Chapter 8 – The Growth of Trees #6
“There will be many new trees, Your Grace,” Sousten said reassuringly, snapping his fingers again.
His assistants rifled rapidly through the parchments to produce the one he desired.
“Ornamental trees from all over the Empire. Here, plum and cherry, very beautiful in the spring, with maples for color in autumn…”
She nodded and said nothing more, her hand resting lightly on Remin’s arm as they moved through the rest of the grounds.
But he could see the busy mind working away behind her great eyes, solemnly absorbing it all, and he wondered irritably why she never just said them, all those thousands of thoughts.
He had never met anyone who thought so much and said so little.
At the crest of the hill, they came to another stop. Sousten Didion had saved the best for last.
The house.
They had already discussed it endlessly, wrangling over it in person and through messages for over a year.
They had shouted. Sousten had quit twice.
He had designed a dozen different manors, each more beautiful than the last, and Remin had rejected them all.
The last time, Sousten had thrown a tantrum and tore up the design, then disappeared for a week-long bender through the taverns of Segoile.
When he sobered up, he reappeared and began barraging Remin with questions, even consulting Tounot and Juste at various points. Materials, colors, even the shape of the shingles, he had worked for months to extract even the dimmest and foggiest memories.
This was the result.
“It’s Tressin,” Juste whispered, and Remin nodded. He couldn’t speak.
That was his home.
Not a perfect reproduction, of course. Remin was eight years old when the Emperor burned down the ancient seat of his House, and there was so much he couldn’t remember.
But he recognized the angled towers and deep windows, the rounded rooftop over the main house, the majestic entryway with its wide steps and four tall pillars.
“You…like it?” Sousten asked warily.
“Yes.” Remin’s throat was tight. He probably ought to have warned Juste; Juste had been born there too, and had seen that ancient and beautiful house burn.
His family had been executed alongside Remin’s.
Tounot had come to foster every summer, and he and Remin had climbed every stair and garret of that old place.
Remin could see in his friend’s eyes that it was right.
“Tressin?” The princess echoed, glancing between them, and then her face paled. “That…that was your home, wasn’t it? The seat of House…your family’s House.”
“It was,” Remin said, filled with a grief that was so great, he could say nothing more.
Wisely, Sousten suggested that they postpone further discussion for another day, to give everyone time to absorb the current plans.
But Remin found himself returning often to look at the hilltops again, following the game trail that would one day be a riding path, or walking up the wider lane that would become a road.
He had fought a war for this place, he could remember every terrifying, horrifying, exhausting moment he had endured to get here, and now he could hardly believe that it would really be his.
And as he rode, he found himself remembering what the princess had said.
Trees take a long time to grow. They did.
Remin slid off his warhorse to look at the monster oak near the top of the hill, the widest tree he had ever seen.
It had to be centuries old, maybe even millennia.
Oaks could live that long, couldn’t they?
This oak might have been alive when his House was established, eleven hundred years ago. Wouldn’t that be something?
A tree like this couldn’t be imported, like one of Sousten’s ornamental plums. It couldn’t be bought for any price.
Was that what the princess had meant? All of these trees were old growth forest. Who knew how old?
Might there not be other trees as ancient here?
Or others equally beautiful in their gnarled and grand old age?
The next morning, he slipped quietly into the cottage in the gray light of dawn to look at the princess, sleeping in her usual place in the center of the bed, curled up small around a pillow.
All by themselves, his fingers reached to stroke her soft hair.
He liked the thought that trees took a long time to grow.
He liked that she would think of such a thing.
That same day, he went to talk to Sousten.
“Leave the trees,” he said, ducking through the low door of the architect’s cottage. “You can clear out the ones that are in the way of the house, or some other necessary structure, but try to include the rest in the gardens.”
“But these are formal gardens, Your Grace,” Sousten protested. “A lot of old, wild forest will quite spoil the sightlines. The fashion in the capital—”
“This is Tresingale,” Remin said firmly. “It is old, and wild. And you can’t buy a thousand year-old oak.”
Sousten’s mouth shut and his eyes turned thoughtful as the idea struck true, and lingered.