by Adam Corby
‘Yes,’ Berowne said, remembering. ‘I have seen her, boy. But seeing’s not the same as knowing. Once I saw duty on the darkward marches of Fulmine, neighboring on Belknule, and saw there a mountain taller than all others, gleaming with ice even in High Summer. That too I have seen, but know no better. Beyond trifles, no man knows a woman’s heart.’
The Gerso charan, sitting somewhat apart from the three others, listened to their words with little showing on his face. With a strangely formed dagger, whose handle was of jade, he attended to the arrows the physicians had gathered for him, scraping their beaks clean of blood.
After a space the Captain said, ‘I grow weary of this endless fighting. Cut and kill, and what do you win? Why do the barbarians abide here, when they have more power, domains and wealth than they could dream? Why not enjoy what they already have? Let Ara-Karn keep the North, but leave us here in peace. Then at least I could spend more time with Kiva.’
‘Perhaps he has not taken all he came to get,’ the Gerso said.
‘Charan Kandi speaks well,’ Haspeth said. ‘Captain Berowne, you grow tired indeed, or else you would not talk thus. Here in this place we can win the greatest glory! Long ago, the barbarians rode across all lands, robbing and slaying as they wished. Only Elna defied them, and drove them into the barren far North. So he won Empire and built his Citadel upon the bones of his enemies. Elna yoked his barbarian captives as slaves, to carve the Iron Gate here and set the foundations of his Palace.
‘Their corpses are mixed with the earth below our beds. That is why Ara-Karn will not depart this place, until the last of us is dead and he has made the Empress, the last of Elna’s kin, suffer the fullness of his vengeance. He is a magician, they say, and has sworn a terrible oath before dark God to destroy us. But Elna too vowed an oath, to stamp out the barbarian kind forever, or else face defeat himself in the end. Well – we are his end now, and must fulfill the oath for him. That is why we must never give up until the last barbarian, even to their children, lies dead.’
‘It may be even as you say, my friend,’ Berowne said, leaning his back upon the stones. ‘But I wish Goddess had chosen someone else to pick up Elna’s banner.’
A horn sounded, marking the hour of the fifth meal, and the changing of the watch. Lieutenant Ullerath relieved the captain, and Berowne went below, with the worn and wounded men of his watch.
A man from the White Tower stood in his chambers. There was excitement on his face.
‘Captain, I have been waiting an hour for you. I bear a message from her majesty’s maidens. The Empress will end her long confinement. Even now she awaits you in her chambers in the White Tower.’
II
The White Tower
THE PALACE OF ELNA was like a city unto itself. Story upon story rose to the sky, its wings and chambers connected in labyrinths. The long corridors bridging those wings were wholly interior, without a single window to admit the light of Goddess. Instead, the gloom was dispelled at frequent intervals by lamps of brass, gold and electrum.
Berowne followed a half step behind his escort. They climbed the upper stories, several floors above the level on which Kiva slept. It was quiet here, and there were few about. The walls were covered with costly tapestries between antique statues. Berowne had never before been admitted to these levels, and felt sadly out of place. Though he had managed to sponge the blood and grime from his limbs, he felt shamed before even the slaves, beauteous and courteous, who passed him here.
At length they reached a circular chamber set with pillars of porphyry. The guard escorting the captain was greeted by his fellows at the doors. Berowne felt a certain diffidence before them. Only those of noble blood were allowed to stand guard before the Imperial chambers.
The men at the door struck the butt of their lances upon the panels of the door, which rang out like musical gongs. The ornately-carven door whispered open from within, and a maiden issued forth.
She was young, and carried herself with artful loveliness. Her russet wig was of the Eglandic style, and her eyes were deep green, painted bewitchingly. Her lora was the hue of antique ivory, and on her arms and about her soft throat were clasped golden bands set with rubies.
Abasing herself with a startling grace before the captain, she beckoned him through the open door. Bewitched, he followed her. The doors shut softly behind them.
He stood within the White Tower.
They crossed another circular chamber, whose walls were adorned with painted porcelain, and whose floor mosaic depicted the Throne of Goddess where She sat in fiery splendor, attended by Her maidens, the Fifty of fabled beauty. A marble stair ascended through an opening in the painted ceiling. Berowne followed the maiden in silence up the steps. He took note of everything he saw: Kiva would be eager to learn about the Queen’s intimate chambers.
They climbed three landings, encountering no one. The musky, exotic scent of the slave was beguiling. Berowne was struck by the perfection of the maiden’s movements, which rivaled even Kiva’s.
And this was but one of her majesty’s slaves!
Upon the fourth landing the maiden halted before a pair of antique doors of darkly oiled wood. Gesturing the captain to wait, the maiden slipped through the doors. Berowne stood, his thick arms clasped behind his back. Alternately he gripped and loosed his wrist. Over his head the stairs spiraled upward, to reach at their peak those doors few indeed had ever seen: those opening upon the intimate dimplace of the Queen.
The maiden reappeared. Her voice was such as to send a thrill up the backbone of any man. ‘O Captain, my mistress bids you enter and attend.’
Berowne nodded. ‘Yet before I enter, sweet one, will you not tell me what will be required of me? Why has her majesty chosen this time to break her long silence? And why has she called upon me first of all?’
The maiden smiled, a secret, maddening thing. ‘Ah, as for that, my brave Captain, it is only for the Divine One to speak.’
At a murmured word from the slave’s scarlet lips the doors fell open again. For a moment Berowne felt a nervousness such as he never knew when a thousand barbarians swarmed the Iron Gate. He lurched forward. He heard the soft whispering of the maiden’s lora as she closed the doors behind him.
* * *
It was dark as a dimplace there.
The long, low chamber was swathed in hangings of black linen. The floor was buried beneath patternless blue-black carpets. At the far end the curving outer wall of the chamber was broken in a single, narrow window. The hangings were affixed long wreaths of dried chorjai blossoms, the poisonous blossoms of dark God used in funerary rites. The warmth and gloom of the chamber caressed Berowne like velvet hands.
Upon a dais near the outer wall an antique throne gleamed with gold and jewels. Around the throne were grouped half a dozen maidens in loras like that of Berowne’s green-eyed conductress. Each of these maidens was of a different sort of beauty, each lovelier than the rest. The scene reminded Berowne of the mosaic below; yet the throne itself was vacant.
Before the dais, on a small reed prayer mat overlying the carpets, knelt a priestess. She was garbed all in black linen. Nothing of her figure or her head could be seen as she knelt over a golden lamp adorned with pearls. Other than the window, this was the only source of light within the room.
As the captain slowly approached, the priestess lifted her head, and in the shadow of the wide black cowl Berowne beheld her face. It was not a human face. It was gold, cast and polished in the ancient manner, like the oldest statues on the grounds of the Citadel. The lamplight glinted off the gold oddly. He stopped, blinking. For once in his life, he was speechless.
Perhaps a dozen moments passed.
Berowne felt the eyes of the slave-girls upon him. They were watching him with mischief in their painted eyes. Still there was no sign of the Empress. At his feet the priestess gestured. She said, in a voice made metal and mute by the prison of her mask, ‘Please, Captain, to be seated.’
There were no couche
s, seating-cushions, or chairs other than the throne itself. Berowne squatted down upon his boot-heels. He caught the odor of his body, and felt like some wild ox dragged up out of the mire and set on display before the most elegant charai and their servants. The thought almost made him smile. His nervousness departed.
‘And are you truly Captain of the Guard, sir?’ the priestess asked. ‘I had expected another. What has become of the young Rukorian, he who held the post before the city fell?’
‘Your pardon, reverence,’ Berowne answered, ‘but my foregoer went into the city, to do battle on the barricades. He never returned. In his absence, I took command. I was his lieutenant. I am Berowne, a born Tarendahardilite.’
‘I see.’
The priestess was silent for a moment. Then, ‘I had not foreseen this,’ she said softly. ‘I gave the Rukorian the strictest orders, that nor he nor any of his men were to join that battle, but were to remain here and oversee our preparations. Did he not convey my wishes to you? What caused him, too, to disobey me?’
Now Berowne knew the one to whom he had been speaking so casually. He jerked his upper body forward and put his forehead on the carpet.
‘Your majesty, I did not know you – forgive me—’
The golden mask showed no emotions. ‘I pray you, do not apologize, Captain. Nor offer me those tokens of honor a former custom demanded. I am Divine Queen of Tarendahardil, the Empress nal Bordakasha of the South, no more. What lands or peoples remain, which still would bow to me? I am only what you see before you, a solitary woman humbled by her faults. Only the strength of your arms preserves me. Speak then as you please. Or, if you will give me any honor, address me as you have done, as though I were but one of the virgin priestesses of Goddess.’
Berowne nodded, taking careful note of the faces of the slaves. ‘Yes, your reverence.’
‘Tell me then, Captain Berowne, how goes the defense?’
Berowne told her of the assaults the barbarians had made in the past weeks. ‘Yet the Iron Gate is scarcely scratched, your reverence. Elna’s engineers were geniuses, who designed such fortifications.
‘As for the rest,’ he went on, ‘we have ample stock of grain and cattle to last us two good years. The cisterns are half full, and the slaves tell us that the winter rains will easily fill them. The folk from the city are encamped on the grounds, and seem content enough. If we have but the will, we may withstand a siege here for some years, perhaps even without end.’
‘Ah,’ the Queen said. Berowne did not know what to make of that.
‘Captain, you have done me an honor to give up precious rest to visit me here. I am grateful to you for it. It has reached me that another attack was mounted during your watch. My maidens saw it from the rooftop. All went well, I hope?’
‘Exceedingly well, your reverence. Haspeth joined me, and there was much excellent killing.’
‘Haspeth, the Rukorian captain? What does he here?’
Berowne could not restrain his smile. All of Haspeth’s waiting and wailing without those doors below, and not even word of his presence had reached her majesty’s ears.
‘Your reverence, he told me of the orders you gave him, before Egland Downs. He is deeply grieved to have gone against your wishes, and would suffer any punishment to make amends.’
‘Punishment? Who am I to punish anyone – anyone but one? No, let this be Haspeth’s punishment, that he might have been my General and done the barbarians great harm, but now can only wait and watch with the rest of us. Who else among your men distinguished himself?’
‘All the men fought bravely, your reverence. But one man I ought to mention, because though not of my command, he has inflicted more harm to the barbarians than any other three. This is a refugee from the southern lands, your reverence, a Gerso by his birth, and a nobleman – the Charan Ennius Kandi.’
The Queen passed her long, lovely fingers across the edge of the prayer-mat. ‘Ah.’
‘Yes, your reverence. Your reverence perhaps will recall how among the Emperor’s men there were several who had stolen bows from the barbarians, and knew their use. Regrettably, when High Town fell and the City burned, not one of those men survived. We did, however, by the most unforeseen of circumstances, manage to retrieve the bow of one of them, and his arrow-sack. Our Gerso, learning of this, told us he had seen the strange weapon used so often, that he thought he might learn its use. Now I would wager that he is a better shot than the barbarians, if your reverence will allow it.’
‘I will allow it. And he aids you?’
‘In this and other ways, though that alone would have marked him. It was he who designed the cranes and slings we use to drop stones upon the barbarians below the Iron Gate. He showed me how many men should stand on the battlements, and what space should lie between them. He also conferred with the armorers and gave them the designs for the new shields we bear, which are the greatest defense against the arrows, and yet leave a man’s lance-arm free. When all is done, your reverence, no man is so responsible for the good state we now find ourselves in, and I would ask your reverence to keep his name in mind, when the time comes for honors and rewards.’
‘Such a virtuous man, surely no worthy monarch could overlook,’ she said.
Just then a sound came from the narrow window. A great bird filled it, its talons digging into the mortar between the stones. Gleaming black were its feathers, with a saffron ruff above its breast. It was an enormous gerlin.
The maidens showed their fear and drew back behind the throne. But the Queen rose and made her way toward the window, holding a short stick before her.
Berowne stood to his feet. ‘Reverence, stay apart from such a creature. A gerlin that size will respect neither sticks nor swords. I have seen them rip apart the barbarian corpses below the Iron Gate. Let me fetch a lance and I will chase it out.’
The Queen ignored him. She stopped one step from the window. The gerlin glared at her with suspicious eyes. It pecked at the stick. Once again she proffered the stick. ‘Come, my lord,’ she said. ‘You taught me my place: now take yours.’
The great bird stepped upon the stick. A soft note of triumph sounded in the Empress’ throat. She turned, holding the bird perched before her.
A woman all in black, her face obscured by the antique likeness of Goddess, holding before her breasts a savage bird of prey beside a vacant jeweled throne round which seven of the most slave-girls in the South clustered in awe, pleasure and admiration – Berowne had never beheld a scene to equal it. He shook his head.
‘You are startled, captain,’ the Empress said, stroking the gerlin’s head. ‘Forgive the deception, but I was in no danger. For if you behold me at all now, it is due to none other than this bird before you. It was on a longsleep, and I lay in my dimchamber at the height of this tower, wakeful yet wearied, surfeited with dreams, wary of life, so sick at heart that I had all but lost hope. Then a noise alerted me.
‘This very bird had entered my chamber, and was wheeling frantically about beneath the ceiling, searching a way out again. He was half-starved, I think. I gave him water and named him Niad, which means in the old tongue of the South, “A Beginning.” Only then did I give thought to the siege, and what was best for us to do.’
‘That is a marvel,’ Berowne said. ‘I think none but one of the gods’ children could bring such a thing to hand. Yet if your reverence will pardon me, as gentle as this bird might seem now, he remains a wild thing, and might turn at any moment. I have seen gerlins not half this one’s size rip a barbarian to death, despite all his fellows could do to forbid it.’
‘Yet Niad’s greatest grandfather knew ours, I think. And I would follow in the footsteps of my ancestors.’
The green-eyed maiden approached her mistress bearing a silver vessel, in which were several bloody scraps of meat. The Empress fed the gerlin, which swallowed the gobbets as avidly as if it tore them from a fresh corpse. Then the Empress walked back to the window and released the gerlin.
‘Will
you scratch?’ she murmured, in the tones Berowne had heard hetairai use with pets. ‘Go then, and claw the eyes of our enemies.’ The bird uttered a high, piercing cry, and scampered out the window.
The Queen resumed her place upon the prayer-mat. ‘And now we shall come to why I sent for you, Captain. Will you take wine while we speak?’
‘Thanks to your reverence. Would it be overmuch to request some bit of Postio?’
‘You will have all you desire.’
‘Your reverence, I hope I do not have all I desire. Or else you will need to summon some to carry me hence bodily. Postio is a favorite of mine – some would say a weakness.’
The green-eyed maiden set before Berowne a low table with a broad wine cup. From a porcelain ewer she poured the cup full of the dark, foaming wine.
Berowne took up the wine cup, feeling the metal warming in the cradle of his calloused flesh. ‘Will your reverence take nothing?’
‘The dead do not drink. But go you on.’
He held the liquid in the hollow of his mouth for a heartbeat before allowing it to drain with the slow torture of honey down his throat. He felt the wine work its way into his upper stomach. By the thighs of Goddess, but that was good! Already he could feel its fire dance about his veins. It lacked but the lips of Kiva to have borne him beyond the bright horizon. After a moment he opened his eyes.
‘Captain Berowne, you were, I think, aware of our orders that none of you of the Citadel Guard were to go down to the barricades before the final battle. Yet your predecessor went openly. Why did you not try to stop him or report his disloyalty?’
‘If it please your reverence, what else was I to do? Should I slay him, and deprive the barbarians of an able enemy? No – but I gave him a jug of Postio to fire his strength there. When a man has the need on him to do a thing, let it be to gain gold, fight a war or possess a woman, then there is nothing left for his friends but help him seek his fate. A man who could swallow back such passions is not a man at all, but a thing without fire, cold and cunning, not to be trusted.’
