Lords of Rainbow

by Vera Nazarian

  Elasand had only just arrived, having accompanied Dame Beis, with Ranhé at his side. Seeing him at the entrance, Deileala immediately beckoned. She leaned slightly forward in her chair, barely hiding her eagerness, looking at him with a smile. Her hand toyed with the soft pale hair of the youth seated at her feet.

  “What absolute nonsense,” drawled the Regentrix, after Hestiam had his say. “I’ll have no bodyguards at this celebration other than my own. You are insulting me personally, Elasand-re.”

  “Your Grace must understand my position. It is vital that my attendant remain with me.”

  “Nonsense again!” said Deileala, her fingers beginning to tug angrily at Linnec’s curls, so that the youth winced. “Have you no trust in the ability of my guards, man? Besides, why must we bring up this ridiculous subject again, the subject of this—this guard of yours?”

  Deileala threw an icy glance in Ranhé’s direction.

  Ranhé stood, only a step behind Vaeste, her gaze somewhere halfway between the Regent’s feet and Deileala’s angry chin.

  “That does it!” said the Regentrix. “I command you, Elasand-re, as your Lady Liege, to dismiss this female minion now. I’ve decided I do not like her. I do not like her standing at your side like a post every time I see you.”

  Her breath catching, Deileala looked intensely at the dark silent lord before her. Even she knew when she had gone too far, for the face of the man was bloodless with control, with absolute fury. And that is not at all what she had intended; she never wanted him to be angry, never at her. . . .

  A moment of silence.

  And then, very slowly, he bowed. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he said, with a foreboding calm that portends a storm. And then Elasand half-turned formally to look behind him, saying to Ranhé, “You are dismissed for the moment, freewoman, as Her Grace decrees.”

  Ranhé looked at him in that instant, raising her gaze to meet his eyes. She saw complete sympathy there, and could almost read his thought: Humor her, for now.

  And then, as Ranhé bowed curtly to obey, he added softly, so that only she could make out his words, “You may as well enjoy yourself, now. Go on, Ranhé, celebrate together with the City, with everyone else. I will see you in the morning. Go.”

  A moment of sympathy. And then he was blank again, as though she had never been there. With a bright cold smile he turned to the Regentrix, who in turn looked at him with devouring eyes.

  “Have a seat brought forward for the Lord Vaeste! Yes, up close, right here by my side—”

  Ranhé ceased looking at what was taking place. As she quickly left the Hall, she could hear Deileala’s laughter, and remnants of Vaeste’s deep voice, and then general buoyant conversation, interspersed with background gitarah music.

  At the Palace doors, she received her cloak. And then she descended the endless stairs, past numerous nobles and glittering ladies, past running footmen and servants in varied livery, past preening ebony peacocks that strolled upon the steps of the Palace colonnade as though they were themselves of Monteyn blood.

  Finally she was beyond the crowd, stepping into the silence of the Inner Gardens, her booted footsteps ringing against marble. And she could hear the wind.

  Overhead, the silver sun had shifted off center in its cycle, and the charcoal shadows fell at a twenty-degree angle past the noon hour. Furious gray radiance knifed down upon the City.

  Ranhé stood alone under that sun, placeless for an instant. With a blank receptiveness she watched the softly swaying contrast of the foliage, smelled the recently watered freshness of the growth, that still lingered in the wind. Around her, the sinuous trees of smoke hues, the obelisks of cypress. Before her, the gravel path. That path led, only a hundred feet away, through the Inner Gates of the Palace, to the Outer Dirvan, and with it, the City—all aflame with ashen light.

  She stood, head lowered for a moment, vacuous, and plied the gravel with her mirror-polished boots, watching the dust gradually matting the surface. She had drawn her cloak about her, despite the heat, and soon the gray radiance came to burn her scalp, past the listless straight hair, gathered behind her in a single stern braid.

  And then, with the wind directly in her face, Ranhé walked along the path through the Inner Gates, past the still Palace Guards, and out to the freedom of the public park area that was Outer Dirvan. In the distance, glittered the black roiling surface of the Arata, its waters rich like oil, in darkness. And near one of the cultivated banks shimmered the pallid dome of the Mausoleum—maybe but a mirage in the heat.

  She would stroll there, maybe, to glance at the Tomb of the last Monteyn King. For her heart had stilled also, like a sepulcher, and it sought the company of its kind.

  Thus she was, Ranhéas Ylir, still, and cold, and once again alone.

  Ranhé had almost no memory of that afternoon, with all things but a silver blur of sunlight and gardens, and then the markets and streets of the City. The sun rode high, followed her like a floating lily on the pond of the sky, attached it seemed, via a fine psychic cord, a silver stem that grew, invisible, from her.

  She vaguely recalled wandering the empty Outer Gardens, then strolling along one deserted bridge over the sparkling Arata. In the Markets of the Sacred Quarter she bought a pie from one of the aromatic food stalls. She stood and ate it blandly, without appetite, only remembering how it had been warm, and how it had crumbled in her mouth, and served to fill some bottomless nether place within her. And she observed the street-urchin pickpockets run, scamper through the stalls, watching the passerby with predator eyes.

  One of them had followed her for a while, for she looked distracted enough, and soon Ranhé felt a butterfly-soft touch on her waist. The thieves usually worked in groups, one trying to dislodge the moneybag from under people’s cloaks, sometimes making several attempts to cut through the cloth, while others would serve to distract.

  Despite her desolate mood, Ranhé could not help a smile as she softly reached out behind her and grabbed a skinny wrist. The boy yelped in surprise, then attempted to wriggle out of her grasp.

  “Try someone else,” she said through clenched teeth, drawing the boy close to her and glancing almost kindly into his watery hopeless eyes. “Or else, join the appropriate Guild and learn to do it right. . . .”

  And with that, she loosened her grip, letting him go.

  The urchin ran like an alley rat, and with her peripheral vision she could see his various accomplices gift her with looks of esteem.

  And for a moment there she thought she felt another set of eyes upon herself. The feeling was brief but almost physical. But when she glanced around with appropriate carelessness, there was no one in the vicinity out of the ordinary.

  As the afternoon wore on, Ranhé made her way through the sparsely busy Markets to the Academic Quarter, and strolled through the Lyceum grounds. Lone scholars moved through the Library building next door, passing her like self-absorbed shades. All of the City had been affected by the celebration in the Regents’ Palace, and most had taken advantage of the day to be away from regular business. However, it was felt least of all here, in this softly illuminated place of dreamers and thinkers.

  Even now, he tarries with the rest of them, with her, Ranhé thought, seeing in her mind’s eye the man who had dismissed her without a blink it seemed, at the Regentrix’s whim. And yet, one half of her knew full well that he’d had no choice but to concur with Her Grace’s wishes, that he had been angry, that he had wanted her to be there at his side. And yet, Elas had agreed in the end, succumbed to the petulant whim of that petite terrible woman who ruled the City.

  There was no point in recalling any of it, no point in imagining where he was now, what he was doing at this very moment with her whose whims he obeyed. And yet, depression ate at her, and Ranhé continued visualizing him as he had been in that last instant—suave and cold and bright. Not that it would have made much difference if she had been with him now. Rather, it may have been worse, may have cut her like a dul
l blade, to witness.

  It is better that I do not see it, she thought, better that I don’t know.

  And thus she walked in a daze through emptying streets, while the shadows from the sun grew longer, stretched out into cowering slaves behind all things.

  Soon, darkness would fall upon Tronaelend-Lis. It would happen instantly, like a lid over a kettle, with hardly any twilight, hardly any in-between time to create a transition between day and night. Thus it had been, always.

  Only, with this nightfall, a rock lodged itself deeper into Ranhé’s soul. As she wandered, thoughtless, aimless, past pedestrian strangers that unconsciously gave way before her singular cloaked form, she knew that when this night came, she would want to drown in it, drown and find oblivion from her own burning imagination, her own desperate wounded consciousness.

  And possibly—and most sadly of all—she did not even truly allow herself to know why.

  Orbs of lascivious scarlet lit up the Red Quarter. The teahouses were packed full of customers loudly celebrating, in their own way, the impromptu festival night that had been so propitiously decreed by the Regents.

  From everywhere came laughter, music, voices upraised in inebriated song. The teahouses burned bright in all shades of monochrome red—red that seeped in pale shades of pink against the fine grillework of the windowpanes, that shimmered through gauze curtains, appearing rose madder, that danced like pale delicate lightning on the surface of crystal goblets filled with rich liquids. That same basic red, now incarnated as blinding crimson, blazed forth from the chandeliers formed of clusters of miniature orbs instead of candles, like bunches of wine grapes. The crimson also flowered in grand orbs that were installed outside on the streetlamps that stood on every corner of the district.

  Human form was everywhere. Street lanterns mounted on ornate posts illuminated silhouettes of swaying drunks and cheap Guildless whores that beckoned from niches and alleyways. Such were invariably scantily attired, crudely displaying their wares from tight sequined bodices and short gaudily pleated and tasseled skirts, and yet too intimidated to come out into the corner lamplight. For the corners and bright pedestrian walkways were under the jurisdiction of professionals of higher caliber.

  Expensive courtesans with beautiful subtle faces, attired in stylish clothing made from affluent fabrics, were found lounging along the corners and walkways, but more frequently near the storefronts of their own fine establishments, the Pleasure Galleries. Their manners were subdued, and they were almost invariably flanked by bodyguards. Yet even they stood back in obeisance before those who were the true gods of this district.

  Not a glimmer of a pale breast or shapely leg did those show—they of the Erotene Guild. Instead, faultlessly haughty, they rarely strolled the walkways, wearing, on such occasions, their all-concealing Guild cloak of ebony velvet that was almost monastic in its severity, and yet hinted of high class Pleasures that only the Guild-trained could provide. All Tronaelend-Lis knew the meaning of that cloak—plain except for the tiny embroidered pattern of spiraling blossoms on the trim, formed of metallic thread.

  The Erotene Guild had evolved from a sacred order that had once been devoted to Eroh, the goddess—hence the name—but in these modern days it was purely secular. The erotene were courtesans of the highest craft, both male and female. Their training commenced before puberty, and only the most beautiful children were admitted to the Guild. At first, the children were cultivated in the arts of personal appearance, presentation, vocal tone, and bearing. Later came instruction in music, poetry, literature, philosophy, culinary pleasures, discourse and other fine arts. And in the very end, upon sexual maturity, they were instructed in the science of the human body and all its senses.

  By the age of sixteen, each knew how to sexually appease or provoke any type of desire, having been taught how to read the language of the body, the smallest gesture, sign, breath. An erotene knew instantly if the customer wanted a light piquant touch, gentleness, or if they preferred pain, dominance, and intensity. They knew if the customer was shy, or bored, or looking for the unusual or extreme. They sensed fear, anticipation, aggression, the need for fetish. They also knew when to accommodate without touch, only with sound and word and rustle of fabric—auditory erotic delicacies for the pseudo-celibates who could not abide physical contact.

  The erotene were instructed in the One Thousand Pleasures, and from that foundation were taught to improvise. The erotene were masters of the physical response, and yet masters of understated elegance. And the price for their services rivaled that of the Light Guild.

  On the walkways of the pleasure district, the erotene were in fact relatively few in number—like the prized rare blossom or two in a bouquet—and they condescended to give their services only to the most select and best-paying. Indeed, one had to make an appointment at the House of Erotene, often far in advance, and rarely did an erotene allow oneself to be solicited on the street. To ensure that none were harassed by force, erotene were declared untouchables, and all Guilds enforced this unspoken rule, doling out severe punishment to any ignorant that attempted seduction or rape. However, in the last several decades, apprentices to the House were also taught self-defense, to ensure the Guild’s self-reliance. Thus, erotene walked the streets without the need of bodyguards, for only the insane would make an attempt upon their persons.5

  Tonight, even fewer erotene were seen in the Red Quarter, for many had been summoned by the Regent himself to participate in the night’s planned festivities. However, there were enough other courtesans on hand to satisfy those of less aristocratic needs.

  The district was aflame with celebration. Crowds walked the streets, filled the Pleasure Galleries, teahouses, Domes of Sensation. The main street of the district was called the Red River, because of a famous row of antique street lanterns installed every twenty paces along the walkway, which created the illusion of flowing light, when observed from a distance. Tonight, the place more than lived up to its name.

  Along the storefronts of the Red River milled crowds of pedestrians. The River storefronts were the most successful and famous in all of the City, and at the heart of it stood a building that appeared to be a miniature replica of the Regents’ Palace, including a small colonnade at the entrance. Above that colonnade hung a blazing orb-decorated sign of the House of Erotene.

  Across the street from the House was another famous landmark, the Rose Teahouse—another venerable antique of the pleasure district. Here, the popular drink was served unlike any other in Tronaelend-Lis. Tea, flavored with rose and other flowers, unique spices, and various liquor, was savored from small cups and bowls, together with pastries of rare delicacy.

  The building was a domed circle. The grand arch windows of the Rose Teahouse were hung with beads of faceted glass, and they danced beneath the blazing crimson of the street lanterns. From within the Teahouse came a soft rose glow, and the illumination was subdued. A single great orb of the palest mauve, like a soft eye of a giant fabled dragon-beast, was installed in a sculptured centerpiece of the room in a filigreed framework of metal, right in the middle of the floor. Thus, illumination came from the ground, and the dome ceiling of the room evolved into darkness. Tables were placed along the round perimeter of the room, so that the customers were each seated before some portion of the arched windows, and could look out on the street scene at the same time as they enjoyed the exquisite tea. Attentive servants came to refill the fragrant tea, and carried endless trays of new pastries.

  At one of such tables, before a window that faced the Red River and was situated perfectly across from the entrance to the House of Erotene, sat Ranhé.

  She was sipping her third cup of tea, and staring past the beaded curtain through the glass of the window, at the street outside. The tea she requested had been non-alcoholic, and yet her head felt heavy, while her pulse was erratic.

  She watched the passersby outside, hurrying or milling about, bathed by the glow from the lanterns. And often, her gaze returned
to the entrance of the imposing building before her, above which hung the sign of the delicate spiraling blossom that was the symbol of erotene.

  In all her life, Ranhé had never seriously considered purchasing the services of the Erotene Guild. Not even in her loneliest moments. And tonight was no different.

  And yet, she watched the House across the street, watched the people entering the grand doors. And occasionally she saw hooded figures cloaked in black velvet emerge, alone or with a customer, and head out into the street.

  When the cloaked beings of indeterminate sex descended the marble stairs, sometimes they would cross the street, and pass just before the windows of the Teahouse, inches away from her face. She saw the folds of velvet, the gloved hands upon which shone jewels—but hardly ever a glimpse of flesh.

  Mesmerized, she tried to guess the nature of that hidden flesh. Once, a woman wearing the cloak of erotene passed right before the window, and for an instant turned her hooded head to glance inside. Ranhé saw a glimpse of delicate features, beautiful eyes, a light smile upon a rosebud mouth, and then the female erotene turned back to her companion with musical laughter, and they were on their way, disappearing around the corner.

  The ephemeral image had passed, and yet Ranhé stared, with an inexplicable hunger, at the spot where the woman had been. It had not been the woman she wanted—rather, the warmth of intimacy, the sense of pairing, of being two with another being—two, not one, for one would be too much. . . . She remembered the face of the male customer, a young man with fine clothing, remembered the grin of pleasure that he displayed upon hearing the witty joke of his erotene. She remembered the obvious exchange of intimacy, of two looks slithering off each other like drops of honeyed rose water—never mind it was a purchased companionship, and that after today’s encounter these two would very likely never see each other again. The point was, for tonight, all cares had been thrown away, all concerns invalidated, and the two were ready to play out a game of pretense, that would culminate in careless abandon and pleasure.