Coming out of a daze, Brackeny blinked and looked around himself. In shock and horror, he realised where he was. He felt trapped. On all sides, hostile faces were closing in. He could feel their eyes boring into him, into the very core of his soul. Brackeny looked at Charlaise in despair.She had betrayed him. Was she pleased at his misery? She must hate him as much as all the others. She was mad. His father could not possibly have sent her to Emiraldra. In that moment, he was filled with anger at the world, at his estate, at the looks the people gave him, how they judged him for his appearance. They were all ugly, in spite of their fine clothes and perfumes. He pulled himself straight. ‘Take a good look!’ he said loudly, in a clear voice. ‘For I am as rich on the inside as you are on the outside and I might add as poverty-stricken without as you are within.’
Sparing not a glance for Charlaise, without even looking for the one he knew as Willow, Brackeny made to shoulder his way from the crowd.
‘Wait!’
Brackeny froze.
‘Would you leave these people after delivering to them only half the lesson?’
Brackeny turned and there was Willow, but this was a man who was dressed in black and silver, who wore a silver crownlet upon his green-gold hair, and who had the emblem of the Orvembers emblazoned across his tunic. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said.
‘It was not my doing,’ Brackeny replied stiffly, not really surprised to discover Willow’s true identity. He could not resist stealing a glance at Charlaise. She stared at the floor, smiling in a secretive fashion.
‘Won’t you join me, sir?’ the Duke’s eldest son asked with a bow.
Brackeny looked at the faces that were hungry with curiosity around him. He nodded. ‘I would be honoured.’
The Duke’s son led him to the great, carved thrones at the end of the Hall. Brackeny saw Duke Orvember staring at them with an expression comprising dread and apprehension. His wife, a contained creature, merely kept one eyebrow raised permanently in surprise.
The Duke’s son faced the crowd. ‘I am Persilian, eldest son of this house, and I would speak.’ He looked to his father for permission. Orvember raised a cautious hand, but his eyes were pleading for constraint on his son’s part.
Persilian took Brackeny’s hand in his own and another ripple coursed around the hall. ‘For two years,’ he began, ‘I have been travelling the land, learning, I hope, a little about life. It was on my mind to find myself a wife during these travels, but of all the ladies I met, there was not one who did not look at the world through a narrow window. There was physical beauty to be found, oh yes, and I am not ashamed to admit that in many cases I took advantage of the undisguised offers of fulfilment that were made to me. But beauty of the soul, ah, that is a rare thing, and I was not lucky to come across it once, in either man or woman. As you know, my father called me home. He spoke of celebrations, of events, of taking matters from my hands.“I shall find you someone to love, Persilian,” he said and that as far as he was concerned was that. Coming home, I lost my way in the fields beyond Emiraldra and it was there, virtually on my own doorstep, that I found the soul with whom I want to spend the rest of my life. I have found true beauty and I do not have the slightest intention of forsaking it.’
And then, in full view of everybody, he took Brackeny in his arms and kissed him. The stunned silence that followed seemed unbreakable. Brackeny could see Duke Orvember, sitting with his head in his hands, staring, mortified through his spread fingers at Persilian. Beside him, his wife stared at the floor, her hand over her mouth and Brackeny had the clear impression that she was trying hard not to laugh. Eventually, the Duke managed to find his voice.
‘You speak bravely, my son,’ he said, ‘but one thing I feel compelled to mention. Where do you intend to find heirs? One would suppose that a union between two males could only be without issue?’
His dry tone produced the ghost of a titter around the hall.
‘You are right, father,’ Persilian agreed. ‘We have two courses of action. One is that Brackeny and myself leave Skylander without further embarrassment to yourself, and seek a position in the court of King Ashalan, who himself has a male consort. In view of our predicament, I feel sure we would be made welcome. The other is that you accept whom I have chosen. You have other sons after all. I will make one of my nephews my heir.’
Duke Orvember made an impatient, harried sound. ‘All right!’ he said hurriedly. He was clearly not oblivious of the light in which he would appear to King Ashalan should Persilian carry out his threat. ‘One thing I shall say in order to dissuade you from this course, Persilian, and I am bound by honour to say it, though it may sting your ears and those of this good company a little.’ He looked at Brackeny steadily. ‘To be the consort of the Duke of this Duchy is a less than simple task. It cannot be compared with life in the fields or upon the road. It requires the skills of a person who is born to the role. You, boy, are clearly not of that ilk. I am unconvinced you could cope with such a station, or indeed that you would enjoy it. Now, while love blooms with its freshest petals, such things as duty, routine and order are easy to overlook, and rightly so. But once the first blooms have been shed and the firm fruit must grow, then what once was once looked upon as endearing ingenuousness may become an irritating lack of education, a fault. What was once intriguing and new may become an embarrassment. In the court of a king, or indeed a mere Duke, you will be at best a novelty, at worst a fool.’
In the silence that followed, Brackeny looked at Persilian and let go of his hand. Like a blight, the curses and kicks of the servants of Emiraldra seemed to howl, to rise and buffet round his head. As he had feared, all he could ever be was Persilian’s plaything. Brackeny backed away from the thrones, shaking his head. Persilian held out his arms in dismay. And then strong hands were on Brackeny’s shoulders and a gruff, loud voice was in his ear, reverberating around the hall.
‘Stop this!’ it growled. ‘Would anyone dare to repeat that? Would anyone dare to insult the future lord of Emiraldra?’
A gasp hissed around the room and Brackeny turned his head. It was his grandfather, Thaldocred, who had spoken, Thaldocred’s fierce dignity that had echoed round the room. ‘This is my grandson,’ he boomed. ‘In rags because my heart has been in rags. Since the day his mother died I have denied him, but no more. Let no man say that he is not fit to rule with Persilian in this house. Nor let any man judge them for what they believe. This is my grandson.’
‘And my beloved,’ Persilian added dryly.
At this, Duke Orvember threw up his hands. ‘Well ladies,’ he said. ‘Let the music continue. Let there be dancing once more. Enjoy yourselves as best you can. It seems the matter is out of my hands. There will be no matchmaking tonight.’ With a wave of his fingers, he bade the orchestra to play and servants moved once more among the crowd bearing trays of wine.
And so, Brackeny’s destiny was fulfilled. He was united with the one he loved and reconciled wit h his grandfather. Persilian’s servants gave him splendid clothes. He washed his face and hands and feet. Tatters was gone for good. When he emerged once more into the hall to take his place at Persilian’s side, he searched for Charlaise among the crowd. There were so many questions he wanted to ask her. How much had she known? Had his father before him loved, and been loved, by men? But even as he searched, he knew that Charlaise had gone. If she’d had a mission, she’d completed it.
In the night air, Brackeny fancied he could hear a faint echo of her magical flute, a mournful tune, a sweet farewell, but he could not be sure. If she was ever seen again in that land, it is not recorded.
My Lady of the Hearth
This story first appeared in 1998, in ‘Sirens and other Daemon Lovers’ edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling (Harper Prism). I’ve always been fascinated by cat-headed deities, in particular the Egyptian goddess Bast. I reinvented Bast for the Magravandias trilogy, making her a goddess of the land of Mewt and renaming her Purryah.
This story is in Pygma
lion vein, as the protagonist prays to the goddess to create his perfect woman – in this case from his cat. One of Aesop’s Fables, ‘Venus and the Cat’, also greatly influenced and inspired this story.The man gets his perfect cat wife, but ultimately she cannot forget her origins. I’d always loved that old tale, and thought about what it would really be like to have one of your cats turned into a human by divine agency. Knowing my cats as I do, I could only foresee great problems, and if you threw sexual desire into the equation it could all get a bit tricky.
The most beautiful women in the world have a cat-like quality. They slink, they purr; claws sheathed in silken fur. In the privacy of their summer gardens, in the green depths of forests, I believe they shed themselves of their attire, even to their human flesh, and stretch their bodies to the sun and their secret deity. She, the Queen of Cats, is Pu-ryah, daughter of the Eye of the Sun; who both roars the vengeance of the solar fire and blesses the hearth of the home. Given that the goddess, and by association her children, has so many aspects, is it any wonder that men have ever been perplexed by the subtleties of females and felines? Yet even as we fear them, we adore them.
When I was young I had a wife, and she was a true daughter of Pu-ryah. It began in this way.
When my father died, I inherited the family seat on the edge of the city, its numerous staff, and a sizeable fortune. The estate earned money for me, administered by the capable hands of its managers, and I was free to pursue whatever interests I desired. My mother, whom I barely remembered (for she died when I was very young), had bequeathed her beauty to me: I was not an ill-favored man. Yet despite these privileges, joy of the heart eluded me. I despaired of ever finding a mate. Thirty years old, and romance had always turned sour on me. I spent much of my time painting, and portraits of a dozen lost loves adorned the walls of my home; their cold eyes stared down at me with disdain, their lips forever smiling. It had come to the point where I scorned the goddess of love; she must have blighted me at birth.
It was not long past my thirtieth birthday and, following the celebrations, my latest beloved, Delphina Corcos, had sent her maid to me with a letter, which advised me she had taken herself off to a distant temple, where she vowed to serve the Blind Eunuch of Chastity for eternity. Her decision had been swayed by a dream of brutish masculinity, in which I figured in some way - I forget the details now.
The banners of my birthday fete still adorned my halls, and I tore them down myself, in full sight of the servants, ranting against the whims of all women, to whom the security of love seemed to mean little at all. The letter in all its brevity was lost amid the debris. I dare say some maid picked it up in order to laugh at my loss with her female colleagues.
Still hot with grief and rage, I locked myself in my private rooms and here sat contemplating my hurts, with the light of summer shuttered away at the windows. Women: demonesses all! I heard the feet of servants patter past my doors, their whispers. Later, my steward would be sent to me by the house-keeper, and then, after hearing his careful enquiries as to my state of mind, I might consider reappearing in the house for dinner. Until then, I intended to surrender myself entirely to the indulgence of bitterness.
In the gloom, my little cat, Simew, came daintily to my side, rubbing her sleek fur against my legs, offering a gentle purr of condolence. She was a beautiful creature, a gift from a paramour some three years previously. Her fur was golden, each hair tipped with black along her flanks and spine, while her belly was a deep, rich amber. She was sleek and neat, loved by all in the house for her fastidiousness and affectionate nature. Now, I lifted her onto my lap, and leaned down to press my cheek against her warm flank. ‘Ah, Simmi, my sweet angel,’ I crooned. ‘You are always faithful, offering love without condition. I would be lucky to find a mistress as accommodating as you.’
Simew gazed up at me, kneading my robes with her paws, blinking in the way that cats show us their affection. She could not speak, yet I felt her sympathy for me. I resolved then that my time with women was done. There was much to be thankful for: my health, my inheritance and the love of a loyal cat. Though her life would be shorter than mine, her daughters and their children might be my companions until the day I died. Many men had less than this. Simew leaned against my chest, pressing her head into my hand, purring rapturously. It seemed she said to me, ‘My lord, what need have we of sharp-tongued interlopers? We have each other.’
Cheered at once, I put Simew down carefully on the floor and went to throw my shutters wide, surprising a couple of servants who were stationed beyond the window, apparently in the act of gathering flowers. I smiled at them and cried, ‘Listen for my sorrow all you like. You’ll not hear it.’
Embarrassed, the two prostrated themselves, quaking. I picked up my cat and strode to the doors. ‘Come, Simew, why waste time on lamenting? I shall begin a new painting.’ Together, we went to my studio.
I decided I would paint a likeness of Simew, in gratitude for the comfort she had given me. It would have pride of place in my gallery of women. I arranged the cat on a crimson cushion, and for a while she was content to sit there, one leg raised like a mast as she set about grooming her soft belly. Then, she became bored, jumped from her bed and began crying out her ennui. I had made only a few preliminary sketches, but could not be angry with her. While she explored the room, clambering from table to shelf, I ignored the sounds of falling pots and smashing vases, and concentrated on my new work. It would be Pu-ryah I would paint; a lissom, cat-headed woman. Simew’s face would be the model.
Pu-ryah is a foreign goddess. She came to us from the east, a hot land of desert and endless skies. She is born of the fire and will warm us, if we observe her rituals correctly. I had no intention of being burned. My brush flew over the canvas and I became unaware of the passing of time. When the steward, Medoth, came to me, mentioning politely that my dinner awaited me, I ordered him to bring the meal to the studio. I could not stop work.
I ate with one hand, food dropping from my fork to the floor, where Simew composed herself neatly and sifted through the morsels with a precise tongue. Medoth lit all my lamps and the candles, and even murmured some congratulatory phrase as he appraised my work. He made Pu-ryah’s sign with two fingers, tapping either side of his mouth. ‘The Lady of the Hearth will be pleased by this work.’ he said.
I turned to wipe my brush. ‘Medoth, I had not taken you for a worshipper of Pu-ryah.’
He smiled respectfully. ‘It comes from my mother’s side of the family.’
I laughed. ‘Of course. She is primarily a goddess of women, Medoth, but perhaps because she knows the ways of her daughters so intimately, she makes a sympathetic deity for those who suffer at their hands.’
Medoth cleared his throat. ‘Would you care for a glass of wine now, my lord?’
I worked until dawn, given energy by the fire of she whose portrait I made. Simew lay on some tangled rags by my feet, her tail gently resting across my toes. Sometimes, when I looked down at her, she would wake and roll onto her back to display her dark golden belly, her front paws held sweetly beneath her chin. She seemed to me, in lamplight, more lovely than any woman I had known, more generous, more yielding. If I were a cat, I would lie beside her and lick her supple fur with my hooked tongue, or I would seize the back of her neck in my jaws and mount her with furious lust. This latter, inappropriate thought made me shiver. Perhaps I had drunk too much wine after my meal.
As the pale, magical light of dawn stole through the diaphanous drapes at the long windows, I appraised my work. Fine detail still needed to be added, but the picture was mostly complete. Pu-ryah sat upon a golden throne that was encrusted with lapis lazuli. She was haughty, yet serene, and her eyes held the wisdom of all the spheres, the gassy heart of the firmament itself. She gazed out at me, and I felt that I had not created her at all, but that the pigment had taken on a life of its own, and my own heart had imbued it with soul. I had depicted her with bared breasts, her voluptuous hips swathed in veils of turquoise s
ilk. Her skin was delicately furred and brindled with faint coppery stripes. Her attenuated, high-cheek-boned face had a black muzzle, fading to tawny around the ruff, then white beneath the chin. Her eyes were topaz. Around her neck, I had painted a splendid collar of faience and gold, and rings adorned her slender fingers. Her claws were extended, lightly scraping the arms of the gilded chair. Behind her, dark drapery was drawn back to reveal a simmering summer night. I fancied I could hear the call of peacocks in the darkness beyond her scented temple, and the soft music she loved so much. Her taloned feet were laid upon flowers, thousands of flowers, and their exotic perfume invaded my studio, eclipsing the tart reeks of pigment and solvent. She was beautiful, monstrous and compliant. If I closed my eyes, I could feel her strong arms around me, her claws upon my back. No woman of this earth could compare.
Weary but content, I went out into my garden to sample the new day. Dew had conjured scent from the shrubs and gauzed the thick foliage of the evergreens. Simew trotted before me along the curling pathways, pausing every so often to look back and make sure I was following. I felt at peace with myself, at the brink of some profound change in my life or my heart. Delphina Corcos seemed nothing more than a thin ghost; I could barely recall her face. Let her deny her womanhood and seek the stone embrace of the Eunuch. The day itself was full of sensuality, of nature’s urge to procreate. The woman was a fool to deny herself this.
Simew and I came to the water garden, where a low mist lingered over the linked pools. Simew crouched at the edge of the nearest pond, her whiskers kissing the surface of the water. I gazed at her with affection. ‘Oh, Simew, how cruel it is we are separated by an accident of species! If you were a woman, we might walk together now with arms linked. I might take you in my arms and kiss you.’
The fire of the goddess ran through my blood. As the sun, her father, lifted above the trees to sear away the mist, I spoke a silent prayer to Pu-ryah, declared myself her priest. Yet, in her way, she was a goddess of carnality, so how could I worship her alone, without a woman to help express my devotion?
The Thorn Boy Page 21
