Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

  She grinned. “Later.” She crossed to the other door. “First I want to see … ah, Robin, look at this!”

  The second door opened to reveal the largest bathing room they had ever seen. The walls were completely covered in ceramic tiles of yellow and green, while the vast pool in the middle of the floor was lined with deep blue tiles that made the steaming water look especially appealing.

  Robin whistled in amazement as he trailed his fingers in the water. “How do they keep it so hot?”

  Sullyan was already removing her jacket. “I have heard of these, but never had the chance to try one. It is said that a thermal spring rises under the Palace, and I believe that the ancient Andaryan word ‘Vellet’ translates as ‘volcanic’. The hot water from the spring will be channeled into these pools through a system of baked clay pipes. This is why the majority of the Palace is built on one level.”

  She let down the masses of her hair and Robin came over to help remove the rest of her clothing. He watched as she carefully slid her slender body into the water, the scars of Rykan’s abuse still visible on her creamy skin. It felt so good. She lay back, luxuriating in the sensual warmth. She could float full length in the enormous pool. Seeing the look on Robin’s face, she moved to the edge, languidly flicking water at him.

  “Why not join me, Robin? Have you ever made love underwater?”

  He needed no second invitation.

  Eventually, warm, clean, and spent, they wrapped themselves in the heavy house robes provided and relaxed by the fire, now and again sampling the meats and bread left earlier. Sullyan would have given much for a cup of Bull’s strong fellan, and thoughts of her big, loyal friend dispelled the delicious languor brought on by the bath and Robin’s attentions.

  It was fully dark outside and most of the food was gone by the time she heard the discreet tap on the door. Robin got up to answer it, revealing the stocky form of Baron Gaslek. Sullyan beckoned to him and the Baron entered nervously, his constantly moving eyes settling anywhere but on her. She was lounging casually on the settle, her damp hair spread to dry over her shoulders. Lazily, she watched the Baron, enjoying his discomfiture.

  “Will you not sit, Baron?” She patted the settle beside her. Robin had to choke back laughter as the Baron struggled to politely refuse.

  He had to look at her to deliver his message. As he drew himself up, gathering his dignity around him like an ill-fitting cloak, his ringed fingers fluttered at his sides like crippled butterflies. “My Lady,” he said, before clearing his throat. “My Lady Ambassador, I am charged to inform you that his Majesty sends his profoundest apologies. As I warned you, he is much too busy with matters pertaining to the war to see you. However, you are welcome to ….”

  Sullyan rose with threatening grace and the Baron’s words trailed off. Her eyes were hard and she fixed them on him as she moved closer. He took an involuntary step back before managing to stop himself.

  Sullyan knew how to exude menace, and the Baron certainly felt it. She could see the tremble of his body in the reflected light from his spectacles. When she spoke, her voice was deliberately low.

  “I think, my Lord, that you cannot properly have conveyed my message to his Majesty.”

  The Baron wrung his hands. “Yes, I … yes I did, Lady. I told him you were here, but he is too busy. You must understand—”

  “No, my Lord Baron, you must understand. You are to return to his Majesty with this message. Tell him that Major Sullyan, Ambassador and Artesan Master-elite, wishes an audience with him. Can you remember that?”

  Her eyes bored into his. Faintly, he repeated, “Master-elite?”

  She nodded, smiled, and stepped back, breaking the tension between them. He shook himself, fluttering his hands in confusion. “Yes, Lady, of course. I’ll go at once.” Bowing hastily, he left the room.

  Robin closed the door and leaned on it. He was shaking with laughter, and Sullyan regarded him narrowly. She was expending power to hold at bay the nagging ache in her belly and could do without these obstacles to her plans.

  “Men!” she snapped.

  Within half an hour, the Baron was back. His manner was completely different. Gone was the fussy nervousness. He was deferential and polite. After conveying the Hierarch’s concern for their comfort and invitation to remain as long as they chose, he informed Sullyan that his Majesty would see her later that evening, once he had closed his business with his generals. The Baron then enquired after their needs, offering Sullyan the services of a maid, which she graciously refused. Her manner had also changed. She was every inch the lady with no sign of her earlier irritation. As the little man turned to go, however, the Major called him back.

  “There is one small favor you could do for me, my Lord.”

  He turned fawning eyes on her and bowed, eager to please someone whose rank commanded his sovereign’s respect. “Whatever you wish, Lady.”

  “Will you personally see to Count Marik’s comfort? I am sure it would distress his Majesty to learn that one of my friends was being treated with less than due respect.”

  She looked down at her hands as she spoke, yet still caught the Baron’s irritated expression. His voice was tight as he replied, “Of course, Lady. I’ll ask the General to move him to a more suitable suite.”

  “I thank you, my Lord. I would deeply appreciate it.”

  It was left to Robin to show the defeated man out. The Captain shook his head once the Baron had gone, and grinned at the Major. “You’re incorrigible.”

  She didn’t reply.

  + + + + +

  A few hours passed before a page arrived to convey them into the Hierarch’s presence. Sullyan had dressed carefully in a plain and simple dove grey gown. She left most of her hair loose, only braiding part of it to keep it out of her face. The rest fanned out around her shoulders, tumbling down her back like a tawny cloak.

  Robin had put on his dress uniform, and Sullyan coached him in the protocol of the meeting.

  “We must remain kneeling in his presence until given permission to rise. Do not speak unless you are addressed, and be unfailingly polite whatever is said. Always remember, Robin, that not only is Timar Pharikian the supreme ruler of this realm, but he is also a Senior Master, and therefore doubly deserving of our respect.”

  They followed the young page along the corridors, passing various members of Pharikian’s Court, a few of whom gave them cursory glances. Sullyan was amused to observe that she wasn’t attracting half as much negative attention dressed in women’s clothing as she had in her combat leathers. The absence of the sword, she thought, probably had much to do with that. There were a few groups of women, however, who gave her much more than a cursory glance, no doubt comparing her simple, elegant gown with their gaudy, ruffled plumage. Robin also drew a fair share of the ladies’ attention, due to his handsome face and slim, muscular body.

  At the end of a long, ornate corridor, they finally came to a pair of massive gilded doors. Carved with fantastical designs of mythical beasts, the doors were guarded by two swordsmen of the Velletian Guard, both of whom held lances crossed before them. The young page stopped at the doors and announced, “Master-elite Lady Ambassador Major Sullyan, and Adept-elite Captain Robin Tamsen, invited to an audience with his Majesty.”

  The guards stepped apart, opening the doors wide as they did so, revealing a cavernous, lavishly appointed formal audience chamber. Gilded bosses and painted timbers adorned the high vaulted ceiling, while two lines of intricately carved columns formed an aisle down the room’s center. On either side of the aisle, chairs sat against the white plaster walls, beneath the multi-colored banners and crests of the Hierarch and his underlords. The floor was pink marble shot with gold, and a raised dais at the far end of the aisle bore an ornately carved and gilded throne, currently unoccupied.

  The page ushered Sullyan and Robin toward the end of the hall. When they reached the platform leading up to the dais, he instructed them to kneel upon a cushioned carpet and await the
Hierarch’s arrival. Robin looked round the room with interest, but Sullyan kept her eyes downcast. She was struggling to maintain her composure, for the pain of Rykan’s poison was increasing once more. She used metaforce to try to bolster her flagging strength, but the pain refused to abate.

  A blare of trumpets from outside the room caught her attention, and Baron Gaslek entered through double doors in the far wall to the right of the dais. As he came forward to stand beside the throne, he glanced down at Sullyan but didn’t speak. Behind him came four men, all attired in military uniform. They marched to the throne and ranged themselves around it. Their leader was Commander Vanyr, and he stared at the two Albians with undisguised dislike. Sullyan guessed he had heard of her request regarding Marik and was infuriated by her interference.

  As soon as Gaslek and the honor guards were in place, the fanfare sounded again, longer and louder than before. Another man entered the room, preceded by two pages and followed by two more. Sullyan had seen him before and knew what to expect, but Robin gave a start of surprise when he saw that the Hierarch was old. Over seventy years of age, thought Sullyan, but he still moved with the fluid grace of a trained swordsman. His body was tall and spare, his brown skin weathered and lined with age. He had a lean, patrician face with a long, straight nose and generous mouth. His eyes were golden yellow and not as pale as most Andaryans’, and his shoulder-length hair was nearly white.

  A long purple cloak of rich silk flowed around his legs as he walked. Under it, his belted robe was soft gold velvet. A thick chain of gold lay about his neck, and a large carved amethyst bearing the tangwyr crest of the House of Pharikian adorned a heavy gold ring on the third finger of his right hand. He strode to the throne and sat, the pages taking stations around him. When he was settled, the four guards stood at ease.

  Baron Gaslek turned to him and bowed low. Descending the dais, he came to stand beside Sullyan. She neither reacted nor raised her eyes, but kept them modestly downcast. The little man spoke up.

  “Most Noble and Exalted Majesty, may I present Master-elite Lady Ambassador Major Sullyan, Envoy from High King Elias Rovannon of Albia.”

  She heard Commander Vanyr stir as her full titles were revealed. The Hierarch leaned forward in his chair, eagerly studying her as she afforded him the reverent brow-lips-heart salute due to her superior in the Artesan craft. Robin, who had never seen her make this obeisance before, was gaping at her, and she had to remind him to follow her lead.

  When they were done, the Hierarch rose and stepped forward. Holding out his right hand, he spoke in a deep, smooth voice that belied his age. “Ah, Lady Brynne Sullyan! You are very welcome here, my dear. I have long wondered when I would have the pleasure of beholding you once again.”

  Caught in the act of kissing the dynastic ring, Sullyan gave a start. She glanced up for the first time into the Hierarch’s golden yellow eyes.

  “Why do you name me so, Majesty? And we have never met, to my knowledge.”

  He frowned and withdrew his hand. “But are you not Brynne Sullyan, daughter of Morgan and Bethyn Sullyan?”

  She felt the blood drain from her face and saw Robin’s look of concern. Her voice wavered as she replied, “I … do not know, Majesty. I never knew my parents.”

  The Hierarch’s frown deepened and his eyes narrowed. “No, but ….” He hesitated, and then beckoned to her. “Come here, child.”

  She rose and approached him as he seated himself once more on his throne. Holding out a veined hand, he asked, “Will you permit?”

  She realized he was asking to read her, to look inside to where her private power rested. This was a very intimate thing for an Artesan, a request never pressed on anyone unwilling. Yet something urged her to comply, and bowing her head, she gave him her left hand. He took it gently and she watched in silence as the Hierarch’s yellow eyes focused on her face. She felt him attune to and mesh with her psyche, and her own eyes dilated widely as she allowed his scrutiny.

  After a few moments, he smiled and let fall her hand.

  “I was right, child. You are indeed Brynne Sullyan, daughter to my very good friends Morgan and Bethyn. You are so like your mother that I could hardly fail to know you. You even wear her jewels, although there was also a ring?” He looked questioningly at her hands.

  Sullyan was silent, although her heart was pulsing so violently she felt sure they all must hear it. She was unable to take this in. After twenty-three years of not knowing her origins, she had just learned more of her life history than she had ever thought to hear. Her head spun with it and she began to tremble.

  “Yes, Majesty,” she managed, “I still have it.”

  The Hierarch’s eyes took on a far-away look. “The last time I saw you, my dear, you were a tiny babe in your father’s arms. Oh, you are so like your mother! She was extremely beautiful too.”

  Suddenly, it was all too much. The control Sullyan was exerting over the pain in her belly—pain she had managed to conceal from the Hierarch’s scrutiny—slipped as she desperately tried to assimilate what she had heard. She could feel herself fading and fought for composure. Yet the shock of the Hierarch’s revelation, coupled with the effects of Rykan’s poison, was just too strong.

  “Dammit, not now!” she gasped, mortified as pain ripped through her, sapping her strength and shearing her control. Helpless, she sank to her knees, clutching her belly.

  The Hierarch looked startled. “Are you unwell, child?”

  Robin, forgetting protocol, leaped to his feet, only just managing to catch her as she lost control over her body. She slumped into his arms, her vision blurred, her hearing muffled. Strange sounds roared in her mind and she barely heard the Hierarch rapping out an order for Vanyr to fetch a physician. As the sullen Commander left the room, his footsteps resounded through her head. She felt Robin stir as he looked up at the Hierarch from where he sat cradling her. Even through the suffocating fog in her mind, she could hear the fear harsh in his tone.

  “I doubt your physician will be able to help, Majesty, unless he is also an Artesan.”

  No, Robin, she thought, desperate to stop him uttering her secret. Please, no!

  “How so?” demanded the Hierarch, his voice sounding distorted, strange.

  “This is demon induced poison, Majesty, and it’s killing her.”

  She sagged as Robin sealed her fate, pain and nausea roiling through her gut. The guards crowded forward, concerned despite themselves, and Baron Gaslek wrung his hands.

  The Hierarch came down from the dais to crouch beside Robin. He took one of her hands, his skin warm against the ice in her veins. “What do you mean?”

  Robin lowered his voice, and Sullyan retained just enough sense to be grateful. “It’s Lord Rykan’s doing, Majesty.”

  The ruler glared at him. “Rykan? How has he done this?”

  Through the terrifying pain and sickness that swamped her, Sullyan could feel the power of his anger. She knew that Robin could never have resisted it, even had she been able to command him to silence. The information she so desperately wanted to hide was about to be revealed. Robin was compelled to answer, and there was nothing she could do. The pain finally overwhelmed her as Robin harshly ground out the words.

  “He took her captive, Majesty, and he … he raped her.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Robin could hardly contain his anguish as he felt Sullyan’s spirit once more slipping away. He knew she didn’t want him to do what he had just done, but what other choice did he have? He couldn’t sit back and let her die, not if there was the slightest chance this Andaryan ruler could help. So he stayed silent, helplessly hugging Sullyan’s unconscious form to his chest, while the Hierarch took charge of the situation.

  Calling to his guards, Pharikian rapped out orders. One of them came forward to take Sullyan, but Robin waved him away. “I can manage.” He stood and lifted her, then followed the Hierarch through the doors behind the dais. The Hierarch led him to a lavishly appointed suite and told him
to lay Sullyan on the huge canopied bed. The pages who had accompanied them bustled around, doing the Hierarch’s bidding. Robin ignored them. He sat on the bed beside Sullyan, holding her hand and smoothing the perspiration from her face.

  One of the pages brought a cloth and a basin of cool water smelling of fresh herbs, which Robin used to soothe Sullyan’s overheated skin. Her face was white and bloodless, but she was burning underneath, and Robin was thankful when the sound of hurrying feet heralded the arrival of Pharikian’s physician. He was a short, extremely thin man with a hooked nose and a long face. His name was Deshan, and he was a Master Artesan as well as a Master Healer.

  Deshan moved to examine Sullyan and Robin stood back to give him room. He was relieved that the Hierarch’s pages had closed the door after Deshan’s arrival. He had caught sight of Vanyr’s disapproving face out in the passageway and knew Sullyan would hate being stared at. He soon forgot the sullen commander, for the Hierarch demanded to know everything Robin could tell him concerning Rykan’s abuse. The Captain related what Marik had said in the drovers’ hut, and both Andaryans wore thunderous expressions by the time he was done.

  Sullyan showed no sign of regaining consciousness. Deshan sat with his hand on her brow, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Finally, he shook his head and rose.

  “I am sorry, Timar, but I don’t think there’s much I can do. The poison has been there too long. It has eaten into her soul and there’s much damage.”

  Robin leaped to his feet and pushed between them. “But there must be! She said you would be able to help her, Majesty, she said you were the only one who could! Marik was able to help her and he hardly has any power, so why can’t you?”

  The Hierarch put his hands on Robin’s shoulders, choosing to ignore rudeness born out of desperation and love. “What was it that Count Marik was able to do?”

  Robin shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know, sir, I wasn’t involved. He sang to her or something. I didn’t understand it. I only know that he was able to seal the poison off because he was Andaryan. Why don’t you ask him?”