Finding Destiny

by Jean Johnson

  I just wish I knew why they wanted me in the Seer King’s court.

  Entering the second-floor parlor—the same one where she had interrupted Marta and the Arbran Knight in the middle of a very friendly-looking, private picnic, with the news that the Aurulans wanted her to head east and join them—Gabria eyed the mirror. It was a big, tall, cheval-stand looking glass, of the sort rarely seen outside of the ransacked ex-priest quarters, since unwarded mirrors were too dangerous to allow out into the general populace. At least, back when this land had been a part of an aggressive, enemy-rich and magic-poor Mekhana.

  Instead of reflecting the room, the mirror looked into a large hall lined with banners and old weapons fixed to its high-windowed walls. There were benches along the edges of the chamber, plus the purple-and-gold-clad figures of yet more Royal Guards, and a stack of her belongings, each bundle, chest, and trunk awaiting their turn to be floated through what looked like another reflection-less mirror a few yards away.

  “It’s quite safe,” Ellett reassured her. “Just don’t touch the frame and you’ll be fine. You might also feel a bit disoriented as you land on the far side, particularly as a mage. I find it helpful to tighten my personal shields just as I pass through, and keep them tight and close for a moment or two on the other side.”

  Nodding, Gabria waited for the last of her trunks to be levitated through the mirror that wasn’t acting like a mirror. Having already said her good-byes to friends and family earlier that morning, she gathered her courage and her magic, took a deep breath, and carefully stepped through the mirror.

  Disoriented was definitely the word for it. Her awareness of her surroundings slid, scraped, and clashed. Feeling more than a touch of vertigo, she hastily cleared her other leg through the frame, focusing her gaze firmly on one of the benches across the way. It only took a few moments for her to stop feeling like the floor was trying to heave like a boat under her feet. By that point, both her shadow-guards and their commander had passed through.

  They were in what looked like the Aurulan version of a Guildaran Precinct, the military guildhall for a particular region. Probably the headquarters of a border fortress. She didn’t have time to ask any questions, though. Ahead of her, the last few bundles were being floated through the next mirror. Ellett touched her shoulder briefly, offering silent support—or maybe sympathy—then gestured at the frame as soon as the last bundle cleared. Gritting her teeth, Gabria strode up to the mirror, took another deep breath, and stepped through.

  Ugh ... Gods, it’s slightly better than the first time, but not really. I hope it gets bearable, if this is how these people move around. Yet another Precinct-style hall, with yet another mirror waiting for her and her goods, and the Royal Guards accompanying her. What did he say, three more after the first one? So I just have two more to endure?

  Hoping he was right—surely he was right—she stepped through, steadied herself, and then stepped through again.

  The last one didn’t open onto the equivalent of a Precinct guildhall. The previous chambers had been no-nonsense in their function, and militaristic in their decoration. This was an ornate reception parlor. Very ornate. She had thought the careful joinery and parquetry of the Woodwright’s Guild had made the Guildaran palace a sight to behold, with wood from a hundred species of trees forming beautiful, mathematical, geometrical patterns. But this place, this was stunning.

  White marble columns, fluted arches, and pierced screens defined the edges and openings of the chamber, with practically every inch covered in carvings of animals and plants. The walls in between had been cunningly painted with images of garden scenes, clearly meant to look as realistic as pigments could possibly get. In fact, she had to blink twice to realize they were flat, painted images, the shadings and tones were so close to the real thing. Deceptively delicate furniture had been crafted from intricately wrought, white-painted iron—with a skill that came close, she noted, to the abilities of her own people—and padded with brightly hued, tassel-edged cushions.

  There were people in the room, more than just the purple-and-gold-clad members of the Royal Guard. Several men and women, apparently servants from their uniform of cream edged with lilac trim, were busy carrying her belongings by hand out of the chamber. Others, clad in more colorful brocaded fabrics, were chatting with each other or with the Royal Guards who had preceded Gabria and her baggage. Behind her, one of the mage-warriors shouted something in tones that made her ears hurt, casting some sort of powder at the surface of the mirror. It restored the normal reflectivity of the glass, letting her know the mirror-Gate was firmly closed.

  A hand touched her shoulder. Turning to face its owner, she found the Mage-Captain giving her a reassuring look. Ellett cleared his throat, and the men and women in shades of pink, green, blue, gold, and several other hues turned to face him. “Miladies, milords, this is Her Highness, Gabria Springreaver.”

  She felt like a drab sparrow suddenly thrust into the midst of a bunch of exotic Natallian jungle birds. A roasting drab sparrow, too, for the air was warm and humid, pressing in on her as she stood there in her gray knit tunic and matching leather pants. Practical garb for a former hydraulics engineer living in the chilly early spring weather found in the higher elevations of Guildara. Not so practical for the subtropical lowlands of the southern edge of Aurul. She knew just enough of the geography and climate of this kingdom to know that the Jenodan Sea kept most of Aurul warm even in winter, if considerably wetter than its hot, dry summers.

  Still, some of the flush that heated her face was from the dubious, disdainful looks on the faces of the half dozen men and women eyeing her from felt-capped head to leather-booted toe.

  One of the men asked something. His tone suggested it was something along the lines of a highly skeptical, “This is the woman we’re looking for?” only he said it too quickly for Gabria to translate with the little Aurulan she had learned so far. He wore a gold-sprigged blue coat, like a floor-length, leather riding jacket, but stitched from silk and bearing dangling square sleeves instead of practical, close-fitting ones. Those sleeves held things, too, she realized, as he reached into one through the large wrist-hole at the front.

  Pulling a double-lensed viewing loupe on a long, gilded stick from one of his bag-like sleeves, he eyed her through the crystals for a moment, then lowered it just enough to tap the frame against his chin. A humming sigh escaped him, and he muttered something equally rapid, flicking out the double-loupe-on-a-stick, indicating points along her body. He then said something else which sounded like an order, and flicked the loupe-on-a-stick off in the direction her belongings had vanished. When she just blinked at him, he repeated more or less the same words with a stronger emphasis. Then again, less patiently.

  Lost, Gabria looked back at the Mage-Captain. “I’m sorry ... but I don’t understand more than two or three words of what he just said. I haven’t had enough time to learn much Aurulan. Sorry.”

  “... Of course. I apologize for my thoughtlessness,” Ellett replied, bowing slightly to her.

  “Your thoughtlessness?” Gabria repeated, mystified.

  “I have had the privilege of drinking Ultra Tongue, a very rare and wondrous potion that enspells the speaker to hear and be heard in a thousand different tongues,” he explained. “The magics woven into the liquid spell allow me to speak in my native tongue, but if my intent is for you to understand, the spell projects my meaning into your ears as if you were hearing it in your own. I in turn hear your words in my ears as if they were in Aurulan, if with a Guildaran ‘accent. ’ And if I wish to speak specifically in just one language, I need merely concentrate on my intent and speak with that ‘accent.’ Naturally, having benefited from it for several years, I forgot not everyone has this advantage. Allow me to make reparations ...”

  Turning to one of the still-dubious-looking women, clad in shades of green, peach, and gold, he rapped out a command in what sounded like Aurulan. An argument broke out at that, one from the woman in green, anot
her from a woman in pink, and rather vociferously from the man in blue. Ellett’s own tone sharpened, though unlike the others, he didn’t bother to raise his voice. It was the implacable tone of a man who knew and wielded his own authority well, and they subsided. Whatever he said, he ended it with the lilt of a question, and a pointed lift of one brow.

  It quelled their objections. The woman in green rolled her eyes, sighed heavily, and stalked off. The front folds of her jacket-like gown parted, revealing gathered peach trousers which matched the peach sash encircling her from shoulder to waist and hip to hip, where it ended in a knot and two trailing ends that fluttered around her knees.

  “Lady Lianna, Chief Mage of the Palace, has left to craft and brew the Ultra Tongue potion for you,” Ellett murmured. He gestured at the man in blue. “This is Milord Souder, Master of the Royal Retreat. Mmm, you would say he is in charge of the private, familial residence of His Majesty. Sort of a sub-Consul cross between secretary and housekeeper.” The Mage-Captain leaned in closer and all but whispered in her ear, “Of course, he thinks much higher of himself than that. Thankfully, he is very good at his job, otherwise His Majesty would not tolerate such airs. Indulge most of his whims, but do not be afraid to stand up for yourself. So long as you break none of the laws of civilized behavior common to all lands, it is doubtful you would truly offend.”

  Patting her on the shoulder, he nudged her forward.

  “Go with Milord Souder, and do as he and his helpers direct you.”

  Unsure, Gabria glanced back at him. “What will they want me to do?”

  “They merely intend to bathe, dress, and prepare you to meet His Majesty. Your appearance is suitable for Guildara, but this is Aurul, and the court of the Seer King.” Giving her the same friendly smile from the last three days, he bowed and left.

  Gabria wanted to protest that her clothes were acceptable, since she was a Guildaran and this was how Guildarans dressed, but faltered as he strode away with the air of a man who had other things to do. The mirror had been pulled back into a pillar-flanked alcove, and all of the Royal Guards, save for the two women who had appointed themselves her watchers, had vanished.

  Wordlessly, but with a gesture of half-restrained impatience, the Master of the Royal Retreat gestured with his loupe toward the archway where the servants had taken her things. Giving in, she started walking that way. The woman in pink hurried to get in front of her. Not knowing what else to do, Gabria followed her.

  Since the man in blue didn’t protest, she guessed it was the right thing to do. As it was, she was hard-pressed to keep up. Her feet kept slowing down, her eyes drinking in the intricate carvings and mosaics outlining yet more of the realistic garden scenes painted on the walls. Despite having to hurry every so often to keep up with the lady in the pink brocaded jacket-gown, Gabria did notice two repeating themes among the animals displayed in wall paintings, mosaics, and carvings: the Eye and the Owl of Ruul.

  The Eye wasn’t nearly as common as the Owl. The Eye, she knew from her crash course in Aurulan culture, was the official symbol of Ruul, Patron God of Vision. It was reserved for the Seer King, the priesthood, and the higher levels of government. The Owl was His symbol for the common people to use, and was thus in common use. Very common use; owls were cast into the frames of the wrought-iron benches they passed, carved on the pillars supporting the fluted archways, and painted into the boughs of at least one tree in every garden scene.

  They walked for several minutes, climbing stairs and passing windows overlooking real gardens with exotic bushes and trees laid in attractive planted patterns. They passed through a set of ornately carved and banded double doors guarded by more Royal Guards in their gilded purple armor. Just as Gabria was wondering when this huge palace would reach an end, they entered a grand parlor lined with the most ostentatious furnishings yet. The wrought-iron furnishings were covered in gold leaf, not paint, the tassels looked to be spun from real thread-of-gold, and the mosaics framing the windows were crafted from polished semiprecious stones.

  She felt distinctly Guildaran in this room. As in, from a brand-new, barely started, makeshift kingdom cobbled together by commoners. Even if they had managed to Manifest a bona fide Patron Deity. She also felt sweaty, since the door-sized windows stood wide, the gauzy curtains pulled back, revealing the sun-drenched balcony beyond and letting in the heat of midday.

  The lady in pink barely paused, however. She strode straight for yet another fluted archway. Hurrying to catch up, Gabria found herself led into a smaller parlor, then a corridor with latticework windows and carved doors, and finally into a bathing ... well, not a bathing room, so much as a bathing hall. The first bathing tub was the size of a small pool, half sunk into the floor and surrounded by a raised marble ledge just high enough to act as a sort of bench. It was flanked at each corner by yet more carved pillars, and boasted a fountain which filled it with a constant flow of gently steaming water. The second tub was higher, almost on a pedestal, sized to fit maybe two people, and filled with flowers and a milky white liquid.

  Correction, she thought, staring in wonder as the lady in pink strode right up to its steps and turned to face her. It is filled with milk. I can smell it over the scent of the roses. I thought people only bathed in milk in the wilder bardic stories! A moment later, an amusing thought quirked the corner of her mouth. Then again, this palace is so ornate, it could have sprung from a bard’s wildest imaginings.

  Realizing from her gestures that the lady in pink wanted her to strip and submerse herself in the milk, Gabria quickly looked behind her. Master Souder had not followed them into this chamber, however, just her two Royal Guard shadows, who took up places to either side of the bathing chamber entrance. Apparently they were still keeping up the pretense of being her personal sentries, or watch-dogs, or whatever it was they believed they were supposed to do.

  The other figures in the room, three women, wore the cream gowns of the servants she had seen earlier, but these were edged in purple. Royal servants for the Royal Retreat apparently, and not just palace servants. This could only be the Royal Retreat which the imperious Master Souder presided over. It was too ornate for anything else.

  Relieved he hadn’t entered this particular room, for all he might have been in charge of it, Gabria followed the gestures of the unnamed woman. Removing her cap, she pulled the pins from her hair, twisted up in a bun to keep the hip-length, ash blond locks out of her way. Just removing the gray-felted cap relieved her of some of the excessive warmth plaguing her in this subtropical land. So did raking her fingers through her hair, detangling and fluffing it out.

  At the sight of her locks, the woman in pink seemed to look relieved; her own hair was pulled back into a neat plait that reached down past her waist. Long hair on women must be important, she thought, remembering the woman in green, Lady Lianna, had worn a similar, waist-length, plaited hairstyle. On engineers, either you wear it up to keep it out of the way, or you cut it short ... though the priests of the False God used to rant horribly about the unnaturalness of women going too far in looking as well as acting like men.

  It was a relief to remove her knitted tunic, too. Dropping onto the steps to remove her boots and her socks, she felt cooler as each layer was set aside. She felt a little uncomfortable rendering herself completely naked but knew it was necessary. I need to be pleasant, polite, and cooperative, so these people will be favorably inclined toward Guildara by my actions. I suppose, if dressing like one of them will make them more charitable toward me ... well, bathing in milk shouldn’t be so bad. Provided they allow me to rinse thoroughly, of course.

  Lady in pink said something and gestured at the pool with a mild but friendly smile. Guessing she was meant to climb in, Gabria removed the last of her underthings and mounted the outer steps. Hesitating, she dipped her toes into the liquid, then started down the first of what looked like an inner set of steps; the liquid concealed all but the topmost stair from her view.

  The milk was cool to the to
uch, and sweet-smelling for its scent. It also had a thin layer of cream floating on the top. She didn’t know if that was because it had been partially skimmed after sitting there for a while, or if the pool had been freshly filled and was only now settling long enough for the cream to rise to the top. Cream, she realized, noting pools of clearer liquid floating here and there among the milk fats, and . . . attar of roses? Actual rose oil, and not just flower petals? The combination felt odd against her skin, but not unpleasant.

  Splashing startled her. One of the older maidservants had removed her outer gown, revealing a short, belted tunic that bared most of her shoulders and covered her only to the tops of her thighs. The middle-aged woman descended the steps of the milk bath, and dipped a pearl-glazed pitcher into the liquid. She poured the mixture of milk, cream, attar, and rose petals over Gabria’s shoulders, then carefully anointed her head, using a sponge to dab the milk onto her face.

  A gesture and a handful of words had Gabria frowning softly in concentration, before she comprehended that she was supposed to crouch down at the far end of the smallish pool and soak for a while. Bemused, Gabria found a bench at that end by bumping into it, and sank onto the marble surface. More milk was poured over her scalp as she sat and soaked, and the sponge patted carefully over her face.

  She sat like that, bored and wondering what else would be expected of her, long enough for her fingers to wrinkle. Long enough for the milk dabbed on her face to feel sticky. Finally gestured to stand and exit the pool, she found herself led toward a leather-padded table, rather than the larger pool of water. After a bit of gesturing, Gabria stretched out on the waist-high table as directed, and found herself drizzled with scented oil by the other woman.

  Gabria stared at the mother-of-pearl mosaics patterning the curlicue arches of the ceiling, while two more of the servants unnerved her by massaging her legs and arms, her feet and her hands, even her stomach, hips, and breasts. Not in a sexual way, but definitely without regard for Guildaran sensibilities. They even carefully massaged her face, which was an odd sensation. Not unpleasant, just odd.