by Alison Baird
She wondered where Damion was. In his room, in the palace gardens, or in the city outside the walls? Damion, unlike herself, was free to go wherever he willed; Jomar and Lorelyn, too. She hoped at least one of them was in, for she was feeling sociable today. At least, “sociable” was the word she used for her present state of mind: “lonely” sounded too absurd, in this great palace with its three hundred courtiers and retainers.
She left the bedroom and wandered through the other rooms of her apartments. All were large and luxuriously appointed. Yet she paced restlessly about them as if she were a prisoner in a cell. Halmirion was a cage constructed of velvet and marble and gold, and she felt its bars more keenly with each passing day. At a full-length mirror, she paused to eye the reflection framed by its gilded scrolls. She had grown slightly taller since her arrival on Arainia—an effect of this world’s lighter gravity—and the hot Arainian sun had brought out the gold in her hair, though its wispy ends (she noted with disappointment) still would not grow very far below her waist. She had dressed casually in an everyday gown, high-waisted with plain tight sleeves, but it was of sapphire-colored linen, finer by far than anything the Island girl had ever dreamed of wearing.
Her pet mimic dog, stretched out like a fur rug upon the floor, raised its head and gazed at her with great, brown, almost-human eyes. Ailia knelt beside it, hugging the massive neck with its thick tawny ruff and stroking the long, doglike muzzle. The mimic dog was a native Arainian beast, a curious blend of canine and ape, valued for its loyalty and playfulness. The creatures could perform any number of tricks and even carry out simple domestic tasks with their handlike paws. They were also ideal pets and nursemaids for small children, and this one had been Ailia’s special guardian when she was small; she did not remember it, but the animal had clearly never forgotten its young mistress. “Shall we go for a walk, Bezni?” Ailia suggested. The creature leaped up at once, tail waving.
In the corridor outside two guards in blue-and-gold palace livery immediately snapped to attention, their eyes widening. “Highness,” they murmured, bowing their heads as she passed. She sensed their awe at being so close to her: the Tryna Lia, titular head of all Arainian religions, figurehead of the state, believed by many to be the mortal daughter of an incarnate goddess. Ailia felt uneasily self-conscious as she walked away down the hall, feeling their eyes upon her. One of the men looked no older than she. Outside the first right-hand door she paused for a moment, before going in. This apartment was as elegantly furnished as her own, with murals and molded ceilings. Rose-colored curtains hung at the windows, and a carpet of the same tint covered the floor; the air was sweetly scented by a bouquet of fresh lilies, set in a vase on a marble table beneath a large full-length portrait.
Ailia had been born in this room: on her birthday it seemed only natural to come here.
She walked over to the portrait and stood looking up at it. The young woman in it might almost have been Ailia herself—an idealized Ailia, more beautiful, more spiritual, more serene. But this woman’s eyes were as blue as the gown in which she was clad, not violet-gray like Ailia’s; and the amazing ankle-length hair was a shade lighter than hers. Still, the delicate modeling of the face was like an echo of Ailia’s own features, and so too were the ivory-pale complexion and long graceful neck. The portrait showed her standing in the palace gardens, with a background all misty blues and greens. Elarainia, acclaimed queen of Eldimia, named by the Elei for the goddess herself: the greatest sorceress they had ever known. Gazing at this painting, one was drawn into its tranquility; though for Ailia there would always be a poignant ache as well. Her mother had vanished in the world of Mera long years ago, and many now believed her to be dead.
This room with its contents, and one lock of blonde hair preserved in a jeweled reliquary in the chapel, were all that remained of the queen. Once, when no one else was about, Ailia had removed the holy relic from its sacred confinement, holding the silken softness against her cheek. It had briefly evoked vague images and impressions from early childhood—long, honey-colored hair that had brushed her face gently, a warm softness against which she had rested, long ago. Ailia’s eyes misted at the thought.
“She was very beautiful,” a voice said suddenly, behind her, “wasn’t she?” Ailia turned to see her father standing in the doorway.
“I am sorry if I disturbed you,” he said.
“No, no—and you needn’t say any more about—about her. I know how you feel—”
Ailia and King Tiron went on apologizing awkwardly for a few moments. They still felt a slight discomfort in each other’s presence, sensing the chasm of time and distance that her mother’s flight had put between them. It was difficult to compensate for so much time lost.
“She was beautiful,” he repeated at length, entering the room. His dark gray eyes held sorrow as he looked at the portrait. “But her real beauty came from within her: gentleness, compassion, wisdom. They—illuminated her, like a candle in a lantern. Small wonder people believed she was a goddess. They would have made this room into a holy shrine had I let them. But I needed a private place of my own, where I could be alone with her memory.”
Ailia hesitated. “Father—do you think she could still be alive?”
He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I long to believe that she is. But my reason tells me she did not survive the wreck of her flying ship—”
“I shouldn’t have survived it, but I did.” Ailia gazed at the portrait again. “How could I have survived such a wreck alone when I was just a tiny child—not much more than an infant? If she died then how did I come to shore alive and unhurt?”
“I cannot say. It is a mystery, and it may always be.”
“If only I could have known her!” she burst out. Everyone else had, it seemed—her father, the courtiers, the people—even the mimic dog had known the queen’s caresses, and looked up into that lost, lovely face. The clerics in the city declared that the divine Elarainia had passed back into the realm of the Immortals, and was still with her people in spirit: so they comforted themselves and the faithful. But Ailia yearned for the mortal woman who had been her mother.
“You speak of her so seldom, Father,” she said. “I haven’t asked you to, because I know it hurts you to remember. But there’s so much I still don’t know about her.”
Tiron looked at her sadly. “I have been very selfish. You lost a mother, even as I lost a wife, and you’ve a right to know about her. But if only you could remember something of her, daughter, you would understand why my grieving is still keen after all this time.”
He was silent a moment, and she thought he would say no more. But presently he continued in a soft low voice. “She lived on the South Shore of Eldimia, in the wilds—as all the true Elei do.”
“The forest Elei are very different from those in the city, aren’t they?” Ailia asked.
“Yes: for in our part of Eldimia the Fairfolk have dwelt among Merei—true humans—for many generations, and married them and brought forth children of mixed blood like ourselves. But their kin in the forests have no dealings with the rest of humanity. They do not barter or trade, only making for themselves things of beauty that they do not sell. They do not even farm. Each takes for him- or herself whatever is needed, straight from the forest. It gives to them fruits and vegetables, roots and nuts, and many of the herbs and flowers and even the bark of certain trees possess healing properties. Their clothing they make from cottony growths, harvested from a tree: some color the fabric with natural dyes, but most simply leave it white.
“Many years ago I departed on a journey to learn more of them. I went deep into the forests, even to the shadow of Hyelanthia, the Country in the Clouds—”
“I have heard of that place. Where is it?”
“It lies near the coast, where once there was a great tableland. Over many eons the rains have swept most of it away, leaving a few vast stone columns and plateaux. The Old Ones lived there long ago, it is said, together with many strange creatu
res, beasts and birds that have long since vanished from the world. The Elei revere it as the dwelling-place of the goddess. Your mother lived there, at the foot of one of the mountainous columns. Her home was just a cave in the cliff, floored with moss and screened by some climbing vines. Nearby there is an inlet of the sea, bright with reefs of coral, where she used to swim in the mornings. She had no family, no friends save for the animals that gathered about her—she had a magical touch with any kind of beast, furred or feathered, finned or scaled. The woodland Elei, the forest-dwellers, held her in a kind of awe. They truly believed she was the goddess herself, and sought her out for her advice on many things. When I learned of her I was curious and decided to seek her out, too.
“I had thought to find some aged wise-woman, such as I had seen in these forest communities: learned in herb-lore from many long years of experience. Instead I saw a woman both young and lovely, with golden hair that fell to her feet. I was smitten from the very first, though I had no real hope. ‘King’ they may call me now, but my blood is neither royal nor noble. I am not even the most handsome of men, and she . . . when I saw her, I knew at last what the words ‘divinely beautiful’ meant.
“I asked her about her parents, but she did not seem to know what I meant. She did not understand ‘father,’ and when I asked about her mother, she only pointed skyward and said, ‘She is there.’ Either she meant that her mother was in Heaven, or else she believed in some celestial goddess that watched over her: I never learned which. I realize she must have been orphaned at an early age in some tragic accident of which she had no memory, for she seemed quite unconcerned to be alone. I joined her followers, sat at her feet night and day and listened to her speak. When after some weeks had passed she told me that she returned my love, I could not believe my ears. It was as though a goddess stooped to love a mere mortal.” His voice had a tremor in it, and though his mouth worked for a moment he could not continue.
They were both silent for a time, her father deep in contemplation before the portrait while Bezni drowsed with her chin on his foot. Ailia was wrapped in her own thoughts.
BY SOME UNSPOKEN CONSENSUS Ailia’s birthday was always treated as a national holiday. No special decree had been given: the people of Eldimia simply abandoned their work and flocked to the streets in joyous celebration each year since her return. Halmirion marked the occasion as always with a special ball and banquet in the evening.
Ailia looked in her mirror as her ladies-in-waiting bustled about her, dressing her, binding up her hair in braids, and piling it into an elaborate crown atop her head. The style made her look older, she thought with approval: more mature. Tonight, too, she did not have to wear her formal regalia, and her gown was a floating filmy thing of lavender blue, with a diaphanous capelet that hung to her hips. On her right hand was a star sapphire ring that had been her mother’s, while around her neck she had placed Damion’s birthday present, a silver chain from which hung a single large pearl. Damion would be at the ball tonight, she thought, and he must look at her for once, not as princess or friend, but as a woman. Only Damion, who had known her before ever he learned of her true identity, was capable of loving her for her own sake.
If only he would!
Her old nurse Benia came into the room and beamed at her. “Oh, my dear, that’s lovely! You do look a vision.” Ailia smiled. Benia still begrudged the misfortune that had taken “her” girl away from her years ago, and Ailia, knowing this, allowed Benia to fuss over her a little. She was, truth to tell, quite glad for some mothering at times.
Lady Lira, chief of her ladies-in-waiting, had also entered. In her hands was something that flashed like frost. “You must wear a tiara at least, Highness.”
Three years ago Ailia would have exclaimed with delight at the jeweled thing Lira held; now she only felt irritated. “Must I? It would be so nice just to be me for one evening.”
“You are the Tryna Lia,” reproved Lady Lira. “That is who you are, and always shall be.” She was a small, almost birdlike woman with bright eyes of a rich red-brown, masses of auburn hair, a sharp high-bridged nose, and an air of irresistible authority that fully compensated for her lack of height. She pinned the tiara firmly in place, just in front of Ailia’s braided crown, while the princess submitted meekly.
“It was your mother’s, Ailia dear,” said Benia, her eyes touched with tears as she looked at the piece of jewelry. Ailia reached up to run her hand along the tiara, which was of gold set with pearls and little diamonds. So Elarainia had worn this, too: she felt a fleeting sense of closeness to her mother at the thought.
There was a sharp report from outside, followed by a larger explosion and then a flash of red light. Ailia went over to a window and looked down on the gardens below. The royal pyrotechnics display was underway, and the night was filled with fiery shapes: great glittering chandeliers that hung briefly from the sky as from a ceiling, and then faded away; scintillating comets, and flickers of many-colored lightning accompanied by roars of artificial thunder. Down on the ground were the set pieces, fire fountains and cascades whose every droplet was a blazing spark, and wheels of whirling flame dazzlingly mirrored in the ornamental pools. Flourishes of music accompanied them.
Ailia opened the pane and drew in deep breaths of flower-scented evening air. Miria, the little blue moon, was up: the moon whose name she bore, or rather that took its name from her. She had been told the old myth of its origin, of how the mother- goddess Elarainia had placed it in the night sky as a pleasure- garden for her beloved daughter. It was quite true that the moon had its own atmosphere, for woods and flowing waters could be seen on its surface through a spyglass. The Elei had visited Miria back in their starfaring days, it was said; now the lunar lands were unattainable. What flowers were blooming up there, what scents perfuming the air of that distant sphere?
She looked down at the earthly gardens again. Ailia always suppressed a little shiver when she gazed on one particular spot: the eastern slope of the hill where Morlyn had fallen wounded to the earth in dragon form, scarring the ground and crushing the greenery beneath him. All signs of the damage were long removed, but the memory was burned into her mind. Prince Morlyn, her most dangerous foe: he lived still, somewhere in hiding, and it had been said that she might have to face him again one day, perhaps at the head of an invading army . . .
“Are you ready, Trynel?” asked another lady-in-waiting, peering around the door.
She drew back from the casement and closed it. “I never feel ready for these functions. There are so many things that could go wrong. If you trip on your skirt, for instance, it’s just embarrassing. If I trip on mine the whole world will hear of it tomorrow—”
“Ailia, dear—” began Benia.
“Councils will be held,” Ailia continued in a tone of deadly calm, “to discuss the implications of the incident, the faith of believers will be shaken, my political opponents will rise up in arms, and I shall have no alternative but to flee the palace and live in the wilderness for the rest of my life, subsisting on roots and—”
“Nonsense, Your Highness,” said Lady Lira, brisk as ever. “Let us go.”
With her ladies in attendance Ailia set off down the hall, tottering a little in the special high-heeled shoes designed to boost her height. As she had spent most of her young life on Mera, a world of much heavier gravity, her growth was still somewhat stunted by Arainian standards. Veiled sibyls carrying silver candelabra went solemnly before her, chanting: “The Lady of Light approaches! Make way for the Daughter of Heaven, the Tryna Lia.” It was a ritual that Ailia found extremely embarrassing, but she did not dare ask them to stop.
Her father was already in the ballroom, greeting the guests with his own parents and grandmother standing at his side. With them was Ana, the aged woman who had helped Ailia and her companions find the Star Stone in Mera. She looked tiny and bent next to the others, but Ailia noticed that everyone here treated her with respect—even reverence. For Ana was in fact Queen Eliana—
a Nemerei, a great sorceress, who had lived for more than five hundred years. She stood holding her cat Greymalkin in her arms, stroking her silvery-gray fur absently as she watched the festivities. Beyond the receiving line was a milling mass of splendid robes and gowns, heads circled with silver or gold, white arms and necks on which bracelets and necklaces studded with real gems were displayed. It would have been a scene of almost vulgar ostentation on Mera, where jewels were the costly perquisites of the wealthy. But Arainia abounded with gemstones, some of them unknown to Mera: the sea-green sorige, for example, which came from the far south, and fire-yellow reflambine, and the wondrous pale venudor that shone in the dark with its own inner luminescence. All were valued simply for their beauty, though some Elei revered the “powers” said to lie within them: spirits that, lingering within the crystal lattices of natural gems, turned them into conduits between the realm of matter and the higher plane. The Star Stone itself was believed to house a spirit manifesting itself in the form of a fiery bird, the Elmir. Many votaries had claimed to see it rise phoenixlike from the crystalline depths.
Ailia paused before the great doors, listening to the minstrels and the murmur of conversation. After attending several of these events she had learned to combat her natural shyness by trying to isolate a few familiar faces in the crowd. Tonight that would be no difficult task: there was but one face there that she truly wished to see. She took a deep breath and swept into the ballroom, her capelet flowing back from her shoulders like gauzy wings. There was a gratifying lull in the conversation, and the eyes of all those assembled turned at once toward her. But her own eyes were only for Damion. He was standing by one of the tall windows, arrayed in court dress to honor the occasion: a sky-blue doublet with white breeches and boots. With him was Lorelyn. Her gown was red—bright scarlet, an unheard-of hue even for a festal gathering. The white wall she stood next to was tinted with reflected color, as though blushing at her boldness. Yet it suited her, somehow. She looked like some exotic flower that had sprung up defiantly in the midst of a garden of tame pastel-colored blooms. Damion glanced toward Ailia, and then quickly away again, turning back to Lorelyn. Stung, Ailia averted her own eyes and proceeded to greet her guests with what she hoped would pass for enthusiasm. But she kept stealing little side-glances at Damion. How handsome he was—his fairness and those fine features could turn heads even in a world where beauty was commonplace. She heaved a little inaudible sigh. Three short words, so easy to say, were it not for this impassable gulf between mouth and mind. I love you. In Mera young women were taught never to speak those words to a man unless he himself spoke first; Arainian girls, she knew, were less inhibited, but still she could not speak. In her mind she envisioned herself saying those words, seeing Damion’s familiar features touched with surprise, embarrassment, awkwardness. He might even avoid her afterward, find excuses not to be alone with her.