by Marc Secchia
“Ha. Not politician enough to find answers worth a dragonet’s fart,” her sister growled, adjusting her burgundy day dress with a long-suffering sigh. “Copious volumes of nothing, which makes this nose itch all the more. O, the notes of deafening silence! So, how’s the search for a suitably suitable suitor coming on?”
They sat side by side at Zihaeri’s working desk in her chambers, glumly eyeing the pile of embossed, sealed, tasselled, stamped, notarised and even perfumed scrolleaves that lay before them.
“I’m designing my new dungeon as we speak.”
“Tyti, you aren’t seriously –”
“Planning a one-woman social revolution that will sweep Helyon out of its feudal mire accompanied by glorious harp music and rainbows dancing in the heavens? Not this week, anyways.” Zihaeri touched her hand as if to speak, but fell silent as Tytiana whispered, “Sweet pea, let’s say you meet a man who, just by being himself, ignites your every fire. He is sweet and noble, mysterious and admittedly easy upon the eyes – exasperates the living spiders out of me, mind! But still, impossible to ignore. Magical. Thrilling! His every touch inflames the deepest aspects of my nature. And that in itself is so terrifying, it would freak the living fires out of any Dragon, but I cannot … I just can’t …”
“Aye. He has magic, too?”
“I’d wager my overpriced neck on it. I don’t know what to do.”
“Have patience?”
“Good joke. Do you have any idea how the fire … it drives me crazy. It’s like …”
“Sweet pea, I know you.” Zihaeri laced her fingers into Tytiana’s. “Fire must burn. Like foundations are imperative for an Island to rise above the Cloudlands, so fire – that’s its very reason for existence. To burn is what it is. You cannot be what you are not. Therefore … kerching.”
“Uh, what does a fancy key have to do with anything?”
Zihaeri waved the silver-embossed key excitedly in the air. It was shaped like a stylised snowflake. “Downstairs, in the storerooms –”
“Mother’s stuff! How did you get that?”
“Hit the Dragon on the nose. Let’s go see what we can find, shall we?”
“You are a rascal.”
“May I remind you that you’re cut of the same silk, Tytiana?”
They shared a fond chuckle.
Taking care that they were not observed by any servants, the sisters tiptoed down the side stairs of the residential wing to the ground floor, before slipping through a servants’ entrance and navigating the complex hallways to the underground storage rooms that extended a considerable distance beneath the house – three storeys deep and four times wider than the House itself, Zihaeri whispered. Of course, she would know. Ooliti oil lamps lit the neat grid of access corridors at regular intervals. The High Master’s private cellars were down at this level, but under the eastern wing of the house. Each storage room had an ironbound wooden door some seven feet tall and nine wide, which opened upon a long, low-roofed chamber supported by solid granite interior arches. Only a few were locked.
When her mother Ahlyaza had died, Tytiana understood, her grieving father had ordered all of her effects be put into storage. That was where they were bound now. Their long matching day dresses whispered secrets upon the swept flagstone floor of the corridor as they turned first left, then twice to the right, until they came to a well-lit junction.
“Straight over, third on the right,” Zihaeri whispered.
This door was locked. The hand-sized silver key turned the mechanism easily, however, and the double doors opened inward to release a puff of stale air that nonetheless carried many olfactory tangs and hints Tytiana recognised instantly. Her mother’s favourite, delicately floral emazi-flower perfume, shipped all the way from Fra’anior. The rich, velveteen-silk scent of her formal dresses and ballgowns. The fragrant shammiwood scent of her jewellery boxes. Even her furniture had been stored here, carefully covered with white dust cloths.
Here were memories mingled with the ambiance of lost motherhood. Tytiana touched the doorway to steady herself as Zihaeri carried an ooliti lamp within. “Oh, mother …”
All that was left of Ahlyaza lay amongst these shadows, and in their minds.
Maybe there was something here for her. A token, a letter, a hint of what might have been. She could only hope. Tytiana murmured, “What are we searching for?”
“Letters. Journals. Something that might hint at what we’re facing now.”
They searched mostly in silence. The bulk of her possessions was given over to the many outfits and shoes, gloves and hats and jewellery necessary to those who lived in the upper strata of Helyon society. Zihaeri giggled at one point as she held up a very sheer chemise to the light. ‘Dancing rainbows, Mom!’ Tytiana was looking through her jewellery boxes. So many unique and tasteful pieces all arranged in their neat wooden trays, matched by colour or design. Quiraeli shared this gift for design and art that she had not inherited, she supposed, setting back a magnificent, sparkling diamond hairnet. Wow. Just …
“Hard to feel as if we’re not intruding.”
Zihaeri nodded. “I’m wondering if some stuff is missing. Didn’t mother journal all the time?”
“Aye. Nothing here though. Father?”
In the shadows of a tall closet, Zihaeri nodded. “Seems so.”
Hard to believe a living woman had once graced these dresses, Tytiana thought, taking her turn to check through another closet, all of fourteen feet wide and stuffed with one amazing ball gown after another. Feathers. Fra’aniorian lace, the finest in the Island-World. Exquisitely jewelled bodices. Shimmering silks, all in shades of House red. Tiaras and sheer ornamental trains and fanciful headpieces she had no names for. Shoes with heels the eye boggled at. How did one balance in those? More comfortable bejewelled slippers – phew. Here was a veil that looked like a flaming waterfall. There, a fragile lace choker studded with umpteen rubies. Here – oh! Her gasp brought Zihaeri soft-footed to her side.
“It’s magnificent!”
She was practically drooling. Tytiana snapped her jaw shut. Suffering caroli!
This ballgown was like something out of an ancient scrolleaf. It occupied its own space at the side of the closet, and needed it, for the hooped underskirts were of a very old style. They to measure five feet in diameter, and had a neat formal bustle at the back which supported a lengthy train in the classic Fra’aniorian style. But it was the material that caught the eye. As Zihaeri held up a second lamp she had commandeered from the corridor outside, the wealth of sheer silks gleamed iridescent, like living fire picked out in a churning, whimsical range of reds, golds, lambent orange and even swirls of the exact violet colour of her eyes, and Tytiana breathlessly realised that the lacework overlaying the silk layers was styled to elicit an effect like living flames rising from the deeper-coloured skirts to the lighter, fitted bodice of the gown. There was enough sparkle on that masterpiece of a bodice to outfit fifty girls, she decided, and then promptly kicked herself for being unnecessarily jaundiced. Art was art. The off-the-shoulder design would leave her shoulders bare, and here was a matching golden hairnet of delicate gold filigree picked out with tiny, shimmering white jewels of a type she had never seen before, intended to grace the wearer’s hair with a covering that offered a touch of conservatism.
“It’s like it was made for you,” Zihaeri whispered. “Try it on.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Shut your cake-hole! You have to.”
“I-I-I …” Tytiana swallowed, fighting the simmering heat rushing to her face.
“It’s this or the dungeons for you, young lady,” said her sister. “Come on. Live a little. This is an original La’aytha Miramion of Fra’anior, or I’m a diseased caroli rat. If wearing this doesn’t catch every eye at the ball …”
“Well, father would know I’m serious, I guess.”
“Exactly.”
More than serious. All she could think of was that if Jakani saw her walking along in thi
s masterwork, the layers and lacework would create the effect of rippling flame, and he would expire. Right there. Kapoof, fly well, Mister Handsome. Wings of fire shall bear him into the dawn skies …
He was also the only man she ever wanted to dance with in this dress. Sigh.
The vision was at once too wonderful and alarming to contemplate. Besides, Zihaeri was suddenly in one of her moods that Tytiana knew better than to resist. The memory of their mother impelled them both now. Perhaps a desire to recreate her existence. Honour her. Maybe they needed to breathe life into this lifeless old storeroom.
“I saw a formal neckpiece back there that must be meant for this dress,” Tytiana said nervously, stepping out of her day dress with a perilous wobble on her wooden foot. “Umm, that’s not the bottom layer, Zihaeri. Must be that one.”
“Right. How are you supposed to – of course. Over the head.”
They struggled with the unfamiliar style of dress. There was the white silk hooped petticoat to start with, which had to be positioned and fastened just so, then four additional layers of sheer petticoats in different shades and patterns, which created the foundation for the flame effect. Tytiana was a couple of inches more slender around the waist than the previous wearer of the dress, which caused them a few hisses and growls as they tried to make everything work, but finally they could try on the main dress. It was startlingly heavy. After several minutes of trying to shoehorn Tytiana into the bodice, they remembered to unlace the back. Shortly, the broad skirts settled about her as if she stood within a pool of flame, and Zihaeri began to draw the laces tight with a cheerful whistle.
“She enters the ballroom. Hundreds of eligible young men swoon in the blaze of her beauty.”
“The point is not to burn them up,” Tytiana protested.
“Huh.” Her sister yanked on the laces. “In my opinion, that’s precisely the point.”
“Ouch, not so tight.”
Zihaeri took a quick peek around the front. “Oh ho ho, does Mister Handsome know?”
“About what?”
“About these flaming melons.”
“Zihaeri!”
“So we need a tuck here –” She prodded Tytiana in the flank.
“Don’t tickle!”
“Hmm. It appears we shall have to let out these seams to stand any chance at all of accommodating the finest pair of assets in the House.”
“Zihaeri!”
“Great heavens, you remembered my name. How sweet of you.”
“You are so …” Tytiana fanned her cheeks. “Inappropriate! Honestly. We just adjust it so –” She tugged ineffectually at the stiff bodice “– like this … ouch … I’m sure there’s room in here … somewhere … suffering spiders!”
“Sweet pea, the laces back here still have a handspan to tighten.”
“It’s my muscles.”
Her sister faced her, hands on hips. “Aye, all the boys are going to be ogling is your muscles. No, what they’ll think is that the twin suns have come to rest –” Tytiana gave a squeal of outrage, but Zihaeri ignored her. “I’ll tell you what’s inappropriate – that neckline! I don’t remember Mom being all that short, do you? Maybe you’re just longer in the torso?”
“Or maybe we’re missing the under-bodice at the back of the closet, there? Look, oh my Islands, it has hooks and laces too …”
“Which will lift the entire dress! Excellent!”
Ten minutes of dress-wrestling later, they had made the necessary adjustments. Apparently Tytiana was always going to be considerably fuller in the bosom than their mother, but at least the neckline now approached modesty and with some give built into the complex seams, all could be made good. Zihaeri nipped away to find the matching jewellery and a tall mirror which had been hiding beneath a dust cloth in the back corner, while Tytiana patted the dress. Odd. A slight but annoying crinkle in the undergarments … hmm. It crackled slightly, like scrolleaf. She poked around beneath the main bodice until she eventually identified a secret pocket sewn into the seam near her left armpit, and from that, she extracted a tiny scrap of scrolleaf. Scribed in elegant runes, the note read:
Beneath the middle jinsumo,
Where the Moons shine ever bright,
I shall meet my love by night.
The note was not signed, but she recognised the slight stresses in writing on some of the runic lettering. Coded runes. She counted carefully through the message several times, then put the important parts together.
Meet me beneath the jinsumo at midnight.
“Unholy caroli!”
Tytiana clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Tyti?”
“Read. Read it. This. In the dress – I found …”
Zihaeri stared at her, then took the tiny scrap from her quivering fingers and unfurled it. In a moment, the blood drained from her face and her sister, too, had to stifle an outcry. Through her fingers, she whispered unsteadily, “It’s signed in a secondary code Mom taught me. And it’s not from Dad. It’s from a man called –”
“Islands’ greetings, daughters! What have we here?”
Tytiana screamed!
* * * *
Jakani slipped his carry strap off his shoulder to lower the load of lumber to the floor of their hut. He mopped his brow and eased his aching back. “Phew. Here you go, Sokadan. You were right. The carpenters were generous, even happy to get rid of their offcuts. Their workshop needed the storage space.”
“Thanks!” Sokadan scrambled over on hands and knees. “Oh wow, Jaki. You picked the best – look at this lovely piece of jalkwood, and this will be the fragrant misko I asked for …”
“I do try to follow orders.”
“Well, this bit is useless. It’ll warp.” He tossed it toward the fireplace. “The rest is fantastic. You are silk. Pure silk for lugging this load halfway around the Island.”
“Brother, I don’t understand. I thought you had given up on the woodcarving. Any art at all.”
Examining piece by piece by the bright suns-light that streamed in through the doorway, his brother said, “The lamko are trialling a system of favours and bargaining, since money is in such short supply and the needs are so great. I traded five favours for this load. In addition, the carpenters will all be receiving paintings for their houses in exchange.”
Being a higher caste, this extravagance made sense, Jakani thought. Still, he protested, “But you don’t have paint, nor brushes, nor –”
“Those will require a few more favours. Mayoko and Dad are chipping in. Mayoko is doing five child-minding favours and Dad, well, twenty favours. Extra labour. After that, I’ll have to figure out how to raise the rest of what I need.”
Fury sparked in Jakani’s breast. “Why the hells didn’t you ask me, you prize ralti sheep? I would gladly have – freaking feral Dragons! I’m not as insensitive as all that, you know! Mostly!”
Reaching up, Sokadan clapped him on the lower back. “I’m sorry, my dear inferno! Would this minor blast be referring to the same brother that just lugged untold sackweight of lumber across the Island for me? Sounds like a pretty decent favour, unless I’m missing the proverbial Dragon in the room.”
“Arrgggh!”
“Jakani Sakazi, you are a thumping great idiot.”
“Aye, that I am. Sounds like love, I guess.” Laughing, he sank down onto his haunches to give his brother a hug. “Sorry. The anger’s like an explosion going off inside of me these days. I hear one thing and then it’s – Whomp! Kerblam! and I’m shouting at someone. Now, tell me all about these projects of yours. And do let me know if brother Dragon thunder over here can pick up any more favours, alright? Or snitch a few off Dad without catching it in the neck.”
“Well, you are going to the hot springs tomorrow, right? Good. I need some salts brought back and you clearly need the exercise to get your mind off … things.”
Jakani scowled at his mischievous brother. No, he couldn’t be mad at him for long. They both knew he was referring to a girl wi
th hair of flame, who had set their entire community abuzz with her actions the previous week. A Choice healing lamko! Not forbidden, exactly, but so wildly out of character for what his people expected, they could not stop talking about Tytiana this, Tytiana that, Tytiana for whom alone the suns shone and rainbows danced in the heavens. Alright, even he had been left in awe. When had his actions turned an entire Island on its head?
Excellent question.
“Huh,” he snorted. “Listen here, maestro, didn’t Mom and Dad teach you how to ask nicely?”
Sokadan winked broadly. “Is she worth it?”
* * * *
High Master Juzzakarr positively beamed as he made a suitably grand entrance. Tytiana was quite sure Dragons grinned like that at the ralti sheep they were about to guzzle – all gleaming white teeth and behind them, a ravenous appetite. At least a dozen red-uniformed House functionaries and close relatives crowded into the storeroom on their father’s heels, spoiling its cosy ambiance. She wanted to scream at them not to touch anything.
“Getting ready for the ball?” he boomed, touching the ruby as he always seemed to, a hundred times a day. “Excellent idea! Tytiana, your mother looked especially fetching in that dress – how well I remember that night! The dress becomes you, darling! It is amazing! A veritable revelation!”
She almost choked. Darling? Something was seriously wrong.
Beside her, Zihaeri bent over coughing. When she stood upright again, Tytiana saw her throat bob and she realised where the message had ended up. Thank the heavens for her quick thinking!
“Father. How delightful of you to come,” said her sister, as smooth as silk. Tytiana had to bite her cheek to stifle a gasp. What a consummate player! “Does this mean you approve of our choice of gown for Tytiana? I must say, the House colours suit her extremely well.”
The functionaries were all silent.
“Exceedingly. Especially the flames,” said the High Master.
What treacherous subtlety dwelled within that ostensibly bland statement!
“Oh, aye.” “Fabulous.” “Aye.” “Stunning.” “A beauty indeed.” “Simply ravishing,” blathered various of the onlookers, sounding like a chorus responding to an unseen prompt.
