Moving Water

by Kelso, Sylvia

  “Mothers.” The sadness held no grudge. “She doesn’t know what I am. She doesn’t have to. She just feels I’m dangerous to them.”

  What could make amends for that? And the full sense of that last cruel confession, its sequel in questions no man could possibly ask, was still racketing round my head. She had children later. . . . There is no more terrible way to be maimed. In my extremity I actually hoped that he would read my thoughts and extract the speech I could not muster, for the solace nothing could give.

  “Just sterile. Not impotent.” He not only read my thoughts, with paralyzing candor he answered the question I could not ask. “Don’t upset yourself, Fylghjos. After all”—the tiny quiver of amusement was the bravest thing I ever heard—“it could have been worse.”

  With shame I admit myself unable to match it. I said goodnight and fled.

  * * * * *

  Next day I sent breakfast to his room to ensure the twins would be off to school and Callissa to the markets before he emerged. Despite her tearful protests that “I never meant to upset him. How was I to know? I don’t know why I said it, he just—made me,” I was convinced he would go on striking truth from her as he did from me, and I had been scarified enough. So it was well into second watch before we set out for Ker Morrya.

  He scanned our route with his usual bright-eyed interest, quite unconcerned by his own effect on passersby. I asked if he wanted to inspect the mare, stabled at the post-house with orders to “Wait here for me. And behave yourself.” He merely narrowed his eyes, shook his head, replied, “She’s all right,” and resumed his study of carriages, sightseers, officials, workers, people of every trade and province surging by, while I thought yet again that his eyes had a freakish life of their own.

  With the sunny street making his pupils pinpoints, his irises had the constant swirl and variegation of light in flowing water, mint, bayleaf, laurel, sea and moss and royal jade-green, changes swift and bewitching as his moods. . . . I lost sight of the city. I even forgot to ask how he knew about the mare. But then he nodded at some Gjerven tribesmen with wooden spears, bones in their noses and towering feather helmets, saying, “Imagine charging in one of those—and the chinband breaks.” So we were laughing as we reached Ker Morrya’s gate.

  No steward was there. Passing the sentries I felt a sudden need for support, and nodded to the guard officer, saying, “I’ll take the four on stand-by.” Their boots made a solid, reassuring clump behind us on the marble steps.

  The court was in the central gallery. Its hexagon is big as any temple, one side giving on the forecourt, the rear wall a backdrop for the Lady’s white-gold throne inlaid with onyx moontrees, under the canopy which is the boast of Assharral: a single mighty rock crystal cut and polished to transparency, shimmering above the dais like a curve of visible air, a foil for the flamboyant walls and floor and roof.

  The walls are of alabaster so thin the sun shines through them, turning the stone-grain to huge whorls of sunset rose and tangerine and gold, the floor is black marble spanned by a moontree of silver: flowing boughs, voluptuous orb. The ceiling is yellow amber imlann wood, coffered in geometric mazes whose woven triangles prison the eye, an ebony star at each one’s point.

  I had never felt at ease there. Today I found myself reflecting that a tenth of this ostentation would have fed my troops properly in Phaxia. Among it, perfectly at home, chattered and postured the rainbow of silk, satin, jewels and outrageous fashions that composed the court.

  Nor did I ever like the court. They are nobles, I am a farmer’s son, yes. I am a soldier, they were play-people, yes. But to me there was something immoral in the sight of Assharral’s wealthiest, wittiest, best-bred and most beautiful frittering their days away in empty ritual and squabbles over trivia, while a few governors, a horde of scribes and a couple of generals turned the Lady’s chariot wheels.

  I watched the latest favorite, a willowy gallant in royal purple with sleeves that brushed the floor, thillians in his shoe-heels, scented to smother you at a spearlength, orange and scarlet-dyed hair in two horns above his temples, fooling with a gold stave of office he could barely lift while he changed frivolities with two ladies whose costumes are beyond my description. I saw other heads turn, the arch of painted brows, could imagine the catch-word repartee at our expense.

  Then it struck me like a thunderclap that I did not merely dislike them, was not merely afraid my charge would disapprove of something Assharran, but was feeling actively defensive. Of him.

  “It’s been nothing but surprises,” I grumbled under my breath, “since I ran into you.”

  “Surprises can be healthy,” he replied blandly. He scanned the gallery. “Handsome.” His eye gave me his opinion of the fops. “None of the Council here yet, I see.”

  “Council?” I was off-balanced again. “What council? We’re not at war.”

  “Advisers.” He grew surprised too. “Doesn’t she have advisers? Nobles—elders—province delegates—people’s representatives?”

  “No.” I felt shame, as over Gevos’ corpse, for some elusive defect that had never seemed so before. “The Lady . . . sees what’s happening. Everybody just . . . does as she says.”

  I sensed he was as deeply shocked as at Bhassan, but less surprised. “Ah,” he said. Then a steward reached us, murmuring, “The Lady is by the fountain, sir.”

  The guest suite had become a picture gallery, dove-gray walls and cream ceilings with primitive daubs from Axaira glaring out at us. At the last stair’s foot he broke stride, sniffing. “Rivannons! I’ve not seen them since. . . .” The chance-met joy faded. “Up there?” he said, non-committal, and we began to climb.

  Los Morryan’s clear music filled that balcony of light and air. The escort clumped sheep-like at the stair head. From the nearer side of the fountain, disposed sidelong on the onyx seat in a flame-scarlet silken dress with huge frothing skirts, the Lady Moriana said in her soft, inherently mocking voice, “What have you brought me, Alkir?”

  I think I stepped aside. Or something moved me. My eyes vouched that neither of them stirred. My inner senses claimed everything was moving, up in a tightening spiral as if the Morhyrne itself were coiling to explode. The sun was too bright, its rays shivered, overcharged. The Lady Moriana’s eyes had grown enormous, black lakes shot with motes of brilliant gold that flew with dizzying velocity, a comet shower in space. Flashing through them ran a quicksilver sparkle of green, hot white green, dragonflies that taunt as they elude your clutch, and unlike the meteors they had their life and origin in unquenchable merriment.

  I blinked. A man and a girl confronted each other, one seated, one standing, one the epitome of luxurious, lethal sovereignty, the other a landless vagabond whose mind was dominion enough. But something was still happening. I had a sense of thrust and riposte too swift for thought to pace, of duelists engaged with weapons so subtle my very mind found them invisible.

  Then it was over. He put up his hand, shaking back his turban. That faint smile said he had not come off worst.

  He said, “He brought you this.”

  No one has ever seen the Lady Moriana in a rage. And lived to tell of it, that is. I could only deduce from the arch of her fingers, the tiny hint of color in her cheek. But her voice was an indubitable purr.

  “You are somewhat prodigal with my guards, Alkir.”

  He put up his brows. “Unworthy.” The hidden laughter had slid into his voice.

  Infinitesimally, her eyes widened. His mouth corners pucked. He said, “You brought the audience.”

  One nail drew a tiny click from the parapet. He nodded. The swarms of golden meteors stilled.

  “You disapprove,” she said.

  “It is very beautiful.”

  “And rotten to the core.”

  “Only in the head.”

  “But then, you were only a king.”

  “I knew my place.”

  “Not well enough, it seems.”

  “Seeming’s in how you see.”

>   Her head tilted just a fraction. Her eyes held a fleeting, triumphant smile, a chess player noting a future vantage point. “As in . . . A’sparre, perhaps.”

  “We all make our own mistakes.”

  “I do agree.” She drew it out. Taunt. Riposte. Threat. “Welcome to Assharral.”

  “How kind of you. It’s pleasant to be among kin.”

  “You astonish me.”

  “You astonish me. Moontree. Obviously a descendant of Lossian and Fengela. You don’t know the Moontree’s roots?”

  “All commoners are fanatic about history.”

  “Ah, my blood goes back to the Flametree itself. Lossian’s own line. A little later, of course, than yours.”

  “And, of course, so worthily.”

  His eyes danced. “I never heard Lossian went in for marrying.”

  “So little point. For those who can get children, that is.”

  I caught my breath. But he had his shield today. “Or those who can but won’t.”

  “Some of us,” she stretched, a lazy cat, “have no need.”

  “Fountains do run dry . . . eventually.”

  Again that tiny, triumphant glitter. “And now you are here, what will you ask of me?”

  He let his eye travel down her body’s length. The glitter brightened. “I am, unhappily . . . fastidious.”

  “And that place is occupied.”

  “Temporarily.”

  “In his case, at least.”

  “In every case, I find. But perhaps it’s different, in Hethria?”

  He gave a sudden spurt of laughter. “Very different!”

  “Then I should warn you. Assharrans respect their beasts.”

  I think I gasped. He merely grinned. “Pouring the lees already?”

  “Dressing to fit my company.”

  “Dear, dear! Madam, you seem to have wounded you.”

  “I can forgive myself.”

  “That must be easy, for a—divinity.”

  “Divinely so. One sees everything.”

  “I daresay,” he murmured, “that you do.” There was a tiny stress on the “you.”

  “You wonder that I expected you?”

  “One hardly expects an enchantress to boast of prentice arts.”

  I had a fleeting impression that he had caught her out, forcing a deflection of the attack. “How is Fengthira nowadays?”

  “Happy. A rare thing, I find.”

  “I daresay it’s easy to be happy with a—horse.”

  “Easier than with men, it would seem.”

  “One does grow bored with them.”

  “I daresay a—divinity—does.”

  “Ah, then you’ll be lucky, won’t you?”

  “So I think. And Fengthira too.”

  Her eyelids drooped. “Her age is showing, I expect.”

  “Some of us do it gradually,” he sounded equable. “Some wait a long time, then do it all at once.”

  Her lips curved up. I wanted to shout, as to a careless swordsman, Watch out, it’s coming now!

  “Some of us never do it.”

  “Some have imagined so.”

  The thillians in her bracelet spurted blue-white fire. She had shifted, reaching for something in the seat corner. Her hands rose. The great dew-globe glistened between them, shimmering against scarlet silk, shattering the sun, its own depths unmoved, profound and colorless.

  “And some of us”—the ambush was sprung, the triumph blatant—“need not imagine it at all.”

  His eyes had shot wide. He went stiff all over, his face blank. Not control, but shock.

  She caressed the globe, looking under her lashes, savoring the foretaste of victory.

  “You know what it is.”

  He sounded breathless. “I know.”

  “You thought it was the fountain, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t use Pharaone.” Though he spoke sharply, the word war was forgotten. “It would have made no difference. That”—he gestured with his eyes—“wears a Ruanbraxe. No aedr would realise till he saw.”

  Again I had the sense of incomprehension matching mine, bypassed as irrelevant. “And you know what can be done with it.”

  His face changed again.

  “You,” he said flatly, “do not.”

  Her fingers stilled.

  “Immortality?” He was not teasing, nor on the offensive. His face was stern, grim. “Tyranny? Godhead? You have no idea. It shows in every move you’ve made.”

  “Of course you know so much better.”

  “Enough to know what I wouldn’t do.”

  “Castrated,” she said sweetly, “by morality.”

  The shaft bounced straight off. “You do know what it is. And you abuse it. Play with it! Using that for Pharaone, imsar Math! Practicing Wreve-lethar to keep yourself young! Who was your teacher, in the Four’s name! Or were you blinded in the nursery?”

  In anyone else that tiny shift of brow might have signaled a frown. Then it was gone.

  “Oh?” she was purring. “So what should I do?”

  “Something about Assharral?”

  Her voice was flat. “It’s mine.”

  “Mine!” He tossed his hand up. “There speaks a true Morheage. Just leave it mine, and who cares what else happens to it? Mine! You don’t know the meaning of the word!” He had quite forgotten he was in combat, and I knew she had not. “Rule it! Exploit it, tyrannize it, terrorize it, batten on it, play your piddling tricks—rule? It’s pure shameless incompetence!”

  She had not been drawn. She watched him, contained, poised, and again I wanted to cry, Look out!

  Then she smiled. “Here, then,” she said. And held out the globe to him.

  His hand jerked away as from a snake. He very nearly recoiled.

  “Don’t you want it?” she purred.

  His face moved. Not in shock or wrath or any other emotion he had shown. This time it was vulnerable. Naked, as in physical desire.

  He swallowed. Then he said harshly, “No.”

  “But I’m incompetent.” She knew she had the whip hand, and was showing it. “You could do so much better than I.”

  He took a quick hard breath and licked his lips. I did not understand the fence. I simply knew he had lost his guard, and was being pressed beyond hope of recovery.

  “No,” he said fiercely. “I don’t want it.”

  She merely looked at him. We both knew it was a lie.

  “You’re not . . . competent?”

  The light writhed in his eyes, the pupils flared, they were turning black. His hand lifted, and was wrenched violently back to his side.

  “Just think,” she murmured, “what you could do for Assharral. From the court to the painted savages. No more terror. No more tyranny.” He choked as if hands had him by the throat. “And not only Assharral. Hethria. Everran. The Confederacy. You know what this is. You know you needn’t stop at that. You could change the entire . . . world.”

  He shut his eyes. That one small act was a bitterly contested, cruelly expensive victory.

  “That is not Math.” His voice shook. He was not stating a belief but reciting a prayer. “Math isn’t doing. It’s doing only what you must.”

  “But surely you know it must be done? You were—are—a ruler too.”

  “No.” Sweat ran down his jaw. The scar glared purple. He clenched his fist.

  “No.” It came on a longdrawn, struggling breath. “I . . . will. . . .” His voice cracked, I barely heard the clinching whisper. “. . . not.”

  She had missed the pivot point. She still sounded soft. Concerned. Pitiless.

  “You’ll turn your back? On all that? Even on Assharral? Is it Math to see something so evil and to . . . walk away?”

  He opened his eyes. The irises were bleached, the sockets looked bruised, evidence of a fight that had taken every atom of strength. But the exhaustion was at peace.

  “Moriana,” he said. “Give it up. Please.”

  Her eyes went blade sharp. “To you?”


  “Not to me. Not to anyone. I know you don’t understand Math, but even an imbecile knows Ammath when it touches him. And this is Ammath. You’re not a Sky-lord, however much incense they burn for you. Do you taste all those butchered sheep? Four, of course you don’t. You’ve perverted something like—that—” He gestured at it, not looking. “And for what? What pleasure is there in playing morsyr to ten lives’ favorites?” I knew he meant the black spider who eats her mates. “Working some bastard form of Fengthir on poor clowns like those?” He jerked his head at the guards. “Terrorizing decent soldiers, emasculating your nobles, toying with an empire? Believe me”—the plea deepened—“it might do for a while. It won’t fill an ‘eternal’ life.”

  She bent her head away, a swan’s pure curve. A little, willful smile played on her lips.

  “But,” she cooed, “it amuses me.”

  “Amuse—!” He caught his breath and wiped sweat off with a jerk. “Moriana, there are other, more amusing things for an aedr to do. Four, you’ve never been prenticed! When I talked about Pharaone you didn’t know what I meant.” It was pity, rigorously concealed. “You rot away by your little fountain, abusing something that—well, never mind that—and you think there’s the rest of time to do it in. When it may already be too late.”

  She leant back, feigning consideration. Her voice half-teased, half-protested, a flirting woman’s denial that she is ready to yield. But I knew this No was real.

  “If I left this . . . I’d turn into a hag.”

  “For Math’s love! You’ll come down a girl, you just won’t stay that way. Women! It’s your head that matters, not your face!”

  “Oh.” Blandly demure. “But . . . what would I do—out there?”

  “You could begin,” he answered grimly, “with amends to Assharral.”

  Her eyelids lifted. She gave him a long, silent stare.

  “So,” he said after a moment. “That may be true. It wouldn’t matter. Not if—”

  “Not matter?” Her fingers arched on the globe. “I’m to leave my palace, renounce an empire, give up ‘eternal’ life. And then, when my ‘loving subjects’ hound me into exile, probably hunting my blood, when I’m out in the road, growing old, ‘ignorant,’ ugly, not to mention penniless—then just what becomes of me?”