Cobweb Empire

by Vera Nazarian

  They were all women. The cobwebs covered them with such a fine layer of whiteness that they appeared ageless, smooth-featured, like beautiful life-sized dolls. Every inch of their skin, the folds of their clothing, their hair and lashes and lips, everything was effaced into gossamer whiteness. And then the cobwebs stretched beyond the surfaces into empty space all around them, creating infinite garlands of translucent netting that filled the chamber, and traveled in infinite threads to bind them together into one marvelous sepulchral artwork of hell.

  The women had been stilled in a variety of poses and the strangest detail was the condition of their eyes.

  In every instance they were open. The eyes, liquid and alive, had no cobwebs to dull them on the surface. It was as if the diligent spider that had spun this infinite web somehow made a detour around each eyelid and lash and left the eyes themselves free of silken bonds.

  The women, frozen eternally, continued to gaze at the cobweb empire around them. And although their eyes did not move, nor did they blink, they had in them a certain living flicker of awareness, a pooling well of intensity that spoke eloquently on their behalf.

  Or maybe it was only a trick of the light. . . .

  The Sovereign, Rumanar Avalais, paused only for a moment at the entrance. There was no expression on her perfect face, and she approached the first female figure, seated in a chair. This one was obviously young, and the cobwebs had not yet grown sufficiently thick upon her to obscure the rosy colors of her skin, gathered chestnut hair, and chartreuse brocade court dress, and thus make her into the same homogeneous doll of matte porcelain that had been the fate of the others.

  “And how are you today, my sweet Lady Leonora? Ah, but you grow pale . . .” the Sovereign said in a voice of warm honey. As she spoke, her face took on a delightful glow and a loving motherly expression never displayed in public. She reached out with her fingertips to caress the chestnut curls of the girl with their beginning nimbus of white silk, that bare dusting of cobwebs, then stroked the maiden’s delicately matted cheek.

  At the Sovereign’s approach, the eyes of Leonora seemed to widen just an infinitesimal degree, and her lips too appeared to almost move, poised on the living brink. Possibly, in her fixed silence, she strove to speak. . . . And all around her the other cobweb statues also seemed to strive, imbued with a wind of living presence, an intangible aura that almost made the cobwebs flutter as each microscopic thread grew taut with intensity and sang into the void of the chamber.

  And yet, it was all an illusion. Every one of them remained still and frozen and lifeless, except for their liquid staring eyes.

  “It is so nice to see you, my Leonora,” continued the Sovereign, and then, drawing closer to the girl’s ear, proceeded to whisper, in the same loving tone. She imparted news of the girl’s parents and chastised her for her missed duties at Court that apparently she had been shirking. “Your mother, the Countess D’Arvu was just telling me now how much she worries for you, and how she had not heard a word from you for the entire month. How could you be so thoughtless, Leonora? What a careless, thoughtless daughter! How could you not write to your poor dear mother? Really now, I expect more of my Ladies-in-Attendance. . . .”

  With another finger-stroke of the maiden’s cheek, Rumanar Avalais placed a delicate kiss on top of her hair, and then left the Lady Leonora behind, and entered deeper into the cobweb morass, while motionless eyes followed her in a trick of perspective from all directions.

  She visited with every one of the female statues, touching a cheek here, a forehead there, raining dewdrop kisses upon the fingers of one childlike delicate girl half-reclining on a settee and completely encased in a cocoon of whiteness. She lowered herself in a mass of crimson crinoline skirts before another maiden, seated primly on the floor itself. Kneeling, the Sovereign put her arms around her, embracing the sorrowful thing in the center of the cobwebs, so that her own dress was now covered with a dusting of sticky threads, and her sleeves edged with black lace and her alabaster neck were stained with white gossamer silk.

  “Now, now, I am here, my Marie-Louise,” she crooned. She then arose and spoke to a Lily here and a Beatrice there, naming them each with such heartfelt delight. As she moved among them, the Sovereign spread out her arms, stroking the cobwebs themselves, entering deeper into the center of their grouping.

  In the middle, where the cobwebs were thickest, and she had to tear through them with her fingers, in order to take even a step, was the bed of marble, like an altar to some ancient god of silk and bleak shadows.

  Upon the sepulchral slab lay a woman clad in pure white. Whiter than white she was, even underneath the cobwebs. And only her skin retained a hue of distant sunset, and her hair had once been the color of pure harvest gold, only a few shades lighter than the auburn ruddy gold of the Sovereign.

  Rumanar Avalais approached the altar and stood looking down upon the maiden in white. Unlike the others, she did not attempt to touch or caress this one lying before her. Instead, she only looked intently, with a strange occluded gaze of profound grave thought.

  And then she leaned over her, drawing very close but never touching. After a pause of immeasurable moments, the Sovereign’s lips, succulent as gilded plums, with their finely outlined edges, moved silently in incantation, or possibly, prayer.

  The nature of the light here, in the middle of the chamber, was different somehow. It was darker, and the glow of the lamps along the walls could not penetrate the gossamer filter enough to seep through the endless veils of cobwebs. The young woman, in all her whiteness, seemed to be also in a place of darkest shadow. And only her face with its still lovely features and dilated eyes that revealed the same sky-blue color as that of the Sovereign, had a strange spotlight illumination upon it, coming from directly overhead.

  The maiden’s liquid eyes reflected pinpoints of starlight—indeed, what appeared to be rainbow dots of illumination—and if one were to look up in the direction of her eternally striving gaze, the mystery of the colored stars would have been revealed.

  High overhead, right above her cobweb-smothered face, was a skylight. It was made of what appeared to be tinted clear glass, and then—if one looked closely enough—the glass resolved itself into sharp sapphire facets.

  Directly overhead, fixed into the chamber ceiling, was the base of the Sapphire Throne.

  Chapter 8

  They ate a cheerful supper around Grial’s large kitchen table, a hearty meal of spicy fried potatoes and soft, spreadable blue-veined triple-crème cheese atop chunks of freshly baked crusty bread—all of it being food and grain that had been harvested or set to ripen before the Event of death’s stopping, and thus, edible. But first Grial had fussed around the kitchen and hearth for half an hour, with the girls trailing, peeling old tubers, onions, and rummaging through spice racks, and pouring cinnamon-brewed apple cider into tankards for the seated men.

  “Normally I’d make all you gentlemen lend a hand here,” Grial said. “But I am afraid you’re like elephants, big and lovable and clumsy as you please—and the ears all floppy in some cases, too—and you would stomp all over my well-organized cooking area. Therefore, do take advantage of the idle time and sit around and drink this cider! Sorry, I have no stronger stuff to offer, but the ale house is closed for the night.”

  The soldiers grinned at their hostess, speaking among themselves in relaxed voices, and Riquar smoothed his bushy beard in a self-conscious manner. Beltain, meanwhile, thanked her and took a tankard for himself, and the men-at-arms followed his lead.

  Vlau took his own drink last, carefully watching, from the corner of his eye, the Infanta who was sat primly on a small chair that had been brought in from the parlor specifically for her and placed in the corner, away from the table. Her winter cloak had been removed indoors, and underneath she wore the plain grey servant’s dress. Her ash hair lay limp around her shoulders, her thin arms at her sides, hands folded in her lap. The chair had been placed at an angle so that she could look strai
ght ahead and observe the entire kitchen, while still being out of the way.

  Knowing that the men were watching them, the girls put on aprons and bustled. Lizabette eagerly attempted to do everything herself, and ordered Marie and Niosta around, or else corrected their performance, while Grial occasionally threw them bemused glances as she stirred the hissing skillet over the flames.

  Percy quietly peeled endless batches of potatoes, standing before a wooden counter with her back turned to everyone, and glanced around but occasionally, only to catch the look of Beltain’s slate-blue eyes upon her. Was it simply an infernal coincidence? Yet when she turned away, did she also continue to feel the almost tangible pressure of his gaze upon her back?

  After Lizabette had made yet another annoyingly instructional pronouncement, Niosta took up the large platter with the round head of perfectly aged, soft-ripened cheese fresh out of the larder, and said loudly to her: “Here, would you like to cut?”

  “Of course!” Lizabette immediately took the long knife from the wood cutting board with its readied slices of bread, and she grabbed the cheese platter from Niosta. “Here is how it’s done properly when you serve soft cheeses: it is best to first soak the knife blade in cold water, then dry it with an actual fluffy towel, which is to say this is not a particularly fluffy towel but it will have to do, then—” And she started to demonstrate the technique.

  Marie and Niosta stared at each other, then Niosta rubbed the back of her hand against her freckled nose and pronounced dramatically, “Look, everyone, Lizabette just cut the cheese!” And they burst into hard giggles while some of the soldiers joined them.

  “Why, that is the most childish and horrid thing to say—” Lizabette put down the knife and whirled around, with a stormy expression and a dropped jaw, at which point Grial said, “Now, hold it right there, dearie! I want to cut the cheese myself! Here, you work the skillet, while I cut enough cheese to make this kitchen into a cheesy paradise! This is fine aromatic stuff, and I dare say, no matter how much you and I cut, we cannot cut enough!”

  The meal was eventually all prepared and far more quickly consumed. When everyone finally sat down, the table was a tight squeeze, and Percy ate seated cozily between Niosta and Grial, everyone elbowing each other. Conversation was minimal, and petered out altogether after a little bit of uncomfortable and fearful speculation on the nature of the “world fading around them, and how no one precisely knew what it was that it meant or what was actually going on.” Soon it had gotten to be dark outside, for they could see the indigo twilight through the small kitchen window.

  “If you must know, the world fades in particular around this exact time,” Grial said, pointing with her finger to the window. “It is the end of twilight, just when true evening comes. . . . That’s when most people report things going missing, such as streets and houses, and occasionally, spouses.”

  Everyone grew a little quiet, a little more serious. They listened to the small sounds outside, the evening wind. It was as if they were all waiting for something to disappear around them.

  Moments passed.

  “Why twilight?” asked Marie.

  “Are you not aware that twilight takes things?” Lizabette said in a superior tone, looking down over her nose at the younger girl. “You’ve seen it happen at Death’s Keep! Why, we’ve all seen it, the fading shadows.”

  “That’s absolutely right, duckie.” Grial nodded. “Shadows fade both in the light and in darkness. To be precise, they escape from one and run into the other. And now that the world is broken, they apparently also take things along with them as they go. And twilight is the high time of shadows; it itself is one whole big Shadow, if you must.”

  “What strange, dark times we live in . . .” Beltain mused.

  “True indeed, Your Lordship. But if you ask me, every time seems strange and dark,” Grial said, “when you are living smack in the middle of it. It’s only much later, afterwards, once you’ve lived long enough to look back, that you can start to see both the bright colors and the dark spots properly—and sometimes, you even see polka dots and clubs and diamonds and even hearts—and yes, a very common thing, you do get to see these pesky little string floaters in your eye! In any case, age is nothing more than the acquisition of Temporal Perspective! Oh, and rheumatism too, I must add.”

  A couple of the older soldiers nodded at that.

  Afterwards, when the teakettle boiled and everyone held either a large mug or a petite china cup of the hot soothing brew back in the parlor, Grial took Percy aside quietly.

  “Tell me, child,” said the frizzy-haired woman with her dark, dark eyes. “What is it that you must do? I know you’ve met Death and certain things happened—no, don’t ask me how I know. But oh, all right, if you must, rumors are faster than the wind, and everyone in the Letheburg marketplace is talking about a young woman from Oarclaven whose grandmother has been granted the ultimate release of true death. Supposedly, this young woman also freed a dying pig, and possibly a coop of chickens—or is it a herd of water buffalo, and a partridge in a pear tree? And so, what I want to know is, what comes next for you?”

  “Oh, Grial, I wish I was certain,” Percy whispered. “But the only thing I know is, I can feel it, feel the death-shadow that belongs to the Cobweb Bride. And it is pulling me south. At first I thought it might be here, in Letheburg, but it is not. It is somewhere out there, much farther. . . .”

  “Then, so be it.” Grial squeezed Percy’s hand with her large warm one. “You will keep traveling onward, along whatever road that comes before you, together with the poor dead princess and the rest of them. But first—tomorrow morning I am going to drive you over to the Palace of Lethe, where another grandmother urgently needs your help.”

  In the morning, Grial was true to her word. As soon as everyone had woken up all around the very cozy house—a small house that somehow managed to have enough rooms on the inside to fit every single soldier and girl and provide a comfortable spot to sleep, either on a cot or a sofa that had seemingly materialized out of nowhere—they had a quick breakfast and got ready to depart.

  Since the black knight had thought it prudent to take the Infanta to the Winter Palace of Lethe in the first place, he was in perfect agreement with Grial’s plan. Lord Beltain Chidair expected to acquire additional special protection for his Imperial charge from the Crown Prince himself—royal reinforcements in the form of added guards, a closed carriage and change of horses, and anything else that might serve them for the rest of the journey to the Silver Court.

  In the pale blue dawn light and chill air, with vapor curling on their breath, Grial hitched up Betsy to the familiar cart. And this time she herself got up in the driver’s seat while Percy and the girls rode as passengers, with Vlau and the Infanta in the very back. The knight and his men made up the rear and advance guard, and together they navigated the meandering narrow streets of the city.

  “Turn right! No, left, Your Lordship!” Grial cried out periodically to the men riding before them. “Turn on Baker Street! Ah, no, blast it, Baker Street had flown the coop the other day, I forgot! All right, forget Baker Street, turn onto Alhambra, then Royal Way, and follow it straight to the Palace!”

  In half an hour, they finally emerged from the small streets onto the large Royal Way—lined by rows of brass-decorated street lanterns, still sputtering with fading golden glow and burning the last of their oil in these early hours—which opened up into Lethe Square that surrounded the Winter Palace of Lethe.

  It was still early morning, heavily overcast, even though no new snow had fallen overnight. The dome of sky sat in a tumult of silver and slate with thick storm clouds, directly over the Palace, so that it seemed that Heaven itself was pushing down upon the world below with its infinite grey cotton layers.

  Their group moved past the snow-covered slippery cobblestones of the square and approached the filigree metal gates, guarded on both sides.

  The black knight identified himself as Lord Chidair, and
within moments they entered past the gates into a long driveway approach to the front of the Winter Palace. Here, helpful grooms and footmen were at hand, and while the Chidair men-at-arms and the girls were led into suitable servant quarters to wait, Beltain offered the Infanta his arm in a courtly gesture. Vlau followed immediately behind with a strange fiercely guarded look on his face, and they crossed the splendid doorway of the corridor to the Royal quarters. Surprisingly, Grial came right behind them. And seeing Percy linger in the small parlor with the other subdued and gawking girls, Grial motioned her with one hand to come along.

  It was thus that Percy hastily came after, walking with her head lowered, genuinely afraid to take a needless step upon the exotic carpets and the polished shining floors, and even more terrified at the inconceivable splendor at eye-level and overhead—rich velvet and brocade curtains hanging over windows of remarkable clear glass, tasseled fabrics embroidered with gold and silver thread into delicate patterns, grand portraits on the walls in immense ornate frames covered in gold leaf, chandeliers hung with crystals that were no doubt shattered stars, exquisite painted ceilings, cornices and elaborate crown moldings, and everywhere servants in such fine livery that it was a hundred times fancier than anything she’d seen in her home village even on parade days. . . .

  Lord in Heaven, she was in the Winter Palace!

  They walked quickly along the corridor and were delivered before two ornate wooden doors covered with dark lacquer and with gilded crests upon them, bearing the formal insignias of Lethe.

  The doors were opened, and Lord Beltain Chidair took one step forward, leading the Infanta within, making sure she was properly in front.

  But all his fine courtly effort was wasted, because Grial came noisily from behind, and moved past them, walking directly upon the Royal Persian carpet. An impressive but severe middle-aged gentleman with grizzled temples, dressed in expensive mourning and seated at a small writing desk near the window was quietly speaking to a uniformed advisor. On the other side of him, reading in a wing chair, was the gentleman’s exhausted regal spouse. Seeing them both, Grial exclaimed with a brief bow: “Your Royal Highnesses! Begging all pardons, but we are here at last, arrived with such important matters and such important people!”