The Shining City

by Kate Forsyth

  The Banprionnsa had recognised the strangeness in him at once. Or so Mathias believed. Perhaps it was just because no-one could dance the lavolta as well as him. It was a bold, lithe dance, the lavolta, with plenty of room for a man to show off his leaps and twirls. Often when he and the Banprionnsa danced together, other couples would move to the side of the room to watch and applaud, and to murmur behind their fans.

  At first Mathias had been afraid to dance with the Banprionnsa. She was affianced to the Rìgh’s son and heir, and was the daughter of Maya the Mute, whose role as a servant at the Tower of Two Moons in no way detracted from her dangerous aura of barely contained power. He had been aware of Bronwen watching him once or twice, however, and had exerted himself to impress her. A smile had curled her lips, but he had not had the audacity to go up to her. Indeed, to do so would have been to court the eye of every gossip at the court, for Bronwen was watched closely and not always kindly.

  One evening she had boldly beckoned him over, asking him sweetly if he found her ugly.

  ‘Nay, my lady,’ he had stammered.

  ‘Ye find me awkward, then? Ungainly?’

  ‘O’ course no,’ my lady,’ he had protested.

  ‘Ye have a lover? A lady bonnier than me?’

  ‘Nay, my lady,’ he had answered, growing brave enough to look her in the eye.

  ‘And I can see with my own eyes that it is no’ men ye desire.’

  He had been scandalised. ‘O’ course no’!’

  ‘Then why do ye no’ ask me to dance, Mathias o’ the Bright Eyes?’

  He had not known how to reply. After a few awkward phrases, in which he had tried to frame his respect for her and for her betrothed, she had grown bored and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. ‘Well, then, if ye are so easily frightened away, do no’ worry,’ she had said. ‘I am never short o’ dancing partners.’

  Which was all too true. Bronwen was the most sought-after lady of the court. After a week of watching her dance with other men, Mathias had found the courage to solicit her hand, and since then they had often danced, Bronwen laughing and glowing with pleasure at his skill, and sometimes deigning to flirt with him a little too.

  His stomach clenched at the memory. He could not wait to see the Banprionnsa again that night. She was holding a private party in her suite, and only a select few were invited – maybe twenty or thirty, no more. It was an honour indeed to have been asked. Mathias wondered if she knew that her bridegroom was on his way back to Lucescere, and if his return would mean the end of these intimate parties. He hoped not, since this party would be his first.

  Mathias knew, of course, that he was not meant to have heard the news of Donncan’s return, let alone the Banrìgh’s comment about the way Bronwen dressed. Mathias had exceptionally good hearing, however, which meant that he often heard things not meant for his ears. In general, he did not repeat what he had heard, unless he had had a few too many drinks, and it was too tasty a tidbit to keep to himself, in which case he always exacted a solemn vow of honour that his confidants would not tell.

  In general, he did not bother listening to the private conversation between the Rìgh and the Banrìgh. It was only hearing Bronwen’s name that had caught his attention today. Even then, with his ears straining, he only managed to catch snatches of the conversation. He had heard enough to feel a bitter resentment against the Rìgh and Banrìgh, though. He did not know which comment troubled him the most, the Banrìgh’s spiteful remark about Bronwen, or the Rìgh declaring that she was nothing but a Fairgean half-breed.

  Although Mathias had done his best to conceal his own Fairgean blood, it made his jaw clench with anger hearing Lachlan speak that way. For all their assertions of equality, the Rìgh and Banrìgh were as racist and intolerant as any of the old Red Guard, Mathias thought. To think Bronwen had to marry into such a family! No doubt Donncan felt the same way as his parents. Once they were married, he would frown at her and tell her to cover up her arms and throat, and stop swimming in public, just like the ladies of the court always did. Bronwen the Bonny deserved better. He went off into a daydream, imagining the Banprionnsa turning to him in distress when she heard what her betrothed’s parents really thought of her. The daydream was so sweet that Mathias tingled all over, and barely heard a word grey-haired Ferrand said to him. He could not wait for the party that night!

  Hung with curtains of sea-green gauze that swirled and swayed in the breeze, and painted with the undulating forms of nixies diving through water-weed, Bronwen’s suite was unlike anything Mathias had ever seen before. He felt as if he had fallen through the ocean into another world.

  The three long rooms were filled with the sound of splashing water, for they opened out onto a narrow terrace that overlooked the fountains in the formal gardens before the palace. Lit only by the dancing flames of candles, the room was filled with flickering shadows that played over the pointed faces of the faeries painted on the walls so that they seemed to smile and wink.

  All three rooms, including the Banprionnsa’s boudoir, were thronged with people, standing and chatting with glasses in their hands, or sitting on the low couches pushed against the walls. One daring couple reclined on the bed, which was hung with curtains of the palest green gauze. Other couples twirled about the sitting room, while a trio of musicians played out on the terrace. In the centre of the boudoir was a sunken pool filled with water, faintly tinged green with the mineral salts and seaweed extract the Banprionnsa added to make it as much like the sea as she could. Flower-shaped candles floated on the water, the bright reflections of their flames shimmering and dissolving.

  Bronwen and her ladies had once scandalised the court by swimming an aquatic ballet in this pool during one of her parties. Although the ladies-in-waiting had been dressed in cunningly designed swimming suits, a lot of bare skin had nonetheless been seen, and Bronwen had of course transformed into her sea-shape, which Mathias privately thought was the true cause of the scandal. Although everyone knew she could grow a tail like a fish, no-one really wanted to be reminded of it, he thought.

  Tonight the Banprionnsa looked ravishing in a clinging satin gown, the colour of mother-of-pearl, with a low neckline and short cap sleeves that barely skimmed her shoulders. The fins that curved down her arms were almost the same colour as the dress, so that they looked like part of its design. Many of the ladies at the party had similar frills of silk or organza tied to their arms with ribbons. To think a Fairge’s fins were now fashionable! Mathias wished his mother was alive to appreciate the irony.

  As Bronwen danced the dress swirled up around her slim ankles, showing a pair of silver sandals that were little more than a few glittery straps. Her toenails were painted silver, and she wore an anklet of silver bells that chimed softly.

  Mathias’s blood quickened at the sight of her, and he was not the only one, he realised. Many of the men thronging the room were watching her. Mathias grabbed a glass off a tray carried by a suave manservant dressed all in black, and tossed it back. The liquor burnt its way down into his gullet like acid, and he choked.

  ‘What … in blazes … was that?’ he cried, trying to catch his breath.

  ‘Seasquill wine, sir,’ the manservant said. ‘The Fairgean ambassador gave Her Highness a barrel o’ it, as Her Highness was curious to taste the favoured drink o’ the sea-faeries. I fear it is rather strong.’

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ Mathias said, but grabbed another glass, conscious of a warm glow spreading all through his body.

  He drank this more carefully, his eyes resting on Bronwen’s lithe form. She was dancing with Aindrew MacRuraich, who was trying, with limited success, to draw Bronwen closer. She was leaning back on his arm, laughing. Mathias tried to repress the surge of jealousy that rose in him like black bile. He swallowed another mouthful of the seasquill wine, gasped and coughed, and leant his shoulder against the wall, glaring at the heir to the throne of Rurach, who, he decided, he had never liked.

  The Fairgean amb
assador, Alta, an arrogant man with ice-blue eyes, was standing on the far side of the room, his form draped in a magnificent cloak of white seal-skin. Diamonds flashed on his breast and in his ears, and he wore a small black pearl suspended at the pulse in his throat. He was a sinuous creature, all lean muscle and sinew, and his skin gleamed with close-knit, silken scales. Tusks curved up from either side of his narrow mouth. His eyes, eerily pale, followed Bronwen as she skipped up the centre of the room, through the archway of upraised arms.

  Beside him stood another Fairgean lord, named Frey, a glass of seasquill wine in his webbed hand. The look in his eyes as he watched Bronwen was very close to that of his superior, a mingling of speculation, amusement and blatant desire. It made Mathias want to punch them both to the ground.

  There were other Fairgean among the crowd, all men, as the sea-faeries did not allow their womenfolk the same freedom as humans did. They did not dance, but busied themselves gambling and drinking at various small gilded tables drawn up around the walls. All of the young prionnsachan currently studying at the Theurgia were also there, dressed in their best silks and velvets. Hearne MacAhern was flirting with Heloïse NicFaghan, while her twin brother Alasdair gambled recklessly with the tow-headed Fymbar MacThanach of Blèssem, who was losing steadily, being unable to wrest his eyes away from Bronwen.

  The attendance of so many of Eileanan’s young nobility was no surprise, Mathias thought drunkenly. What added so much piquancy to Bronwen’s gatherings was the unexpected. Bronwen had gathered round her many of the faery kind, some of whom rarely joined in the royal court’s revelries. Mathias saw a couple of corrigans, big hulking creatures with only one eye in the centre of their foreheads, and a tree-shifter with sweeping twiggy hair. There was even a seelie, the rarest and most beautiful of all faery kind, sitting on a chair with his knees drawn up to his pointed chin, watching the eddying crowd with slanted green eyes. A nisse was cuddled up under his golden hair, chattering away in her own shrill language.

  Maura, the little bogfaery who had once been Bronwen’s nursemaid, was busy carrying round a tray of tasty delicacies, and making sure everyone’s glass was full. When she was satisfied that all were comfortable, she sat down on a low couch against the wall, where a plump and elderly cluricaun also sat, a snuff-box in one hand, and gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. The bogfaery and the cluricaun seemed like old friends, for they spoke together comfortably, neither of their feet reaching the floor.

  Dancing with Prionnsa Owein was a snow-haired Celestine girl, daughter of the Stargazer herself, dressed in a superb silken gown of palest shimmering yellow. Mathias had never spoken a word to her, and found her crystalline gaze very hard to meet. It seemed to him that she saw straight into his heart, and saw all the fears and resentment and jealousy he hid there. She and Bronwen seemed very good friends, though, for after the Banprionnsa had extracted herself from Aindrew MacRuraich’s arms she went and seized the Celestine by the hand. They embraced warmly, and sat close together on a couch by the wall, holding each other’s hands and staring intently into each other’s eyes. No matter how hard Mathias tried, he could hear nothing of what they said to each other. Indeed, their mouths were not moving. It made Mathias extremely uncomfortable. He tossed back another glass of seasquill wine, and watched covertly, a maggot of jealousy and spite worming its way into his heart.

  My dearest Thunderlily! I’m so glad ye came. I ken ye’ve been studying hard. No’ long now, and ye’ll be finished with school and able to come dancing with me every night!

  I do no’ think so, the Celestine answered. My mother hopes to come and see ye wed at midsummer, and I know she will say it is time I went home. I have not seen the garden of my family for three years now.

  Bronwen frowned. But surely your mother willna demand ye go back right away?

  I am sure she will, Thunderlily answered. I am, as you know, the first of my kind to study side by side with those of humankind. My mother was happy to allow me to do so, but I am and shall always be a Celestine, and my place is among those of my own kind.

  But ye will come and visit us often, won’t ye?

  The Celestine shrugged again. I would like to, you know that, but the Old Ways are growing dangerous again, my mother says, and they are restricting passage upon them. That is why I have not gone home in so long, my mother does not wish me to walk the ways by myself. This midsummer, they will sing the summerbourne again, and that will, I hope, drive away the malevolent spirits that haunt the roads, for a time at least, so that my mother can come to your wedding. It will be safe for me to walk the ways home, then, with my people.

  Bronwen looked unhappy. I do not wish ye to go. Everything is changing.

  That is the nature of life, the Celestine answered tranquilly. All must change.

  Well, I do no’ want it to!

  You are to be married, sea-child. Surely that is the greatest change of all. You will be a wife and, in time, a mother. Although I cannot see both ways along the thread of time, as the dragons do, I am sure this lies ahead for you. Why does this make you unhappy? It is my fate also, and my fate then to kill my beloved. At least this is a cruelty you will be spared.

  Bronwen moved restlessly, and for the first time dropped her gaze from the Celestine’s star-bright eyes.

  Do you not wish to marry him? Why, sea-child?

  Bronwen tossed her head, and hunched one shoulder. We are too different. He is a creature o’ the sky and the air, and I am a creature o’ the sea. Ye ken that, ye are the one to call me sea-child. What do ye call Donncan?

  The winged one.

  Ye see?

  Yet he loves you, and you, I thought, loved him. Are you not unhappy because he has spent so much time away this past year?

  What do I care?

  You know you cannot lie to a Celestine, Thunderlily said.

  Bronwen pleated her dress with her fingers.

  You have never before tried to hide your feelings from me. I am troubled that you do so now. I can see that you are restless and unhappy. Will you let me touch you, sea-child, and see you clear?

  Bronwen shook her head. I canna, she said silently, a touch of pleading in her mind-voice. Come, be no’ so grave, Thunderlily. We’re at a party!

  I do not know any other way to be, Thunderlily said.

  ‘I will teach ye,’ Bronwen said aloud. She seized Thunderlily’s hands and pulled her up, laughing at her. ‘Come and taste the seasquill wine. I tell ye, it’s wicked stuff! One glass and ye’ll feel quite giddy, I swear. Then let us dance. I’ll be the man and show ye the steps. Come on!’

  She seized a glass from the tray and held it to Thunderlily’s lips. The Celestine smiled and took a sip. Her bright eyes, as clear as water, opened very wide and she made a hoarse rasping sound deep in her throat, the first sound Mathias had ever heard her utter.

  ‘Horrid, isn’t it?’ Bronwen laughed. ‘That’s one custom o’ the Fairgean I think I’ll pass up on. Here, have some goldensloe wine! Much more to your taste, I imagine. Maura!’

  The bogfaery got up and brought the Celestine a glass of the rich, sweet-scented wine, which she sipped gratefully. Then Bronwen pulled Thunderlily on to the floor, holding both her hands and swinging her about so that the Celestine’s yellow skirts billowed about her like a twirling buttercup.

  The Yeoman gulped another glassful of the seasquill wine. He could not understand why Bronwen wanted to dance with that strange-looking Celestine girl instead of with him. The Banprionnsa had hardly noticed he was here, tossing him a quick smile when she had met his brooding gaze but otherwise ignoring him. He propped his shoulders against the wall, watching the two girls dancing in the centre of the room, smiling at each other warmly. He saw Aindrew MacRuraich was watching too, looking rather put out, and the Fairgean ambassador was frowning, his lips pressed firmly together.

  The music changed to a slower promenade, and several of Bronwen’s ladies-in-waiting got up and came, giggling, to dance, so that the floor was full of s
wirling skirts, like a meadow full of flowers. It was not usual for two women to dance together, but Bronwen always took great pleasure in thwarting convention, and her ladies-in-waiting enjoyed copying her. After a moment, the dance floor cleared of other dancers, everyone standing around and watching as the women danced as close as lovers.

  The music stopped, and the servants circulated with more wine and food. Mathias drained another glassful, then came forward with a surge, ready to beg Bronwen for the next dance. He collided with Aindrew MacRuraich, who had leapt forward with the same intention. By the time they had disentangled themselves, both rigid with fury, the Fairgean ambassador was bowing over Bronwen’s hand.

  ‘Ye seem heated, Your Highness,’ the Fairgean murmured. ‘May I suggest we retreat to the terrace for some fresh air? And perhaps a glass o’ something cool?’

  ‘Thank ye,’ Bronwen replied. ‘How kind.’

  At once the ambassador straightened and snapped his fingers at Frey, then offered Bronwen his arm, escorting her out to the terrace, which was strung with garlands of tiny filigree lanterns. Frey took them out a tray of sea-grape juice in tall glasses clinking with ice, as well as another pewter decanter of seasquill wine.

  Aindrew straightened his velvet doublet, and went over to talk to Owein and Alasdair, but Mathias went to stand by the tall glass doors leading out to the terrace. He told himself he did not trust the ambassador, and he wanted to be nearby in case the Banprionnsa needed him. As Maura trotted past with a laden tray, he grabbed another of the tiny glasses of seasquill wine. It was making his head swim, but it was not an unpleasant sensation.

  ‘Tell me more about the sea-serpents,’ Bronwen was asking. ‘I saw some once, ye ken, when I was a wee girl. They were so beautiful, and so big. How can ye possibly tame them?’

  The ambassador spread his hands. ‘They are raised from the egg, to respond only to the secret words o’ the jaka, who are the most elite o’ all warriors,’ he answered. ‘Wild sea-serpents are very dangerous indeed. There is no point trying to ride one. They will only plunge under the ocean and drown ye, or crush ye in their coils.’