Hell's Gate-ARC

by David Weber

  Perthis raised one hand in salute to the raven-haired young woman waving from the window of the hideously overdone, antique carriage rolling past below him. He hadn't counted on her, but he'd already set his research staff to work on her. She might just prove almost as effective for his purposes as her father.

  Not, Perthis' smile vanished, that she was likely to thank him for it once she realized what he'd actually done to her and her family.

  The approach to the Great Palace was lined with cheering crowds all the way to the ornate palace gates, which were guarded by men in Othmalizi uniform. They carried the same Model 10 as the Ternathian Army, something Andrin was proud of herself for recognizing. Her father had not allowed her to skip that portion of her education, just because she wouldn't be serving in Ternathia's armed forces.

  The officers in charge of the guard details saluted sharply as the Seneschal's carriage passed through the gates, and their men presented arms crisply, but there was a taut professionalism under that military theater. Their eyes were sharp and intense, obviously screening the passengers in each of the carriages behind them in the long procession, as well. Andrin found that rather reassuring as she thought of the protesters she'd seen along the way.

  The palace's drive ran down a short avenue of palm trees, then ended in a circular space before the glittering building's ornate main doors. Those doors, Andrin knew, were panels of solid, burnished silver, more than twice her father's impressive height. Her study of the Grand Palace's history had already told her that, but nothing could have prepared her for the reality of their mirror-bright magnificence, and she swallowed a silent gasp of amazed delight as she finally beheld them with her own eyes.

  If the Emperor was particularly impressed by the sight, he gave no sign of it. He simply exited the carriage first and handed her down. Then he stepped courteously aside for the Seneschal, and waited for their host to precede them across the stone-paved drive to the main steps. Those steps were of polished white marble, lined by liveried servants who bowed or curtsied nearly to the ground as they passed.

  The enormous doors swung open as they approached. Each panel was a bas relief masterwork, illustrating key scenes of Ternathian history that Andrin recognized at a glance. She lifted the hem of her skirts as she stepped across the raised threshold—a curious architectural feature she'd never seen before—then paused as a servant bowed low and slipped her cloak from her shoulders. Other servants were taking the coats and cloaks of other members of their delegation, which followed discreetly behind, and Andrin stepped forward once again. Her footsteps clicked on the marble floors, and she managed to keep her lips closed against a powerful urge to gape.

  It wasn't easy. The Great Palace put Hawkwing to shame.

  Andrin had never witnessed such opulence in her life. The huge entry hall alone was stunning, a glittering marble room filled with the finest art treasures of Sharona. She'd seen illustrations of at least half the marble and bronze statues they passed along the way in textbooks on art history and the masterworks of antiquity, but she didn't have time to admire them the way she wanted to. There was too much to do, and too many people to see, and she forced her attention back to the task at hand.

  Othmalizi courtiers bowed low as they passed. Great ladies in gowns as elaborate as Andrin's curtsied, graceful as flowers and jeweled more splendidly than most reigning kings and queens. It was a daunting experience for any seventeen-year-old, but Andrin refuse to let anyone see that. And it helped enormously, she discovered, that—due entirely to Lady Merissa's efforts—she could rest secure in the knowledge that her own attire at least matched that of the court ladies, while Finena's silver feathers shone as brightly as any jewels in the sunlight streaming through tall windows and skylights.

  And my great-grandmothers lived in these rooms, she found herself thinking again and again as they passed from one stunning chamber to another. She quickly lost track of the rooms they'd crossed, a seemingly endless maze of corridors and vast, echoing chambers. It seemed to go on forever, but they finally ended their journey at last in what was clearly an audience hall. One which was filled at the moment with a glittering array of people whose widely varying skin and hair color—not to mention their garments—proclaimed them to be official delegates to the pending Conclave.

  Andrin stiffened internally at the sight and scalding anger flared through her. Their host had brought them straight from the docks to an official function, without even offering them the chance to rest or wash the salt from their skin, or even the slightest warning that this reception awaited them.

  Another calculated insult? Or just gross insensitivity?

  Then another thought flickered through her anger. Had these people already been assembled here for some other event? Or had everybody come to this room specifically to greet her father's arrival? She didn't know of any discreet way to find out, and there was little time to think about it as a waiting functionary called out their names in a piercing voice.

  "His Crowned Eminence, the Seneschal of Othmaliz! His Imperial Majesty, Zindel chan Calirath, Emperor of Ternathia! Her Imperial Highness, Grand Princess Andrin of Ternathia!"

  Polite applause greeted them, and Andrin gave the assembled crowd a brief, decorous courtesy, carefully balancing Finena on her arm. Her father gave an equally brief bow, and a ripple of conversation ran through the room, much of it focused on the falcon riding her arm. And then the inevitable round of introductions and greetings began.

  The first face Andrin saw belonged to a Uromathian prince, several years her senior. The young man's almond eyes had gone wide with stunned envy and shock when he saw that Finena wore neither hood nor jesses. Another Uromathian prince standing beside him was gasping something to his older companion, but she wasn't close enough—or sufficiently fluent and Uromathian, yet—to catch what he was saying.

  Unlike Finena, the falcons both princes carried wore jeweled and tasseled hoods. Strong leather jesses bound each bird's taloned feet to its owner's gloved wrist, and Andrin flicked a cool glance across the bound birds and inclined her head to the princes as she swept past on her father's arm. Another Uromathian prince farther down the line caught her glance and startled her by grinning and sweeping an ornate bow to her, balancing his own falcon carefully on one wrist. He was not a handsome young man, but his eyes sparkled with open delight as he took in the stunned gazes of his fellow Uromathians.

  Andrin committed his face to memory, determined to find out who he was, where he came from, and why he was so pleased by his peers' dismay. If she asked Lady Merissa—and she fully intended to do so—her protocol instructor would doubtless have his name, rank, family pedigree, and net worth to the last decimal place by the time they sat down to supper tonight.

  But first they had to endure an endless receiving line. It was rapidly apparent that at least two thirds of the delegations had already arrived, and each member of every single delegation was waiting with bated breath to meet the Emperor of Ternathia and his overly tall daughter. And she was overly tall, she thought glumly. In fact, she towered over most of the men and all the ladies, until the Farnalian delegation reached them, at which point she wanted to throw her arms around the Dowager Empress of Farnalia with a gasp of pure thanks for standing taller than she did. The elegant, silver-haired Dowager Empress flashed a conspiratorial smile as Andrin greeted her formally, then dropped a wink that cheered the girl immensely.

  "You probably don't remember me, my dear," the Empress said, her voice quiet but surprisingly deep with emotion. "You were only a baby the last time I was in Estafel, but your grandmother and I were dear friends as girls. I stood beside her at her wedding, and she stood with me at mine. You must come and see me at dinner this evening."

  "Grandmama has spoken often of you," Andrin replied, smiling in genuine delight. "I should adore a chance to visit with you, at dinner or any time at all."

  "You're kind to humor an old lady. I'll see you this evening." The Empress pressed a socially correct kiss to
her cheek, but her hand was warm and strong when she gripped Andrin's fingers.

  The only other good thing to come out of that interminable receiving line was the chance to discover the name of the Uromathian prince with the infectious grin. When he reached Andrin and her father, she discovered—to her secret delight—that while he might be Uromathian by blood, he was no subject of Emperor Chava.

  "Junni Fai Yujin, King of Eniath, and Crown Prince Howan Fai Goutin," the Othmalizi functionary handling the introductions intoned.

  Like many of the semi-nomadic people he ruled, Junni Fai Yujin was a large man for someone of Uromathian blood. He was shorter than Andrin, but only by half a head, and his shoulders were actually broader than any part of her. That was a distinct first for any of the men she'd so far met from the other Uromathian delegations, and he bowed over her hand with fluid grace, despite his size. He spoke no Ternathian, and her Uromathian wasn't up to the radically different dialect spoken in Eniath, which shared almost as much linguistic heritage with Arpathian as it did with Uromathian.

  She curtsied deeply, indicating her respect for his kingdom and his people—and for their renown as falconers. To her amusement, the king was staring at Finena more rapturously than he was at her, and she angled her arm to bring the white-winged falcon to a better viewing angle.

  "Finena," she said softly, stroking the glossy white feathers.

  "Finena," the King breathed in response. He glanced up at her, his dark eyes filled with questions he lacked the words to ask. Then he turned to his son and rattled off something Andrin couldn't begin to catch. Crown Prince Howan Fai Goutin, whose family name—like those of all men of Uromathian dissent—was traced through the middle name, not the last, spoke in halting Ternathian.

  "Name of silver one is . . ." he paused a moment, mentally translating. "What for meaning?"

  "What does her name mean?

  "Please?" he nodded.

  "White Fire," she said, and Prince Howan's eyes glowed.

  "Ahhhhh . . ." The sound was almost reverent, and then the prince turned and spoke formally to his father. Andrin caught three whole words of the rapid exchange. Then King Junni ask another question, which Howan relayed.

  "Please, why Finena no corded?"

  Andrin glanced at the jesses on both the King's falcon and Prince Howan's. They were magnificent birds, and she longed to see both of them flying unhindered through the bright sky as free as Finena herself. Then she looked up and met Prince Howan's gaze for a moment before she turned and spoke directly to King Junni himself.

  "Does one chain the wind?" she asked simply. "Finena is free. She stays for love of Andrin."

  Prince Howan hissed softly. When Andrin risked a swift glance in his direction, she found not the censure or displeasure she'd half-expected to see, but a look of such respect it stunned her. He spoke briefly to his father, and King Junni made a sound almost precisely like his son's. Then he lifted Andrin's free hand and drew her fingers forward, resting them briefly against his own heart. He turned to her father, still holding her hand, and bowed with deep formality. Then he spoke again, and prince Howan once again translated.

  "My father says Ternathia grows wise daughters. He must talk with you. Soon. Before Conclave."

  "Ternathia is honored." Her father bowed. "It will be my pleasure to speak with Eniath, whenever King Junni Fai Yujin chooses."

  King Junni bowed again, still with that deep formality, and departed with great dignity. The crown prince gave Andrin a piercing glance and an equally formal bow, then followed his father down the receiving line, and Zindel leaned close to stroke Finena's wings.

  "Well done, indeed, 'Drin," he murmured in a low tone, for her ears alone. "That was as nice a piece of diplomacy as I've seen in many a year. I need Eniath's support in Conclave, and I wasn't sure I could get it. Now there's at least a piece of common ground—and mutual respect—to build from."

  She went nearly giddy with pleasure and wanted to give him a radiant smile, but contented herself with a small upturn of her lips, acutely conscious of the crowd of people watching her every move. Controlling her face was difficult, but she managed it, and his eyes lit with an approval that made her feel as if her feet were floating ten inches above the marble floor.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Shaylar and Jathmar sat in their quarters in Fort Wyvern, talking quietly with Gadrial, and listened to the wind.

  It was dying down at last, and they were glad. The thunderstorms on the far side of the portal had raged with only occasional periods of relative calm for better than twenty-four hours after their arrival here, and the violent weather seemed to have spread to this side. At least, that was what it had felt like for the next two days, as rain and strong winds pummeled Fort Wyvern. None of the transport dragon pilots had been at all happy about the prospect of taking off under such conditions, and Jasak had decided not to push the issue. Instead, they'd settled down to wait out the weather on both sides of the portal before proceeding.

  It had not been a comfortable wait. Five hundred Grantyl, Fort Wyvern's commanding officer, was very different from Five Hundred Klian. There'd been none of the sympathy, none of the awareness that what had happened certainly wasn't their fault, that they'd seen in Klian. Instead, there'd been suspicion, hostility, and more than a little fear. It had been obvious to Shaylar that Grantyl would have been far more comfortable locking them up in a dungeon somewhere, and preferably losing the key.

  The fact that he hadn't gone ahead and done exactly that underscored the accuracy of what Jasak and Gadrial had told them about the institution of shardon. Shaylar had been too far away to catch more than a few fragments of the "discussion" between Jasak and Grantyl, but she hadn't needed her Talent to recognize how disgruntled—and angry—Grantyl had been. Yet despite his anger, and despite the fact that he outranked Jasak substantially, the five hundred hadn't even attempted to put them into close confinement. He'd insisted on stationing sentries outside their quarters, but aside from that, they'd been treated almost as guests. Not welcome guests, perhaps, but still guests.

  "You know," she said now to Gadrial, "I don't think I'd truly realized—not deep down inside—just how lucky we are that Jasak is basically a decent man."

  Jathmar stirred, sitting on the bed at her side, and she reached out and took his hand. Her husband's attitude towards Jasak remained far more ambivalent than her own.

  "I don't think this fort's commander," Shaylar went on, "was all that happy about not throwing us into chains the instant we got here."

  "You're right, Grantyl did want to lock you up in the brig beside vos Hoven," Gadrial said. "But he's an Andaran himself, which didn't leave him much choice but to accept Jasak's position. Of course," she smiled thinly, "he also knows who Jasak's father is, which may have had a little something to do with it."

  "I'll settle for that," Jathmar said with a slightly grim answering smile.

  "So would I, in your place." Gadrial nodded, but there was an edge of unhappiness, or concern, perhaps, in her tone, and Shaylar arched her eyebrows.

  "You don't seem entirely satisfied about something," she observed, and Gadrial grimaced.

  "It's just that I'm not too happy about the commander of the next fort," she admitted.

  "Why?" Jathmar demanded, his eyes suddenly intent.

  "Two Thousand mul Gurthak most definitely isn't Andaran. In fact, he's a Mythalan, and although he hasn't chosen to flaunt it, he comes from a fairly prominent shakira clan-line. He's also a long way away from any authority which might overrule him . . . or punish him. Frankly, if anyone's likely to try to violate Jasak's role as your baranal, it's going to be a Mythalan."

  "Why do you and Jasak hate Mythalans so much?" Shaylar asked. Gadrial simply looked at her, and Shaylar shrugged. "You said Magister Halathyn was a Mythalan, and from what I saw and sensed about him, he was a wonderful man. But I've never heard you or Jasak say a positive thing about any other Mythalan, aside from Sendahli. And that other soldi
er of Jasak's—that vos Hoven—almost sets himself on fire with his own hatred every time he looks at Jasak."

  "It's a long, complicated situation," Gadrial said slowly. "And I take the point you're trying to make. In fact, it's probably true that the mere fact that mul Gurthak is Mythalan would be enough to make me . . . wary of him. But if the question you're really asking is whether or not our opinions of Mythal and its society are warranted, you might think about the fact that Jasak and I come from extremely different backgrounds . . . and neither of us can stomach the way Mythalans think societies should work."

  "Why?" Jathmar asked, and Gadrial sighed.

  "In our universe, Mythal—what you call Ricathia—has the oldest civilization of any of our major cultures. It's also where almost all of the techniques for handling magic, tapping the energy field, were first worked out. A lot of that development stemmed from pure trial and error in the early days, but Mythalans have been studying magic for a long time, and they began working out the theory behind those early brute force applications well over two thousand years ago. The true scientific method only evolved in the last few hundred years, but most of their original theoretical work has stood up extremely well. Even today, they dominate in the field of theoretical sorcery. They're not as good at devising practical applications of their own research as, say, my own people are, but the most prestigious of all of the academies of magic is still the Mythal Falls Academy, where Magister Halathyn used to teach."