Lords of Rainbow

by Vera Nazarian

  Elasirr awoke sharply from a touch in the darkness. Disoriented from a muddle of dream, he did not know, at first, and then, remembering, recognized her outline in the dark with his night-sensitive eyes.

  “Ranhé?” he whispered sleepily, beginning to sit up. “Is something wrong?”

  But she did not answer.

  Instead, there was something strange about her dim outline, a slowness with which she moved, with which she suddenly leaned down over him, so that for a moment he felt a twinge of worry, and tried to remember where he had left his sword. . . .

  “Ranhé . . .” he whispered again. “What’s wrong? What are you doing—”

  But then, like a shock, a bolt of electricity, he felt her soft strong hands against his shoulder and cheek, and then, felt the ultimate surprise of a warm moist touch of lips upon his throat, as she had leaned forward, and then lay over him, pressing her warm body against his.

  Something happened to him then, at that touch. Weakened by sleep, by the night, by the very surprise of her, he felt himself swooning back against the pillow, simultaneously pierced with a pang of hot awareness, as his own body suddenly refused to obey him, and he melted downward, while a burning instant fierceness surged in his loins.

  Breath escaped his lips in a helpless moan, and he threw his head back then, rising up uncontrollably toward her touch, her lips like a sweet vampire’s upon his neck. And then her fingers were in his hair, pulling him to her, and his own hands came alive, wildly, as he grabbed hold of her with a grip like a vise, a sudden unexpected sweet prey fallen into his very own grasp.

  “Dersenne . . .” she whispered lightly then, and he realized with a stab of unbelieving regret that she was actually asleep, that it was not him she thought she was embracing. . . .

  But it no longer mattered.

  He was aflame, and he held her now, of her own free will, as she had come to him. He held her feverishly and caressed her, fingers pulling at her braid, undoing it fiercely at last—ah, he had always wanted to feel her hair loose—and was working her jacket off her body, then her shirt, and then that ridiculous wrap that she used to bind her breasts whose fullness he now crushed. . . .

  All the meanwhile, she gasped suddenly, fingers still digging into his long hair, and went still.

  Apparently, she had wakened.

  But obviously, it did not matter either. Because suddenly, furiously, she was again upon him, her lips coming down on his own, while with shuddering breath he crushed her body to him, primal in the night, and his own clothes were being torn off, and he was wallowing against her soft hot skin, no longer considering the situation, no longer capable of thought, no longer aware of anything but this sweet mad struggling fierce woman in his arms.

  CHAPTER 17

  Sharp icy nascent dawn. Glow, like milk and ashes, seeped in from a tiny window.

  Elasirr awoke with a shudder, feeling the chill crawl along his bare skin, the side of him, along his strong curve of spine. Lying face forward, entangled in his own soft long strands of flax hair, face and lips puffy with sleep, with something else—

  The memory slammed upon him, and he was awake like a wild animal, sharp, acute, aware with every cell of his being.

  His right hand reached to the side, searching for—

  Not there.

  She was not there.

  He remembered a tumult of dark lush sensual patterns in the night. Something intimate in the absolute dark. He remembered moving against a strong female body, holding her wild, almost hysterical at one point, as she simultaneously held him and struggled against him, and he was never quite sure how it had come to pass that they were together thus, flesh on flesh. Except at one point she cried out, and it was an alien sound, and it was a sound he had not understood then, being out of control, moving, and only now did he know what it had been—

  The sound of fear.

  And now, he remembered it, the vague incomprehensible moment of her fear, her sudden stillness as she went limp, while he, the madman, continued doing what he was doing, moving how he pleased, moving within her, fiercely, beyond control, until the eventual resolution of his lust. . . .

  Gods forgive him then, for what he had done.

  She had been virgin. He should have remembered that, just for a moment, just enough to know what he had done to her.

  For in that last moment she had shown fear, and he did not heed her, did not take responsibility for what he could.

  And now, in the cold anemic dawn, it had not been the cold that had woken him. It had been, instead, the cold awareness that had come to him even then through his dreams, a sound of pitiful muffled weeping.

  He could hear it now, the soft hopeless sounds, the sobs held back, deeply muffled, coming from the bathroom next door.

  He sat up, his innards filled with a load of ice. He did not move, but sat, naked, on the couch where he had lain. Where he had lain within her.

  Moments passed.

  And then, steeling the chill in his soul, his face like a wall, he made himself get up, still naked, and move across the room silently.

  He softly moved the door to the bathroom ajar.

  She was in the corner, crouching naked on the pale tile floor, with her legs tightly drawn together, and up to her chin, her arms wrapped around her ankles. Her long hair was down all about her in a tousled stringy curtain of pathos.

  Her head was leaned somewhat back—softly, impotently, against the cool wall with her cheek. But when he came in, she stiffened, her breath drawn in with a shudder, and she crouched forward, upon herself, and went absolutely silent and still.

  Her face, tear-smudged. Her eyes—the true innocent eyes that he had thought so acutely beautiful—they stared at him, opaque emotionless glass. . . .

  For an instant he could not say anything, only looked at her, his own pupils dilated.

  And then he whispered, “Ranhé. . . .”

  His heart pounded. Only, it was like it came from within someone else’s body.

  She looked up at him, all stillness.

  Breathe, Ranhé! Curse you, breathe, breathe! he wanted to yell out at her, to shake her, and make her breathe. And then maybe, if she screamed at him, tore at him with her hands, he would take her to him, hold her like a second skin, fuse her tight with his angry warmth, let her sink within his ocean. . . .

  But she said nothing.

  And the chill gathered within him, because of her silence, so that he, too, went still, was frozen with self-directed horror, was made into the very walls of the building, heartless, cold, remote. . . .

  And then, she began to laugh.

  Ranhé shook with a fever as an impossible sobbing laughter came to her, as she saw him thus standing over her, the man with the sun-hair.

  He was motionless, with nothing at all in his pale eyes. No sympathy, no warmth. And his voice, when he had said her name softly, was low, empty, devoid of anything, resounding like a piece of wood.

  A dead man filled with silence, like the walls.

  Not even a grain of human pity now, as he observed her, after what had come to pass between them.

  She had thought, for some wild moments in the night, that he had actually wanted her, was glad of her presence, accepting all of her to the last. But it must have been her own wishful happy madness, a wild hope that had filled her like the airy expanse of yellow radiance, that had overtaken her reason, made her believe beyond all belief in things impossible, under a great streaming golden sky.

  And now she sat thus, sprawled on the floor, having awoken to truth, having cried out all she had to cry with, and now was only laughing at herself.

  She laughed at what she had become.

  One of the human race. A woman, like any other. No longer the self-inflicted pariah of intimate contact. Indeed, how mundane and terrifying. And what had changed within her, this new Ranhéas Ylir, besides the one inner piercing of a unique, human, female core?

  Nothing. Nothing had changed truly. And yet, there was that in
tangible loss of distance—that, more so than any hymeneal shield—which will now be with her always, and would be yet another memory from which she continued to spring and progress as a being, a soul, an ember, and burn on into her own eternity.

  Stupid philosophical maudlin Ranhé. Nothing you’ll say or think will change one thing. And that is the self-hatred.

  But there was still one bit of pride left.

  And so, she grew quiet again, taking in great impossible stilling breaths, and then whispered hoarsely, “What are you looking at? Have you come to look at the ugly stupid bitch Ranhéas Ylir who has made a mess of your bathroom, who’d come to maul your beautiful male body in the night? Ugly stupid crazy bitch. . . .”

  And again she laughed, unable to stop, throwing her head back, gurgling, beginning to shake once more.

  And yet, he stood silent, just looking at her.

  After some time, gasping, she controlled her hysterical laughter, rubbed the still bandaged fingers of her right hand against the mess of her face, and then said softly, firmly, this time under absolute control, “I’m sorry, my lord. Must you always be the one to see me cry? Will you ever forgive me?”

  And then he spoke. His voice was still undetermined, wooden, but not his meaning. “I am the one who must ask forgiveness. I am the one,” he said, “I am the one who deserves now to die.”

  And with that, he turned away from her, while the shock of his unexpected words cut through her, and he shut the bathroom door behind him softly.

  Ranhé was once again left alone in the milky predawn dark.

  She had turned on the shower, and let the cool shocking stream run over her, washing off the last of the sweat, his sweat, his warmth, their mingled flesh. As the shower water became warmer, more soothing, she washed her body, and that part of her, down below, still hurting, where her own blood had leaked, having come out after he had been inside her and left a part of himself. For, something had been broken then, and she knew very well what it was. . . .

  She did not blame him for that, not at all. After all, she had come to him herself, she had wanted this to happen all along, wanted him.

  Yes, she had wanted him.

  Secretly, despite herself. Ever since he’d held her once, and she had seen his sleek male hateful beauty in that soft erotene chamber with a pool, bathed in sweet mauve glow. That same mauve light that only he could make.

  And it all did not matter now. It was over. She had been taken, like a woman, like she originally wanted to be. Taken beyond her wildest hope, by a golden god and a blond man.

  For one moment, she had let herself think she had been fulfilled.

  And she must only thank him, this perfect, unreachable lord, that he’d deigned to touch her, to condescend to her body thus—her base sad excuse for womanhood.

  Ranhé dried herself, pulled a plain towel over her, and came out, stilling her face, ready for anything.

  The room was empty.

  He had gone somewhere, for she saw his boots were missing, and some of his clothes. Her own clothes had been damaged partially, especially the blouse. She took up her clothing, strewn across his own sleeping couch, and quickly put on what she could, once again binding her breasts. Her blouse had been torn somewhat, but she could fix it later, and the rip on her jacket’s seam hardly mattered at this point.

  She remembered suddenly—Elasand! How was it possible that she could forget? How could she, even for a moment, when he had been in her thoughts always, like a warm intimate blanket, like a part of herself?

  And even more impossible—how much had he heard, if anything, in the night? Softly, she tiptoed around the corner and looked in to the main inner sleeping chamber, and with a pang saw him, her Lord Vaeste, stretched out senselessly upon the bed, still deeply asleep.

  She paused then. She stood and watched his earnest soft sleeping expression in the half-light.

  So. He’d heard nothing. Good, she thought. Then let this remain a sorry secret between me and the other, the one who rules this Guild.

  Some time later, a soft knock sounded on the door. With a blank expression, Ranhé came to open it, expecting Elasirr, but it was the man called Marihke, dark-bearded and serious.

  “My Lord Guildmaster is unavailable now, but he bade me to tell you to come to have something to eat, and then, I will take you to a place of work, and show you what is necessary.”

  “I will come. Lord Vaeste still sleeps, but I will come.” she replied coldly, as though nothing had happened, and followed the man into the passage.

  There was a chamber, like a hollowed out spiral shell of a sea creature, with a ceiling that was soft, matte, formed of plaster and nonreflective concave material.

  Within were gathered several people, and Marihke had told her she was meeting the Masters of the Light Guild, those who had the strongest ability to work color light.

  Surprisingly, she recognized most of them. These were mostly of the Noble Ten, and she had seen their faces briefly in the crowd of the Temple of Eroh, during the Wedding of Beis and Daqua.

  She remembered having seen there a slim upright young woman with hair like flax, who was introduced to her as Tegra, and who was in fact one of the Daqua.

  “Tegra, as appropriate to her Family’s color, works with orange,” said Marihke, as the woman nodded and smiled lightly at Ranhé. “So does this man, Gilimas Prada. He, by the way, is one of the richest merchants in this City, and has invested considerably in the workings of the Guild. Gilimas finances our materials and our labor. Indeed, our clothes, this room, have been paid for from a Prada coffer.” Marihke was pointing to a stocky middle aged man, who also nodded to her in greeting.

  “You fail to mention that I do this for my own selfish reason,” said Gilimas. “I will gladly give all I have to understand the mysteries of color.”

  Another surprise—Ranhé recognized the one called the Phoenix, the strange multisexual being called Carliserall Lirr, related scandalously to the Chancellor Lirr himself.

  Today, Carliserall was a man. Dressed in a lean jacket and trousers, with pale brilliant hair groomed to a shine rivaling that of Elasirr’s own, Carliserall approached her with a charming smile on a face of impossible beauty.

  “Welcome to our inner sanctum of light, and all such other nonsense,” said the Phoenix in a rich low alto. “Welcome, you who dress like a man yet are a woman. We are somewhat alike, I see.”

  Ranhé was stricken by those words. For a moment she could say nothing, only helplessly met the gaze of ambiguity, of two wise eyes—male and female, flippant and serious at the same time.

  Ranhé’s world was blurring, and this deceptive quiet was but the eye of the storm, and she was within it, at precisely this odd unexpected instant.

  Because observing Carliserall was like looking at herself from the outside—and yet not quite. For while Carliserall epitomized the ultimate ambiguity, Ranhé was a masculine woman, and there was only the anguish of being that, never any true doubt. The realization came to Ranhé, the blunt simple truth.

  Carliserall saw her state, and gifted her with a look of true sympathy, as none other ever could. “Accept it. Be yourself,” the Phoenix said then softly.

  And the blurring world came to a soft standstill.

  Ranhé regained her ability of speech.

  “I am sorry your uncle the Chancellor is held by the Qurthe,” she said, looking up somewhat at Carliserall’s lean sensuous height, while the simple words echoed in her mind.

  Be yourself. . . .

  “Ah, don’t be sorry, even for a moment,” said Carliserall, looking at her with intense caressing eyes. “We will have him back, you’ll see. Despite the fact that Feale had it announced just now throughout the City, that all prisoners will die by nightfall, unless the Guildmaster of the Light Guild turns himself in.” Carliserall’s perfect left brow rose. “Not a chance of that, eh?” And then, another overwhelming smile.

  Be yourself. . . .

  Ranhé could not help but be charme
d by the confidence the Phoenix exuded.

  “By the way,” said Carliserall, “I work with violet and blue.”

  “I also create blue,” said another man in a strong calm voice, and Ranhé saw the priest who had performed the marriage Ceremony, Preinad Olvan: a man with ascetic eyes.

  And then Marihke introduced two of the Khirmoel, who also worked with green, which coincided with their Family’s color. One, a young woman of a somewhat sad countenance, well dressed and with coiled braids of hair, was introduced as Erin. Next to her stood her uncle, a man of impressive height and bearing, holding a carved walking stick, and moving with a pronounced limp. He was Baelinte Khirmoel, and Ranhé recalled his taunting silly comments during the Wedding of Beis and Daqua. So this was the mad poet, and she remembered now that she had heard of him, for he was known in the City as a wickedly eloquent master of words. Though, there had been nothing eloquent about his outburst at the Wedding, rather a childish desire to incite hostility. It was a wonder that he was now in the same room with Tegra Daqua. Ranhé noticed that neither of the two acknowledged the other’s presence.

  “Join us, my dear,” Baelinte said to Ranhé and smiled, and it was like the sun suddenly entering the chamber, filling it with summer. “Come, and we will see what we can make of you. It depends of course on what you can make of us.” And he gave her a conspirational wink.

  Finally, a petite, pretty young woman approached, with a shy smile. There was something remotely familiar about her, and then Ranhé realized what it was—a resemblance to Elasand. For this one was a cousin, Cyanolis Vaeste.

  “Cyanolis has a talent for most colors, as do the Vaeste,” said Marihke. “She can create all but red and yellow. I myself work with red. I am Marihke Sar, by the way,” he added, smiling wryly, “known outside this Guild as a Bilhaar murderer. Oh, and finally, this man, like yourself, can create yellow. He also does orange and red.”