“You’re very difficult.”
“I try.” Nuawa does not quite kiss the general; she licks around Lussadh’s lips, tasting the remnant of red tea and pomegranate. Lussadh tugs at her clothes, one hand snaking under jacket and shirt. It is tempting. Nuawa moves against the general’s hand, rubbing her nipple on those calluses, picturing herself bent over the fountain—face centimeters from icy water, straining for balance, gasping Lussadh’s name one sibilant syllable at a time as the general leaves teeth prints on her neck, her shoulder. The angle, the friction. She could be loud and pleading, and the general would never think to ask what precisely it was that Ytoba promised her in recompense.
A percussive rhythm begins, in the distance.
“Fuck,” Lussadh gasps, harsh and breathless. “This timing. Fuck. I’m sorry. I need to go to her.”
Nuawa extricates herself. Makes a shallow bow. “Of course, General.”
She buttons up her shirt, tidies up her belt and trousers, and strides to the window. Her cheeks are flushed, not that there is anyone to see, for which she is glad. The drumming continues; it is known through all of winter, a composition played for one occasion and one only. The gongs first, struck one after another from the palace’s rooftops, then drums and keen flute notes in crescendo. Every palace, however remote or distant from the capital, has musicians on hand who can play it, and the requisite instruments. It is not the first time Nuawa has heard this music. To her it has always sounded funereal and opprobrious. In a remote country, that sealed-off Yatpun, it might be the song of empire.
Below, on the sloping path to the palace, the Winter Queen walks. No escort, though she is armored, the same set she wore to Nuawa’s execution all those years ago. The same coronet cupping her skull and her hair like the tail of a black comet. Stone and soil freeze where she treads and behind her, ice glimmers, a jagged diamantine train. The palace’s red-gold gate has been thrown wide. In all the breadth and width of her empire, no door—however private, however holy—may remain shut to the queen.
General Lussadh has appeared on bended knee, head down in obeisance. The gongs resound one last time, conclusive, and fall silent.
Chapter 11
The house is nothing special to look at, the marks of a comfortable life and quiet wealth: the lawn is tidy, the walls are high but not forbidding. There is a greenhouse fogged over, the inside of it perspiring and fruitful, and empty trellises in what could have been a garden in warmer times. It is located apart from the nearest collection of farmsteads and orchards, away from the roads, the house of someone private. Tall evergreens shield it from immediate view. There are no guards or defenses, nor any sign of danger or suspicious matter.
Lussadh has come alone. The back of her throat is sour; even now she is not sure what Ytoba—who successfully asked audience of the queen—said to persuade Her Majesty to send Lussadh here. Petty revenge against Nuawa. Faintly, treasonously, she hopes that the house will be empty; that Nuawa’s aunt has been forewarned, or is out running errands. But when she rings the door, it is promptly answered. Not by a servant.
Indrahi Dasaret is a small woman, shorter than her niece, in her fifties or sixties. Though she looks soft, not a trained combatant, she bears her age with dignity. Her posture is excellent; this is someone who has been tutored in etiquette and comportment. When she takes in Lussadh there is the slightest recoil of surprise, but it is quickly subsumed. The woman curtsies deeply. “General Lussadh al-Kattan. Your presence graces this house as the stars grace a night sky.”
“Citizen,” Lussadh says, is at a loss what to add next. I’m here to arrest you seems uncivil. I’m here to arrest you for no reason I can discern is worse. “You are Nuawa Dasaret’s aunt and guardian, I’ve been led to understand.”
“She’s an adult, which makes my status as guardian obsolete. But yes, I did raise her, if that is what you mean. I trust she hasn’t been giving anyone trouble?” Said mildly, reproachfully, like a concerned parent.
“Not at all.”
“Please come in, General. I’d be a poor citizen to keep you out on the veranda.”
The drawing room is well-furnished, tasteful, nothing remarkable in it save the diptych that takes up most of one wall. It is vivid and must have been expertly preserved, either through mechanical or thaumaturgical means. The paint looks as if it could have just dried minutes ago, the blue of a sky so vivid it could have belonged to Kemiraj, the dashes of birds in flight keenly alive. A gilded sun, a river, flowers. Simple, of a realist style Lussadh does not recognize, and ultimately banal. Not even seditious—it is no image of bonfires or of winter giving way to spring. “How is Nuawa?” the aunt is asking. “I haven’t heard much from her. In the way of family, we don’t always get along.”
Lussadh wonders if that is a thinly veiled barb. In the way of family. “You know of her work?”
“I know of her work and that you invited her to stay at the palace. Rumors travel fast, General, and idle old women like myself read gossip sheets on occasion.”
She doubts that, though the drawing room evinces no suggestion of Indrahi’s taste or intellectual character. The only book is a volume of scripture, biding dusty and thick next to an empty celadon vase. Now that she thinks of it, she can’t remember the last time she met with a lover’s parent. Most who have come to her bed did not do so with expectations of a lasting affair, let alone anything that would involve the formality of familial introduction. Absurd to contemplate that now. It is not as if she will ask this woman for Nuawa’s hand. “She is well.” Trite to say, empty of meaning. “She’s acquitted herself admirably.”
Indrahi lifts the lid from a tray on her table; underneath, persimmons and papayas, a stray orange. Each the bright yellow and red of pyres. She peels the orange, separates the segments neatly. “You mean in the arena, I assume. She’s always been good at what she chooses to pursue. She doesn’t often visit. So it goes with children who have left their roosts. Do you have any, General?”
“No.” Lussadh has always made sure. Back in her former life, she held the informal—and sordid—duty of tracking down cousins’ offshoots, an irresponsible uncle or aunt, curbing the diluted and illegitimate branches of the dynasty. “I wouldn’t make much of a parent, let alone a good one. Rearing a child seems like a precarious venture.” Even if, as with Kemiraj royals, speech and behavior are instilled pre-birth. Language and ritual woven into the artificial womb. Not a process often done anymore, though she can access it, the privilege of a governor.
“It’s an interesting venture. Like performing complex surgery on yourself. You learn so much about your own character in the process.” Nuawa’s aunt gestures at the fruits. “I don’t suppose you’d care for any of these? I grew the persimmons myself and can attest to their pedigree. No? Some want their children to become an idealized version of themselves, or lead lives that passed them by. Others want children as a sort of pet, affection on demand—for that a dog is superior, and much cheaper to bring up. Then there are those who come to parenthood by sheer, abrupt accident. For most of my life, I didn’t think myself a likely parent either.”
“What changed your mind?” Lussadh continues to study the woman. Nothing about her seems like a threat, not her bearing or build. Unarmed, almost certainly. Not much of a family resemblance.
“Well, Nuawa’s mother dying, for one. I adopted her when she was eight, a solemn child from the beginning. Dutiful, not precisely what you’d call loving. I gave her the best of what I could afford, food and learning and clothing.” She cuts the persimmon into thin slices. “And I was hoping she would take up a normal, proper vocation. I could have paid for her apprenticeship to a printer, a jeweler, or even to pursue a field of her choice at the university. But here we are. A common fighter, as if she had need to commodify her body.”
“Citizen,” Lussadh says, defensive of the duelist in spite of herself, “I’m a soldier.”
“Surely. But that is different. What you do is important to winter’s
reach and reign. What my niece does, sadly, is entertainment for the rich. She lines her manager’s pockets and not much else. It is,” Indrahi says, shaking her head, “all hopeless.”
Odd to think of Nuawa so contained in herself, graceful, assured next to this. The way the parent reduces the child. She is not unaccustomed to it; has witnessed such of her own kin, back then. “She will become one of my soldiers, in all likelihood. Most parents would derive some pride from that. Indeed the highest pride.”
“Will she? Ah—the tournament. Yes.” One more slice of persimmon disappears into Indrahi’s mouth. A drop of translucent juice clings to her finger, the color of jaundice. “That will be an incredible honor. I have every hope that she will serve you well, for she’s unlikely to find a respectable career anywhere else.”
She begins to see why Nuawa might not often visit her aunt. Perhaps this will not be so difficult, after all, and Ytoba’s revenge has been misaimed. “I share your hope, citizen. For the moment, would you come with me? It’s nothing,” she adds. “Call it an interview, if you would, as you’re the immediate kin of someone who will soon be sworn in to the army.”
Something passes through Indrahi’s expression; Lussadh has the impression, for a moment, that Nuawa’s aunt has been expecting this. “Let me finish eating this,” Indrahi murmurs. “I hate wasting food. And when you see Nuawa, remind her to pick up that diptych, will you?”
* * *
At the Marrow, Tezem has sent their best, a splendor of regard in accoutrements, a retinue of attendants. The clothes provided for her are in winter colors, the gleam and the glare. Lustrous gray, pearl white, dashes of indigo. A resin mask painted like a glacier. Nuawa dons it all without objection, good practice for the near future. The previous rounds have been almost nondescript. This one will have all the theater each duelist’s sponsors can marshal.
In the fifteen minutes allotted to her to prepare, she thinks of nothing in particular and utters no prayer. As with anywhere else, the result is between her and her circumstances. She has never thought much of divine intervention. Were the gods so merciful and appreciative of the offerings they receive in Sirapirat, she would like to think winter would never have come. A childish response, some theologians would say; beside the point, the monks would insist. To her, it is merely practical. Gods that do not answer or act are of less use than ghosts in the pipes.
The bell sounds; the arena gate lifts. The obsidian dome, the agate tiles. All routine. Her second home.
Ghost combustion fills the arena with arctic light, illuminating her and her opponent, amplifying their shadows to monstrous size. The ex-soldier has been costumed too, a crow-like affair, dark clothes and velvet tatters woven into their hair. A mask like hers, modeled after the queen’s soldiers. Blue-black, the colors of tundra and frozen rivers. He is svelte but the costume adds the illusion of bulk. The way a cobra’s hood flares to intimidate, and because Nuawa is as animal as any other human, it subtly works. They draw their swords in simpatico. His is serrated, verdantly serpentine. He bears no firearm. Nuawa’s blade throws just two shadows today but they are sharkish, elongated by the light, bristling with thorns and teeth.
A warping of air, a fragmentation of movement: his shadow abruptly eclipses hers. Nuawa defends in time, metal screeching on metal. Point-blank she shoots. The bullet breaks into a constellation of shrapnel. He staggers back—a line of blood, in fine spray.
They regard each other. His heart, she imagines, hammers in his throat. She was forthright when she told Lussadh that she doesn’t enjoy the pursuit of battle, that it is hard labor, one that happens to suit her. But there is satisfaction to be found in the calculation for survival, in totting it up correctly and seizing the sum. A mathematician’s joy, delirious, potent. Down to who can solve the equation of combat first, and how fast.
He strikes quickly and with force, to stop her from firing again. A superior swordsman. Each blow jolts her to the shoulder, to her clenched teeth, makes her wrist sing. She gets another shot off, one that should have caught him full in the knee; it merely grazes. She gives ground, and gives ground again, holstering her gun to fight two-handed. Her blade-shadows lash and snap at his feet, never quite catching him.
His breathing is loud, louder than it should be, close to hyperventilation. The fringe benefit of Ytoba’s friendship. Each dose of dream drugs carried something extra, something that wasn’t added to hers. The Kemiraj assassin must have singled her out ever since the second round, at the latest.
She suffers the shallow cuts, the bruising impact. The costume is no armor, for her or him. The tip of her blade rakes down his sleeve, splitting it, opening the skin. The edge of his comes close to taking off her arm. She counts the seconds, measuring against previous fights, against her own endurance. Whether she could defeat him in a perfectly fair fight is immaterial. Some factor—vagaries of the body, of the arena, of the day—would always interfere with the computation. Now is the sole reference point that holds pertinence.
The ex-soldier is slowing down, nearly imperceptibly. The most minute of delay in his response. Still deadly. In a different time, he might have downed her.
Such things are decided within the span of a heartbeat, within the snap of seconds.
He advances, too far, mistiming his momentum. She grabs his wrist, wrenches him forward—he feels light as paper, as light as leaves—and brings her blade down. Across his shoulder blade, down to the back of his hip. The blade-shadows tear into him, the rip of whetted ether on flesh, on soul.
He falls. She trains her gun on him, even so, as the pool of his hemorrhage spreads and runs into the tiles, as the stink of it rises. She didn’t strike to kill—sufficient life must be left to feed the kiln, though she wonders whether she has already marred his ghost, stained it in pain and terror.
The dome opens, splitting as night does speared by dawn. It is the first time she has seen her audience from this side of the equation. The seats are packed, the faces anonymous, the applause—or whatever it is they are making—a muted roar, unintelligible as the braying of dogs in the hunt. Presiding over them all, distinct, is the queen. Her box a high chamber, her chair no doubt like a throne, and at her side—equally without doubt, though Nuawa can’t see through the dark glass—Lussadh, kneeling or standing.
The tournament master’s voice, clear and sonorous, declares her the victor. The audience follows, chanting The Lightning, the Lightning! Faintly she wonders if her mother is among the spectating mass, aloof, alone of them all to look on with calm certainty while holding the highest stakes.
The box opens and the queen descends, Lussadh not with her after all. The crowd quiets in stages; in the hush, there is a child crying, some colicky baby or unruly toddler too young to comprehend what they see, what this woman-shape represents, what winter is. What any of this signifies. Nuawa imagines assassins in the seats taking aim, measuring the risk. It would be a good opportunity, with a crowd so dense to mask them, so many available exits. But no dart or bullet flies.
The queen does not look at the fallen man, a single body—a single ghost—meriting no attention, though she does step around the blood. She fastens the last victor’s badge onto Nuawa’s collar, blue-gold hyacinth. “You survived, as I knew you would. And now I suppose you shall join in my service.”
Her nerves are singing, electrified independent of her intellect, shivering like a helpless domesticated thing before a predator. Or else it is excitement, intoxicating and buoyant. The body’s volatile caprices. She bows her head and gets on her knee, as she has seen Lussadh do. “The highest honor is to serve, Your Majesty.”
The crowd takes up their chorus once more. Absolute winter, absolute winter, absolute winter.
* * *
The royal carriage glides; it feels frictionless from the inside as if moving on air rather than upon a road. Within this confined space, the queen’s radiance is inescapable. There is an abundance of wool and furs, but no heating. The only ghosts in the vehicle are for per
ambulation, set to move and steer the wheels. Nuawa wraps herself in the furs, finding them several sizes too big, and realizes that these are meant for Lussadh. Subtly scented, those oils the general uses, the myrrh. The queen’s heart in Lussadh’s keeping. She has not contemplated it before. It is an odd thing to dwell upon, though Nuawa finds herself unable to move away from it. Lussadh entwined with that long, pale body, Lussadh’s mouth between those long, glacial legs. She wonders whether the general pleasures the queen on her knees every time, or if there is variety in their fucking. Whether their relation is a mirror to hers with Lussadh, or if it is softer. Whether the Winter Queen is capable of tenderness and passion, or even lust.
Nuawa gazes through the sole window, a one-way pane like the arena dome, opaque from the outside. The queen watches her and does not seem interested in conversation until she says, “A long time ago, I had a mirror. This large, the size of my palms put together. No other glass was made like it—indeed, it was fused not from sand but from the ice that resides at a mountain’s heart. When you look through it, you can see the world that is now, the world that is beyond, the world that will be. Omniscience, apotheosis. It was a snare for the youthful, the curious, immensely puissant. No forge or fire in the world may melt it.”
She doesn’t answer; it does not seem she is supposed to, and she means to tread the way she needs on the thinnest of ice.
“It was a treasure, this mirror. It held everything. Not just the sight but the stepping-stone, the pathways. It was as much a door as it was anything else, though you could never guess whether it was one-way or not. That is the problem with thaumaturgy you didn’t create yourself.” The queen’s voice is distant. “But it shattered. I have been looking for its remains since.”
Moving fast from the Marrow, the breadth of Sirapirat crossed in no time, made brief and small by this vehicle, the ghosts must be on the finest diet. Sugared candles, expensive incenses, rich broth boiled until it is flavorful steam. Better than some living eat. Nuawa looks out at the gray seam of the thoroughfares, the gunmetal vowels of lampposts, the golden sheen of the mirage. A luminescence that stands in contrast to the queen’s. Maybe its dissolution is beyond even her. Some things must be.
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