by Alison Baird
The face behind the veil was unmoved. “We must all follow the will of the Powers, Father Damion,” she said; and Damion knew that her words were meant for him as well as Ailia.
THAT NIGHT, AS AILIA held her public audience in the throne hall, the city and countryside were struck by the greatest thunderstorm of the season.
It signaled its approach with angry rumors of thunder that echoed through the distant mountains, drawing ever nearer like the approaching footfalls of some tremendous beast. A great cloud mass reared up to dwarf the mountains of the Miriendori Range, dark and many-towered, rising for leagues into the sky. The storm front incandesced fitfully as it advanced, illuminated from within by lightning blasts that seemed almost to mock at the pyrotechnics display three nights before. Within moments it had swallowed the stars, moon, and Arch; a great wind came with it, shrieking around the towers of Halmirion.
Damion found a place near the front of the hall and stood watching as the crowds poured in and filled it from wall to wall. The vast chamber was dark, lit only by the luminous stars on its ceiling and the glow of the upturned crescent moon behind the crystal throne, the Meldramiria. Seated upon the throne was a figure clad in white, its mantle of midnight blue streaming across the dais; in her right hand was a star-tipped scepter, on her head a crown of argent. Above her brow the sacred Stone blazed in its setting like a point of pure light. It was a superb piece of stage setting, calculated to arouse awe in the observer. The stars in Ailia’s train shone with their own soft radiance, for they were worked in luminous threads, while the glow of the moon-throne backlit her hair, lending it a halo. No one would notice her slight frame or less-than-imposing height. Her regal garb and her elevated position distracted the eye from such details. He glanced at Ana, who was standing not far away. Her features were perfectly tranquil, but he knew the old woman well enough by now to be able to sense in her an undercurrent of perturbation. Ailia herself was ill at ease, he thought: he could tell by the way she gripped her scepter with a tight-clenched hand, and he wished he could reassure her.
The Stone shone brilliantly throughout the proceedings. No one could say what exactly the gem was, what power within its translucent depths created the strange luminosity and other phenomena that surrounded it, but its seeming empathy for the young girl was one more factor that helped keep her on the throne. Everywhere Damion looked in the crowd he saw rapt, adoring faces—as always. Children loved her unreservedly, perhaps because she was so young herself; women—both maidens and matrons—saw in that virginal yet maternal figure a divine reflection of themselves; to men she was the archetypal mother-daughter-beloved. Even grim, tough, hardened men, farmers and miners from the outer territories, had been seen to burst into tears at the mere sight of her. She was a symbol of immense power.
The ethereal singing of the chorus at the back of the hall ceased. Ailia now rose from her throne and moved toward the front of the dais. She looked, with her surrounding vestals, like some great queen insect attended by its drones. Her clear voice rang out above the heads of the assembly.
“Hear me! Our ancient enemy arises to threaten us, once again. The siege of this world has begun!”
A murmur went up, and Damion and Ana exchanged sharp glances. Ailia was supposed to recite from memory a prepared speech. What in the world was she doing?
The Tryna Lia was swaying from side to side as she stood, her arms upraised. The scepter wavered in her right hand, while in her crown the Stone burned like a beacon. “Ill-omened night!” she cried in a high unnatural voice. “Eve of our doom! Call on your powers, all Nemerei! Azarah has loosed a flight of deadly arrows upon us . . .” The white-clad sibyls were swirling around her in consternation, like the surf breaking around a sea rock; as Damion watched they moved toward the door behind the throne, bearing the princess along with them: in a moment all he could see was her starry train curling around the side of the throne, passing out of sight. The crowds meanwhile were in an uproar at her words.
He ran for the dais, following the procession of women into the corridor beyond. He found them milling about in consternation while Marima and another of the sibyls propped Ailia up. She was slumping in their arms, her head bowed and her eyes closed. They had taken the scepter from her hand, but no one dared touch the crown with its holy Stone.
“She’s fainted!” exclaimed Damion, starting forward.
“Impossible! The Tryna Lia cannot faint, like an ordinary mortal!” objected one of the sibyls. “She is in an ecstatic trance—”
Damion knelt at the girl’s side, ignoring the protests of the sibyls, and felt her pulse. Her face was as white as her gown and thickly dewed with perspiration, her eyes darkly shadowed.
“She’s in a swoon, I tell you,” said Damion angrily. “Untie her mantle and take that crown off. And give her some air!”
Taken aback by his temerity, they made no effort to stop his ministrations. He freed Ailia from her heavy mantle and diadem, then slipping an arm under her legs he lifted her and carried her down the corridor. They flocked behind him as he took the unconscious girl into one of the receiving rooms and placed her on a cushioned couch. “Someone get a cup of water,” he called as he set her down. “Ailia—Ailia, are you all right?”
Ailia heard. Her mind swam up from dark confusion into full awareness again, and she opened her eyes to see Damion’s face above her. Other faces were there—she saw her father and grandmother and Lady Lira, but Damion’s face was closest and drew all her attention. “Oh—what happened? Did I faint? It all went dark for a moment—”
“It’s all right,” he reassured her.
“What happened?” she asked him again.
“Don’t you remember?” he asked, his brow furrowing.
“I—I was going to make my speech,” she answered, frowning. “And that’s when it all went dark. I didn’t keel over in front of everybody, or anything embarrassing like that?” she asked anxiously.
“No, they hustled you out of there in time. You—don’t recall what you said?”
Ailia stared at him in bewilderment, then at the white-clad sibyls hovering behind him. “Said?” she repeated. “I don’t remember saying anything. I never made my speech. Damion! What did I say?” She sat up and clutched at his arm.
“Nothing much—there, don’t worry about it,” he soothed in his gentlest voice.
Ailia sank back, closing her eyes. Damion looked down at the slight, pale figure on the couch: it looked so terribly fragile, like a piece of finest porcelain that one scarcely dares touch for fear it will break. Had she had a fit, or nervous attack of some kind? Small wonder if she had: she had so many enemies, so many worries on her mind. Why should anyone want to hurt her—this innocent, delicate young girl, who had never in her life wished anyone harm? Anger stirred in him. If anyone wished to harm her, he vowed, they would have to kill him first.
Ailia was, in fact, feeling much better. Her head ached, but that was not unusual: the silver crown was heavy, and even when she took it off her temples always continued to throb for some time, as though it still weighed upon them: a phantom crown that could not be removed. Aside from this she felt perfectly all right; but it was so pleasant having Damion there watching over her that she decided not to recover too quickly.
“I’ll just lie still for a bit,” she said, and let herself sink into the cushions, listening to the wind and thunder. It was the sort of storm Ailia had always rather enjoyed, something deep inside her reveling in the drama, the utter wildness and power. But as she lay on her couch watching the rain lash against the windowpanes and hearing the storm’s unrestrained fury she began to feel restless and ill at ease.
The sibyls and courtiers had all moved to an adjoining chamber. Most were clustered around the tall windows, watching the storm sweep over the grounds, bending the trees like grass and whipping the placid pools into a frenzy. The intermittent flashes made the night seem brighter than day, showing everything in unnatural detail.
“Isn’t it so
mething?” remarked Lorelyn. “I say, that lightning bolt was close! I haven’t seen a storm like this since that one we ran into in Trynisia—remember, Jo? The one Ana says Mandrake conjured up, to drive us back from the mountains.”
A commotion from behind them made them turn. Raimon of Lothain, one of the younger courtiers, had entered the room: his velvet cape was soaked, his hair and eyes wild. The others gazed at him with alarm. “I have never seen the like!” he gasped.
“It is a great storm, certainly,” began Tiron.
“Storm!“ Raimon exclaimed. “There is a wild fire loose upon the air—no thunderbolt, but rather a kind of ghostly flame that leaps from roof to roof and yet burns nothing.” He collapsed into a chair. “The people in the city say it is a sign, a warning from Heaven.”
Marima came into the room, her face drawn. “Nemerei from all over Eldimia and the territories have been mind-speaking with me for the past two hours. We have heard reports of prodigies throughout the realm, of people falling into oracular fits, prophesying disaster; of animals starting and bristling at nothing—cats and Arainian beasts especially: seeing spirits, or so it’s said. Some Nemerei have had visions of stars warring in the sky, of the planets’ orbits disordered by a fiery hell-star that drives between them.”
“But what is the cause of all this?” cried King Tiron.
“It began when the Tryna Lia spoke in the chapel.”
“Ailia? Ailia is the cause?” exclaimed Lorelyn. “But how could that be?”
“Ailia has the makings of a very powerful Nemerei,” said Master Wu. “If she has inherited even a portion of her mother’s talent she will one day be a force to reckon with. But those powers are sleeping still, unfocused and undeveloped. I think this storm is merely the first manifestation of her awakening power, a response to her inner fears and anxieties. She likely doesn’t know herself that she is its source. Such power can be dangerous if it is not properly disciplined.”
Awe showed on all the faces present.
“What can we do, Queen Eliana?” implored the king, turning to Ana.
“She must go to the Nemerei at Melnemeron immediately,” said Master Wu. The little archmage’s round, bearded face was solemn. “Not in a few days: this very night. They will protect her. No enemy could be a match for their combined sorcery. While she is there, they can also train her powers.”
Ana looked thoughtful. “Mandrake is watching her, and this threat he has sent through Khalazar is likely an attempt to force her hand, make her use her powers too soon and rush to confront him. If we train her as a Nemerei, therefore, we may be endangering her life. But so long as she is no threat to him, he will make no move against her.”
“But she must learn at least how to protect herself from him, and from his servants. He may yet change his mind, and seek her death,” Tiron responded.
“I see little point in spending time training powers that can be canceled by a piece of cold iron. She must not come to rely on magic overmuch.”
“But she cannot be left helpless either,” replied Wu. “She is not a fighter. The Powers that assigned her fate did not gift her with strength of the body. She is clearly meant to be a sorceress, not a warrior.”
“We do not know how her victory will be won. It may be that her gift is to inspire strength in others. And we can always give her large and strong guardians.”
“So we shall,” said Wu. “But there is no safer place for her in this world than Melnemeron. I only hope it is not too late. Her foe has had several centuries in which to prepare for her coming: she may have only months in which to ready herself for their contest. And she is our only champion: we stand or fall with her.”
5
The Black Star
IN THE ROYAL BANQUET HALL the court of Zimboura had assembled in a mood of hilarity, occasioned in part by the absence of King Khalazar. A troupe of tumblers performed their routines, trying to dodge the crusts and rinds thrown at them by the diners. As the wine flowed more freely so did the missiles, until the floor began to resemble a rubbish heap. Yehosi, the chief eunuch, stared glumly at the revels from the high table and did not join in them. Beside him sat a grizzled old warrior in Zimbouran military dress: General Gemala, one of the northern Zimbourans who had rallied to Khalazar’s banner and helped him overthrow King Zedekara.
Gemala had also led the armies that conquered Shurkana. He was both courageous and deeply devout, and absolutely dedicated to his king. He was therefore, Yehosi reflected unhappily, unlikely to survive for very much longer: his bold exploits, undertaken in honor of his liege, drew entirely too much attention and admiration from the people for Khalazar’s liking. It was only a matter of time before the king felt threatened by his general’s popularity and put him to death on some pretext or other. Had Gemala not been so often away from court on lengthy campaigns, he would never have grown those gray hairs.
At the moment he was glaring at Mandrake, who was reclining on a divan at the high table.
“Who is that man?” Gemala demanded of Yehosi, not troubling to whisper.
“The new court magician, sir,” replied the eunuch.
“I know he’s the new magician, you fool! But what is all this nonsense about his being an undead spirit?”
“Lower your voice, I beg of you!”
“Bah! He’s too far away to hear. Has our king been taken in by this charlatan, then?”
“Would you suggest the avatar of a god is capable of being deceived?” asked Yehosi in a warning tone. Court was no place for an honest man: Khalazar would be furious if he learned of this. “The man is unusual. Those eyes of his—”
“A mere deformity. He’s no more a spirit than I. More likely he’s one of those repulsive Trynisian creatures, the Anthropophagi our explorers brought back with them in cages. I see there is one seated next to him”—he indicated Roglug, who was lounging at the high table and gorging on the delicacies.
“Hush! That is not an Anthropophagus, but a goblin—a very powerful being, descended from genii. He has come to us from the Starry Sphere itself.”
“Or so the magician would have you believe.”
Mandrake had heard every word of this exchange. His hearing was preternaturally keen, another benefit of his Loänan ancestry: he had made this discovery long ago at Andarion’s court, when other courtiers had sometimes criticized him within his hearing. He had been stung at first, imagining that they did it out of spite; only later had he realized that his critics evidently thought themselves to be safely out of earshot. For this gathering, he had made some subtle alterations in his appearance with the aid of glaumerie. His thick mass of hair he left unchanged, for it easily concealed the shape of his ears with their hint of dragonlike points. But his skin was now flushed instead of pale, his features softer-edged, and these things combined with the gaudy red-and-golden robes to imply vanity and self-indulgence. He was inviting everyone present to underestimate him—always a wise move in a Zimbouran court—and he gathered from the overheard exchange that he had succeeded.
He cast a jaundiced eye over the courtiers. The never-ending parade of humanity filled him, as always, with ennui. Sometimes as he walked about the streets of modern Meran cities he would think he recognized a face in the crowd. But in the next moment he would realize that he was only recognizing types: the plump buxom matron, the lean and lanky youth, the balding scholar, the blossoming girl. He had watched so many comely maidens wither with time into aged crones that feminine beauty no longer held any attractions for him. Looking at a lovely young woman, he saw only the old one she must inevitably become: smooth cheeks seemed to sag before his eyes into flaccid jowls, wrinkles to fissure fresh skin, bright eyes to turn rheumy and dull.
The general was still scowling at him. This did not trouble Mandrake. Next to the machinations of the Loänei and Morugei the frowns of an elderly human were hardly alarming. Mandrake spoke to Roglug in his thoughts, without looking directly at the goblin. So, Rog, what do you think of our Zimbouran friends?
I feel right at home among them, the goblin replied cheerfully as he replenished his goblet with the contents of his neighbor’s.
I doubt they would take that as a compliment, but I’m inclined to agree with you. Just don’t ogle any women you may see here: the Zimbouran penalty for eyeing another man’s wife is singularly unpleasant.
Roglug guzzled his wine. A pity! I’ve seen some very attractive ladies: a sweet sight for eyes that have had only Morugei women to look on, all these years! Well, at least the food is good, and the entertainment.
His thoughts were thick and blurry, and Mandrake glanced sharply at him. Are you drunk? You’d best keep your wits about you, Rog: a Zimbouran court is a very dangerous place.
For people with no sorcerous powers, perhaps, replied the goblin smugly.
Sorcery would be of no avail against poison. There are concoctions here that can kill a man instantly.
Poison? Roglug stopped drinking and peered into his goblet anxiously.
Poison, Mandrake repeated. If I were you I’d be careful whose wine cup I drank from. Just in case.
Suddenly the room went still. Turning, Mandrake saw that the door curtains had been thrown aside, and Khalazar had entered. Behind him walked his only surviving son, Prince Jari, a boy about ten years of age: his older brothers had been executed some years ago on a charge of conspiring to seize the throne from their father. Several retainers followed. There was a soft uneasy sound from the court, as of leaves stirring in a sudden wind, then silence once again. Khalazar seated himself at the high table and gestured brusquely to his retinue to follow suit. At the far end of the room, behind a filmy suspended curtain, the king’s wives and concubines filed in and seated themselves upon cushions. It was a long procession. The royal harem included Zedekara’s former wives and also many women supplied by the priests of Valdur, who could enter any home in the realm and take from it any attractive young maiden for their king. Each year dozens of these abducted girls were brought to the capital and paraded before Khalazar, who chose the ones that pleased him for his harem. Those who did not find favor were not released, but became slaves. Presumably the lot of the wives and concubines was better than that of the slaves, though one would never know it from their faces. They were little more than chattels of their king-husband, the mute symbols of his majesty.