Lords of Rainbow

by Vera Nazarian

“It has long since begun, Elasand-re. Open your eyes!” hissed Elasirr, and urged his mount into a faster pace.

  They galloped then, hooves barely touching the ground, and the wind sang a wild litany, while the sunset gathered.

  Ranhé, lying forward, close against her horse’s neck, saw the flying shapes of lonely trees go past them along the road, while the flatland blurred all around.

  They saw it all at once, the blackness.

  The pale City walls of stone stood out in sharp contrast against the ebony formations, like a ring of black, a dark serpent coiled about the City in a siege.

  And yet, it was not a siege, for the Southern Gates, closest to them, stood gaping, wide open.

  Apparently, the City had long since fallen to the enemy.

  “Damn Hestiam to the skies!” exclaimed the Guildmaster of Bilhaar, reigning in his mount sharply. “He could not resist even one day, but immediately opened wide like a whore to them!”

  “Hold your judgment,” said Elasand through his teeth. “We don’t know what came to pass here.”

  “We don’t need to know. We’ve been absent for five days only. If memory serves me, the Grelias fool was willing to wait for your return, Vaeste. He trusted you.”

  “Look!” said Ranhé meanwhile. “Quickly, now, what should we do? This is impossible, but they have spotted us!”

  Indeed, although they had paused hundreds of feet away from the gates, and should have been quite beyond the enemy’s sight, a detachment of black-clad soldiers came to separate from the seething dark mass of war that was before them, and headed toward them. The dark warriors were mounted on quadruped beasts that were not horse but some other thing, elephantine and yet reptilian in some form, for the beasts were scaled. Sunset shone dimly against the planes of their backs, but shone not at all from the armor of those who rode them.

  And then the reason for the impossibility was revealed. On both sides of the road, dark vaguely human shapes were rising. They emerged from burrowed ditches cleverly hidden by the tall field grass, and by their stirring they were a signal to those at the gates.

  “Halt!” whispered Elasirr, glancing quickly at his companions. “Make no move. Remember what happened to our soldiers at the Inner Gates of the Palace, when Vorn came to us? It’s said they tried to resist him, but were somehow struck down with a power of the mind. We cannot risk that now. We know nothing of them as yet, nothing of what they can really do.”

  “We can turn back and ride like hell?” offered Ranhé, her blood quickening, the rational mercenary in her coming awake.

  “No, too late. For they will pursue, and those great-legged beasts would catch us,” said the Lord Vaeste. “We must go only forward, or wait. There is no choice.”

  And they sat the horses in a semblance of calm, waiting for the detachment of black to arrive, while the dark road sentries remained motionless in their places, with weapons drawn menacingly but making no move toward them.

  In moments the enemy detachment arrived.

  There was one that must have been their captain, for he rode before his men, and his helmet was distinguished by a taller horned crest. His beast trod softly and yet with surprising speed, like a scaled lion. And up close, it towered over the horses, having an added height of about two feet. From this height the captain looked down, disguised by his visor, and his voice came hollow and deep, with an alien tone and accent.

  “Who are you?” he boomed. “What business have you at the gates of our new City called Twilight?”

  Elasand spoke in an equally loud poised voice. “I am Lord Elasand Vaeste and this City, called Tronaelend-Lis, is very much mine! In whose name do you speak, man?”

  “You are Vaeste?” uttered the dark warrior. “Then you are to follow me, for the Twilight One who is my lord has been waiting for you. Come! You and yours will not be harmed!”

  “I certainly hope not,” said Elasirr under his breath, but was completely ignored, while the dark captain turned his back on them and started back toward the Southern Gates of the City, in full insolent confidence expecting them to follow.

  Great, scaled beasts moved in on two sides of them, and from the back, so they were effectively surrounded. And if she turned her head, Ranhé could see the sable riders, carrying tall iron pikes, looming like a forest all around them. She had glimpses of armor, leather bindings, strong sinewy legs of the beasts, like tree trunks shod with metal hooves. They moved silently and yet covered a lot of ground.

  At the Gates, the captain stepped away, allowing Elasand to ride forward and into Tronaelend-Lis. Ranhé and Elasirr followed, subdued into silence by the unknown.

  There was silence too, beyond the Gates. Impossible unheard-of quiet was everywhere, for the large square was empty of all normal street traffic, and there was no one about except for the tall black-clad shapes.

  They were everywhere, she saw now, shadows of them detached from buildings as they stood silently, on guard, or rode on the great silent beasts.

  And there was something else—the quality of the light. The sun had almost set, and in preparation for the night, street torches burned along the corners, and in most other normal places.

  But none of the orb streetlights had been lit. They stood, like dark posts, barren. And the glassy orbs held within them opaque darkness.

  She noted the difference without them, a missing element, a lackluster. She’d never thought how normal it was to have the City illuminated by the various monochrome orbs, and how much fullness and life they gave to the night.

  The invasion, it this could be called such, must have been bloodless, or else did not leave any traces of visible struggle from the City’s residents. Indeed, as Ranhé watched with her practiced eyes, she saw occasional faces peeking from obscured windows of buildings overlooking the Gates square. And one by one, citizens must have lit torches or candles inside, for there were traces of glimmer behind heavy curtains.

  Within moments of brief twilight, night fell upon Tronaelend-Lis.

  After waiting only a little as the dark soldiers consulted among themselves, the captain that had originally spoken returned and said curtly that they were to follow him.

  “Where to?” asked Elasand. “Are we prisoners?”

  But the dark one said nothing in reply, and Ranhé could almost imagine a smirk underneath his visor.

  And with that, they began moving toward the heart of the City.

  In the streets dull torchlight illuminated their way, and only one or two ordinary passerby could be seen, hurrying desperately on their business. Because of the dark, the captain removed his visor, and Ranhé had a brief glimpse of a swarthy face with dull soulless eyes, before he again turned away.

  They passed through the Southern Quarter—it was so well behaved today that anyone loaded with valuables could have leisurely walked through it unscathed. The quasi-legal Guilds were obviously hiding. They too were victims of this circumstance.

  Past the Markets, then across an Arata bridge they rode into Dirvan, while a chill began, for an evening wind moved against the skin coldly.

  The Outer Gardens, interspersed with the occasional noble Villa, stood on all sides. To one side, from afar, Ranhé saw the familiar ancient dome of the small structure, shining polished ebony in the night, the Mausoleum of the last Monteyn King. The black scaled beasts carrying their escorts and they, moved along the gravel soft path to the Inner Gates, where more black alien ones now stood guard.

  The dark captain stopped and cried out a greeting to the guards, “I bring what the Twilight One has been expecting. This one is Vaeste, the one our Master seeks!”

  Immediately, they were taken within, and were inside the Palace grounds.

  At some point, Ranhé was pushed down from her mount, and the others also, and their horses taken away. She had a brief impulse to struggle, but seeing the motionless almost mechanized form of the soldier that forced her, she thought it best to go along, for now. For she had yet to fully understand this enemy.


  The Palace of the Regents stood before them, illuminated only with dull torchglow in the recesses outside the front colonnade, and overhead, the slim glimmer of the rising crescent moon. They were led within past more door guards, through a number of ornate entrances, into the shadowed depth of the Palace. None of the regular servants could be seen.

  At the doors of one large reception hall, the enemy captain paused, consulting in a whisper with those who were guarding the entrance. He mentioned the word “Vaeste,” and again it worked its magic upon those who stood before them.

  The doors were opened wide, allowing in bright torchlight, while black soldiers moved to stand on both sides.

  “Enter, Vaeste!” said the captain. “You are expected.”

  Elasand stepped forward. Ranhé followed, like his shadow, and Elasirr was not too far behind.

  The hall was lit with the bare minimum of torches, but blazed nevertheless, because of the predominance of mirrors set in the walls and niches. In the back, against the Northern wall, there was the customary twin throne, and on both sides stood a double row of giant guards, black-clad, with glimpses of facial skin like charcoal, beneath helmets of dull kettle-black iron. Sheathed longswords reached to the floor from their waists, enormous wrists resting on the pommels.

  Ranhé allowed her gaze to fly forward to the very end of this black alley of human form, where someone was occupying one of the upraised thrones. That someone was like a mirage of gray torchlight, like a being drawn on the other side of a curtain of heat, for the air between him and their perception of him seemed to waiver momentarily. His form almost refused to take focus.

  And when Ranhé forced the visual focus at last, she saw a tall lean man seated deep in the grand throne. He was dressed in pure ebony silk and satin and wore a coat of fur-lined deep velvet that draped serpentine against the armrests of the throne, and poured its darkness onto the dais floor. Unlike the giant warriors guarding him, he was elegant, slender-boned, with a skin as dark as theirs, but smooth like a ribbon of night gossamer.

  He was beautiful, the Twilight One.

  Ranhé found herself staring at the carved planes of his face, the impossible perfect lines of dark. Only there were no traces of hair anywhere on him. A smooth bare skull, no brows, only fine lines to mark the recesses of his eye sockets. Not even a shadow of eyelashes to fringe his perfect closed lids, gleaming softly under the torches like cultured pearls.

  The eyes were closed. He remained seated back against the ample throne, still and impassive, gloved fingers resting against the armrests. There was no living breath in him.

  Elasand walked forward, past the guards, through the center of the hall. Ranhé felt a twinge of pride, seeing him move thus, fearless, perfectly straight, his midnight hair with its single pale lock flowing down his back, his head held high, his face almost bearing a suppressed smile.

  Elasand stopped before the throne, feet planted apart. His voice was suddenly unrecognizable to her in its intensity, in its power. “I am the Lord Elasand Vaeste. You seek me? What has happened to this City?”

  The Twilight One opened his eyes.

  Beauty fled. In its place came nauseating sickness, for his eyes were dull simmering coals, and there was nothing human about them. They held no expression. They were dead.

  The dead eyes observed the tall man standing proudly before him.

  Silence, long and crawling with decay.

  “Vaeste . . .” whispered an alien voice.

  “What has happened to this City?” Elasand repeated. “And what of the Regents?”

  “All is mine,” replied the alien, his words slithering through the farthest recesses of the room with sepulchral cold. “I am Feale. Lord of Qurth, and now lord of this City. Your Regent has in wisdom bowed before me, and for that his life has been spared, together with that of his sister.”

  “They are your prisoners, then. Show me the Regent! I want to see that he indeed lives!”

  A wind seemed to run through the great hall. And then, a slow terrible smile grew on the face of Feale. He drew forward, and stared down directly at Lord Vaeste.

  “You make demands upon me? What will you give me in return, Lord Vaeste?”

  “You tell me,” said Elasand, and then, just as terribly, smiled. “Why did you seek me? I must have something that you want.”

  Feale’s smile did not change.

  “You are direct, Vaeste. I like your manner. Well then, let me explain to you that Hestiam Grelias and his sister are my guests. I have them in polite custody, together with the Chancellor Rollen Lirr, the Minister General, Raelin Barsadt, and various heads of your noble Ten Families. While they are with me, I will treat them all as honored guests, just as they treated my Lord Vorn. Indeed, this City knows very well that I can be an excellent host. Not a life has been lost for that reason.”

  “You impress me indeed, Feale,” said Elasand. At his easy utterance of the name, Ranhé noticed how many of the black guards almost cringed.

  “I am glad that you understand,” said the dark being on the throne. “And now, Vaeste, be as wise as your Regent. Swear an oath of fealty to me, the new lord of this City that I have named Twilight. And in return, I will make you my Minister, second only to my right hand, Lord Araht Vorn, whom you know already.”

  “What a startling request,” said Elasand. “Why should I swear to you, an enemy who invaded my home and has my Liege Lord the Regent and the rest of the government in custody? In fact, this is so unusual that I begin to wonder what it is you really want, Feale, Lord of Qurth? Why not just kill us all, starting with the Regents? And why myself? What is so unique that only I can give you?”

  “You know what it is I want,” whispered the Twilight One.

  “Actually,” said Elasand sarcastically, “I have no idea.”

  “Your knowledge. I want it, Vaeste. Your knowledge of certain things. Hestiam had told me all, told me of the nature of your trip into the forest.”

  “Oh, he told you that, did he?” Elasand said very quietly, anger beginning. “What exactly did he tell you, in his fear?”

  And the dead eyes remained upon him, while Feale seemed to consider the nature of this man standing so undaunted.

  “He told me of your ancient bloodline,” said he at last.

  “I see . . .” said Elasand softly. “And if I refuse to swear to you?”

  “Then the man that had been your Regent dies. And after him, all the rest of his Court, my guests, one by one.”

  “What if I don’t give a damn?” Elasand smirked. “In fact, what if I tell you to go ahead, O Twilight One, and kill them all?”

  And at that Feale laughed, like old stones crumbling. “Oh, but you will never say that, Vaeste, for I know you now.”

  “Do you?” said Elasand.

  “You are not my prisoner,” responded the dark one. “Never you. I give you one day to decide. And when you make your decision, it will be in all truth, in complete loyalty to me. Go now, think it over, and come back to me tomorrow just after sunset. And if you think you can plot against me in one day, I tell you now not to waste your effort, for you can do nothing. But—you may plot all you like, if it eases you. One way or another you will come to me. You are all mine now. I merely ask you to come to me willingly. It will spare you and all the others much—pain.”

  “How do I know that you have not killed everyone already? Show me your prisoners, or I will not even bother with anything you say.”

  Feale observed him, for one long instant. And then again a thin smile came to curve his perfectly formed onyx lips.

  “Very well. You will see one of them before you go. You may even whisper words of hope together, and make plans for escape. Now, proceed! I will have your answer tomorrow! And be wise, Vaeste. Think carefully, before you decide.”

  “That I will indeed, Qurth!” exclaimed Elasand, and without any show of obeisance, turned his back and walked out of the hall.

  Outside, they were taken by another smaller escort thr
ough a variety of winding Palace corridors, to a small guarded door. Upon opening the door, they were allowed to enter, the door shut firmly behind them, and a lock turned.

  Inside, in a small chamber, a hunched figure sat next to the fire in a desperate position of hopelessness. He turned, and Ranhé recognized Chancellor Lirr, the older man who had for all practical purposes ran the government of the City.

  “Lirr!” exclaimed Elasand. “I was hoping it would be you I’d see. Whatever has happened here? In the name of all gods, we’ve been away for five days only!”

  “My Lord Vaeste!” Life surged in the wearied features of the Chancellor’s face. He turned, and then his eyes widened, for he had seen Elasirr also. “And you too, my Lord Bilhaar! It’s impossible to even begin!”

  “Have they hurt you? And what of Hestiam?” said Elasand, drawing near, and seating himself on the couch.

  The Chancellor shook his head negatively, then moved his hand to point to the comfortable room. “No, my lord, not at all, as yet. In fact, they have His Grace and Her Grace simply locked up in their quarters. I had seen them myself, I can vouch for that, for they let me see His Grace even this morning, when he asked for me. Food is being brought to us. All seems precariously well, except for the fact we cannot go anywhere.”

  Elasirr meanwhile sat down at the sofa next to the fire, and sighing, stretched his booted feet up on a small table. “Now then, Lirr,” he said. “Pardon my stink, but I’ve been in a forest for the last five days without a bath, communing with nature and the gods. For that reason, I want you to start from the beginning and tell us exactly what the hell has happened here? Who are these Qurthe invaders? How did this City fall without a fight?”

  The fire burned warm and gray in the hearth, dancing in reflection upon the older Chancellor’s face, his liquid sad eyes.

  “It came to pass on the third day of the Wedding Celebration. The Regents had been busy with their normal frivolous revels, and in fact the whole City took it like a state holiday—you remember, don’t you? Well, suddenly, our guest, Lord Vorn, in whose very honor this feast has supposedly been declared, comes up to Hestiam, in the middle of a dinner feast, announcing that his Twilight lord is here. Naturally, at first Hestiam thinks it a joke, and is incoherent, but as soon as these horrible black-armored warriors begin entering the halls of the Palace, well, he simply faints back in his seat, pale as death, and allows it all to happen.”