The SoulNecklace Stories

by R. L. Stedman

  But I was nearly sixteen. Not a child for much longer.

  * * *

  The Firelight Festival was a remembrance and retelling of a battle between Lord Macsson and Duke Wilyam. The Duke, an illegitimate upstart with dreams of grandeur, had laid siege to the Mount of the Fallen. In those days there had been just the gray tower. No keep, no outer walls, no moat. It must have been a bleak, dark time; somehow, it seemed fitting that the commemoration was full of light and laughter.

  Children recounted the action with nursery rhymes, adults with fireworks.

  Down they came, a fiery rain,

  A tumbling, sizzling shower.

  Soldiers screamed and burnt and ran

  When Wilyam stormed our tower

  The story goes that the invaders were defeated by pitch-smeared barrels. The casks had been set alight and rolled down the mount, falling into the invader’s men and horses. Legend also told that not in a thousand years had the Festival been canceled due to rain. Still, the week before the Festival, the weather-tellers always kept an anxious watch on the clouds.

  “They do say it will be a grand evening, My Lady,” said Nurse enthusiastically. No one but she would dress the Crown Princess on this, the eve of her sixteenth birthday, although she did, with a sniff, admit that Ruth could be useful; she could string golden wires through the Princess’s hair.

  In fascination and fear, I stared at the mirror. Was it enchanted? Gone was the morning’s monster. Here stood a young woman, gowned in red and white. Her hair rippled in waves of fire, lit by strings of gold that shimmered in the candlelight and made it seem alive. My dress had a wide white ruff that made my neck seem slim, vulnerable. What would I look like, once I wore the necklace?

  I touched my throat and the ghost in the glass moved too. It was me, but not me at all. What would Will think of this? Would he find me beautiful? Or would he laugh? For what is the point of a white ruff at one’s throat?

  “Ah,” Nurse stepped into the mirror beside my image. The sight of her plump, linen-wrapped form was comforting. “Look at you. All grown up!” She dabbed at her eyes.

  “Step gently, My Lady,” Ruth said. “The silk is fragile.”

  “It’s time, Princess,” said N’tombe.

  I sighed. First, there was to be a state banquet; I was to be the guest of honor. All eyes would be on me. I may be good with a blade but at table I would be fingers and thumbs. Worse than the meal though, was the ball. I would have to move gracefully in confining (and food-encrusted) skirts and uncomfortable high heels with partners of varying ages, ability and agility. And the other guests would stand around the edge of the dance floor and criticize me in low, whispered tones and I would have to pretend not to hear them.

  The climax of the evening, the fireworks, would be a wondrous relief. If I survived that long. For who would look at a food-spattered, foot-damaged princess when there were rockets like bursting stars?

  The revelry of the last few days had turned the turf of the parade ground to muddy porridge, making it unusable for the working of fire. One needed a firm, level, non-flammable base for fireworks. And so the outer keep’s courtyard was the place where the magic was made. I say magic, but really it was the workings of skilled practitioners: jugglers throwing flaming sticks, men carrying tarred barrels, children dragging burning dolls, made in effigy of the long-dead invaders. A spectacle for high and low – of course we had a good view from the balcony but so did the commoners, down among the heat and smoke and echoing drums of the courtyard.

  * * *

  The meal was as bad as anticipated. Course after course of ornate food: roast deer stuffed with boar stuffed with hare stuffed with mice, who were no doubt stuffed with something smaller – fleas perhaps? So much meat, so many dead animals. The worst thing was the centerpiece: a whole swan which had been roasted and then – horror of horrors – the feathers had been re-attached!

  “Do I have to eat it?”

  “Quiet!” Mother whispered. “The crown on its head is in honor of you. You could at least try to look appreciative.”

  Mother was resplendent in shiny purple satin with a white silk sash over her bodice. Her hair had been elaborately braided, then coiled and pinned at the back of her head. It made her skin seem tight; her face was drawn and pale. Her tiara caught the candlelight and reflected tiny rainbows along the rafters as she turned her head.

  I didn’t want to look at the poor bird, much less eat it, but the servers cut me a portion and Mother stared at me as if daring me to refuse, so I nodded weakly, and tried to look grateful. As if anyone would be grateful to have a portion of swan’s wing placed in front of them.

  The feathers stuck in my teeth and I tried to pick them loose with my fingernail. Owein, seated between Alden and Father, looked over at me and winked. Seated beside me, Alden made kissing faces at one of Mother’s ladies. She blushed and smiled and looked away.

  Alden was so disgusting! I jerked a feather free from my front teeth. Alas, in my haste, I knocked a goblet of red wine into Alden’s lap.

  He swore, standing hastily as the wine trickled down his leg, leaving a trail of pink.

  “Sorry,” I muttered through a mouthful of feathers.

  “I don’t believe you just did that,” he patted at his stained white breeches.

  “Now dear,” Mother said through a rigidly smiling mouth, “quietly, please. We don’t want the guests to notice.”

  This might be a bit optimistic, seated as we were on a raised platform in front of one hundred guests.

  “I am sorry, Alden,” I said, trying to dab the stains with a cloth that, unfortunately, was covered with swan’s grease and feathers, which stuck to his sodden garments. The more I tried to pick the white fluff off, the worse it got, until he looked like a badly plucked chicken. Some of the guests seated at nearby tables rose to their feet to watch.

  Alden batted my hand away. “She’s a menace,” he spluttered to Mother. “Sooner she’s locked up in that tower the better.”

  Even stoical Owein gasped and around us the guests fell silent, a pool of quietness that spread in ripples throughout the room, so now everyone was staring at my brother and me, locked into a tableau of anger; him standing above me with his bedraggled breeches, I staring up at him with my table dagger in my hand. It wouldn’t take much to insert this in his eye, I thought.

  Owein too, seemed to realize that although at table, I was still armed. And even in this ridiculous dress, I might inflict damage. He coughed, “Brother!”

  Alden blinked, looked down at the dagger in my whitening grip and swallowed.

  “You’re so clumsy, Alden,” I said brightly into the watching room. “You’d better get changed.” I looked up at him, smiling as I added clearly, “I’m sure you can find a maid to remove your drawers.”

  There was an excited hum from the listening guests and several gentlemen, doubtless aware of Alden’s reputation, choked. My brother flushed as red as his stained breeches and stared at me with angry, hard eyes.

  “That’s enough,” hissed Mother. “Alden, go and get changed.” I smirked at him until she added, “Dana, I’ll deal with you later.”

  “Well,” said Owein, dragging me around the dance floor, “you sure know how to make friends.”

  “I don’t care about Alden.”

  “You should,” Owein’s voice was low but quite clear, even above the wail of the violins. “He’ll be the next king. What will you do then?”

  “It’s a long time away.” I shook his hands off my shoulders. “It was just a little bit of wine on some breeches. Stop worrying. It’s supposed to be my birthday.”

  “Ah yes! Sixteen! Happy birthday, sister.”

  The music drew to a close and I curtsied. “Thank you, brother.”

  He offered me his arm as we walked from the floor. “And are you having a lovely evening?”

  I thought of Alden and his feathered breeches. “Not at first,” I said brightly, “but it’s getting better, thank you.”
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  I was literally the belle of the ball. A strange thing for someone who dislikes dancing, or being the focus of attention. I felt nervous; I might fall over or stand on my partner’s feet, or tear my dress. Or spill more wine.

  The clock ticked away, marking the minutes to the fireworks, and the dancing came to an end. As was traditional, the Concert Master laid aside his baton and turned to the crowded ballroom. The dancers, flushed with heat and wine, stopped.

  “Gentlefolk, pray you silence.” Abruptly, the noisy throng fell silent. The only movement was the fluttering of fans. “Tonight, we celebrate a great and glorious victory.”

  “Hurrah!” cried the audience.

  The Concert Master cleared his throat. “Tonight, we remember those who prevailed against a mighty foe.”

  “Hurrah!” we cried again.

  “Some of those brave men lost their lives for us. But we follow in their footsteps; we live within those walls they fought so hard to save. We salute their memory.”

  “We salute you!” A cry from all who stood watching.

  “And finally,” he called, in a booming voice that shook the rafters and lifted the trumpet-player’s wig, “we celebrate the freedom of our land, our Kingdom. And, in a double celebration, we commemorate the coming of age of our beautiful princess. Princess Dana!”

  He held out his hand to me. This was not traditional. I wanted to turn and hide myself behind a stone pillar. But Mother put her hand in my back, pushing me forward with stern determination, so I had no choice. I turned and curtsied to the assembled host.

  They tossed rose petals in the air. Pink flowers drifted, floating in the breeze. For a moment, encircled by their fragrant shower, I felt like a dancer in a snow-globe, struggling to free herself from a glass prison.

  “Hurrah!” they cried. “Happy birthday, Princess.” I pinned a smile on my face and curtsied again.

  The man put his hand up for silence. “And now, Gentles all, attend to the windows and the walls, for the Festival is about to commence.”

  Thank goodness – a return to tradition. We trooped out onto the balcony, the royal family leading. Father’s crown was askew and Owein seemed relieved to be in the night air, for he eased the high collar of his dress uniform as we passed under the window arch. Alden had not yet returned. Was he still angry? How petty to miss my birthday toast, all because of a droplet of wine and a few feathers.

  The guests followed us onto the balcony like obedient sheep, or stood at windows gazing down at the courtyard. The chandeliers of the ballroom were lowered, their candles snuffed, so a faint smell of candle smoke drifted on the evening breeze. Below us, in the courtyard, the Festival was beginning.

  Part Four

  Chapter Thirty-One

  A City on a Plain

  In troubled times a man with a sword is always in demand. Within a week of the bandit attack, Jed and Will had employment. A scholar, traveling for knowledge, desired protection.

  “You mean,” said Will, “he’s traveling because he wants to?”

  “What’s so strange about that?”

  “It seems odd, that’s all.”

  “I enjoy traveling,” said Jed.

  “No, you don’t,” said Will. “You just haven’t enough coin to stop.”

  “True spoken,” yawned Jed, lying back on his bedroll. “Well, he’s a fool, sure enough, but he’s a rich fool.”

  Jed told Will little about himself, save what Will already knew. He was a wanderer, working as a hired sword for whoever had coin, traveling from one place to the next. Never found a woman, never settled down, he seemed as lonely and self-sufficient as a mountain. At first, Will had found this reticence strange, but more recently it had been soothing. Jed might be uncommunicative, but he was reliable in a fight and asked no questions of Will. In many ways he was an ideal traveling companion. Out in these wastes the nights could seem very lonely.

  Eventually, the plains gave way to dry hills and the scholar’s small caravan passed under stone watchtowers. Dragon-emblazoned flags fluttered from their turrets and eagles circled in the clear sky, calling in harsh voices. It was a bleak landscape – bitterly cold at night, baking hot by day. Paved with tightly fitted stone, the road ran down a dusty valley and, following a dried-up watercourse, left the mountains.

  And there below them were the grasslands: flat steppes covered with grass and tufts of woodland, crisscrossed by canals that sparkled in the sunlight. And a city. The company of travelers stood on a low plateau, staring out at the sprawling buildings. After weeks in the wastelands, it seemed an incongruous sight. It reminded Will of a hive, the horses and camels and carts teeming toward it from all sides like bees to their nest.

  “Behold,” said one of the guards, “the Black Stronghold.”

  It took the best part of the day to reach the gates. There were four set in the outermost wall, north, south, east and west, and the road curved around toward them, crossing canals as it went and winding around large domed tents, set like markers on the plain before the city.

  At the city, Jed and Will were permitted to remain at the scholar’s house, sleeping above the stables while they searched for another hire. They were searching, also, for information on the Eternal One, but that wasn’t the sort of matter you could raise directly.

  The delay was frustrating but the city was a place of wonder. It was exciting, thought Will, to walk along the streets and hear every language spoken, to smell strange foods wafting from narrow alleys. The streets were crowded with folk and produce and donkeys and carts. Slaves carried the wealthy in palanquins or on their backs. The feet of a nobleman, Will learnt, must never touch the ground, save in his own palace.

  Wide canals brought water from the nearby rivers and the roads brought a motley collection of men and women from the four corners of the empire. There seemed to be a multitude of faiths; many varied types of temples to many varied gods were set about the city. In one hour Will passed a steepled church, a temple with a bell-shaped roof, a mosque with a gilded minaret, and innumerable stone shrines to various gods.

  The city had been built from gray stone, dragged across the empty plains by dying slaves a thousand years ago. The stone was aged now and stained black by smoke from countless fires, and the city had spread far beyond the original walls. In some ways it resembled an onion; the outermost wall was only the first of the walls that encircled the place. There were seven walls in all, some with gates and sentries, while some lay in ruins and people stepped across their stone mounds freely. But the innermost part of the city, the Palace of Infinite Peace, was forbidden to all save the royal family and their slaves who dwelt within it.

  Will, following the scent of cooking, wandered one morning into an open square with a fountain in the middle. No water played, for the fountain was under repair. Will sat on a bench and watched the slaves scrubbing the statue. It was shaped like a tree. The part they had not yet cleaned was green-black, like licorice, but the topmost part gleamed like metal.

  Will had never seen a slave before. Here, there were thousands. Just over a week in the city and already he could tell a man was a slave by the brand on his wrist or face, and by his clothing. By his general demeanor too; there was something cowed about a slave. Most seemed healthy enough, with good skin and clear eyes. They spoke little, and then only to each other. There were women slaves too, but one saw them less often; generally they were ornamental – employed to warm a man’s bed or to dance for his guests. Skilled slaves such as scribes or masons were desirable commodities and were well cared for. But laborers, such as these men hard at work scrubbing the fountain, fell somewhat between a donkey and a mare in value. What were their lives like?

  What would Dana make of it? Was she watching him now, as she slept? It was an unnerving thought, knowing she could cross a world in her dreams. Although, it did give him a sense of security, rather like having a weapon your enemy doesn’t know of.

  “What do you think of the city, then?” said a voice.


  Will started. He’d been so deep in thought he’d not heard any footsteps. A man, tall and bearded, sat down next to him. His face was odd – he had blue eyes and pale skin. Then Will realized with a start that his eyes were blue, also. He’d become so used to the features of the people of the Stronghold that he saw his own face as foreign.

  “You speak my tongue,” said Will.

  “I saw you here and I thought, here’s a chance to see if I can still remember.”

  The man had a slight accent, a softening of vowels, a lisp on the s, but, still it was English and it was a long time since Will had heard it spoken by anyone save Jed.

  “You speak very well,” said Will.

  “Thank you.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, watching the men polish the fountain with soft cloths.

  “Have you lived here long?” asked Will.

  “Near on twenty years. I am a fabric merchant.” The man turned toward him, held out his hand. “Jean-Luc Moal.”

  “Will Baker,” Will grasped the man’s hand. The skin of Moal’s hand was soft, his nails well cared for. This was a man who worked behind a desk. Probably a man of some resource.

  “Tell me, Will, what do you think of that fountain there?”

  Will squinted at it. “It’s unusual.”

  “It is made of silver,” said Moal. “There is a story that many years ago the fountain burst forth with mare’s milk as the Emperor rode past. Since then, the fountain is cleaned and polished at the time of the moon’s eclipse.”

  “The eclipse? Why?”

  “That is the time the Emperor meets his people,” Moal looked at him with interest. “You don’t know of the moon parades? You must be new to the city. Are you seeking hire, Will Baker?”

  Will nodded. “I’m a fighter.”

  “So I thought, from the power of your grip. You should speak with the Noyan, the commander, then. He is looking for capable guards.”