Trinian

by Elizabeth Russell

  “You will not kill her –” But a scream from Lavendier, as Merciec’s sword pressed into her neck, convinced him otherwise. He answered then, but the words came from him as if pulled slowly from a clothes press, each yank painful and jerking. “Farsooth. Lord of Kelta. He has defeated King Wrelle and serves the most powerful of all the gods! Farsooth will rule with his blessing over all of humanity! The new age of man has begun - the old world is passing away. The old order is no more. The new world has come. The new world is now. Man, once and for all, will rule the earth!”

  “What do you want with the princess?”

  “She will rule,” he cried exultantly. “Farsooth to rule Kelta. Lavendier to rule Drian. The god has granted mankind to rule without the gods! He will overthrow them. No more gods to rule their regions. No more Fate to govern man’s actions. She was to be consumed like Farsooth! To overthrow her brother! To love the god of power!”

  Merciec could not see, but he was the first bowman in Drian, and did not need sight to guide his aim. Only instinct and sound; and so, as the servant of Power grew more and more exultant, and declared his propaganda with more and more strength, Merciec drew his dagger and threw it with true aim. There was a soft thump on the ground, and the voice was silent.

  “Lady Lavendier, you would sell your soul for comfort? Betray your brother for power? Give yourself over to the enemy?” She did not speak. “Treason is a capital crime,” he told her.

  She trembled beneath his blade, but she lifted her head high. “My brother will have your life! You cannot kill me.”

  “I would gladly die for killing you, if it meant I saved my king and country. I have every right to kill you: this is war.”

  She still held the round stone and had only a few words left to the prayer. She could call them out before he slit her throat, and if she did, no doubt she would hold great power over him. He ought to kill her, stop her from voicing the words, and save the throne of Drian forever… but he hesitated, for Lavendier was trembling more and more. She was a selfish woman with a small heart, and her scrap of bravery now fell to pieces beneath his blade. In fear for her life, she dropped the stone. “I only want to go home. No one was going to be hurt. I would have let my brother live!”

  Without sympathy, Merciec removed the knife she wore at her waist, withdrew his blade, and stooped down to pick up the stone. It pulsed and throbbed and burnt his hand, and he threw it away into the dark.

  “I ought to kill you. You are a danger to your family and a vile traitor. But something holds me back.” Though he could not see her face, he imagined the glint of vanity in her eyes, and he shuddered. “Don’t flatter yourself that it’s because of your beauty or rank. There’s something else, something that could have been – that you could have been.” He studied her vague form as she trembled in fear, and he thought of Dascerice’s description of her splendor – it was a splendor perverted, a power misused, but still… she could have been magnificent.

  She had fallen to the ground, and the sight of her stretched in abjection made his stomach twist. “I sense the power behind your every speech, look, thought. You have been gifted with the potential for greatness, but you fall so low. You will make a great tear against the canvas of the world or you will single-handedly rebuild its frame. I have it now within my power to prevent your evil,” he advanced upon her, still with his blade drawn, “while your power to build holds me back. I will not kill you; but understand that your life is a privilege – you are on probation. Anything you do, wherever you go, you will consult me. If I discover a hint of betrayal in your heart, your life is mine.”

  Lavendier, shaking and glaring at the ground, hated this man who had caught her in her crime, and yet her mind was too weak to fight against him. She was plagued neither by thoughts of revenge nor flight – she had no thoughts at all. Only feeling. She was a creature entirely governed by feeling, and for the moment, it was fear. In fear, led by her stern arbiter, she returned to the inn.

  42

  The Council of Karaka

  Power screamed in anger and threw over anything that was not rooted to the ground. The Secretary did not cease his steady work at his desk, but waited for the fit to pass. It always did.

  Finally, Power roared for Kellan.

  “Kellan is dead. His son Ferran is who you want,” Secretary reminded him.

  “Ferran!”

  A gorgan, who looked exactly like his father, just as large and ugly and fierce, ran in and bent to one knee. “The Secretary tells me that we lost the Princess Lavendier,” said Power scornfully. “She was easy prey, but my idiot human slaves have failed me! Kelta has failed me! Farsooth sends his little ants to conquer the world, and he can do nothing but fail!

  “Kellan failed me in taking Drian, but you – his mightiest son, my special offspring, my unique one – you will not fail. I will make certain of it.

  “Go, you gorgan of thoughtlessness and instinct and decrepitude! Gather thirty of your strongest, mightiest soldiers, and bring them to me. I have a special plan for you. You will not fail me!” He roared so loud at the last that papers blew off the Secretary’s desk and settled into the muddy floor. The Secretary merely leaned over to see which they were, then set about rewriting new ones. The ones on the ground would mold and dissolve and become a part of it.

  Ferran stood up and growled in obedience. He bared his teeth, stuck out his frozen chest and clenched the muscles of his boiling legs. Unlike his father, he remembered no time when he was not in constant agony, and the pain did not enrage him like it had the one who spawned him. He saluted, and left to select his men.

  “The gorgans cannot be trusted, you know,” said the Secretary. “They are on a short leash, to be sure, but they are idiots, and will bungle the job. Your god friends would be better allies.”

  Power breathed deeply, collecting himself. “Once the gods know my plans, they could act against me. I want this girl for myself. She will serve me or die a terrible death. Do you hear?”

  The roar did not ruffle the Secretary. “Always, my master. I hear and record everything. But what of your next goal?” He handed across a paper which the god took scornfully. He had no use for the things, and never read them. The Secretary continued to write while he spoke. “I think this time you should try a different avenue. The gods will learn your ultimate goal soon, and some, like Passion and Resolve, may not oppose you.”

  Power threw the paper back at him. “So? What is your point?”

  “I think,” he said placidly, “you should speak to Terror. He is always keen for chaos. And Destruction, Death, and Despair hate the other gods. You can use that hatred for your own purposes, and turn them against Fate.”

  Power seethed to himself, mulling over the bitter idea. The thought of sharing his winnings galled him, and his heart tightened at the notion of asking for help. Resolve had already strengthened his battle hosts, but he had asked for nothing from her, and owed her nothing because of it. He refused to be in debt to anyone. But the Secretary was always right, and Power knew he could ill afford to fend off all the gods if they decided to oppose him. Approaching some of the more ambitious ones, convincing them to help him, might turn the tide… and he could always turn against them in the end.

  * * *

  The hall of Power was filled with the brilliance and beauty of a gathering of the high gods, a mud hole embedded with precious stones. Resolve and Passion sparkled like red and amethyst jewels as they reclined on the bubbly, muddy benches and sipped their sparkling wine. Their young brothers Death, Destruction, and Despair were like deep, whirling, creamy ebony, never standing still and singing raucous war songs, and their eyes held darkness of the blackest night. Finally, Terror was a skinny thing - jittery, active, and glowing orange – wavering in the center of the hall.

  No one moved when Power entered triumphantly, his gray shadow wavering in the firelight, a cloak of heavy darkness encasing his half-mortal substance. “You have come to me, brothers and sisters,” he rumbled,
and their hearts thrilled with eagerness, for Power had always been the most beautiful, most dynamic of them all, and his very presence drew them to him; “you have come to me because you know what I offer – soon, I will control everything in this realm, and when I do, it is you who will enjoy the spoils. This is enough to tempt even the most selfless god: and none of us can claim that title.”

  Passion laughed aloud. “Who wants it? Unless it’s my self-righteous other half.” Then, carried away by the sound of her own beautiful voice, she went on. “I was like Charity once – I too wanted to make mortals happy with their pleasures, to relieve the stress of life with innocent revels. But the self-control it requires! The self-mastery. It’s a tedious journey, and I grew bored with it.” She sipped her wine reflectively. “So many mortals never found mastery, and yet they still made use of my gifts, and I found pleasure in granting it. I didn’t want to wait for them to ‘find themselves’, to ‘become good.’ We only have so much time, and they have far less. Yes, I think controlling them might be fun! Tell us, Power, what do you plan?”

  “Is it our place to take command of their existence?” interrupted Despair sorrowfully. This god had once been Sadness, had once found satisfaction in guiding mortals through the trials of life, but he had since turned away from that path, had drowned himself in the futility of life. But a small spark of conscience still pricked him. “After all, we did not bring them into existence – what right have we to end it?”

  “Didn’t we?” cried Power. “What did we do then? Did we not heave the mountains from the plains, delve the valleys, fill the rivers, bequeath the natural gods their domains, and nurture the life that was just beginning here? So what if it was all at the command of The Golden King? What has He ever done to benefit us? Or the mortals? I have taken on their shape! I can rule them from both above and below, and I can teach you all to do the same.”

  “We can deal out death,” said Death greedily.

  “We can turn them to our will,” whispered Resolve.

  “We can destroy and tear down!”

  “We can control them,” said Power, and they all nodded.

  Passion stood, her low-cut gown swaying across the ground. “What do you need from us?”

  “I need to possess a member of the royal family, and I need a vessel to get near the king. I tried the eldest princess, but she has eluded me. I need another vessel.”

  His sultry sister nodded. “Do not give up on her yet – I will see what I can do. But for now,” she glanced at Resolve, “I think we may have another victim for you.”

  43

  Etchta

  In the council room of Varlo, before they were joined by the other two lords for their morning meeting, Afias and Adrea sat together at the long dining table. Adrea was adding figures together on paper, planning the distribution of their limited amount of grain, seeking to extend the meager amount as far as possible, and Afias was gazing intently at nothing.

  His abstraction rubbed against her and she seethed internally, reflecting that he never helped, he always moped, and she was forever tasked with all the labor and planning. At last, her mouth spoke almost before she realized she was speaking.

  “What are you thinking about?” she cried.

  He stirred, as if surprised, and said he was reflecting on a strange encounter he had had that morning.

  “Well? What was it?”

  He looked at her quietly a moment, and then related a story in tedious detail, and she sat tapping her pen throughout.

  He had been wandering the halls of Varlo in the early hours before the sun rose, unable to rest as he stewed over the problems of the country, and eventually, he found himself in the lower levels of the palace. There he came upon a large grated door and went through it: he was in the kitchens. It was all very clean and neat there, since it was the only place in the lower levels that was used for anything. But he knew the servants would be stirring soon, and loath to meet anyone, he continued down the halls. Here was another door: wooden and old, with mighty iron hinges that creaked when pushed. A rusty bolt latched it tight shut, but he knocked it away and, pushing the creaky hinges open, found a flight of steeply descending stairs.

  The going was rough, thickly carpeted with dust and dirt and the steps crumbling away, cobwebs hanging from every nook, and little alcoves where mice and old candlesticks frolicked together. At the very bottom he expected darkness, but a red glow emanated faintly in the distance. He tapered the wick of his candle and followed it.

  Soon, he heard a voice. Indistinct and croaking, it seemed to croon to itself. There was a passage at the bottom of the stairs and a door at the far end, from which emanated the light. Afias blew out his lamp.

  “Crickets and toads,

  Light and dark,

  Morning comes soon

  And night is stark.

  Come gently, my dear,

  And behold your doom

  Come lightly, my love,

  I carve your tomb.”

  The singer of the dire chant was invisible from Afias’ vantage point, and he stepped forward into the chamber. There was an old woman bent over an ancient fireplace, dressed in black rags, with scraggly white hair. She turned with a bowl in her hands, and this she dropped clattering to the floor, sending its liquid contents all over the cold hewn stones.

  She cried at him, “Now look what you made me do!” and bent over to clean up the spill with her skirt, as if his presence there were not an utter surprise. But her eyes watched him with a peculiar brightness. “What are you doing up at this hour?” she inquired. “When night is stark and morning heralded by nightly terrors? Besides, you’re too soon. All is not prepared. No, not prepared at all. No breakfast, no dinner, no nightly sleeping: not like the mortals. Oh no! Not like them at all. We’ve nothing here for you.”

  “Who are you?” asked the prince.

  “Who are we? We are the woman who moans in the night. We are the ever alert spirit of the palace. Yes, its lucky spirit. But you don’t believe me. My rags; yes, my rags. My rags betray me. Nothing fit for a witch or a warlock or a peasant girl. Oh no: only for spirits, perhaps? Good enough for the demented goddess of love – for she’s a spirit. But you do not believe me, my rags betray me.” She was hobbling around the room, refilling her bowl from a cauldron in the corner, and taking it back to the fire.

  “But what is your name?”

  “Names mean nothing. But names are everything. My name is not your name.”

  “Old woman, I am the Prince of Drian, and I am asking for your name.”

  “Aahhh!” She hobbled quickly over to him, and gazed up hard into his eyes, “But we knew that. Oh yes, not much that old Etchta doesn’t know, down here in her cavern. Down here, in her prison. In her sanctuary. Communing with spirits. Come to bring her back to the light, eh? White Knight of Drian. Too late,” she shook her head sadly. “Too late for that.”

  “You seem to have been here a long time. How do you stay alive? The stairs were untraveled, and there are no other doors down here that I can see.”

  “There are ways. Ways…ways…ways to light and ways to death…ways to breathe….and ways of breath. I have my ways.”

  “Come upstairs with me. I’ll get you some food, and better clothes.”

  “I come White Knight, with grateful old heart, and hobbling old steps. But do not separate me from my old cavern. Please, it is my sanctuary.”

  “I will not meddle with your ways, Etchta. You are old and can do no harm. You are free to come and go as you please.”

  He concluded the story to Adrea by saying, “I gave her a room up here, but I’m not sure if she’ll use it.”

  The lady of Drian had forgotten her impatience in the weirdness of the story. “This woman sounds incredible,” she said, “to live so many years alone in such a dismal place; and then to avoid death when the gorgans came. I will visit her later and see if I can offer some comfort.”

  Afias nodded. “That’s good of you. But I must warn you th
at I don’t trust her. She is old and hobbling, but perhaps has been kept prisoner down there for a very good reason. I believe she can do no harm, but just because she seems harmless doesn’t mean she is. There must be a reason she survived all those years on nothing. I think she may have a heart of stone, and we should be cautious.”

  Adrea raised her eyebrows at him, frustrated that he would think badly of someone he had just met. But she bit her tongue, as she often did when he said something that annoyed her, and turned back to the papers spread out before her. Expecting the South Drinian lords, she put aside her figures and pulled out maps of Minecerva in preparation for their meeting.

  Afias, for the last several days, had been advocating a plan to send ships to Cronice, to request resources from its fertile, sheltered coast, but Adrea was strongly against it. Diplomatic relations with Cronice on Drian’s part had always been shaky in her time, and she did not trust that the Mayor of Cronice would receive the sailors kindly. She felt that Kelta, though further, was a safer option, and adamantly advised that they send their ships there.

  Now, when Lords Dargevalor and Kalaban joined them, the Prince and Lady of Drian rehashed their by-now tired-out arguments.

  “Cronice would have more to offer,” said Afias, “and Lord Kalaban has assured us that diplomatic relations between Cronice and South Drian have not been unstable like that of Drian. We are not requesting aid for Drian, but South Drian, and we need make no mention of our connection to the capitol.”

  “Any country that scorns its motherland is disloyal on principle,” said Adrea, “and cannot be trusted to look out for others in sacrifice of its own well-fare. If we request aid from Cronice we are asking them to give up their own supplies and resources: resources that can help protect them against Karaka. They will recognize that, and they will not send aid. They will be more likely to give the same welcome Drian’s envoys have received at their hands – death or imprisonment. Then we would have fewer men, and no ships. Kelta is the safer option, since she has always been an ally of Drian and South Drian.”