Gloriana's Masque

by Eleanor Burns

  “They will not,” he barely muttered, ashamed on more levels than he cared to enumerate. The unpleasant smile vanished from the Queen’s face, and with a sad but serene look, she lowered her mask again.

  “Have you anything more to say, Lord Citizen?” she asked, and he required no telepathic insight to know that this was not a rhetorical question. Well, I’ve sod all to lose now. Resolved to make the best of a bad lot he began to speak, at first formally, but in spite of himself he could not prevent the emotion from rising within him.

  “Oh behalf of the Lucinian Republic … I apologise, and I beg the forgiveness of Your Highness, and of the Alvere people … whose sovereign rights we have abused … whose bodies we have abused … whose lives we have taken, in furtherance of our own goals … with little or no regard for the well-being of this ancient and noble race. I apologise that in spite of our … in spite of my efforts, that Alvere citizens in the Republic are still despised and exploited … are denied even the rights that they were promised under the Year-One Constitution … are driven to theft and whoredom by poverty, only to be called a race of thieves and whores by those who drove them to it … are murdered and raped with impunity, only for the delators to ignore it … that all I have achieved, all I have fought for … amounts to so little … a mere whitewash … yet I have the nerve to come before you expecting favours. That–”

  She interrupted him by gently raising her right hand again, then she extended it to him, the palm facing downwards, prominently displaying the signet ring on her middle finger. It was engraved with the arms of Kadar Ydril: a serpent entwined around an ash tree. Dejected and beaten, and barely even noticing as the heliographer took another image, Kasimir leaned his head forwards and kissed it. Gloriana rose sedately to her feet, her hand brushing his face as she did so, wiping away a few of the tears that had stained it. The gesture may have been accidental, not that he greatly cared.

  “In the name of the Alvere people, and in my own,” she began, benignly and magnificently, “we pardon you … your nation of its sins against us. Let this day mark the beginning of a new age when we shall be as one, no longer enemies, but brothers and sisters all. This I have decreed.” A huge round of applause went up from the onlookers, but Gloriana quickly stayed it with another raised hand gesture. Not milking it, at least. I suppose I have to give her that much, he thought, miserably. “Rise, Secretary Kasimir,” she commanded, and he obeyed, his boots taunting him with more pinches. “We will commence the formal negotiations tomorrow. For the rest of today, it is only fitting that we celebrate. I do hope you will join us for our revels in the great hall.”

  “Honoured, Your Highness,” he just about managed to mumble.

  “Excellent. Then let us proceed.”

  The crowd began to file out of the room, chattering freely again, and Kasimir listlessly turned to follow. Just before he did, he heard the Queen’s voice from behind him, almost in a whisper:

  “I mean every word I say. You will have no cause to regret this day, Lord Citizen, I swear it.”

  Strange although it seemed, it made little enough impact on Kasimir’s morale, as he was already regretting the day of his own birth.

  ************

  The cloying stench of simmering Amanyta Loptis mushrooms hung heavily over the glade, and loath though Cædmon was to leave the perimeter of the elf-circle, he needed to keep his distance from that pot if he was also to keep his consciousness. The men were taking turns to watch over it, with damp cloths tied around their noses and mouths, in spite of which each of them had come away from their brief shift light-headed. I suppose it must be safe enough out there by now, the boatswain urged himself to believe. The sun had been up for over two hours, which Ashbyrn insisted made even the circle unnecessary for protection. In any case, they had all ventured outside the perimeter at some time or another during this morning, in the course of trying and failing to work out what had become of their missing comrade. Hark at me: "I'll not get any sleep here," thought Cædmon, with deep self-reproach. He had woken at dawn along with the rest of the men, having slept through whatever misfortune had befallen Gudric. Such signs as they had found were only serving to deepen the mystery, then there were the persistent itching and stinging sensations they all felt in the area outside the circle, even though there was not so much as a gnat to be seen. But for the small and decreasing hope of finding Gudric again, Cædmon would have been in favour of leaving the place at once, but apparently the officer had other plans, and it was not his business to question them, bizarre though they seemed.

  “Is that foul stew ready yet?” asked Ashbyrn, while searching the ground near the split tree, where Gudric’s tracks came to an inexplicable end. His tone was composed, yet strained, not at all like his naturally cocky, confident airs of the day before. Losing his first man … That’s a test and no mistake.

  “Almost, sir,” replied Eadwulf, his voice both muffled and lethargic, as he gave the pot another stir. “Mind, you don’t want to go messing with these undercooked … Trickster caps, I mean … Fiendish little buggers, they are … Fine line between visions, madness, and just spewing up a shitload of blood and entrails.”

  “I’ll defer to your judgement on that, Eadwulf. I very much doubt our esteemed elf-queen has ever shroomed in her life, so I’m very happy to ignore her recipe if it’s likely to end up with me vomiting myself inside-out. Just don’t neglect to put in the extra ingredients she supplied, though.”

  “Will do, sir, though for the life of me … can’t see the point of it … Adding a pinch of valerian … a sliver of peridexion fruit … two bleedin’ eyraberries, I ask you … You’ll never even know it’s all in there … If these bad boys don’t get you off your face by themselves, there’s sod all in creation that will.”

  “We can but hope,” said Ashbyrn, with a casual, ironic air that was in no danger of fooling Cædmon, especially since the very next thing that the ensign did was to resume his futile hunt for signs of Gudric. Having watched him sift through the long grass for several fruitless seconds, Cædmon decided that it was his duty to say something, lest the young officer’s guilt get the better of his judgement.

  “It’s my fault, sir. I should’ve stayed with him; not expected him to take that first watch all by himself. If I’d only–”

  “You know how to rebuke a man tactfully, Mister Cædmon, I’ll give you that,” interrupted Ashbyrn, bitterly, while persisting in his hunt. “I think we both know whose fault this was, and we will be doubling up on all our watches in the future, as we should have done in the first … Is that the patrol back?” he asked, as the thick undergrowth at the edge of the glade rustled and shifted aside, to make way for Rothgar, Dagmund, and Garryk. Their faces were as tired and haunted as the ensign’s, immediately informing Cædmon that there would be no happy ending, and probably not even a satisfactory resolution to this horrible little mystery. Nevertheless, for what it was worth, he dared to ask.

  “Well, lads? Any sign of him?”

  “None, unless you want to count our tracks from yesterday,” answered Rothgar, wearily. “We circled the whole glade and found nothing new. Well, some animal tracks here and there, but there’s no blood anywhere I can see, so I’m ruling out wild beasts having done for him. I suppose it’s just about possible he doubled back and made for the ship, but if that was true–”

  “The little runt’s running out on us?” interrupted Colgrim, who had spent the whole morning in a state of borderline panic and seemed almost grateful to have a simple, albeit feeble explanation to latch onto. “We’d better get after him, then, before he makes off with it and leaves us all stranded, the stinking cowardly thrall.”

  “You’re a fucking moron, Colgrim,” declared Cædmon, with uncharacteristic venom, but the helmsman’s particular blend of malice, prejudice, and hypocrisy had managed to pull all of his levers. “Even if he did double back, how in the Abysm do you expect the lad to pilot the ship by himself?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past
him to try, even if he just finishes up on the rocks. Serve the filthy deserter right, it would, but it don’t exactly help us if … What’s that you got, sir?” he asked, as Ashbyrn stood up from the place where Gudric’s tracks ended, holding a small, glittering object on his palm. Craning his head for a closer look, Cædmon saw that it was the gold-and-ruby ring that Lord Lycon had given the young conscript by way of a testimonial, which he had worn ever since, albeit loosely.

  “A deserter, eh?” said Ashbyrn, the irony slowly rising in his tone. “By the gods, Mister Colgrim, he must be in desperate need of travelling light to have gone to the trouble of leaving this behind.”

  “No kidding, sir,” said Garryk, looking at the ring with widened eyes, while Colgrim lowered his own eyes and bit his lip “I’d have chewed a hand off sooner than ditched that. I guess that rules out bandits as well. Doesn’t leave a whole lot to go on.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” agreed Ashbyrn, morosely, and passed the ring to Cædmon. “Take charge of that, Mister Cædmon. If his Lordship doesn’t want the thing back, I guess we could always auction it off and send the proceeds to Gudric’s mother. Being able to buy her freedom and live like a contessa might be some consolation for losing her only son.”

  “It does happen, sir,” said Cædmon, gently, “and the lad did volunteer knowing the risks. The odds were never very great that we’d all be going home.”

  “I know that, but I’d still appreciate if the next one of us who feels like dying could do so under less stupid circumstances. I realise that’s my call, though.” Rallying his spirits and raising his voice, he turned his attention back to Eadwulf. “You’re very quiet over there, Eadwulf. How are those mushrooms coming along? Are you still holding onto consciousness?”

  “Jus’ ‘bout, sir … Feel like puking … This shit ought’a be safe ‘nough to take now, though … Jus’ disgusting, is all … You wan’ I should pour it?”

  “I might attend to that myself,” said Ashbyrn, insistently, coming over to relieve Eadwulf, who was struggling to even hold the ladle steady. “You go get some fresh air. I’m sure the grass can do without a trip to la-la land … or wherever we can expect this muck to send us,” he added, then carefully ladled equal quantities of the sickly-smelling trickster cap stew into two tin mugs, and turned back to Cædmon “Time you and me earned our keep, bo’sun. Just so we’re clear on this, though: I appreciate you volunteering, but I’d prefer to know in advance if you’ve ever taken this stuff before.”

  “Once or twice, sir,” answered Cædmon, thinking back nearly forty years to his time in the Incursion Fleet: a time when berserker tactics were still fairly common, although not long before it dawned on the Convocation that although peasants of all nationalities were as scared as ever by hordes of psychotically tripping maniacs swinging battle-axes, the same did not apply to Lucinian mortar shells, Daevastani volley guns, Seraquinese anti-personnel rockets, and so forth. Although many Brythons remained wistfully nostalgic for those fierce, frenzied days of old before soulless machinery ruled the field of every battle, Cædmon himself did not miss the trickster caps, and he was deeply sceptical that the addition of Alvere magic would improve the mind-bending experience. He was also doubtful that the young ensign had ever shroomed before, but there was no telling. These sons of eorls probably get up to all kinds of weird shit just for the fun of it, not that I ever saw any fun in it.

  “You know more or less what to expect, then,” said Ashbyrn, with cautious optimism. “There may be one or two surprises. I’ll read to you what Her Highness has written, though I’m damned myself if I can make much sense of it.” He took the crumpled sheaf of notes from his pocket and began reciting. “‘Just as the visible world will appear less real and fixed in the Darkshift, so will elements of the dark world appear more real. Thus did the Alvere of old learn of the foundations of nature and reality, and how to work them to their advantage. In primitive cultures, mystics and priests still try to induce dark-shifted states with deep meditations and drugs. Whilst the latter method is typically to be shunned as dangerous, especially in areas where the dark world is believed to be particularly intrusive upon our own, it is also the quickest. The extra ingredients and the proximity of the Alveringe should serve to stabilise the experience and ward off any inimical presence, at least for sufficient time to carry out the task.’ Very reassuring, I’m sure you’ll agree,” he concluded, dryly, while passing Cædmon one of the cups. “On my mark, then. As for the rest of you lads,” he said, raising his voice for the benefit of the whole squad. “Stay sharp, and whatever crazy shit you see us getting up to, leave us be and make sure nothing disturbs us, but do not let us leave the circle until the drug’s worn off. I don’t care if wild animals, natives, and the gods themselves team up to launch a mass attack on this glade. You defend this circle to the hilt sooner than drag us out of it before time. Ready then, Mister Cædmon?”

  “As I’ll ever be, sir.” Ashbyrn threw him a quick, ironic toast, and in near-perfect unison they both swigged from their tin mugs, taking deep swallows both to maximise its effectiveness and to minimise the amount of time they had to spend with that repulsive taste in their mouths, almost enough to put a man in a killing mood by itself. It took only a few seconds for Cædmon to down the nauseating swill, although he knew it would take much longer to completely lose the feeling that a bonnacon had just projectile-shat its corrosive excreta into his mouth. Still, in a few minutes at least I won’t give a toss, he thought. Trickster caps did not tend to leave their victims waiting long, there was that much to be said for them.

  “What’s the drill then, sir?” he asked, mainly to break the tense and awkward silence as they waited for the potion to do its thing.

  “Simple enough, or it should be,” answered Ashbyrn, not overly confidently. “She gave me something: a bit of elvish mumbo-jumbo. Apparently it belongs here, so I have to place it at the summit of that temple. Then we just enjoy the next hour or so in Crazytown until we have our comedown.”

  “That’s all? And we couldn’t just have done that without having to get completely wrecked?”

  “She thinks not. Don’t ask me why, but the Queen seems adamant that we’ll only be able to find the proper place for it if our minds are, as she says, ‘dark-shifted,’ which we can only hope means something more than ‘screwed all to fuck.’”

  “You don’t say … You’re sure she’s a genius, sir? I’m not exactly seeing how this helps our war efforts.”

  “I’m a little hazy on that myself … speaking of which,” he added, his tone wavering, “are you feeling anything yet, only you’re starting to look kind of blurry?”

  A lightweight, I feared as much, thought Cædmon, but seconds later it hit him too: an internal jolt, as if a vacuum had suddenly appeared inside him, and a sense of light-headedness and vertigo that built up so quickly it was all he could do to keep his footing. Just as he had recovered from that, his vision started to suffer in a weird and horrible way, giving him the impression that the scene around him was melting or running like a chalk picture in the rain, leaving only vague, ghostly shapes in drab, pale tints. Only the ensign was clearly visible as himself, and even he looked a little unfocused, leaving a faint trail in his wake whenever he moved.

  “Bugger me, that was quick,” said Cædmon, anxiously. “I know it’s been a fair old while since I took this stuff, but even so …”

  “One of those extra ingredients was probably a catalyst,” suggested Ashbyrn, doing his best to keep a resolute tone, although he sounded as sick as Cædmon felt, “or maybe that circle has something to do with … What in the Abysm?” he added, his eyes fixated upon the perimeter. Cædmon followed his gaze, and immediately sympathised. For while everything else – the grass, the trees, the ruins, and even the men – had blended into an obscure, greyish haze, the Alvere signs in the circle had suddenly become glaringly clear, each intricate tracing now highlighted in a brilliant light of subtly shifting colours, or possibly of one colour which Cædmon wa
s simply unable to name or pin down. For whatever reason, the forest also seemed to have moved closer to the circle, as only a few metres away from the glowing sigils Cædmon could see a grove of spindly black trees. None of them were taller than large saplings, though, and they all had a misshapen look, with only a few branches from which very little foliage hung. Some of them bore a few trailing, ragged fronds that made them look like stunted willows. On quite a few of them, he noticed, the trunk was split in two halfway to the ground. Actually, make that on all of them. Just as his suspicions were gaining a horrible new clarity, he caught sight of the dark object dangling limply from the ‘branch’ of one of the nearest shapes: even in silhouette, plainly a crossbow. Suddenly, even though the bad taste and the vertigo were all but forgotten, Cædmon felt nauseous all over again.

  “You’ve seen them?” asked Ashbyrn, in a strained whisper. Cædmon merely nodded, his eyes held captive by the hideously evocative shapes. He could now see clearly that their ‘leaves’ were no more than the remnants of torn and decayed clothing. The shade dangling the crossbow appeared a little less dishevelled than the others, although only slightly less twisted and grotesque, as if a stretched human shadow – or mostly human – had somehow been set upright and cast in three dimensions. “I don’t think they can come any closer … thank the gods. Those Alvere signs seem to be effective. Still … keep an eye on them, Cædmon. Let me know at once if they start moving in.”

  “Should’ve brought the crossbows, sir,” replied Cædmon hoarsely. Every now and again one of the things would move a little, either to lean slightly, to raise a skeletal-thin arm, or to make a sluggish attempt to approach the perimeter. They were always repelled, but that made it no less skin-crawling to witness.