The Summer Queen

by Joan D. Vinge

  Even before the first shuttle had set down on the starport grids, the Ilmarinen’s sensors had begun to pick up data about Tiamat that had made everyone on board—except himself—abruptly paranoid. Their routine EM scans had turned up evidence of widespread, if primitive, use of electronic equipment where there should have been complete EM silence; evidence of factories and new construction: real progress, instead of the primitive lifestyle and cultural stagnation they had been told to expect.

  He had kept his own responses muted and cautious—downplaying the concern of everyone around him as much as he could without revealing too much, second-guessing every word that came out of his mouth for fear some casual comment would reveal that he knew too much, about the past, about the present … about the Summer Queen.

  He had sent Vhanu as his emissary to the palace yesterday—since that was where the local constabulary said that Moon Dawntreader made her home now—but Vhanu had not seen the Queen. He had been met by her representatives, led by a blind woman named Fate Ravenglass, who was a sibyl … and a Winter. Vhanu had not remarked on it, still too unfamiliar with the social situation here to comprehend the significance of that fact. They had formally set the time of the meeting he was about to attend, and that was all.

  He let his eyes shift focus, no longer registering the gaping natives or the strangely familiar forms of the hive-like buildings behind them, half as old as time … seeing instead his own reflection. His tense, expectant face looked back at him, as insubstantial as some ancestor’s spirit. But he saw in his mind’s eye the unlined, unremarkable face of twenty-five-year-old Inspector Gundhalinu, whose memory still haunted this city that he had not seen in nearly twelve years.

  “There seems to be remarkably little change in the city itself,” Vhanu said beside him, “compared to the data we have, at least.”

  “Superficial changes are all anyone, including the Hegemony, has ever made on Carbuncle,” Gundhalinu murmured. “Carbuncle is … almost mythic, in its way. A functioning relic of the Old Empire. That was what made me choose it for my first duty post, when I joined the Police. I wanted to see it for myself, before that became impossible.”

  “And were you disappointed by the reality?”

  Gundhalinu’s mouth twitched. “By its superficial realities, yes—I suppose I was. But there is a deeper level of reality here, a depth to this place, and that did not disappoint me at all. I found it unforgettable.” He smiled self-consciously. “I suppose that sounds like a lot of mystical drivel, doesn’t it?”

  Vhanu laughed. “Well, yes, actually.… But then, I wasn’t here. You were.”

  “Yes … I was.” Gundhalinu looked out the window again, taking a deep breath to ease the aching tightness in his chest.

  “Tell me,” Echarthe asked, “did you ever meet the previous Queen?”

  Gundhalinu grimaced. “I had that misfortune, on more than one occasion. Everything the reports said about her is true. She was a soul-eater.”

  “Did you meet the new Queen?”

  “I … Yes. Briefly. But before she had become the Queen.” He felt Vhanu glance at him in surprise. “She had come to the city looking for her pledged—her husband. I helped her find him.” He glanced at Echarthe, away out the window.

  “How did she strike you?”

  Gundhalinu looked up again, said carefully, “Determined. Smart. Deserving.”

  “She bears an uncanny resemblance to the Snow Queen, in the holos I’ve seen,” Echarthe said. “There were questions about it in the departure records. In light of what we’ve seen so far, this push toward technological development, it raises some serious questions in my mind—”

  “Many Tiamatans bear a striking resemblance to one another,” Gundhalinu said abruptly. “The population is small and isolated; that means a concentrated gene-pool.” He gestured at the window. “Just look out there along the Street. You’ll see what I mean.”

  “Do you think the Queen remembers you favorably?” Vhanu asked. “It could help us in establishing the new government here, if she does.”

  Gundhalinu shrugged; the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. They were nearly in the Upper City already, almost to Street’s End. “We’re about to find out,” he said.

  * * *

  They came to Street’s End at last, and the wide, alabaster courtyard before the palace entrance. Gundhalinu felt a strange sense of déjà vu as he discovered workers there, sweeping, scrubbing, keeping the surface pristine—just as they had nearly two decades ago, in local time, the last time he had laid eyes on them. He wondered if any of them were actually the same people, still at their same task after all these years, their lives that stable and unchanging. He saw the local constables on guard at either side of the palace doors. They no longer wore the imitation offworlder uniforms of Arienrhod’s security force, but plain everyday clothing instead. An armband and a crested hat were all that set them apart as peacekeepers.

  The hovercraft he rode in, and the two craft accompanying it, settled without noticeable impact onto the alabaster pavement. The high carven doors of the palace began to open toward him, like outstretched arms, across the square.

  He shook off the image, as the door of his hovercraft unsealed and rose, letting in the breath of the city, rich with exotic smells that were both strange and strangely familiar. He climbed out, flanked by a phalanx of guards in the dusty-blue uniform that he knew so well, but no longer wore himself. Any of them could have been his companions, in the former time … could have been himself.

  He felt the years fall away from him in a sudden, almost dizzying rush. From a distance, as if from that other world, he heard faintly echoing voices speaking Tiamatan. The workers had gathered at the far side of the courtyard, pointing and murmuring. He had recovered his skill with the language, using the same indoctrination tapes he had made everyone else study. But here, confined inside the echoing city walls, the words sounded different in a way he could not define. More real, in this three-dimensional context of real place and real people.

  He turned, forcing his body to move, looking toward the palace. Its entrance stood open, but no longer empty. As the small crowd around him began to step aside, making way for him, he saw clearly who it was who waited for him there. He stared, all other motion suddenly impossible, every other human being around him ceasing to exist. It was only himself … and her, inside a moment where time had stopped. He went on looking at her, sure that he must be dreaming, because he had dreamed of this moment so many times.

  But he did not wake, and still she did not disappear … still she looked the same as he remembered, after all these years … exactly the same, not a day older. He looked down suddenly, almost expecting to find himself transformed by the same spell, the dark magic of this haunted city—still wearing his old uniform, still hardly more than a boy.

  But he wore the stark, unadorned black of a Chief Justice. The fishhook-barbed star of his sibyl trefoil rested in silent affirmation against his chest. He looked up again, wondering if he had gone half-blind, or insane.

  He felt Vhanu’s hand on his arm, surreptitiously urging him to make some response. He turned slightly, to Vhanu’s curious glance. “They’re waiting for us; whenever you’re ready, Justice—”

  “Yes, of course.” Gundhalinu ran his hands down his clothes in a compulsive gesture, looking toward the waiting figures. He looked back at the guards surrounding him. “You three,” he gestured at the three men closest, “will come with us.”

  “But Justice—” Echarthe protested. “Don’t you think—”

  “We’ll be safe enough,” Gundhalinu said impatiently. “Let the others guard the hovercraft—the vehicles are in more danger from the curiosity of the locals than we are.” He started forward, walking with even, controlled strides that seemed to belong to someone else. He watched the woman before him growing clearer, every detail about her more real—and yet still she did not age. “She hasn’t changed…” he murmured incredulously, to Vhanu. He had counted
the years elapsed, his time, her time, knowing that she should be at least as old as he was now.

  “Then she’s using the water of life,” Sandrine said, with sudden, unpleasant obviousness. “It’s the only way she could have stayed that young.”

  “That’s impossible,” he murmured. And yet he could see that she was unchanged, untouched by time. She was looking back at him, watching him come—but he saw no flicker of recognition in her strangely colored eyes. She still wore her hair long and loose, falling nearly to her waist; her clothing was made of what looked to be bright-colored offworlder cloth, vintage clothes recut to look more like the Tiamatans’ own shapeless, pragmatic garments. Her gaze took in his face, his uniform, his trefoil, his companions, all with equal fascination, and equal lack of emotion.

  He stopped before her, wondering at what point this would cease happening to him; whether if he tried to reach out and touch her she would disappear. Swallowing to ease his throat, he made a brief, formal bow. “Lady,” he said, careful to use the proper form of address for the Summers’ Queen. Hearing his own voice speak Tiamatan was more disorienting than hearing strangers speak it. “I am the new Hegemonic Chief Justice.”

  “I’m not the Lady,” she said, and giggled, abruptly and disconcertingly.

  He blinked, staring at her with an incomprehension so complete that it made her laugh again.

  “I’m Ariele Dawntreader.” She made something that vaguely resembled a bow in return. “The Queen is my mother. She sent me out to greet you.”

  “Oh,” he said, inadequately. He gazed at her in astonishment, realizing belatedly that she was not wearing a sibyl trefoil—did not even have the tattoo at her throat. He was aware that he went on staring at her, but he was unable to stop. “I didn’t know.… You look so much like her. I thought—”

  “He thought the Queen had been using the water of life,” Sandrine said bluntly.

  Gundhalinu frowned and gestured him silent as he saw sudden anger come into the girl’s eyes, and disgust.

  “We don’t kill the mers anymore,” she said, looking back at Gundhalinu, and he heard the defiance in it. This time it was one of the people behind her who put a restraining hand on her shoulder. He realized—for the first time in a meaningful way—that there were others waiting with the girl, observing him; left unacknowledged by his disbelief at finding so much of a lifetime had passed in a heartbeat, that the woman he had been expecting to see had a daughter who was as old as she had been when he had left her—maybe older. A daughter. A husband …

  He nodded in belated acknowledgment to the others in the welcoming committee—three older Tiamatan women, two of them wearing sibyl signs, one of them quite obviously blind, probably the woman Vhanu had spoken to. The third woman stared back at him as though she seemed to recognize him, although her face did not look at all familiar to him. The dichotomy between the group in front of him and his own group struck him suddenly—one all female, the other all male. He wondered whether Moon had done it intentionally, wondered what reactions the others around him were having to the situation.

  “Please come with us,” the girl said, turning her back on him with unconscious arrogance. The other women stood aside for her, more tolerant than obedient, and followed her inside.

  He followed too, flanked by his own people, like night following day. He wondered what Moon’s motive had been in sending her daughter to greet him; if she had meant to remind him of all the things that it had reminded him of … time, mortality, all that had passed in their separate lives since the day of his departure. Or whether she had simply meant it as an honor to her daughter, as an answer to a child’s curiosity. Her child …

  He glanced from side to side as they moved along the entry hall, seeing the scenes of Summer’s bounty that had replaced the Winter murals of storms and snow. He remembered walking this hall before, more than once; the details came back to him with startling vividness. He realized suddenly that there was another face he had not seen yet, one he had been expecting to see among the greeters at the gate: Jerusha PalaThion, who had saved his career when he had broken Hegemonic law to help Moon—and then given up her own career to stay on Tiamat.

  He had walked these halls with her, more times than he had liked, during his years on Tiamat. He had been stunned by her abrupt decision to remain here, even though he had thought he understood her disillusionment well enough, by then. And now, remembering the treatment she had received from the Hegemony she had served bravely and loyally, perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised that she was not eager to see an offworlder’s face at her door again … even his.

  He realized that a part of his mind had been listening as he walked for the sound of the Pit—the hungry moaning that had filled the Hall of the Winds, and filled his heart with secret terror. Crossing the bridge that spanned the Pit had been an ordeal that had never gotten easier for him … that probably never did for anyone with a shred of imagination.

  But this time there was no sound except the clatter of bootheels and the softer shuffling of leather-soled city shoes on the dark, polished floor, even as the corridor opened out suddenly, revealing the Hall.

  Still there was only silence. Gundhalinu almost stopped short, looking up to find the wind-curtains hanging slack. He forced himself to continue on, crossing the bridge in the Tiamatans’ wake, listening to the incredulous mutterings of Vhanu and Echarthe as they followed him across that perfect, railless span above the glowing green-blackness. He wanted to tell them about the wind, how much more terrifying it had been before … that by comparison what they saw now was completely harmless. He didn’t.

  He remembered the last time he had stood in this hall, a dumbstruck witness as Moon Dawntreader stopped the winds. He wondered if she had been responsible for stopping the winds for good. How, and what it meant if she had, he could not even imagine. So many questions … He forced himself to keep his gaze fixed on the way ahead; seeing the milk-white of Ariele Dawntreader’s hair, his mind unable to stop seeing someone else in her place. He had imagined this day of reunion so often … there had barely been a day since he left Tiamat when he had not imagined it. But he had never imagined it would be like this. He realized it would have been impossible to picture the reality, to imagine the absurd ordinariness of it all.

  They reached the far side of the Pit at last, although it felt as if they had been walking suspended above it forever. They went up the broad stairway beyond, which he remembered with a peculiar fondness because it always followed that excruciating passage. At the top of the steps had been Arienrhod’s throne room, its carpet always as flawless as untrodden snow, bejeweled with brightly colored courtiers. There the Snow Queen had waited for her visitors—her victims, still sweating from their ordeal with the Pit—clothed in white, sitting on her crystal throne; pretending to be immortal, an elemental, Winter incarnate, as pitiless and cold as ice.…

  But it was not Winter that waited for him now. The throne room, which had once been as starkly white and silver as a crevasse, had melted into a place of random earth tones, the fresh colors of spring, greens of all shades, rust and clay, earth brown, a startling flash of blue.

  The convoluted crystal throne still sat in the center of the dais at the center of the vast, suddenly silent room. It was surrounded by a small group of attentive, expectant faces, which had all turned in his direction. And at their center on the throne sat a woman, her hair the color of snow, her eyes like mist and moss-agate. But she was dressed like the room in the colors of Summer, in silks and tapestries and homespun, the contrasts of texture and cloth somehow not absurd but perfectly in harmony. She wore a simple circlet of gold on her hair, set with a blood-red stone: a carbuncle.

  This time the face written into his memory had aged like his own … still unmistakably her face, but undeniably mortal, changed by time. And yet as he looked at her she struck his inner eye with such beauty that he had to look away or be paralyzed. His heart constricted. Moon, his heart said, his mind, his body … ev
ery part of him but his throat, which he would not allow to speak the word.

  He took a deep breath as he started on into the room. He forced his eyes to glance over the small group of people gathered around her, to do anything but touch her face again; suddenly afraid, after all these years, all the rehearsals of this scene he had played out in his mind, that he would lose control at this critical moment and destroy everything. Searching the crowd around her he found Sparks Dawntreader—remembered him, struck by his red hair, even though he had seen him only once, a mugging victim freshly arrived in the city from Summer, dazed and defiant at Jerusha PalaThion’s attempts to help him.

  He had never laid eyes on Sparks Dawntreader again—although Dawntreader was a figure more real in his mind than any number of people he had seen constantly for years in the time since then: Moon’s consort, her lover; the father of the girl who had already reached their side and turned back to gaze at the approaching strangers. Sparks looked past her, meeting Gundhalinu’s stare with eyes as green as envy, his gaze full of suspicion.

  Gundhalinu glanced away again into the crowd—stopped suddenly as he found the one face that stood out for its alienness the way his own would have, within that gathering of pale, sky-eyed figures. Jerusha PalaThion. He was stunned to see how her years of exile had aged her. He wondered with sudden empathy how much she had regretted her choice—if she had truly regretted it as much as her face said she had. But as she saw recognition in his eyes she smiled at him, a fleeting smile full of satisfaction. She nodded her head slightly, in acknowledgment.

  He let himself smile, barely, acknowledging her in turn before he had to look away again. Carrying her smile with him, he felt the room and everything in it suddenly stabilize.

  “Who is that woman?” Vhanu whispered in Sandhi. “She’s not Tiamatan.”

  “My former commanding officer,” Gundhalinu said softly. “Your predecessor; the former Commander of Police.”

  “Why is she here?” Tilhonne said blankly; as if the idea that she might have chosen to stay was incomprehensible to him.