by E. J. Beaton
Another pause; the flames burned brighter. The future beckoned her, quarrels to come, blades drawn, an army marching on Elira. No matter who the Umbra was, their silent campaign could only end in blood, and Luca Fontaine would not mind if her blood was part of the price. In a second, as if a shard of spectral light had split open a chamber inside her, she knew that she had been right to accept Three’s request.
It was not a change of heart stealing through her. This was simply the revelation of something that had been dormant in her since that day in the rose garden.
Derset was right. She was hungry for this. The stones in her body had not sunk her, but strengthened her core. She wanted something beyond the Councillor’s staff, something like sliding tactos pieces into the middle of a board, but it had not seemed possible until she had halted the executions with clear words.
Oh, you could tell yourself that you were doing it for the people and you could turn the pages of tracts in your mind, making all the connections to justify it, but it was still a ladder, stretching up into mist, the top obscured. For the people—the other side of that coin was the people for oneself.
Glancing across at Derset, she saw that he was leaning toward her, as if he would like to reach out. She remembered how he had placed a hand on her shoulder in the Arena.
“It’s queer, but no matter how long I sit here, I feel cold,” she said.
It was the first excuse that popped into her head. But he did not laugh: only took her hand between his and rubbed it, until his touch slowed and he looked up to catch her gaze.
For a long moment they looked at each other. The fire had turned his cheeks golden. Everything about him seemed to shine. They had crossed some kind of porous border, and Lysande knew it, but she did not wish to stop. She took his wrist within her grasp, feeling his pulse, the flutter of it like moth’s wings under her thumb.
She exerted a slight pressure. Derset’s eyes approved, and she reached for one of the buttons of his robe. Why was it that buttons were always coming undone until you sought to undo them, and then they resisted you with the effort of a legion repulsing invaders? He helped her finish and removed the tunic underneath; below that, a collar of black cloth wrapped around his neck; the design was simple, but it was still easy for Lysande to recognize the skinbrace of old Axium custom, the symbol of obedience to the goddesses and to tradition. Only someone like Derset could wear that without an air of excessive piety. She enjoyed the look of it, and traced the band of fabric with her finger, following the line around his neck.
“Just once,” she said.
Derset brought his face close to hers. “I could offer to carry your sword. But somehow, I don’t think it’s what you want.”
A spark leaped high in the fire, burning scarlet in the air, then falling again.
“I thought you only had devotion for Sarelin,” Lysande said.
“But then I saw you stand up in front of that room of dignitaries and explain diamond thread to them. That’s when I realized: there’s more than one kind of queen.”
She knew that he was not going to take the lead. She kissed him, pressing her upper body firmly against his, and forgot about her irritation while they embraced. In truth, she had guessed that he would not move forcefully—anyone who had loved Sarelin could not desire command in a liaison—but she was surprised by how gently he followed her movements. It was as if he was still feeling his way into her affection.
In the center of Rhimese territory it was good to hold an Axiumite, to let skin brush skin in a way that was not too forthright nor presumptuous. She did not know if this moment was real or an illusion of the night. Perhaps it did not matter. Derset was older, and yet Lysande’s mind had flourished beyond her years; Sarelin had once quipped that she was born at the age of twenty, and the gap between herself and Derset felt more like a hairline crevice than a breach, their fingers moving to a slow rhythm, as if they were two quills tracing the same lines.
There were different types of physical attraction, the notorious and widely-restricted royal manual, the Mirror for a Monarch, explained. A leader should choose according to her needs and temperament each day. One type of attraction was passion, of the highest ardor, that nearly consumed the lovers. A second type was infatuation, more a whim than a life-changing desire, an excitement of the flesh but not the soul. But a third type could be described as comfort, where a woman or man did not so much set one’s heart racing as ease its pains, like the crackle of a fire in winter.
Lysande did not flatter herself to be a queen. Sarelin had given her a copy of the manual on her eighteenth gift-day, though, with the stipulation that she study it, and she did not have any trouble recognizing the reaction that Derset’s touch provoked. She held his hand against her thigh, and he stroked the spot where she placed it.
Lying with him was not unlike eating a slice of warm dragoncherry cake in the evening; it was a balm to the prickling in her sentiments that Luca’s rebuke had caused; and it was, she felt, what Sarelin would have advised. Comfort had always seemed the most elusive of the three types, until now.
A face hovered at the edge of her vision, and she looked up at a pointed countenance, into shadowed eyes that fixed her with disapproval. Charice shook her head. As Charice’s mist-wreathed shape dissolved, Lysande almost called her name, but was there a point to it? Even in imaginary form, Charice would not commit to her. She lowered her gaze.
Derset lay beneath her, almost entirely revealed, and the skinbrace added a certain flavor, she thought, running a fingertip over it again. After she had undressed, she mapped his body with her hands, touching the skin and feeling where it was soft, where there were firm regions. She took his hand under hers and guided it over her waist. They fell into a rhythm as easily as a timepiece marks the seconds.
“Lysande,” Derset whispered, when she pushed her fingers through his hair. She twined her fingers around a lock and tugged it, just slightly.
“Yes?”
A smashing noise, like the breaking of a glass bottle, rang out in the courtyard below, followed by the distinctive sound of drunken giggling, and voices bounced off the walls of the corridor, along with footsteps. Lysande clamped her hand over Derset’s mouth. She moved out of instinct, conscious of the guards passing close to the suite, and when the tramping of boots in the castle faded eventually, she realized that Derset was looking at her with a changed expression. It felt good to take control of his body with a single movement. Was it supposed to feel good? She was fairly certain that she should let go and apologize, yet the look in his eyes suggested that he wished for no such thing.
He watched her for a moment more. With deliberate restraint, she leaned against his chest and loosened her grip on his mouth.
“You were going to tell me something,” she whispered.
“Nothing important.” He did not move a muscle.
“One moment it is a cacophony out there; the next, complete silence.”
“I think you like silence from a lover.”
They looked at each other for longer again.
“And if I do?” Lysande said.
Derset pushed himself up slowly, very slowly, until their noses almost touched. “I like what you like.”
He did not attempt to touch her but studied her face, as if perusing a book. She could have resisted the urge to kiss him—perhaps she should have resisted it—but what would be the point? His mouth was so warm and soft and close, so ready to be consumed.
Once their breathing rose and fell for the last time, they lay facing the canopy of the bed in a stillness that seemed to wrap them up. Lysande thought that it was the most pleasant and gentle rest she had ever shared on a bedsheet. Derset was the first to rise. He pulled on his tunic and rebuttoned his robe, lifted up the long, double-woven riding-cloak that Litany had draped over a chair, and stepped around beside her.
“You must let me warm you, my la
dy.”
The formal term had slipped out quickly, but it was changed now, even though the words were the same: something had shifted in the meaning of my lady.
She stood while he wrapped the garment around her, tying it under her neck. When it was secure, his hands moved up to her shoulders and lingered there, a soft pressure, just enough for her to feel the touch.
“You need not endure a chill,” he said. “Queen Sarelin’s fire lives on in you. You are her Councillor, appointed on her authority, as a seal presses into wax and marks it out. And if I may make so bold as to say it . . . you are my leader, marked or not.” He dropped his gaze, and she knew that they had slipped back into their roles and ranks, but again she noticed that something had altered slightly, a stitch unpicked in the middle of a seam. I like what you like.
They stood there in silence, watching the fire burn. When she reached at last to remove his hands from her shoulders, he moved to her side, then pulled a small pouch from his pocket and held it out.
“For some time, I have been waiting for this moment. Well—that is not to say—I did not expect—but I hoped to find a time when we were alone.”
The string came undone on her first attempt. Inside she found a silver chain, so thin and light that it could have been liquid, shining in a way that no overly polished merchant’s jewelry shone. She held it up, watching it shimmer in the light.
“It’s beautifully crafted.”
“It was given to me when I took up my post as an advisor. Queen Sarelin wanted to wish me luck on my first journey to Bastillón.” He looked at the chain, and his gaze rested on it sadly as well as fondly. “I like to think it has continued to be a light for me after her own light went out.”
A lump rose in Lysande’s throat and lodged there. “You should not pass on such a precious gift to me.”
“On the contrary, my lady. It is because it is precious that I give it to you.”
He lowered his head slowly and touched his lips to the back of her palm, keeping his eyes locked on hers, as if to make sure that the gesture was allowed. She returned the kiss on the back of his own hand, then flipped it over to kiss the soft middle of his palm. Once she drew away, he moved back too, bowing and walking out, with the presence of mind to close the door. She lingered by the fire, watching the blaze in silence.
After the embers had died, she drew the chain around her neck, looking at the thin silver in the glass.
Sarelin’s necklace was still fastened against her skin when she slept; the landscape of her mind rolled out in a pure black, unadulterated by dreams of triangles, until a twinge of pain cut through it. The agony had moved to her throat.
Once she was truly awake, she thought about speaking to Sarelin, her words falling softly into the half-dark, telling the queen what had just transpired that day, focusing away from the pain. But the thought of Sarelin was painful, too. Her stiff figure among the rose petals; the way she had treated elementals; everything Lysande had come to confront; it was a whole lot of twisted-up things together, and Lysande did not know which of the queen’s two bodies she would be addressing, the woman or the state.
She picked up her quill and unrolled her notes for An Ideal Queen. The material on the five cities and the foreign lands was growing. Paragraphs and lists welcomed her.
After some minutes had passed, a tapping sound broke her reverie. She padded to the window and took in the bruise-purple dawn that had engulfed the clouds, then opened the sill, gazing out toward the eastern border, to where Elira became Bastillón by the stroke of a paintbrush. In the quiet of the morning, she mused on the mutability of lines, on borders and their dissolution, before scooping up the speckled dove that was waiting with an envelope in its beak.
Nine
Carriages and carts emerged from nowhere. One moment, the stream of traffic contained riders and people; the next, a vehicle was pushing through, leaving everyone to disperse and congregate again. Women and men stepped out from arches, talking at a pace that might have served in an auction house. The buildings Lysande passed seemed to have been jumbled together; apartments rubbed shoulders with bakeries, and apothecaries flourished beside jewelers. As she led the Axiumites through the streets, she caught the stares from doorways. The Rhimese regarded her with neither resentment nor disapproval.
I am a spectacle, she realized, when a father carrying a basket of eggs pointed her out to his son, nearly dropping his cargo. And not just any spectacle, either, but one with a dozen Axium Guards trailing.
At least her hair was plaited and pinned tightly again, with the deathstruck tress covered by her red strands, the hard glitter of the silver now entirely concealed.
“Shall we keep going, my lady?” Derset said, in a tone that rang with a little too much formality.
A ring of spectators surrounded a pair of duelers in the next square, while hawkers wove through and offered quince pies and bags of spiced almonds. It would have been easy for Lysande to forget her purpose if there had not been a bag of mettles tucked in her pocket. The softness of the leather under her fingers took her back to the steward counting out her travel allowance, while she sat, transfixed by the fine exterior of the three bags, unaware that once the coins had stopped clinking, she had not performed the expected way: that she had gawped instead of snatching up the money with disdain.
“I have a load here, my lord. It needs to be lightened.” Two-thirds of the silver she awarded to the guards, with the remaining money split between Derset and Litany. Derset tried to refuse, but she insisted that he buy himself a new chain: it was not at all improper for a leader to bestow a present upon her advisor, she told herself, meeting his eyes and finding a subtle glow there.
Litany was less reticent, accepting the coins and slipping alongside Lysande. They did not need to speak of the agreement on wages they had made before leaving the castle, nor to confirm again that Litany’s income was officially guaranteed. Some threads only needed to be woven once.
Lysande took Chidney, as well as her attendant, and set off from the center of Rhime, moving south. The map she had received at dawn led her through a tangle of alleyways to a narrow lane, the only sign of a prayer-house being a series of little steps leading up to a pair of doors. She mounted the first stair.
Inside, she found a small but ornate hall, lit by candles. Sculptures of princesses and princes of Rhime dotted the prayer-house on stands, yet it was the scene on the domed ceiling that made her breath hitch.
Someone had decorated every inch of the plaster to create a vista of the goddess Cognita emerging from the sea before a crowd of admiring humans. The faces stared down at Lysande, in such detail that she could discern the scars and blemishes on their cheeks. Earrings and buttons and laces shone; tiny figures in the corners of the ceiling had been edged with gold, and seemed to stand out from the roof. Cognita clutched her staff, her emerald robe billowing as her chariot broke through the waves. Another goddess, Lysande thought, would have forced the people to bow or commanded their respect, but Cognita, without demanding, drew them to her.
Her gaze passed down and she gave a slight gasp. A chimera presided over a clutch of eggs in the bottom right of the scene, its tail arcing up above its wings, the pointed tip almost touching one of its horns; to see it painted alongside one of the goddesses was . . . heresy, if you liked the language of priests, or treason, if you preferred monarchs’ speech. Whatever the case, she felt that the painter was being unfairly Rhimese.
She thought she heard a footfall. No . . . it had been Chidney’s cough. “Guard the doors, if you please. Take Litany with you,” she said.
If Chidney looked surprised at being paired so closely with the attendant, she also looked like a child whose gift-day wish had been granted, her grin new-minted. Lysande had a feeling that the barrier between the two women might eventually dissolve, and filed it away as a matter for future thought.
She made her way sl
owly past the scattering of worshippers and stopped at the purging-booth. Slipping into the visitor’s half of the box, she slid the door shut.
“Welcome, child,” a woman’s voice said.
“Thank you, Your Beatitude.” A grate separated her from the priest. How long had it been since her last trip to Discuss? Long enough that Sarelin would have shaken her head and tutted.
“Those who enter must admit their sins. Have you murdered or stolen, child? Have you eaten of animal flesh or acted out of cruelty or greed? Harmed your friends or kinsfolk? Or neglected to defend the realm in a time of need?”
“No, Your Beatitude.”
“Then I fail to discern what brings you here today.” The woman spoke slowly. “The Discussion is a serious matter, my child; the goddesses speak through their ministers.”
“Then I must confess . . . that I have come to speak with he who is more than two and less than four.”
There was a click from the grate. The partition opened and Lysande gazed into the face of the woman who had greeted her at the farmhouse. Six’s hooded robe concealed most of the twisted flesh that disfigured her cheek. “Good timing, Councillor.”
They exited through the back of the purging-booth, moving to the very end of the prayer-house, where a triptych of scenes lined a nook in the wall. Lysande followed Six to the paintings, which showed the warrior Titarch’s journey through the desert to Lyria, rendered in the same high style as the ceiling. She had little time to appreciate the brushwork, for a footfall sounded, unmistakable, from somewhere in the balcony level above.
Lysande turned to face a blur, her attendant crossing the floor, leaping over a rope, and landing beside her. Chidney ran, too, hurrying to her side. The three of them stared upward.
“Was that—” Chidney began.
Her next word was swallowed by a shout from Six, and the whistle of something as it plummeted through the air, landing with a smash on the prayer-house floor.
Lysande jumped back, dodging a piece of marble. Shards bounced and flew. Chidney clutched her boot, hopping, still reaching to push Lysande clear of the rubble, and Litany leaped to block her from another falling piece. Although the bust had splintered upon impact, Lysande spotted a piece of a familiar face fashioned from stone, and she recognized, with a dull and disembodied feeling, that seconds ago it had been a bust of Sarelin.