Maria Isabel Pita

by As Above, So Below

  Mirabel inhaled and closed her eyes in sheer ecstasy. “Give me!” she gasped as an entire farm seemed to rush through her. In a flash she saw it all—chickens and cornfields, wild onions and thyme growing beside a mound of freshly dug potatoes and garlic cloves. All these images and many more lived in the single aroma of Megran’s soup. Was the realm of the Lords like this, invisible and yet potent as a scent, composed of the elements that created it yet rising beyond them as their pure essences? Her enjoyment of her first spoonful of the hot liquid was almost spoiled by her mind’s very different hunger. The essences of all the foods she had just pictured as they unfurled out of the delicious steam were contained in this nearly clear and formless broth which was, in a sense, their spirit. Here was a key to understanding her father’s realm.

  “That’s a good girl. You’ll be on your feet again in no time.”

  “It’s so delicious!” Her belly’s cold abyss was swiftly filling up with the broth’s warm, life-filled lake. “It’s the best soup in the world!”

  “Nonsense. You’d think oat porridge was heaven right now, dear.”

  Mirabel made a face to indicate otherwise, or at least she tried to. “So you know now that my father is…”

  “One of the Lords? Yes. I don’t understand it but it’s a sight better than him being from the plains, at any rate. It’s no wonder your mother…”

  “My mother what?”

  “Was so determined to hold on to him.” Megran unwillingly finished her impulsive remark.

  Janlay’s daughter frowned. “She was mad.”

  “Yes, she certainly was.”

  “I mean she was crazy and it was his fault. He should never have revealed his true identity to her. She was too young. She couldn’t handle it. It made her feel she no longer had to make an effort because she had a magical, all-powerful lover. His love made her feel more beautiful than any other woman and she probably thought he would spare her the pain of growing old. It’s no wonder that when he showed even the slightest interest in someone else she despaired absolutely. I don’t think the woman she killed was really another person to her. Her rival was her own mortality, with all its pains and sorrows, which his love was her one hope of escaping. It was her own corruptible nature she wanted so desperately to be rid of. The threat of him leaving her was like losing her soul!”

  “Oh my, that was quite a speech, young lady, but you shouldn’t tire yourself so. You’ve obviously given her crime a great deal of thought.”

  “No, I’ve done my best not to think about it. I realized all that just now. Things are so clear to me suddenly.”

  “Oh, dear!” Megran nearly dropped the spoon she was so anxious to check Mirabel’s temperature.

  “It’s not a fever, Megran.”

  “Well, I don’t pretend to understand anything. I’m just a stupid old cook!”

  “The best cook in the kingdom.”

  “Humph.”

  “But who is feeding the court if you are up here with me all day?”

  “Oh, I have assistants and the Lords know the prince isn’t really taking much pleasure in his meals these days. It’s fortunate for me, isn’t it,” her tone changed abruptly, “that I’m an old hen with no egg left in me so I won’t be tempted like your mother, but then I was never beautiful. I wouldn’t have wanted to look this way forever.”

  “I’m tired now.” Mirabel closed her eyes but she was lying. It was just an excuse so she could think. She didn’t want to waste her incredible new lucidity for fear it might not last. She fervently hoped it would. There was so much for her to assess, principally the horizons of her power. She was trapped between two worlds and at home in neither. This was an intolerable situation and she had no intention of enduring it for very much longer.

  Loric believed it was Dur’s fault she had nearly been killed and she agreed but in a very different way. She had almost been struck by lightning because the three young Lords masquerading as young nobles from Blackroot Keep had desired to wake her up to herself. She had been half asleep before she met them, idly dreaming and wondering who she was, whereas now she was determined to fully explore and develop herself. She had been wasting her time. That was why Dur had gazed at her so sadly. He and his companions had given her the push she needed. She didn’t believe they had meant to hurt her. Or perhaps they had meant to hurt her, knowing she would be forced to call upon the abilities latent within her to heal herself. Whatever the truth was, she couldn’t help sympathizing with these rebellious young Lords. She was glad they had used lightning to whip her into action. What they had done to her made her sexual sport with Loric seem tame by comparison. She still loved him above all else but the fact that she was to be his wife didn’t mean she had to agree with him on everything.

  *

  Within a few days all of Mirabel’s physical perceptions returned. In fact, they didn’t seem to know when to stop. The world remained unusually vivid—her senses were working so sharply it was almost uncomfortable. Megran’s nourishing broths continued to overcome her with their complex and delicious aromas and she kept trying to understand this oddly mundane key to the realm where both her parents now “lived”.

  If the dimension of the Lords was equivalent to the sense of smell, it had to make them hungry for experience, just as she desired all the dishes that enticed her with their steaming spirits. It was no wonder young Lords—apparently they were called Dragons—went around slipping senses on like gloves as casually as she picked up a fork. Yet she doubted it could be so simple for them. There was one thing she was certain of, however—it was all related to fire, from the actual flames that cooked food to the way she burned with curiosity and desire and impatience, especially the latter. But at last one long wait, which her convalescence had aggravated, was over. Her rite of union with the prince was to take place that evening. It was only morning, however, and she was resting in bed staring at her hands, holding them up before her to marvel at them. When her arms had lain like dead branches beside her she had concentrated on her new lucidity, which enabled her to experience a profound fascination for everything instead of fear. Loric had helped her in this as in everything else. He was the rock on which she continuously sharpened her perceptions as he sat beside her on the bed and patiently talked to her for hours.

  The long-awaited day dawned like any other but according to the keep’s tradition the golden atmosphere of late autumn was webbed with invisible rules and taboos she had to be careful not to break. She was alone in the lovely little room where she had sewn her spine back together. She and Loric were not allowed to lay eyes on each other until the ceremony and Megran was, of course, in the kitchen supervising the final preparations of the feast she had been planning for months. Mirabel wasn’t even worried about the fact that the entire keep would be there and that she would have to eat and drink in front of everyone for the first time in the great hall. She was much too engrossed in the ten loyal subjects of her fingers, in their amazing independence yet absolute obedience to her will. This contemplation was inspired by the way Dur had raised his hand before him and followed one of the many intersecting paths in his palm. She couldn’t get that gesture out of her mind. It had been so graceful yet so intently purposeful at the same time and his face above it was so beautiful…

  This was not the sort of thought she should be entertaining on her wedding day.

  She got out of bed, trying to escape the uncomfortable fact that Loric didn’t know how she felt about the purported young lords from Blackroot. He naturally assumed she hated them for whipping her with a bolt of lightning and almost killing her. He believed them to be vain and irresponsible and jealous of her, and perhaps many of the young Dragons were but not Dur and his two companions. They were different—she knew they were.

  She had nothing to do for a long while so she went and stood before the open window. A few small clouds were scattered across the sky like decorative pillows on which her eyes rested after the intense profusion of colors below. From the pr
ince’s tower she couldn’t see the western grounds on which the rite would take place but everywhere around Visioncrest the trees were clad in vivid leaves of exquisitely varied hues. The next time it rained, more than half of them would be shed but so far the weather had been unusually mild. She found herself gazing south in the direction of Blackroot, wondering for the hundredth time why Dur and his companions had chosen to impersonate young lords from that particular keep. She relived her encounter with them every few minutes of every day. For the first time in her life she perceived an end to the years stretching before her, just as she could see the horizon. She was not immortal like the Lord who spoke so calmly and even though her beauty would endure much longer than a flower’s, it would wilt eventually.

  She turned restlessly away from the window, murmuring to herself, “This body is only one dress, so it doesn’t matter if it wears out.”

  “But wouldn’t you like to slip it off gracefully? Wouldn’t you like to neatly fold its arms and legs to perhaps enjoy again another time?”

  She spun around to face the impossible. “Dur!” she breathed. “How did you get in here?” It was a rhetorical question of course. She knew rays of light were to the Lords what stone-paved roads were to the people.

  “You let me in.”

  “You must leave!” she whispered desperately.

  “Why?”

  “I’m only half like you,” she defended herself helplessly.

  “That’s precisely why we’d be so good together, Mirabel.” His eyes were stones dipped in honey, shining with seductive depths yet unflinching.

  “You hurt me!”

  “You wanted us to hurt you.” He reached for her hands and gripped them as if to steady himself. “You’ve heard some vile things about me.” He echoed the words she had spoken to him and his companions.

  “What I hear doesn’t matter. I form my own opinions.” She couldn’t help smiling. “Can you read my thoughts?” she asked curiously.

  “No, only your feelings. You have the right idea.”

  “But it’s impossible. There’s no way to build a bridge between the worlds.”

  “But it happens all the time, Mirabel. It’s as easy as a kiss.”

  “You can’t live in a kiss! It’s no use talking in pretty images, Dur. There’s no way to build a bridge between the worlds,” she repeated angrily because she wasn’t supposed to be holding hands with a handsome stranger on the day of her wedding.

  “But you already have, Mirabel.” He pulled her to him and held her against him with one arm while his other hand slowly caressed her from the nape of her neck down to the base of her spine. “This is the bridge.”

  “That’s just another image,” she protested without conviction.

  “No, Mirabel, it’s not just a symbol. When you healed yourself you became a bridge between the worlds. This is the beginning. You’re the beginning.”

  She told herself to pull away from him because this was definitely not a good beginning for her marriage, whatever else might or might not be true, but his fingers pressed so soothingly into her tense back that she couldn’t move. He played her like an instrument whose notes were the intense pleasure she experienced everywhere he touched the mysterious harmony of her flesh and muscle and bone. And she discovered that wherever his fingertips dug into her skin she was profoundly sore.

  “Oh my Lords!” A girl’s voice exclaimed from the doorway.

  “It’s one of the musicians from Blackroot!” A second female voice yelled accusingly.

  “Whoever he is and wherever he’s from, one thing is certain, he doesn’t belong here!” It was the head seamstress speaking now. “The prince is going to find out about this!”

  Dur slowly released her. “I don’t think so,” he said mildly.

  “I don’t know who you think you are, young man, but the damp cell you’re headed for is going to ruin those fancy clothes of yours! And to think the prince almost made this whore’s daughter our princess!” The spiteful woman was shamelessly relishing the moment.

  Mirabel turned around slowly, trying to think of some plausible explanation for being caught in another man’s arms on her wedding day. “You are here to present me with the gifts from my lord?” She gave them the formal greeting she had been taught as if Dur wasn’t there.

  “He is your lord no longer—he is your judge now and any punishment he might devise is too good for you!”

  “Maybe he’ll send her back to the wolves that raised her!” The girl’s calculating expression told Mirabel she had just realized that all the beautiful dresses they were about to deliver might no longer have a mistress. The gowns waited now in the adjoining chamber, draped across the arms of young lords the prince had greatly honored by choosing for this part of the rite. They were all probably wondering what the delay was. The three seamstresses collided with each other in the narrow doorway in their eagerness to be the first to spread the shocking news. “There’s a man in here!” they cried. “One of those young lords from Blackroot! We caught her in his arms!”

  Where Dur had stood a second ago, there was only empty space that made her chest ache.

  “She’s got her lover in there with her, I tell you!”

  “Have you all lost your minds?” an impatient male voice demanded.

  “Go in and look yourself if you don’t believe us! I for one am going down to fetch the prince and—”

  “You’re not going anywhere.” There was a muffled commotion. “Keep them here while I go see what’s wrong.”

  Because she couldn’t pretend to not be aware of the disturbance, Mirabel reluctantly approached the door just as a young lord of the Blue stepped cautiously into the room. He looked around him carefully but unless her lover was hiding in the large wooden chest at the foot of the bed there was clearly no one else there. “My lady…” He cleared his throat and glanced awkwardly down at the dress draped over his arms as if a woman had literally dissolved in his embrace.

  “What seems to be the trouble?” She was dressed in a simple white shift that fell sheer as mist from the tips of her breasts to her bare toes. “They came in and I gave them the formal greeting but when a raven landed on the windowsill they all suddenly ran away.” She allowed a little of Loric’s commanding sarcasm to seep into her voice, “I suppose it startled them.”

  “I suppose it did,” he agreed but he glanced again at the carved chest.

  “You may bring my dresses in now,” she declared with all the authoritative impatience of the princess she would soon be, “and lay them in here.” She strode over to the chest and flung the heavy lid open.

  “Yes, my lady! I apologize for the delay!”

  “You are not to blame.” She chewed on her lower lip as she pretended to hesitate, so that unconsciously he would sympathize with how vulnerable she was to the biting opinions of others. “However, I don’t wish them to spread evil rumors about me on this very special day…”

  “My lady, you have my word they will cast no shadow over your happiness.”

  “Thank you.” She wanted to cry. What Dur had said was true—her thoughts had let him in and there was nothing she could do to control them. She didn’t even want to.

  *

  Lords and ladies stood in rows beneath the trees, looking like tall and neatly raked piles of autumn leaves, or so Megran imagined they must appear to Mirabel’s father if he even cared enough to observe his daughter’s wedding. The late afternoon was oddly still and hushed. The world seemed to be holding its breath as not even the whisper of a breeze disturbed the expectant silence. This was a rite Visioncrest had long awaited—the marriage of its prince. Whatever his subjects had thought or said about his bride-to-be, at that moment they were filled with awe and respect for her. She had won the heart of their lord and her past was now irrelevant, for when the sun set she would be a princess and her old self—the self subject to men’s laws and judgments—would be cast away forever.

  The sun was a gleaming coin worth the whole world a
s its bottom edge approached the river, pouring a molten path across the silver water. Everyone was facing the keep, from which the prince at long last emerged. He was easy to recognize even though he was nearly invisible against the dark stone. He moved quickly, walking with long strides.

  On this occasion as on no other his black garments were lightened by an equal amount of violet. His leather boots, leggings and vest were cut from fine black leather but the broad sash that rose diagonally across his otherwise bare chest and continued down his back was violet. His violet-rimmed cloak rippled like dark water behind him and a matching silk ribbon held his ebony hair back, away from his face. For once he didn’t wear his sword but his dagger remained in a scabbard at his hip, its multicolored gemstones flashing in the golden light. He was a sight to behold.

  The wave of longing that rose from most of the women present was so powerful it even tugged on Megran’s tired old heart. She had always been in love with Loric but from the beginning she had known it was hopeless so she developed a perfect defense against disappointment. All the fat weighing her down—which she jokingly declared the Lords above would burn in their lamps for an entire fortnight after she died—was her excuse for not being able to win him, for not even making the effort. With every inch she put on her waist she had grown more and more detached from her desires and the pressure of fulfilling them. All her subtle hungers gradually rolled themselves up into a more obvious one she could easily satisfy without anyone’s help. In her gourmet creations she was both attractive and shamelessly sensual. She was at her best and no one, including and especially the prince, ever rejected her in that form. It was who she had chosen to become and she was as happy as any mortal can be. However she allowed herself a bittersweet moment of regret now as the prince walked by her without even a glance. He took his place beside the golden brazier which, from her honored position, seemed to be burning the sun itself. There was a murmur of expectation from the crowd as the nobility—following the cue of the servants behind them—turned once again to face the keep.