per day to—"
"Belvedere," Lurien said, just sharp enough to quiet him, "would informing me of my itinerary be considered work? As I recall, that is not within your purview today."
Belvedere's voice rose like an untuned instrument. "Watcher, please, enough with this game. I haven't the time for silly leisure. There is much too much to do! I cannot sit on my claws for an entire day!"
Lurien shrugged as though it were beyond his control. "Regrettably, you must. Yet worry not, the Spire will survive."
"But what of the children?"
"I imagine they will survive as well."
"No—Will you manage them without me? Surely you will need help."
"Should the children prove too much for me, then I am certain that any of the Spire's six dozen other attendants will be available."
Belvedere crossed his arms, gripping them by the elbows. He looked to be holding his breath, straining for a winning argument. Lurien waited. Soon enough, Belvedere let out a great exhale and his frame went slack.
"What am I to do, then?" Belvedere asked, half a whisper.
With a squeak of his chair, Lurien stood. "You might attempt that recreational reading you were feigning just a moment ago."
Belvedere cradled his meat bun and took a sullen bite. "I suppose…"
Upon arriving at his quarters, Lurien was surprised to find Hornet up and about. She stood at the far side of the common room, facing away, occupied with some activity. Gauzy candlelight played across her sleep-rumpled cloak as she swept her arm from side to side. It took Lurien a moment to realize that she was at his easel. Images of torn canvas and snapped brushes flashed through his mind.
"W-What are you doing, child?" Lurien asked. He deposited the girl's breakfast on a side table and hastened over.
Hornet spun, loosing a hail of color.
On reflex, Lurien shielded the Vessel. Blues and yellows splattered his robes.
"Painting!" Hornet exclaimed. She extended her arm, displaying her pallet and pigment-stained claw.
As he dripped, Lurien held very still. He took a deep breath and reminded himself of his civility. "So you are."
Hornet lowered her arms. A purple glob struck the floor. "Oh, sorry, I—"
Lurien raised a claw to hush her. "I will be back shortly. Your breakfast is on the table. Do be careful with the paint."
"Right, okay. Sorry."
After a quick change, Lurien returned to the common room to find Hornet already well into her meal. She scooped at the shredded vegetables and stared out the window.
"It was just sitting there," she said to the Vessel, "so empty and boring. And the paint was right beside it! I just had to. Do you think he's mad?"
The Vessel offered no counsel, its intent set on what she had made.
Lurien was about to announce himself but instead followed the Vessel's eyes.
Hornet's work was… good. It shook Lurien, so much that he halted some paces off.
It depicted the Spire, viewed from afar at a low angle that accentuated the enormity. A thoroughfare—the same that Hornet had walked the night before—crawled infinitesimally toward the pinpoint of the Spire's door. But this was not the focus of the painting, merely a tool of scale, for above it hung not the cavern ceiling, but a sprawl of stars. They mingled and whirled, melting together into a slurry of color over a blanket of black. And amidst it all was one long, yellow streak.
His mark, he realized. This was the very same canvas he'd marred.
How had this girl stolen his vision? When had she seen the stars?
"Who taught you this?" Lurien blurted.
Hornet flinched and turned. "What?"
"Who taught you to paint?"
All she offered was a blank stare.
"The implementation of negative space, the expression of depth, the adherence to proportion, the-the-the sky. How?"
Hornet stifled a giggle. "Nobody taught me. I just," She skimmed her claw through the air, "did it—traced the picture in my head. Isn't that what you do?"
"Were it so easy," Lurien muttered, striding over.
Hornet shoveled down the remains of her meal and hopped up. She shadowed Lurien as he inspected the painting up close.
"Is it good?" she asked. "I thought it was pretty good."
Something cutting and small rose in Lurien. It informed him of every trifling error within the piece, the occasional incongruence of color, the blotches of excessive paint. He almost voiced this but caught himself mid-breath.
"Yes," Lurien confessed. "It is a marvelous work. Well done, child."
Hornet hooked her claws behind her back and swayed, savoring the praise, though remaining quiet.
They observed the painting—together there in the rain-patter—for some time, far longer than Lurien thought Hornet capable.
"I'm glad you think so," she eventually said. "If you do, then it must be good." She waved at Lurien's other pieces, the rambling cityscapes, the modest still life, the stray portraits. "You've been doing this for a long time, huh?"
"I suppose I have," Lurien said.
At that, Hornet brought the moment to a close. She wiped the paint and vegetable scraps from her claws before turning away as though the whole of the gallery had ceased to exist.
"So," she said, "what are we doing today?"
Lurien cleared his throat—if for no other reason than to collect himself. It hadn't occurred to him to pen a schedule for the children, though now that the question had been raised, the encroaching week spread out before him like an uninhabitable waste. "Well, the amenities of the Spire are available to you. Though perhaps not as grand as the Pale Court, you will find a plethora of diversions here."
Hornet crossed her arms. "Okay, like what?"
"There is a music lounge on the sixth floor."
"We did that yesterday."
"A sparring chamber on the fifth."
"I'm still a little tired."
"Another art gallery on the second."
"No more paintings today."
"A garden on the eight."
"Maybe later."
"Very well," Lurien said through a long exhale. "Does something else intrigue you?"
"The library looked fun."
"Yes, last night you seemed to quite enjoy careening from rack to rack like a careless gruz. However, the library is for enlightenment, not roughhousing. You will not be repeating that."
"I know, I meant for reading."
Lurien paused. "Can you?"
Hornet jerked as though she'd sat on a thorn. "Of course I can read! I'm not a baby! I know Deep-script and City-script. I can even do some symbols!"
Lurien adjusted his mask and recalculated. For some reason that he could not place, the girl's literacy had not been a possibility in his mind. "I see…"
"I can prove it!" Hornet said, as though he'd just refuted her. "Come on."
The library bore a different aura than it had the night before. Gone was the stillness, replaced with an even tide of whispers and rustling silk. Bugs of all sorts perused the collection: scholars and dilettantes, nobles and commoners. They were monk-like in their reverence, every lifted scroll an irreplaceable treasure.
Lurien was not averse to this facet of the library. He enjoyed his peace, certainly, but there was something sublime in this collective pursuit of knowledge.
He and Monomon shared that opinion, at least.
Hornet led Lurien and the Vessel through the maze of shelves, blurting out every sign she encountered.
"History! Nailfighting! Arc-Architecture! Soul, uh, Soul tra… trans…"
"Transfiguration."
"Transfiguration!"
Lurien touched Hornet's shoulder, bringing her to a stop. "You have made your point, child. I see that you are indeed an adept reader. The Lady has done a fine job instructing you."
Hornet gave him a hard look. "The Lady didn't teach me, the Weavers did."
"Is that so? I had not expected the Weavers to be the academic sort."
Hornet broke the gaze, finding interest in the floor. "Just because we're from Deepnest doesn't mean we're dumb."
Lurien retracted his claw. "I-I was not implying that, merely—" But he could not continue, for it would only be a lie.
"Beasts can be smart too," Hornet murmured. "My mother is very smart."
Lurien thought to redirect, distract from this suddenly grim subject by bringing up an extraneous fact about the library. But that was cowardice. He knew that much. Lurien squared his shoulders. "You make a sound argument, Hornet. As a subject of Hallownest, I too often dismiss the other kingdoms. Please forgive my presumption."
Hornet let his words settle then lifted her head. "That's okay," she said, and then with a defiant cheer, "So, what should we read first?"
Lurien sat in a luxuriant chair at the heart of the library. Scrolls on tax code and legal procedure overflowed from his lap, onto the low reading tables and inevitably to the floor. His eye burned. He'd been at this task for only a few hours, but already he was nearing his limit. Of all his duties as Watcher, he counted this among the most miserable.
Beside Lurien, seated cross-legged at a table of their own, were Hornet and the Vessel. A single, enormous map depicting Hallownest and the lands beyond was unfurled before them. Hornet pored over the map, tracing the tangled stagways, whispering the names of the stations.
"It's so big," she said, her awe almost comical.
"The map?" Lurien asked.
"No, the world. Down in Deepnest, the Weavers have a library. It's much smaller than this one. They have a map there too, but it only shows Deepnest. When I was small, I used to think Deepnest was all there was."
"What you see of this map is but a fraction of a fraction. Beyond our kingdom lies Pharloom, beyond that the Land of Storms, and beyond that more still. The likes one could not walk in a hundred lifetimes."
Hornet turned herself about without rising. Elbows on knees, claws on chin, she regarded him. "Have you ever been to those places?"
"Some. Many years ago."
Lurien thought he spied something like esteem in Hornet's look. But he returned to his work.
In the ensuing hours, Hornet roamed the library with the Vessel in tow, always returning after a time with another scroll of interest. Her tastes proved surprisingly eclectic: nailsmithing, spelunking, musical theory. Lurien wondered how much she retained, as some of the scrolls were quite advanced. Periodically, she read aloud to the Vessel in a slow, authoritative voice.
If the Vessel found pleasure in this, it did not show it.
During the spans in which Lurien found himself alone, he slipped a tablet out from beneath his chair. It was an old shell, heavy and chiseled—not painted as was the modern custom. He nestled it within the folds of a scroll to keep any passersby from catching a glimpse. He didn't want anyone thinking that he spent his leisure time reading children's stories, after all.
Lurien scoured the oversized script but he noted no mention of a Weaverling and a bell, a very hungry grub, or three little funglings. He had not been able to find any other tablets on children's stories. This was either an incomplete record, or Hornet's preferred bedtime fare was not common in Hallownest. Perhaps they were Deepnest-specific. Should he look for a scroll on Deepnest customs instead?
Before he could decide, a bell tolled: three precise notes that played off the high ceilings and pillars. Lurien—and all others familiar with the bell's significance—perked up, anticipating.
"Attention bugs of the Spire," called a raspy, far-off tenor. "Presenting the Minister of the Sanctum, Molder of the Immaterial, and Scholar Supreme, his lordship Soul Master!"
Lurien cursed and shot to his feet. He left his chair and the tumble of scrolls behind, searching for a vantage point. He found a bench to stand upon, and no sooner did he rise than the hovering figure of Soul Master came into view.
Atop the landing before the main entrance, a bell-wielding attendant seemed to be in discourse with Soul Master. The attendant bowed and gestured—primarily toward the door. Soul Master lifted his chin and sent a jolt of Soul through his cloak, making it ripple ominously. The attendant stepped back, and Soul Master drifted into the library.
Every time Lurien spied Soul Master, he could not shake the likeness to a Fungoon: overblown, buoyed by hot air, prone to spew noxious gas at anyone in range. Lurien stepped down from the bench and straightened his robes. It appeared that written refusals were no longer sufficient. It was time for a verbal one.
Lurien set what he hoped to be an intercept course on Soul Master. He rounded a corner, and to his surprise, stumbled upon Belvedere, humming to himself and rearranging a rack of scrolls. Upon seeing Lurien, Belvedere froze, then made a show of deliberating over the two scrolls in his claws.
"A f-fine day to you Watcher," he said. "I heeded your advice. Nothing like a good scroll to relax the mind. Though, I cannot seem to decide between—" he peered at the titles, "Mycology Volume Four, and… Theater for Beginners? What is this doing outside of the entertainment section?"
Having no time, Lurien brushed past Belvedere. "I would recommend theater. Your acting leaves much to be desired."
Belvedere made an anxious noise and set the scrolls aside before hastening after him. "Do you intend to speak with our uninvited guest?"
"That is my responsibility," Lurien replied. "If any must endure his hectoring, it is me."
"Is this visit regarding his previous requests?"
"I can imagine nothing else, given how that one fixates."
"Do you require assistance?" Belvedere asked.
Lurien considered the offer. Having an ally at his side would certainly be welcome if the exchange grew heated, but this was the furthest thing from leisure Lurien could imagine. Yet, Belvedere had shown no interest in heeding his order anyway…
"No," Lurien said, "enjoy your scroll."
"Very well, Watcher," Belvedere murmured.
Author's Note: Half a year rolls by again (and still no Silksong news *ahem*). Thanks for making it this far! I hope you're all doing well despite everything. Quarantine has been hard... This chapter is meant to offset that, even if just the slightest bit.
If you're feeling chatty, then throw me some feedback. I enjoy all kinds, but critical feedback is the most helpful.
Take care :)
