Lords of Rainbow

by Vera Nazarian

  “No, actually I didn’t know,” said Elasand softly.

  For, I myself have been too absentminded, too much immersed in violet dreams. . . .

  “In any case,” Elasand continued, “I am here now. And I will see to it that my Audience with the Regents will perform the necessary function.”

  “You do that, Elasand-re,” said the blond man quietly.

  Elasand threw him a look of utter blankness.

  The metallic grizzled sunset had, in that instant, died out. Twilight came to swallow the chamber, for a span of heartbeats, before true black of night.

  Then, out of the darkness, swelled three orbs of color. Slowly they bloomed from a bare flicker of the moon’s shadow, to a livid candescence, to a full marvelous monochrome light that bordered on yellow, blue and orange from the three different sources. So pale it was, so unsaturated, that to most this was considered nearly perfect white. Naturally, such supreme workmanship could only be found here, in the heart of the Light Guild.

  A pause came, which they weathered by contemplating the blooming of the orbs. A small innocent distraction.

  “I must be on my way then,” said Elasand. “I haven’t eaten and I am tired. We’ve arrived just this afternoon, and I still owe my Beis kinfolk the duty of a guardian for the remainder of the evening.”

  “I’ve heard a Wedding is in the works,” said the Guildmaster of the Assassin Guild, smiling that faint infernal smile—infernally infuriating to Elasand, that is. “My congratulations to your lovely cousin Lady Lixa,” he added. “You must invite me to the Ceremony and let me nuzzle the Bride before she is locked away forever by that stuffy Daqua. Lixa has the freshest cheeks, the palest throat—”

  “How the hell do you know Lixa?” said Elasand darkly but with bland control.

  “How the hell do I know her? Why, the way I know all things. Ask me a better question than that, Elasand-re.”

  “I will not bother to insist you keep away from her,” said Elasand with a shrewd semblance of indifference. “You may have her followed and watched all you like, of course. None of it matters. Simply remember that she is not significant enough to be a cause of your possible compromise. Keep that in mind, my lord.”

  In response came deep laughter. “Do not fear on her account,” he said then, quieting down. “I have no desire or care to pursue your pale cousin, my friend. You have my assurance on that. I merely wanted to hear that telltale stiffness in your voice when you are worried. For, I know you too well. And despite what you think, I rather missed not having you here in the City.”

  “Then don’t push it,” said Lord Vaeste.

  The lazy half-lidded eyes watched him.

  “My lords, shall we go our ways, then?” said the Lord Chancellor.

  Bathed in bright pasted-on color light, the three men proceeded to exit the chamber.

  As they did thus, the one of the three who was the Guildmaster of the Light Guild closed and locked the door to the room behind them.

  * * *

  The philosopher awoke with a start, feeling the cool breeze of evening, hearing the ghostly lull of the gardens about him. One last piercing sunray fell upon the smooth pool, and shattered the peace of the water’s surface. When it dispersed, there was only dusk.

  The two swans had gone. It was time for him to go also, for somewhere in the City, beyond the Outer Gardens of Dirvan, hot dinner awaited.

  He had been contemplating the divine concepts of Rainbow, and somehow must’ve lost track of time.

  What nonsense! the philosopher realized then, rubbing his temples, and stretching himself. What sheer absolute nonsense have I concocted today, with my lazy thoughts. My meditation on the Twelve Postulates was worthy of a drunken shopkeeper in the Markets! As always, the truth, the real truth eludes me. Alas! Rainbow remains, as always, just a little beyond my reach.

  And thinking that, he yawned deeply, gathered up his meditation rug, and proceeded along a narrow garden path.

  In his place gathered twilight.

  * * *

  Like a whisper, a soft effervescent memory of violet. And then she was awake. . . .

  Ranhéas Ylir woke up with sharp infant blades of sun striking across her closed eyelids, a fresh breath of air. From a great distance, like a faraway ocean, hummed the City.

  She stretched, experienced the fine silk of the great canopied guest-bed around her, and remembered. She was in the lotus-womb of the Beis Villa.

  Last night, after finally arriving at the Beis estate in Dirvan, the two noblewomen immediately retired upstairs to rest and concern themselves with the impending Wedding. So profoundly were they disturbed by the second, although accidental, attempt upon Elasand’s life, this time in front of the City House, that they refused dinner in the grand hall.

  Ranhé was left to eat alone. Lord Elasand Vaeste, his face unreadable, excused himself. He informed her that she was to remain here while he had some urgent business to attend to.

  “Don’t wait for me. I’ll return very late,” he said, while the metallic sun of early monochrome evening shone from a striking angle upon his face and was absorbed by the fathomless dark of his hair.

  “My lord, what of my bodyguard duties—” she began, then saw the impatience in his eyes, and knew his mood instinctively.

  “Your duties begin early tomorrow. For now, I simply entrust my female relations in your care. Be sure they’re not abducted by wild swans from under their own roof.”

  He smiled lightly, and was gone. She allowed her thoughts to dwell on that delicate smile.

  She knew he did not fully trust her, not yet.

  Ranhé had a meal alone, while the twilight gathered, in an opulent chamber given her. She thought with a faint smile of her horse in an equally fine stable for the night, eating expensive City oats. How well indeed they were both stabled.

  She watched the last of the burning gray sunset from the arched windows outside. Just before the absolute black of night slammed down upon the world, from outside came delicate birdsong, and a cooling breeze, flavored with faint perfume of the gardens of the Villa, of Dirvan itself. Jasmine and lilac, seeping from the pores of darkness. And she knew she was in the gilded cradle of this marvel-City, as she drifted off to sleep, driven by a combination of a racing heart, shaken nerves, and exhaustion.

  Before sleep swindled her at last, she saw, in the haze of her mind, meandering rivers of song, and from a distance, spreading violet. . . .

  When Ranhé woke up, it was to that infernal sun upon her eyelids.

  It was late morning, and she’d always preferred the night. Usually, other stimuli were required to waken her—a sense of troublesome duty, an impending task, a loud voice.

  For some reason she had expected a summons from him.

  No summons had come, and so she lingered.

  Eventually, the very laziness of the time, of her own relaxation, shocked her at last, so that she panicked, jumping up from her overly luxurious bed, and found her own clothes missing. Invisible servants had come soundlessly to remove her travel-stained attire, and in its place she saw a new outfit laid out. Dark, elegant, they were the jacket and trousers of a man, with an air of Court.

  Ranhé held up the clothing before her. It suited her fancy perfectly, if not her actual frame. Ranhé was thin, but very large-boned and unexpectedly tall for a woman. Whoever had chosen this outfit—Elas himself?—had underestimated her physically, but correctly read her spirit.

  She could disguise the fact that the trousers were too short by a tall pair of black lacquer boots that also fit her a bit too snugly. However, the silk shirtsleeves were obviously unacceptable, despite their appeal of fine antique cuff-links of gray gold.

  She held the shirt up against her arms and wide shoulders, and imagined how—even though she would bind herself with a breast cloth—with one careless move she would rip the delicate seams at the shoulder, and burst the buttons on her chest. It was a humorous thought. She eventually summoned a servant who remedied the
situation by providing her with a larger size.

  While she waited for the replacement clothing, Ranhé went to the bath chamber adjacent to her bedchamber. There, she lingered somewhat unusually at her toilette, standing long in the warm cascading shower that only fine Villas had to offer. Silver water rained around her, struck the pale marble tiles of the bathing chamber, sputtering and dancing in a whirlpool around the bubbling artery of the sparkling metallic drain. She washed her long hair, wringing it eventually, and without letting it dry, gathered it behind her into a tight, neat, masculine braid-tail.

  She then stood before the smooth ebony glass surface of the tall mirror, and observed herself, the pale nudity of her strong body, covered more than normal with dark body hair—legs, crotch, stomach, arms, breasts. Leaning closer, she ran her fingers over her chin, and observed closer the facial hair there also. Soon, she would have to remove it, before it became too striking for a woman’s face.

  She hated the hair. It was beast-like, feral, masculine, grotesque, horrible. It made her asexual, unable in her self-hate to have physical intimacy with anyone.

  It was her secret.

  The person who eventually came downstairs to meet her lord employer was a surprise to the servants of the Beis Villa. They may have expected a number of things, but never, in all appearances, an elegant man, attired for Dirvan.

  Ranhé did not have to wait long for the Lord Vaeste. Elasand himself wore an overjacket and trousers of velvet dusk, trimmed on the high collar with metallic braid. As he came down the stairs, his tall boots gleamed even more than her own.

  “Good morning to you!” said Elasand.

  “It is almost noon, my lord,” she retorted, smiling, “I’ve eaten my meal.”

  “Good,” he said, “I know. It’s past eleven o’clock, but in the Palace, the Grelias are still stretching in bed. We’ll have to get used to the Dirvan schedule for the moment. Shall we go?”

  She nodded silently, and followed him to the door.

  Outside, a silver blinding radiance, and again, the wind. It swept at her, ballooned her lungs with giddiness. She followed Elas into the carriage flanked by liveried servants.

  Inside, he drew the silk curtains aside to let in the gray daylight, and they were on their way. His face was speckled with sun and fleeting shadows of flying trees and branches, while his gaze was drawn ahead, heedless of her, it seemed, so she watched him openly.

  She was wrong.

  “You are well dressed,” he said, without turning her way. “It is fortunate, for we must appear like all else in Dirvan, impeccable. Sadly, Hestiam notices such absurd detail.”

  “How shall I speak, if addressed?” she finally ventured a specific question.

  In answer, he smiled, still looking before him.

  “As much as possible, be silent. If anyone inquires, you are of no rank, simply in my employ. How? Try to avoid all details, and answer their question indirectly or not at all, for I prefer to leave your true bodyguard function secret.”

  “And if someone insists?”

  “Then make something up, or change the subject. I trust your skill in that.”

  “Then I’ll be your business advisor from the country Vaeste estate. You have called upon me, and we are reviewing the state of your investments. Since you’ve been summoned so urgently, you naturally have unfinished business, and I am henceforth to accompany you until my task is done.”

  “Ridiculous, but it’ll do. Just don’t get so creative that you cannot unravel yourself out of the lie.”

  She smiled in turn, then was silent for a while, before venturing an even more important probe.

  “It may not be my direct concern, but—what is the nature of our visit?”

  “To tell you the truth,” he said, turning to look at her, “I don’t know. And yes, this is your concern. You must know my reasons, so that you can properly do your job of protecting me.”

  His expression was genuine, intense. “In the future, never be afraid to ask such things. Because I know you must.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said, and smiled. “It is that, having been hired without any references, at your whim, I didn’t want to alarm you.”

  The carriage now rolled along a narrow roadway of the public Outer Gardens, and within the span of several breaths, they had arrived. Here, only one road was paved and large enough to take them through the Inner Gates, which in turn led within the private realm of the Regents, the Inner Gardens and Palace.

  At the Inner Gates, Ranhé noted heightened security. Previously, only two standard Regent Guards; today, a dozen.

  Elasand answered her intuitive question. “There has been an incident. Here, at the Gates, the day before yesterday.”

  “Oh?”

  “It appears the City has strange guests. Strangers from a place far away—an unusual lord and his dozen retainers—have come here to see the Regents. The lord is an emissary of sorts. Before they were allowed to enter, there had been an unusual and alarming killing. For that reason, security is now high. Apparently, and for good reason, Hestiam is afraid.”

  Ranhé had a number of questions, but at that point, their carriage was detained. Regent Guards looked askance at the Beis crest on the carriage, at cool-eyed Lord Vaeste and his companion, even at the silver-fringed Regent Summons in the lord’s fingers, before they were eventually allowed to proceed.

  The Inner Gates opened to a garden of paradise, a mosaic of high contrast, of light and shadow upon slender cultivated trees flanking the path. Before them stretched the Palace, with ornate gates below a colonnade, and gentle steps of gleaming pale marble leading up to the entrance.

  Servants better dressed than Ranhé bowed before Lord Vaeste as he quickly walked up the steps. She followed several paces behind.

  Inside, the sunlight was soothingly eclipsed by the monochrome splendor of the front hall, the warmth of the day muted into a gentle cool emanating from eternal marble.

  “I seek Audience. I’ve come in answer to His Grace’s Summons,” announced Elasand to the High Servant, handing him the silver parchment bearing on it the Double-Headed Lioness Seal.

  In response they were motioned to wait while the High Servant relayed the Summons to a lesser servant, who in turn disappeared behind the carved relief doors of fire-gray gold.

  And sooner than expected, the servant returned, and they were politely shown inside.

  They were led through a network of high-ceilinged corridors to a large reception chamber. Nearly all of its perfectly square ceiling was opened by a great skylight covered with transparent glass, and latticed by fine metal grillework, creating the illusion of an open-air summerhouse. And right below it in the center of the mirror-tiled floor was a pond, like a miniature replica of the Arata, surrounding a flowering sculptural arrangement of a fountainhead and potted flowers. From the remote airy expanse of the ceiling, sunlight rained through the skylight and moved upon the trickling water that ran in intricate paths along the sculpture and flower forms, and spanned the cleverly designed perfect distance of marble to land into the pond.

  The chamber had another entrance that opened upon the Palace Gardens. Against one of the walls was a raised dais with a pair of great marble chairs. One of the chairs was occupied by a large-set man in his late thirties, with a neat short beard and languid eyes. He was dressed in silk, but not too differently from the dozen or so courtiers surrounding him. It was but his total lack of protocol and deference that revealed him to be the Regent.

  There were people everywhere, scattered in small conversational groups. It appeared to be a very ill-secured place, suggesting that many of the “courtiers” were in actuality plainclothes guards. With a skilled glance Ranhé took in the crowd.

  The bearded man who lounged in the chair turned his languid eyes away from a servant with a tray of fruit. He saw Elasand and straightened in his seat, setting down his goblet upon a small tray-table nearby, and quickly motioning for others to clear away the remains of the ritualized bre
akfast. Now that his face was turned to them, Ranhé noted that his expression was disorientation, not languidity. And the infusion of hope that animated his eyes as soon as he recognized Vaeste had replaced a habitual fear.

  “Your Grace!” said Elasand in a loud voice that carried across the chamber. “You wanted to see me.”

  “Actually, it was I, and the Chancellor, who summoned you, my dear. Hestiam merely lent his seal. Although, I suppose he’s quite happy to see you now.”

  A woman separated from the shadow of the sculptured fountain centerpiece, where she was seated upon the wide marble rim of the pond, and got up to approach them.

  She was an apparition of silk and gauze and courtesan sensuality, her voluptuous curves barely hidden by the sheer outfit. Pearl droplets quivered in her earlobes, and one great pearl—descending on an exquisite silk tassel—was lodged in the almost grotesquely deep precipice between her breasts. One’s eyes were drawn there first, in wonder almost, and then to her face, pale and commanding. And then, framed by the dark formally coiffed hair, one saw the eyes. Intensely focused, they were two beacons.

  Elasand’s face was unreadable as he bowed shortly before the woman, while Ranhé remained paces away, and effectively in his shadow. “Your Grace,” he said to her, throwing a brief questing glance in Hestiam’s direction. “Then I am here.”

  The Regentrix smiled and took his hands in both of hers in a disarmingly familiar gesture. “Elasand-re,” she said. “It’s been such a long time since last you visited us that I simply had to exercise my will in bringing you here. Do you never grow tired of the country? Dirvan bores you, I suppose. Well, it bores me too. Especially when you’re away.”

  “You are too kind, Your Grace,” responded Elasand. Then after an appropriate pause, he smoothly extricated his hands, saying, “I’ve been away too long, true, but now I am here at Your and His Grace’s service.”