Starless

by Jacqueline Carey

  The queen’s sister and prince’s aunt, Lady Onesha, was the head of their entourage, and she was every bit as beautiful as he was, her head wrapped in a colorful silk scarf, but her features proudly bare of any veil. I knew without being told that she too had been blessed by their goddess. All of them wore robes of Barakhan silk draped in folds that flowed like water in bright jewel-tones that glowed against their skin, and smelled of subtle, pleasant fragrances. They lounged at their ease and conversed in their own tongue, which was full of soft syllables and lilting tones like music.

  That, I realized, was the flaw with Zariya’s plan. Still, if I could not listen, I could watch. I circulated with a ewer of orange-blossom-scented water, offering to refill empty goblets. I thought myself nigh invisible, but when I reached Lady Onesha, she took me by surprise, addressing me in the traders’ tongue.

  “You move well for a Zarkhoumi.” Her hand circled my wrist, her touch deft, delicate, and discomfiting. “Were you trained as a dancer?”

  “No, honored one,” I murmured.

  “A pity.” She regarded me. “Tell me, this Princess Zariya, is she possessed of any graces?”

  I suppressed a flare of anger, wondering how these grace-touched members of Barakhan royalty would regard Zariya if they knew of her affliction. “Her Highness is possessed of beauty, a keen wit, and a kind heart.”

  Prince Heshari said something to a comrade in their tongue, but I heard the word rhamanthus. His comrade laughed.

  “Your loyalty to the House of the Ageless is to be commended,” Lady Onesha said, releasing my wrist.

  When the Royal Guard came to escort the Barakhan embassy into the throne hall, I followed, ducking unobtrusively behind the screen to join Zariya and her mother. We listened to the prince present his suit to King Azarkal, along with a bolt of iridescent silk so fine and intricately woven that it seemed to hold all the colors of the rainbow.

  “This silk is woven especially for members of the royal family, Your Majesty,” Prince Heshari said respectfully. “It is my hope that your daughter will wear it on our wedding day.”

  “Oh, he’s lovely!” Zariya whispered to me.

  I took her hand and squeezed it. “Ask him your questions before you lose your heart.”

  This was a protocol to which the king had agreed. After a further exchange of pleasantries, he raised one hand. “Prince Heshari of Barakhar, my daughter Zariya will pose you three questions.”

  The Barakhan prince looked slightly bewildered, but only for an instant. He touched his brow in a Zarkhoumi salute, imbuing the gesture with humility and grace. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  Behind the fretted screen, Zariya leaned forward on her curve-sided stool. “Tell me, Prince Heshari, what do you value most in the world?”

  He hesitated, and his aunt gave him a nod of encouragement. “All such beauty as makes my heart sing, Your Highness,” he said firmly. “Whether it be the curve of a woman’s cheek, the light of the sun setting on the waves, or a lone petal falling from a tree. All that fills me with joy, I value.”

  “And what do you most despise in the world?” Zariya asked him.

  “Despise?” Prince Heshari knit his brow. “It is an unattractive word for an unattractive emotion. Perhaps it is only that I am young and fortunate, but I can think of nothing I despise.”

  Zariya posed her final question. “What do you fear the most, Your Highness?”

  “Fear?” Again he echoed her; again he paused. “Death, I suppose. Does not everyone?”

  “I do not know,” Zariya said. “That is why I ask. Thank you for your candor, Your Highness.”

  There was much discussion of the Barakhan prince in the baths of the women’s quarter that afternoon. The mood in the city was calmer since Prince Dozaren had followed through with his beneficent gesture, and several of Zariya’s sisters had dared venture from their own households to visit the palace, eager for gossip and details. They exclaimed over the gorgeous silk and exchanged opinions, heedless of whether or not there was any basis for them.

  It did not surprise me that Queen Sanala was already urging her daughter to accept the prince’s suit.

  “He’s young and virile and ever so handsome, dearest,” she said to Zariya. “And you would live a life of luxury as a junior princess in Barakhar!”

  “I live a life of luxury here, Mother,” Zariya commented. “And I do not always find it stimulating.” She glanced at me. “You’re very quiet, my darling. What did you think of Prince Heshari?”

  “I think he is very nice to look at,” I said. “But I think he is callow. And it troubles me that the Barakhan place such importance on physical grace.”

  Zariya regarded her legs. “Which I perforce lack.”

  I nodded reluctantly.

  “Oh, but the rhamanthus!” Queen Sanala said with fervent hope. “And … and even if it doesn’t work, my heart, the prince wouldn’t know until after the betrothal. Your father will make certain the terms are unbreakable.”

  That was not my concern; my concern was that Zariya would be reckoned less than her worth in Barakhan society. I opened my mouth to say as much, but Zariya silenced me with a hand sign. “Well, we must hear out the other embassies before I make any decision.”

  Her mother shuddered. “Surely you’re not considering Granth!”

  “Of course not,” she said. “But they must be given their chance to make their suit.”

  Although Granth was nearer, the second embassy to arrive was from Therin; presumably because the Granthians were still slaughtering one another to choose their suitors.

  Once again, I donned the attire of a royal servant and attended their retinue while they awaited their audience with King Azarkal.

  Despite the fact that they were clearly suffering in the heat, clad as they were in ornate jackets and close-fitting breeches, the Therinians were a lively bunch, chattering in their own tongue and uttering quick bursts of laughter at regular intervals. They were as fair-skinned as the Barakhan were dark, with straight hair that they wore shoulder-length or longer, tucked behind ears that tapered almost to a point at the top. By the way the others deferred to him, I guessed Lord Rygil was the ranking member of his entourage. He had sharply etched features that were not displeasing, eyes that were neither brown nor green but a mixture of the two, and hair the reddish-gold color of apricots. With his alert, curious gaze, he put me in mind of a bright-eyed desert fox, although I daresay the desert was the last place he’d care to be.

  When I refilled his goblet with water, he thanked me courteously for it, adding in a humorous tone, “Though I cannot imagine why in the world you think I might look thirsty, my good lass!”

  I paused, for it was obvious that he was flushed and sweating; then remembered what Zariya had told me about Therinians saying the opposite of what they meant. “You are unaccustomed to the heat, my lord. I will send for servants to fan you.”

  Lord Rygil waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, no need! Why, I don’t mind the heat one bit.”

  The others laughed, but there was nothing cruel in it; their laughter had the sound of fellowship. I smiled and sent for servants and fans, and the Therinian embassy did look measurably less overheated when the Royal Guard came to escort them into the throne hall.

  “Well?” Zariya murmured when I rejoined her behind the screen.

  “It’s difficult to say,” I admitted.

  The Keeper of the Keys presented his suit to King Azarkal. “I don’t suppose your daughter would care to leave the embrace of Zar the Sun for the cooler climes of Therin to wed a poor fellow below her royal status, Your Majesty,” he said in a diffident manner. “Still, I’ve coin enough in my purse to ensure she had plenty of warm blankets and furs if she were willing to chance it. Naturally, she would be accorded every honor at my disposal, though I imagine she would find such honors as I have to bestow upon her as the wife of a lord of Therin beneath her.”

  “Is the man mad?” Queen Sanala whispered.

  Z
ariya shook her head. “Shhh.”

  Lord Rygil beckoned to a member of his retinue who came forward with a small casket. “In any case, I brought a small token for Her Highness. A gift to thank her for her consideration.” His man opened the casket and someone—I think it was Dozaren, standing beside the throne—drew in a sharp breath.

  Behind the screen, all three of us leaned forward, craning to no avail to see what the casket held.

  “If that’s what I think it is, it’s a great deal more than a mere token,” King Azarkal said in a flat voice.

  “Well, it is a tear shed by Ilharis the Two-Faced, Your Majesty.” Lord Rygil sounded almost apologetic. “A fate-changer, we call them; though I’m afraid there’s no telling which way it will sway one’s fate, which is why it’s been in my family for generations.” He shrugged, tucking a stray lock of hair behind one ear. “Call it a piece of whimsy on my part. Fate-changers are indeed scarce, but it’s not as though it’s a teardrop from the Lone Tree of the Barren Isle.”

  For the first time in many months, I fought the urge to feel at the back of my neck.

  Unlike the Barakhan prince, Lord Rygil did not hesitate when Zariya posed him her first question and asked what he valued most in the world; indeed, he seemed to quite relish the challenge.

  “Why, my integrity in my role as the Keeper of the Keys, of course,” he answered lightly. Members of his entourage murmured, and he grinned. “I do but jest. Above all else, I treasure a witticism that cuts like a double-edged blade.”

  Zariya frowned, trying to parse his answer. “And what do you most despise, my lord?”

  “Tedium, Your Highness,” he said promptly.

  “Lord Rygil hews close to the bone of truth!” someone called out merrily. I would have called it disrespectful and irreverent … and yet this strange badinage was a form of reverence for them.

  “Very well, my lord,” Zariya said. “What is it that you fear the most?”

  He wiped his sweating brow with the cuff of his brocade jacket and laughed, turning the gesture into a salute. “At this very moment, it is that I will disgrace myself by fainting in the heat, Your Highness.”

  I did not know what to make of him. Neither did Zariya, although her mother was quick to take offense at his manner, as were the other royal ladies when they heard the scandalous details. While they clicked and clucked and exclaimed over the exchange, Zariya and I tried to make sense of it.

  “I think there were some true things he said, my darling,” she said to me, lying on her belly while Soresh massaged her legs. “Not those answers that were wholly flippant; those were not so much falsehoods as a veil to disguise whatever deeper truths lay beneath them. No, the true answers were the ones he undercut with a jest or a dismissive comment.”

  I thought back over the audience. “Which would mean that he truly does value his integrity and intend to offer you every honor at his disposal.”

  “If I read his answer rightly,” she agreed.

  “This would be a great deal easier if he’d simply speak plainly,” I grumbled.

  “At least that’s one thing we can count on the Granthians to do, my heart,” Zariya said wryly. “What do you think Lord Rygil meant by his gift?”

  Like the bolt of silk before it, the fate-changer in its inlaid enamel casket had been delivered to the women’s quarter. The gem itself was a strange thing, round as a pearl, yet clear as a diamond. I had more than half expected it to glow from within like the Barren Teardrop or the rhamanthus seeds, but the only light it held was the light it reflected, which shifted in its depths in subtle, aqueous patterns. There was a note penned on vellum in the casket, informing Zariya that to invoke the fate-changer, one dashed it on the ground and shattered it with the words, Ilharis, change my fate!

  It had been passed around and admired, but so far no one had dared touch it out of an irrational fear that it might break by accident and unleash an uncertain change of fate.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Do you have any thoughts on the matter?”

  Zariya shook her head. “Only that he called it a piece of whimsy on his part, which means it was no such thing.”

  I said nothing, thinking that it seemed to me a considerable coincidence that each of us, Sun-Blessed and shadow, now possessed a tear shed by one of the children of heaven. As always, I felt a pang of guilt at keeping the secret from her; and yet I feared to tell her here in the Palace of the Sun. Even with her brother Elizar the collector languishing in the dungeon for a crime he hadn’t committed, it was a dangerous thing to know.

  Perhaps when we departed from the shores of Zarkhoum, I thought, I would divulge this last secret. The thought heartened me.

  Two days passed before the embassy from Granth arrived. It had been determined that both prospective bridegrooms would present their suits before dueling on the morrow. One, who was known as Varkas Long-Arm—all Granthian warriors, Zariya told me, were given nicknames—was actually the son of a former Kagan, though it signified nothing, for the title could only be claimed by winning the seven-year tourney. The other Granthian suitor was known as Sandrath the Quiet, and when I attended to their retinue in the sitting room, I had no trouble guessing which was which.

  The Granthians were an imposing lot, brown-skinned and black-haired like us, but tall and broad-shouldered to a man, their bodies thick with muscle. All of them were warriors in their prime. Although they were not permitted to wear weapons in the king’s presence, they flaunted the wealth of their realm’s resources in the form of steel chest-plates, gauntlets, and greaves.

  I found them loud and boastful, especially Varkas Long-Arm, who stood half a head taller than any other man in the room. It was clear that his reach would give him an advantage in battle. He had features that fell just short of handsome: his eyes too far apart, his mouth too small for his face. When I turned away after filling his glass, he gave me a hard pinch on my left buttock.

  I froze.

  He laughed and made a comment in his own tongue; the others laughed, too. With anger coursing through me, I clutched the handle of my pitcher tight and repressed the desire to whirl around and rain down thunder and lightning upon him.

  “Do not judge us all by the same measure,” the only Granthian seated said in a low tone. Sandrath the Quiet. Like the others, he wore his black hair cropped short and steel armor over his attire; unlike the others, his gaze was thoughtful. “We are not all ill-mannered brutes.”

  I filled his glass. “And yet one of you will kill the other tomorrow without just cause.”

  He raised his glass to me. “Is the hand of your Princess Zariya not a cause worth dying for?”

  I shrugged. “Her Highness or her dowry?”

  Sandrath the Quiet’s gaze was unflinching and his answer was simple and direct. “Both, of course.”

  At that moment the Royal Guard came to escort them into the throne hall, sparing me the need to answer. I trailed behind them and once again slipped behind the fretted screen.

  Zariya gave me a curious look. “You’re agitated, my darling.”

  I shook my head. “One of them is despicable. The other is … not what we expected.”

  Varkas Long-Arm was the first to present his suit. “In a year’s time, I will be Kagan,” he announced. “Like my father before me. I will win the tourney.” He slapped the empty scabbard that hung from the thick leather belt slung over his hips. “My gift is my sword. I pledge it to your daughter’s honor, King Azarkal. She will be the first and foremost of my wives and bear me many sons. With her at my side, I will rule for a thousand years.”

  When it came time for Zariya to pose her questions, Varkas Long-Arm scowled, disliking the entire process and answering each question with a single curt word.

  What did he most value? Victory.

  What did he most disdain? Cowardice.

  What did he fear? Nothing.

  And then it was Sandrath the Quiet’s turn. He stood at his ease before the throne, an unremarkable-looki
ng man with a warrior’s bearing. “I make no bold claims, Your Majesty,” he said. “I, too, hope to be Kagan; I, too, will fight in next year’s tourney.” He took a slow, deep breath. “I would like the chance to shape Granth’s destiny. This I believe your daughter and I might do together. I have made inquiries. I believe we are like-minded. And to that end, I have brought a small token with which to present your daughter.”

  It was a book; and not just any book, but a rare volume by Liko of Koronis that Zariya did not possess.

  “Oh!” she whispered.

  Against all odds, I found myself wondering if this Granthian suitor could actually win her heart.

  Sandrath the Quiet’s answers to her first two questions were as brief as his countryman’s, but they were thoughtful: what he valued most in the world was wisdom; what he most despised was cruelty born of willful ignorance. His answer to her final question was longer.

  “You have seen, I think, that Granthians are not given to fear, Your Highness; or at least not to confessing it,” he said. “And yet no man in full possession of his wits is truly fearless. What do I fear most in the world? I cannot say there is one thing. But I can tell you that today, what I fear most is that you have already hardened your heart against my suit, and that my words fall upon deaf ears.”

  I had to own, it was an awfully good answer.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Zariya was quiet and withdrawn after the Granthian audience. I let her be and did my best to keep her mother and aunts and sisters from pestering her. It wasn’t until we were alone in her chambers that evening that she shared her thoughts with me.

  “His words did not fall on deaf ears,” she said. “Yet I find myself wondering if he merely said what I wanted to hear.”

  “I do not think any Granthian in history has ever done such a thing,” I said dryly. “And he spoke gently to me despite supposing me an ordinary servant.”

  She smiled a little. “True. I find myself at cross-purposes, my darling. Prince Heshari … I will not deny it, his beauty appeals to me. The intriguing and maddening Lord Rygil piques my wits. But much to my surprise, it is Sandrath the Quiet who spoke to my heart.”