Lady of Drith

by Chad Huskins

  Drea remembered the softness. And the warmth. Thryis had been so stern of face, so privileged in her demeanor, so superior in stature…and yet there had been a softness in her touch. And though her eye had always been critical, it also held the glint of expectation.

  Thryis expected one’s best. She expected people to be better than they were told they had to be. She had given Drea a frightening look the day that she accidentally killed the boy in the alley, but she’d also gifted her with a look of pity. And forgiveness.

  And softness.

  But now, as they made their way in the night, Drea was struck by the coarse feeling of Thryis’s hands. Her friend’s hands were no longer as soft as they once were. They were callused, hardened by labor, almost like parchment.

  The servant’s life had done it to her. Once, Thryis had been a proud woman from a Major House. Slaves had attended her. She’d bathed in milk. But no more. Thryis’s mother had taken ill around the same time that Drea’s father had died, and with the same rotting disease that had claimed Thryis’s leg. House Ardenk had fallen just before House Kalder. Their fates were tied, it seemed. As the Kalderus fell, so too had the Ardenkus.

  But whereas Thrayton Ardenk and his daughter and son had been forced into indentured servitude, Drea had been given the opportunity to marry a powerful man. The most powerful man.

  It was the feel of those callused hands that awakened whatever part of her it had been that had spoken so openly and honestly with the avatar of Hyra.

  It’s because we lacked control, Thryis and I, Drea thought as they made their way down the Lane of Leathers, and crossed down an alley choked with steam to avoid being seen by a group of Rain Guards riding by on horseback. We lacked the control necessary to decide our own fates.

  It hadn’t just been their misfortune of being born female, but of being alive during a time when it was so painfully easy to have one’s whole family destroyed. And being alive during a time when the government was enhancing its reliance on slaves didn’t help.

  Speaking of slaves, they passed many of those in the night. Lots of men and women wearing signs around their necks, some with the Black Bull sigil of House Umberik, others with the Yellow Fawn sigil of House Tumerid.

  The slaves moved past them like wraiths, both seeing and not seeing them. However, one of them did stop her. An old woman reached out to grab Drea’s arm, and whispered vehemently, “What did you tell her, girl?”

  “I’m sorry?” Drea stuttered.

  Thryis turned and saw the woman, whose sign said she belonged to House Devarok. “Old woman, we’re in a hurry—”

  “I know you,” the slave said. “I know your face. I’ve been around a long time. I know all the faces of all the Major Houses. You were the in-waiting bride. The one they said spoke to Hyra. What did you say to her?”

  Drea shook her head. “You are mistaken. I’m not who you think I am.”

  “None of us are who others think we are,” the old woman said. “Until we show them otherwise.” Then, she reached out and snatched Drea by her wrist, and pulled Drea in so fast and hard that she almost screamed.

  Without thinking about it, Drea’s other hand went into the folds of her robe, and touched the pistol that hung heavy from her waistband. The Old Man was warm, and for a moment Drea heard faint screams in her ears, like the shouts of the damned all clambering to escape Underrealm.

  “What did you tell Hyra?” the woman whispered.

  Drea almost drew the Old Man, just to scare her away, but then a thought occurred to her. Distill the Glamour. “I…I told her that I would like to see Drith be a city of free peoples. I told her I wanted the Five-Year Law to be enacted by the Senate.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, then widened. She smiled. “You are Kalderus! You are your father’s daughter—”

  “Let her go!” Thryis said, grabbing the woman’s wrists.

  “Kalder does not bend!” the woman hissed.

  “Let—her—go!”

  “Kalder does not bend!” she repeated. Thryis put her hands against the woman’s face and pushed her away. Finally, the slave released Drea, and backed away a few paces.

  “Are you mad?” Thryis shouted, placing her body in front of Drea’s.

  “I know your face,” the slave whispered. “I know your blood. Kalder does not bend. It’s not your way. Kalder—does—not—bend.”

  “Be off now,” Thryis said. “Before I go to your masters and tell them you’ve accosted a ward of House Syphen!”

  The woman never took her eyes off of Drea as she stepped backwards, into an alley, and finally vanished.

  “Such madness,” Thryis said, turning to Drea. “Are you all right, Drea luv?”

  “I’m fine.” Slowly, Drea released her hold of the pistol. When she did, the screams of the damned left her mind. All that was left was the slight gust of wind and the warm steam that whipped and coiled down the street.

  “Did she hurt you?”

  “No. I’m only shaken.”

  A roll of thunder passed over the world, and both Drea and Thryis jumped slightly. Then they looked at each other and laughed nervously.

  “Oh, Thryis! What are we doing? We ought to go back—”

  “No,” Thryis said, turning serious. “We’ve come this far, and it’s obvious this woman has something to tell us.”

  “I know, but—”

  Thryis took her by the hand, gave it a companionable squeeze. Drea looked up at her, and thought, I love her. I can see that now. How was it not clear before? I’ve always loved her. Perhaps not in this way, but it was always there, kindling all the while.

  And over time that kindling had swelled, stoked by tragedy and tears, by great loss and little gains.

  By being there for each other through it all.

  “Come on,” Thryis said. “Trust me. I won’t let anything happen to you—”

  “Wasn’t it you who said it was a mistake to listen to you when I surrendered myself to Lord Syphen?” Drea chuckled. “And wasn’t it also you who said you’d make a mistake by having me open the container with the Old Man inside?”

  Thryis waved her hand. “I might’ve done.”

  “And you don’t think it’s a little mad of me to listen to you a third time?”

  “No! No, no, no. Of course not, no. It’s not. Trust me, it’s not. A bit, yes. But no. Now, come along”

  They took a shortcut from an alley along the Avenue of Fabrics. Thryis whispered, “What was that business with Hyra about, anyway? I heard stories earlier today. Some of the slaves that work on the Great Generator were saying they heard you met with Hyra’s avatar. Is that true, Drea luv?”

  Fell-lightning came spiraling out of the sky above them before being doused quickly.

  “I’m not sure what happened, honestly. It was a strange experience, and Daedron told me that the woman was only a paid actor, anyway.”

  Thryis pulled her to a stop, peeked around the corner to make sure no Lictors or Rain Guards were within sight. Once they got underway again, she said, “You were with Daedron?”

  “I was. And my new-sisters.”

  Thryis looked a bit awkward. “What are they like?” she asked, leading Drea by the hand, taking a shortcut down yet another alley.

  “I feel like an ant beneath a lens whenever I’m in front of them,” Drea confessed. “It’s not just that they make me feel small, I feel like I’m being analyzed for some reason, some ulterior motive they have.”

  “What motive might that be?”

  Drea voiced a concern that had been growing in her mind lately. “I believe Lord Syphen intends for me to marry his nephew, and he has set his nieces and nephew to evaluate me. Daedron himself has proposed to me.”

  Thryis stopped in the middle of the street and turned to face her. “They…they want you to marry soon?”

  “That’s my belief.”

  Thryis shook her head. “I won’t let them.”

  Drea shrugged. “I suppose it was only a matter of time
before someone found a use for me—”

  “I won’t let them,” Thryis repeated.

  Drea lifted an eyebrow, and smiled. “Why, Thryis Ardenk. Are you…?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “Smack your bottom! I’m sure I’ve never been jealous. I only want what’s best for you.”

  “And what is best for me?”

  Thryis looked at her feet. For the first time that Drea could remember, her life’s greatest friend appeared at a loss for words. Even embarrassed.

  Finally, Thryis said, “We shall find a better alternative for you. A better suitor.”

  Drea snorted out a laugh. “Thryis, that is not for us to decide. Men decide those things—”

  “Smack your bottom, have you learned nothing from all of this? ‘Men decide those things,’ she says. What nonsense! I thought I knew Drea Kalder better than that. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I should’ve—”

  Drea silenced her with a kiss.

  She didn’t know where the impulse came from, but it seemed right, and for many reasons. They had shared a kiss only twice before, and they hadn’t spoken of either occasion since. And even then it had been so that Thryis could silence her tears.

  Now, it was so that Drea could silence the time-wasting diatribe she could sense Thryis was about to get on. And also…because she wanted to.

  The kiss was everything. It lasted longer than it ought. They held each other’s hands in a different way this time—their fingers interlaced. They barely moved. And they shut their eyes, as if to shut out everything but the sensation itself.

  Then, acting as boldly as she had at the Temple of Hyra when she’d confessed her feelings, Drea reached around Thryis’s waist and pulled her in close.

  The fellstorm rumbled angrily overhead, but neither one of them noticed it.

  When they finally came away for air, Drea just stared into Thryis’s blue eyes—those same blue eyes that had been her sanctuary for so long—and said, “Perhaps you don’t know me at all.”

  Thryis tried to speak, but had to take a moment before regaining her senses. “Perhaps I don’t,” she said breathlessly.

  They didn’t move.

  Fire raced across the sky, temporarily illuminating the night. Snowflakes began to fall heavily. Snow and flame, such were the contradictions in a fellstorm.

  “We need to hurry,” Drea finally said. “Before the storm gets too strong.”

  Thryis nodded dumbly. Wordlessly, she took Drea by the hand and led her away.

  Through the series of twisting paths and winding back alleys, they never spoke of the kiss. Yet it was paramount in Drea’s mind, and her heart was racing fast. For the kiss was both a revelation and a confession. A confession to themselves.

  The Forum looked exactly as it always did, only deader. There were no slaves here, no shopping ladies, no gentlemen escorts, and no shop owners hawking their goods. A caul of steam was in the air, providing adequate cover for their secret errand. The Aqueduct roared overhead, channeling water to all parts of Drith.

  They heard whistles. Hooves pounded against stone. They kept hidden behind someone’s parked wagon while a patrol of Rain Guards raced by, blowing their whistles, signaling to others of their cloak one street up.

  “They must be chasing some criminal or other,” Thryis whispered before urging her on.

  Drea and Thryis spotted a patrol of Lictors, but they were walking with a single lantern and weren’t nearly close enough to see the two girls. Once they had vanished around a mariya, Drea and Thryis hustled over to the tail end of the colossal statue of the Red Wyrm.

  Wyrms were things of folklore. Legendary beasts that were supposedly the ancestors of dragons. They didn’t have legs or wings, but were scaly and fanged. They did not breathe fire as dragons were said to have done. No, wyrms drank flames, they derived power from flames. They were once plentiful, but had been hunted to extinction. It was said that they fought hardest when they were cornered, and that, when there had only been a few green and red wyrms left in the world, they had laid waste to thousands of humans that came for them.

  The statue looming over Drea now made her think about the fabled last stand of the wyrms. She thought it appropriate that the Red Wyrm was her sigil, for her people had also been pushed to extinction. And I find myself cornered, too.

  Drea looked up into the dark, menacing eyes of the statue. All Dritheans believed that the gods and spirits literally occupied the statues in the city. They believed that the sculptor’s hand had merely been given the gift to chisel the gods and spirits out from the stone, liberating them, allowing them to see the mortals walking around them.

  Therefore, not only were the statues of Loraci and Domas the literal embodiment of the gods, but the Red Wyrm statue was the living spirit of the creatures that had once lived and hunted these lands.

  Thunder rolled loudly overhead, pulling Drea out of her reverie. Fell-lightning painted the sky red. The snowflakes in the air became bigger, heavier, more plentiful.

  “Do you think she will actually come?” Drea asked, looking around. She was starting to shiver. “If any Lictors see us out here, they’ll surely take me back to Lord Syphen. And then what will I say?”

  Just as Thryis was about to answer, a voice spoke from behind them.

  “I expect,” the voice said, “you will do as you have always done.” They both gasped and turned. Stepping out of the shadow of a mariya shop beside the Red Wyrm was a woman. “You will flatter the Syphenus and curtsey and tell them everything they want to hear. But in the end, it won’t be enough. Your flattery has only put you right where they want you, Drea.”

  She was garbed in a black stola and palla, just as Thryis had described her, with one gloved hand encrusted with jypsite, which pulsed with green darklight. Slung on her right hip was a holster carrying a large pistol. Her lower face was barely concealed by a veil, and her eyes were ensconced by the Red Wyrm’s shadow.

  Drea felt her blood run cold at the blasphemous sight of a woman armed with a pistol. Thryis was not so stunned, for she stepped in front of Drea, using her body as a shield.

  “Lady Blackveil, I presume,” Drea said.

  The woman gave a nod. “Did you bring it?”

  For a moment, Drea wondered what she meant, but then she gathered her wits and reached into her robe to withdraw the Old Man.

  “Smart girl,” said the Lady. “A smart girl with a loyal friend. You might just go far.”

  Looking at the woman, Drea realized she recognized her manner of dress. “You’re the woman I saw on the Street of Stone,” she said. It hadn’t been obvious to her from Thryis’s description of Lady Blackveil, but seeing her now, it was suddenly clear.

  “Yes, I’ve been following you for some time. I’d hope to meet with you there.”

  “Why didn’t you? Why must we meet like this?”

  “I think you already know the answer to that.”

  Drea thought about it, then nodded. “Daedron. He would’ve seen you coming.”

  “Him,” Lady Blackveil agreed. “Or his uncle. But I’ve been trying to get close to you, and I’ve been following you. Both of you. I gave the invitation to Thryis here, and on that day I happened to see she was about to be abducted by two men.”

  “And the day I visited the offices of the Collegium,” Drea said. “You made sure that Izyru Omp prompted me to accept the invitation.”

  “I was watching you from afar that day, but I couldn’t approach you, for Lord Syphen would’ve surely detected me.”

  Drea nodded. “Izyru Omp is an agent of yours?”

  “One of a few.”

  “Why go to all this trouble? What do you want with me?”

  The dark woman looked her over, surveying her. She didn’t speak for a time. She stood there, a black wraith in the chill wind, her breath coming out in thin steamy clouds. Her jypsite-encrusted hand was lightly resting on the butt of her pistol. For a moment, Drea thought she might’ve s
tepped inside some dream, for no woman had ever dressed like this.

  “I’ve killed men, Drea Kalder,” the Lady said simply. “And I’ve killed women. I’ve killed vehl and tenda, demons and spirits. I’ve seen evil take so many forms it has sometimes robbed me of my sanity. Yet there is no evil like that you face in that house where you’ve taken up residence.”

  “What do you mean?” Drea said. “What evil?”

  “Does he visit you in your dreams?” Lady Blackveil said. “The Man. The one in the burned temple.”

  Drea’s eyes widened. “How do you know about that?”

  The woman looked at her. “You thought he was just a dream, didn’t you? But part of you knows that he’s more than that.”

  “Drea, what’s she talking about?” asked Thryis.

  “I figured he would find you,” the Lady said. “I didn’t think he could leave you alone, not forever. I knew that he would be drawn to you, just as surely as the Syphenus and the Dustrangus have been.”

  “Who is he?”

  “In some cultures he’s referred to as the Dreamchant, in others he’s the Hearkener, the Beyonder, and the Planes Strider. But most of the ancient Drithean texts I’ve found call him the Host.”

  “What does he want?” Drea asked.

  Lady Blackveil started to answer. But suddenly, she looked up sharply, and then went still, as a wolf might do when it had detected a threat. “We can’t stay here. Walk with me while we talk.”

  Thryis said, “Why can’t we just talk here?”

  “Just follow me, and I will tell you everything. I will tell you about the people you live with, the people that have taken you as a pawn. I will tell you what really happened to your father that day in the parade, and to your mother that night in her study.” She looked at Drea meaningfully. “I will tell you about the Temple of the Hidden Door.”

  Drea suddenly recalled all she’d heard Lords Syphen and Dustrang discussing that night in the study. “Who are they?”

  “I’ve never heard of such a temple,” said Thryis.

  “Few have,” said Lady Blackveil. “But you’ll want to be acquainted.” And with that, she turned away and started walking.