Gloriana's Masque

by Eleanor Burns

  “Oh, I think I can promise you that …”

  At a time he knew to be much later, he found himself standing within a vast cavern, where he could hear the hollow sounds of wind and rushing water emanating from its shadowy depths, as well as the Queen’s echoing footsteps from closer by. She was examining some curious relic in the middle of the flat-hewn floor area. It consisted of a square altar or pedestal, about waist-height, surrounded by four star-shaped pedestals, each about half as high as the central one. Surrounding all of these was a double-ringed circle, carved into the floor, with swirling runes incised in the area between the rings. Gloriana was studying it intently, but he was unimpressed. This was the power she had meant? Had he pledged his nation and his reputation to the whims of a madwoman after all? He did not want to believe that of her, but he needed answers …

  “This is the thing that will break Lucinia’s power? You are certain of it?”

  “You do me an injustice with your doubt, Milord. I told you there was a strong possibility that we would find it inert, but the important thing is that it is intact. The runes are almost as fresh as the day they were carved, probably over ten thousand years ago, if you can believe that. I have all the knowledge I will need to extrapolate the correct ritual from them. As for getting it operational again, though … That expedition we discussed: it will have to take place as soon as possible.”

  “Even if it does, the voyage to Drægland is no short haul.”

  “Then we must play for time, act the part of victors. We could telegraph the Presidio from the embassy, and tell them that we are willing to negotiate terms. That ought to buy us some breathing space.”

  “Maybe … but my people aren’t exactly the parleying type.”

  “Then they should learn. Great opportunities rarely present themselves to the impatient, Milord. Can I still on your support?”

  “How could I refuse?” he answered, endeavouring to sound chivalrous but unable to keep the scepticism out of his tone. The thought of Lord Corin at a peace negotiation presented more of a challenge than the battle they had just won …

  Later still, he was standing before a pair of high doors carved in silverwood, decorated with gold leaf, and defended by a pair of Shadow Guards who were blocking his way with their obsidian-bladed polearms. He felt mortified rather than angry, but there was no way he was going to let this pair of jumped-up house-thralls catch him in a moment of weakness.

  “What do you mean, she won’t see me?” he asked, scathingly. “I’m her military advisor, damn you. Don’t tell me she’s still sulking over that border-lands business?” he added, and knew immediately that this was the wrong thing to say. However, it was too late to take it back, and all he could do was wither slightly under the guard’s narrow, acerbic stare.

  “Her Highness is not inclined to ‘sulk,’” replied the guard, coldly. “I have my orders, Milord, and I wasn’t told that you were an exception to them.”

  “Well if you’ll tell her it’s me, I’m sure–”

  “My orders were also not to disturb her.”

  “Then … tell her when you see her,” he snapped back, in ill-natured defeat. The guard did not even trouble himself to reply, and after a short and unsatisfying staring match, Lycon turned and stormed off, back along the corridor to the stairway. Angry and frustrated although he felt, it came with a heavy side-order of guilt. Gloriana had, however naively, trusted him to keep the Brython forces in check while the ensign and his team completed their mission. Sending Corin’s berserkers out raiding in the border-lands, where the Republican forces would probably not even give a toss until it went on for so long that it became a national embarrassment, had seemed an easy and elegant fix. He might have known she would be squeamish … No, that was unfair. She knew from personal experience what it was to be in a defenceless village when a gang of bloodthirsty rapists came to pay a visit. How could he not have foreseen that she would hate him for making her into the very kind of monster she had sought to be avenged against?

  Yet something was not adding up. If this ancient weapon of theirs was truly to break Lucinia’s power, then surely the death and chaos unleashed would eclipse the meagre atrocities of Lord Corin’s scum, yet the Queen would risk her authority and even her neck to save a few Lucinian peasants? The inconsistency troubled him, but he was obviously not going to get any answers from her …

  These recollections arrived in Kasimir’s mind almost simultaneously, like a multiplexed telegraph signal, and he understood them in moments. While it was some relief to know that Lycon presently needed him too much to succumb to his more lethal urges, it was less reassuring that the Queen was already feeling confident enough to cold-shoulder her only real ally among the Brythons. She must be ready to make her move any time soon, and I’m powerless to stop her, unless … Oh well, needs must, he thought, and addressed Lycon in his best persuasive tone.

  “My commiserations, Milord. I didn’t realise she was keeping you in the dark as well. Believe it or not, we may have a common cause.”

  “I did not plead for sympathy. I demanded answers,” said Lycon, curtly and dangerously. “Tell me everything you know, unless you’d rather–”

  “Very well. That relic in the crypt isn’t a weapon … or at least, not in the sense you’d be likely to think of one. I’ve no idea what she led you to believe it would do, but she intends to use it to turn the people of Lucinia … and your own people, come to that, into Alvere. Present company not excepted.”

  “To turn … How in Thalassa’s name is that even possible?” asked Lycon, attempting to pour scorn on the idea, but his tone could not mask his anxiety, much to Kasimir’s satisfaction.

  “It’s a ritual,” he replied, vaguely, suspecting Lycon would neither understand nor appreciate the details. “There are some hints of it in myths and fairy stories: Alvere abducting humans or stealing children to join them, and so forth. All just distorted echoes of the truth. Apparently, or so Gloriana thinks, we were all supposed to have become Alvere at some time way back in the past, but the process got stalled somehow. She wants to give it a push to get it started again, and that magic circle will enable her to do just that and extend the effect to everyone … apparently.”

  “Even if that were true, then why … ? What is that going to achieve for us?” asked Lycon, now openly appalled. “My people as well? I’ve spent years trying to mould my race back into a force to be reckoned with: organised, powerful, able to be counted among the mighty again. But the Alvere … The young ones are undisciplined hedonists, and the old ones are woolly-headed mystics. This will be the ruin and humiliation of our culture, far beyond Corin’s worst nightmares.”

  “Yes, there is that,” replied Kasimir, thoughtfully, suddenly wondering whether he had not been a little hasty to condemn the Queen’s plan. “Still, if it meant that for the Brythons, you can imagine what it would mean for us. The Republic thrives on discipline, and respect for the system. This would tear it all down, so at least you’d be fighting Lucinia on a level playing field.”

  “Do I strike you as the kind of man who likes fighting on a level playing field?” asked Lycon, sardonically. Kasimir shook his head in silent unamazement. “Quite right. She told me this thing would give us powers over nature, the weather, the seas, the earth itself. She said that was how the people who designed it were once able to pass as gods themselves. That is the kind of advantage I thought worth the risk of swinging from a yardarm for. Not … You have to assist me,” he declared, rather too insistently for it to be described as a plea for help. “You yourself said it: this would be disaster for us all. You have to summon a Republican strike team. Steam dirigibles would be quickest. I’ll rally as many men as I can in the meantime. Our forces are reduced without Corin and Staakys, but if we move very quickly … We have to arrest her, then I can take her back to Brythenedd as a hostage. Hopefully I can persuade her to see the folly of this, in time.”

  Still carrying that torch for her, then, though I have a feel
ing she’ll just use it to roast your eyeballs with if you go through with that plan, thought Kasimir, but held his peace. The plan was otherwise sound, if drastic. It was hardly out of character for the Brythons to take an impecunious employer, even of royal status, hostage, and although the Senate would hardly be thrilled to know that Dr. Kyttsen had become their permanent ‘guest,’ Kasimir at least deemed it unlikely that she would help them to construct any more weapons. Anyway, no doubt old Staakys still wants that castle of his brought up to scratch, so we can assume they’ll keep the peace at least until the Brythons learn how to do their own plumbing. As for Alvenheim, he morbidly reflected, the Senate would probably look to install a new puppet ruler as quickly as possible in the interests of ‘stability.’ That was not an outcome that gave him any pleasure, but it was a necessary evil considering the alternative.

  His head still throbbing, he dragged himself to his feet and accompanied Lycon across the room, to a narrow door with a barred window. It was below where the dying sunlight stuck the wall, but so small and dark itself that he only caught sight of it from very close up. After unlocking it, Lycon went down on one knee and took a box of matches from his pocket. Straining his eyes, Kasimir could just make out the shape of a candle in a metal chamberstick, until Lycon ignited it, and all became much clearer, including a couple of shy rats who quickly scuttled off into deeper shadows again. Pardon the intrusion, gentlemen. You’re more than welcome to this establishment, thought Kasimir, as he gratefully turned his back on it and followed Lycon into the gloomy corridor beyond.

  They proceeded quickly, but had not gone far before chaos erupted. As they turned a corner into a wider stretch of the subterranean corridors, the flickering shadows around them suddenly seemed to spring into unnatural life. Lycon drew a pistol, but a black-sheathed leg immediately intercepted it with a kick as fast and as forceful as a bullwhip, and sent it spinning across the floor. Other whirling shadows then settled and resolved into dark, lithe figures as they laid slender but steel-fast hands upon the sealord, quelling all resistance other than curses and protests, with which he lavished them in abundance. Kasimir made a brief dash for the dropped pistol, but the feeling of the cold, keen edge of an obsidian dagger against his throat made him think better of it.

  “Bad idea, Lord Citizen,” hissed the Shadow Guard into his ear, and he could only concur as he raised his hands, slowly and submissively. “That’s a better one. So glad you’re seeing sense. The Queen has requested your presence, and I’m sure you don’t want to keep her waiting any longer. You too, Milord, so mind your language,” she cautioned Lycon, although his unrepeatable threats were already dying down, as the futility of them sank in. “This is a great day for Alvenheim. The nations must bear witness to it … and I believe Her Highness has something special in mind for you two,” she added, her enigmatic tone doing nothing to inspire Kasimir’s optimism. “Not for me to steal her thunder, anyway. Come along with us, now, and don’t be giving us any trouble. Knocking the pair of you out cold would be no great feat, but I’d as soon not have to drag your limp bodies all the way to the crypt.”

  With blades at each of their backs, they were marched along several corridors which, to judge from their lack of lighting and abundance of cobwebs, were not in regular use, although the guards seemed to know their way well enough. After a few minutes the candlelight fell upon the jagged surface of a wall of natural rock, in which a narrow, descending passage had been hewn. They moved along this tunnel in single file, treading the slippery, nitre-encrusted stairs with great care, until at length they emerged into a wide cavern, upon a flat-hewn shelf of rock that lay beneath a high ceiling of stalactites. Kasimir recognised the place immediately, not only from its great size and the distant echoes of wind and flowing water, but most significantly from the stone pedestals and the carved circle at the centre of the shelf.

  However, it differed in two key respects from what he had seen in Lycon’s memory. For one thing, a sickly, pale aura hung around the sigils and the monoliths, illuminating little beyond them but lending them an eerie, almost necrotic air that did nothing to lift his spirits. Also, the cavern was now a well-populated place. Gloriana was there, along with several of her servants and courtiers, some of whom Kasimir recognised. Among others, there was her chatelaine, her chambermaid, Aneuryn, and several Shadow Guards, albeit out of uniform. To say the least … In fact, the entire company was naked, their pale bodies painted in dancing reflections of red and orange light from the surrounding torches. The only exception was the Queen herself, who still wore her steel mask, and naught else, which did nothing at all to spare Kasimir’s embarrassment. Upon noticing the new arrivals, she stepped away from the company and advanced to greet them. Lycon stared in frank astonishment, although Kasimir thought he looked slightly less displeased than he had done for the duration of their forced march. However, whilst acknowledging that Gloriana’s body was not in any sense an unpleasant sight, he did not share in his fellow-prisoner’s sentiment, and found himself looking around awkwardly, focusing his eyes on stalactites, passing moths, his own feet, and anything else that would enable him to avoid meeting the gaze of their royal and absolutely indecent hostess.

  “Come now, Lord Kasimir,” she addressed him, with gentle admonishment, as she stopped within a short distance of them. “I cannot be all that gruesome a sight with my face covered, and one can only hope this is nothing you haven’t seen before … though of course you Lucinians do love to make an art of prudishness.”

  “Well, you ought to know,” he replied, finally working up the nerve to look her in her mismatched eyes, and mostly resisting the urge to cast his gaze any lower, “since you are Lucinian, after all.” After a thoughtful pause, Gloriana spoke again, in a gracious, slightly humbled tone.

  “True … and truth be told, I’d as soon get back into my dress at the earliest opportunity, but needs must. It’s the ritual, you see. A bloody nuisance, but these occult things just work better when you’re naked. It’s a conductivity issue, and clothes insulate. But don’t worry, Lord Kasimir. We shan’t be insisting that you take part. Our little coven already has its full complement of participants.”

  “You keep calling me that, but I’m not. ‘Lord Citizen’ is just an honorific. You ought to know our titles well enough … Dr. Kyttsen.” He worried for a moment that he had taken too big a risk in effectively slighting her, but her tone in replying was almost elated, as if she was actually pleased to be remembered by the title she had achieved with dedicated, peaceful labour and intelligence, rather than the one she had seized with violence. Or is that just wishful thinking of mine?

  “Oh I do, Milord, but you underestimate yourself. You are now Lord of Falkraine. Don’t you remember? Yesterday, you gave me Falkraine. Now, I am giving it back to you. The people there have suffered much already. I think it would be in their best interests that they be governed by a lord who is a recognisable figure of authority to them, rather than some random courtier. Leolah … Delator Maradith, I mean, seemed to think that you had some concerns that I had not thought out my plan in sufficient detail, or with any regard to the lives and well-being of the Lucinian people. While it is not possible to guarantee the safety of everyone – the Senate especially, I rather fear – you may see that this is not the case.”

  “You honour me,” he answered, politely if rather flatly. “Where is Maradith, by the way? Can I assume you’ve taken her prisoner too?”

  “You can assume as you please, but you could hardly be further from the truth. See, there she is,” declared Gloriana, pointing to one of the cultists: a young Alvere with short, blonde hair. Kasimir looked hard, but struggled to discern much of a resemblance. The fact that she was so completely out of uniform was of no great help, but the most disconcerting thing was that she was smiling and giggling continuously, almost with a drunken euphoria, while casting random glances around with a child-like sense of fascination and mirth at everything she saw. Although she certainly looked happier than she h
ad the last time he had seen her, the sight of her mental faculties brought so low did nothing to improve Kasimir’s mood, and in spite of the risk he could not keep a bitter tone from his voice as he replied.

  “Your test specimen, then? You’ll forgive my mentioning it, but your transition formula looks as if it could use a little work to me, or is it actually your intention to reduce us all to drooling idiots? I suppose that would be one way of keeping the peace, but I’d sooner pass on it if it’s all the same.”

  “Temporary disorientation is very common after the Rite,” explained Gloriana, patiently. “Please remember, Alvere senses are keener than yours, and a convert’s initial reaction is nearly always to be overwhelmed by them. It is usually an exhilarating experience, and in general it takes only a few hours to adjust, depending on circumstances.”

  “I see. How long did it take for you, Your Highness?”

  “Oh, mine was scarcely a typical case,” she answered, a little too matter-of-factly. “Having one’s face carved off … It’s a surprisingly powerful aid to focus.”

  “I’m sorry, I forg–” began Kasimir, genuinely mortified, but Gloriana raised a conciliatory hand as she interrupted, gently.

  “Don’t apologise, Milord. It’s only natural you should feel concern for your friend, but I can assure you that she will be well. She will join my Shadow Guard, and you will join my court. An unexpected end to your mission, no doubt, though I hope not an unpleasant one. You are wasted in the Secretariat … not to mention that there is very unlikely to even be a Secretariat in the near future. A man of your talents and principles will find much more scope for them in my service than–”

  “Have you taken leave of your … ?” began Lycon, rather daringly, thought Kasimir, for a man who still had twenty centimetres of sharpened obsidian poised to plunge into his back. The sealord quickly collected himself, however, before he continued, more cautiously. “This man, Your Highness, is an assassin, as is his accomplice, yet you would honour them? The Senate sent them here to murder you. I have the proof.”