The Lady Anne sat in her sedan chair, her dress arranged perfectly around her with a white fur throw covering her against the cold. Her two carriers stood by at attention, awaiting the signal to lift her and begin the procession. She was third in line, following only after the Elder Purane and his current Lady, he astride a white cavalry stallion and she in a gold filigreed palanquin borne by eunuchs. Anne could not have asked to be placed more prominently in the riding order, but she felt conspicuous in spite of herself and sat low in her chair, feigning a dignified aloofness.
A horn sounded and the promenade began, to the applause and whistles of the assembled peasantry and merchant families. Standard-bearers in uniform plied the streets of Southmarket, conveying the emblems of the high nobility in attendance at the fete, walking in martial stride. Behind them came the flower girls in their petticoats and gaily colored bows, their cheeks red in the wintry air. The musicians followed, horns braying and tambourines crashing, performing popular songs so the assembled onlookers could sing along. Only when the musicians and crowd had finished a chorus of "Cir Laeana, Titania" did the nobles begin moving. By then, the Lady Anne was shivering beneath her throw, doing her best to keep her public smile in place around chattering teeth.
Cir laeana, Titania,
Tesede far'ara tila!
Cir laeana, Titania,
Tesede far'ara tila pi stel!
The crowd cheered again as the song came to an end and the musicians launched into something new that Anne didn't know. Seeing the rapt attention in the faces she passed-especially the wide-eyed little girls, the daughters of merchants and street vendors clamoring for a glimpse of her gownshe began to experience anew the feeling of nobility, the essence that she once took for granted and now had to struggle to remember. It was like being reborn. She inhaled the brisk air and beamed nobly, having found the smile of a lady hiding not so far beneath the surface of her as she'd feared.
The promenade wound through the streets of Southmarket, past the market stalls themselves, and then out through one of the southern gates, the soldiers there standing at attention as the parade went by. Outside the city, the wide Nest Pirsil Road had been decorated with paper lanterns that glowed with pink and blue witchlight in honor of the family Purane. The lanterns marked their way up the hill to Villa Diosa, and the members of the promenade experienced the evening's "perfect moment" with a simultaneous sigh of approval. Just as the sun came to rest on the western horizon, painting the sky scarlet and orange, a vast collection of colored birds was released from hidden cages near the villa. Their wings caught the fading sunlight and they glowed in its warm radiance, beating out across the Emerald Bay and away.
In the comfort of the spellwarmed garden, the Lady Anne sipped a drink from a tall glass, wondering where she ought to stand in order to appear both indomitable and inconspicuous. She touched her hair lightly and felt around it to make sure the butterflies were still there.
Her dress was, as in days past, a Cucu original, a one-of-a-kind floorlength gown of deep royal blue silk, with a tastefully dipping neckline and a tight waist that accentuated her hips. Periwinkle and lavender glamoured butterflies dipped and swayed across the fabric of the gown, their motions carefully subdued to avoid distracting the gaze from the gown's wearer. They plied the two-dimensional sky of the dress slowly and gracefully, passing beneath her arms and twirling together at the skirt's hem. Cucu had added a floral comb to the ensemble, complete with a pair of its own butterflies that swooped around her head, remaining graciously out of her line of sight.
"Good evening, Lady," said a voice behind her. She turned and saw a man approaching her, tall and lean, wearing the dress uniform of a commander in the Royal Guard. He was young, with fair skin and glossy black hair that fell in a comely tangle of victory braids over his left shoulder. His face was serious as he bowed, but his eyes lit up and he smiled when their eyes met. "It is unkind of you to deprive the rest of us of your company. Such beauty must be shared; I cannot let you remain alone a moment longer." He took her hand and brushed his lips across it.
She looked around quickly, suppressing a smile. "There is no one convenient to introduce us formally," she whispered, looking past him.
"Then we must be bold," he said, copying her gaze, "and introduce ourselves."
She drew herself up to her full height, hesitating before she spoke. If her presence here was merely an exercise in cruelty, then the lovely young man would blanch and turn away when she spoke her name. Now was the time to find out, before she began to enjoy his company too much.
"I am the Lady Anne," she said regally, "daughter of Corwin." She studied his eyes for a trace of horror and found none. Instead, he grinned.
"Lady, I am honored," he said, bowing lower. "I am your host, Purane-Es."
She started. This was Purane-Es? She had expected something different, someone more military and detached, like his father. What game was this?
"It is I who am honored," she said. "The deeds of your family are well known, and your father has carried that tradition well."
He nodded. "You are gracious as well as beautiful, Lady. But come, the musicians are anxious, and it is our turn to dance." He held out his hand, and she reached out slowly, her own hand shaking though there was no chill, and took it.
Whatever else he was, Purane-Es was the most excellent dancer she'd ever encountered. He moved her effortlessly across the terrace in front of the bandstand, dipping and spinning her as though they were choreographed. The other couples on the floor paused and watched them move, awash in the music and the joy of their motion. As they danced, he held her waist firmly, his palm pressed against the small of her back. She felt the warmth in his fingers and experienced a sensation she hadn't felt in years: she felt safe, protected from what was unsure and fleeting, happily cocooned in the arms of another.
When the music finished, she was flushed from the exertion, her breathing a bit heavy. The other dancers applauded politely, smiling in their direction. It was joyous.
"Would you care for some refreshment?" said Purane-Es. She nodded, letting him lead her by the hand in her excitement.
The mechanical rabbits brought out trays of sparkling wines and PuraneEs took two glasses, handing her one. "I did not know that noble-born girls could dance as well as the traveling show waifs," he said, teasing her gently.
She pretended shock, then confided, "Perhaps I am no lady at all; you have not checked my credentials."
"In that case, I should have you thrown out. But," he said, shrugging, "you're making such an impression that I may wait for a while."
Other couples joined them. Purane-Es stood and talked happily for a long while, then realized he had several ladies remaining on his dance card and bowed out gracefully. Anne stood chatting with a trio of ladies-inwaiting to the Queen who giggled and asked to touch the butterflies in her hair. They knew her name; they must have known her past.
Prestige covers many wrinkles, her father would say. She was still nobleborn. She was still desirable, even with Mauritane's weight hanging from her neck. It was even possible that Purane-Es knew her past and did not care, saw only her. Perhaps he had even spied her during the tribunal and loved her from afar, awaiting just this time to begin wooing her. It was possible, certainly. It was possible.
She drank more, danced more. She whispered with the ladies as they fanned themselves by the bandstand. She let herself become lost in merri ment, as she once had in happier times, as she once had even with Mauritane, long ago.
The night sped past, a swirl of music, dancing, and wine. Finally the musicians packed up their instruments and the clockwork rabbits were retired. The guests disappeared in twos and threes and fours, their laughter carrying up from the road as they vanished into the night. She and PuraneEs were locked in conversation, talking of music and dancing and poetry and the intrigues of the court. When she looked up, she realized that they were alone on the huge terrace. The torches in the lawn had begun to burn out, one by one,
and now only a few remained, casting long stuttering shadows on the far wall of the terrace.
"They've all gone," she said sadly.
"Perhaps," he said. "But you are still here, and that is all that matters."
"You've decided not to have me turned out after all?"
"No, I would not do such a foolish thing."
The Lady Anne suddenly felt too close, nervous. She took a step backward. "I must admit," she began carefully, "I was surprised to receive your invitation. We have never met, and…"
"And you wondered why I would invite the wife of my brother's murderer to a party. Is that what you meant to say?" Purane-Es leaned in, his arms folded across his chest.
"Well… I suppose so. Yes."
"I have a confession to make," he said. "I do not know how or why, but I feel as though I can trust you with anything. This evening we've spent together is unlike anything I've ever experienced. Do you feel the same?"
Astoundingly, she did. "I… yes." She looked away.
"The truth is that I lured you here under false pretenses," he said. "I brought you here hoping I could ply you with wine and music and make love to you and in some way exact revenge on Mauritane for what he did to my brother."
She gasped, holding her hand to her mouth. "You didn't!"
He nodded. "I did. At least, that was my plan." He balled his hands into fists and held them at his side. "I tell you this because I want you to believe what I say next. I have never met anyone like you. I find that, despite my prior motive, I am moved to strong emotions toward you. I find I want to pursue you in the courtly ways of love, write sonnets for you, sing ballads beneath your window. Those are the things I was made for. Not revenge. Not malice. I only want to be with you and the rest be damned. Vengeance be damned. Hatred be damned!"
"Mauritane be damned," she whispered.
"What?"
"Mauritane be damned," she said. "I am still his wife, and I still suffer his shame. I don't know if I can believe you. I want to, but I cannot."
"My lady," he said. "I am yours. Only let me prove it and I will." He was fearful, plaintive. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her, pressing his mouth against hers. She kissed back, searching for the truth of his words in his touch. If there was deceit in him, it was hidden from his hands and his mouth.
"If you want me," she said, "then marry me. That is how you shall prove your love."
Purane-Es released her and stood back. "Are you serious?" he said.
"I am, if you are. Marry me tomorrow and we will let all else pass away."
"I would give anything that it be so. But your marriage to Mauritane…"
"He is not of noble birth. I have only to say it and that marriage is over. Have a witness brought forth and I will say it before him. Then let us never speak that name again."
Purane-Es wrapped her in his arms. "Can this be?" he said. "That out of such anger can come such love?"
"Let it be so, darling," said the Lady Anne. "Let it be so."
She fell into his arms and they stayed that way, clinging to one another, until the sun returned and cast out the remaining shadows.
Chapter 27
a matter of perspective
Satterly was unable to judge his emotional response. Amid the dread of being led single file at gunpoint toward an unknown destination, he felt a peculiar elation, the comfort of human voices and faces, almost a feeling of kinship. Only the red-haired man, Broward, spoke. The other two men and the young girl with the bandaged ears walked in silence through the wood. The girl, who had introduced herself to Satterly as Rachel, skipped ahead of them, seemingly oblivious to the gravity of the situation.
"Tell your friends that the first one of them that makes a sudden move gets buckshot in his face," said Broward. "Tell them that if anyone moves their hands funny or reaches for a weapon, or starts to chant or anything like that, we shoot first. Tell them."
Satterly repeated Broward's words to the others in Common, translating awkwardly.
"Where are they taking us?" asked Mauritane, his face grave.
"He hasn't said." Satterly turned and spoke to Broward in English. "Where are we going?" he asked.
"You'll find out," said Broward, urging him forward with the barrel of his shotgun.
Satterly turned back to Mauritane and shrugged. "He won't say."
"Are those weapons dangerous?" said Mauritane.
"Very. One shot at this range would take off your head."
Raieve walked beside Gray Mave, letting him put weight on her shoulder. "How are you, Mave?" she asked.
"I'll manage," he said, but his face was pale and he'd begun to breathe in ragged, wet puffs.
"He can't take much more of this," Raieve said.
Mauritane looked back at her and said nothing.
Silverdun walked at the front of the line, his eyes downcast.
After two or three hours of marching, the forest trail opened onto a clearing at the base of a tree-lined hill. Inside the clearing was a row of three small wooden huts, with simple open windows and roofs of thatch. A large fire pit was in the center; several more humans sat around it, one of them turning food on a spit. The clearing was empty of snow, floored with packed earth, and was surrounded by a fence made of dark, corrugated metal rods bound together with some kind of rope. One of the humans, a boy scarcely out of his teens, ran forward and pulled open a wide gate constructed of the same materials.
Behind the huts was a low structure, again of the corrugated metal rods, that reminded Satterly of the lion's cage in the circus. Taking the place of the lion, however, was a solitary Fae man, dressed in the robes of a scholar, seated in meditation at the cage's center.
Something in the clearing caught Satterly's eye. It was a machine; a short, wheeled contraption with a metal bar that rose from the chassis to make a handle. It was covered in rust. Satterly racked his brain trying to figure out what the thing could be, his mind settling on the single, narrow point of reference rather than try and comprehend the situation at large. He'd seen the thing before, or something very like it. A long time ago. What was it? He pondered the problem for the space of a few breaths, utterly confused. Then the answer hit him with an almost physical force.
It was a lawn mower.
Satterly stood in the center of the noise and activity around him, trying to take in the scene at once and failing. The girl Rachel was one of three children, all girls, all about the same age of nine or ten. All three of the children wore the same bandages on their ears. Everyone Satterly could see was dressed in a bizarre combination of tattered human clothing, animal skins, and cheap Fae cloaks and boots.
The woman talking to him, Linda, was in her fifties and had long curling gray hair tied loosely behind her head.
Linda walked alongside them as they were led past the huts toward the low metal cage. "We don't mean you any harm," she said. "At least, not most of us, anyway." She tried a weak smile. "Hopefully if everything goes as planned, we'll be out of your way and you guys can just go on with your lives."
"But what are we here for?" said Satterly. "What do you want with us?"
"You'll find out," she said. "Soon enough."
One of the men, the one who'd led the horses, now crossed in front of them and opened the cage's door. There was no lock, just a simple latching mechanism that worked from the outside.
"Oh, shit!" said Satterly. "The bars! Don't touch the bars!"
Silverdun, who had been reaching toward the side of the cage to steady himself, withdrew his hand. "Why not?" he said.
"This stuff that the cage is made of," said Satterly. "It's called rebar. It's made of steel. Steel is made of iron. You guys shouldn't go anywhere near it."
At the mention of the word "iron," all four of the Fae shrank back from the bars.
Once the cage door was shut, the Fae scholar raised his head and looked up at them as though he hadn't noticed anything prior to that moment.
"Hello," he said. "Welcome to hell."
<
br /> "You'll forgive me," said the Unseelie scholar, who introduced himself as Hereg. "So many months surrounded by these bars have weakened me. I no longer know what year it is, I have trouble remembering. Is it Midwinter in the Seelie lands?"
Mauritane nodded. "Firstcome eludes us for awhile yet."
Hereg shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid it's my fault that you all have been brought here. For whatever is to happen, I am to blame."
"What is to happen, Hereg?" said Mauritane.
Hereg smiled. "In a cage, even the sons of Mab and the sons of Titania may comfort one another," he said. "Perhaps more of us ought to be in cages, eh?"
"We must bend to circumstances," said Mauritane. "But answer the question."
"Have any of you trained in the magical arts?" he asked.
"I have," said Silverdun, the hood finally pushed back, his hair flowing. "I studied Elements at Queensbridge."
"Ah," said Hereg, rocking forward and back on his knees. "A man of the Elements. Just so, just so. You are, perhaps, aware of the Unseelie master of Spatial Thaumatics, Beozho? His Works?"
"I know of it," said Silverdun.
"Beozho teaches that the spaces between spaces may be enlarged and contracted. He describes the four axes of spatial harmony and gives manipulation keys for each." Hereg rocked forward and drew in the dirt with his finger, making a crude picture of a cube. "Using a premonitive resonator," he said, "the frequency of the space within a space may be tuned to achieve sufficient stability for passage, creating a doorway." He drew lines placing the cube upon a planar surface, then rubbed them out and altered the perspective with new lines. Depending on how Mauritane looked at the cube, it appeared to be either extended away from the plane or sinking into it.
"I cast runes to find one who is premonitively gifted," said Hereg, looking from Silverdun, to Mauritane, to Raieve, to Gray Mave. His eyes stopped on Mave and he pointed. "He is the one. He is to be my resonator."
"What does all this mean?" said Mauritane.
Midwinter Page 22