“Yet you came, lady. Yet you stay.”
“They’re afraid,” Thorn whispered, as though afraid of being overheard, understanding at last and with a rueful twist of the mouth that might have been a smile the origin of the phrase about “walls having ears.” The sound of his own voice broke the cord that linked him to the Veil Queen’s apartment and brought his awareness once more back to his cell.
“I’m afraid.” This, a fraction louder.
The Demon said nothing; that made him angry. He wanted the contact, needed the focus for his anger. Through his head raced a score of arguments, like a stampede, passionate and lawyerly reasons why the planned sorcery was an abomination. Time and again he opened his mouth as though to say, I will not do this. But nothing emerged, not even air.
From every turret of the palace, a trumpet voluntarily burst forth, measure building upon measure until the fanfare reached out across city and Bay to the headlands beyond.
Sunrise.
Where had the night gone?
Thorn looked at his hands where they rested in the hollow formed by his crossed legs. He closed them into fists and placed them against his breast. When he reached forward, his spirit moved, his flesh remained.
She had no aura, the figure lying before him. So far as he could tell, nothing beyond the shape of her face and form remained to tie her to the woman she had been.
At that same moment InSight shatter-scattered his vision throughout the palace to show him whatever the Demon saw. He stood his spirit at the woman’s head.
He stood by Elora Danan.
She wakes like a cat, wide-eyed and wary, every part of her alert from the moment she opens her eyes. The Vizards stand three rows deep, utterly still, sculptures in a stone garden forming a wall about her living one. Beyond, her maids and attendants, none of them happy to be here. She stretches, slowly, lazily, drawing out every moment, and lets them see her smile at the temptation to stay here all through the day and night to come. There is no ceremony without her, that makes her important. But if she is truly that important, she also knows they’ll find a way to get to her, probably wreck her garden in the process.
Realization and response come as one, thought prompting action as she unfolds herself with a child’s glorious lack of stiffness and drops lithely to the ground. She loves to walk barefoot on the grass, and especially enjoys the way it tickles the soles of her feet, but as she craves respect today, she feels obliged to offer it in return. She kneels and brushes her palms across the earth, whispering a quick farewell. Then she’s on her feet once more, making her way along the stone path she’d wound from the border to her central tree so she could stroll without disturbing fresh plantings.
The Vizards make way, with a smooth precision that looks choreographed, as though every moment—even the most inspired improvisation—has been foreseen. A year’s number flank her single file on either side, twelve to the right, twelve to the left, clearing a path well ahead of her and keeping it so well behind. At a stately, almost solemn pace, they bring her to her bathing room.
It’s nowhere near her rooms, of course. Built specifically for this day and this one purpose, as is every item within.
A whole new staff of attendants await her; no one she’s seen before, or ever will again. Only the ones who will actually touch her are real servants, the others are nobility. They stand respectfully in the background, watching while Elora is scrubbed till her skin glows, then laid out on a padded table for a full-body massage. At the last, a soak in a pool scattered with rose petals. Her skin is rubbed and oiled until it is as soft to the touch as a newly bloomed flower. Her hair is cleaned and combed and brushed, before being drawn up into what will become after many hours’ work an ornate arrangement of waves and curls, interwoven with precious gems. There is an attendant for each of her hands and feet, shaping the nails, filing them smooth, decorating them with paint. When they are done, others take their place to apply her cosmetics. Every movement, no matter how slight, to the smallest twitch, is answered by a flinch from the maids. They expect the worst, they have the wardrobe master as their example. But Elora doesn’t say a word, nor does she stir, save for an occasional shift of position to make herself a bit more comfortable. It’s as though she wears a mask herself.
He stood by Anakerie.
As the last echoes of the fanfare fade the Princess Royal strips to the skin and dives into her pool, alone and unattended. The water isn’t much warmer than the Bay itself, her immersion raises immediate goose bumps from top to toe, but she doesn’t mind as she drives herself from end to end with a methodical stroke that sends her streaking through the water like a fish. She paces herself through a dozen laps before calling a halt, lolling faceup on the surface until, with a smooth motion that appears deceptively easy, she arches her back like a drawn bow and rolls into a dive that takes her to the tiled bottom. She stays far longer than would have been thought possible for a person, then kicks herself straight up, grasping the lip of the pool as she shoots into the air and levers herself to her feet. It is a magnificent display, but she is conscious today—as she hasn’t been for years—that while she enjoys the water, her brother had been one with it.
He stood by Elora Danan.
There are twelve elements to Elora’s gown, brought out and laid before her with due ceremony. Stockings first, with garters to hold them in place about her thighs, and then her shoes, followed by a wrap of gossamer silk to serve as undergarment. The morning is mostly gone; the robing will take them nearly all the way to sunset.
Thorn shook his head to banish the growing sense of weight from his own shoulders, as though each layer of clothes on Elora was a weight of stones to crush the both of them.
Anakerie has no truck with the concoction brought for her; one look is enough to have it banished from her sight, along with all the functionaries sent to decorate her in the bargain. A chamberlain comes to offer protests; a glare from her makes him think better of the idea. The chancellor comes bearing her father’s staff of office, with entreaties, to find her already in uniform and buckling on her sword.
“Highness,” he begins. He’s known her all her life and has earned her respect by treating her from the first as he would an equal.
“You cannot do this,” he says.
“You cannot stop me.” She finishes braiding her hair and reaches reflexively for her silver clip to anchor it, only to find that its accustomed place on her bureau is empty. After a fractional hesitation, she chooses another. “I am colonel commander of the Red Lions, Chancellor, my place is with my troops.”
“With respect, your place is where your father tells you to be.”
“By his side, you mean, watching him bow and scrape to rulers who, at their best, are no more than his peers? Buying favor, he believes, with that pathetic scrap of a girl.”
“You have no faith in the Prophecy, Anakerie?”
“Like many of my father’s guests, Philemon, I have no faith in her. And I trust none within these walls whom I do not know. Hell”—her mouth makes a wry twist—“if history serves, I should probably trust least those I know best. If my father wants me, he must take me as I am, his finest warrior.”
“You would wear edged steel to the Ascension?” The old man is scandalized. “For some of the Veil Folk, Princess, the merest touch of iron is fatal. Moreover, as part of the Covenant, none present for the ceremony will come armed.”
“So I’ll save him the embarrassment and stay away.”
“Child, you are too willful!”
“Have a care, Chancellor.” Her voice goes very soft and her eyes glitter like ice crystals in a sun that offers light but not the slightest bit of warmth. “Remember to whom you speak.”
“And you, Royal Highness, for whom I speak.”
“We’ve played this game before, my father and I. He should have learned his lesson better.”
“Please, Anakerie. The King does yo
u the courtesy of requesting your presence.”
“Were it a command, Lord Chancellor, I would refuse. My place tonight is elsewhere.”
Thorn yearned to reach out for the Dragon, to recapture the sense of joy and possibility that had swept through him; he could barely recall the sensations and their loss left the taste of ash in his mouth, as though that burning within his breast had consumed him.
You wander.
There was accusation in the Demon’s voice, and betrayal.
“I know,” he said lamely. “I’m sorry.” Then, another thought, given voice with surprising force and focus: “You see everything within the palace walls, am I right? You are the palace walls.”
So?
“Can you find me the one they call the Magus? Elora’s protector?”
Other than yourself, little mage?
“Other than myself, yes.”
And if I do so?
“I gave my word. But if the leader of the Maizan is false, what does that say of the Magus he brought to Angwyn? If there’s danger here for Elora Danan, I have to know. You left her alone before, Demon,” he said finally. “Don’t do so again, I beg you.”
You gave your word, meat. Be true to it.
With the hands of his spirit form, he reached out to the woman’s forehead, above the mystical third eye—as Anakerie had with him—and found the flesh cool to the touch. The glow that answered was likewise very faint; there was life in the most technical sense, or rather the potential for life, but no true being.
He touched fingertips to his own brow, then lips, lastly heart. He spread his hands to shoulder width, and between them left a filament of glittering silver, a spider strand of starstuff. His breathing slowed, hers remained nonexistent, as he leaned forward to run a line from her forehead to her lips, to her heart and beyond, marking all the crucial access points of power on her body. When he was done, he’d drawn a stick figure on her flesh, and his own skin was chilled.
He felt her heart, and didn’t need InSight to tell the strength of it.
He placed his right hand on her temple, the other over her left breast as gently as if he was her lover, and leaned forward to touch his lips to hers. He blew a puff of air into her mouth.
Energy crackled behind his eyes, sending sizzles throughout the vast network of nerves that charged his own flesh, and he cast a portion of it through his hands and into her. It was like ladling water into a whirlpool; all that was offered was swallowed instantly, leaving neither trace nor effect behind. Another puff of breath, another cast of power. And another after that. And another.
He paused, swaying, suddenly giddy, yet never releasing his hold on her. His pulse thundered, smearing vision with monstrous swathes of scarlet, and his muscles burned so that he couldn’t manage a decent breath of his own. Little spasmoid trembles skibbled the length and breadth of him, and what he wanted more than anything was to let go and walk away. He shook his head, awe mingling with stark terror, because this was the comparatively easy part; far worse was yet to come.
His heart seemed to pause, then caught itself with an exceptionally powerful beat, of such force it shook his chest from within. Hers did the same.
He panted. So did she.
He had to move his face away quickly, because what air remained in her lungs had been there quite an age and had become stale beyond endurance.
He drew a breath as deep as he could manage, and felt her chest expand to follow. From beneath his right hand, InSight showed him a growing network of glowworm tracings beneath her skin extending outward from her head. At the same time each pulse of her heart stirred blood that had been too long dormant. It moved like sludge at first, but grew more fluid with every passing beat. There was texture to her skin now, a faint roseate tint underlying its blue-white color.
Impressive.
“Meaningless.” He kept his replies short to the point of rudeness; he had too much need of his strength to spare any in idle conversation.
The form lives, it breathes.
“I live, Demon. I breathe. In that, we are One. All that she has, thus far comes from me. She lives—if you can call it that—because I sustain her. What of the Magus, Demon, what of Elora Danan?”
Elora wonders if the whole point of the day is to kill her. Bad enough to wear new shoes; these arch her feet to a degree she’s never found comfortable and she’s had them on for what seems like an eternity. No food, either, and only the occasional sip of water that serves to intensify her thirst rather than slake it. Her clothes are too ornate, and there are simply too many of them to allow her to go to the bathroom. That has been made plain to her for as far back as she can remember, as the mechanics of the ceremony evolve; she must simply endure.
She doesn’t understand, now any more than then. But she’s learned how to obey. Not that it matters. She is wrapped so tightly she can’t even sit; a backing board has been provided for her to lean against, for those rare moments when she is allowed to ease the strain. She has no breasts to speak of, she’s still far more girl than woman, but a corset gives her the illusion of them. Over that goes an undergown that hugs what passes for her figure all the way to her ankles, effectively hobbling her. She can no more take a decent stride than a decent breath and she wonders if the Vizards will have to carry her to her altar.
It was as though Thorn’s eyes had turned to prisms, more faceted than any diamond, each window on a different scene, and the harder he willed himself not to see, the more irresistibly his attention was drawn.
Anakerie crosses the waryard with leonine strides, pace and manner proclaiming her mastery of both self and space. Stables and barracks are a hive of activity, as mounts are groomed and troopers hurry to finish their own equipage. The Lions are to ride today in full ceremonial regalia, as they do for a Royal coronation and other state occasions, which means every piece of tack and armor has to be polished to a mirror finish. Accoutrements are purely for show—pennant lances with blunt tips, and no shields, breastplates and helms that look mightily impressive but aren’t worth much of a damn either.
She passes from light to shadow, near absolutes of both, and turns a glare on the looming column of Elora’s Aerie, as though it is some hostile redoubt and she its determined conqueror.
“Jalaby,” she calls, her voice topping the workaday din of the yard as it would a battlefield, to be answered as quickly by her adjutant.
“Dread lady,” he calls back, on the run from the stables.
“Don’t call me that, I’ve told you a thousand times. ‘Highness’ will do.” It’s an old joke between them; he has permission to call her by name, proprieties be damned, though he never does. “I want a change in regimental orders for today.”
“Lady?”
“Even sections to ride as directed. Odd in patrol kit. Keep them neat, Jalaby, I want them looking respectable. But I also want war lances and shields.”
“Has milady some special intelligence we should know about?”
“Only what I was born with, Sergeant Major. I’m as fond of theater as anyone. If my father wants to put on a pageant to impress his people and his guests, that’s his prerogative. I just want to make sure that any surprises we encounter along the way are pleasant ones. See to it, will you?”
“As Your Highness commands.” And he’s off, with a bellow that makes hers pale in comparison.
“Not very trusting by nature, are you?” This new voice brings a surprisingly shy smile to her lips.
“No more than you would be, Mohdri, in similar circumstances.”
The Castellan casts as hard a shadow as the tower, but Anakerie doesn’t seem to mind. In dress, he appears as casual as she—wool as finely woven as silk, and butter-soft leather, all in signature black—but she knows the mail shirt beneath his tunic is proof against even the sharpest points. As for weapons, the sword that hangs off his left hip is the least of what he carries.
Hers
is a less overtly martial presentation, cotton and fine wool but no leather save for gloves and boots. Her trousers are snug to her ankles, with a stirrup hooked over the arch of her boot to keep their line taut. She normally wears white; not so today. Her uniform is a rich royal blue, more like deep-water ocean than sky, with a broad scarlet stripe down the outside seam of her trousers to proclaim her rank. Junior officers wear a thinner stripe and troopers none at all. The tunic covers her hips and fits as snugly, its sole ornamentation thick strands of braided frogging colored a shade darker than the tunic itself that runs from her stand-up collar straight down the button front and out the lower hem, with horizontal lines set at intervals along the way. Similar lacings—galons—are woven around her sleeve hems and up the forearm, ending just below her elbow with a representation of the Royal crest. On her collar are the only bright elements to the ensemble: the regimental insignia of a lion rampant, done in scarlet thread, together with the laurel wreath, crown, and crossed swords of her rank, in silver. She, too, wears mail under her coat and carries far more weapons than are immediately apparent. A casual observer might think her overmatched by her companion; that is a mistake, and both she and Mohdri know it.
“This is a day of celebration, Princess,” he tells her, shortening his stride to match her pace as she continues her tour of the yard, “yet I note you’ve confined my personal escort to barracks, with a full troop of your own to mind them.”
“They fired at a mating pair of eagles yesterday.”
“We hunt eagles.”
“In your own land, perhaps. Not Angwyn.”
“One of them stooped. My men feared they were under attack.”
“And fired as well at a merchant vessel.”
“They were challenged.”
“They are guests, my lord Castellan.”
“And will be reminded most forcefully to behave as such, I assure you. My dear Anakerie, I hardly think you’ve anything to fear from a score of them.”
“I’ve seen them fight.”
“And fought beside them.” The banter leaves his tone and he takes her hand gently in his. “You should have stayed. You are one of us, too wild of heart to live a life in such a cage as this.”
Shadow Moon Page 23
