Before him, nothing but a blank wall. Done, finished, end of the trail. The footprints vanished here. He had tried the wall, searching it for a
hidden door, climbing up five paces to a flat, unrelieved stone ceiling, even
smiting the unyielding stone until his knuckles bled – all to no avail. The path just ended. The footprints - left foot, right foot, left
- simply stopped. If there was more, he
could not find it. If there was another
road, he could not see it.
He awoke from the dream, as he
always did, in a sweat. The night air
had helped. Abandoning his bed, he had
taken the stairs by Kalena’s scriptorum, climbing the stone steps past her
study, until they encountered the wooden trap that led to the pinnacle of the
watch-tower, the highest point of the city of Joyous Light . Once atop the tower, he had leapt lightly up
onto one of the merlons, kneeling, folding his hands upon his thighs, letting
his thoughts drift upon the night breeze, struggling to focus, to empty his
mind; to seek the comfort of nothingness, and maybe – just maybe – to banish
the terror that had come upon him; the possibility that he had reached the end
of his master’s teachings, and could not see where next to go. And the fear that there was no ‘next’; that
there was nothing more.
He didn’t realize how long he had
knelt there until he heard the voices wafting up from below. He cracked one eye, and saw that the western
horizon was colouring – a dull, orange-yellow glow that presaged a gloomy day,
and foul weather ahead. At the same
time, the pain in his knees told him exactly how long he had been kneeling on
the rough stone.
“I must,” a woman said urgently.
She was speaking the elven tongue – the peculiarly-inflected,
idiomatically unique variation thereof that, according to Breygon, was the
dialect of the High Elves’ court. He
could not understand it with his ears; instead, he listened with his whole
being. Meaning came through where words
did not.
He recognized the voice at
once. It was the princess,
Myaszæron. Breygon’s aunt.
“You must not,” a male voice replied in a harsh whisper.
Joraz started. The second speaker was Kaltas.
“I cannot betray you like this!”
Myaszæron insisted, speaking softly but firmly.
“We know the truth now! Your
daughter did nothing wrong. She defended
my grandmother’s right, her person even, as well as any soldier of the High
Guard might have done. She defended the
world itself, and defeated an abomination of terrible power, and fell in
battle, like a heroine of old! Like her namesake, Fineleor, or Antaissin,
or...or Holy Miros herself! She deserves
recognition - a hero’s tribute! Not the
hushed, hurried how-d’ye-do farewell of a common…”
“Stop!” Kaltas snapped. “This is not about right, but about
duty! You know your obligations in this
matter as well as I!
“You are not here by your own
accord,” he continued in an intent growl, “but by the Queen’s fiat. Not as ‘little Mya’, who used to leave snakes
in my bed at the Palace, but as Her Royal Highness, the Princess Myaszæron
Æyllian. Flora regia, the verdant jewel in the crown! A mighty warrior of the realm, a divine
servant of Valatanna, and the queen’s ambassador to my poor domain. Your duty, regina mea, is wholly clear.
“My daughter…” He paused, sighing. “Ally, Hara and Miros guard her, stands
condemned by the crown, proscribed by royal command. Treason is no light charge. The queen’s condemnation taints me as well,
and Jianni too, and all of Eldisle by association. Until my daughter’s innocence is proved, no
one of royal blood may show countenance or kindness to me or mine.”
“All true,” the princess said quietly. “And all unjust.”
“Unjust or no, it is the law,” Kaltas sighed. “ You may attend the Dapis Adfarum - in fact, I beg you to come as my guest, for I will
need you there - but not this morning’s celebration. You must not.
The queen cannot be seen grieving for the passing of a traitor. Not even through an envoy.
“You are my friend, Mya. But under the law, until the queen’s
proscription is lifted, you must be my jailer first.”
Moving carefully, so as not to dislodge any loose
stones, Joraz peeked over the stone lip.
Ten paces below him, a narrow balcony faced southwards, looking out over
the Sunlit Sea
“The law is cruel,” Myaszæron murmured. “I should be beside you. The queen’s envoy should stand with you,
Kaltas Aiyellohax, an old and most excellent servant of the throne, in such a
sad hour. To honour the sacrifice of
your daughter, your lifemate, and your oldest friend.”
“And Alorestes,” Kaltas said distantly.
The princess nodded.
“Yes. All of whom gave their
lives in the defence of the realm.” She
took a deep breath. “If I am here as my
grandmother’s envoy, then how can I stand apart, pretending not to see, while
you must bid farewell to four who died defending not only the Filigree Throne,
but the world itself?”
“It is because
you are her envoy,” Kaltas replied heatedly, “that you must stand apart, and remain silent. If you give voice to your sentiments, however
honest and true they may be, you dishonor your grandmother, and you dishonor
the fallen. And,” he added bitterly, “by
our laws, you dishonor me.”
“Damn our laws!” the princess hissed.
Kaltas turned to look at her.
The pair stared at each other for a long moment. Joraz held his breath, wondering whether the
princess would defy her host’s request.
But at last, she bowed her head.
“Thank you, highness,” Kaltas said gently. “Believe me, I wish that propriety allowed
you to be there with us. I know what is
in your heart.”
He bowed deep, then spun on his heel and left,
departing through a door that Joraz could not, from his present vantage, make
out. An instant later, his boot-heels
clattered on the stairs.
The princess stared after him. Then she turned to look out over the sea,
leaning on the parapet before her. After
a moment, she gave vent to a heavy sigh.
“Ah, my good lord,” she whispered to the sea
breeze. “If only you did.”
♦♦♦
