Petals were thrown from the palace terraces as they passed. The air was filled with pleasant scents. Silk banners flapped and fluttered everywhere, and on the high towers, the elven sorcerers had begun to weave their spells. Crystals broke light into brilliant rainbows. Golden fountains shot into the sky and opened out into brightly colored blooms. Even the simpler houses, which had no sorcerer at their command, radiated a golden light—the people in them had lit hundreds of miniature oil lamps just to take part in this night of the lights.
The warm sound of reed flutes suddenly rang in Ollowain’s ear. He caught a glance down an alley, where minotaurs were dancing. They had bound golden censers to their horns and cavorted ecstatically to the music of the flutes, trailing blue-white tendrils of smoke as they danced.
From the corner of his eyes, Ollowain saw something long speeding toward the queen. He pushed Emerelle aside. The flying object hit the breastplate concealed beneath his doublet with a clang. Shocked cries sounded.
The queen was back on her feet instantly and waved to the crowd. “You are too on edge, Ollowain,” she whispered, and pointed to the branch, its bark stripped, that lay on the floor of the boat in front of him. Black runes had been burned into the pale wood. A woman’s name?
Behind them, two holdes climbed the smooth mast and peered curiously over the queen’s shoulder. One had its hair oiled and woven into gleaming braids. It grinned at the swordmaster cheekily and suddenly began to chant, “Oh, Ollowain, the knightly elf, hit by a stick, he pissed himself—”
Emerelle gestured harshly, and Ollowain’s taunter fell silent. Then she looked out over the crowd, searching. Finally she pointed to a centaur woman with short-cropped black hair. The womanhorse was rearing and crying out wildly, trying to catch the queen’s attention.
Emerelle bent down for the stick, brought it to her lips, and bestowed a kiss on the pale wood. Then she threw it toward the centaur woman in a long arc. “A talisman,” she explained. “The centaurs believe that if their women carry a willow branch that I have touched, then they will conceive a son on their next night of love.”
Ollowain barely heard the queen’s words. A dull thud, almost inaudible over the noise of the festival, had made him turn. The holde that had just been mocking him had been impaled to the mast by an arrow. The shot still vibrated from the force with which it had slammed into the wood. Dark blood swelled from the breast of the dead holde and gathered at the belt that held its leather loincloth in place. The arrow that had killed the taunter was black, its feathers striped in dark gray and white.
Ollowain pulled Emerelle close to him. From the way the arrow had hit the mast, it must have been shot from an elevated position, from one of the ships. Bending down to retrieve the willow had probably saved the queen’s life.
“Set us down!” Ollowain ordered the leader of the centaurs.
Orimedes looked up at him in surprise. “Here? In the middle of the crowd? Are you out of your mind?”
Emerelle was trying to twist free of her bodyguard’s grasp. The butterflies on her dress had flown up to avoid being crushed between their bodies. They formed a thick cloud around the queen, making it harder for the hidden assassin to find his target. Only a few seconds had passed since the arrow had pierced the holde, but a skilled archer could put three arrows in the air before the first reached its mark.
As if in answer to Ollowain’s thought, a second arrow slammed into the thwart directly beside him. The arrow had missed them by little more than a hand’s breadth, probably thanks to the swarming butterflies. They fluttered around the queen now in their hundreds.
“My queen, you will die if you insist on staying on this boat,” said Ollowain calmly. Now that he could finally do something, all his pent-up tension evaporated.
“Kiss her!” bellowed someone in the crowd, fundamentally misunderstanding Ollowain’s actions.
The swordmaster pulled the queen with him to the rail of the boat. He grasped her by the hips and jumped down. Butterfly wings grazed his cheeks. He could hardly see a thing.
“See the mast!” he shouted to the centaur prince. “Someone is shooting at us!” Ollowain pulled Emerelle to safety beneath the hull of the boat. Cries rose all around them now—the first onlookers had probably noticed the dead holde.
“We have to keep what happens concealed.” Emerelle freed herself from Ollowain’s grip. “If panic breaks out now, hundreds might die in a stampede.”
“You can’t show yourself!” the swordmaster protested. “You have been lucky so far, my queen, but the next arrow could kill you. There’s a killer out there; we cannot give him another chance. You have to return to the palace!”
“What makes you think that a man wants to kill me?”
“Whether man or woman is irrelevant right now. The only thing that matters is your safety, my queen! You have to get back to the palace!” Ollowain was all too aware of why he did not want to consider the possibility that a woman had shot at the queen. He should not have taken Silwyna into his confidence!
“Tell the elves behind us to dismount, and make sure the holdes get their dead compatriot from the mast,” Ollowain shouted to the centaur prince.
Emerelle stepped out from beneath the boat.
The swordmaster was at her side in an instant. “My queen, please . . .” He saw the glitter of steel close to the queen. A blade! He pushed a young elf back and only then noticed that her polished belt buckle had fooled him. Emerelle placed one hand on his shoulder and pulled him back.
“Remember I was once a warrior myself,” she said. “The archer will not be able to hit me among the Albenkin.”
“And if there is a second assassin? How am I supposed to protect you from a blade here?”
Emerelle’s response was lost in jubilant cries. A swarm of kobolds discovered the queen and pushed toward her. The butterflies from the Dress of Eyes fled, fluttering high in the air above the queen. Emerelle was quickly wedged among sweating bodies. A lamassu—a gigantic, winged oxman from distant Schurabad—ploughed through the crowd and did his best, with his thunderous voice drowning out the noise all around, to engage Emerelle in a philosophical discussion about the transience of all things.
Ollowain finally managed to post the young elves from her retinue in a circle around the queen. Without warning, the crowd gave ground. In that brief moment, a strange change came over the queen. She suddenly seemed as vulnerable as a child.
The clamor on all sides faded, and a kind of passage formed in front of them. Fishermen, merchants, and wise men stood in silent amazement. It was as if they were afraid of overcrowding the frail figure in their midst.
They could move more easily now. Again and again, the queen stopped and reached between the elves of her guard of honor to shake hands or exchange a few words. They crossed a park where sorcerers were making figures formed from flower petals dance through the air.
Ollowain had no time for the beauty of the sorcerers’ work. He eyed the dense trees around the park, seeking out any hidden shooter. The way down to the harbor seemed agonizingly long. Emerelle, however, seemed unconcerned. She reveled in the acclaim and bubbled over with a charm that even the steer-headed minotaurs were unable to resist, although they were generally notorious for their cantankerous religiosity, which would tolerate no smile, let alone an outburst of cheering.
Unscathed, the queen reached the quay where the Moonshadow was berthed. Even Ollowain, who stood closer to Emerelle every day than practically any other in her inner circle, felt himself caught up in her aura. Was it a spell? Or was it the queen’s true face, suddenly revealed? He was not able to say.
The watchmen aboard the grand liburna formed a guard of honor as their mistress came on board. On the main deck, the most important princes of Albenmark stood alongside a festively decorated table. No place was empty. Ollowain scrutinized the proud faces. Most of the princes were elves, representing the peoples of the sea and the plains, the distant islands and the expanses of ice of the Snaiwamark.
All the princes bowed to Emerelle as she stepped aboard the ship, even Shahondin of Arkadien. Some smiled ironically to rob the traditional gesture of some of its solemnity. But none dared challenge Emerelle openly by refusing to bow.
The butterflies had settled onto Emerelle’s dress again. Her immersion in the crowds had taken nothing from her majestic appearance. With a measured step, she ascended to the quarterdeck, where all the guests could see her.
A young elf woman came to Ollowain’s side. Yilvina. Ollowain had appointed her commander of the elven guards on the Moonshadow. “Is everything all right?” she asked quietly.
“No.” The swordmaster scowled. “Does it look like it? What precautions have you taken for the queen’s safety?”
“Seventy-two armed fighters are aboard. Crossbows in the crow’s nests. I have my most reliable fighters on the quarterdeck, all equipped with scuta, as you ordered. And if the worst comes to the worst, three different escape routes have been prepared.”
Ollowain relaxed a little. He had fought with Yilvina in many battles. Even during the massacre of Aniscans, when they had been surrounded and outnumbered by barbarians, she had kept a cool head. The swordmaster noted how the guards were posted and nodded his approval. The soldiers on the quarterdeck wore old-fashioned armor with breastplates of polished bronze. Magnificent feathered headdresses swayed atop silver helmets, and they carried large, oval, beautifully emblazoned shields. To an unsuspecting observer, they did not appear threatening at all, but more a part of the colorful backdrop to a feast that was as old as the Albenkin themselves. But in a heartbeat, those shields would form a wooden wall between the queen and any enemy.
Ollowain nodded sharply. “Good work, Yilvina. But send someone up to the foremast. I want the guard up there to keep an eye on the Breath of the Sea. There may be an archer hidden on one of her masts.”
“I’ll take care of it myself.” Yilvina turned on her heel and hurried forward.
Emerelle had begun the ceremonial speech in which she declared her renunciation of the throne. She stood at the railing of the quarterdeck and looked down at the princes.
“. . . the moon has now completed its long cycle, and the onus of responsibility is heavy on my shoulders.” The queen was able to make the traditional clichés sound sincere. But Ollowain knew very well that she would never truly renounce her rule. He positioned himself beside the steps up to the quarterdeck. It was better to stay at Emerelle’s side until this night was over.
“You see me here before you without my crown. Now tell me, who among us is to bear the weight of power in the future?”
A moment of silence ensued. Then Hallandan—the prince of Reilimee, the white city by the sea—stepped forward from among the gathered nobles. “I name Emerelle to wear the crown of the swan. Wisdom and benevolence are united in her. She should be the one to rule us.”
A sudden gust of wind made the princes’ banners along the railing flap. Emerelle opened her mouth, disoriented.
Ollowain bounded up the stairs to the quarterdeck, but the queen had already recovered herself. “Princes of Albenmark . . . is there not one among you who will bear the burden of rule in my place?”
The swordmaster looked at Shahondin, but the ruler of Arkadien remained silent.
“If no other aspires to the throne, then pledge your faithfulness to me,” Emerelle went on. “A title is just a word. A crown is just a trifle. But you are the flesh and blood of my rule. Without you, there is no realm at all.”
Now the princes approached one at a time, kneeled before Emerelle, and swore their allegiance to her. Ollowain stood behind his queen. He wished he could have read the princes’ minds. Their faces were masks, revealing no emotion at all. No doubt most of them truly were loyal to Emerelle, but at least one of them was plotting her death. Perhaps Alathaia, princess of Langollion, who had long been at odds with Emerelle because the princess had supposedly devoted herself to the dark side of magic and strived too much for the treasures hidden at the summit of the Albentop? Or maybe even silent Eleborn, a white-haired waterman, the ruler of the realm beneath the waves? Was it Shahondin after all? Or would it finally prove to be someone with no great name but with a grudge against the queen and a thirst for revenge? Ollowain wished this night would finally be over!
A young elf girl in a pure-white dress ascended to the quarterdeck. On a blue velvet pillow, she carried the crown of Albenmark. It had the stylized shape of a swan just rising into the air from the waters of a lake and was made of white gold and finished with hundreds of slivers of diamond. The head and neck were stretched far forward, while the wings were curved back to form a broad circlet.
Emerelle took the crown. For the space of a heartbeat, she held the precious piece of jewelry above her head so that everyone on board could see it clearly. Then she lowered it onto her head, and a moment of solemn silence followed.
“Take your places at my table, noble princes, and be my guests on this night of wonder.” As if at a secret signal, shimmering fountains of light shot into the night sky from atop all the princes’ towers in Vahan Calyd. Elated cries rang from the quays and other ships. Albenmark had a queen again.
Aboard the Moonshadow, Emerelle sank onto her throne. She seemed utterly exhausted. Ollowain noticed that her right hand was trembling. He moved to the throne and leaned forward slightly. “Are you all right, my queen?”
“The Albenpaths,” Emerelle whispered. “Something has moved them. The invisible net between the worlds has been shaken. Someone has used the power of an Albenstone to spin new threads.”
“We have a full crew at the oars, my queen. One word, and the lines will be cut.” Ollowain pointed out toward the two towers that marked the entrance to the harbor. “We would be on the open sea in less than half an hour—if you so desire.”
Emerelle shook her head. “I am the queen. I cannot simply run away, and certainly not when I don’t know what I am running from. My responsibility is to protect the races of Albenmark. But it is a relief to know that the Moonshadow is ready to sail.” She waved over the young elf who had brought her the crown. The girl was standing at the rail above the main deck, looking rather lost. “Keep me company, my dear. What is your name?”
“Sansella, my queen.”
“And who appointed you to this task?”
The elf turned toward the guests who had taken their places at the table. “Hallandan, prince of Reilimee. My father,” she said proudly.
“I remember seeing you when you were still a small child. And I know you from before, from your previous life. You were always very brave, Sansella. The heart of a heroine beats in your breast.”
The young girl reddened. She looked up to the queen, opened her mouth, but then closed it again.
“What do you want to ask?”
“Can you tell me what I was like before?”
Emerelle looked at her intently. “You know that is dangerous! If I tell you who you were, then it may happen that the veil that separates you from your previous life tears open, and in the blink of an eye, all of your memories return. And they will not only be good memories.”
Sansella looked downcast. “That’s what my father says.”
“But I think I can tell you one thing. During the troll wars, you once almost saved my life. But Ollowain, my swordmaster, got in your way. He is very experienced in rescuing me.” Emerelle smiled dreamily. “Very experienced.”
Ollowain eyed the young girl sharply. Sansella? The name was unfamiliar to him. But he knew her face. He recalled a young warrior woman who had been thrown into the chasm in the trolls’ last charge on the Shalyn Falah. Had that warrior been reborn into this girl? He could still see the fear of death in the eyes of the young elf woman when she lost her grip on the bridge. It was good that one was reborn without the old memories!
“My queen!” Shahondin had stood up from the table. “I have prepared a special gift for the entertainment of us all. Will you accept it, Emerelle?”
&
nbsp; “Would you accept it if you were in my place?”
The prince of Arkadien pursed his lips. “The evening would be one unforgettable memory poorer if you were to turn it down.”
Ollowain’s hand sank to the hilt of his sword. What was this now? He glanced instinctively up at the masts of the Breath of the Sea.
“Everyone here knows my curiosity,” said Emerelle in a merry voice. “Surprise me!”
The swordmaster admired his queen for her courage. She knew the danger, and yet she was putting on as good a face as possible. If she had rejected Shahondin’s gift, it would have been obvious to all present that she feared the prince of Arkadien. And that would have been the same as a signal to everyone at all dissatisfied with Emerelle’s rule! And maybe it was no more than a gift? Gestures of that kind were not unusual.
“My granddaughter, Lyndwyn, is waiting down on the quay,” he said, a lightly remonstrating tone in his voice. “Your guards did not allow her to board the ship. For her age, she has achieved extraordinary mastery of the arts of magic. No one in Arkadien is willing to compete with her.”
“Does that speak for the talents of your granddaughter or against the wizards of your clan?” said Hallandan of Reilimee, which earned him approving guffaws.
Shahondin paled slightly but did his best to play down his wrath. “Judge for yourselves when you have seen what Lyndwyn can do.”
Emerelle gave Yilvina, who had again taken her post at the entrance to the liburna, a sign, and an elf woman clad in black and silver was escorted on board. She had curly black hair that fell to her shoulders, and her pallid skin was adorned with bandag. Dark snakes decorated her arms and the head of a cobra her forehead. High cheekbones emphasized Lyndwyn’s narrow face. Her eyes were as green as limes and shot through with flecks of gold, and her thin lips pointed to single-minded determination. What sacrifices has she made to master the arts of magic so young? Ollowain wondered. Was she like him? He thought of the price he had paid to become the swordmaster of Albenmark.
Elven Winter Page 3