Nether Kingdom

by J. Edward Neill

  Andelusia stood soundless.

  “Oh dearie, dearie!” Aera took hold of her hands, rubbing them as though to warm her. “How rude of me. I’ve yet to say a proper good morning! You’ve the look of winter on you. Come and sit. I’ve buttered toast, piping tea, and your favorite: a hot cake with maple. I might’ve had an apple for you, but Master Jix says the cold went and frosted the orchard. Can you believe it?”

  She stood in Aera’s embrace, empty-eyed and withdrawn. “No trouble.” She managed to breathe. “You know I am not fond of apples.”

  With an unknowing smile, Aera led her to the table and chair beneath the window. Ever considerate, the old maid tugged the table to the side, removing it from the window’s bitter draft.

  “There, there. Have you a seat, young mistress. You’re not dressed for this. The cold’ll make a statue of you, and poor Aera will be to blame.”

  She followed the maidservant’s instructions with involuntary grace. When Aera set the breakfast tray before her, she plucked up a crisp wedge of toast and nibbled at its corner, chasing it with a sip of painfully hot tea.

  “Thank you,” she said, barely a whisper.

  Aera stood back, anxious and watchful. This was her routine: delivering meals on the many mornings Andelusia did not wake early enough to attend breakfast in Ghurlain’s hall. The maidservant had done it for five years and counting, and has learned my moods through and through.

  “Are you well, Mistress?” Aera prodded while arranging breakfast on the table. “It’s so cold in here. Your hearth’s unlit. Your lamps are all snuffed. The frost hasn’t got you ill, has it?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I feel well enough. I only fear I will not be very sociable today. Please, if you would, tell Lord Ghurk I will not be meeting him for lunch.”

  “Oh,” said Aera. “He’ll be much disappointed. You know how he fancies you.”

  She tried to smile. “I know, I know. Tell him I will see him at supper. And beg him; no more flowers.”

  Aera laughed. Like everyone in Castle Maewir, the maidservant knew well the game Ande and Ghurk played. Ghurk’s romantic pursuit was well over three years old, and no less enthusiastic than it had been in the beginning.

  “That boy.” Aera topped off her tea. “How he dotes on you. If you’d our Thillrian blood, I don’t doubt he would’ve already asked for your hand in marriage.”

  “Perhaps,” she sighed. “I think he deserves better.”

  Most days, Aera would have argued the point, but today was different. The wind tore at the shutters, and a shadow passed through the room. The cold felt achingly good to Andelusia, but swept away Aera’s smiles.

  “Well...” The maidservant shivered. “Maybe we should leave it alone. If it’s meant to be, time will tell. Ah, but this cold. I’d best run along. We’re expecting guests on the morrow, did you hear? There’s much to be done, more now with the cold. Can you imagine it, Mistress? Here in the middle of summer?”

  She felt so very guilty. Here was Aera, sweet as sunshine and heaping kindness upon her, and I have yet to return the favor. Suddenly aware of her aloofness, she stood and hugged the poor woman, lingering longer than usual in the embrace.

  “Thank you.” She held Aera close. “For breakfast, for your company. When the cold wanders off, we will talk more. I am just…a little out of sorts today.”

  The maidservant giggled, wrinkling her bulb of a nose. The shadows in the room shrank away, fading as quickly as they had come.

  “I understand, dearie.” Aera squared her shoulders with palms plump and rosy. “This cold…it has the city in its teeth. But soon it’ll be gone and summer’ll be back. You’ll see. As for me, I’ll be off now. Much to do, and little time to do it in. Keep warm, my love, and please set a fire your hearth.”

  “I will.” It hurt to lie. “Good day, Aera.”

  She watched the maidservant totter to the door and vanish in the hallway beyond. Long afterward, her breakfast untouched, she stared at the door and daydreamed.

  If only all folk were so pleasant, she thought. If only my life were as simple as hers.

  Winter’s Walk

  I am the reason.

  The wind rattled her shutters. The blustering cold settled into every corner of her room. Long after Aera’s departure, Andelusia sat on her bed, as alone as any soul in Muthemnal, dreaming visions of what would happen should the Nightness remain.

  She remembered the way her life had been.

  Long dinners among friends.

  Laughter and wine.

  Never a moment spent hiding in my room.

  After hours of silence, she arose. To mope is to die, she decided. I promised Ghurk I would sup with him tonight. And so I shall.

  Ghurk’s father, the lord of Muthemnal and Duke of the north, had five years ago given her an open invitation to his court in Castle Maewir. She had leapt at the chance, and had attended nearly every night, no matter the affair. But now, even with summer’s arrival, she considered that she had not dined with the Duke in many weeks. Rude of me. I should never have stopped.

  Just as she expected, the day died early. Dusk arrived, the grey clouds and ocean wind shrouding the city hours sooner than usual. As the last of the meager sunlight perished, she drew a private bath in a room twenty steps down the hall. The water was barely lukewarm, enough to chill most ordinary folk, but she luxuriated in the bath as though it were piping hot. Humming a nameless tune, she lathered her skin with scented oil and soaked chin-deep for the better part of an hour. She might have lain in the bath all night, if not for my promise to Ghurk.

  Refreshed, her ebon tresses shining, she rose and dressed in a gown of midnight blue, more an evening slip than a noblewoman’s dress. She donned it in front of the bath-chamber’s mirror, heedless of her own beauty, admiring herself none as she tugged the dress over her shoulders.

  I do not deserve such things.

  I do not belong here.

  Silence, Ande. Not a word more.

  Swallowing her self-pity, she descended the curling stone stair at the hallway’s end. She pattered down some seven stories, quick-footed as a mouse, arriving at the bottom just in time for supper.

  The magnificence of the Duke’s hall never ceased to amaze her.

  All of Castle Maewir was masterfully hewn, built more like a mansion than a traditional castle, but to her no place was as awe-inspiring as Ghurlain’s hall. Smoothly-cut colonnades ran the length of the great room, rising to a ceiling some ten men high. The marble floor, stretching the hall’s length, gazed up at her like glass, swirling grey and white, polished to such perfection she saw herself almost as well as in the bath-chamber’s mirror. If the rest of Maewir had been frozen by the strange season’s coming, the hall remained surprisingly warm, heated and brightened by the amber fires of twenty bronze braziers.

  If only I could feel it.

  Tentative, she walked the shining floor and passed between the colonnades. A streak of twilight, she seemed, her skin like moonlight, her skirt floating behind her the same as curtains in the wind. Though she did not mean it, her arrival was like that of a princess striding into her royal chamber. From the Duke’s table, thirty stares swam over her, some desirous, others curious, many envious. She cut through them all, gliding toward her pillowed seat.

  After five long years, she still felt odd to dine in noble company. She was from Graehelm, far to the north, and her place at the Duke’s table was secure only because the Thillrians believed she was their savior. They did not know their exiled enemy, the hated warlock, had been her father. They had never guessed it, and I am lucky for their ignorance.

  She took her seat. All others followed suit. At the table’s head sat Duke Ghurlain, now in his fifties, but no less sturdy than a man twenty years younger. Immediately to her left sat Ghurk, son of the Duke and sole heir to Muthemnal, slim and handsome in a black doublet.

  “Evening, Ande.” Ghurk lovingly touched her hand.

  “Yes, it’s been too long,”
added the Duke. “We’ve all missed you, my son especially.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled. “Shall we eat?”

  Supper began. The Duke’s servants ladled broth into bowls, poured wine into jeweled cups, and piled platters high with bread and sweetmeats. As the Duke’s guests dined, conversation claimed the hall. All around, tongues turned to the subject of the cold. The guests worried about the possible loss of crops, the frosting of Muthemnal’s prized orchards, and the withering of the city gardens, whose magnificence rivaled even the flowered tracts of Denawir, Thillria’s capital. To all of this, Andelusia offered no comment. She listened, her heart filled with wordless shame.

  The cold is mine. They would not believe me even if I told them.

  During these moments, just when she began to believe her night would continue in silence, Ghurk leaned in and whispered in her ear. “The cold’s only temporary. You and I know better than to fret, no?”

  She met his gaze for the first time since sitting. She was glad to see a friendly face. She remembered him the way he had been: a skinny, nervous lad. But he is a man now, and full of romance. Another I could almost love.

  “Summer had best fight back.” She sipped from her wine to hide her guilt. “One winter is enough.”

  “It will.” Ghurk squeezed her hand. “I promise.”

  The night progressed, the brazier fires dwindling around her. Heedless of the hall’s growing chill, the Duke’s guests roamed through the topics of climate, trade, and the recent rise of King Tycus, Thillria’s newest ruler. By now she was well-versed in Thillrian politics, and although she had precious few opinions on the matter, she smiled and played her part well enough. Interjecting only when needed was easy work, and for a time she lost herself in it. The night felt contentedly normal. With Ghurk at her side, she felt like a part of Muthemnal’s family.

  But comfort was not hers to keep.

  Dinner lasted later than usual, and a chill crept in from every corner of the hall. When talk of the cold swirled like a blizzard through the hall once more, she withdrew. Her eyes glazed over, her hands went numb, and she lost her gaze in the hall’s highest windows, against which the wind wailed without end.

  I should be out there. Soaring with the night, racing the clouds, and-

  “Mistress Ande? You still with us?” Duke Ghurlain’s voice pulled her from her daydream.

  “Oh,” she stammered. “Yes, Sire. Beg your pardon.”

  “We were curious of your homeland.” The Duke looked unperturbed. “The Graeland, or so we call it. We wonder if your summers have ever been touched by streaks of sudden winter. Or are such events unheard of?”

  His question caught her off guard. Her first instinct was to lie, to remark that Graehelm did indeed suffer the occasional unseasonable snap. I should say it happens all the time, but…

  “No.” She radiated a smile upon her audience. “I cannot remember a year when the frosts came so early, or so late.”

  Ghurlain grinned, a handsome yet hard expression. “So you are as horrified as we?”

  “Oh, yes,” she answered carefully. “What dread manner of season would choose such a time to descend upon us? If you ask me, the cold comes from the sea. The deeps must be angry, envious enough of our Thillrian summers to try to steal them away.”

  The Duke laughed. His guests did the same. With bellies full of wine, they took up her suggestion, redirecting their blame for the cold at some far-off oceanic disturbance. She felt relieved, though only for a moment. For if it were the ocean’s fault, it would mean the cold is soon to leave.

  And I would prefer it remain.

  Be silent.

  Again it was Ghurk who broke her concentration. Again she was glad for it. He was sober now, having chased his wine with a goblet of water. His friendliness seemed a safety net, cast out across the darkness to catch her before she plunged too deep.

  “Some fun this is, eh?” he whispered. “Maybe we should escape? A fresh winter’s walk to clear our minds?”

  “In this?” She welcomed the suggestion more than she let show. “You do not mind?”

  “Why not? It’ll be fun. Keep your seat. I’ll fetch our furs.”

  She parted her lips to protest the need for furs, but Ghurk bounced to his feet. The guests, enthralled with themselves, hardly noticed his rising, but his sudden enthusiasm caught his father’s eye.

  “Father,” said Ghurk, “I think the lady and I will take a walk. We’ll test the night in the courtyard, perhaps even a bit beyond.”

  Ghurlain’s eyes gleamed with a look of satisfaction. Behind the look, however, Andelusia glimpsed something else. Perhaps it was the way the brazier light struck a scarlet flush in the Duke’s cheeks, or perhaps it was the fire reflected in his eyes, but she swore she saw a shadow pass over him.

  “I’ll summon Marid. He can join you,” rumbled Ghurlain. “Never can be too careful.”

  Ghurk hesitated. She chimed in.

  “Milord, the cold has driven everyone behind their doors and in front of their hearths. We will be alone, your son and I. Let us walk this once without worry. Your guardsman will appreciate it.”

  Ghurlain grimaced, but relented. “Ah, well, keep your furs tight and take care to stay away from the water. We’ll keep the gates unlocked until you return.”

  Ghurk retreated into a far corner and returned with a pair of wolfskin cloaks. If he anticipated anything more than a private walk beneath the night, she saw no sign of it in his eyes. Ever chivalrous, he laid the cloak over her shoulders, smoothing it to her back for good measure.

  I need the cloak none, she thought as she stood. But for him…and his father, I will wear it.

  With Ghurk at her side, she left the comforts of the Duke’s hall and exited the main door into the open night. A guardsman shut the gate at her back, and a sharp slip of wind greeted her, tossing back her hood and rippling through her hair. Ghurk reached to tug her hood back in place, but she ducked.

  “No need. Not as cold as I thought it would be.”

  “Thicker-skinned than I.” He pulled his hood tight to his ears. “This’ll take a moment to get used to.”

  He led the way into Muthemnal’s courtyard lawn. She walked at his side, trading only the lightest conversation. As he wound his way along a courtyard path, dismayed that the abundant flora of Maewir’s gardens was already withering, he lamented, “One night and one day of cold, and look; everything’s half-dead.”

  “Aye,” was all she mustered.

  She kept close to his side, grimacing at the same sights as he, all the while sneaking glimpses at the nighttime sky. Father Sun was long gone, draped in the darkness beyond the horizon. She peered to the cloud cover, which roiled thick and low, hiding any hope of starlight. No moonlight reached her face, nor did any of summer’s warmth linger in the air. Sheltered by solemn clouds, touched by breezes as frosty as autumn’s dying breath, she saw her soul mirrored in the heavens. A second winter. A perfect night.

  I could live like this forever.

  After a time, she let her attentions tumble back to earth. Ghurk had led the way to the courtyard wall, where strands of summer ivy grasped the wall like old men’s fingers about to snap. A bench sat near, a lonely chair big enough for two to sit in, while a trio of old Thillrian oaks loomed high above, their leaves shuddering in the wind. The only light came from Maewir, its windows pale as distant stars. If summer had been its normal self, any number of Thillrians might be laughing and drinking in the wall’s shadow, but all was quiet now, and the bench between the three oaks unoccupied.

  “I used to play here when I was a boy.” Ghurk kicked at the grass. “I miss those days. Being Maewir’s brat was simpler than now.”

  She leaned close to his shoulder, pretending to take shelter from the wind. He sounds different tonight, less himself.

  “Does it bother you?” he asked her.

  “This?” She trailed her fingers through the air. “No. I rather like the cold. I come out here every winter. I sne
ak while the rest of you are sleeping.”

  “No. I mean my father. Does he trouble you? I know no one’s supposed to notice, least of all me, but I see it. I see the looks he gives you.”

  “What looks?” She remembered the shadow in his eyes at supper.

  “He wishes you were Thillrian, or at least a Grae noble. He would’ve seen us married. But now he wonders when you’ll leave and break my heart.”

  “Ghurk, you know me.” She swallowed hard. “After what happened to Rellen, I just…I do not know.”

  “Be calm.” He squeezed her shoulder. “This isn’t what you think.”

  “Then what?” If he knew about Marid, he would not be so gentle.

  “You saw it? You noticed it tonight?”

  “You mean your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “I’m sorry, Ande.” His face paled. “Please don’t be angry with Father. He loves you as his own, but struggles to show it. Mother’s gone, my aunt’s nobly wed, and the odds of our family marrying into King Tycus’ court are slim. We’ll inherit Muthem no matter what, but Father wishes more for us. Having someone like you in the household…he feels it distracts me from pursuing…other options.”

  The wind whistled through the night. Her hair streamed, inking her face in long, dark lashes. This moment had to come, she knew. Now is as good a time as any.

  “What about you?” she asked. “What do you feel? Am I a distraction?”

  “I…well…” he stammered. “Yes.”

  “I could leave.”

  “Never!” he blurted. “I mean…I know what everyone expects.”

  “But what do you expect?”

  Her question was long in coming. Her heart beat faster, for she feared what he might say, whether he might grovel for her love or turn his cheek in shamed silence.

  “Well…” He looked skyward. “I know what I hope for, but I also know you, Ande. I know what my pursuits will come to. All the things I do to impress you, I do them with a fool’s courage. I remember everything that happened, even if the others have forgotten. You want more from the world than a husband and a nice little tower in Muthemnal. I see it in you. You may think I do not, but I do.”