Dream d1726-s: Mist at the Rim

I had a dream where...

I had a dream where the road bent wide around a stand of river willows and Quillhush came into view through a curtain of drifting mist, its silhouette low and ragged against the pale evening sky.

No lights. Not a single lamp in any window, not a lantern hung at the gate. The walls stood, mostly - a crumbled parapet at the north end where something old had given way - but the structure held its shape like a thought someone had nearly finished. I opened the book of readings and wrote: arrival hour, no illumination. Gate upright. Banners present.

The banners were the strangest thing. Two of them, weathered to near-white, stirring in the mist-laden air as if the place still expected visitors.

"Pressure's low," the Weather Reader said, not to anyone in particular, tapping the face of her barometric instrument. "Not storm-low. More like a room where no one's opened a window in some time."

Rurik went ahead. He always does - not bravely, but because he reads the threshold before we cross it, sniffing the air with the patience of someone consulting an index. He sat at the gate for a long moment, amber eyes going still, then stepped through. Permission granted, or at least no warning given.

Lano followed close at my heel, her nose working hard. Near the gate post she stopped, stared at something in the long grass - a trowel, handle-up, as though set down mid-task and forgotten. She sniffed it once and looked back at me.

"Tools left out," the Builder said, already crouching beside it. She ran a thumb along the blade. "Not rust-bad. Recent enough." She set it carefully against the post and stood, scanning the courtyard with that particular stillness she gets when she's reading load-paths. "The main hall is sound. Whatever left this place dark, it wasn't collapse."

We found a room near the east wall that still had a roof and took it for the night. There was a hearth, cold but intact, and the Builder had a small fire going in the time it took me to record the first impressions. The Weather Reader hung her instruments from a hook near the window, where she could read them by first light.

Rurik sat at the room's threshold - not inside, not outside. Marking it.

"Tomorrow we read the place properly," I said.

Lano curled against my side, her warmth small and certain. Outside, the mist moved through the courtyard in slow drifts, and Quillhush was quiet, and the quietness had texture to it, and I was already learning to listen.