by E. J. Beaton
Lysande could not unclench her fists, no matter how she tried. They seemed to be stuck in a balled position. She reflected on the notes she had made for her treatise. “All the pieces of accounts I’ve read suggest that the White Queen threw fire with accuracy over the best part of a mile.”
“Well, perhaps it was luck that you were sitting closer to the rail. Prince Fontaine was sitting by that tactos-board, too, when the elementals struck.” Derset spread his hands. “He might as easily have chosen your chair.”
She remembered a shimmer of black scales, and her body recoiling.
“Tiberus,” she said.
“My lady?”
Tiberus was on the left seat. The guide’s knocking on the door had grown impatient, and she finished tying a bootlace, gathering her composure, and trying to stop her mind from running with the thought.
“We will speak no more of this, for now. But I thank you, my lord, for your honesty. And I would have you help me in my chamber this evening, if you have time to spare and the will for such a . . . chore.”
Derset caught her eye and held her gaze. Pleasure chased surprise from his face. “I have plenty of time, my lady. And nothing you ask of me could be a chore.”
“Careful, my lord. You do not yet know what I mean to ask.”
“I will let my imagination be schooled.”
He bowed, with the hint of a smile on his face, and waited for her to lead him out. She wondered what Derset would say if he knew what she was—if he would change his mind about Sarelin having chosen the right Councillor. Would he decline to be associated with her, or do far worse? She had few enough people she could speak to and listen to, without losing the ones she cared for, and Derset, she admitted to herself, was among those few. She chanced a look at him, taking in his steady gait, and catching his glance, she tried to return the smile.
Dante and Jale had left together an hour ago, she was informed by an attendant in the reception hall, for their own tour of the three wonders; whether they intended to fight or to reconcile, the attendant reported that they had hurried into Dante’s palanquin and closed the curtains. Lysande’s idea of that relationship was firming quickly. Luca had departed alone, but Cassia was waiting downstairs, and she strode over to Lysande, pulling something from her pocket and thrusting it under Lysande’s nose.
“I had not thought to see this for many weeks.”
Lysande took the proffered branch, a slim curve of honey-colored wood whose leaves sheltered nubs of silver fruit. She looked up slowly.
“Your attendant brought it in waxen paper. The traditional way,” Cassia added.
Lysande assembled her best hopeful look. She reminded herself to thank Litany, again, for not forgetting the details she had requested.
“I should ask how you knew that we give the livea branch as a symbol of reconciled hearts in Pyrrha, but I know better than to question a scholar. So, tell me one thing: is this truly an apology?”
“With all my heart,” Lysande said.
“I should not welcome all your heart. That would leave none for you to give elsewhere, and I think a certain snake of a prince would be first in line for a piece.” Cassia smirked. “But I accept what is given insofar as I give the same to you.”
“Let us be reconciled, then, my friend.”
The Irriqi threw back her head and laughed, the kind of laugh that captains gave when they were utterly delighted with a cleared battlefield. “Yes, friend, indeed. Or is that friend in deed? I have not forgotten that silent sword.”
She embraced Lysande, and the pair clapped each other on the back. “Now,” Cassia said, “we can tour that glittering chaos they call Lyria.”
As she rejoined her attendant, Lysande whispered “good work” in Litany’s ear.
There was a brief hold-up at the gates, when Cassia’s party of fourteen was asked to trim itself down to six—in Pyrrha, they might be one family, the attendant remarked, but in Lyria, they had to whittle themselves down to close relations—and after much wrangling and several threats from the Irriqi, both palanquins passed through.
The ceremonial lane through the city had disappeared, replaced by a mishmash of traders, and a throng engulfed them as they reached the west side of the city. Lyrians flowed around them, carrying baskets of chilies or rice; bankers glided past on open palanquins, athletic-looking staff in scant clothing keeping them company. While attendants hurried between mules and street-traders with parcels and small sacks, nobles stopped to talk and laugh without any regard for the crowds. To be human was common, Lysande thought, but to be seen as human was a luxury that only certain could afford, and it seemed no cheaper here. It was almost impossible for their party to navigate without hitting some merchant or messenger: if Rhime had been madcap, this was pure, unadulterated chaos, without any pretense of direction.
They were forced to push and swerve their way to the Monument of Silver, and Lysande could see that Derset was trying to speak to her when they got out, but the guide drew near to hand her a stick, which, unfolded, produced a handsome parasol.
“Constructed by Princess Charine Orvergne in the year one hundred and eighty-four,” the boy declared, pointing to an obelisk behind a ring of rope, “the Monument of Silver remains one of Lyria’s three wonders.”
They all stared up at the enormous silver column. It dominated the street corner. “Sarelin told me it was built by slavery,” Lysande recalled.
Cassia and the guide both turned to look at her.
“Well . . .” She faltered. Best not to think of the black stain on her knife. “She said Princess Orvergne ordered her elemental prisoners in tempero to construct it. They worked all day in the sun with little water or food, and if they asked for a break before nightfall, they were taken to the city square and executed.”
“I wouldn’t blame her if she put rebels to the sword. If you don’t keep them down, they set you alight.” Cassia shrugged. “Look what happened on the Grandfleuve.”
Lysande turned pale, despite the heat, and Cassia stared at her. Calm down, she told herself, but it did not stop her from thinking of the fate that would confront her if her nature was exposed. Secrecy would have to be her religion, as it was for Three.
The full reality of the law hit her for the first time—and it was not some other, unfortunate soul, some faceless elemental she considered, but herself. She could be locked in her own jail. Her own doing. Not open sky, but iron bars. She could be tied up and forced onto her knees in a city square if some angry citizens gathered in a mob and came after her. No one would blame them for doing so. They would be champions, and she the monster that deserved to die. Perhaps she did deserve to die, if the law of the realm ordered it so.
“Are you all right, my friend?” Cassia said.
“Yes,” Lysande said, “thank you; I find myself tiring easily in this climate.”
The guide said little as they climbed into the palanquins again. When they reached the city market some half-hour later, he devoted his attention to showing the Pyrrhans around, and Lysande took the chance to separate from the group, instructing Chidney and Litany to rejoin her later. Litany nodded, solemnly, and yet when the she turned to Chidney, a smile blossomed on her face. The captain offered her hand. Litany hesitated, then slipped her palm into Chidney’s, and the two of them walked toward a stall laden with spiced figs, bumping into each other’s sides slightly as they did so, Chidney leaning over to say something. Lysande watched them for a moment. The pair made the dance of courtship seem easy, even when it was a very awkward dance between a woman who embodied a broadsword and another who appeared deceptively like a sewing needle. It was too easy for them. Grudgingly, she turned in the opposite direction.
The rabbit warren of stalls before them spread out under a tin roof, and all sorts of things were dangling from hooks, swimming in jars, and spilling out of bags. She passed herbs for smoking that she suspe
cted were illegal, chilies that had been soaked in honey and flattened, and a bowl of rice that appeared to be moving but, on closer inspection, turned out to be a mound of live ants. The stall-keeper insisted the insects were being sold for “medicinal and decorative purposes” and definitely not for eating.
Somehow, she had found her way into a section of the floor packed with people shouting the prices of grain, and she was surrounded by bargainers pointing to sacks of impressive size. Derset came up on her left. He paused, and Lysande felt that since lying together in Rhime, something had unfurled between them . . . something that had begun to expand even further since she suggested that he join her in the evening.
“My lady, I want to make sure that you will not place too much importance on what I said before.”
“Your scruples do you credit, my lord.”
He bowed. “I only hope that you will take your time to consider the matter . . . I would not want to hamper your friendship with Prince Fontaine over something so tenuous.”
She patted him on the arm, then, newly aware of the warmth of skin on skin, let go.
“Goddess of love,” Derset said.
Lysande followed his finger. He was pointing to a stall on their left. Among bowls and plates, a few small statues of a female hunter were elevated on bronze stands, the tiny spear in each figure’s hand jabbing up.
“You studied etymology as scholar, did you not, my lady?” Derset said. “Would you answer me something? I have heard the origin of the word Crudelis is cruelty.”
“Yes,” Lysande said, absentmindedly, “from the Old Rhimese, you know.”
“I saw many statues of Crudelis in Rhime. They love the passion and the pain of that goddess; we Axiumites are wiser.”
She nodded, barely hearing.
“At least, we are meant to be.”
“Quite.” Seeing him had jolted her back to the fact that she was in Lyria, undergoing a tour that most people in the realm could only dream of. The bone people would not be pitying themselves if they were being whirled around the jewel of the delta. Sadness and determination fused in her. You could remind yourself that you were leading for your own safety and still be impatient to make change; that same coin was still there, spinning—for the people etched on one side, the people for oneself on another.
She left Derset examining a stack of bowls painted to resemble queensflowers and ambled through the lanes. Having dressed without care, she realized that she was unrecognizable as a Councillor, and several stall-keepers cast contemptuous looks at her tattered doublet. One Lyrian was so offended by her sleeves that he pretended not to hear when she inquired about his spitting cats, yet for every merchant who turned up their nose at her doublet, two more waited to sell her goods. She bought as many gifts as she could stuff into her pockets: a peacock quill for Derset; a jar of salted plums for Litany, who had expounded their merits several times on the voyage; a pair of sheaths with suns on them for Chidney; a hunting knife for Raden. At the far end of the market, she found a woman who professed to sell exotic goods from Royam. Among the weapons and shields, something violet sparkled.
She breathed slowly. It was important to breathe slowly if your heart was racing. When she had glanced over both shoulders and ascertained that no one was watching her, she leaned closer to peer at the jar. The shape of the flakes, their ragged edges, the slight luminosity to their surface: yes, there was no doubt about it, except for the color. Had there been purple chimeras in Royam before the Conquest? She could not recall reading if there had even been chimeras in Royam at all. The merchant was watching her now; Lysande reached for a vial of something black beside the scale and became very interested in the contents.
“Powdered chimera talon. Anyone would be delighted with such a curiosity,” the woman assured her, eyeing the stain on her sleeve. “A unique product, oh yes; but you’ll need eighty-five cadres and twenty mettles for that, and not a piece less.”
There was one person she knew who would love that vial. And it was not the formal recognition of her rank but the warmth in the Irriqi’s voice that Lysande thought of, now; a warmth that had been renewed when her little present of a livea branch had been received.
When she pulled out her purse and counted out five twenty-cadre coins, a deliberate rounding-up beyond the usual tip, she was thanked and shaken by the hand, begged to visit again, and promised that she would be provided with a bargain on gryphon’s tears, or blood of the leaping wolf if she liked. It took all her effort not to look back at the jar of violet scale.
As they arrived at the beginning of the delta, she gazed out. The Grandfleuve diverged into three paths that gushed to the sea, and on the left tributary a pavilion floated—or at least seemed to float, supported by stilts, framed by four pillars shaped like spearfish. She wondered if members of the populace had ever been allowed to visit such a place.
“The Pavilion of Songs,” the guide announced, as he led them to a galley. “The very place where the Lyrian royal choir performs every year. His Highness Prince Chamboise sings the ‘Hymn of Pleasure’ here.”
“Of course he does,” Cassia muttered. “He’s never known anything but pleasure.”
Lysande smiled, despite herself.
Pieces of glass on the pavilion’s roof rained droplets of light over the surface of the river. The only melody that reached their ears as they glided across the Grandfleuve was the scooping of the oars in the water, but it made no matter, for the sunlight felt more ethereal than any song. Once on the pavilion, Lysande really did feel as if she were floating in the middle of the shimmering water. The guide unwrapped parcels of starfruit and snap-flower strips, dipped in a blend of chili and salt, producing an unexpected harmony of flavor.
Lysande produced the vial from her pocket. She had anticipated this moment for the better part of the journey, and Cassia’s expression did not disappoint.
“Is it . . . surely not . . . powdered talon? You? I’ve never heard you once mention you like collecting chimeran artifacts!”
If she bit her lip, she might just stop some ironical, self-loathing witticism about scale from coming out. “Not precisely. But I have a friend who, I hear, spent years reading about chimeras and their powers. Perhaps she would take it off my hands.”
Cassia pulled Lysande into a hug that nearly crushed her ribs. It was a feigned alliance, Lysande told herself, a cover to throw over the chasm of suspicion; and yet when those arms surrounded her with their bruising grip, she felt the embrace, almost as if it were Sarelin’s. Did it matter if laughter and conversation came easy to them? Was it not wise to keep Cassia on her side? If so, why was it that a burr had lodged itself in her conscience, telling her that she could not be friend and strategist at once?
After they had rowed back to the shore, the two of them chatted in the same palanquin, comparing impressions of Lyria while the palanquin-bearers wove through the traffic. Lysande studied Cassia in the moments when she was silent. For all that she searched Cassia’s features, she was relieved to find no hint of scheming; no calculation.
As they approached the Hill of Oblitara, it was hard to say who carried the most expectation. The Irriqi rattled away to her guards about the distinctive horns of Oblitara and the villages she had destroyed; discoursed about the other great chimeras, Excoria, Ignis, and Eradicus, who had been ridden by elementals into battle, according to an esoteric and probably illegal manuscript that Cassia had sought out; while Lysande, though quiet on the outside, had allowed her thoughts to run to the Conquest and the histories she had read as a child. The formation of armies, the truce, and the great Surge, when women and men rose up against their elemental rulers, slaying the leaders and every one of the chimeras, all played out in her mind. They now touched something personal in her, something that was stirring.
I put it to you that deception is the ink in which all invasions are signed, one scholar had written of the negotiation after
the Conquest. Lysande had quoted that book to Sarelin during a night of philosophical jousting, when they had not needed wine to make them loud.
The book had been banned, of course. So too had the works of the elemental scholar Roussant. Lysande had found one of them in the restricted part of the royal library, and she suspected that Sarelin had always known what she had purloined.
In banning our books, our knowledge, and our customs, and in wiping us from the histories, non-magical people waged war on our spirit. It is a war that continues today. For even being subjugated is not so dangerous as forgetting that your people were ever rulers.
So Roussant had written.
No one imagined elementals as rulers anymore. Perhaps memory was malleable—perhaps the collective memory of Elira had melted and reformed, over centuries.
The Hill of Oblitara rose out of a bare plain, and she saw at once why Jale had not wanted her to climb it: the peak that rose above them looked naked of any vegetation, with not even the meanest date tree flourishing on its sides, and only at the top did a few daubs of green shade the earth. The steps stretched up like a ladder under the glare of the sun. She hoped that the palanquin-bearers received a handsome wage, for they began the jerky ascent at a pace that must have strained their shoulders, never pausing to put down their load.
“Imagine burning your enemies with a chimera,” Cassia said, when they were halfway up. “Now that’d crush any rebellion, or any jumped-up family who thinks your throne is theirs. If I had an Oblitara to roast every one of the Qamaras . . .”
“Even if they hadn’t been dead for four hundred years, you couldn’t possibly control one.”
“All right.” Cassia folded her arms. “There’s no need to go throwing facts into a fantasy.”
Lysande experimented with a nudge to Cassia’s elbow and received a nudge back.
The jolting ceased after an eternity, and they emerged onto a landing that stuck out on the side of the hill. Lysande felt her stomach give a lurch. Looking down was not a good idea; it was much easier to turn her eyes upward.