"I'm worried," Mykella confessed. "I feel that something's not right, but I can't even say what that might be." That was certainly true, if not quite in the way Salyna would take it.
"Are they talking about marrying you off to that autarch-heir in Deforya?"
"Landarch-heir," Mykella replied. "Not in my hearing."
"You can't stay here, Mykella." Salyna straightened herself on the settee. "What would you do? Who would dare marry you? Father wouldn't let anyone of any status do so, because your sons would have a claim on being Lord-Protector, and he wouldn't accept anyone who didn't have position. You don't have any choice."
Mykella bit back what she might have said. "We'll have to see what happens. Has Father said anything about you?"
"He's said that one of the seltyrs in Southgate has a son."
Mykella couldn't help but wince. Southgate was far worse than Tempre for women.
"They say he's nice." Salyna's voice was level.
Mykella could sense the concern. "I do hope so."
Salyna finished a stitch, then rolled up her needlework. "I can only do this so long before my eyes cross." She yawned, then stood. "I'll see you in the morning."
"Good night." Mykella closed the history and set the volume on the side table, watching as Salyna left the parlor. She could tell her sister was disturbed.
What could she do? Except for functions like the upcoming season-turn celebration and parade and ball, or the High Factors' ball, or riding with escorts, she was effectively confined to the palace. And when she was out, she was never alone.
Could she use her "disappearing" skill when she took the inside main corridor back to her chambers? Getting past the guards at night should be easier because their post was in the main corridor, well back from the corner of the palace that held the family quarters, and they walked a post between the main staircase and the quarters rather than standing in one place in front of a single door or archway.
Mykella stood and walked to the doorway. How could she do what she had in mind? Sitting in a chair was one thing, but she needed to move. She couldn't keep creating a new image of the hallway without her in it with every step. Could she just create the feel of everything flowing around her as if she were not there?
She moistened her lips and eased the door open. Then she tried to visualize the light from the parlor flowing around her, as if the door had swung open without anyone there. Her vision seemed to dim, but she could sense the doorframe and the open door when she stepped out into the main corridor. One of the guards turned.
She had no idea if he saw her or if the light from the open door had attracted him. She closed the door, and it creaked as she shut it. After a moment, the guard turned away. She moved as quietly as she could, putting down one boot carefully, then the next, walking not toward her chambers, but toward the guards.
". . . thought I saw someone there . . . woman . . ."
The other guard turned in her direction. "There's no one here. Who would be up except for his regal heirness, strutting around in a tailored uniform that would never do in combat, panting after another pretty ass?"
Mykella stopped, hoping the guard would say more.
"He looks good in uniform . . . have to say that."
". . . jealous?"
"Wouldn't you be?"
The other guard snorted. "Just walk the post."
Mykella neared the two, but neither even looked at her, and they turned away. So did she, but by the time she stepped into her chambers, Mykella was breathing heavily. She was so light-headed that she felt as though she had raced up and down the main staircase of the palace a score of times.
But . . . the guards had not seen her. She smiled broadly as she sat on the edge of her bed. Her smile faded as she recalled Salyna's words.
VII
The gray light of a winter Septi morning seeped around the edges of the heavy window hangings. Mykella sat up in her bed. Her chamber, while not excessively chill, was far from comfortable, which was not unexpected since it had neither stove nor hearth.
Thrap.
"Yes?"
"It's Zestela, Mistress."
Mykella wanted to tell the head dresser to go away, but that would only postpone matters. She smiled. Perhaps she could test her skills and give the presumptuous dresser a bit of a shock as well. She slipped from under the covers and took three steps so that she stood against the wall beside the large armoire that held her everyday garments. She shivered at the feel of the cold stone tiles on her bare feet. Even the flannel nightdress didn't help. Still, when Zestela stepped into the chamber, she would not be able to see Mykella at first.
Mykella then twisted the light —that was the only way she could explain it— and called, "You can come in."
"Yes, Mistress."
The door opened, and Zestela bustled in, cradling a long formal gown in her arms and glancing around, seeking Mykella. She frowned as she stepped toward the foot of the bed, then looked back toward the armoire. "Mistress?"
Mykella waited until the dresser looked back toward the door before releasing the sight-shield . . . if that was what it was. "I'm here."
Zestela jumped. "Oh! I didn't see you."
"Sometimes I feel like no one does," replied Mykella dryly.
Rachylana entered the chamber. "No one overlooks you, Mykella."
Mykella ignored her sister's words and turned to the dresser. "What is it?"
"Lady Cheleyza sent this gown. She thought you might find it suitable for the reviewing stand for the season-turn celebration."
Mykella glanced at the drab beige fabric with the pale green lace. She shook her head. "I'd look like a flour sack in that. I'll wear the blue one I wore at the last turn parade."
"But . . ." stuttered the dresser.
Rachylana frowned. "Cheleyza is only being kind, and you have worn the blue before . . . several times."
"People will have seen me in it before. Is that so bad?"
Rachylana and Zestela exchanged glances.
"You can't keep wearing the same blue dress," Rachylana finally said.
"Then," Mykella said, "have the dressmakers make me one just like the blue, except in green, brilliant green. The next time, I'll have something else to wear that looks good on me."
"Yes, Mistress." Zestela bowed and slipped out.
Rachylana stared down at her older sister. "You're being difficult. Salyna said you were in a terrible mood last night, and I can see that hasn't changed."
"Because I don't want to look drab in public? Perhaps you'd do anything for dear Berenyt and his mother, but I do draw the line in some places. I'd rather represent Father, in wearing something that looks good and doesn't cost more golds."
Rachylana just looked at Mykella, then, without a word, turned and left.
Mykella could sense the anger, and she should have managed something far less direct, and only gently cutting, but she'd never been that good at fighting with words and expressions.
The rest of Septi was more routine, and, although conversation at breakfast was more than a little cool, neither Feranyt nor Jeraxylt seemed to notice. After eating, Mykella hurried to the Finance chambers and continued her quiet efforts to check on all the receipts that had been recorded in the past few seasons.
She knew she had to visit the Table chamber again, if only to see if she could learn more about how it worked, but that would have to wait until evening, when she could plead tiredness and retreat to her chambers.
The day dragged, and when she finally reached her chambers after dinner, it felt like torture to sit and wait, but she knew Salyna or Rachylana would come by and ask how she was.
Salyna did, announcing her presence with the lightest of knocks. "Mykella?"
"Yes?"
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. I just need to be alone."
"You don't want company? Sometimes that helps."
"Thank you, Salyna. I appreciate it, but I need to think some things out."
&nb
sp; "You're sure you're all right?"
"I'm sure." Mykella couldn't help smiling fondly at her sister's good-hearted concern. "I know where to find you if I need to talk."
"I'll hold you to it."
Mykella waited longer, a good glass, or so she thought, before she snuffed the wall lamp, not that she needed it much anymore at night, except to read, and moved to the door. She could not sense anyone nearby, and she drew her sight-shield around her, eased the door open, then closed it behind her. The guards didn't even look as she slipped along the side of the corridor, down the main staircase, and along the west corridor toward the rear of the palace.
The staircase guard at the rear of the main level posed another problem because he was stationed almost directly before the door she needed to unlock. She thought for a moment, then moved to one of the doors directly in his line of sight. Using one of her master keys, she unlocked the door, then depressed the lever and gave it a gentle push, moving away and hugging the side of the wide hallway. She stopped a good two yards short of the guard and flattened herself against the wall, waiting.
Several moments passed before the guard saw the open door.
"Who goes there?" He took several steps forward, peering through the dimness only faintly illuminated by the light-torches in their bronze wall brackets, not that all of them worked. It was a miracle that so many devices of the Alectors still functioned.
The corridor remained silent. Unseen behind her sight-shield, Mykella eased toward the stairwell door. Behind her, the guard advanced on the open door. Mykella slipped the key into the lock, then opened the staircase door, slipped through it, and closed it, quietly locking it behind her.
She took a long, slow breath before starting down the steps.
When she entered the Table chamber, she had the feeling that something had changed. A purplish mist seemed to rise from the mirrored surface of the Table, and the air even felt heavy and slimy. She wanted to turn and run. She didn't, but instead moved toward the Table.
Before she could even think about what she might wish to see, the swirling mists appeared, followed by the visage of the same Alector she had seen before.
You have returned. Excellent. The violet eyes fixed on her.
"Where are you? In Alustre?" She avoided looking directly at the Alector, sensing that was what he wanted.
Alustre? That would be most unlikely at present. But you are in Tempre, are you not?
"Where else would I be?" Mykella tried to feel what was happening with the Table.
You could use the Table to see all of Corus, and with my help, you could rule it all.
Mykella distrusted those words, even as the wonder of the possibility that mastery of the Table could create that kind of power washed over her.
She glanced up, only to see a pair of misty arms rising from out of the Table itself, arms and hands that began to extend themselves toward her, arms that exuded a cold and purple chill. With absolute certainty, she understood that if those arms ever touched her, she would be dead. Her body might live, but what was Mykella would be dead.
She stepped back, but the arms kept moving toward her. She created a sight-shield between her and the arms. The arms pressed against the shield, pushing it back and forcing Mykella to retreat as more purpleness flowed from the Table into those icy extensions that threatened her.
What could she do? Frantically, she tried to add another layer of sight-shields, only this time trying to make them stronger, welding them together.
She could feel herself being squeezed, pressed against the stone wall, but she could not give in. She had to hold on. Abruptly, the flailing of the arms against the barrier of her shields lessened. Then the arms themselves began to dissipate, fading and collapsing into the Table.
Were it not for the distance, steer, you would be mine.
Yet the unspoken words sounded hollow, and the purplish glow of the Table subsided, dropping until it almost vanished, as if the struggle between the distant Alector and her had exhausted it.
Mykella uttered a single sigh, almost a sob, shuddering as she stood there in the dimness of the Table chamber. She had to get out. She had to leave.
She forced herself to stand there, breathing deeply, waiting until she was no longer shaking or shuddering. Only then did she leave the chamber, making sure that the door was firmly closed behind her before she made her way to the staircase up to the main level. Once she reached the landing, she paused. The guard was back in position, standing less than a yard from the door.
As quietly as she could, she unlocked the door, then, holding the key in her hand, slowly depressed the lever and eased the door ajar, gathering her sight-shield around her. She could squeeze out, but barely, so long as the guard did not turn. Even if he did, he would not see her, but she wanted no attention paid to the lower level and the Table chamber.
She managed to get the door closed, but not locked, before the guard whirled. Mykella froze, standing unseen beside the door.
The guard stared at the closed door. "Not again."
Mykella eased a coin from her wallet and threw it down the corridor. It clinked loudly.
The guard turned, then stepped forward as he caught the glint of silver.
Mykella locked the door, then eased along the side of the hallway. She was exhausted and trembling by the time she reached her chamber, where, after sliding the seldom-used door bolt into place, she just sat dumbly on the edge of her bed.
As she sat there, still shaking, a greenish golden radiance suffused the room, and in its center hovered the Ancient, a winged and perfect version of a feminine figure, if less than the size of a six-year-old girl.
You have done well, child.
Mykella wasn't certain what to say to the Ancient . . . or if she could. She had so many questions, but she knew she could not delay. "Was that an Alector?"
Rather an Ifrit from the latest world they are bleeding of life. You must watch the Table to see that they do not try again, and you must become stronger. You will not take them by surprise again.
"I hardly know what I'm doing," Mykella protested.
You must learn to use your Talent.
"How can I learn with all the plotting and scheming going on here?"
If you learn, then the plotters can do little to you. If you do not, it matters little whether the plotters succeed or fail.
"Give me some useful advice." Not all these general platitudes.
Seek and master the darkness beneath the Table. With that, the Ancient faded and vanished.
Mykella sank onto her bed and buried her face in her pillow, trying to stifle the sound of her sobs and frustration.
VIII
On Decdi morning, nearly three days after her last and nearly deadly encounter with the Alector —or Ifrit— Mykella finally made her way back down to the Table chamber. Continuing her critical review of the ledgers holding the Lord-Protector's accounts had been slow, and less than encouraging, because she saw the same patterns everywhere. There were revenues missing from almost all the accounts, she thought; but any given amount was small, and, again, she had no real proof, only calculations and estimates and comparisons. That lack of real evidence was yet another reason why she had forced herself to revisit the Table, although she was dreading doing so. But the Ancient had been most definite, and Mykella had the feeling that matters were not about to improve by themselves, and greater control of the Table seemed to be the only possible way she could help her father against what appeared to be her uncle's machinations.
Because it was light, the only guards on the main level were posted in the rotunda of the main entrance, although, since it was end day, they took turns walking the halls. With her sight-shield, however, that arrangement was much easier to avoid.
Mykella entered the Table chamber with trepidation, but the Table itself continued to hold a diminished purplish glow, and she released a long sigh as she approached it. Once there, she tried to perceive more than the vague sense of what the Ancient h
ad called the darkness beneath. For a time, all she could feel was the slimelike purpleness, faint as it was.
Then she gained a stronger feeling of the darkness below, deeper and darker and far more extensive than she had sensed before yet carrying a shade of green much like that of the soarer herself. From somewhere, she recalled that to use some properties of the Table, one had to stand on it. Did she dare?
She laughed softly. How could anything more happen if she stood on the block of solid stone? Still . . .
Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 2 Num 2 Page 16