She turned slowly and ignored the gardener's revulsion at the figure walking towards her down the steps. Enemy. She sidestepped away from the gardener and looked up at the sky, irritated by the fabric that kept her from feeling the breeze on her skin. When she realized that she was muttering, she pressed her lips in a prim line before the Barbarian came close enough to make out the words.
“Viceroy. Excellent timing. I was admiring the make of your boots. Are they this century Barbarian? I seem to recall a similar model back in…” her voice trailed off as he stared over her shoulder, a look of absolute boredom on his face.
"Ambassador," he replied.
Lady Perr stood for a moment, embarrassment at her mistake warring with shock at the sound of his voice. He sounded warm, like the sun-streaked land he came from. She knew that voice with every fiber of her being.
"Are you ready for your Convotion with the High Precept, Ambassador?" she asked in trembling voice.
"On my feet the finest leather awaits the Precept's majesty."
Lady Perr stared at his face. Barbarian humor never slid towards inane. Perhaps he was trying to adapt to circumstances. Being given a mad host who took you for a long dead memory couldn’t be comfortable.
"Indeed. And on my feet..." she trailed off as she realized a smear of dried herbs was all that she wore. She shrugged. "Excellent. Shall we go by water or by stone?"
"Water?" he asked with a glint that spoke of a spy assessing the lay of the land.
"You'll be happy to know that a web of waterways connect the river to the High Palace. They are too shallow for a ship of any size, but make transporting supplies very feasible."
"You are too informative," the Barbarian said.
Lady Perr smiled blandly at the spy. "Not at all."
"By stone," the Barbarian said, shifting to cross black gloves over his chest.
She nodded her agreement and turned to lead him out of the courtyard. Behind her the Barbarian followed, shadowed by the gardener and the two Rasha in their silver armor.
He seemed bored as he followed, his dark Barbarian brows fixed in a dark Barbarian scowl as she danced over the stone path as it rose higher, into the tops of the trees. She felt an answer in each step, a thrum as her foot touched stone and the stone touched her, suspended over the earth.
She hummed as she moved quickly over the stone bridges and through the tunnels of green, where they passed trees. She very nearly forgot about the parade behind her of Barbarian, warriors, and gardener.
“Good evening Stallius,” she said, greeting a statue that emerged from the shadows. “This is my friend. He’s notorious for archery and good eyesight,” she said, turning to make introductions to the Viceroy. She hesitated with her hand on his sleeve. Something seemed so strange about this walk which should be like the thousands she’d taken before. She couldn’t remember what she was doing or why she was taking Balthaar to meet the High Precept. She gripped the sleeve for a moment frowning before she shrugged and let her hand slide from his arm. She went to the statue and cocked her head before she ran her hands over the stone bow he held. “It’s a pity that you can’t come to the celebration, Stallius. I’ll bring you back something.”
She walked on, quietly for a moment before she ran lightly to another statue of a beautiful woman who resembled Hatia. “Hello, grandmother,” she said smiling at the face which for a moment seemed to smile back. “I would like you to meet someone. Balthaar,” she said, turning to beam at him.
He walked placidly to the statue, performed a perfunctory bow over the stone hand, and turned to Hatia. “I see the resemblance,” he murmured as he brushed a hand against the veil. “She’s very beautiful.”
She pulled away, blinking at him in confusion. Her statues, her dreams, and her memories should not be talking back, should not be touching her. She glanced past him and saw the scowl of the gardener before he assumed his placid expression that matched the other two men.
“Come. We mustn’t be late,” she said, not quite remembering about the Convotion, but still determined to do her duty in spite of the shadows that clouded her mind. They emerged from a long, twisting tunnel that left Balthaar blinking when they emerged into the twilight. A waterfall tumbled down rocks to their left while the intricate stone bridge rose over the rushing water beneath their feet.
Balthaar paused on the bridge, soaking in the beauty of water reflecting moonlight while Hatia, the Lady of Perr fluttered around him.
She swayed beneath the moon, inhaling the effervescent droplets that rose around them, like drops of moonbeams hanging in the air. She moved faster, spinning and kicking her legs before she came down with a bustle and rush of gauze. She spun around and felt the edge of the bridge beneath her foot before the Barbarian caught her arm, his strong, calloused hand holding her on the brink while his gaze pierced the flimsy fabric that covered her face.
Her chest rose and fell as she looked up at him, his golden eyes warm in spite of the cool night as he gazed down at her, ignoring the fabric between them. The two contrasted sharply with each other, one pale and unsubstantial, the other dark and sturdy, like a tree deeply rooted while delicate cherry blossoms floated away.
“Lady of Perr,” the gardener said in a disinterested monotone that spurred the woman into motion, spinning away from Balthaar across the bridge and down the path, away from the moonlight’s spells.
"Gardener, who do you think the Viceroy should meet?" she asked in Barabbas. She barely glanced at the Viceroy who walked steadily after her, muscular arms across his chest, looking like he wanted a mace or something like to embrace. He looked like a soldier, patiently waiting for an irritation to dissipate.
“Whoever is willing to meet the Ambassador I suppose, Lady,” the gardener said, reminding her that he didn't approve of the Barbarian and that she kept using the wrong title.
She frowned fiercely at the gardener, but he simply waited with his arms over his chest, in a similar pose as the Barbarian neither of which seemed remotely repentant. She knew perfectly well that her fame came far more from being a madwoman than a lady. Dancing randomly along the sky stones lacked dignity, but the two of them had enough dignity for the entire world.
“Well then, Viceroy, you’re in luck. All the young ladies are certain to want to meet you. When you dance be careful not to trod on any toes. The toes of our people are very delicate.”
"Ambassador," he grunted, but that was all. Good. Grunting was exactly what one expected of a Barbarian. They continued on their way, passing the statues rising out of darkness in silence.
“I suppose you'll lead the dance,” the Barbarian said as they passed beside an extremely fragrant white blooming tree that smelled too sweet. Sickly sweet. Lady Perr wrinkled her nose. She preferred the grunting.
“Dancing is for young ladies,” she murmured.
The barbarian grunted as he raised an eyebrow at her, reminding her of the spinning a moment before and his steadying touch. She walked sedately as a mourner for a moment while her skin warmed from embarrassment. If one was going to be mad, it was best if one didn’t have lapses of sanity to embarrass oneself.
“I would prefer not to dance with young ladies.” Balthaar said sounding grouchy, like a battle- hardened captain who’d been sent to dance when he should be fighting.
She looked over her shoulder at him and caught in a flash of glowlight a frown that looked more concerned than grumpy. She raised her hand as if to brush the frown away then fisted her fingers, forcing herself to behave as a diplomat should.
In the close darkness the smell of cimarron seemed to bloom from the Barbarian like a fragrant crushed herb, pungent and spicy. Her heart thumped like a drum, calling the warriors home.
The trail of lights grew closer together as they neared the High Palace. Lady Perr straightened up and adjusted the gauze around her face. Maybe the gardener was right about not springing the Barbarian on the High Precept. She felt reluctant to take the Viceroy in to be passed around by the ladies
with their lovely arms. Who was she trying to protect, them or him? She muttered words that not even she could quite make out, a curse or a prayer, maybe the two mingling on her cool breath into the night air.
Chapter 11
She danced and sang ahead of them, sometimes in sing-song Elsyrian then switching to Barabbas with the accent of a Diplomat. Balthaar had picked the way least known to his kind but instead of mapping out the paths, he watched his guide, who appeared utterly caught up in her own aimless meanderings, darting here and there to snatch a flower, cradling it to her face before spinning then flinging it out, past the edge of the stone walkway to plummet to the ground, far below.
Balthaar had no doubt from the behavior of the malevolent gardener as well from the glowering of the green-skinned Elsyrian, that his identity of general was well-known. They had him in their city, at their mercy, so why continue the charade? Every time she called him Viceroy, his heart beat harder. Each time she came close to tumbling over the edge, he had to clench his hands to keep from reaching out for her hand. The words of the blue-skinned man, Hortham taunted him. Had the Bashai taken her? Were they the cause of her madness?
The gardener's glower cut into Balthaar’s back, clearly conveying his near outrage at the general’s presence. Balthaar wasn't defenseless, even without a sword at his side, but the feeling that he walked into a certain trap left his skin tight and heart thumping rapidly.
He could not doubt that it was Hatia, the young ambassador he'd known so long before, known and foolishly thought he'd loved. The years hadn't been kind to either one of them. He’d expected to feel satisfied to see her in this state, that her betrayal of him, of them, would have led to madness, but he felt nothing but sorrow and responsibility. If the Bashai had done this…
She'd needed his protection. Balthaar should have kept her safe, whether she'd wanted him to or not. He shouldn't have listened to her words, when she'd written him that she’d found an Elven lord who would suit her far more than a Barbarian.
___
He could feel the parchment in his hand, smell the delicate floral scent on the sheet that bore the swirls of her handwriting. The blue ink reminded him of her skin. For a moment he’d simply held the parchment, feeling the force of her presence in the message. When he’d begun to read, the words had swam before his eyes, confusing and bewildering him.
He didn’t believe she would leave so suddenly, not after the last evening, when they’d stood on the balcony in the moonlight, hands finger-width apart. He’d felt something then, something he’d never forget, something whole and bright and perfect, something that eclipsed every thought, every emotion and experience leaving only her in his heart. He’d whispered his name to her, a name engraved in his skin that only she and the Emperor would know. She’d gazed at him with her luminous eyes and seemed to understand the weight of his gift.
He’d left his room searching for her, taking the steps from his home on the edge of the palace to her place of residence on the opposite side, past the soldier’s garrison while the sun beat down, hot and heavy on Balthaar’s dark hair as he ran across the red stone.
___
He blinked back the dark garden. None of that mattered. Time, almost a hundred years, had passed while Balthaar destroyed her kind, brought them to the end of his sword at the Emperor's bidding. There he stood, in the luminously lit darkness, high above the earth on a stone bridge for the Emperor. If his guide fell over the side from her madness, that left one fewer Elsyrian for him to destroy, for the Emperor's army to decimate.
His duty, his responsibility would never be sworn again to an Elven Lady who pranced with unearthly grace in bare feet over the stones however his heart ached and his hands trembled from the effort to keep them away from her ethereal form. His hands wanted to protect her from the precipice, from the soldiers bearing swords, from the gardener who Balthaar knew bore no good will towards himself or his mistress, the Wind Spinner. He knew why they called her that, the way she spun in the wind like a cloud, a fallen leaf, without self-awareness or will to direct herself.
Balthaar closed his eyes, lips tightly pressed together as he held back his own curse.
Chapter 12
They walked up the wide steps while flowers cascaded overhead filling the air with heavenly scent that couldn’t quite cover the smell of decay that was bone deep in the city. Lady Perr didn’t mind the decay; it was appropriate. It matched her hat.
Inside she didn’t pause at the door to gaze in awe at the beautiful scene that must have stunned the Barbarian. She glanced over at him, but he looked back dully, the same unimpressed expression on his face. She glanced at the intricately carved pillared pink colored room where the very air was clouded in pink. The ladies, all equally beautiful, danced with the men, stately, impeccable movement designed to promote order and peace.
The musicians took up the space to the left of the Precept's dais. Lady Perr edged along the curved, pink wall in their direction instead of walking through the dancers. The words of the gardener came back to her, the warning he’d given. The Barbarian was the enemy, but he was also her guest, a guest the Head Precept had pressed upon her most forcefully.
A couple swayed near her and the male, the moss wearing Elsyrian hissed at the sight of the Viceroy. When Lady Perr halted abruptly the Barbarian stepped on the back of her Great Aunt's dress forcing her to lose her balance as too much weight fell on her recently wounded ankle.
The sound of the rip was far too loud as she stumbled. The Barbarian gripped her waist, keeping her from falling on her face at the feet of the disapproving man, a distant cousin who'd always expressed his disdain for her family's political views.
The viceroy’s rough hands pulled her upright while he stepped to her side in a classic pas-de-bough, turning her away from the offensive couple and into the dizzily whirling dance. He kept his hand on her waist as they moved until he took the more traditional quartre-fore position in front of her. His grace in the dance was surprising for someone who ripped people's dresses.
“What are you doing?” Lady Perr asked, staring at him bewildered.
“Dancing.” He spun her under his arm in a rush that had her stumbling towards him when she came out of it until her hands rested on his shoulders. She meant to push against him, but his hands were promptly on her waist in a firm grasp that made her think she wasn’t going anywhere. Barbarians were so firm once they had you in their grip.
“You said you weren’t interested in dancing.” Her heart pounded so loudly.
“I’d rather dance with the shroud than with one of those creatures. Those teeth are positively frightening.”
Lady Perr sniffed and leaned away from him, but he only used her opposition as counterweight while they spun around dizzyingly.
“I believe I mentioned that I don’t participate in the dancing,” Lady Perr murmured.
“I cannot believe that after your display on the trip. If you do not dance, I’m sure that’s simply for lack of partners. If I’m willing to humor you, I don’t see why you shouldn’t show your gratitude,” he said with an aloof nod that had lady Perr’s mouth dropping open.
She tripped over his foot, sending a twinge through her ankle. She was glad to see his smile flicker. “I do beg your pardon, sir. I’m not accustomed to being humored.”
“Excuse me,” the gardener’s voice broke in. “Head Precept would like you to introduce the viceroy to the court.”
She looked up at the fierce and furious creature and felt a slight tightening of the Barbarians arms around her before he withdrew and nodded with polite boredom. There was something she should remember, something important, but the memory vanished beneath an awareness of her awkward place beside the Barbarian.
Chapter 13
Balthaar shouldn't have danced with her, even if she were the only person who didn't wish to kill him. The other Elsyrians showed more than disdain for her. When they saw her, they veered away as though she had a disease they did not wish to catch.
Her gown and veil were not the end of her eccentricity. When the gardener interrupted their dance, Balthaar felt a slight shock when he realized that the two of them had taken over the ballroom, completely ignoring any and all other dancers as they performed a dance from a century before.
“Of course,” Hatia had said then led them like a small parade trailing through the staring dancers. She seemed to slow the closer they got to the dais that seemed suspended on strands of dew from the concave ceiling.
Balthaar knew that he treaded through enemy territory, but he felt strangely at ease as he stalked after his mad host through the ranks of vicious Elsyrians.
"Perhaps..." Lady Perr murmured as she held back. Had she only just realized the danger of their situation? If Balthaar were an Elsyrian, he would have mentioned the energy in the room, the wild excitement someone powerful struggled to dampen. Would the Precept behead the Barbarian right in the middle of the celebration? It would be a peculiar climax to the war Balthaar had waged.
“Lady Perr,” the High Precept said cheerfully coming forward with hands outstretched. Balthaar recognized him from the face imprinted in their coinage. Not gold, but stone. Elves had other uses for gold. “What a charming hat. I’m certain it will cause waves in the fashion world.”
A female on the dais in a gown that reminded Balthaar of whipped mint chiffon tittered at the Precept's words. Apparently the preferred fashion leaned towards pastry more than beekeeping. Pity.
“A Tsunami,” she whispered, the sort of court whisper that could be heard throughout the whole room. Her pearly smile triggered an emotion that Balthaar did not have time for. All the same, he bared his own teeth at her and spoke out of turn.
“As a Barbarian,” he said using the derogatory term he’d heard whispered by the Elsyrians, “I appreciate Lady Perr’s efforts to adopt the customs of my people in order to make me feel more at home.”
You could have heard a pin drop as everyone stared at ‘the Barbarian’ while he tried to keep his gaze firmly on the High Precept.
Forget Me Not, Page 4