Cobweb Empire

by Vera Nazarian

  But the carriage driver perked up. “Rollins Way, if I recall, was still there this morning, and even at least a couple of hours ago. You’re in luck, in fact, because now with all those missing streets, it’s much closer to this square than it had been before! See that red brick house?” he pointed with his driving stick. “Just make a turn into the side street behind it, and another right, then a left, and there you have it, Rollins Way.”

  “Oh dear,” Lizabette muttered, “I do hope Grial will be there!”

  “Grial, did you say?” A huge grin came to the driver’s face, and he flashed his crooked teeth. “Why didn’t you say you wanted Grial?”

  “Jupiter’s balls! You know Grial?” Niosta piped up from the back, rather impressed.

  The driver snorted. “Know Grial? Why, everybody knows Grial! And if you’re looking for her house, it’s indeed on Rollins Way, the little brown building with a shingle up on top that says ‘Grial’s Health & Fortune Chest’ in red and black big letters, you can’t miss it—”

  “Thank you!” Percy said in relief.

  “Don’t thank me, Missy, thank the Good Lord that Rollins Way still stands, and Grial’s place along with it!”

  Beltain drew out a few coins and handed them to the driver. “A thanks for your help.”

  The man pocketed the money, smiling, and raised his hat up. “Thank ye kindly, Your Lordship, and welcome to Letheburg!”

  Moments later they had ridden past the landmark brick house, and after a few turns, were on Rollins Way. The Chidair soldiers moved ahead, riding two abreast, and Percy carefully maneuvered Betsy and the cart past a sharp turn into a small street along slippery snowed-over cobblestones of the larger street and onto rutted snow-sludge dirt. This was a row of many houses whose upper floors were jutting outward and overhanging like balconies, and whose narrow windows were mostly shuttered against the winter cold.

  In the shadow of one such overhang, Grial’s shingle was prominent, and swung a bit crooked above a cheerful storefront window with lacy curtains on the other side, and a wooden door recently painted red.

  The girls were all excited for some reason, as though they were about to meet up with a long-time friend.

  And indeed, they did.

  Before Percy was done fiddling with Betsy’s reins, the red door flew open and out came Grial herself, wearing her usual dingy apron over a patchwork housedress, with a small kerchief band to hold back her frizzy beehive of dark kinky hair. Grial’s figure was buxom and shapely, her face was youthful and handsome, and her black eyes sparkled with good cheer.

  “Well, what have we here, my dears! A bunch of girls, pretty as daisies, and my darling Betsy! And my cart! And fine gentlemen too, goodness gracious!” she exclaimed, putting her hands on her hips.

  “Grial!” Percy exclaimed. An involuntary grin bloomed on her face, lighting her up on the inside with instant warmth.

  It suddenly felt like they had come home.

  There were many echoes of “Grial! Grial!” as other girls descended from the cart, and then Vlau Fiomarre nodded politely, as he helped the Infanta down. Claere stood up like a mannequin, unsteady on her feet, and clung to the wall railing of the cart.

  “And who might you be, Lordship?” Grial looked up fearlessly at the black knight in his armor and chain mail, seated atop the great black charger, and wearing ice-blue colors of Chidair.

  “I’m wondering the same thing about you,” he replied with bemusement. “You appear to be quite famous. Am I right to assume you are a witch woman?”

  “Me? Goodness, I’m just an old bag,” the frizzy-haired woman replied, and did not blink even once, meeting his steely gaze. “But I see you are a fine knight! And as such, you and your men are certainly welcome to my humble little dwelling, and I dare say although it’s a very cozy little home, there will be plenty of room for all of you. Well, not exactly all of you, since I must draw the line at horses—no horses indoors, I say!—and Betsy and your own handsome Jacques will just have to share stalls in the back of the house—”

  The knight visibly froze. “What did you say? Jacques? How did you know the original name of my horse? Especially since I never use it and call him Jack?” He threw a glance at his second-in-command Riquar at his side, and then back at Grial.

  The rest of the men-at-arms all around the cart grew still also, all of them staring at Grial, and not a creak of armor or clink of metal and leather harness came from them or their own mounts, so quiet they became. . . .

  And in that silence, Grial made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a barking laugh. “Why that’s not a big secret! Jacques told Betsy, and Betsy of course tells me everything. Seriously, if you want your boy to keep a better lid on it, you need to let him know! Jack indeed! He is a bona fide Frenchman, and rather proud of his roots.”

  The black knight shook his head in wonder.

  “Now then,” Grial said, throwing her hands up, then clapping them together industriously, “off yer horses, everyone! And let’s get you to the back of the house, see this little alley right here, and then we settle in! Come along, pumpkin”—she turned to Percy—“and let’s get Betsy and this lovely cart of ours turned around properly—”

  For the next quarter of an hour, they led and unsaddled horses, carried things, and made a sludgy mess of what was left of the snow underfoot.

  And then they entered Grial’s house.

  While the girls hugged Grial, the half a dozen soldiers filled up the small chintz-covered parlor with its brightly printed calico draperies, fringed and tasseled pillows, and a pair of sofas on curving legs that surely must have seen better days somewhere at Court.

  “Gentlemen, do not sit down on anything, I pray!” Grial exclaimed. “I want no soggy rusty stains on any of my furniture! Off to the back kitchen with you and off with yer armor! If it jingles and jangles or clinks and clanks, it does not belong in my parlor!”

  She pointed her finger at the black knight himself. “And you, sir, Lordship, you, most of all! Remove your plates at once! And I beg you not to trail snow on that rug!”

  Percy bit her lip in mild terror at what Beltain’s reaction to such treatment might be. But apparently the black knight too was under Grial’s peculiar spell, because he smiled lightly and with a nod and a hand motion to his men, he and his soldiers exited the room.

  Only the girls and Vlau Fiomarre remained.

  “And you!” Grial said, looking sharply at the dark-haired nobleman and his bruised but handsome face and his impoverished servant’s attire. “I see no metal bits on you, so you feel free to sit! Right there, here’s a nice chair for you, young man.”

  Vlau paused, briefly glancing at Claere who stood shyly near the doorway, and was looking around her at all the colorful fabric decor. She had seen and known immeasurable riches and wonders at the Imperial Silver Court, but it was Grial’s cheerful living room that seemed to have an effect on her, unlike anything, and possibly for the first time in her existence.

  “Sit!” Grial repeated to the marquis.

  And it was no different than training a hound. Fiomarre found himself in a deep chair as though his limbs had moved of their own accord.

  While Lizabette perched on the sofa next to Marie and Percy, and Niosta climbed into a quilt-draped rocking chair near the window, Grial approached Claere Liguon.

  Percy held her breath . . . because there came a natural moment of silence.

  “Now, what and who have we here?” said Grial intently, stopping before the Infanta. With both hands she gently lowered the faded red woolen hood covering the girl’s listless cobweb hair.

  “I am Claere.” The Infanta’s soft creaking voice filled the room with a mechanized echo. “I am . . . dead,” she added. A shadow of movement briefly surfaced on her lifeless doll countenance.

  “And I am so truly sorry . . .” Grial replied softly, and a heart-breaking gentleness came to her eyes. “Your Imperial Highness, Claere Liguon, it is my honor to have you in my parlor.�
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  “How did you know. . . ?”

  “To be honest, I’ve been expecting you—all of you, in fact.” And Grial looked at all of them with a single glance panning around the room. “All of you, my Cobweb Brides. And you, Percy—or should I say, Death’s Champion.”

  “How did you—” Percy began to ask also, then shook her head as if to clear it.

  “First, I am going to brew some tea and see what’s edible and fit to be consumed for supper by fine gentlemen and ladies such as yourselves. Then we can chat and catch up. Because, trust me, there is plenty to be catching up on, and plenty that has already caught up with us, whether we like it or not. Surely you must know, dearies, that things are going on!”

  “Grial, it is so very nice to meet you,” shy little Marie spoke up all of a sudden, “but I am so confused. I am sorry, my—my language is not very good. But—what is going on?”

  Grial took a deep breath, wiped her hands on her apron and sat down on the sofa next to Lizabette. She then leaned forward, resting elbows on her knees, and looked around at all of them. “Well, besides the death thing, there’s the rest of the world. It’s the blessed world itself, sweetlings. The world all around us is fading away.”

  Chapter 7

  The farthest eastern borders of the Kingdom of Balmue jutted up against the Kingdom of Serenoa in a dry-land “archipelago” which was an eternal fertile summerland known as Elysium. Meanwhile, just miles to the north began the Aepienne Mountains, a grand white-capped range that meandered true north, its sharp peaks scraping heaven. The Aepiennes held back snow and winter, which was safely contained beyond the foreign border of the Domain, so that all the icy cold and whiteness was forever on the Realm side.

  Here, in Elysium, it was always summer. The region consisted of verdant grassland and farming country, and was renowned for its rolling fields of exquisite flowers of every hue.

  Succulent poppies and lilies-of-the-valley sprinkled the verdigris grasses, swaying in the gentle breeze. And among them, caressed by the loving sun, arose stalks of fragrant honey-clover, periwinkle, lavender, cornflowers, primroses, forget-me-nots, pansies, violets, sweet alyssum, and infinite varieties of daisies, dandelion, heather, and baby’s breath. Occasional clumps of feathered rich carnations topped rises, and hedges of honeysuckle strove to the sky.

  It was a pleasure-dream to walk the fields. The local children came to play here, running and rolling among the pointillist riot of multi-colored blossoms, while young lovers came falling down together to lie in the heady cloud of fragrance permeating the rainbow land around them, and to daydream while gazing at the heavens.

  The nobility from all of the Domain and the aristocrats from the Sapphire Court, made frequent pleasure excursions to the Elysian Fields, where they held picnics and played games of chase among the flowers, and picked enough blossoms to return to Court with elaborate flower garlands in their hair. The flowers here were so abundant that special harvesters were sent to provide the local towns and the Court itself, with flowers for all occasions. Even the Sovereign herself was known to visit, and her servants were regularly dispatched from Court to pluck bouquets of her favorite flower, the narcissus, together with the rare pale asphodel and delicate orchid, which was all bound in strings of gold, beribboned, and delivered to her Palace chambers.

  Today had been exceedingly hot. The heavy perfumed air rippled over the fields, honeybees wallowed in sweet nectar and butterflies floated like airborne flowers, while a haze stood up all the way to the horizon on all sides, blurring the edges between land and sky. The golden sun was sinking, painting the western dome of sky with a deep orange glow and lower edges of the horizon with an echo-corona of plum violet. Not much longer than a few minutes remained before sunset.

  Three young men dressed in noble finery and four similarly attired young ladies frolicked in the tall flowers. The ladies were just past their childhood years and entering the first blush of womanhood. Each was dressed in pale white or pastel dresses of satin sheaths with over-layers of gauze and delicate crepe, holding up their skirts immodestly above silk stocking-covered ankles as they ran and squealed in delight.

  “Sidonie! You must stop immediately, my sweet Lady Sidonie! Or your punishment will be severe, I promise!” The blond young man in silk trousers and billowing shirt, laughed and cried out, running just behind the small quick girl who was out far in front of them all.

  “Catch me if you can!” she replied, continuing to race forward, the creamy tops of her breasts bouncing in the revealing décolletage, and her once-carefully arranged hair spilling behind her in a riot of auburn waves and crushed flowers.

  “If Valentio cannot catch you, then surely I will!” exclaimed another young man, with darker hair and a larger built, running very fast and gaining on them both from the back.

  “Will my punishment be a mere kiss?” cried Sidonie into the wind, without looking back at any of them. “Because I have tasted Valentio’s kiss before, and his lips require a soothing balm, for they are chapped and dry like fish scales!”

  “You have not had my kiss, Sidonie!” cried the dark haired young man again, passing Valentio. “I promise you sweetness like this entire field!”

  The three girls running in the back laughed, and then one of them shrieked in breathless wildness while the third young man took a detour and grabbed her around the waist.

  A sudden gust of warm wind blew in Sidonie’s face and it sent a fluttering shimmer through the grass and blossoms, a wave sweeping like a comb upon the surface.

  The disk of the sun was now a sliver at the horizon. At the same time an invigorating roar of air moving powerfully against the land flooded and overwhelmed the silence.

  When it receded, all things were quiet again; even the laughter of the ladies and the young men seemed to have faded away.

  So quiet it was that Sidonie, panting hard and running at a breakneck pace, could not help glancing behind her at the unusual lack of voices of her friends.

  She glanced, and immediately her pace broke, and she stopped with an off-balanced stagger, panting wildly, holding on to her abdomen and forgetting the bursting ache in her lungs.

  Behind her, there was no sign of any of the young men or the ladies. Indeed, as her unbelieving eyes took in the sight, the field itself—that had only moments ago stretched for miles to the horizon—was suddenly only about fifty feet behind her, ending sharply, and behind it a clearing began, nothing but dull packed earth and a rocky incline, and then, a sharp rising hillside.

  Sidonie made a sound of terrified disbelief, because she was now looking up at the foothills of the Aepienne Mountains.

  The Sovereign was alone in the Hall of the Sun. After she had ended her Audience and dismissed her personal guards, the Chamberlains, and even her advisor Ebrai Fiomarre, the gilded doors shut behind them all.

  She remained seated on the Sapphire Throne, motionless and engrossed in thoughtful silence. The crystal garland chandeliers with their infinity of candlelight bathed the hall in a soft warm radiance. The Sovereign herself resembled a perfect alabaster statue of a goddess, reclining somewhat to one side against the wind-colored precious stone seat, with crimson folds of fabric cascading from her courtly dress to drape the polished jewel facets of the throne.

  For the duration of that solitary contemplative state, her eyes had been closed.

  And then, Rumanar Avalais straightened in her seat and opened her eyes.

  In that first moment of revelation, they appeared to be dark twilight shadow-places . . . and then, with a blink they were pure sky-blue.

  Briefly caressing the sapphire armrests with her fingertips, the Sovereign stood up. She stepped to the right of the throne, stilling before the pedestal and its small golden effigy. She observed the old goddess, seated in her partial lotus position. And then she reached out and placed her hand upon the top of the crown headdress. For several long seconds she stood, holding the gold, feeling it warm up from the contact with her fingers, until the
metal was the same temperature as her flesh. Then, with a small twist, she pushed down.

  As the goddess figurine rotated ninety degrees in her fingers, there came a brief grinding noise from somewhere in the back of the throne.

  Rumanar Avalais released the statuette and silently stepped down the dais and stood behind the throne, looking down at the precious inlaid floor, its mosaic having swung apart in clever interlocking geometric jigsaws. In its place was revealed a gaping square opening of darkness and a flight of stairs leading down. . . .

  Having no need for illumination, the Sovereign placed her gold-slippered delicate foot upon the first stair, and then the next, and descended into the darkness.

  As she sank in the passage, a soft grey glow started to seep upward from the innards below, until the stairs and floor were sufficiently illuminated to reveal a room-sized stone chamber, and beyond it, an open corridor from which came more of the same even illumination, silvery lavender in hue and coming from niches in the corridor walls.

  Rumanar Avalais stepped from the last stair unto the sterile stone floor, into that chamber of nothing but monochrome grey. She walked, gliding like a swan upon the waters of a slate stone ocean, and entered the corridor.

  She passed the arching wall niches with their matte glass lamp sconces obscuring hidden torches—it was the nature of the frosted glass that created the strange, homogenous silvery light permeating the place—and then the hallway curved slightly and she emerged into a large chamber, that seemed to billow with a cloud of the same anemic light.

  The walls of the room were all pallor, nearly white, and here the sconce lamps were more frequent, circling the perimeter to cast cool lunar radiance upon an impossible sight. . . .

  The room was filled with motionless human figures, all covered in fine, white gossamer cobwebs.

  At first they seemed to be statues, shaped in different positions, most seated on chairs, a few upright, and in the very center of the chamber, upon a flat long slab of carved marble, one figure lying in repose.