He emerged from sleep like a man
clawing his way out of deep water.
It was late; his nose told him that
even before he opened his eyes. The
night smells were gone, overlain and obliterated by the odours of morning. Not the ones he was accustomed to, though;
not wood smoke and cured meat, or pine and Akhir’s musky odour. Rather, his senses were assaulted by a
shattering melange of floral and spicy scents, herbed oils, perfumed soaps,
splashing, and low, melodious laughter...
Gods! His eyes opened. Sunlight – low and watery, but sunlight
nonetheless – was streaming into the bed-chamber.
Instinctively, he shot bolt
upright. There was a startled squeal,
and he whirled.
A spear’s toss away – the room was
that big, he reflected with surprise – were three elf-women. They were perched atop a raised platform
that, the night before, had supported a low dining table. The table was gone and the flooring had been
folded back to reveal a low, broad bathing tub.
One of the women – his new bride,
Amorda – was lounging in the water, while the other two, obviously hand-maidens
of some sort or other, were busying themselves at opposing ends: a short,
wide-eyed lass of no more than a century or so was brushing the older woman’s
freshly-washed hair; and a taller, solemn-looking girl, equipped with a
startling array of stones, files and lacquers, was attacking Amorda’s feet.
It was the shorter girl who’d
squealed. She wasn’t squealing anymore,
however; now she was flushing a bright, florid pink. Her colleague, the half-elf noticed, by
contrast, wasn’t blushing at all. She
was regarding him frankly, with a tiny smile and a raised eyebrow.
Noticing that her attendants had
suddenly stopped moving, Amorda glanced over at the bed. She espied him and grinned happily. “Good morrow, my love!” she called, waving.
Breygon suddenly remembered that,
apart from a few tangled sheets, he was naked.
Bloody elves! He’d been raised in human society, and while
he’d never accepted most of its conventions, he was used to them. Humans – all of them, wherever and however
they lived – affected at least some degree of body modesty, especially between
the genders. The elves, however, as well
he knew, did not.
This
was your idea, fool, he reminded
himself. And it’s only the beginning.
Gritting his teeth, he came to a
decision. With a deep breath, he slid
off the low mattress and padded over to the bathing platform, looking neither
to the left nor to the right. It felt
like the longest march of his life.
Amorda watched him the whole way, a
mischievous smile playing about her lips.
So did her attendants, albeit with demurely downcast eyes. At the edge of the platform he dropped to one
knee, took the hand that lay along the tiled lip of the tub, and pressed it to
his lips. “Good morrow,” he said,
relieved that the words betrayed no trembling.
“My lord slept well?” she asked
impishly.
“As my lady knows,” he replied with
a low bow, “her lord hardly slept at all.”
Amorda giggled.
“And you?” Breygon went on. “You are well this morning?”
“Most well, and I thank you,” she
said happily. “Apart from a wondrous exentare dulcis. And I must thank you for that, as well.”
Both of her attendants snickered at
that. Breygon’s brows drew
together. He knew he was missing
something, but he didn’t know what it was.
‘Exentare dulcis’ literally
meant ‘sweet torment’. Probably a colloquialism. Something rude, no doubt.
“Happily,” she continued, taking his
hand and kissing his fingers in return, “these ladies are proving most adept at
repairing the damage you inflicted.”
“Please accept my apologies, my
lady,” Breygon said as solemnly as he could, given the circumstances, and his
state of undress.
“No apologies are necessary, my
lord,” Amorda replied. Her tone was
grave; but Breygon was watching her eyes, and they were dancing.
As she spoke, the half-elf flicked
his gaze toward the taller of the two girls.
Amorda nodded imperceptibly. “Pupae meum,” she said a little more
loudly, addressing them both. “Your
names again, if you please?”
Both girls immediately bowed from
the waist. The taller said, “Dardana,
noble-born”; the shorter, the one with the hair-brushes, said, “Chrysandra.”
“Call me ‘Milady’, girls,” Amorda
said easily. “I’m not noble-born. Is this your home? Are you local?”
“Yes, milady,” they chorused.
The elf-woman nodded. “If you’d prefer a more urbane setting,” she
said, stretching happily in the water, “I could use you both at my seat in the
capital. Whatever you’re making here,
I’ll double it. What say you?”
Both girls started in shock, then
smiled and nodded. The shorter one – Chrysandra, Breygon reminded himself –
squealed again, and threw her arms around Amorda’s neck in a savage hug.
Amorda patted the girl’s arm,
rolling her eyes at Breygon. When she
was released, she said, “I’ll inform Lady Danoria. Come as soon as you can. Domus
Casia, in the Via Alnus.
“Ask for Cayless,” she added. “She’s my matrona.”
The girls nodded.
Amorda grinned suddenly. “When she growls at you, tell her that I want
you assigned to my balnearium, not
the scullery. And tell her that if she
gives you any trouble, I’ll dock her a month’s pay and make her marry that
club-footed skald she’s been topping. Do
you understand? Use precisely those
words.”
“Yes, mistress!” the pair exclaimed,
the shorter one snickering.
“Excellent,” Amorda murmured. “Off with you, now. Love, a corollarium,
if you don’t mind? They were most
helpful.”
Breygon realized that he was going
to have to resign himself to parading around before complete strangers in the
altogether. He rose, looked for his
clothing – he vaguely recalled having abandoned his garb entirely early on in
the night’s activities, so he concentrated his search near the sitting area –
found his purse, fumbled through it, and gave each of the girls a gold
coin. They both bowed deeply, muttering
variations on “Milord”; then they collected their accoutrements and let
themselves out.
He rejoined Amorda at the side of
the tub. Her eyes were on him the whole
way. For some reason, that didn’t bother
him at all.
Now that they were alone again, he
relaxed slightly. Perching himself on
the lip of the tub, he asked, “What was that
all about?”
“What, the ancillulae?”
He nodded.
“Recruiting,” she said briefly. “I’m always looking for decent
ladies’-maids. Just when you get them
trained up the way you like them, they move on, or fall pregnant, or get married. Or...” her voice caught in her throat “...or
die.”
He took her hand and held it
tightly. She squeezed his fingers in
return.
“Or,” she added with a sly grin,
“some wretched harpy who’s visiting you abuses your hospitality by snapping
them up right under your nose!”
Breygon chuckled at that. “Very underhanded,” he said. “And I mean that as a compliment.”
The elf-woman shrugged, setting the
water – and other more interesting things – in motion. “All’s fair in love and war, dear heart. And
when trying to find someone who can brush this –” she tugged on a strand of her
midnight hair “- without yanking it out by the fistful.”
The ranger chuckled again. “How’s the water?” he asked lightly.
“Plentiful,” she grinned, sliding to
one side to make room for him.
He eased himself into the tub. To his surprise, the interior, rather than
being made of hammered bronze or even iron, was lined with glazed tile. Each tile was individually painted in greens
and blues. Together they formed a mosaic
that seemed to shift and transform as the bather’s perspective changed. “That’s magnificent,” he murmured
appreciatively.
“They have good glaziers here in the
south,” she nodded. “Something to do
with the clay, I understand.”
The water, however, was another
matter. It was merely lukewarm, and he
shivered a little; they’d left the windows open, the better to appreciate the
night air, and the room as a result was a little chill.
Amorda’s eyes missed little. She nodded at a braided silk rope nearby, one
of about a dozen that depended from the rafters at various strategic points
around the room. “I can call for more
hot water, if you like,” she said.
Breygon shook his head. Moving carefully in the confined space, he
shifted around until their shoulders were touching. As a matter of convenience and comfort, he
put his arm around her.
Typically, she misinterpreted the
gesture, sliding into his embrace like a seal.
“Wait,” he said, choking a little on
the word. “Just a moment.”
She drew back, looking confused.
Summoning all of his focus – no easy
task, given the slickly sensual creature clinging to him – the ranger raised a
hand, fingers spread, made a few simple gestures, and spoke the words.
The last three, she recognized: “Infans facis, venite!”
Child
of Fire, come!
The was a brief pause. The air in the chamber seemed to tighten,
pulling together, growing denser, more compact, more powerful. It was as though the seams of sky and earth
were straining, straining...
POP.
The strain broke, and the seams ruptured. With a hissing crackle, a sudden burst of
flame exploded into existence at the opposite end of the tub – a round,
roiling, waist-high ball of fire that seemed to feed on nothing but the air.
Amorda shrieked, clutching at him
and drawing her legs up, away from the snapping mass of flame.
“Sshhh,” Breygon whispered, holding
her in place with ease. He still had to
–
The ball of fire suddenly resolved
itself. Crackling softly, it twisted and
shifted. Flickers of flame split apart
at its base, resolving into stubby, leg-like pillars; and from within the
roiling mass, two brighter points of light emerged. These swung around to regard the pair
lounging in the tub. Their gaze was otherworldly,
entirely inhuman, and entirely disinterested.
That changed the instant it saw the
water. The creature recoiled
instinctively. At the same time, the
muted, crackling roar of flame gathered, gaining focus...and out of the garbled
mass of crackling, a word emerged.
...FFFFFFIIIIIIGGGGHHHTTTTT...
“No fight,” Breygon replied,
speaking simply as he knew he must.
“Just boil the water, please.”
“Boil?!” the elf-woman
squeaked. “Beck, what are you – ”
...BBBBOOOOIIILLL...?
It was a question. The half-elf sighed. “Make hot,” he clarified.
In response, the stubby fire elemental flowed towards
them. Amorda, in a panic, drew herself
as far away from it as possible, trembling and clinging tightly to Breygon’s
arm. The half-elf found he didn’t mind
at all.
Gingerly, hesitantly, the blazing
creature leaned over the edge, and dipped one of its ‘legs’ into the tub.
The water immediately began to hiss
and sputter.
Breygon grinned.
Amorda threw him a startled glance
that evolved from terror to astonishment to glee in the space of a
heartbeat. A moment later, she had
relaxed again.
Chuckling softly, she wrapped her
arms around his chest, pulling him into a tight embrace. “You are
full of surprises, aren’t you?” she murmured.
♦♦♦
They broke their fast together,
sitting on thick, comfortable cushions alongside the low table that had been
replaced atop the wooden tub-cover. Even
though the tiled enclosure was covered, a gentle heat still rose from beneath
them. It was soothing, and helped to
ward against the spring chill.
Amorda was still shaking her head
over the incident with the fire elemental.
Breygon had dismissed it as nothing of consequence, but she had refused
to accept his evasions. After a heated
exchange, she had seemingly dropped the matter.
The half-elf, though, no stranger to the ways of women, knew that she
had merely tabled it, to be raised again at an inconvenient moment.
“We have a little problem, you
know,” she said, after a long moment of silence. “With the wedding.”
“Only one?” Breygon asked drily.
“It’s a big one,” the elf-woman
replied carefully. “One of the principal
purposes of Dîor’s Law is to regulate relationships among the great
houses. The ancients were obsessed with
it. Something to do with measuring each
others’ worth by how far their respective family lines diverged from the Third
House’s divine descent. How far, in
other words, from the lineage of Bræa and Hara.”
“The Duodeci,” he murmured.
She nodded. “The ‘Divine Twelve’. It’s more a matter of administration than of
faith, these days, but bureaucracies apply rules with far greater rigidity and
far less sense than even priests do. And
the old traditions are still respected.
In any joining involving one of the Houses – even one of the cadet
branches, like House Olestyrian – lineages must be confirmed.”
“I can lie with the best of them,”
Breygon shrugged.
“You don’t understand,” Amorda said
firmly. “You can’t lie. As part of the
ceremony, we are required to declare our identities and our lineages, to the
fourth generation. The declaration is
made before the officiant...and it is made under a zone of truth.” She
grimaced. “Believe me, it’s hard – very hard – to evade one of those.”
Breygon frowned. “You’re right. That...could be a problem.”
She looked stricken. “There’s a convention,” she said quickly, “a
recent one, but a convention nonetheless, that...that supplicants may whisper
their true names and lineages to the priest, instead of declaring them
openly. That generally causes talk,
because it suggests something irregular in the woodpile. But for lifemates who have something serious
to hide...well, so long as the priest is discreet, it at least keeps their
secrets from going too far.”
The ranger nodded. His eyes were distant.
“Don’t fret, lupino,” she whispered. “We all have secrets. I’m sure there’s nothing so terrible about
you that I couldn’t stand it.
“For example...” she shrugged,
helping herself to the heel of the loaf.
“I know you’re lying to me about not being a caster.”
“I’m not, though,” Breygon
protested. “I couldn’t cast a magic
spell to save my life! What I can do...the few small things...it’s all
part of being a servant of the Protector.
The power comes from Him, not from me!”
“Kak,” she snorted. “I can work a little magic, but what you did,
calling an elemental like that – that was something! A small thing for a powerful wizard,
perhaps. But you keep telling me you’re
no wizard!”
“Nor are you,” Breygon replied
softly. He had been making the most of
the bread and cheese that had been brought by the castle’s servants. The bread was decidedly average; but the
cheese was something remarkable, aged to perfection, crumbly and sour and spicy
all at the same time. He wondered
whether it would be worth trying to poach Danoria’s cheese-maker. Probably
comes from somewhere in town, he decided regretfully.
Given the turn the conversation was
taking, though, he put his food away, and focussed on his new bride.
His remark took her aback. “What?” she said, confused. “How...how can you tell?”
“The words,” he shrugged. “The gestures. Your eyes, when you’re casting.” He took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “I’ve travelled with wizards and sorcerers
alike, sponsa mea. Most latterly with that walking apocalypse,
Thanos. You all do things...differently.
“And, of course,” he pointed around
the room with his knife, “you’ve no spellbook.”
“I’m a graduate of the College of
Stars,” she said faintly. “I can prove
it. I’ve the scroll, attested to by...by...”
Her voice trailed off. Breygon was grinning. “By whom?
By the same illuminator who forged your littera coniugialis to his Worthiness, the Baron Olestyrian?”
She looked stricken. “It came to me centuries ago, with my woman’s
blood,” she whispered. “Be careful,
love, I beg you! Even here – even here,
in the Homelands! – my kind are not always safe.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so
concerned.”
“That’s because you didn’t have to
hide your skill during the reign of the White Hand in Ekhan,” she whispered,
swallowing hard. “They had already been
destroyed by the time you were born. I
was a girl, though, newly come into my power, when Mishanirta was burnt at the
stake in Whitefields. You can’t imagine the...the
fear, that I had to live with...”
The half-elf took her hand and
squeezed it, hard. “You can trust me
with your secrets, my lady. I’m bound to
you now.”
His words mollified her somewhat,
but she still looked nervous. “I know,
you’re obliged to protect me. The Codex
–”
“Kak for the Codex!” he snarled
softly. “I’ve been here a fortnight and
I’m already sick of hearing about the damned thing. I don’t need laws to force me keep my word,
or convince me to safeguard my lifemate.”
He stabbed his knife into a plum,
rather more viciously than the fruit’s tender flesh merited. “And what’s more,” he added, “if you’re to be
my wife, then our secrets are shared and sacrosanct. Know this, too: no one will ever harm you, unless I’m already dead.”
Amorda sat back against her
cushions. Her cheeks were pink, and her
eyes wide. “Gods, you...you’re...”
Breygon blinked. “What?” he asked, with all the eloquence he
could manage.
“When you talk like that,” she
breathed, “I want to climb you like Mons
Nivis!”
The half-elf put his cutlery
down. Her desire was so obvious, so potent,
that he could taste her passion on the air.
“Not that that wouldn’t be my preference too,” he said, his voice
trembling as he fought to control himself, “but the day marches on. Thanos is probably already beside himself
with rage at what we’ve just done.”
She arched a shapely eyebrow.
“The engagement, I mean,” he
clarified hastily. “Not the...uh...other
stuff.”
That earned him a grin.
“There are some...things about me,
that you need to know,” he continued with a grimace. “Before we leap to Starmeadow. And before we take this – all of this –” he
pointed to her and then back to himself “- any further.”
“Well,” she said, retrieving her
teacup and leaning back into her cushions.
“That certainly sounds ominous.
Discourse, sponsus. I’m listening.” She gestured for him to go on.
Breygon sighed and put his knife
down. If he told her, there was no going
back. But...how could he not tell her? For her own protection, if for no other
reason?
His hesitation was obvious to
her. “I understand,” she said
softly. “I understand you not wanting it
known. Who your father is, I mean. It will cause problems for me, too; everyone
knows that I was his mistress. To wed
his son, it...well, it would look –”
“I’m not his son,” Breygon said
harshly. “I’m his nephew.”
She blinked, stunned. “But – Mya was one of the Beloved of
Valatanna!” she exclaimed, astonished.
“A virgin, until she wed Kaltas last week! How –”
He cut her off. “Not Myaszæron either. She’s my aunt.”
The elf-woman’s eyes lost their
focus for a moment. An instant later,
they snapped back to his face. “Zelly?”
she gasped, her jaw dropping.
“Szæleryan? You’re Szæleryan’s
son?”
Breygon nodded.
“I knew her!” Amorda exclaimed.
“We had...we had the same song-mistress!
She was only a little older than me!”
“Thirty years, give or take,” the
ranger agreed, looking gloomy.
Her words came in a horrified
whisper. “But Zelly moved to Zare, and
married a...a human...”
The elf-woman dropped her teacup,
the vessel bouncing once on a cushion.
Breygon leaned forward and, with thumb and forefinger, nipped it out of
the air before it could shatter against the flagstones.
Amorda didn’t notice. “Holy
Mother!” she gasped. “She was
lawfully wed! That means...you’re not a bastard! You’re legitimate!”
“More or less,” he grunted.
Her eyes were like dinner
plates. “That means that...sacrae deus silvae!”
“Mmm-hmm,” he sighed.
She cast her gaze away from his
face, toward the windows. He saw her
lips moving, and guessed what she was thinking.
“Second in line, in the fourth generation,” he said. “After Princess Laranylla. I know.”
Her eyes snapped back to his
face. “No,” she whispered. “No, that’s not...not what I was
thinking. Not at all.”
The ranger frowned. “What were
you thinking, then?”
She pursed her lips. “Article IX,” she said softly. “Culpa
Patronem. Sins of the Father.”
“My father wasn’t an elf,” he
reminded her.
“I’m not talking about you, I’m
talking about Dîor’s Law. The Codex.”
He shrugged. “I told you, the Codex is all a mystery to
me.”
“ ‘Sins of the Father’,” she
repeated as if mesmerized.
Breygon sighed. “You’re going to have to explain, my dove.”
Amorda knitted her fingers
together. To his astonishment, her hands
were actually shaking, and she had to clench them tightly to still them. “Article IX,” she said carefully, “governs
outlawry. Crimes so great that they
merit the expulsion of an entire House.”
The ranger sat upright. “That can happen?” he asked, stunned.
She nodded. “That article was first used to to justify
and effect the expulsion of the Filia
Eiectionia. Mærglyn Kin-Slayer,
Daughter of Exile, and her offspring and followers. It was how the Fourth House, the Shadelven,
came to be.
“It’s only happened a few times
since Dîor’s day,” she added, “but it remains in force. It’s the main weapon that the Houses that sit
upon the Council have to wield against would-be renegades. And potential usurpers.”
“Why haven’t they used it?” he
asked, frowning. “Against Æloeschyan,
for example?”
“Because it takes two things,” she
replied soberly. “Something so grossly
contrary to the Codex that it can't be ignored – overt rebellion, for example – and, also, a two-thirds
vote of the Council. Æloeschyan hasn’t
yet been accused, with clear proofs, of any treason against the Throne; and
even if she were, she controls enough of the Houses, whether through scutage, alliance
or simple fear, to prevent the Queen marshalling the votes she would need to
outlaw and exile her niece.”
She sighed heavily. “But that’s not why I mentioned it just now!”
“All right,” Breygon nodded. “Let me hear it.”
“Article IX,” the elf-woman breathed,
“applies to everyone. Everyone, sponsus!
Do you understand?”
“Of course,” he shrugged. “So what?”
“So,” Amorda replied, her voice
descending to a whisper, “if Landioryn were to stand accused of a suitably
terrible offence against the Codex...treason, or something like that...then,
under the provisions of Culpa Patronem,
he would be outlawed. And exiled.
“Moreover,” she added, “no majority
vote would be required. The Queen is
Prima of House Æyllian. She could exile
him herself. And she would have to, if his crime were sufficiently horrid, if only to maintain
the peace, and preserve the balance of power between the Houses.”
“So?” the ranger said,
perplexed. “If Landioryn falls, your law
of primogeniture passes the precedence to his eldest son, doesn’t it? Aira...Airy...”
“Airæszyllan,” Amorda
corrected. “Normally, it would. But obviously you don’t know the full text of
Article IX.”
“Obviously,” Breygon acknowledged,
the word dripping with irony. “Why don’t
you tell me?”
The elf-woman took a deep
breath. “Culpa patronem,” she intoned, “iniunctum
filiam, adusque saeculum decimus.”
She blinked. “I’m quoting from
memory, of course.”
“Of course,” he said faintly. “Gods!”
The sins of the father shall be
visited upon the sons, even unto the tenth generation. “Does that...does that mean what I think it
means?”
Amorda nodded. “It means that if Landioryn is condemned,”
she whispered, “then his whole line falls with him. Both of his children, Airæszyllan, and
Gyennareen – well, maybe not Gyennareen, as she’s already married, and I think
there’s something in the law that exempts married daughters – and all of their
children too, born and unborn. They
become an outlawed house, lupino! Expelled from the realm...and also from the
succession.”
The ranger felt suddenly faint. “That would leave...Bræagond, and...and the
Princess, Mya...”
He broke off. Amorda was shaking her head. “You’re forgetting Article IV,” the elf-woman
said.
Breygon ran his fingers through his
hair. “What was that one, again?” he
said, feeling a little overwhelmed.
“Primogeniture. A male heir always estabishes precedence for any parent – father or mother. And Zelly,” she said faintly, “your...your mother...she
was Szæronyla’s oldest child.”
Breygon said nothing. He knew what was coming next.
Amorda nodded, her face as pale as
marble. “That’s right, my love. If Landioryn remains loyal, then whether he
lives or dies, you’re safe. But if he
betrays the Queen, and is found out, and falls...then you’re next.”
The half-elf looked down at his
hands. They were trembling. Amorda followed his glance, then reached out
and took his hands in hers, stilling their shaking. “Nothing to say?” she asked, putting on as
brave a face as she could manage.
Breygon cleared his throat. “Well,” he said weakly, “I’ll bet you’d look
lovely in green.”
She hit him. Hard.
♦♦♦
