Revenant Eve

by Sherwood Smith

  “It is so,” Aurélie stated. And added quickly, “Your majesty.”

  The queen smiled. “You must remember that I am the one who sent her son off to learn war with a Missal in one pocket and Leibniz in the other.”

  Aurélie regarded the queen solemnly. “I confess I am puzzled to know how I am to understand that, your majesty.”

  “Perhaps I am hinting that you are not the only one to be misjudged on too little evidence.”

  “My apologies, your majesty.”

  “Accepted, and in my turn, I apologize for, ah, the difficulties any of us might have added to your attempt to understand your place among us. We cannot help the sense of impending doom that Bonaparte, but…no, I promised not to speak for anyone else. Anything you tell me is for my ears alone, child, but in your turn, you are about to hear a secret that you must promise to keep.”

  “I promise, your majesty.”

  “Very well. Dobrenica, as you have noticed, is small. We could so easily be slaughtered like far too many villages, polities, towns, and, of late, an entire kingdom, carved up between Russia, Prussia, and Austria.”

  She paused, as the carriage swayed and jolted over a bridge. Then she went on. “We have a protection by Vrajhus that sometimes removes us from the notice of the outer world. It has persisted for as much as several generations, though usually at least one. But the Vrajhus is contingent on the Dobreni’s living in harmony with one another. What that means now is that my son, before he can be crowned on September 2nd, which is the traditional date, must bring about peace between the noble families, the guilds, and the crown. This is usually easiest with the people, as long as we keep covenant with them. Not as easy with the nobles, who are customarily bred to expect privilege and frequently harbor the ambition to accrue more.”

  “Many feel that is the natural law,” Aurélie said.

  “Divine right of kings? I was brought up to believe implicitly in the privileges of blood. But privilege ought to bring with it superior minds and morals, ought it not?”

  Aurélie said, “I think so.”

  “When Martin Luther translated the Bible for us, we could see right there that nothing whatsoever was said in the Gospels about the divine right of kings, and I’ve met too many of them to believe them chosen by God rather than the accident of birth. That was before all these revolutions, when kings and the noblesse could die as miserably as the meanest serf. In England, I am told, the king is completely mad and does not govern at all. And my cousin Gustav in Sweden…” She shook her head.

  “I have no opinion on the matters of kings, your majesty,” Aurélie said.

  “Of course you do, but you’ve been well trained not to speak it before anyone who might take exception. So let us not talk about kings. Let us talk about you.”

  “I am of no interest, your majesty.”

  “That is the first lie you’ve told me,” the queen declared. “I was favorably impressed until this moment. You did not utter the pious-sounding inanities you might be forgiven for thinking I wanted to hear, when I asked if you are heathen. But the arrogance of informing me what I may or may not be interested in!” The queen mocked.

  Aurélie flushed. “I did not expect to be of interest to…that is, I know nothing about…”

  “My son,” said the queen, “walked quite painfully from France to Vienna, when he could have summoned a carriage and servitors. Should have, some will say. All because he seems to have found you of interest.”

  “I am not a spy,” Aurélie stated. “I don’t know anything of interest to kings, or emperors. And I wouldn’t spy for Bonaparte even if I did know any state secrets.”

  “I will accept that you are no spy. But you are still a mystery, Donna Aurélie.”

  Aurélie flushed and looked out the window at a thatched-roof farmhouse and a girl herding cows with a switch. Then out the other window, where a donkey and a man ploughed up the ground, and dust rose in their wake. Beyond, washing fluttered in the rising breeze that rocked the carriage.

  Aurélie stiffened her shoulders. There was a hint of challenge in her voice—lower and rougher than usual, the French accent pronounced—as she said, “The truth about me is that I am not Donna Aurélie. That is, my name is Aurélie, but ‘de Mascarenhas’ was added by my mother, along with a dowry, in hopes of getting me a good life in England. When my aunt discovered that my father was an escaped slave, and my mother a privateer captain, she abandoned me the moment we reached France, so her friends in England would not be tainted by knowledge of the truth. And she kept the dowry.”

  The queen sat back. “A privateer captain?”

  “Yes, your majesty.”

  “Your mother is a privateer captain?”

  “Yes, your majesty.”

  “I admit I would like very much to meet this lady. Is she French?”

  “Half. Her father was connected to the English aunt I mentioned.”

  The queen put her hands on her knees. “For the first time in twenty-five years, I am making this long journey without the least sense of boredom. Tell me everything, child. You pledged to keep the secret of our Blessing. In turn, I pledge to keep your secret.”

  Out it all came, in a torrent. All of it. Even the necklace. Aurélie pulled up her stocking to reveal the bulge, and when the queen bent forward to examine it, Aurélie rolled down the stocking.

  The gold flashed, impossibly ancient, with its nine different gems augmented by three lesser ones, the diamond glinting coolly in the afternoon light slanting in.

  “That is quite the most unusual thing I have ever seen. The irony is, such things are looted every day by armies crossing this way and that, and yet, if you were to wear that tomorrow at the ball my son-in-law will give for Gabrielle, it would be deemed as visual evidence of your lofty pedigree.”

  Aurélie could not hide her surprise.

  The queen smiled wryly. “You did not mishear. As far as I am concerned, you are the daughter of a most noble and puissant Portuguese duke. Portugal might as well be your islands, or even the moon, for none of us are ever likely to travel that far. Especially if we manage to invoke Vrajhus in the Blessing.”

  “I thank you for your forbearance, your majesty.”

  “You are welcome, though part of my motivation is entirely self-interest. Or…but I said I would speak for no one else. However. There are plenty among us for whom names and rank carry their own magic, and I would never gainsay that, as such things bind us closer to our responsibilities toward others. You have seen in Paris what happens when all the rules are thrown over.”

  “I comprehend.”

  “Yonder is the last hill. We should be seeing Baron Elias’s castle towers soon, and that means our posting inn is not far beyond. Tomorrow I will return to diplomatic duty in my efforts to bolster my son’s prestige. But I desire you to remember what he must achieve if we are to survive what must come.”

  FORTY-ONE

  THEY REACHED THE INN shortly after the late afternoon light was abruptly snuffed by the curve of the first ridge of Mt. Dhiavilyi. Day ended early, deep in the Dobreni valleys; the shadows merged so swiftly I was not certain if I was seeing those shadow beings, the ones Mord had called seraphs, or just the shifting of vanishing sunbeams.

  The inn yard was crammed with fine carriages. All of Dobreni polite society was on its way to the Eyrie for Gabrielle’s wedding.

  The inn itself was an enormous, rambling building with massive stone fireplaces in every room. Aurélie, as part of the queen’s party, had a room to herself. Viorel was already there, busy laying out evening clothes. A hot bath waited.

  The dinner was a crowded affair. Aurélie was introduced all around, including to some of the women who had been at Margit’s bridal party for Gabrielle. Irena responded with a stiff curtsey. Jaska announced that, as soon as the Ridotski party arrived, there would be entertainment in the inn’s large salon, and any who had thought to bring musical instruments were welcome to play after he and Donna Aurélie and Domnu
Zusya began the evening.

  Out came a couple of harps, lugged along in the servants’ coaches with the trunks, plus a variety of winds and strings. During the chaos of people fetching (or ordering servants to bring) their instruments, finishing dinner, grouping and regrouping, Jaska kept watch on the door until it opened and a new crowd of people entered. Among them I recognized Shmuel Ridotski, Mord, and Elisheva. The Jewish folk had obviously dined elsewhere and were now ready to join the entertainment.

  Jaska had made it clear that the original trio was to kick things off. But where was Mord?

  Margit appeared out of the crowd, gave a polite, unsmiling nod to Aurélie, then said low-voiced, “If you are going to begin the playing, you and Donna Aurélie will have to perform as duet. There seems to be a problem with Domnu Zusya.”

  “Where?” Jaska asked, looking around for Mord.

  Margit pointed to one of the chambers off the main room where extra wraps and such had been left.

  Jaska cast Aurélie a glance of appeal, and the two threaded their way through to the side chamber, where they found Mord at the window, Elisheva beside him, arms crossed.

  The pair were talking in Hebrew—maybe arguing, except there was no rancor in their voices, none of the sharpness of anger. Back and forth, quick as a tennis match, then she retorted something that made him huff a laugh. I couldn’t remember having heard him laugh out loud. He was devastatingly attractive when he laughed, his whole being radiating the humor, but quick as a flash of lightning, it illuminated then vanished.

  He said something. She turned away, her hand coming up to hide her face as she hiccoughed on a giggle. Then she saw Jaska and Aurélie, and the crowd of curious faces behind.

  She marched over and shut the door behind Jaska, Margit, and Aurélie without a word of apology to those behind, then whirled around, her brown skirt flaring to reveal the tops of her shoes. “Tell him,” she began in Dobreni, and then, with a quick, concerned look at Aurélie, she began again in German. “Your highness, I beg of you. Tell him that he hears the sound of sacred words but not the sense.”

  “There is no sense,” he muttered. “I promised Rebbe Nachman that I would obey the letter of the law, for he promised that I’d rediscover the spirit. But the spirit is a void, each person hearing a different thing. Not only when I play his teaching stories. Even when I relate them, in his own words.”

  Elisheva clapped her hands together in frustration. “But you’re not listening to the heart behind the words your listeners use. Yes, everyone interprets the music into different words, just as one part of the story speaks to them more, but don’t you see it, the kinship here?” She pressed her fists below her collarbones. “Here.” Up to her forehead. “That is how we build the tikkun olam, one heart, one mind at a time. Together.” She flung her hands wide. “All the shards of light gathered back to one great candle. Remember the tale of the Baal Shem Tov, may his memory be blessed, and the sheep? Do the sheep know words? Tell him.”

  “He won’t listen to me,” Jaska said, smiling ruefully. “Except to argue with. And much I’ve valued those arguments. We sharpened our wits on one another for many leagues that otherwise would have been tedious, but has he ever been convinced by anything I’ve said? No.”

  “Am I being arrogant again?” Mord asked earnestly. “It is not arrogance inside my mind. I want to achieve rightness, I want to know it again, I want the peace I knew when young.”

  “You know that music binds, it does not divide,” Jaska said. “We saw that time and again. Perhaps that is the beginning of peace?”

  “I can begin there.” Mord turned away from the window. “Yes. So shall it be, then. Mademoiselle Aurélie, where is your music? Jaska, your flute?”

  Because the three were so practiced together, they set a high bar. Elisheva’s sister Shoshanna, who swanned about like a princess, sang with a voice that would shame nightingales. The sardonic Benedek had a smooth baritone. The brittle Irena played with passion on her harp, accompanied by her brother Mikhail, whose eye was on someone far back in the room as he sang. I didn’t pick up the significance of that until later.

  They kept it going until midnight, then parted to recruit against the long ride up the mountain on the morrow.

  When Aurélie woke, Viorel brought some strong eastern coffee and a pastry, then told her that everyone would be wearing their spring clothes. “We always celebrate the first of May, but as that’s Sunday, the day of the wedding, it’s going to start early,” she explained.

  “What does that mean?” Aurélie asked.

  “You will ride in wagons. They are open if the sky stays clear, and have canopies if it doesn’t,” Viorel said.

  And so it was. The queen stayed in her carriage, but everyone else climbed into wagons that had been festooned with evergreen boughs and flowers.

  The first and most decorated wagon was for Jaska, Margit, and the “Duke de Mascarenhas’s daughter from France.” Sturdy horses in teams of four and six worked to pull the wagons up the mountain, with fresh pairs waiting at certain villages on the way.

  Up and up past moss-antlered oaks, the shrouded depths marked by pale beech like stilled lightning. Ivy looped in festoons, catching the greeny light, and everywhere, everywhere, water trickled, dripped, gurgled, and rushed, water-weed trailing like mermaids’ hair. Protected in the mysterious ravines were the villages, out of the reach of arctic winds and angry storms, their thick roofs testament to the cold that was an inescapable part of winter, punctuated here and there by onion-domed steeples, for this was the heart of Orthodox territory.

  Again and again I thought I glimpsed among the sheltering trees shadowy winged beings that were not seraphs, but I couldn’t be certain. Since they’d never been any kind of threat, I didn’t worry about them.

  Villagers came out to welcome the parade. This procession was, for them, rare and heavy-duty entertainment. They wore their embroidered plain-spun blues and browns, girls crowned with wreaths of scarlet begonias and pure white rosebuds. As the horses were changed, they brought out refreshments—foaming beer, the last of winter’s cider, and zhoumnyar, the distilled liquor that has a mule’s kick. It was served in tiny cups decorated with flowers; a wise idea or the guests would have arrived at the Eyrie totally snockered.

  At first the royal wagon was mostly silent as they jolted up the road under deep spring green branches, past fragrant flowering shrubs. Jaska tried to cover over by talking about the evening’s concert—how much everyone loved Mord’s playing, favorite songs, where they originated, the difference in lyrics depending on the region. “Even here, we get variations, mountain to mountain. Small as Dobrenica is, there are many who have not been a day’s walk from their villages in their entire lives.”

  “There are many of us who have not been outside of Dobrenica, small as it is,” Margit retorted.

  That silenced Jaska. Aurélie looked down at the wildflowers growing along the side of the road.

  Margit addressed her. “You’re thinking that I’m provincial, Donna Aurélie.”

  Aurélie looked up. “I’m thinking that I would’ve traded with you if I could, except I wouldn’t wish…ah, certain days on anyone else.”

  Margit stirred uncomfortably, her fingers twitching unconsciously at the blossoms festooned at the wagon’s side. Petals fluttered down to the road unheeded. “My mother seems to think you’re perfect.”

  Aurélie replied gravely, “Her majesty is forbearing.”

  “And I’m not? No, Jaska, don’t speak,” Margit said. “I see that I’m arguing.” She glanced away then back at Aurélie. “Our mother pointed out that you didn’t remonstrate with me. She said I took your words as a reproach because I’m in need of such, and that puts me doubly in the wrong. I hate being in the wrong when I feel wronged.”

  “It’s understandable. We all do,” Aurélie said.

  “Shall we begin anew?” Margit asked.

  Aurélie spread her skirt, rose a little, and tried to curtsey. Its grace
was ruined by potholes, but the intent was there as she said, “Your highness, permit me to introduce myself as Donna Aurélie de Mascarenhas…” She stopped there, a revealing glance Jaska’s way making her thoughts pretty clear: She still hadn’t told him her history. And from the way he was acting (like nothing had changed) it was evident that the queen had kept her word.

  The two began a halting conversation, feeling their way toward some sort of understanding. The actual words were trivial—mostly about music, lessons, how disappointing it was to discover one couldn’t sing, favorites. But the reach for understanding was apparent, even if they were not instantly best friends.

  So the mood lightened considerably as the Eyrie began to appear between cracks in the peaks ahead. The first few times it was hailed by the group in what sounded like time-honored fashion.

  Those hails lessened as the glimpses widened into longer views, blocked by fewer ridges and forested peaks. The afternoon shadows began to coalesce into twilight.

  At the last horse stop, lanterns were brought to each wagon, one forward and one aft. When they arrived, the Eyrie was lit with a zillion twinkling lights. Lanterns and candles don’t have the reach of mega-wattage electricity, but the effect was even more startling, especially seen from below. The place looked like the capital of fairyland.

  Up close it was just as wonderful. In modern times there were a series of tumble-down garages, considerably the worse for wear after decades of occupiers’ misuses. But here were well-kept stables, marked off by a row of hedges that the locals had decorated with fairy lamps of various spring colors. The resultant path to the main doors (which I had never been through) looked like a stairway to heaven.

  Up we streamed, everyone in a party mood. There were enough servants to form a small army. The King’s Guard didn’t look any too worried, though there was only a company of them. From what I saw, although as they stayed more or less in parade-ground order until the queen had been saluted with trumpets and helped inside, more than half were giving surreptitious winks and flicks of the fingers to friends and relatives.