He watched her eyes—colorless irises, widened pupils, a welling of waters to mark their fathomless opacity. There was so much in her eyes, the faint edge of the universe, with dark starlit expanses on the other side, with no end. . . .
“I am sorry. That was a truly tragic one—of all the ones you had to lay to rest. . . .”
She looked away from him, as though recalling something, and not wanting to bear his gaze. “I . . . could not give him dreams. He . . . had wanted to dream. And I took him away from his mother. He could have spent more time with her, untold moments more—being. . . . Not living, but simply being.”
“Is merely being the same as being alive?” Beltain spoke gently, still motionless, seated at her side.
“I should have left him be. . . .”
“Maybe,” he replied. “But maybe you gave him a rare gift, one that few of us ever dream of possessing—a choice.”
“But was it his choice, truly? Did he, a small child hardly able to recognize his self, his existence, the nature of what he was—did he and could he make the right choice? How much did he really understand of sleep and death and endings? What have I done? He had only asked for dreams!”
And Percy broke into shuddering weeping, hiding her contorted face against her sleeve, wiping the side of her face, her nose, cheeks, all of her, swollen with hopeless grief.
Beltain had grown so still, he could feel no motion in his own lungs. And then he forced himself to move, to reach for her. He took one of her trembling, tear-smeared, clammy hands, and he held it feather-lightly.
“Come,” he said. “Let me tell you of Queen Mab. . . .”
And as Percy again turned her receptive face to him and softly quieted, he pulled back the deep piles of bed coverings, like a warm silken ocean, and he moved it aside gently. He placed both hands along her upper arms, his large warm palms encompassing her smooth resilient softness, and he slowly guided her backwards into bed, until she rested her head against the pillows. He held her thus, for a few seconds longer, his hands upon the sides of her arms, warming her—himself—with the gentle pressure of steady contact. And then he drew the covers up over her.
“Queen Mab,” he spoke, leaning lightly over her, his voice entering into a soft cadence, “is the one who brings the world its dreams. She is a tiny little thing, a fairy that could fit on the end of a pin, they say—or at least my mother used to say—and she drives a coach fashioned of grasshopper wings, with wheel spokes made of spiders’ legs, and other parts of her coach are gnats and worms and cricket bones and moonbeams. In short, she is an unspeakable fairy creature, possibly ridiculous, possibly sublime. When we lie down to sleep . . . she drives her chariot up your nostril, wagon and all, and then she fills your head with the stuff of your desire. . . .”
Percy lay watching him in amazement, her eyes great and liquid in the moonlight. Her cheeks still glistened with tears, but a peace had come to her features, and she breathed evenly, without shudders, her chest rising lightly.
“And so,” he continued, “Queen Mab is the midwife of dreams. She helps each one of us give birth to our own airy infants, those very reveries that fill the hungry recesses of the mind. And none other can take that function away from her—not even you. The little boy who asked for dreams—in that same breath he called upon her, upon Queen Mab and her power.”
“I could not give him dreams . . .” Percy whispered.
“Of course not!” And Beltain smiled, his lips curving gently, and his eyes filled with something that was also light as air and warm . . . yet fey and vulnerable, and so very peculiar. “But Queen Mab very likely did. Such is her unearthly power!”
“Do you think it is so, My Lord?”
He placed his fingertips upon the pillow, near the edges of her hair that fanned around her.
“I know the power that comes from our . . . desire.”
And as she watched him unblinkingly, he said in a more steady voice, “The best way to answer your own questions, Percy, is for you to go to sleep. Sleep, now, and make the decision to dream by calling upon Queen Mab herself. Ask her anything you like!”
“Will she come to me?”
“By Heaven and all sweet angels, she will! But only if you close your eyes. There, your lids must be shut tight, so as not to allow a peek. . . . But you must keep your nostrils open—at least one of them, else the fairy might decide to drive her wagon through your mouth, or worse, one of your ears!”
Percy chortled and smiled, and her eyelids, fluttering, had indeed closed.
“Now, start imagining the kind of dream you would want,” he said. “And I will sit here with you until you sleep. I promise, I will not leave you until you dream. . . .”
“How will you know. . . ?”
“Oh, I will know.” And he adjusted the bed coverings at her chin, his fingers suddenly making contact with her smooth shoulder, feeling a pang of warmth followed by a spread of languor in that one single point on his flesh . . . pausing just one instant, before moving his hand away.
The moon spilled its endless immortal light upon them as he sat thus, for long unmarked moments that were also like the blink of an eye, watching her breathe, watching the peace descend upon her as she quieted and eased into slumber at last.
Her lips had grown full with relaxation, and he gazed like a man drunk with the moon, seeing the nimbus of ethereal light around the edges of her hair, the dark brows that gave such a strong cast to her face, her lashes resting upon her cheeks. . . .
At last, when he no longer had a sense of self left to him, having dissolved entirely into the moonlight, he was compelled. . . . He leaned forward, his face over her, closer and closer until only breath was between them. He stilled again, trembled, drinking her breath. Just beyond him, her parted lips.
And he lowered his own mouth over hers, feather-light, pressing lips against lips, in a kiss that was so soft that he almost did not think it happened.
One pause, just long enough to feel it—as shock traveled throughout him—a touch that pierced and caused a resonance throughout all things. . . . The shock held him suspended, then left him through the pores of his skin, entering the air beyond, where it fed the now-electric moonlight. . . .
He drew away. He stood up silently, and backed away from her sleeping form.
And then he retreated into the night.
Percy was sinking in the many layers of approaching sleep and receding moonlight, falling lower and softer, lulled into sweetness of peace by the soothing cadence of the baritone voice. The voice was like ermine encasing her in safe warmth. . . .
At some point, it too receded, dissolved into moon silver and an outpouring of steady, perfectly comforting silence.
And then, just before she fell away entirely, she felt a touch upon her lips—a strange unfamiliar pressure.
She knew him.
Through all the subtle layers of unconsciousness—of somnolent dissolution of the self, that came to claim her just before the instant of submersion into sleep—she could sense him, pulling her upward out of the morass of jumbled thoughts and images, into perfect waking clarity . . . into awareness.
His lips were upon hers. Had been.
And then the moment was gone.
His touch—an impossibility. Such utter sweet softness!
She felt it bloom forth into her, a current of expanding wonder, spreading in a languid, honeyed flow. . . .
Then it was over.
She dared not move, nor respond, nor react, and held her breath until she could no longer, slowly letting herself exhale and inhale in tiny shallow movements of her chest.
At last, when she could not stand it any more, she opened her eyes.
In the moonglow and silence of the winter night, there was no one there.
He had gone. . . . Or had he even been there in the first place? Queen Mab indeed! Had he been a dream?
Percy lay with her pulse racing, for an untold length of time past midnight, her eyes opened wide to the night.<
br />
Eventually she slept.
Chapter 17
In the morning, Percy woke late with the sun in her eyes. She had missed the dawn by an hour, and now the brightness was overwhelming, and the reality of where she was came to her, with all the brocade furnishings and fine chintz curtains and the gold trim around the boudoir.
The Silver Court shone in the winter morning sunlight like a fluted sculpture of ice. And as Percy sprang out of bed, and went looking under the bed for a chamberpot, it occurred to her suddenly that she had had a very strange dream.
No, it was not the kiss. (Somehow she was quite certain that it, the kiss, had been real. And yet, any further thoughts in that direction were unthinkable, to be hidden away in a deep little memory trunk within her consciousness underneath all the mad fancies, to be analyzed and comprehended later.)
The dream she recalled suddenly, as she was finishing up her morning ablutions, was that of a very strange golden figure in the shape of a woman—indeed, a golden goddess, seated with one leg folded underneath her, and wearing nothing but a headdress and garlands of jewels. . . .
She was considering the meaning of this dream, when a maid came in, carrying her pile of laundered clothing. The servant made a little sound of surprise seeing that Percy was up and about—unlike the young ladies she was used to waiting on who all slept past noon—and the curtains had been left open all night.
“Oh dear, Miss, I am sorry! Would you like something brought up immediately?”
Before Percy could reply, the interior dressing room partition was opened and Beltain entered the room, fully dressed in his own freshly clean clothing, and wearing most of his armor that had been polished overnight. His head with its soft waves of hair was bare of helm or coif hood, and his countenance was absolutely composed as he glanced once at Percy, still in her nightshirt, and his steady grey-blue eyes seemed cool and matter-of-fact.
“Good morning. Get dressed, girl,” he said. “We need to head out as soon as possible. It was good you had the rest, and so did I, but unless we hurry, we may not be able to leave at all. Rumor has it, the Silver Court is about to close its gates, except for limited entry and exit for the military. War has been announced.”
“What?” Percy said. Even the maid, pretending not to listen, seemed to pause momentarily.
“Yes, war,” he said, “but it is not what you think. It has little to do with Letheburg being under siege by the dead. It is something far more serious—a foreign war with the Domain. The news is, we are under attack by the enemy at the border with Balmue. And Morphaea may not be able to hold them.”
Percy took her fresh clothing—her cheeks flaming with color once again as she had to unravel it, in all its poor threadbare glory, before the knight—and started dressing herself. He gave her some privacy by turning his back, and with the help of the maid she was dressed in half the time.
They were outside the inn within a half hour, after Beltain generously settled his bill with the proprietor. Outside, Jack was waiting for them, held by two grooms and a footman, having weathered a fine night in a warm stall with regal grooming and premium hay.
Percy was lifted up into the saddle, and she cleaved to the knight’s chest armor in a mixture of reserve and newfound intimacy.
The street was busy with carriages and much foot traffic, and everywhere she looked, gold gleamed underneath ice and snow, as the splendor of the Court was revealed.
They rode through streets straight as arrows, directly through the heart of the Silver Court, past the Imperial Palace and all its adjacent buildings, for they had to cross the citadel in order to reach the opposite gate, the one that opened south into the Kingdom of Morphaea.
In-between the many sights and wonders of the Imperial city, it occurred to Percy that the dead here either kept out of the way or were very well hidden. Not once did the sight of a dead man on the street made her pause and engage her sixth sense. . . .
As they passed yet another tree-lined boulevard, with snow-laden or bare branches amid upright lampposts, a small garden park opened to view. A clearing and a fountain blanketed by snow presented itself, and Percy made a small gasp because the statue that presided over the fountain was the golden goddess of her dream.
“Wait! Stop, My Lord, I beg you, please!”
“What is it?” But he drew the reigns nevertheless, and Jack stopped, neighing in frustration.
Percy stared. “Who is . . . she?”
Beltain considered the direction where she pointed, furrowing his brow.
“I . . . had a very strange dream last night.”
The instant she spoke it, a flush of color overpowered him. Heat rose up to flood his neck and jaw and cheeks, his entire head. It was fortunate she was not looking at him in that moment.
“I believe,” she continued, “just as you said, Queen Mab had visited me in my sleep.”
He remained silent, unable to respond just yet, then managed at last: “What—what was your dream? What did you . . . see?”
“That statue!” said Percy, pointing again at an upright form of a lithe golden female, nude except for a covering of snow and garlands of jewels in a collar around her neck, and a headdress over her braided crown of hair. “The same golden woman, except in my dream she was seated with one leg folded under and the other raised and bent at the knee, and her hands were folded. Who is she, what does she represent?”
At her unexpectedly safe line of questioning, Beltain felt his high color drain away and a cool relief to replace it. “Oh,” he said. “She is an antique. I believe she is the Goddess of Tradition. I forget her name now, but she was worshipped by Ancient Rome and before that, the Greeks.”
“Why would Queen Mab send me a dream of her?”
Beltain smiled. He was charmed somehow that she would remember his words and a childish tale. “So, you paid attention to my story.”
“Of course!” Percy continued looking at the statue in her little garden spot amid the frozen fountain. “I remember all the kind things you said to me—everything.”
And like a damned fool, Beltain blushed again.
He recovered well by giving a light snap to Jack’s reins, and the warhorse was gladly moving again.
In minutes they had reached the opposite end of the citadel and approached the lofty inner walls of white granite and the great gates of the Silver Court.
Here, the circumstances that Beltain had been worried about, confronted them. A company of military guard stood at the open gates, blocking the general free exit and entry, and evaluated all prospective traffic in both directions.
They waited for long moments while a few carriages and riders before them were stopped and examined and questioned.
When their turn came, an officer of the guard in Imperial colors of black and silver with a fine trim of gold and red over his chain mail drew a polished iron lance to block the way and inquired about the black knight’s business.
“I am Lord Beltain Chidair of Lethe and my business is my own, in Morphaea.”
The mail-clad officer paused, looking sharply at him, and then noticed the girl seated in the saddle before him. Truly, it was something out of the ordinary, since the girl looked to be a peasant. “Chidair?” the guard considered, and a frown grew on his face.
“Yes, Chidair,” Beltain retorted, and his low voice resonated well enough so that a few other heads turned in their direction. “Is that a problem?”
Before the guard could respond, an energetic voice sounded a few steps away among the back of the guard company. Their ranks parted and a high-ranking youthful officer with an air of undeniable authority approached the black knight.
“Chidair! Lord Beltain, is that you? I’d recognize your accursed black armor anywhere! And that monster beast of yours!”
The words were spoken with deep laughter, and immediately Beltain showed recognition on his face in turn. He turned to the man, acknowledging him with a respectful nod of his head. “Your Grace! Duke Andre Eldon! It is go
od to see you! How fare you? How long has it been?”
“Well, let me think—since you unhorsed me at that tourney in Duorma, and then trounced me so soundly that I could not sit on my arse for days—what, two years ago?—I’ve fared quite well indeed!”
Beltain grinned. “As usual, Your Grace, you exaggerate.”
But the Duke of Plaimes laughed again, slapped him on the armored leg and then waived the guard away, so that Beltain rode a few steps from the main roadway and they could talk without blocking traffic. The moment his back was turned to the Imperial guard, the Duke’s grinning handsome countenance became serious.
“Now then,” he said in a much lower voice. “What in Tartarus are you doing here, Beltain, and what must I tell these men to let you pass? You know, my friend, that the name Chidair does not evoke particular love these days. We’ve just had word of the siege at Letheburg. Ugly news, first thing in the morning. Your father has crossed each and every line.”
“I know,” the black knight said, his expression also becoming grave. “I am come from Letheburg, but from within the city, not from the occupier side. I can tell you only that my father is dead and has gone insane. As of last week, I am forsworn to him, and serve the Emperor directly. To be precise, I serve Her Imperial Highness, Claere Liguon. It is on her orders that I travel.”
The Duke’s expression grew alert. “What do you know of the Infanta?”
And Beltain told him. “She is reasonably safe for the moment, under the protection of the new King of Lethe. You’ve had news, I assume, of Her Majesty’s passing?”
“Oh yes. Something having to do with a mysterious girl from one of your northern villages—”
And in that moment as he spoke, the Duke seemed to have noticed Percy. He threw her one astute stare, then looked up again at his friend. “This is she, the very girl who is responsible for—?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s true then. She really can perform the deadly miracles?”
“I have witnessed it myself. And—they are not miracles so much as—”
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