The Summer Queen

by Joan D. Vinge

  She had searched the crowd all evening for the black uniform of the Chief Justice, the silver flash of a trefoil among the dazzling abundance of jewelry and medals. But she had not found him. BZ had appeared at every other function in the days between the disastrous arrival banquet and this masked ball; sitting beside her when it was required, but seeming to take no more pleasure in anything than she did. She had seen in his eyes both apology and resignation, and they had spoken to each other only when it was necessary. Tonight he must have left early—if he had even come at all, since with masks to hide behind anything was possible.… She started on, moving slowly toward the stairway at the far end of the room. The Prime Minister had gone, there was no one here anymore that she was required to wait for.

  A sudden flash of reflected light caught her eye. Turning, she glimpsed a mask through the blur of colors that made her stop in sudden fascination. In the crowd of bright repetition, someone was wearing a mask as distinctive as her own. Something indefinable about it told her that, like her own, it had been made by Fate Ravenglass. But she knew all the masks that Fate had made, only a dozen or so—by hand, in the old way, after she had been given back her sight. Fate had given them to Moon and her family, to Tor, to a few other people she considered her special friends. There were other surviving maskmakers, and some of them had gone back into business, selling handmade masks to rich Tiamatans and offworlders. But Fate, who had been counted the best of them all, had said she would not be bothered this time with masks that were not gifts of friendship.

  Moon wondered who it was who had received this gift, only able to tell that it was a man, from this distance. The shine of the mask caught her eye again as its wearer turned toward her, as if he felt her staring at him. The mask’s face was a mirror, reflecting the light and color and motion all around him, until it became a star in the heart of the night-blackness that framed it. She stood where she was, motionless, as he began to move toward her through the crowd. She watched him come, hypnotized by her own reflection gradually becoming visible in the mirror of his face, growing clearer, more distinct, as he approached her. And suddenly she knew him, by his motion, in the same way she had recognized the workmanship of his mask.

  “BZ,” she said, softly and with certainty, although he was not in uniform. She lifted her hand to him.

  “Moon.” His voice; his eyes, looking back at her from the heart of her own bizarre, masked reflection. He took her hand in his, touching it palm to palm in a warm caress. His fingers cupped hers and did not release them.

  “I thought you hadn’t come,” she murmured. “It’s almost over.”

  “I almost didn’t come.” He shook his head; his mask rustled like soft laughter. “But Fate sent me this mask. It would dishonor her gift if I didn’t use it tonight.”

  She looked down, at his hand still holding her own, seeing her fingers clinging to his, unable to let go. She looked up again, at his eyes, her eyes, the blackness of space and the wild profusion of spring reflected around them.

  “Where’s Sparks?” he asked, and she felt her heartbeat quicken suddenly. “Isn’t he here?”

  “He wanted to spend time with his father.”

  “Tonight?”

  “His father won’t be here after tomorrow.”

  “Ah,” he said. “But still, it’s Mask Night—”

  “I know.” She looked down at their hands again, still locked tightly together, holding them prisoner. She tried to pry her fingers loose.

  BZ’s other hand came up, to capture her free one. “Dance with me, then. There’s still music, still time.…”

  She stiffened, feeling suddenly awkward and provincial as he drew her close with gentle insistence. “I don’t know your dances—”

  “I taught your memory how to dance, once,” he murmured. His arms went around her, guiding her body into a formless motion against his own. “It doesn’t matter what we do, only that we do something, so that I can put my arms around you again and hold you against me.…”

  Her arms had nowhere left to go, except to go around him. A shockwave of heat rose through her as her hands felt the muscles of his back beneath the fine, almost silken cloth of his shirt. “This isn’t like you,” she murmured, and she would have laughed if her stunned, incandescent body had been able to breathe.

  He made an odd sound that was not really laughter, either. “What am I like, then? That miserable wretch who spent the last few days staring at you across crowded rooms, afraid to say more than, ‘Good day, Lady’? Chief Justice Gundhalinu—not Kharemoughi anymore, and not Tiamatan, neither fish nor fowl?… Or a man who spent twelve years of his life dreaming about you; who went to the end of the world for you, and wrestled spacetime to a draw in order to hold you in his arms again—?” His voice was as wondering as if he were possessed, and she remembered another night, the Festival night so long ago when he had spoken words like these to her.

  “Yes…” she said, telling him everything in that one word; giving him his answer. She reached up, touching her own reflection as she touched his face. And she remembered again that it was Mask Night, and the time of Change.…

  “I want to get out of here,” he said, almost desperately. “Let’s go somewhere else—there are parties all up and down the Street, there are—”

  “No,” she whispered, feeling the pressure of his body along her own, exquisite, unbearable. “Come with me, instead.…” She broke away and took his hand, leading him the last few steps across the floor toward the stairway. She did not look back, because there was no one left in the dwindling, faceless crowd who mattered, who cared where they were going now, or why. He followed her without question, without hesitation, up the white cascade of steps. They moved through the shadowed hallways of the upper levels until at last they reached the bedchamber that had been hers alone for too long.

  She stopped before the doorway, stopping him beside her. She reached up and removed his mask, with infinite care; needing to see his face before another moment passed … before they crossed the threshold into an unknown future. “This is the time of Change, when we cast off our sorrows—”

  His hands removed her mask with equal tenderness, set it down beside his against the wall. They stood, not touching now, but only gazing at each other’s faces. At last he took her in his arms, holding her as if he had never let her go, and she felt him trembling, as he had trembled on that night, not with cold but with fever heat.…

  They entered her bedchamber, and she let go of him only for the moment it took to close the door, sealing them into a private space where the greater universe could have no hold over them. But as the door closed behind her, she felt him hesitate; saw him look toward the bed she had shared for so many years with another man. “Are you sure…?” he whispered. “Moon, are you sure?” He looked back at her. “Because this time, by the gods, I won’t give you up.”

  She glanced toward the empty bed, and felt her throat close. But she looked at him again, and as she saw his face, all doubt, all regret, vanished. She put her arms around him, drawing his head down, and kissed him deeply, passionately, with the yearning of years; keeping her eyes open all the while.

  He lifted her off her feet in a sudden impulsive motion and carried her across the room. And then the wide, soft expanse of her bed was beneath her, and he was beside her on it, stroking her hair, caressing her face, his kisses like nectar as she drank the sweet draught of his soul.

  They broke apart at last; were caught up short by the sudden tangle of silver in silver, the barbed spines of their trefoils tangled in an embrace of thorns. She lifted her hands to slip the chain over her head. BZ did the same, setting himself free; the trefoils dropped to the floor, still entwined. But she saw the tattoo on his throat, like her own, still marking them both.

  She began to unfasten the clasps of her robes. Her fingers stumbled over her sudden, painful awareness of time: of all that lay between their first night of intimacy and this one. His eyes were to her the eyes of a stranger, to
whom she was about to make her body utterly vulnerable.

  He stopped the stumbling motion of her hands, moved them tenderly aside. “Let me…” he murmured, his voice husky. She lay back, letting her body go fallow, as he began, lovingly and gently, to remove her clothes. Every touch of his hands against her skin was like fire and ice, until she lay beside him, shivering with desire, feeling as if even her soul were laid bare. He touched her breasts, her belly, touched her softness— She caught hold of his hand, pressing it against her.

  But he withdrew his hand with a gentle insistence, whispering, “Wait.…” She watched him loosen his clothing, his own movements suddenly hesitant and self-conscious, as if he were afraid she would be disappointed by what she saw as he revealed himself to her. He stood before her, and she saw how quickly his breath came, how his heart beat, the smooth sheen of perspiration on his skin; how achingly eager he was.

  She touched him once, gently, felt him go rigid all over, heard him gasp. He sank onto the bed beside her. She kissed the tattoo in the hollow of his throat, as all her inhibition dissipated like smoke; kissed his chest, tasting moisture and salt, kissed the dark, soft line leading downward, while he buried his hands convulsively in the silver waves of her hair. His hands opened again, falling free, circling down her back in motions that were more and more urgent, as she devoured him with her hungry mouth; as he discovered her every hidden and private place until she had no secrets left, no thoughts, nothing but desire.

  She felt his arms go around her again, lifting her gently, drawing her down beside him as he laid his body against her, sliding onto her, between her, inside her, until at last their separate beings were joined into one. She sighed as he began to move inside her, with the same slow, sensual motion of their dance. The rhythm of their lovemaking was like the restless sea; they sank deeper into the waters of sensation, without fear, willing to drown in the depths of pleasure.

  She cried out as orgasm swept over her like an undersea swell; he moaned softly, and shuddered with reaction. But the swell passed, and the rhythm continued, building again.

  “Gods…” BZ murmured, his eyes stunned, his face dazed with astonishment. “Oh, gods.” He murmured something more, in Sandhi, a lilting flow of words, like a prayer to something inside himself. And then his lips were on hers again, and his hands covering her breasts, and he was still inside her moving like the waves, as he had been meant to be; as he had always been, would always be.

  Their lovemaking was as endless as the sea, and still she sank deeper and deeper into the golden/black waters with every surge and fall; until she knew that she had been falling forever, been born to drown in these depths, and revive, and drown again … that she had waited a lifetime to share her own depths, and be filled with the waters of his life; to become one being, one soul, one with his mind. It was impossible now to conceal any secret at all: not her love for him … the children already born of it … even the impossible secret that she could never share with anyone, although her tongue were to be torn from her mouth—

  And in the echoing golden/blackness where nothing existed beyond the sea of their shared sensation, as all physical boundaries dissolved in the fluid heat of desire, she dreamed that she swam like the mers, the Sea’s Children … that she felt the sensuous caress of the Sea against their silken, brindle bodies, the slow fire of their passion, of their motion through the heart of the secret machinery of the sibyl mind, which lay hidden far below the place where she lay entwined with her lover; below Carbuncle, the ancient City in the North, a pin pushed into a map of time.… She heard the mers singing, a rippling golden vision, how their songs brought healing and order to that secret, vulnerable, vital organ entrusted to their keeping. She saw at last why the message of the mersong had been impossible to grasp.… The truths that had never been revealed to anyone since its creators … until now.

  Caught inside an exaltation that swept her beyond thought, beyond the boundaries of time, she was terrifyingly free. There was nothing hidden from her view, and nothing that was not his to share, inside her body, inside her mind, inside that rippling sea of lightmusic where their union was complete.…

  And as he realized the truth, his epiphany became ecstasy, and set him free. The energy of his release cascaded back through the matrix of her body, shockwaves of light resonating through every nerve, the feel of him inside her, his lips against her throat, his inarticulate cry, her incoherent sob of joy. She held him, held him, until she was sure once more of the location of every atom of his body and her own; and that she was no longer made of fluid light.

  It was a long time before she was able to speak again, a long time before he even tried; before there was any need for the superfluity of sound, when their lips, their tongues, were still preoccupied with more important tasks, while they had no breath to waste, while they still clung to one another through the slowing spiral of their return to earth.

  “I understand.…” he said, at last, with an awe and wonder that seemed to fill his whole being. And his face changed, filling with anguish and dread as he realized what it was he knew—why she would do anything to stop the Hunt; why she had never told him the whole truth … why he would never be able to tell anyone else.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered, holding her. But she did not answer him, her own face stricken as she saw his eyes. Her arms tightened around him. “No,” she murmured, “it will be terrible.”

  She felt him look back at her, felt the gentle touch of his hand against her face. But he did not deny it.

  * * *

  Sparks climbed the stairs from the silent, empty ballroom, still seeing in his mind the telltale detritus of the Mask Night: countless masks with their empty, patient eyes, gazing at him from doorways or steps; waiting for the dawn while their owners made merry within, all along the littered empty streets. He had worn a mask tonight, the one given to him by Fate Ravenglass, all reds and golds, glittering like the sun, as vital, as angry as fire.… He had spent the early part of the night talking with his father, and the rest of it wandering from party to party; but he had felt as lifeless and hollow-souled as his mask, once he and his father had said their goodbyes.

  He had not gone for the night, or even for an hour, with anyone, although he had had sufficient opportunities; because he was certain that Moon was spending her night alone, faithful to the word, if not the spirit, of their long-ago vow. He had broken both the word and the spirit of their pledge, many times, since the offworlders’ return, although he had sworn at their departure that he would never do it again.

  But tonight he had talked with his father about memories of family and home; he had shared the loneliness and regret of a man who had had neither, for far too long. His father had told him that he planned to leave the Assembly when it next visited his homeworld; that being here, at Tiamat’s time of Change, had made him realize how disillusioned he had grown with an existence that seemed ever more pointless.

  Carrying his father’s words, his father’s sorrow, with him as he wandered the streets, he had come to realize at last that this was a time of Change for him as well, even if it was in name only; that there was still time before dawn for him to lie with the only woman he had ever truly loved, and promise her a new beginning.

  He walked quietly down the hall to the bedroom he and his wife had always shared, until these last few months. He stopped, standing motionless before the closed door. Two masks lay side by side against the wall, in mute testimony to the absurdity of dreams. He stared at them for a long time. And then he turned away, and went slowly back down the hall.

  TIAMAT: Carbuncle

  BZ Gundhalinu took his place on the ribbon-draped platform between Vhanu and the Prime Minister, aware that all eyes were on him now—the last one sliding into place, like a guilty schoolboy, when he should have been the first one here. Below the hastily erected viewing stands the sea waited, covered by floating docks; the docks were now so crowded with the ships of Festival-time that the water itsel
f was barely visible.

  But where the pier ended below him a space of water had been deliberately left open, for the ritual to come. He watched its dark, glimmering motion, feeling its relentness rhythms begin to hypnotize him. His mind sank like a stone, drawn down into the depths by the weight of his new knowledge, the unspeakable burden of the secret that lay hidden below.…

  He forced his eyes away, clutching the rail in front of him harder than necessary as he searched the clear space that separated the stands filled with influential offworlders from the stands which held the most influential Tiamatans—segregated, as they had always been. All the faces that he could see across the way were still hidden behind their Mask Night disguises, unlike his own people; the Tiamatans would not unmask until the ritual was completed. Two real human faces stood out against the sea of alien forms—Sparks Dawntreader and the Queen, standing side by side. They were not touching, and their own faces were as fixed and rigid as masks.

  He willed Moon to lift her gaze from the sea to look at him; until at last she met his eyes. He saw her translucently pale skin blush; saw the telltale redness of her mouth, the dizzying depths of passion and hidden knowledge in her eyes. His hand rose unthinkingly to his own lips, his own unmasked face; fell away again. His whole body still moved as if he were sleepwalking, stupefied by revelations at every level of awareness, revelations that still went on and on.…

  “BZ—” Vhanu’s hand was on his arm, giving him a subtle shake; he realized that Vhanu had been trying to get his attention, and failing. “Thou must have had quite a night of it,” Vhanu whispered, with amusement in his eyes. “I’ve never seen thou like this before.”

  “Yes,” he murmured, understating.

  “I had a most entertaining night myself,” Vhanu said, his smile turning private with the memory. “Really quite an interesting custom.”