Salyna gave the slightest of headshakes, and Mykella wished she could have taken the words back.
"What are you wearing today, Rachylana?" Mykella asked quickly.
"A new gown of light blue, I think . . ."
XXVIII
Salyna and Mykella walked down to the rotunda inside the main entrance to the palace at a half glass before noon. Rachylana was already there, talking with Berenyt, who wore the full dress uniform of a Southern Guard.
Rachylana looked at Mykella. "That long black cloak makes it look like you're still at the funeral."
"I can wear mourning garb if I wish," Mykella replied. "Joramyl said we were in mourning." Actually, under the cloak, Mykella had chosen what she wore with care —everything was black, except for the vest of brilliant blue— the Lord-Protector's color. While she appeared to be wearing a full skirt, it was actually a formal split skirt for riding, the difference not noticeable under the cloak.
"After the investiture," replied Rachylana.
Salyna glanced to Berenyt, as if to ask for an intercession.
"I heard about the assassin," said Berenyt. "You'll all be safer in the hill villa. I've asked Father to send two squads with you as guards."
More like gaolers, Mykella thought.
"You will visit, won't you?" asked Rachylana.
"I wouldn't think otherwise." Berenyt bowed. "I have to leave you now and join Father. He wouldn't wish his heir-apparent to be late."
"No . . . you should be with him," Mykella said politely, "especially today."
Salyna frowned for a moment but said nothing.
Berenyt smiled and turned, then walked briskly along the corridor, the sound of his boots echoing in the near-empty hallway, a space that normally would have held at least a score of people doing business with the Lanachronan functionaries housed on the main level of the palace.
"He's most elegant," observed Rachylana.
"He does look very handsome," Salyna replied.
"There's an old saying about handsome is as handsome does," Mykella said blandly. She still couldn't forget that Berenyt had been with the plotters at every meeting. That made him as guilty as his father.
Rachylana sniffed, and Mykella could sense her thoughts— You're just jealous.
Mykella wouldn't have wanted Berenyt on a silver platter, even if he hadn't been her cousin. He wasn't anywhere close to the man her father had been, nor a fraction of the man Undercommander Areyst was. She pushed that thought away for the moment.
"Ladies?" An undercaptain of the Southern Guard appeared, with Lady Cheleyza behind him. "It's time for you to take your places."
Mykella followed the undercaptain and Cheleyza, with her sisters behind her. They took their positions on the fourth step of the five low and wide stone steps that led to the main palace entry— the topmost one was empty, by tradition, because the Lord-Protector-select had to ascend that last step alone. Cheleyza stood on the left side of the open space that formed an aisle down the center of the steps, alone, and Mykella and her sisters stood on the right. The lower three steps held the various ministers and senior functionaries, and their families. The public crowds around the plaza were modest, with possibly fewer spectators than had attended Feranyt's funeral, but since the plaza was not that large, and since both Southern Guard companies assigned to the palace were drawn up in mounted formation, the plaza appeared full enough.
The investiture was a simple ceremony. Joramyl would ride in from the side, accompanied by Berenyt, dismount, and present himself to the three senior officers of the Southern Guard, waiting on the east side, then to the seltyrs and High Factors on the west. After making his statement and bowing to each group, he would slowly ascend the steps. Once he reached the top step, he would turn and offer the ritual statement. Then he would walk down, alone, mount, and ride off— if only to the rear courtyard.
A single trumpet heralded Joramyl's approach. Wearing the brilliant blue dress tunic of the Lord-Protector, he rode slowly down the open space before the arrayed Southern Guard companies and the palace. Behind him rode Berenyt in his formal dress uniform.
They reined up short of the senior Southern Guard officers and the seltyrs and High Factors, then dismounted and handed the reins to two waiting guards. Joramyl stepped forward and nodded to Arms-Commander Nephryt before turning and walking several paces toward the seltyrs and High Factors, to whom he offered the ritual question, "Will you accept me as Lord-Protector?"
Mykella sensed that the approval was somewhere between perfunctory and grudging.
After inclining his head to the seltyrs and High Factors, Joramyl slowly started up the stone steps toward the outer columns of the rotunda, columns clearly added later, because they had already become rounded and pitted in places, while the stone of the original structure looked as though it had been built within the past few years. The Lord-Protector-select was followed by Berenyt, as Joramyl's heir-apparent.
Although Mykella had begun to draw upon the darkness deep beneath Tempre as soon as Joramyl had ridden toward the steps, she waited until Joramyl reached the third step before dropping her cloak and stepping sideways and onto to the topmost step, where she looked down upon Joramyl.
"What . . . don't be a fool, Mykella," said Joramyl.
Blazing light flared around the Lord-Protector's daughter as Mykella focused those energies with which she had practiced and practiced.
"You killed my brother, and you poisoned my father."
Joramyl's mouth opened as Mykella's voice carried across the steps toward the crowd, amplified with her Talent— amplified and carrying the utter conviction of truth. "All this was done in shadows and silence. You cannot bear to have the truth come out, and that truth will kill you here where you stand!"
Without touching Joramyl —except with her Talent— she severed his lifethread node, and he pitched backward down the stone steps.
Behind him, Berenyt's eyes widened.
"You, Berenyt, plotted with your father so that you might become Lord-Protector in turn. The truth will kill you as well."
Berenyt's mouth opened, his face ashen, before Mykella cut his lifethread node. Like his father, he toppled silently.
"No . . ." murmured Rachyla.
In the stunned silence that followed, Mykella took the four steps down the stone stairs, decreasing the intensity of the light that surrounded her. Then she stopped and surveyed the three officers of the Southern Guard.
"Will you have a Lady-Protector of Tempre?" she asked more quietly. "Or will you try to hide treachery as well?"
"You? No woman will rule Tempre while I'm Arms-Protector." Nephryt's sabre slashed toward Mykella's seemingly unprotected shoulder.
His face turned ashen as the blade shattered against her unseen Talent-shield.
Mykella reached out with her senses and ripped his lifethreads from his body.
Nephryt's mouth remained open as he fell face-first onto stone pavement of the plaza, further scattering the fragments of the shattered sabre.
Mykella turned to the two remaining Guard officers. She smiled. "I believe that takes care of Arms-Commander Nephryt's objections."
Demyl looked from the fallen form to Mykella, then back to the body. He swallowed.
"You may leave Tempre this moment," Mykella said to Demyl. "If you do not, you will never leave."
Demyl glanced at the body on the plaza before him. "Much good it will do you."
"Go, traitor!" This time Mykella's voice rang across the plaza. "Be not seen in Tempre again, nor in Lanachrona!"
Demyl turned and walked woodenly toward the guard who held his mount. The crowd beyond the low stone wall watched as he mounted and spurred his mount out through the gates.
Mykella turned to the Undercommander.
Areyst looked to Mykella. "There has never been a Lady-Protector of Tempre."
"There's a first time for everything. Before Mykel, there had never been a Lord-Protector," she replied. "If I name you as Arms-Commander, wi
ll you serve me and the people of Lanachrona honestly and with all your abilities?"
Areyst inclined his head. "I can do no less, Lady-Protector."
Mykella sensed his feelings— both dismay and respect . . . and a grudging admiration.
Those would have to do. She doubted that Mykel the Great had gained any more at the beginning, either.
Then she turned and walked to the seltyrs and High Factors, inclining her head to the group of twenty-odd. She could sense the absolute fear radiating from them. "Honored Seltyrs, High Factors, will you have an honest and true Lady-Protector of Tempre? One who will not divert your tariffs or plot in secret and silence? One who will hold your liberties as dearly as her own?"
There was a moment of silence. Then Almardyn and Hasenyt exchanged glances. Hasenyt nodded to Almardyn. Almardyn cleared his throat. "Your father stood for us, and we would be unwise indeed to refuse a Lady-Protector of your power and his honesty."
Scarcely a ringing endorsement, but an endorsement. "You will have the benefit of all my Talent and all the honesty my father prized so dearly, even at the cost of his own life."
"We accept you as Lady Protector," replied the two.
After a long moment, a chorus followed. "We accept . . ."
Mykella inclined her head once more, then turned. Grudging as it was, they would honor it, and she would honor her pledge.
As she walked back toward the steps, she stopped before Areyst. "If you would follow me, Arms-Commander."
"I am no heir, Lady-Protector."
"For now, I have no other heir, and Tempre and Lanachrona deserve the best."
Areyst lowered his head. "I did not . . ."
Mykella smiled. "I know. Follow me."
Mykella turned and walked up the steps, sensing the approval sweeping the crowd —and the Southern Guard— of her designation of Areyst as heir-apparent.
When she stood on the topmost step and turned, she surveyed the plaza and those below for a long moment. She spoke firmly and quietly, though her voice carried to all, as she offered the ancient and original pledge that had not been used in centuries— and now, she knew why.
"I swear and affirm that I will protect and preserve the lives and liberties of all citizens of Tempre and Lanachrona, and that I will employ all Talent and skills necessary to do so, at all times, and in all places, so that peace and prosperity may govern this land and her people."
Her eyes flicked to the Arms-Commander–heir-apparent . . . who would be more, much more.
* * *
Creation: The Launch!
Written by Laura Resnick
Illustrated by Karl Nordman
Don't call me Ishmael.
Yes, technically, it's my name. Believe me, sweetie, I know. And I assure you, I have not suffered in silence. It is so not ME.
Then again, is "Ishmael" a name that's right for anyone? I mean, okay, maybe for a metro-sexual pop star with fabulous lashes and no last name. Or possibly someone in the whaling industry (and don't look at me like that, I didn't even want whales in Creation). But, honey, for a creative consultant, it is a tough name to adapt to.
(Oh, can I say "adapt" here? I hear there's been some controversy about adaptation since we launched Creation.)
But, all right, sure, I know— it could have been worse. At least I didn't get stuck with a name like Laban, Esau, Hagar, Methuselah, Nehemiah, or Walter. Those poor schmucks. (And people wonder why we added therapists to Creation after we saw what God had wrought.)
In fact, this whole naming thing was high on my list of hot targets for a major revamp. Such an obvious flaw in the grand plan. But then we got so close to the launch, and what with one thing and another, I barely had time to put the finishing touches on the Big Bang before the Lord God was all, like, "Hey, I'm separating the darkness from the light, and I'm doing it NOW." I'm telling you, He has the patience of a two-year-old child— and, yep, they were indeed made in His image, right down to the temperament.
Well, maybe you know how insane a launch is! I mean, gaga-smack-a-rooney-cuckoo with lunacy on top, honey. So a lot gets overlooked in the heat of the moment— not to mention the heat of cosmic matter spinning madly through space in all different directions at a gazillion miles per second. Plus, to be totally up-fro, bro, the Big Guy is not that easy to work with. I don't think I'm letting the feline out of the bag when I say he can be unbelievably touchy. (You've read Genesis, right?) In fact, when our first effort at Creation totally flopped while we were still out of town and on the road with our early material . . . Well, for a while, I honestly feared the Master of the Universe would commit suicide by swallowing hot primordial ooze.
Which was a total overreaction, of course. (Deities. Always so high-strung.) As I kept telling Yahweh, it was only natural that He would need a few dry runs before we had a success on our hands. No one had done Creation before, we were trying for something completely new and original! You can't expect to pull off the most ambitious launch in Eternity without first learning from a few failures.
For one thing, the Lord God hates loud noises, so we tried a Big Sigh, a Big Hum, a Soft Bang, and even a Small Bang before I finally convinced Him that we had to go full throttle, no holding back. "God, sweetie, pumpkin," I said, "Creation needs to commence with a big bang! With the Big Bang! With the biggest cosmic explosion of light and matter that ever was, or ever will be!" This is the kind of input where I really earn my salary. Clients are so held back by their own limitations.
Well, once God agreed to go with the Big Bang, He got a little more confidence in my guidance. So, fortunately, it didn't take me long to nix the whole "polka-dotted universe" plan, along with some of His other less-inspired ideas. (Frankly, it's thanks to me that you're not reading this with your belly button and eating your own hair for sustenance.) And by the time we got down to the fine details of planetary-planning, I could tell we were onto something really special. I loved the idea of a place that had land, sea, rivers, people, plants, animals, plumbing, and ethnic food! And the whole idea of a planet tilting on its axis to create seasons— I mean, isn't that just darling?
"God," I said, "this time, we're really going to launch. And this is going to be your best work ever! Your chef d'oeuvre. Your pièce de résistance."
And the Lord God said, "I like those nasal-sounding phrases you're using, Ishmael. We should come up with a language that sounds just like that."
"God, please don't call me Ishmael."
"But it's your name. The name that I gave you."
"We've talked about this before, Lord. I'd rather You call me Rafe. Or perhaps Thad. Something that won't sound so out of place on the Upper West Side."
"You mean the Upper North Side," God corrected.
"I don't think we should call it that," I said. "Trust me on this."
Well, now that we obviously had a solid Creation strategy and some exciting concepts to work with, God got very competitive. He started worrying that some other omnipotent being might beat us to the punch, so He was very eager to launch right away. I really should have put the brakes on, we weren't at all ready yet. But you try saying "no" to the Lord God Almighty and see what happens. (I'll tell you what happens. Supernovas happen.)
So, naturally, once we launched, it was just one problem after another. We spent eons running around putting out the fires.
For example, there was that whole problem with the firmament, which we discovered too late can look exactly like New Jersey when viewed in the wrong light. In fact, certain parts of the firmament are New Jersey. No one saw this coming; if we had, naturally, we'd have postponed the launch.
And since seven is such an asymmetrical number of continents, I begged Yahweh to wait until we could design a better look for them. I mean, that whole Asia thing is so over the top. It's simply massive. We needed to transfer some of it to Europe to create a sense of balance. And Japan just hangs out there, as if we'd left a fifth leg on a mammal! Plus, sweetie, how many deserts does the world really need, for go
odness sake? And Mexico across the Gulf from Florida? Totally lopsided! No sense of proportion at all.
"Let's organize this," I said to the Lord God, "let's make a statement with our continents. Let's not just have random landmasses flopping all over the planet."
But no. What do I know? I am only the creative consultant on the biggest project in the history of the Universe. So we launched Creation right away. With the Middle East still plopped haphazardly between three continents like an uninvited guest, and Antarctica stuck down at the South Pole like planetary genitalia. (I know, I know. Believe me, I tried to make Him see reason. But I am just a servant of God Almighty— and you know what clients are like.)
Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 2 Num 2 Page 22
