by P. J. Fox
Ceres signaled his driver, who opened one of the rear doors. Kisten helped Aria into the car, then got in himself. Ceres sat across from them in the cavernous, shadowed interior, an orgy of finely tanned black leather and burlwood that smelled brand new. Ceres, who seemed easy enough, was dressed as formally as Kisten if not quite so ornately. His robes were plain, but of expensive fabric and beautifully cut.
“In case you’re wondering,” he told Aria, “Udit, my Heart’s Delight, did not have rabies. I wanted an hour of peace and quiet before breaking the loathsome news to her father that I was his new son in law—his hatred of me was, I assure you, only exceeded by my joy at finding out that he’d finally died—so we rented a room and I was attempting to conjoin our union when a rabid dog appeared from underneath the bed and bit me. I—”
“This story,” Kisten cut in, “is inappropriate.”
Ceres turned to him. “You’re here, aren’t you? Surely you can’t be surprised that your grandmother is no virgin.” Kisten looked aggrieved. “If you still need instruction, this is a rather late date.” Ceres looked owlish. “Your poor consort—”
“Enough!”
Ceres smiled, and Aria giggled. Seeing Kisten with his grandfather humanized him. The two men obviously cared about each other a great deal, and seeing them banter provided a curious window into Kisten’s inner world. Given time, Kisten might turn out to be both a funny and warm-hearted man. She’d seen glimmers of those tendencies aboard the ship, but been unsure of how to interpret them. Aria did conclude, however, that she wanted to meet his grandmother. Any woman who’d spent the better part of her life with Ceres must be quite the character; equally obviously, Ceres at least was still very much in love.
Aria’s own parents were not and, she suspected, never had been.
Ceres’ expression turned serious. “I am, however, relieved that I’m not too late to celebrate the occasion.”
“You talked to Keshav.”
Ceres nodded. “He feels that I should be involved. Provided you agree.”
“I would be honored.”
“I’m also willing to host the brunch, although I don’t see that we can realistically keep Zerus out.”
Kisten laughed.
He put his arm around her and pulled her against him, as casually as if he’d made the same gesture a thousand times before. She let him, feeling oddly like she was in a play and had to act the part. Still, his arm around her helped to take some of the chill out of the air and she realized, as she finally relaxed against his shoulder, how exhausted she truly was. Ceres smiled at her, a faint ghost of an expression that reminded her of Kisten’s. That he’d accepted her so easily and, indeed, treated her like he’d known her for years only intensified Aria’s feeling of unreality.
And perhaps the strangest thing of all was that she was beginning to feel like she belonged there.
As she stared out into the featureless gray void that supposedly disguised Haldon, capital of Halstead Province and her new home, Aria mentally reviewed what she knew about Ceres. He and Kisten were still talking, of various things, but their conversation wasn’t meant to include her and she didn’t mind.
Ceres, Kisten’s father’s father, was brother to the Emperor. The Bronte, although monotheists, seemed to regard their leader as something close to a god and thus did not pollute his glory by mentioning his name. To do so meant death on all six Home Worlds and twelve colonies. Aria didn’t understand the prohibition, but she accepted it as one more fact of her new reality. Unfortunately, though, since the Emperor’s reign predated her arrival, she’d never know his real name. She wondered, idly, if his consort could use it….
She wouldn’t want to marry a man the world worshipped. A Bronte woman had to worship her husband enough as it was. She shivered as a cold finger touched the base of her spine. She was putting herself into this man’s power for the rest of her life, and in a few hours.
FORTY-TWO
Their temporary home was a long, low building that crouched forbiddingly in the mist. A single story tall, its two long wings stretched on either side of what appeared to be a central hall. An impressive colonnade curved around the front. The windows, what of them she could see, rose gracefully from ground level. Masses of shrubs and flower-laden vines gave it the organic appeal of some wizard’s hidden retreat. Trees spread over the colonnade. The wide circular drive gave every appearance of gracious welcome; the windows were, incongruously, barred. Whatever its outward appearance, this was a home under siege.
“Welcoming, isn’t it?” Ceres said dryly.
Aria stepped out onto the gravel, holding Kisten’s arm for support. The car was very low slung, and it was difficult to maneuver so swathed in fabric. She could see very little of the compound other than her immediate surroundings: the drive enclosed a small formal garden with a fountain that burbled cheerfully. Duck-like birds traversed its broad basin in never-ending circles, and she wondered why they weren’t bored. With this thought came a sharp, clear memory of Aiden and she was unprepared for the stab of pain in her heart. They’d been standing at a fountain much like this, when he’d proposed.
“The compound is safer than it appears,” Kisten said in a low tone, mistaking her frozen expression. “In addition to the guard house at the main gate, there are several others. And, of course, several other houses within the compound and a temple as well.”
This was, she learned as he led her forward, a house only in name. Both designed and used as a fortress, it—like all the houses in the cantonment—was primarily meant to repel an armed attack.
The whole cantonment was overwhelming. After driving through a capital she still hadn’t seen, they’d turned onto a long, straight-drive and passed under the massive arch that served as a main gate. The wall had to have been twenty feet thick, and its presence had brought home to Aria, as nothing else had, that she might very well die here. Even if they did leave, it would be for Brontes. She’d never see Cabot Lake again. And, looking around her now, she couldn’t imagine that this cheerless place would ever feel like home.
The other houses belonged to minor officials and were much smaller, as they had no need of formal entertaining space. But the chief commissioner, like the governor, had to host everything from visiting dignitaries to local worthies as well as, of course, do his part to provide the brunches and dinners and other activities that served as their only entertainment. If and when relations with the locals improved, they’d be able to mingle more freely with the outside world.
But for now, and possibly forever, this compound was a prison.
Aria mounted the broad marble steps, by some primordial instinct hesitant to go inside. Her slippers were ruined, and her feet squelched unpleasantly inside them. She wondered where Garja was and instantly felt guilty; what kind of person was she turning into, that she wanted a maid? Or maybe it was only that Garja was a familiar face, and someone who at least gave the appearance of understanding something of Aria’s feelings. Moreover, as stupid as she might be, she was Bronte and thus was far more capable in this new and alien environment than Aria. She might be able to explain some things, like whether Bronte wore wedding rings. Aria had, she realized with chagrin, come to rely on her maid and, she had to admit, friend—perhaps too much.
The iron-studded double doors loomed over her, and she felt an inexplicable urge to turn and run. She felt like she was placing her hand inside the mouth of a crocodile, recklessly tempting fate by throwing herself headlong into danger. It was one of those moments that she’d remember for the rest of her life, and for absolutely no good reason: a single frame of aching clarity, stolen out of time like a moth preserved in amber.
And then she was through the doors and the moment was over and she was seeing the inside of her new home for the first time. It would be beautiful, if the sun ever shone. The central hall was an enormous, high-ceilinged affair ringed on all sides by twin pairs of tall columns. They held up a series of graceful crenellated arches which, in turn, held
up a stained glass dome. The geometry of jewel-like glass was mirrored by an equally intricate pattern of tiles on the floor: gold, red, turquoise and celadon fit together in utter perfection. The colors themselves were breathtaking, the proportions more so. Whoever had designed this space had been a mathematician. Had she been asked beforehand, Aria would have said that it was impossible for so many disparate colors and shapes to form anything other than chaos.
Every surface was ornately carved and painted, the bright colors making the most of the poor light. The bodies of the thin columns were turquoise, and might have looked garish in strong sun. Rising from the shadows, they had the dark, intimidating appeal of some forbidden temple.
On Brontes, Aria knew, the midday sun was very strong—which, of course, was what allowed for the pursuit of agriculture. A great many of the techniques adopted on Brontes to maximize its unusual diurnal patterns, Kisten thought might work on Tarsonis. He’d discussed the subject with her, briefly. Aria had to admit that, now that she was here, she was curious.
She stared up at the dome, awestruck. This was her first introduction to Bronte architecture and not, she knew, the most impressive one; she’d seen military housing back home and had some sense of how it generally compared to its civilian counterpart. She couldn’t imagine what real architecture looked like on Brontes. Remembering how Kisten had spoken of his home before, on the ship, she thought she understood something of his longing.
Her only exposure to Kisten or his people had been in the static environment of a frigate, where everyone seemed much the same. It had been hard to get a sense of the Bronte as people, apart from their interest in war. But now she saw that even on this desolate outpost beauty was a fact of life. The cantonment might be overrun tomorrow, but they’d thought the effort worthwhile—even necessary—regardless. Which told her a great deal. She glanced over at her would-be husband, the man who executed criminals and recited poetry with equal ease, and felt again like the bottom was dropping out from under her.
Several of Kisten’s household had, apparently, come down the night before and now his steward appeared. Ananda was a short, squat man with a pleasant face. He was smiling now, and seemed genuinely pleased to see them.
He bowed. “Welcome home, Your Highness.”
And that was it, Aria realized: she’d wake up to this exotic-seeming rotunda every morning. She’d wake up to barred windows every morning. Her surroundings might be beautiful, but they had nothing in common with what she thought of as a home. Ananda offered to give them a tour, and the more Aria saw of the house the more that feeling of otherness intensified.
Ceres withdrew, claiming the need for a few hours of solitude before the wedding. As he’d already been to the house, he knew where his rooms were. The central hall served as an entertaining space as well as an audience chamber for the general public. Behind it, separated by doors designed to blend in so well with the woodwork as to be almost invisible, was a second hall. This smaller space, which looked out over the house’s central walled courtyard, was meant solely for the chief commissioner, his staff, and anyone else with whom he wished to confer in privacy. Following Bronte tradition, both rooms had been lavishly adorned with the rarest and most expensive materials available.
Aria looked through the windows at what, even in the fog, was a stunning garden. Skill and planning had gone into creating what seemed like a haphazard riot of color and wonder. Trying to describe the vista in her own mind, the best that she could come up with was fairy kingdom. In place of a formal fountain was a curving brook fed by several different small waterfalls. Although obviously man-made, the effect was completely believable—and the ducks, toads, and other residents of the garden appeared to think so, too. An occasional low croaking issued from underneath the moisture-heavy leaves.
“What are you thinking?” Kisten asked quietly.
Aria spoke without turning. “That this would be a nice place to sit and write, if it ever stopped raining.” She’d been so taken off guard by the question—no one ever asked her what she was thinking, or particularly even wanted to know—that she’d answered honestly. For a moment she tensed, but Kisten didn’t seem to find anything peculiar in her answer.
The tour continued. No one except Aiden, Aria amended to herself, and thought again that all she’d had to do was stay. Kisten put his arm around her, and she wanted to scream.
Even though the central hall, with its dome, rose quite a bit higher than the rest of the house, the wings still maintained lofty proportions. Two stories could have easily been fit into the one and would have been on Solaris, where ceilings tended to be low and rooms small. Aria had grown up in a privileged environment and yet her house, which had been the envy of the neighborhood, would be a hovel in comparison. The thought depressed her.
Kisten had grown up, as he explained, dividing his time between Shadowmarch in the north and Chau Cera, the capital of the empire, in the south. Both were on the same continent of Zanskar, an enormous mass of land that encompassed everything from tundra to rainforest. The mountains in the north barred the influx of frigid polar wind, creating a thermal dam; but the same thermal dam that assured most of Zanskar a mild winter also transformed it into a boiling cauldron in the summer. Temperatures reached the hundreds and stayed there, even in the shade. Direct sun could kill.
Bronte architecture historically, therefore, incorporated various techniques for minimizing its effects: high ceilings, because heat rose, and thick stone walls to keep the worst of it out. Shaded verandahs were, sometimes, all that made sitting outdoors bearable. Even air conditioning could only do so much and unlike Solarians, who piped water into the desert for golf courses, the Bronte preferred to work with nature rather than master it.
“It snows in the north,” Kisten told her. He meant on Tarsonis.
“And here?”
He made a dismissive gesture. “This. Haldon has a mild, temperate climate and an average temperature of about 50 degrees Fahrenheit. After the rainy season—”
“This isn’t it?”
He smiled slightly.
The house had a large formal dining room, obviously intended for state functions, a smaller dining room for private use, several sitting rooms, and an office intended for Kisten’s personal use. The other entire wing of the house was offices; this was, first and foremost, a nucleus of governmental control. That people also happened to live here had been addressed almost as an afterthought. Aria particularly liked the library, which also looked out on the same fairy-touched garden. Double doors led out onto a covered colonnade, which Kisten examined critically. “This could be partially enclosed, and perhaps heated,” he remarked. “At least enough to keep any furniture that was put out here from growing toadstools.” He turned, waiting for her response, but she just stared at him. “So you can write,” he clarified.
“Oh.” She flashed him a small, shy smile.
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.
“I have a question,” she said as they continued down the broad central hall. Like the rest of the house, it was a work of art: geometric designs had been carved into the plaster and polished until the whole surface glowed from within like alabaster. There were no paintings, though, or other personal touches. Indeed, its beauty masked a lack of individually so profound that they might have been the house’s first occupants. Aria thought it odd that no one had made an effort to turn even temporary lodgings into their own, until she remembered that no one had lived long enough.
“Yes?” he queried after a minute.
“Shadowmarch.” She thought about how to frame her question. “As a name, it—doesn’t fit.”
“Our House can trace its lineage back to the revolution and, at the time, we were provisional governors in the north. Shadowmarch had been named, originally, by some pundit in the political department who claimed it reminded him of a place in a book. We deposed our overlords, but kept the name—as a reminder, I suppose. We’re a bit keen on self-flagellation.”
>
Aria digested this. It was one of the strangest explanations she’d ever heard.
Ananda showed them the bedrooms: several individual bedrooms for guests and children, and the master suite. All featured the same carved plaster above dark wood paneling, only in the master suite the plaster had been painted a soft butter yellow. The floor was laid out in a geometric pattern using the same small tiles, red and yellow this time. Aria would have been charmed, under other circumstances. Now, looking around only made her sick with apprehension.
Having brought them this far, Ananda bowed and withdrew. Hoping to cover her unease, Aria studied her surroundings and wondered what, exactly, they revealed about Bronte life. The master suite was actually two separate, connecting bedrooms; there were also two bathrooms and two sets of closets. Clearly, couples were expected to maintain at least the appearance of keeping different quarters. How, she wondered, did that work? And what was the point? There was too much she didn’t know. Some things had been explained to her, but others were apparently so obvious, to them at least, that no one had bothered—or so personal that no one had dared. The thought brought a lump to her throat.
Like all the rooms, these were fairly sparsely furnished. The room that was meant to be hers was, unexpectedly, the larger of the two—although neither room was small. The servants, it seemed, were housed separately in the compound. At night, she’d be alone with a skeleton staff, and Kisten. The thought terrified her. Stepping out onto a covered verandah, she found herself peering through a carved screen onto a different garden. The screen, she knew, was so that she could see without being seen. Which, she supposed, would be useful if she wanted to stand outside in her underwear. She certainly couldn’t sunbathe.
Fingers grazed her shoulder, and she jumped. “I have to go.”
Aria turned, expression questioning.