The Lantern-Lit City

by Vista McDowall

  Chapter Seven

  Gwen

  AFTER NEARLY a month at sea, thrown about by stubborn winds, every pore and scrap of cloth inundated with sea-salt, Gwen finally alighted in Riverfen. The terror of her escape had subsided, leaving only her fright for the future. The stewards of the Cascade Palace had welcomed her after reading Wullum's letters of introduction, but Earl Seastone had not yet returned from visiting his vassals. Nearly an entire deshe passed before the stewards brought word to her that the earl's arrival was imminent.

  The day he returned, Gwen would learn her fate in Riverfen's court, if there was any destiny there at all. She meandered the palace as the moment drew closer, its beauty doing nothing to assuage her fears.

  If anything, the stories told of this place did it an injustice. The Cascade Palace, built on a plateau in the middle of Riverfen's many waterways, was a dream come to life. Blue and green tiles underfoot depicted elegant patterns of flowers and ocean waves, so intricate that sometimes she felt as if she strolled through an elven story rather than a castle. A slight breeze drifted through the airy halls and delicate arches, carrying with it the smell of salt. Multiple wings were built out from a central hall, though the grounds and gardens behind the palace dwarfed it, spreading down from the top of the plateau in multiple wide rings.

  From the palace front, circuitous streets zig-zagged down to the twisting canals and roads of the main city. Wealthier homes and businesses occupied the higher layers of the plateau, but as one went further down, the elevated, controlled waterways that flowed alongside the streets devolved into muddy mires as the paved cobblestones of the upper city gradually turned to dirt. From her room, Gwen could see the bay's waters twinkling over a mile distant.

  But it was not the rivers, nor the grand palace that Gwen had wanted to see. What drew her to this beautiful city were the lanterns. Hundreds of them – no, thousands! – lit the city at night, crisscrossing over the streets and strung up on gables, blue and red and green and purple and every other color imaginable. In the merchant and plateau districts, teams of simple wizards cast magic to light them. In the slums and fishermen's wharves, where they used cheap paper instead of glass, paid men went to each one and lit it by hand. Every night, Riverfen turned into a festival of lights and colors, reflected by the stars above and the water below.

  But in the palace, Gwen felt alone. Every nobleman she passed failed to meet her eye and every fine lady frowned at the floor. They dodged around her as if she were made of porcelain, or worse, some monstrous creature bent on their destruction. Aren't I a princess? Then why...?

  In her heart, Gwen knew the answer. She was a young stranger with darker skin, an accusation thrust on her, and no man to protect her. If the earl failed to take her as a ward...Gwen didn't want to think what she would face if he turned her out.

  The day came, warm and humid. Druam Strilu, Earl of Seastone and the River Valley, had sent word that Gwen should meet him that afternoon. Dressed in the confining finery of Riverfen fashion – a bodice that laced tightly across her chest, underskirts swirling about her ankles, and a weighty overdress with floor-length sleeves – Gwen waited. Though she could now forego the veil across the bottom of her face (one she had worn in public since the age of eleven), she missed the privacy it lent to her expressive lips. She had never learned to hide her smiles or frowns, for the opaque cloth had done that for her. Without it, she felt naked, even with heavy brocade covering her from the shoulders down.

  Gwen waited for her summons with her hands pressed to a side table to prevent their trembling. How would she introduce herself? Might the steward, Eigbrett, be there to do it for her? Did she call him Earl Seastone, Lord Strilu, Sire Druam, or 'Your Distinction'? The etiquette here baffled her; what if she ruined her prospects by addressing him incorrectly? If only Wullum had come with her, he would speak and she could simply listen and smile behind her comforting veil.

  At last Lord Eigbrett appeared at the door to her antechamber. He bowed and said, "His Distinction awaits you in the covered walk."

  "Thank you." She followed the steward down from her rooms, through the long tiled halls with their open windows and sun-drenched tapestries, and into the sprawling gardens.

  A wooden walkway circled the outer border of the gardens, marking the boundary between the nobles' space on the plateau's top and the public walking areas on the lower terraces. A vine-laden roof muffled the sunshine overhead and grass cushioned her feet. Benches dotted the walkway at frequent intervals.

  Eigbrett pointed down the walk. "Your Highness," he said before bowing once more and leaving her. Gwen hesitated. How many turns of the path must she endure before seeing the earl? But he waited for her, and she mustn't linger long.

  Lifting her skirts from the green-staining grass, Gwen began the infernal journey down the path, her feet keeping her in the sunshine and away from shadows. Her heart beat on her ribs and her lungs wanted to burst with air and her hands nearly dropped that weighty cloth, so sweaty were they. She had to scold herself for running, to slow down, breathe, go back to one step at a time. Her dark cheeks flushed with heat.

  She had walked for nearly a quarter of a candle – she must be halfway around the gardens by now! – before she saw him.

  Druam Strilu stood straight, hands clasped behind his back, his body facing her. He didn't move. As she drew closer, she saw his head turned to the side, his eyes on the city. He had a handsome profile, though his eyes were deep beneath his brow. Dark hair, slicked back with oil, gave him an air of youth, and his olive skin was unblemished.

  When Gwen paused a few feet away, Strilu cocked his head to look at her. She sank immediately into a deep curtsey, the fingers of her right hand pressed against her collarbone in the Dotsch manner. She peeked up at him from under her lashes. His expression was unreadable.

  Once she thought her curtsey long enough, Gwen rose and gave her hand, upon which the earl pressed a short kiss. The formalities concluded, he pivoted on one foot and offered his arm. "Walk with me."

  As she took his arm, Gwen became horridly aware of the various emotions flitting across her mouth: a slight smile at the breeze, a frown at the silence, lips pressed together nervously. She did her best to control her rebellious face as they walked slowly together, her in the sunlight and him in the shadows.

  Strilu spoke first, "I hope you have found your accommodations pleasing."

  "Yes, Your Distinction, thank you. My rooms are lovelier than those in my brother's castle." Despite longing for home, Gwen truly meant it.

  "Good. You are welcome to stay as long as you wish as my guest. I would send no one back to suffer the Trials."

  "Your Distinction, I...I mean to say that...thank you. Your kindness is most appreciated."

  He nodded, but said no more. Though Gwen's heart had lifted when he asked her to stay, it sank at his continued silence. She stumbled a little and grasped his hand. He helped her right herself, and when she looked into his eyes, she couldn't tell what emotions dwelled there. Apathy? Suspicion? Kindness? His face was as a statue's, blank and still.

  But then, the hint of a smile graced the corner of his mouth, and for a brief moment, he placed his hand on hers. He removed it, his cool touch lingering on her skin, and said, "I would be honored if you might join me again tomorrow."

  Every day for a quinn, in the hour following luncheon, Gwen promenaded with him. On one particularly sunny afternoon, the earl stopped as they strode through the menagerie, his eyes fixed on a small wildcat. His fingers were cold on hers.

  "Sire Druam?" Gwen said, glancing up at him. She had long since been given leave to address him informally. "Is something the matter?"

  He blinked, then smiled down at her. The more time Gwen spent with him, the more she had seen the subtleties of his expression. Rather than stained glass, its story accessible to anyone, his emotions were more like a manuscript, readable only to those with the knowledge and experience. After a moment's pause, he said, "Nothing. I was simply thin
king about the brevity of our lives."

  "And? Did you find it a comforting or a chilling thought?"

  "Rather comforting. It forces us to move, to act, whereas if one had hundreds of years in front of them, they may linger too long in the past, thinking rightly that they have all the time to pursue their desires."

  "I find it terrifying."

  They sat together on a stone bench.

  "My lord, if I may venture to ask: what is to become of me?" Gwen licked her lips, then continued, "The days here have been pleasurable, but I cannot aimlessly wander forever."

  "I had thought much on this. You cannot return to Demarren, and...should you leave here, it would sadden me greatly."

  "I didn't think myself to be such an excellent guest. I suppose I should find a husband, though I don't know your courtship rituals."

  He smiled sadly. "I suppose you should."

  Gwen glanced at him, misreading his questioning look. "How does one choose their partner? How do they know it to be a good match without their family to guide them? I suppose, when you married, it was not so difficult a decision."

  "I'm not married," he said. "Though I ought to have long ago. My father died before he made a match, and I have felt no urge to pursue any of the ladies throwing themselves at me. Until now."

  "Why now?" As Gwen said it, she noticed the intensity of his look, the weight of his hand on hers.

  "Maid Zaman – may I call you Gwen? – Gwen, I am painfully aware that I'm twice your age and you likely desire a younger husband. But you are the Liegelord's sister, so bring with you the means to lasting alliances. There are few men in D'Ehsen, other than myself, deserving of such a political match. Therefore, I make an offer of marriage to you."

  During his speech, Gwen sat still, ever so conscious of the flitting corners of her mouth. She let his hand remain on hers, but didn't squeeze it in return. Her mind ran circles as he spoke, dancing between delight and fear. Delight at the thought that an earl should wish for her hand, but fear, too, for she had no idea how to respond. He had status, wealth, good blood...though nearer forty than thirty, he retained a sense of the handsomeness he must have had in his youth. Above all, he was unfailingly kind to her.

  Despite his fine qualities, Gwen hesitated. She, like many maids, longed for romance, for a handsome knight to throw down his sword and take her up instead. Though too old now to deny the existence of duty, she was still naïve enough to hope that she alone was unaffected by it.

  I wish Wullum was here to make this decision for me. What if I send a letter...no, it would take too long, and by the time it returns to me the earl may have moved on. If I marry a man as powerful as he, I might yet find a place here and earn the trust of these Dotsch strangers.

  "I can see you have no answer yet for me," Druam said. He kissed her hand, then pulled away. "Think on it for as long as you wish. I will await your answer when you are ready." With that, he strolled away, his hands held loosely behind his back. Gwen couldn't tell what emotions he had felt at her silence; his expression had slipped back into the blankness she didn't understand.

  For a few moments, Gwen breathed deeply and contemplated the offer. She could not consult her brother, and had no friends here to ask for advice. The sunlight followed her as she walked to the only place she thought she could find help: the novum. Though the novum possessed statues and altars to the nine Dotsch gods, Gwen liked to think that the gods of her faith could still hear her there. If anyone in this foreign place could help her, it would be them.

  When Gwen entered the palace, her skin prickled. She paused, glancing around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. A cluster of nobles was gathered not far from her, but they only spared her a disinterested glance before returning to their conversation. She shook off her wariness and turned toward the novum.

  "A word, if I may, Your Highness?" One of the nobles disengaged himself from the group and approached Gwen. He had blonde hair cut to his chin and dressed in a style Gwen recognized as Skallish. The scent of mint clung to him.

  "I'm sorry, my lord, but I don't think we've been introduced," Gwen said. She held her hand back from his extended palm, and he withdrew, his warm expression turning colder.

  "Then let me remedy the situation," the lord said. He offered his arm. Not wanting to offend him further, Gwen took it and let him lead her away from the others. He said as they walked, "I am Lord Einar Daghorn, the ambassador from King Arvid of Skålland. You need not introduce yourself; I know that you are Gwendolyn Zaman, the princess of Demarren. I had been hoping, ever since I heard of your arrival, to speak with you."

  Even without his condescending tone, Gwen would have felt suspicious of this man. The Skallish people in Demarren still held close to their kin in Skålland.

  Lord Daghorn held tightly to Gwen's arm, his smile frozen above his long mustache. She said politely, "I am sure I would have little conversation to interest you, my lord."

  "Oh? Surely you must know why I would seek you out. You see, I am rather interested in the Trials. My kin have anxiously awaited news of the Inquisition's success in rooting out foul witches, and I wonder why, in such circumstances, Demarren's own princess would flee."

  Gwen swallowed and looked straight ahead. "My brother wanted me to learn more of Dotsch culture in order for me to gain a marriage offer. He hopes to make a lasting alliance."

  "Is that so? I only question, for I had heard rumors – nasty ones, not oft heard in polite society – that you had been charged for possessing magic. Of course, I would never believe such horrid accusations, but your presence here does force me to wonder if there may be some truth in them."

  "Lord Daghorn, I–"

  "Rest easy, child. There is nothing I can do to you...not at the present, anyway. But my kin in your country would be delighted to hear of your safe arrival in Riverfen." Daghorn withdrew his arm and made a sweeping bow, his eyes glittering. "I hope we may speak again, Your Highness. I am fascinated to hear more of your brother's plans for alliances." He swept away, the smell of mint lingering where he had stood. Gwen hugged herself. The Inquisition knows where to find me now; what will they do to Wullum? She didn't think that Daghorn knew the truth of her magic, as only Ebarren and Wullum had seen her use it, but even his suspicion could put her brother in danger.

  Gwen tried to put her thoughts at ease, but they swirled in her head and made her stomach turn over. She smoothed her skirts, clammy hands comforted by its softness. Perhaps she could send a letter to her brother, warn him...but that might only make things worse. She could do nothing for Wullum now. She, at least, was safe under the earl's protection. But that idea, of course, reminded her of the proposal, and her guts only churned more.

  Thankfully, no one else was in the novum, and Gwen shut the door behind her. She sank to her knees in the middle of the calming space and stared at the nine statues arranged around her, each lit by a multitude of long candles. Not having learned the names of these new gods yet, Gwen whispered her own familiar ones: "Ittar, father of all; Rebir, mother of Earda; Junan, brother-and-sister-in-one: I pray that you still hear me in this strange place. I'm sorry for not turning to you sooner, but I feared that my voice wouldn't carry to you. I seek repentance for my sins, and ask you to help me."

  As she looked up at nine statues, Gwen imagined the three images she knew. Ittar, his beard long enough to wrap around his torso three times, sat in the middle. Rebir was always placed to his right, her body rounded, and Junan to the left, a figure both man and woman. Securing their visages firmly in her mind, Gwen prayed, "Keep Wullum safe. I will do everything I can to live well and happily, as he asked me to, if only you keep him safe. I don't know what to do with Earl Seastone. He is kind and handsome, but I don't know him." Gwen paused to think about Lord Daghorn. "Without Wullum to help me...I must turn to the earl, mustn't I?" The nine unfamiliar gods gazed down at her, their faces blank. However, one of them, a woman, had her hand held out in a friendly way, her smile apparent even in the semi-darkness. Gwen
thought her to be the Dotsch version of Rebir: motherly and warm. The more Gwen looked, the more she thought the statue to be kindly rather than strange. "Earl Seastone is good to me. He wouldn't let me come to harm, and he would treat me well. Rebir had only known Ittar for three days before he impregnated her with Earda, and she has loved him ever since. I will take Druam Strilu as my husband, as Rebir took the highest father."

  Gwen clasped her hands and finished her prayer. "Let my decision be the right one. Protect Wullum, and keep all creatures of Earda within your hearts. A'alatar."

  Gwen gathered her skirts to stand, then stopped, for there was something else she must atone for. Bowing her head, she whispered, "The Inquisition has taken innocent people and hanged them. I am guilty of possessing and using magic, and yet I am free. I promise that I shall never again cast magic. I will be an obedient wife and a good mother, if I am blessed to be such, and I will not let my talents tarnish this new life you have granted to me. A'alatar."

  Chapter Eight

  Seanna

  THE QUEEN of Dotschar languished in silk sheets, delighting in the touch of her partner's skin, its dimples and moles, the bumps of bone along her spine. She traced her hand up the other's back, waiting for the undressing to be done. Already naked herself, Queen Seanna tried not to look down at her five-month pregnant belly: it was horrid and huge with blemished skin. Ugly.

  The rest of her, though, was beautiful. Everyone thought so. With Eadron blood from her grandfather, Seanna had ochre skin with dark hair and darker eyes. Like her mother, she wore her hair in relaxed curls that made her round face seem thinner. She had a look, when peeking up from under her thick lashes, that made men's hearts tremble with lust.