She derived pleasure from psychological dissonance, from wondering—it was one of her few personal pleasures of the mind. And hence, the cryptic smile—a gift of puzzlement in turn, to him, every time. Her smiles, faint and rare, were more potent that words.
Today however, Rumanar Avalais wore an expression like a mask.
The Audience this morning promised a number of possible complicated pieces of news. For the moment, the Hall was empty except for the rows of her personal guards behind the throne and lining the walls, and Ebrai, clad in black velvet, standing just below the dais of the throne, at her left side.
To the right of the throne was a waist-high slim marble pedestal, and upon it sat a small exquisite statuette of a goddess wrought of pure gold, no more than two feet tall. The golden female shape—nude except for a wide collar, matching wrist bracelets, and an exotic headdress—was stilled in a seated partial-lotus position with one knee upraised vertically, and her hands folded at her feet.
It was to this antique pagan goddess that the Sovereign turned for ultimate advice and in clandestine worship, it was rumored—for why else give it such a place of prominence?—even though no one had actually seen the Sovereign engage in such activity, and even though she publicly observed the true faith of the Church and attended holy mass in the chapel.
The Sovereign did not look at either her left or her right side, and signaled with her finger to the Chamberlains at the door.
The Audience commenced.
The first to approach through those doors was the expected Duke Raulle Deotetti of Solemnis.
The Duke, in his late sixties, wore a formal powdered wig. Clad in dark olive brocade and broad black sash of honor that were the colors of Solemnis, he strode heavily the entire length of the deep red mosaic floor, and stopped before the dais with a deep weary bow. His courtly form was impeccable, and yet it strained him to maintain it for the required lengthy pause.
The Sovereign seemed to know his difficulty, that imperceptible quivering of muscles in his waist and at his knees, as he remained bent before her. And she let him remain thus, for a few breaths longer than necessary, watching his pained ordeal.
At last, she spoke.
“Welcome, my dear Raulle. Do rise. What news do you bring us? But first—how is your lovely Beatrice?”
“Your Brilliance is ever kind,” replied Deotetti, straightening his back slowly, and only the twitch in a single facial muscle reflecting his plight. “The Duchess, my wife sends her adoration and infinite regards to Your Brilliance. As for her condition, I regret to say that she is—deceased, if one may use such a term now. Her illness, as you might recall, was lengthy, despite her relative youth, and the disease progressed and culminated in a crisis just last week, so that her mortal flesh failed. And now she requires neither rest nor sustenance. She sits at her embroidery now, day and night.”
“As your Liege, we are grieved by her death, but rejoice at her fortune of non-death.” The Sovereign spoke softly. “And as a woman, I am relieved to know that she remains at your side, and can thus tend to you and to the little ones. How many are there now, four?”
“Five, Your Brilliance. A son was born just this fall.”
“Ah, five. Well then, that one will be your last. Take good care of your little one—an heir, is he not?—since you will now have no more, unless you commit polygamy. Five becomes your final number. Oh, and do bring them all here to Court, the next time you visit.”
The Duke inclined his head in a short, pained bow.
“Now then,” she continued. “What has your King to say to me?”
Poor Duke Deotetti bowed for the third time, conforming to protocol. “His Majesty, King Frederick Ourin of Solemnis, sends His warmest regards to Your Brilliance,” he began. “His Majesty also conveys that the battalions are ready to march, upon Your Brilliance’s Orders.”
“Good. Tell His Majesty that my Orders are hereby given. Have the battalions proceed north, by way of western Balmue, and wait along the western shores of the River Styx, but do not cross it.”
“If one might suggest,” Ebrai Fiomarre spoke in a soft courtly manner, and his low compelling voice had the richness of velvet, “it may be more prudent to cross the river at that point, for the battalions will then be facing the Fiomarre lands directly, at the border of Balmue and the Kingdom of Styx. Otherwise they will still have to make a far more difficult crossing farther up north, past the Domain border and within the Realm itself. If you cross the river while still in Balmue, you will have a strategic advantage. And, you will have me to guide you through the lands of Fiomarre. . . .”
Ebrai spoke reasonably, turning his elegant aquiline profile in the direction of the Duke, but gently addressing the Sovereign.
She watched him indirectly, with her peripheral vision—the impeccable lines of his jaw, the slight dimple at his jutting chin, the dark shadow of stubble just under the skin that could not be banished even by the most skilled barber’s close blade. He was like a beautiful raven, with his wavy locks unmarred by a wig, and his heavy expressive brows framing dark eyes.
Such an earnest face.
“No,” said the Sovereign, interrupting Ebrai, without looking in his direction, and all her attention upon the elderly Duke. “The battalions will wait along the western shores of the river, without crossing it.”
“Your Brilliance’s Orders will be conveyed to His Majesty exactly.” Duke Deotetti confirmed, nodding his bewigged head carefully.
“That is all,” said Rumanar Avalais. “You may go with my blessings. Godspeed!”
And bowing for the last time, the Duke backed away from the dais, and then hurried out of the Hall.
The Sovereign turned her face to Fiomarre. “My dear Ebrai,” she said. “Do not interrupt me thus again. During an Audience, you may only observe. Make your recommendations privately, afterwards.”
Ebrai’s eyes were a study in leashed intensity. He inclined his head, and whispered, “Afterwards may be too late.”
But the Sovereign was once again turned away and motioning to the Chamberlains. The doors were opened to admit the next in line for an Audience.
The entrant was a spry young man with a fair complexion, short, slender and unassuming, dressed simply as a second-tier courtier, with a plain unpowdered wig. He moved quickly across the expanse of the hall, and his light footfalls made no sound along the stone floor.
“Quentin Loirre,” said the Sovereign in a very different, lively tone, speaking almost playfully. “What have you for me?”
“Your Brilliance!” The young man bowed like a sleek cat, and kept a very composed countenance and unblinking eyes, but his skin betrayed him, breaking into a fierce blush. “I have a carrier bird with a message from Lethe. A certain Lady wishes to convey her news of success. The Chidair Duke has been convinced and has switched sides. Hoarfrost is now an Ally of the Domain.”
“My dear boy, you always have such good news for me. Tell me more of what the Lady says.”
“The Lady assures Your Brilliance that Duke Ian Chidair, known as Hoarfrost, is precisely as dead as rumored, furious at his fate, and halfway-mad. But he is otherwise sufficiently reasonable, and quite interested in your offer.”
“Can he offer me arms?”
“Yes, he can. He has amassed an army of men in a similar condition to his own. It is apparently a natural selection, for the dead clamor to him, and he now commands enough rabble to storm a city, much less hunt Cobweb Brides.”
“And how successful has he been in his hunting?”
Quentin paused, as though attempting to recall. “Begging all pardons, but the message did not go into sufficient detail.”
“No matter. But when you write back, inquire regarding this one detail.”
“It will be done as Your Brilliance Commands.”
“Indeed. Do keep us well informed in that regard. And now, this is what you will write to the Lady in our confidence: tell her that Chidair, the Blue Duke, Hoarfrost—call him wh
at you will—is to gather his army and advance south. Tell him that in due course I shall meet him halfway and unite our ranks. But first, he is to make his stand at Letheburg.”
Ebrai did not blink, nor did he make any movement. But his breath seemed to have stilled somewhat.
The Sovereign was perfectly aware of the difference in her favorite advisor’s breathing, as she continued to disregard him and instead watched young Quentin Loirre with her impassive gaze.
The young Loirre bowed crisply, and then was dismissed with one finger.
When the youth was gone from the Hall, the Sovereign again turned to Fiomarre. “Well?” she said. “What is your reaction now, my dear Ebrai?”
Ebrai looked at her with a stilled expression. “My reaction is a mixture of distress and relief,” he said, his dark eyes meeting hers openly. “I am stirred by the fact that this long-desired military action is happening at last. And I am elated that revenge is in sight. Altogether the combination is too much for me . . . I am frankly rendered speechless. . . .”
“And yet your words are so eloquent, even now.”
Ebrai Fiomarre bowed.
The Chamberlains were directed to admit the next party seeking Audience. They announced the Count Lecrant D’Arvu of Balmue and the Countess Arabella D’Arvu.
The Count was a middle-aged, vigorous man with a dark complexion and an artful powdered platinum wig, dressed in somber black of mourning. And his wife was similarly clad in a black court dress, with no embellishments except mourning lace and a black, stark, unpowdered wig. The Countess had a thin, pinched face, and eyes red from weeping. She was possibly youthful, but grief had wrung all life juices from her, and she moved at her husband’s side like a shade.
“Approach, D’Arvu,” the Sovereign spoke to them.
“Your Brilliance,” spoke the Count and Countess, bowing and curtsying in unison.
“Yes, what news from Balmue?” The Sovereign did not bother with personal courtesies.
“It is all as planned, and Balmue stands ready to proceed at the border,” the Count replied in a weary voice. “Furthermore, the Ambassador, Marquis Nuor Alfre, is newly returned from his Realm visit to see the Liguon Emperor at the Silver Court, and is at present back home in Ulpheo, at the court of His Majesty King Clavian Sestial. He says—that is—the news he brings is rather remarkable.”
The Sovereign watched with softly lidded languid eyes. “Go on. What news?”
There was a tiny pause before Count D’Arvu replied. “It appears, Your Brilliance, that the Imperial House Liguon is in mourning. The Emperor’s daughter, the Infanta, has suffered an assassination, on her sixteenth Birthday Feast Day, only a week or so ago. She has been struck down with a dagger through the heart, and because death no longer takes us, she is now dead, yet ‘lives’—she is one of the so-called undead. And the traitor murderer, the man who struck her—this is the truly remarkable part—is none other than Vlau Fiomarre, the middle son of the Marquis Micul Fiomarre and the brother to the man who now stands at Your Brilliance’s side.”
At the mention of the name “Vlau Fiomare,” Ebrai made a small sound that was immediately stifled.
“Oh! What a marvel indeed!” The Sovereign spoke in delight, her voice taking on a warm timbre, and she immediately turned to her favorite. “Good heavens, Ebrai! Your family never ceases to astonish! Now your younger brother has distinguished himself indeed! Naturally, I welcome him and expect him to join us here, if he is at all at liberty to do so.”
“I—” said Ebrai, “I am equally astonished as Your Brilliance.”
“If one might add, Your Brilliance,” Count D’Arvu continued, “the news gets even stranger. It appears that the dead Infanta, Claere Liguon, had decided that she is the Cobweb Bride. She has left her father’s court, perversely taking her murderer with her, in order to travel north in search of Death’s Keep in the most distant portion of the Kingdom of Lethe, somewhere in the Northern Forest in the Dukedom of Chidair. Our sources tell us that she may be somewhere out there even now, traveling discreetly and in secret. She has not yet been intercepted.”
“A dead Grand Princess and her murderer, traveling together? What exquisite torment for both . . .” the Sovereign said with a delicate smile.
“It is so indeed, Your Brilliance. But the result of this, of course, is that the Emperor is in agony and upheaval, and he is certain to be at his weakest now. Furthermore, with the cessation of death, and the newly proclaimed Law of the land sending all young daughters to be Cobweb Brides, the Realm itself is at its most vulnerable. The populace is distracted, grieving, forced not only to deal with the undead—as we are, here in the Domain—but in addition to give up their daughters. And since the three Kingdoms of the Realm are in turmoil, one dares assume they will not stand easily with their Kings and the Emperor who had thus surely betrayed and abandoned them.”
“You speak things that bode well for our campaign. Go on. Is there anything else?”
“There is. . . .” For the first time, the Countess D’Arvu spoke, in a faint voice. And her husband threw her a nervous glance.
“My dear Countess Arabella, what is it?” The Sovereign now glanced in the woman’s direction, directing the full force of her serpent gaze and terrifying beauty upon the supplicant.
“Your Brilliance, if I may—” The Countess curtseyed deeply again. “I beg Your Brilliance’s indulgence in listening, for I have come for one purpose only, and it is to beg and plead with Your Brilliance on behalf of Lady Leonora, our only daughter, who is in Your Brilliance’s service, and has not been seen or heard from for the last month.”
Rumanar Avalais continued to look at the Countess.
“If Your Brilliance might possibly have the means of calming a very distraught and foolish mother—that is, if there is anything that may be divulged as to our daughter’s present . . . situation—”
“Whatever do you mean, my dear?” said the Sovereign, and the blue of her eyes was like the soothing blue of sky. “Could it be that Lady Leonora, that sweet forgetful child, did not remember to write you a letter? Why, she has been somewhat indisposed for the last week, and I told her to keep to her bed, and rest and regain the roses in her cheeks. I even sent my own physician to tend to her. But she is so eager to serve me, I am afraid she must have overtired herself yet again.”
The Countess D’arvu’s face came to sudden joyful life. “Oh, Your Brilliance!” She fell into a deep eager curtsy, this time voluntarily. “A thousand blessed thanks! We have been so terribly worried! That is, we have not heard, and had no idea! How ill is she? Might it be possible to see her?”
“Now, now, Countess, I do not recommend anyone attend the sweet girl in her quarters just yet, for I am told she might not be up to receiving visitors. It is best that we let nature’s healing take its course, and in the meantime she will be sure to write as soon as she is up to it.”
“I do hope,” put in Count D’Arvu, courteously, “that she is not contagious?”
The Sovereign gave a gentle reassuring laugh. “Not at all, I am told. It is simply exhaustion and a bit of a stomach malady that will pass soon enough. But now, as she is one of my dearest young Ladies-in-Attendance, you must know how much I love and worry about her myself. Had there been anything in the least truly wrong with her, you would have had my personal carriage at your door.”
The Count and Countess bowed again in grateful unison.
“Now then, I do hope it is all settled in your mind, my dears. Is there anything else you have for me?”
“Nothing more but our deepest gratitude, Your Brilliance,” uttered Countess D’Arvu.
But her husband cleared his throat and said, “Oh, I had almost forgotten, Your Brilliance, there is one more thing. Though, I am unsure if it is even of any import, or relevance. But it is a bit of a curiosity, a wonder, one might say. And it just happened overnight.”
“Indeed? Go on.”
“I am told by one of my reliable sources who is also in Leth
e, that there is an interesting rumor being passed around in the north country. Not sure where it originated, but it is said a young woman has appeared—a girl, in some tiny godforsaken village there—who has the miraculous ability to put the dead to rest, permanently.”
“What did you say?”
The Count drew his brows together in an effort of thought. “My source places the rumor somewhere in the northernmost villages in the Dukedom of Goraque. Within hours the peasants have spread it like wildfire, as far as Letheburg. Supposedly, a day ago, an old woman has died—in the true way. Her body remains while her spirit has flown. How she died—when no one else can die—is unknown. But they say her own granddaughter is responsible.”
The Sovereign moved forward slightly, her back no longer against the throne.
“This is a very interesting rumor indeed,” she said, and her languid eyes opened fully, clear and sharp as glass.
“I thought it might be of some interest to Your Brilliance. Because quite a few of those villagers speak of her as though she is the Cobweb Bride, found at last. While others call her something else altogether—they call her Death’s Champion.”
“Could she really be this Cobweb Bride? Or is it merely superstitious country nonsense?”
“I do not know, Your Brilliance, I only know there has been much talk of this, and supposedly the girl has also similarly killed someone or something else—”
“I am glad you told me about this particular curiosity, Count.” The Sovereign spoke without looking at him or anyone, her gaze directed at some indefinite point before her. “Now, I want you to find out more. Get me the source of these rumors, and learn everything you can about this Death’s Champion. If she is real, I must know.”
“Yes, Your Brilliance.”
“Excellent! Now go. And oh—be sure to find out what else this girl can do.”
The Count and Countess made their courtly obeisances and backed out of the Hall.
The Sovereign lifted her finger and proclaimed. “The Audience is over.”
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