Lords of Rainbow

by Vera Nazarian

  “A struggle.” Elasand laughed bitterly. “Why bother?”

  “Unlike you, Elasand-re, I don’t give up!”

  And with that the Guildmaster turned and left them both, alone in the chamber.

  It was an illusion of safety, being within the Inner City. Ranhé returned to the bedchamber where she had spent the night, and found that the door to the inner room had been shut from the inside. Elasirr must have taken his own bed to rest, at least for an hour. And thus she decided to wander and explore the compound, the endless corridors of this hidden sanctum of light.

  About an hour later, Marihke Sar came upon her, with a worried expression on his face. “Everyone is looking for you, freewoman! Come along, you are wanted, there is work to do.”

  He led her to one of the rooms that she had recognized, at the very entrance of the Inner City, the place they had entered first, coming here. There she saw Elasirr, dressed in plain black clothing, a dark hood over his pale hair, and a long dagger at his waist, waiting for her.

  His expression was once more, like a wall. After all that had happened between them.

  “Where is my Lord Vaeste?” she asked impassively, not meeting his gaze.

  “The last time I looked, he was again sleeping in my bed. No doubt dreaming of his violet Laelith,” said he remotely. “He is not to be bothered, so I must instead take you.”

  “Me? Don’t you have enough minions of your own?” Her voice was tired and thus did not hide its edge.

  “You are the only other with the complete ability to work all color light,” said Elasirr, looking finally into her eyes. “Even if I wanted to take someone else, I have no choice, and I have no time to wait for Elas to get ahold of himself. He has fallen so low that he is now useless. And yes, we are going to Dirvan. And we will attempt to rescue the Regents and the other unfortunate prisoners—not in that order of priority. For, surely, no one would believe I am doing this for the filthy pigs Grelias alone.”

  “I see. Just the two of us? So, you are quite insane, Lord Guildmaster.”

  But already he had turned away, and was heading toward the door that led outside to the underground catacombs.

  Silently, Ranhé followed.

  Outside, the abnormal sun had begun sinking in the twilight morass of the thick dull sky. If it were a normal day, then it would still be a rather bright time, not too far from sunset. But as things stood, it was already as dark as evening, and torches had remained lit all since morning, throughout the City.

  They had walked swiftly through the twisting underground passages below the City. Ranhé followed Elasirr silently. He walked, carrying a small torch, and at last the ground rose again. They stopped before a narrow stairwell, and Elasirr gave her the torch, then started to climb ahead. About twenty feet up, he pressed a release hatch, then slowly opened the ceiling, and noiselessly disappeared above. Ranhé waited for his silent hand signal, as agreed, then climbed also, first extinguishing the torch, so as not to give them away.

  She emerged and found herself on a shadowed garden path, somewhere in Dirvan.

  Elasirr lowered the sewer door behind them, then stamped around lightly, beating down the earth so it did not appear so newly disturbed.

  “Why did we come out here?” whispered Ranhé. “Why not walk all the way beneath the Palace, then open a door inside the prisoners’ own chamber?”

  “Because,” hissed Elasirr, “as of two hours ago, my Palace eyes have told me, most of the trapdoors leading into the underground network near where the prisoners are being held have been discovered. Feale moves fast. Already, Qurthe are in the underground passages. Soon, they will know the way to the Inner City.”

  “Gods! Why didn’t you mention that earlier?”

  Elasirr looked at her in the dim light, his face a mask. “Why should I? Every moment of hope that I leave my people, conserves our strength,” he said. “Those who need to know, know already. Those who don’t will know only if worst comes to worst.”

  “You are a strange man, my lord,” Ranhé whispered then. “Even now, I don’t know whether to believe you fully or not at all.”

  “I don’t care what you believe,” he responded. “Now, come, we have no time to waste. And if we are discovered, remember, I am merely Lord Bilhaar. And be ready to create color light upon my command.”

  They raced like shadows through the Outer Gardens. Ranhé found it an actual challenge to keep up with him, sleek and silent, his brilliant hair tucked beneath and obscured by a dark hood.

  On both sides, lush ebony growth strained forward, as they moved. Several times they had to stop, growing silent as the trees, as they heard voices of randomly patrolling dark soldiers walk past, speaking with the heavy accents in their dialect.

  At some point, they passed the Tomb of the King, hidden away in a bower of dark cypress, shadows of the faint sickly sun flowing pallid against antique silver marble.

  Ranhé looked back at the Tomb as they moved, and she noted how Elasirr did also, throwing an almost wistful look behind him.

  And all of a sudden, he whispered, “I only wish it were a Monteyn I served, not this pale drab excuse for a ruler called Hestiam.”

  “Yes,” she responded, “I also wish. . . .”

  Her words trailed off. But yet, their gazes managed to meet, for one true instant of intimate communication, remembering all that had taken place between them, all of it, if only for a moment.

  The moment passed. And again they were but remote strangers, harboring only cold between them.

  At the Inner Gates of the Palace, there was a blackness of guards. Their number had doubled since the last time she’d passed here, only a day ago.

  They also saw bodies, abandoned to rot, lying near the gates. Bodies of those who were of this City. Some of them were but street children.

  Ranhé felt a pang in her heart, thinking of the urchin who had held her horse for her, only two nights ago.

  She felt Elasirr’s light touch on her arm, and her first instinct was to nearly recoil—memories of his touch, his flesh in the smothering dark.

  But she steeled herself, and watched his hand gestures, as he pointed a way for her, through the remainder of the gardens, and up to the Gates.

  There was a line of shadows, a pattern of relative dark through which one could walk and be unobserved, if careful. Ranhé initially thought to climb a tree, as she had done the last time, and thus jump the gates. But today the guards were positioned so that they would see any movement upon the balustrade up above, and the twilight was still bright enough everywhere else.

  There was nothing else they could do but take in deep silencing breaths and simply walk forward. And thus, she stilled herself from long practice, and moved more silently than ever before, thinking thoughts of nonpresence.

  I am not here . . . Nothing is here.

  She was halfway across the line of dark when a Qurth soldier turned his ebony masked helmet toward her, almost by instinct. She froze, closing her eyes, turning inward somehow. And Elasirr sucked in his breath with a sudden cold fear for her, a sudden wild pang.

  But then, it seemed like the woman faded. He looked, and saw only shadows of growing tree trunks cast against the garden floor, against a cross-section of the gravel path. Unbelievingly he stared, knowing she was there, and yet she was not.

  Nothing is here . . . I am not . . .

  Ranhé managed to cross the distance, and stilled near an overhang, against the Inner Wall itself. It was now Elasirr’s turn.

  He crept forward quickly, unflinchingly. And yet, at one point there was a pause, as once again a guard felt something, and turned to stare at the very spot where Elasirr stood.

  Ranhé’s temples pounded.

  Not here! Nothing . . . not here . . . her thoughts flung outward, almost concrete in their desire to blanket, to obscure.

  Nothing . . . darkness.

  And suddenly, as she thought it, there was a strange previously unfelt welling of a force within her. It felt
initially like the gathering warmth that resulted in color light.

  Only, this one was a cool welling of darkness.

  She felt it flow outward from her, gathering like a patch of black smoke in her palms. She looked down at her hands incredulously, and then, by sheer instinct, cupped it in her palm and threw it, at the same time focusing it in the direction of Elasirr.

  She threw and willed it to grow and unfurl, a patch of opaque darkness, and to envelop him with its safe nonpresence.

  And the dark smoke obeyed.

  The Qurthe stilled for a moment, but it was obvious, even to his suspicious gaze, that there was nothing there—only dark vapor and shadows. That and the swaying growth of the garden. His attention was again distracted.

  Meanwhile Elasirr stood frozen, ready for anything, blanketed by the soothing dark.

  When he reached her, in the shadows at the foot of the wall, there was an intense expression in his eyes, a question. And yet he held his silence, and they continued toward the Palace.

  Deileala Grelias sat bowed upon her great, canopied bed, an empty look in her eyes. From the outside, through the great open window, she could see the dull ah-so-depressing weakling orb, the setting gray sun, veiled by the thick twilight air of the City.

  Suddenly, a scratching soft noise sounded. Somewhere in back of her.

  She tensed, thinking, It is him, Vorn.

  To the back of her bed, one of the tapestries moved outward and to the side on the right wall. More scratching.

  She watched it in wicked silence, ready for anything, her fingers clutching nervously at the silk bedding.

  The hanging moved on the wall, and a panel slid out. From behind it came a man, cowled in a hood.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but the strange gesture of his upraised hand stilled her just in time.

  “Your Grace!” came a whisper of a somehow familiar voice, and Deileala recognized him then, with a great swell of joy, this man who had lazy secretive eyes, who had casually lain with her upon more than one occasion—the assassin lord.

  Behind him, another face peeked into the chamber, also vaguely familiar. Where had she seen this face—ah, this was the irritating woman bodyguard who had stood at Lord Vaeste’s side. Only, what was she, of all people, doing here?

  Before Deileala allowed her thoughts to further tumble, Elasirr came forward, putting a single gloved finger up to his lips in a gesture of silence. He then motioned for her to move, and Deileala did not need to be told twice.

  She stepped daintily toward him, and suddenly flung herself forward, wrapped her hands about his neck, hugging him tight, and whispered, “Thank the gods! I am more than happy to see you, my beautiful assassin!”

  Elasirr grinned down at her, easily producing his perpetual smirk that Ranhé came to recognize now for the insolent front that he put on before those who did not know his true role.

  “Come, Your Grace” was all he whispered, putting a finger against her lips and effectively silencing any more of her words.

  But the Regentrix was not as easily put off. “Where are you taking me?” she whispered. “And what of Hestiam? Or Lirr, or Barsadt?”

  But in reply she was pulled into the safe darkness of the secret passageway, gleefully thinking of the guards outside her door that would never know. And if they did, it would be far too late.

  In the passage, it was explained to her that her chamber was the only one accessible in this manner. To Elasirr’s great regret, it had turned out that all the other prisoners were either too closely guarded, or too far from the network of passages. And Hestiam himself—he explained to Deileala—was being held in a room with two guards constantly in his presence.

  “We will come back for the others separately. For now, at least one of the Grelias is free,” said Elasirr. “Frankly, we need to have your presence to give focus to the resistance.”

  “Resistance?” echoed Deileala weakly, in surprise, as they moved quickly through a short inner corridor.

  “Yes,” replied Elasirr firmly. “Now I will ask you to shut your pretty mouth and keep it so, Your Grace, until I tell you it is safe.”

  From the outside, through the inner walls, they could hear definite Qurthe voices in the Palace corridors. And they were approaching.

  One of them Deileala would know in her dreams.

  “Vorn!” she gasped, but in that instant, Elasirr put a gloved hand against her mouth, and they froze into silence.

  And in the dark, Ranhé felt her hand involuntarily sliding to the hilt of one of her hidden daggers.

  The most difficult part was getting the Regentrix out of the Palace unnoticed. Once outside in the Inner Gardens, they had to lower her down slowly with a rope, against a long steep overhang of Inner Wall. Surprisingly, she understood the gravity of their situation, and remained cooperative, without even crying out when she scraped her scantily clad knees and elbows against the stones, and landed on the ground painfully, nearly twisting her ankle.

  At some point, true evening began, for the sun-disk had sunk out of sight beyond the filigree horizon.

  The Outer Gardens, thrown into sudden utter blackness.

  Not a single torch burning here, on this remote side of the walls. Even the guards were remote, for this section of wall should have been unpassable.

  They stood, all three of them, on the ground, pressing close to the Inner Walls, three shapes of darkness. All they had to do now was find their way back through the Outer Dirvan toward the same sewer trapdoor, somewhere near a gravel path.

  The dark shape that was Elasirr leaned close to Ranhé’s ear and barely mouthed, “Now would be a good time for you to enhance the darkness around us. I saw what you did on our way here, how you created a black nothing which protected me from the Qurthe’s sight. Whatever the hell it is that you did—do that again.”

  And Ranhé nodded silently, and focused, seeing the dark unfurl from within her like a cool soft safe thing.

  No one is here . . . Nothing.

  And under the strange blanket of translucence—a mere thickening of twilight, a change in the gradation of shadow in the place they occupied—they began to move carefully through the pitch-black gardens.

  Such thick unpassable dark it was that the Regentrix continuously tripped, and cried out softly. Finally Elasirr had to lead her by the hand, while Ranhé brought up the rear.

  “I have no shoes!” Deileala hissed at one point. “They took all my shoes away. I’m doing the best I can under these filthy circumstances!”

  “Only a little longer, Your Grace . . .” said Ranhé, while her thoughts continuously wrought the black fog around them.

  After some time in the darkness they came once again upon the dimly visible silhouette of the old Mausoleum.

  “Ah, the Tomb,” whispered Deileala, panting with uncustomary exertion. “I simply need to rest! The floor is smooth cool marble here, I remember. . . . Just give me a moment.”

  And saying that, she limped over to the shallow steps of the structure, and sat down on the top stair, to examine the wounded soles of her feet.

  Elasirr followed her, then entered the domed overhang of the Mausoleum, and paused before the actual centerpiece casket. He stood, arms folded at his chest, and stared before him into the shadowed dark obscuring the grand stone pillar dais.

  Ranhé came up the steps slowly behind them. She watched the Regentrix fuss over her stubbed toes. And then, something also prompted her to approach the casket in the center.

  They stood, both of them, observing the darkness. Overhead, the sky was an abysmal void, but the crescent sliver of the moon had newly arisen, and poured a sickly almost phosphorescent glow upon the pale polished marble, falling from up above through the skylight. From there, it cast a circular spot of weak glimmer upon the glass of the casket, and the face of the dead King.

  Ranhé felt herself inordinately drawn to it, to the face. She could barely make it out from where she stood, because of the railing and the gaping space betwee
n the dais, and could only see a pallid blotch.

  And then she started somewhat, because Elasirr began to speak, softly, and she had not heard such sadness in him before.

  “Here lies the last Monteyn,” he said. “What mockery, for us to see what we may never have!”

  “I am rested now,” said Deileala meanwhile, standing up shakily. “We can continue. . . .”

  But he appeared not to hear her.

  “He only sleeps, they say. He is not dead really, but is stilled in a condition near death, Stasis . . .” muttered Elasirr, under his breath.

  There was a wild light in his eyes.

  As the crescent glowed down upon them in gray dullness, Ranhé and Deileala watched—in horrible fascination—the assassin move suddenly, as he neared the railing, and then deftly climbed it and leaped across the separation, landing upon the marble carved border of the dais, near the glass casket itself.

  He leaned for an instant, pausing, hugging the glass with his hands, as he stood precariously upon the edge.

  “What are you doing, my lord?” gasped Ranhé.

  But Elasirr remained, in horrible silence, staring at the face of the King, leaning over him.

  The skylight poured weak light upon him, upon the smooth glass. Reflections of the moon stared back at Elasirr, and he thought for a moment that he saw shadows cast by his own eyes, their fever glow.

  There was a sudden stillness within him—a madness coupled with a chill and a heat, both rising simultaneously. He felt he could not breathe, as he looked upon the wax face-mask that was the pale skin of the dead man. The pale shadow of stubble on his cheeks, almost living.

  “So real . . .” whispered Elasirr. “He is—”

  “It’s no time for philosophy, Elas,” said Deileala, wiping her forehead tiredly, and beginning to shiver in the cold evening wind—for she was wearing only a fine shift.

  “My lord?” said Ranhé again.

  But he ignored them both, leaning over the corpse of Monteyn. He stared intensely, frozen by the weight of a new decision that took form before him, even as a part of him was in terror at the very thought.