Mythophidia

by Constantine, Storm

  How could he deny it? She was there before him, a primeval thing, an essence of woman; dangerous and lovely, caressable and fanged. Here she was, in his room, and the door closed against the world. The vase of blue and the vase of brown resided warmly in his trunk beneath the window. She was here.

  ‘You did a terrible thing,’ he said.

  ‘And what was that?’ She combed her hair with her fingers, smiling sweetly.

  ‘A man died.’

  Phedra wrinkled her brow. ‘And that was terrible? You don’t know the meaning of the word. He broke the rules. An animal...’ She grimaced, and then reasserted the smile. ‘You know the rules, and I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Neither will you,’ retorted Orlando. ‘Once a demon knows your name, it gives them power.’

  Phedra laughed. ‘I, a demon? How droll! How flattering!’

  Could he poison such a senseless child? It seemed unthinkable. And yet the vases called to him. He could almost hear them clinking together amongst the linen in the trunk. In the silent, isolated world of night, anything was possible, any unspeakable act. Reality was a changed thing in the dark. Surely she must realise he was aware of what she could do to him, simply because he’d spoken to her? Didn’t she consider he might be afraid, and capable of anything? But there were thoughts, too, of taking what she was offering. He could not deny it. How confident this female creature was not to realise all these things, and to come here alone. And yet, some part of him, remembering daylight, wanted her to explain her behaviour. He wanted to find the woman within the demon. If she existed, the vases could lie cold among the linen.

  ‘Why do you do it?’ he asked. ‘Why torment the men? What have they ever done to you? Their lives are given to protecting yours.’

  Phedra frowned. ‘They are fools,’ she said, ‘As you are! What is there to protect me from? You stand there like little mannikins of tin, with you silly, stern expressions, fawning over the royalty.’ She stood up, gestured abruptly. ‘It’s pathetic. What are we, but privileged by accident of birth? Why should you serve me?’

  ‘The royal family serves the country,’ Orlando said lamely. ‘Another king might not be so benevolent to his people - or another queen. I think that’s worth protecting.’

  ‘Pah!’ spat the princess. ‘I despise you! I despise all of it! You are men as well as soldiers.’

  ‘Then why do you report us to our officers?’

  Phedra shrugged. ‘It should show you how stupid the rules are...’ She shook a rigid finger at Orlando. ‘And don’t think I’m not as constrained by them as you are! I would give anything for the life of your sister, or your mother, or even your whore. I have no life, but a predetermined pageant. I cannot love anyone but whom my parents decide. I cannot run free, anywhere. I cannot wander through the markets, I cannot choose my friends. In short, I am in prison, with a life-time’s sentence! And Seramis... hah!’ She pulled a sour face. ‘I will always be second fiddle to her. I expect you think she’s an angel. Yes, of course you do. But she’s rigid, soldier, rigid as a pole, regarding conformity, and etiquette and all that muck! Life beneath her rule will be hell for me.’ Phedra sighed and sat down again, her hands laced between her knees. ‘She will marry me off to a proper sort of minor duke, who will no doubt be ugly and old and want hundreds of children. I shall be confined in another splendid palace, and my life will be over.’

  ‘Then you might as well end it now,’ said Orlando, and the space between them seemed to condense, become cold.

  There was a silence - strained - and then Phedra laughed harshly. ‘I sometimes think of it,’ she said. ‘Then I decide I don’t want death, just a different life. Something I can never have.’ She leaned towards him. ‘Do you realise I have never spoken this way to anyone?’ She paused. ‘Well, at least not to anyone who’s actually listened or who’s not tried to shut me up with platitudes after the second word.’

  ‘Why choose me?’

  She turned away. ‘I don’t know... It must be your looks. I like pretty things.’

  ‘And did the soldier who went to his death really attack you, or did he die because you just decided to despise him that night?’

  Phedra clearly did not anticipate the question. She looked, momentarily, nonplussed. ‘He would have killed me,’ she said at last. ‘You were not there, so you cannot judge me.’

  ‘You drove him to it!’

  ‘Humanity are worms!’ declared the princess. ‘I, as much as any other. It makes no difference when a life flame is quenched. There are always plenty more. None of us are precious, none of us! I don’t care about it! Fate made me a princess, a woman screaming inside, and him a soldier. Fate made our paths cross, to his misfortune. That’s all there is to it!’

  ‘You have no regrets,’ Orlando said, even now surprised. ‘Not one.’

  She shrugged. ‘It is hard for me to feel anything at all. Why should I? Who feels for me, my torment? I am a prisoner wielding what little power I have. If that is cruel, then so be it. I will at least leave my mark upon the world. Don’t you see how insane it all is? My parents must be aware of everything I do, yet they will not stop me. Why? Because princesses don’t do wicked things. We are supposed to be sainted creatures. I am not a living creature to them, but a symbol. If I yawn at a parade, they punish me. Send a man to his death and eyes are turned away. Who are the real demons, soldier, answer me that?’

  ‘You have gone too far,’ replied Orlando. ‘You have excuses for your behaviour, but they are not enough to comfort the kin of he who died.’

  The Princess threw up her arms. ‘Oh, stop talking about it! Enter the real world with me, soldier. Why do you think I’m here? We could be a team, you and I. Explore the excesses of experience. Imagine it! I saw it in your eyes today. Break away from the herd, and join me. It is easier than you think.’

  ‘Very well.’ There, the offer had been made. It created a strange irony. Smiling briefly at the Princess, Orlando got up out of the bed and walked across the room. Speaking of the dead man had strengthened his resolve. He would not deliver himself into her clutches, but he was prepared to join her dark world. She had invited him in, hadn’t she?

  Phedra, encouraged by the smile, eyed his naked body. ‘You are very beautiful,’ she said. ‘What are you doing?’

  He did not answer, but knelt down before his trunk and opened the lid.

  Phedra admired the curve of his back, the knobbed protuberances of his spine, his hair spread over his shoulders. It is likely she felt a quickening, then, sure that she had him.

  The blue vase was warm in his hands. He did not shake as he prised out the stopper, nor as he swiftly placed three jewels of the bitter liquid within on his tongue with the dropper attached to the stopper. Phedra stood up and went over to him, attempting to peer over his shoulder in the faint light coming through the window.

  ‘What are you doing, soldier?’ Her voice was sharp.

  He looked up at her. ‘Where I come from, we have potent aids to pleasure,’ he said smoothly. ‘You do want pleasure from me, don’t you?’

  Phedra frowned slightly. ‘What aids?’

  ‘There is a special powder that my grandmother mixes.’ He held up the brown vase. Phedra took it from his hand, wrenched out the stopper, and sniffed the contents.

  ‘What about that other bottle, the one you just took something from?’

  Orlando felt his face grow hot, but surely she couldn’t see that in the colourless light. ‘A man’s potion,’ he answered smoothly. ‘Of no use to you. Whereas the powder...’ He gestured at her hands.

  She was silent for a few moments, and Orlando’s heart contracted. Did she realise what the stuff was? Then, she drew in her breath and smiled a brittle smile. ‘Well, what do you do with it?’

  ‘It sensitises the skin. Taste it and see.’

  Could it be that easy? The moment hung in silence. Then Phedra narrowed her eyes. ‘You taste it!’ she said and thrust the vase at him, adding sourly. ‘Or is it just
a woman’s potion’?’

  ‘No, not just that.’ Orlando put a finger against the lip of the vase and tilted it. A soft rain of sparkling grains fell out, some of them onto the floor.

  ‘It is pretty,’ said Phedra. ‘We must use it lavishly. If it acts as you say, we must use it all over our bodies.’

  Orlando said nothing, but dusted his lips with the powder.

  ‘Your lips are shining,’ said Phedra. ‘How strange it looks. Will I taste it, do you suppose?’

  ‘Let me kiss you, and we’ll find out.’ He stood up.

  Phedra was a pale shape before him, diminished by his shadow. She hesitated. He reached for her. For a moment, she resisted, then let him draw her body against his. They clung to each other for a moment, shuddering, then Orlando tried to lift her chin with his hands. He looked into her eyes, which were wide and dark, wondering. He couldn’t do it. No. Yet if he didn’t, now, what would be his fate? Oh misery, woman, why have you done this? he thought. Why force me to this? He closed his eyes and bent his head to hers.

  But before he could kiss her, she pulled away, and said, ‘No.’

  Orlando felt as if his heart would burst. He was suddenly afraid, yet filled with a profound relief. ‘No?’ he said. ‘Isn’t this what you came here for?’

  She gazed at him steadily. ‘You know that it isn’t.’ She made to turn away.

  Panicked, seeing himself dead by noon, Orlando grabbed her arm. ‘You cannot leave,’ he said, as calmly as he could manage. ‘You might regret it.’

  Phedra went limp in his hold. ‘You are right,’ she said. ‘I might, but that is my decision. I order you, as your princess, to let me go. Don’t be afraid. No harm will come to you, I promise.’

  ‘Am I to believe that?’ Orlando said bitterly. He tightened his grip.

  ‘Yes.’ Phedra looked him in the eye. ‘You have my word.’

  Orlando wasn’t aware of releasing her, but soon she was gone, the door closed again. He furiously wiped the powder from his lips, which felt numb. I am insane, he thought. Insane and weak. Now I will die for my weakness.

  Later, as he sat awake on his bed, waiting for dawn, for the summons he dreaded, he remembered her words You know that it isn’t. Why would she say that? Could she have known what the powder was? Surely that was impossible. How could a royal princess know of country poisons, the shadowed province of wise-women and witches?

  Orlando waited so long for his superior officers to charge into his room and carry him off to execution, he was almost late for breakfast. When the cock had crowed four times, and no-one had come, he dressed himself in a daze and went down to the mess. Colleagues hailed him cheerfully enough. His superior officer, passing, nodded curtly in greeting. Orlando was confused. He felt in a dreamlike state, but as the day progressed, and nothing untoward occurred, he dared to believe Princess Phedra had meant what she said.

  Only one thing happened of any import. When he returned to his room later in the day, and by some instinct went to check the vases, they had disappeared from his trunk. In their place, was a single compact rose, of the kind Princess Seramis cast at the soldiers’ feet.

  Phedra never bothered the sentries again, although tales of her wild exploits continued to filter through as gossip among the men. As the years passed, Orlando rose up through the ranks, and was well thought of by his superiors. Sometimes, he thought of the night when Phedra had come to his room, but as time went on, the incident became hazy in his memory. He began to wonder whether he’d dreamed it all.

  Almost ten years to the day Orlando had come to Kadrid, the King died and Princess Seramis was crowned. As had been predicted, she was a popular and gracious queen, who took for herself a handsome husband from the royal family of a neighbouring kingdom. Almost immediately, she began spawning children, who never seemed to drain her youth and stamina, who grew up as beautiful as she.

  Thirza, still boisterous and cheerful, took to travelling, representing the royal family abroad.

  And Phedra? Seramis found a husband for her, a local duke who was pleasant and avuncular, although not greatly favoured in appearance. At the wedding, he pawed his new wife continually, who stood rigidly beside him, sour in nuptial green, her hair pinned up with flowers.

  Orlando, resplendent in his uniform, watched her through the day. At dusk, she was taken away in a carriage drawn by six white horses. She was rarely seen in the city again.

  Orlando had kept the flower that had come to replace his vases of remedy and bane in the trunk. Often, he had wondered about it. The flower was Seramis’ mark. Had she taken the poisons away? He thought he would never know.

  Rumours came to Kadrid, passed down by the servants of the royal household. Princess Phedra was not happy in marriage. Orlando was not surprised. Events had transpired almost as she’d predicted. He thought of her in her magnificent prison, and wondered whether she still hungered for freedom. She was married only a year and a half when her husband died. A clench of the heart, they said. Orlando thought nothing of it. The man had been fat, given to excess in food and drink. His death was not unexpected, given his lifestyle.

  Then, a package came for him. It came at dusk, delivered by a white-skinned page, a beauteous boy, perhaps one of Seramis’ creatures, though maybe not. He waited while Orlando opened the package, even though Orlando had attempted to dismiss him with hard glances. Inside, wrapped in white linen was a single rose, compact of flesh and highly-fragranced. It lay in a dusting of sparkling powder. There was no letter with the package, no other sign. Orlando was at first puzzled, then rather outraged. Finally, he laughed.

  ‘I am to say "is there any message"?’ said the page.

  Orlando looked at the boy. Still laughing, he said, ‘Only that the offer is still there, without bane, without remedy.’ He was older now, of high rank, and could say the words with authority, and without recrimination.

  The page repeated the message, and left.

  Orlando went into his apartment - several rooms were his, now that he was an officer. He sat on a window seat and, covering his fingers with the clean side of the linen wrapping, turned the rose in his hands, making it glow in the light of the rising moon. The fatal powder rained off it like tiny fires. He could so easily have touched the powder as he opened the package. He could have died. A dark and searing thrill awoke in his belly. Soon, she would send for him.

  Sweet Bruising Skin

  My critics have often said - though never to my face - that I overindulged my son Marquithi. Some people believe that because his poor father, the late king of Gordania, succumbed at a relatively young age to a morbid excitement of the brain, Marquithi is heir to an undesirable malfunction. Myself, I blame the premature thrusting of a responsible position on the boy for his witless behaviour. It is certainly no fault of mine, for I have always maintained the highest standards of discipline, from the nursery to the exalted chambers. Still, it is easy for others to criticise. I would have liked to see them cope as efficiently as I did in such a crucial situation. In any case, madam, the night is young, your mead flagon full, and it is a propitious time for a story. It is my privilege to tell you all.

  Everyone in the palace was still wearing their mourning weeds and chewing the berries of grief-tarry-not when my late husband’s chamberlain, Tartalan, came to me in my rooms of resiance. Although my husband had been removed from our marital quarters for some months prior to his demise, I had since been haunted by a restless ghost of sickness-stench and, for that reason, had ordered the place to be thoroughly fumigated by the perfume of burning stomach-mint and pine. Everyone moved like phantoms through the antiseptic fusc, and it did little to lift their spirits, which had understandably been rather low over the past obsequy-heavy days.

  I myself felt less than joyous as, far from being allowed the limpid sighing and aimless preoccupation of a widow, I had been subject to callous antagonism from the King’s Councillors. They were impatient to inaugurate some in-bred relative of my late husband’s as regent until Mar
quithi reached his twentieth year, being blind to the fact that despite my son’s relatively coltish nature, he was more than capable of administering the land. I, as Queen Mother, was incomparably qualified to assist him in his new duties. For some reason, the Council objected to this. I suspect that financial inducements originating from the estates of my late husband’s kin were responsible for this dreary obstinacy. However, following the King’s funeral, I had efficiently lambasted all the Council’s feeble propositions.

  Beneath the palace lies a vast catacomb - much of it flooded - which is stuffed with the rotting and mouldering remains of the state archives. A thousand years of judicial silliness reposes there in corruption; laws that refute previous laws, labyrinthine edicts, and a host of contradictory narratives of Gordanian history. I had directed my personal staff to scour the archives for material that might serve to promote my cause. Being a foreigner, I was unfamiliar with the early history of this barbarous country, so it was with great rejoicing I learned that four centuries previously, some other King had been crowned at the age of twelve; a boy who had gone on to survive a productive if rather unmemorable reign. As Marquithi was eighteen years old, the Council’s argument was effectively boggled. However, I was aware they would continue to obstruct me until the moment Marquithi took the crown. The fact that they had sent the obsequious Tartalan to interview me personally oppressed me with foreboding, but I received him courteously, nevertheless.

  ‘Your highness,’ Tartalan said, pausing to indulge in a sequence of rather outlandish bowing and scraping, ‘I regret there is a matter of some delicacy to be discussed.’

  I had never known the man to be capable of delicacy in any situation before but, because I am groomed for my role, I murmured some suitable response and bade him be seated. I myself remained standing, in order to peer down at him. He is a cadaverous yet handsome man of some forty years, but frightened of women, I think. His eyes were running because of the fumigation, a circumstance which he lost no time in employing to lend an emotive tone to his discourse.