But Elasirr’s own face had taken on a strangeness that she did not understand. He had been pale before, she noticed, but now, a wonder—his cheeks were turning a deeper rose shade. She had never noticed before, but now she knew that skin could turn colors, redden with the presence of blood underneath.
“You,” he said harshly, his cheeks blazing with the shade of blood beneath the skin. “You’re ugly! Yes, an ugly unnatural woman, with man’s hair on your cheeks and daggers in your boots. You walk like a man, and your wrists are nearly as big as mine. Your waspish tongue is infuriating, and once I wanted to kill you with my bare hands, while I mocked your pathetic stubborn being. I hate you—you, pitiful ugly bitch! And yet—and yet, if I could, I would give my life for you, Ranhé! I would die for you, ugly hateful—”
His grip on her shoulders was bruising white agony, and then something happened. She was pushed against him, her entire length, and she too gripped and struck him. And then there was a pressure, unfamiliar and terrifying against her lips—his lips warm and fierce against hers.
The knot in her throat burst, and she cried then, in horrible agony, tears coming down in a stream along her cheeks, while he kissed her, over and over, and her tears were now on his skin, on his cheeks, mingling common tears, and she sobbed, and continued to sob silently, her body, gone limp and impotent, shuddering in a fever, trembling with an impossible vulnerability, a moment of trust and intimate revelation. . . .
In the late afternoon, there was rain.
A month had passed, since the coming of the Tilirr, and the pulse of the colors upon the face of the sun had slowed, and the world was illuminated by longer and longer stretches of sky-spanning flares of orange, then green, then blue. Eventually, each day was a single pulse—a day belonging in turn to Werail, Melixevven, Dersenne, Fiadolmle, Koerdis, Laelith—the sun being one whole color, slowing like a universal carousel. At last the pulse ended, and the sun was now fixed a steady blazing eternal white. Andelas’s sun.
And now, the first afternoon of this autumnal season, droplets of sky water, silver-blue, came hurtling down from the sky. The water continued falling, translucent like diamonds, illuminated by a white sun. The rain splattered, rippling the inky fractured-mirror surface of the Arata Canal. It poured and sank along the gravel paths of the Outer Gardens, and in the Walk of Falls, along the sweet long branches of the weeping willows. It struck and burst into miniature explosions upon impact with the smooth rose-gray marble of the Mausoleum, and its empty dais, missing a casket—in its place was now a large earth-filled garden urn of bright scarlet and persimmon blossoms, upon the King’s request. It washed the cobblestones of the Markets Square, washing the last of the blood that had been spilled. It ran in smooth stained rivulets along the streets and into gutters, and then, through the subterranean network below, into the sewers below the City of Dreams.
They were empty now, the secret corridors deep below. Occasional shadows of the lawless still lurked, in some sections of the Southern Quarter. Most residents were up, at street level—pedestrians being drenched by the rain, riders, carriages of the rich and carts of the poor rolling along the myriad streets and ways, along the Fringes Thoroughfare.
There was gossip, in the streets, of course. The new Monteyn King, they said, is the noblest this world has seen. He is just and fair, and fearless, and has convened the Council of Guilds to make great reforms. He has a beautiful young Queen, and is quite happy in his own way. And yet, he wanders the corridors of the Palace aimlessly, always looking for bits of the past. They said he befriended the young boy, former Heir Lissean, the one who is mortally ill. Together, they walk the Inner Gardens, in peaceful companionship. And the boy still lives, somehow, despite all odds, gently, quietly, in the warm silence of the King. He is no longer an Heir, and is thus now quite free.
They said also, the one they call the Phoenix, Carliserall Lirr, has been different, ever since Uncle Rollen Lirr died in the hands of the enemy, ever since the day of the great battle. Or maybe, Carliserall had changed in that instant of the coming of the Rainbow. They said, Carliserall has stopped switching from man to woman and then back again. Carliserall is now neither, and yet, both—a beautiful hermaphrodite, and is possibly happy to be thus, to be oneself, in perfect balance, and open to any inquiry.
They said, The Queen’s relative, a certain priest called Preinad Olvan, has forsaken his vows scandalously, and has confessed in strange honesty—a truth that he avowed after having seen Koerdis—an earthly love for a notorious woman related to the Family Vaeste, whose name is Cyanolis. To his credit, he has maintained his celibacy, and is being severely reprimanded by the rest of his Order of Bright Vision. However, he has been allowed to continue in his priestly duties, for, in truth, the temple where he serves is now more popular than ever with young and old women who have a soft needy heart.
The same priest, they said, was incidentally called to perform the burial services over the bodies of Baelinte Khirmoel and Tegra Daqua, who were placed together in a single grave. Erin Khirmoel, the new lady of the House, insisted they were to be joined thus in death, for she is known to have a romantic imagination and holds great stock in fulfilled dreams.
In the Palace, another Wedding took place. Harlian Daqua took for his bride a dark-haired smiling woman, with eyes like joy, Yllva Caexis. During the Ceremony, a pale moon-faced beauty with serpentine eyes served as the Maiden of the Heart. That same woman, who is known to be the cousin of the new Chancellor Vaeste, has remained unwed and alone, and strangely quiet about the whole matter. It was said she has returned to the Beis estate in the country, and has stopped communicating with her exalted cousin, the Chancellor.
Another cousin of the Chancellor, Cyanolis, rumors went, seems to have grown a bit in stature, and is still seen at court, where she is called to sing often by the King and Queen, and where the feasts are surprisingly free of debauchery. Cyanolis is also seen visiting upon occasion the Shrine of Bright Vision, where she observes the young priest lead the Ceremony. These days, it was said, he always meets her eyes with a calm unflinching look of truth, and she is the first to look away.
They said, Chancellor Elasand Vaeste is known to be an influential voice at court. He is handsome, young, impeccable, and has revealed a philosophical and intellectual side that he indulges with Nilmet the notorious Philosopher and, upon more than one occasion, with the King himself. He is also known to visit his brother often, in private, where servants say they discuss their own confusing past.
And the new Lord Vaeste, the former assassin, and Guildmaster, they said, besides being an outspoken insolent favorite of the King, is often seen in the company of a tall proud woman—once an unknown—who wears masculine clothing and bears the name of Lady Ranhéas Ylir of the Eleventh House of Black. There are rumors that he is madly in love with her, and that she too loves him in secret—although in public, they are but amicable witty acquaintances.
There were also rumors that another lady who has affected the wearing of masculine clothing, the former Regentrix, and now simply Lady Deileala Grelias, is planning to leave the City and take a long trip somewhere east, possibly in the wake of a rich Prada caravan. They said that ever since the great battle and the wonders of that day, she had lost her mind, and is now obsessed with the notion of visiting the land of their former enemy, and their distant great City, Mahart-Qurth. It was also rumored that her brother, Lord Hestiam Grelias, the former Regent, will accompany her on this strange journey.
Lord Hestiam Grelias, they said, is also a changed man. Now that he is no longer Regent, he has been able to go to bed not long after sunset, and, according to his house servants, enjoy an easy restful sleep, devoid of any responsibility, guilt, or fear of encroaching twilight.
The afternoon rain came to a sudden end. Swift low clouds rushed away, clearing the airy expanse, and allowing the sun to burst through.
In the Gardens of Tronaelend-Lis, a philosopher, shaded by an overhang of trees against the sudden downpour, lo
oked up—like many did in that instant, all over the City—and witnessed a wondrous thing, a phenomenon for which he had no name.
High in the sky, framed against a cloud, and spanning the whole expanse of heaven, stood an arch of many hues. . . .
It was gentle and translucent, formed of the very droplets of mist in the air. And as the sun shone through it, its brilliant rays caught and were splintered through the minuscule jewels of airborne water, and they separated into six distinct colors.
The philosopher, having no words for this, stared with a marveling gaze, and then unwillingly looked away, continuing his more serious philosophical musings, and attributing this nameless wonder to yet another side effect of the returned Rainbow.
She rode along the forest path, humming in secret. The forest before her was like a colorful bouquet, while the sky overhead had patchy light clouds, and the rain had just ceased.
She looked overhead, and then saw it. And seeing it, she knew it instantly. It was something deep within, an ancient instinct, that told her now that she was looking not at a simple bow-arch of color in the sky, but at her life’s first rainbow.
It had been more difficult than she imagined, leaving behind the man she loved. He had stood in silence at the gates, watching her ride away, and she would never forget the stiffness of his back, the raw wound in his deceptively lidded eyes, the blaze of sun and wind upon his pale flax hair.
She was leaving him only for a short time. In time, as soon as she could, as soon as the calling deep inside her quieted to a soft whisper, she would return to him, to the City of Dreams. She would never forget him, or it.
But now, there was something wild within her blood, something calling from afar. Maybe it was but the garish bright colors of the world, waiting to be savored.
The horse below her was the color of shadows. The path was twisted, and soon, within miles she might reach the White Roads Inn. It would be good to see the faces there, and she remembered Nilmet mentioning that Master Jirve Lan, the proprietor, had finally married Maertella the cook.
Even now, she remembered, saw in the shadows, Elasirr’s wounded blue eyes, watching her, watching her always.
Yes, she would return to him, by all gods!
But now—now here she was, mercenary and loyal, Lady Ranhéas Ylir of the Eleventh House of Black, venturing along a path of the great forest, on her way to self-comprehension, maybe, and the greatest adventure of all—the one within.
Around her, the forest sang. Overhead, burned the first rainbow.
And in her eyes, pale and hard and soft, like the last reminder of the monochrome world of the past, glimmered silver.
EPILOGUE
And thus, at long last, you cast aside the final veil.
And you are here, with me.
Surprised? Of course not, you expected it all along.
Well, now that you’ve seen it all, and yet seen nothing, what mystery did I pose before you?
But you are clever, I see, with your bright eyes. For, the mystery, you see, is not in the tale, but in the teller.
The mystery is myself.
I stand before you, and I hold nothing behind my back, only empty air like gray smoke.
Who am I, you want to know, who have shown you this world, and the coming of the Rainbow?
I will tell you, since you are here to ask. . . . I have many names, none of which are true, and I am often found in the shadows of things, in the beginnings of twilight.
Often, the Phoenix covers me with its wings.
In this world, they had called me Feale, and my antithesis Andelas. We are both Tilirr, he and I, and we both have other names. They say I bring the night and distort the truth, while he, the bright one, brings focus, clarity, and light, and lets the truth prevail.
But they say many things, not all of which are true. After all, I have told you this story, in all truth, and I let you judge for yourself. Thus, believe what you will.
Look at me. Know, that I am, in truth, the Lord of Black. But black is soothing darkness. And, in the perpetual cycle of things, it serves to emphasize the light.
And now, I ask you only for one thing, for the sake of balance.
Always remember me.
THE END
Coming soon…
Lady of Monochrome
(Book Two of The Rainbow)
http://www.lordfsofrainbow.com/
EXTRAS
Map of Tronaelend-Lis, City of Dreams
(320k image)
http://www.veranazarian.com/LORmap3.jpg
Which of the Lords of Rainbow do You Serve?
(Take the Tilirr Quiz!)
http://www.veranazarian.com/lorquiz.htm
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Vera Nazarian is a two-time Nebula Award® Finalist and a member of Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. She immigrated to the USA from the former USSR as a kid, sold her first story at 17, and has been published in numerous anthologies and magazines, honorably mentioned in Year’s Best volumes, and translated into eight languages.
Vera made her novelist debut with the critically acclaimed Dreams of the Compass Rose, followed by Lords of Rainbow. Her novella The Clock King and the Queen of the Hourglass made the 2005 Locus Recommended Reading List. Her debut collection Salt of the Air contains the 2007 Nebula Award-nominated “The Story of Love.” Recent work includes the 2008 Nebula Finalist novella The Duke in His Castle, science fiction collection After the Sundial (2010), and three Jane Austen parodies, Mansfield Park and Mummies (2009), Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons (2010), and Pride and Platypus: Mr. Darcy’s Dreadful Secret (forthcoming), all part of her Supernatural Jane Austen Series.
After many years in Los Angeles, Vera now lives in a small town in Vermont. She uses her Armenian sense of humor and her Russian sense of suffering to bake conflicted pirozhki and make art.
In addition to being a writer, philosopher, and award-winning artist, she is also the publisher of Norilana Books.
Official website:
http://www.veranazarian.com/
Norilana Books:
http://www.norilana.com/
Twitter:
http://twitter.com/Norilana
Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/VeraNazarian
Blogs:
http://www.inspiredus.com/
http://urbangirlvermont.blogspot.com/
http://norilana.livejournal.com/
Goodreads:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/186145.Vera_Nazarian
LibraryThing:
http://www.librarything.com/author/nazarianvera
Shelfari:
http://www.shelfari.com/authors/a1628414/Vera-Nazarian/
Red Room:
http://www.redroom.com/author/vera-nazarian
SFF Net Newsgroup:
http://webnews.sff.net/read?cmd=xover&group=sff.people.vera-nazarian
Austen Authors:
http://austenauthors.net/
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to offer many people my sincerest thanks—to dear Marion who published my first work and opened the door, to various draft readers and friends Sherwood Smith, Terry McGarry, Jacqueline Carey, Alan Rodgers, John Gregory Betancourt, Patricia Duffy Novak, Wendi Gansen, Stella and David Bloom, Alizabeth Caro, Roger Levin (in memoriam), Kevin Conner, Bruce Baldwin, James D. Macdonald, Paul Witcover, Lisa Silverthorne, Kurt Roth, Diana Rowland, Deborah J. Ross, Roby James, Allison Lonsdale, the various members of the Not-A-Webring and WebRats, and the wonderful people of SFF Net, for the support and love. If I’ve forgotten anyone, the fault is mine; please know that I love and appreciate you all.
Finally, I would like to thank all of you dear reader friends, who decided to take my hand and step into my world of rainbow.
OTHER BOOKS BY VERA NAZARIAN
Dreams of the Compass Rose
The Clock King and the Queen of the Hourglass
Mayhem at Grant-Williams High (YA)
The Duke in His Cas
tle
Salt of the Air
After the Sundial
The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration
Mansfield Park and Mummies
Northanger Abbey and Angels and Dragons
(Forthcoming)
Pride and Platypus: Mr. Darcy’s Dreadful Secret
Lords of Rainbow Page 51
