“And Calepia, the first daughter?”
“Prince Calepia, or Lady Calepia.” Charm answered casually, knowing the answers, but willing to practice so the titles became a part of his inner nature and thus instinctual. His aunt continued her inquiries as their barge sailed toward the bend in the river that would reveal Lionis to them, and them to Lionis.
The barge was painted in stripes of green, blue, and teal, with perpendicular lines of scalding red, and the massive square sails were dyed in sunbursts of the same red, yellow, and royal silver. Just large enough for Charm and his retinue, it was not made for long sea voyages, and Charm had boarded off the coast of Ispania, where the barge made its home in a port belonging to his mother’s-mother. His ship from Es Iniphet Es had been both faster and more grand than this, but unsuited to making the river voyage to the Aremore capital itself.
Charm was eager. To see Celedrix, with whom Charm had not shared drink in three years, and her third-daughter Tigirsenna. He himself had been twenty-two when Moon And Shadow sent for her daughter to come to her distant Aremore home, and Kitty-Cat had been a small warrior of nine. In the intervening time, Charm expected Kitty-Cat to have grown perhaps to be as tall as Charm, for her father was a huge man of Siss-il Queen called Mountain Shadow.
“I see you bouncing on your toes,” Aunt Elodisil chided, but with a smile in her voice.
“I miss Tigir.”
“Lady Tigir.”
“Not to me, surely, mother’s-sister.”
Elodisil inclined her head to indicate her lack of agreement but willingness to let it be what it would be.
Behind Charm, sailors were calling to one another in singsong prayers, to hold the correct rhythm for maneuvering the sails as they bent into the wind to approach Lionis. Charm gave up propriety and dashed to the front of the barge. He gripped the front beam that curved up from the prow into a sun spiral. The wind hit him full in the face, and Charm laughed, offering the sound to the warm, wet breeze. He was a handsome young man with the deep brown skin of the oldest daughters of God and coronal hair which was a mark of his royal status: it grew thickly around his head in a perfect sphere, as if his face were the sun, and it hardly needed shaping razors. For the trip to Aremoria it had been trimmed to a mere few fingers off his skull in deference to the climate. He needed to be able to tend it with only his own hands and those of his two body ministers. The elaborate spike and sun-ray styles of men in the palace at Es Iniphet Es would be beyond him for the time being, though perhaps in years ahead, when he was king of Aremoria, Charm would introduce such fashions to Lionis. If limp Aremore hair could not maintain the glory of a corona, perhaps he would usher in a time of innovation.
Because he was of the daughter-line of the Great Mother of God’s Third Philosophy, Charm did not wear a godscarf as did so many of his neighbors and desert family. God’s radiance could shine upon him freely, without need of the prayers woven into the godscarves to mediate. Instead, he wore gold and copper plates against his neck and collar and silver paint on the lids of his eyes and in a single line that began at his bottom lip and traced over his chin, down his throat, and along his sternum, connecting his words with his heart. His sleeveless robe was vivid scarlet and buttoned with mother-of-pearl latches at his navel, falling down to his knees. Beneath the fine linen, his calves and knees and lower thighs were wrapped with loose hose that tied to a belt he wore at his waist. Sandals with a curved toe protected the soles of his feet and little else. Charm’s heavily muscled brown arms were encircled by a variety of copper, silver, and iron bracelets. It all left much of his skin open to the sun, and his rear and sex organs easily bared, for convenience and the sake of the heat of the desert.
Charm was not anticipating the necessity of Aremore trousers—or the Aremore winter—with any pleasure at all.
His aunt Elodisil wore local fashion already, as she had visited before and become enamored with the layered, soft gowns these rich women wore. Except for her lapis-and-gold hairpiece, equally dark skin, and round brown eyes that matched her sister’s-first-son’s in warmth, she might have been an Aremore royal. Charm took after his mother’s-sister in the shape of his spreading cheekbones, his great crescent smile, and the keen humor for which he wielded that smile. If anyone, it was frequently said in the Hall of the Sky’s Dominance in Es Iniphet Es, could win the heart of an Aremore princess and rule those cold people without losing the thread of the Luminous in his spirit, it was Echarmet of Kurake Queen.
As the white shine of Lionis peeked around the grassy bluff banking the river, Phetira of God came up to Charm’s side and touched his shoulder. “Ah,” she said, a soft prayerful gasp that invoked so many things outside of language.
Charm found her hand with his and squeezed it briefly, then let go. Luminous Phetira was to be touched, never held. He parted his lips to breathe respectfully in her presence, and Elodisil did the same.
Thus did he take his first glimpse of Celedrix’s capital city.
Lionis unfurled itself up both steep sides of the river, limestone buildings stacked against one another like the inside of a beehive. Here and there the intricate streets broadened into avenues where Charm spied the glint of water from fountains and patches of green-and-yellow trees. Near the docks and along the western bank the buildings leaned too near, crushing streets into alleys where the sun never shone. Charm was delighted by the uniform glow; in Es Iniphet Es individual houses were painted in all the colors of the sea and sky, with sun-colors marking the palaces and royal buildings. Only the temples were white like this, and so to him it seemed the entire Aremore city had been built to reflect the Luminous.
Charm’s heart knocked like the tolling bells to mark sunrise, and he knew he had made the right choice all those years ago when Moon And Shadow had promised, “One day I will send for you, my friend and son.” Charm had removed the cuff of silver and lapis from his wrist and given it to her, swearing he would answer the call. His middle youth had been spent listening to her tales of Aremoria, her stories of knights and dragons, of political games, war, sex, and of neighboring Innis Lear, with its terrible magic that made the land itself speak. Charm had known her tales to be exaggerated legends, but he’d also known that in Aremoria men could become kings.
It had tempted him, and Charm was not ashamed to admit so. His birth to the Kurake Queens made him royal, but his cousin would be the Great Mother after his mother’s-mother Elophet, and the best Charm could aspire to would be to Father the children of a cousin Queen’s daughter-line. He was a warrior, blood marked and carrying the shadow of war in his spirit as of two springs ago; he was smart and attractive, and he made friends with ease.
But having been born so near the glory of God, it became necessary to travel farther from home to find a path of challenge to climb.
CHARM AND HIS party were greeted by Enai of Siss-il Queen, appointed ambassador to the queen of Aremoria, and removed from the crowded docks via enclosed wagons pulled by teams of horses. His ministers and baggage would follow shortly. Though he preferred to travel openly and view the city from its arteries and internal organs, Charm understood Enai’s request that they not be seen until their audience with the queen and her family that evening. First they headed to the ambassador’s private residence in the neighborhood of traders, and once they’d rested, bathed, and clothed themselves in the finery appropriate to presenting themselves to Celedrix, Enai would escort them up the broad avenue to Lionis Palace.
And so Charm’s first impressions of the capital were only the smells and sounds that penetrated the heavy canvas roof of Enai’s wagon. Fire smoke and human waste dominated, though along one street he smelled salted meat and boiling vegetation, and along another the air opened up into a lush and layered scent-prayer and Enai claimed they were passing through a district of parks and gardens maintained by the merchants of the city. Charm longed to push open the rear flap and observe the flowers and trees Enai said were so full they could be shaped like coronal hair. Charm laughe
d in delight and made a poem to the Sculpted Trees of Lionis.
Upon arrival at Enai’s residence, he was inundated by smiles and welcome from Enai’s household. Charm gave them a traditional prayer greeting, lifting his palm to the afternoon sun as if to catch hold of the light and spread it to his fellows. Then he, Elodisil, and Luminous Phetira were ushered in through a peristyle courtyard reminiscent of First Revelation palaces, through a tiled hallway, and separated so that the Mothers could bathe without Charm. Though Phetira was not a Mother, she was Luminous and it was right she go with Elodisil.
The bathhouse prepared for Charm was not empty.
He ducked beneath a luxuriously draped curtain covering the archway and heard the splash of water.
“Echarmet!” called a long-beloved voice.
Charm grinned and launched himself fully clothed into the shallow rinsing pool to embrace Tigirsenna of Celeda Queen. “Kitty-Cat,” he cried happily. In the privacy of the bathhouse there was no need to hide brotherly enthusiasm behind propriety.
Tigir groaned, embracing him with arms grown more muscular.
The two fell laughingly into the water, and if there’d been wrestling, Charm might’ve lost despite experience and wisdom, for his robes, leggings, and bracelets tripped him and weighed him down.
“Let me look at you,” Charm said to Tigir, shoving her away and going to perch on the smooth stone edge of the pool. He began to strip off his bracelets one at a time and hand them to a minister of Enai’s household who appeared with a resting dish for them.
Tigir was still skinny as a night lemur, though she was coming into womanhood: muscles bunched along her arms and thighs, and though her stomach had gained some softness she still had no waist at all. Heat and steam had flushed the girl’s dusky cheeks to a pleasing red-brown, and her lush black curls had fluffed to twice their usual size. Back at home, Tigir had been a favorite of Kurake Queen’s ministers for how easily they could use hot irons to shape her hair into heavy ringlets, like spiraled iron shavings. It was shorter now, the frizzed curls dragging only just past her chin.
As Charm studied her, Tigir held out her arms and turned to show off the line of her back and muscled buttocks and thighs, then with a great laugh she flung herself backward into the shallow pool. It threw up a massive splash, and the ministers murmured in either displeasure or reluctant amusement.
Charm finished divesting himself of ornamentation and peeled his wet robe off his shoulders, then allowed an attendant to help with his belt and leggings and to fit a cap over his corona before he joined Tigir stretched out in the middle of the pool.
The bathing room was enclosed on all sides, with stone floors surrounding the pool and shelves built into the walls. This rinsing pool might comfortably hold ten men and girls, and beyond were two smaller pools; one heated with pipes and technology imported from home, the other deep and cool, and easily drained and replenished. Charm moved there quickly and took a proffered dish of soap scrub. He used it to remove sweat and salt spray from the distant ocean, and several days’ worth of sailing from Ispania. Then he accepted a small towel to wipe the dregs away, and climbed out to sink into the heated pool. It was not nearly as hot as could be maintained in Es Iniphet Es, but it would do. A minister slid a cylindrical pillow under his head as he leaned back into the seat carved into the side.
“That scar, where did you get it?” Tigir slid into the heated pool, sloshing the water only slightly.
Charm didn’t have to open his eyes to know which scar she meant: there was only one severe battle wound; the rest of his scars were rank marks from his years in the army. A circle against his right clavicle for commission, with three sun-rays showing the number of companies he’d commanded. “The Battle of Two Canyons,” he told Tigir.
“I heard of that from Enai. He said you saved your father’s-second-brother’s life.”
Charm nodded but added nothing. He did not like to put the memories into words. Naming the colors, the movements, the danger and pain solidified them again in his dreams. Let Tigir—or anyone—think him humble in his heroism.
They were offered cups of cold wine, and Charm hummed in pleasure at the tart flavor. He’d been hearing of Aremore wine his entire life, but rarely tasted it at home. Tigir drank half her own down fast.
“Tell me about your mother’s-first-daughter. Calepia,” Charm said.
“She’ll love you better if you call her Hal.”
“Hal, then. Yes.”
Tigir twisted her lips and stared at Charm, clearly thinking too hard about what to say next.
“Let the flood come, Kitty-Cat.”
With a scowl, Tigir said, “It might be all the love you can get from her, Charm.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re …”
Charm waited.
“My mother will murder me for warning you.”
“I’m certain Moon And Shadow would wish me to enter into what situation there is fully informed, so that I can plan accordingly.”
Tigir’s scowl turned into a half grin. “You sound like her.”
Realizing they’d been speaking in the Mother-tongue, Charm switched to Aremore. He needed the continued practice. “Then proceed, Kitty-Cat.”
“If you swear not to call me that in front of my sisters.”
Charm pretended to consider it.
Tigir shoved water at him, and Charm laughed.
“Very well, Tigir, very well.”
“So!” Tigir leaned in, as if to impart a great secret, but her voice did not lower. Whatever confession Charm was about to hear, it was not unknown to Lionis. Charm began to relax. He already was aware Prince Calepia had a wild reputation, and visited the poorer neighborhoods, spending her time with disreputable folk. Charm was reluctant to condemn her for it without discovering the reason. Charity was God’s work, and he imagined a queen only grew stronger by meeting and understanding the lowest of her people.
Tigir said, “All Hal’s lovers have been women. She has no …” The girl changed back to the Mother-tongue. “… No Mother-desire. Only the lust-of-reflection.”
Charm found himself speechless. It was not a challenge he’d thought to face. The lust-of-reflection was understandable, and most experienced it, of course, but in addition to Mother-desire, as part of a blessed whole. For a first-daughter to have no Mother-desire at all was a disaster for her line.
“I know,” Tigir continued, finally lowering her voice. She patted Charm’s shoulder in commiseration. “But perhaps she’s only not met the right man.”
It took a great amount of hard-earned self-control for Charm not to roll his eyes at the naive suggestion. He knew people were as they were when it came to such things.
Charm pulled himself steaming from the heated pool and offered Tigir a confident smile, belying the uncertainty in his spirit.
After all, he hadn’t come to Aremoria to seduce a prince, but to challenge his ambitions.
CONNLEY
Southern Innis Lear, early autumn
THE SETTING SUN stared back at Connley Errigal, daring him to make his decision. In the east, over distant Aremoria, the moon would be rising.
Tonight was the full moon just before the autumnal equinox. A most opportune moment to act, at a time of perfect balance. A boat waited, packed with a few supplies, and exactly as the sun touched the western horizon and the moon reached up into the east, Connley would step off of Innis Lear and into the waters caging it.
Possibly it would kill him.
My son, my son, whispered the wind, and not just any wind, but the longing voice of the Ashling Lady.
Connley stared at a spot just over the sun, unblinking, until his eyes watered. He did not respond to his lady, for all that he loved her. If he spoke, he might remain, and if he remained now on Innis Lear, he would root into the very bedrock, unable to move, until he died. There would be no freedom in it, trapped in a stillness: his blood required movement.
Moments. New moments.
my son my son my
I won’t stay away forever, he promised, his back to the raw, shadowed island. This cove allowed him a view of the farthest curve of horizon, all ocean, waves flickering with sunlight as the golden rays touched every ripple. At the very least, Connley would need to return before the Longest Night, before any hemlock queen died.
my son my son
He glanced east, where the moon would rise over Aremoria, land of rich fields and old, happy forests. That moon would rise, a ball of silver, over the kingdom of his destiny, over the castle where perhaps even now Hotspur Persy awaited him. The Wolf of Aremoria. It sounded like a saint’s tale, and a good one, at that: the wolf and the witch. A story with danger and unexpected love. The witch pulls a thorn from the wolf’s paw, the wolf turns into a prince on the Longest Night, they go on a quest, they save each other before the end. Sometimes one of them dies.
Connley’s heart raced. He did not know how to be a husband, let alone an Aremore one, nor a political pawn. He only knew how to be a witch, and a son of magic. He—
Ash, I’ll come home, Connley swore.
When the full sphere of the sun glanced against the blur of the gilded sea, he shoved his boat off the shore. Wind gusted hard at him, a wail, and tears touched his cheeks as he dashed through the shallows and with a single heave, leapt toward his future and the darkening night.
THE GHOST HELD on to the abyss inside her.
Lady Hotspur Page 30
