The Silk Palace
perched in the end of year sunshine high atop Whiterock, all great grey
battlements and fluttering pennants, invulnerability made manifest.
Now it was out of
sight of the riders below, even when they craned their necks. Many of them rode
leaning outwards, away from the massif, as if oppressed by it. Rearing
heavenward from the flat grasslands, the white rock seemed to fill their world,
their long column snaking round its massive bulk. It wasn't completely white,
but speckled with impurities and moss. Over the millennia, trickling water had
cut tiny vertical riverbeds into the rock, and elsewhere sporadic outcroppings
bulged overhead. Once they rode so close, Bluestocking reached out and
scratched a flake off and licked it. Her finger tasted bitter.
"It might be
poisonous," Halarbur said.
As always when he
was around, Bluestocking couldn't help thinking, Does he know?
The Prince's
valet rode with hands holding up the reins as if to show her how to grasp them.
His thinning grey hair was combed forward and chopped in a bowl shape. As
usual, his square face gave nothing away. For all that, she sensed disapproval;
he never called her by name or title. As if he knew that she wasn't all she
pretended to be. "Then I'll be ill." Her tone dared him to argue with
her, but he looked away.
Above the
caravan, delta-winged gliders quartered the open sky away from the rock, riding
the rising thermals, their mage-pilots weaving their defensive web of spells.
The sun was high in the sky, finally breaking through the clouds, and
Bluestocking's spirits lifted with its warmth. She wrung out her jerkin's
rain-soaked sleeve.
A shadow passed
overhead. Unable to stifle a cry of surprise, she flinched.
The other riders
guffawed. "She shrieked like that time Pasceb goosed her," Luer wiped
her eyes between fits of laughter.
It was all
Bluestocking could do not to scream at them. To show she wasn't scared, she
ostentatiously craned her neck, leaning so far back in her saddle that she almost
toppled from Fourposter's back. She looked down at the ground, where countless
hooves had churned the mud to a quagmire and shuddered at the thought of
falling into it.
"My
apologies, Milady," the officer leading their escort said in his barbarous
language, while the glider vanished as suddenly as it appeared, "on behalf
of that idiot."
They rode
together for a few moments, and he cleared his throat several times as if his
voice was rusty. "Do all Princes in the Karnaki Empire have
ladies-in-waiting who speak our tongue so well?"
If that's an
attempt to strike up a conversation, it's a decidedly clumsy one, she thought. She wondered whether he
was mocking her, or the Empire, or both, but accepted the question as serious. "I'm
no lady-in-waiting. I'm from the Karnaki Imperial Library, to translate the
Scrolls of Presimionari." She took pleasure in watching his eyes widen,
and he gestured northwards, as she'd seen them do before; clenched fist in
front of the eyes, palm forward, fingers splaying open. She said, "Prince
Casimiripian kindly offered me an escort from Ravlatt," and added, "That's
a city in the Empire."
"Your name's
Bluestocking, Maestress?" He used the formal name for scholar, clearly
impressed by her mentioning the scrolls, but he mangled her name badly,
pronouncing it Dzahrminah, rather than Dzahrmini. You're only
being pedantic again, she thought. You shouldn't let it irritate you.
It was easier thought than done.
"It is."
"Doubtless
named for your dzahr eyes," he grinned, openly flirting as he mangled the
dialect word for ‘blue’ to unrecognizability, "or your garments."
She blushed. "A
Bluestocking is a female scholar, who attends The Woman's University," she
said crisply. "My father knew what he wanted for me from the day I was
born– a good education." A lie of course, but this oaf would never know
that.
Prince
Casimiripian rode up. "Are you all right, Bluestocking?" He lifted
his lightweight helmet and wiped sweat off a freckled forehead below cropped
brown hair. His cheerful countenance had changed to a concern so exaggerated
that he might have been a travelling actor. She was unsure whether it was
genuine, or whether, as she suspected of his courtly manners, he was mocking
her. He seemed not to hear the other rider's sniggers.
"I'm very
well, thank you, Majesty." Go away! she thought.
"I'm glad to
hear it, my dear," the Prince said, faintly emphasising the last two
words. "If these yokels frightened you, I'll have them flogged. They need
to learn manners."
The officer said,
"I'll signal the pilot to maintain an appropriate distance."
"No need,
Majesty." She realised with a sudden rush of compassion that the Prince
was probably more nervous than anyone in the caravan. It's not every day
that he finally meets his intended bride, she thought. "It wasn't the
pilot's fault. I was wool-gathering."
Softening, he
said, "No doubt thinking about your books." He made them sound as
exotic as a Cimetrian dragon from the arctic wastes. To an outdoorsman, I
suppose they are.
"No doubt,"
she said to his back– he'd already spurred his great grey stallion back to his
place near the head of the line. She sneaked a look at their escort's officer;
he was white-faced and trembling with rage or fear. "I'm sorry about what
he said."
The officer
hawked up phlegm, and spat. "No need to apologise to me. A Prince can say
what he likes."
To fill the
lengthening silence, she said, "The clouds seem very regular. Does the
king regulate the weather?" Ask stupid questions, Sister Lucretia once
told her. The old woman thought all men drank liquor morning, noon and night,
and beat their women for pleasure, but Bluestocking knew her own intellect
intimidated many men, so for once it seemed sound advice.
He was silent for
so long that she didn't think he'd answer. Then, "The King has most of his
wizards working the weather; says it keeps them out of mischief. They stand
along the North wall of the palace like a line of black crows, waving their
arms, and chanting their nonsense. Most rain falls at night, but they've got
some schedule that means it always rains some time during the day. Mostly on
that side." He gestured northwards again.
Despite herself,
she giggled. "He'd hate all that untamed weather where I live. We have few
mages. Most are busy squabbling amongst themselves, or working for rich folk,
but the ones we have try to move passing clouds off their patch onto another's.
Some clouds bounce round like ping-ping balls."
"That's the
Empire," the soldier scoffed. "This is the free Kingdom of Whiterock."
He quickened his horse's pace slightly, and rode away.
"No use
trying to engage these peasants in civilised converse," Halarbur said.
Before she could
snap an answer, an Imperial guard distracted her, saying, "How are we
supposed to climb it? There isn't a step anywhere."
"Perhaps,"
she said, "there are hidden tunnels in the rock." She added, quietly,
so he wouldn't hear, "As long as we don't have to climb it, I don't care."
They had their
answer soon enough.
***
The caravan had
stretched out. Fifty Imperial guards and twice as many hangers-on, all mounted,
escorted the Prince. The troops had their own horses, fake bat-wings and
serpent's tails to scare the enemy in battle, while the camp followers had 'borrowed'
mounts, old nags mostly, or shared them with the baggage. For every rider and
horse were two mules, laden almost to collapse. By an Imperial Prince's
standards, Bluestocking thought wryly, he's travelling light. Their
hosts had provided another fifty troops at the border, nowhere near as
grandiosely decorated as the Imperial mounts, but the curving horns collared to
their horse's heads made them nearly twice as tall as without them.
The Prince had
rejoined them. "Where do the people who work in the Palace live?"
"In the
warrens beneath, Majesty."
They've tunnelled
into the rock,
Bluestocking thought. Perhaps that's where the famous Silk Spiders are?
In the distance
were a score of what Bluestocking thought were spherical buildings. They were
the strangest things she'd seen since the Floating Towers at Lake Mairain. When
they drew close, Bluestocking saw people scurrying around the structures. Each
globe was taller than ten tall men. The globes were huge spherical bags, each
painted like a playground attraction in gaudy reds, blues and yellows, while
beneath hung a basket, crammed with people, moored to steps leading down to a
gantry.
Several men
guarded each gantry. They moved away from one, untethering the basket. The huge
bag rose gracefully and, to Bluestocking, terrifyingly, up the side of the
rock. Each basket was held tight on its course by a thin wire that ran skyward
from the scaffold at perhaps fifteen degrees from vertical. Bluestocking's gut
knotted with fear. She could see no other way of reaching the summit; and could
not possibly sit in such a contraption without dying of terror.
"We'll be
able to get off these damned nags soon," one Imperial soldier said to
another. "Think they'll have cock-fights here? I missed them in Langedor.
Typical of His Nibs to leave so early we'd need to bed down by sunset."
"I can think
of better uses for cocks than fighting," one of the comfort women said.
I've never heard
someone leer before,
Bluestocking thought.
"Away with
you, woman!" The soldier said, laughing. "D'you never think of owt
else?"
"Only money,"
the woman said, "And drink."
Bluestocking
studied the nearest of the huge bags.
A long metal tube
poked up into the gap at the bottom of the bag. An attendant stretched up and
dropped something into the tube. After a few seconds, a blue-white flame blazed
out of the top of the tube with a whoosh, visible even through the thin material
of the bag. It looked so hot that for a moment, Bluestocking thought it would
set fire to the bag.
Oh, she thought. Balefire; that's how
they do it, Of course, no ordinary flame would burn bright, and strong enough.
I suppose the bag's safe– they must practice constantly to perfect the dosage.
A mantra ran through her head– you can do this, you can overcome your fear;
you can do this.
As they reached
the gantry, the lead riders dismounted, handing their reins to attendants, the
troops nuzzling their mounts goodbye with an affection that surprised
Bluestocking and climbing into the baskets. One after the other, those behind
followed, until it was Bluestocking's turn. She could put it off no longer. She
dismounted, stomach hollow, her knees weak. She licked her lips.
"Are you all
right, Milady?" said the man taking Fourposter's reins .
"I'm fine,"
she snapped. She rubbed the horse's nose.
"We'll look
after him, fear not."
"I–"
she nearly admitted her fear but, voice quavering, said instead, "Is it
always so busy?"
"This time
and the morning rush are the worst times of day. When all the travellers are on
their way. The King's decree; all travellers through the kingdom must pay a
tax. The only place they can pay is at the Sherriff's office." The man's
ruddy face split into a grin. "Which is only open an hour before curfew.
Shame that, all they travellers having to stay over and pay a night's lodging."
"There's no
other way up the mountain?" There, she'd asked it.
"T'other way's
worse," the man said cheerily. "Sit in a sack with holes cut in the
corners to take your legs, and get hoisted up– or down. The Poor Man's Rise,
they call it. The rope has a habit o'breakin', but 'cause they's only pauper's
takin' that rise, no one cares too much. You'll be fine," he said gently,
patting her shoulder.
The prince
called, "Bluestocking! With me!"
"Majesty?"
"We're in
the first basket," he said, and grinned. "The sooner we leave, the
sooner we arrive. Come on! Halarbur, you'll fly with the baggage afterwards."
"Majesty,"
Halarbur bowed, his face impassive as ever. His gaze flicked over Bluestocking
with what she was sure was disdain. At least he won't be there to see you
make a fool of yourself, she thought.
An attendant
helped her to climb into the basket. She reached out and fondled a stray piece
of fabric hanging down like a talisman. "Silk," someone said, and she
nodded.
Amongst the crowd
she thought she saw– "No, it can't be!"
"Bluestocking?"
Casimiripian said.
She laughed
nervously. "I thought I saw someone I knew, Majesty."
"From
Ravlatt?" Casimiripian said. "Unlikely."
No, further east
again, she
thought. "You're probably right."
Soon a dozen of
the prince's people and two locals packed into the basket, all men except for
her.
"Shut your
eyes," the man said.
Bluestocking half
shut her eyes and looked away as the man dropped a ball of straw into the tube.
He mumbled a spell and the straw, which had been soaked in an acrid concoction,
burst into flame with a hollow whoof! Spots of light danced in front of
her now-closed eyes.
A second
attendant held onto the basket, reciting a string of what Bluestocking guessed
were wardings. Elementals weren't the only predators in the skies; a dozen
people rising slowly would feed an afreet nest for days.
"You can
open your eyes now," their host said. "Take a look around you. You'll
have a magnificent view."
She knew that she
shouldn't open her eyes; if she did, she'd see how far they had to fall. In her
mind's eye she saw the basket break, her body tumbling to splatter on the
ground. She opened her eyes anyway and nearly fainted. The Kingdom of Whiterock
lay below her, a green patchwork of trees, fields and buildings, and animals
and people scurrying about.
"Look,"
the attendant said.
From this high,
Bluestocking could see the road on which they'd ridden since leaving Langedor
at first light. Following the muddy road, she was sure she could see the
nominal frontier-post they'd crossed just before mid-morning. The frontier was
too long to fence and required too many men to guard. But protocol demanded
they enter at the wooden hut with its twin flags of the Empire and the Kingdom
and join the waiting honour guard sent to escort them to the Palace.
Beyond the
frontier post, the serrated peaks of the Northern Spine were hidden in a wall
of drizzle, but Bluestocking still felt their monolithic presence dwarfing even
the white rock.
South of an
invisible line, farmers worked in gentle spring sunshine, tending the green
domes of mulberry trees that lined the hillsides in artificially straight
ranks. Beyond those gently sloping hills, the Southern Spine rose more
gradually than its Northern half, but these mountains were even higher, and
distant snow-capped peaks reflected the sunlight. Where sunshine and rain
jostled for supremacy, the ground steamed in a line creeping northwards.
"Are those
tents?" The Prince pointed at a sprawl of canvas around the foot of the
southern side of the rock.
"Aye,
Majesty," one of their escort replied. "Fairhaven. Pretty deserted at
the moment, but much more crowded during winter. Where most of the slaves live.
The freeborn workers and their families live in the town opposite. Northside."
"Fairhaven,
eh?" The Prince said. "I'm surprised you let them live on the nicer side."
The outrider
grinned, showing rotting stumps for teeth. "It's only nice in the daytime,
when most of them are out working in the fields. At night, when the King's
decreed it's their turn to be rained on, they wail and moan and beg The Gods to
stop pissing on them."
"Look,"
an Imperial Guard gasped, pointing. Bluestocking looked.
Now they were
higher up, Bluestocking had a better view of individual clouds, and their
movement toward the storm, which crept northwards at walking pace. The wizard's
magic would hurtle clouds at dizzying speed from where nature had allowed the
breeze to carry them to slam into the main mass. Tiny lightning flashes sparked
off the impact. Sometimes the rain fell as white drops; Bluestocking had been
caught in a hailstorm soon after entering the Kingdom. It had only lasted
thirty seconds, but she still felt the sting of the stones on her arm.
Where the clouds
had been before, the air rippled and eddied, seeking equilibrium. For a moment
she thought she saw a face and wondered if an elemental had become entangled.
Probably not, she decided. They'd have exorcised it.
A vortex of
spinning air circled over the rock in a whirl of blue and white; the
still-point, drawing energy from the clouds' movement. Around it the sky was a
mottled grey, as if it were fevered from all the activity.
She looked from
the cloud to the focal point of the strangeness. Even though they still had to
look up, from up here it was easier to see the top of the rock and what was
actually a small walled city that sprawled across the plateau.
A reed in the
wicker floor snapped, her stomach lurched and stifling a scream, she clutched
the nearest support- the Prince's arm.
"Be calm,"
the Prince said. Wincing, he prised her fingers away, leaving livid imprints on
his arm. "It's nothing to worry about."
Bluestocking felt
her face burn as a trickle of liquid ran down her thighs. She was acutely aware
of it and was convinced that everyone around her would smell it.
"Why do you
all make that gesture when you look northwards?" the Prince asked the
pilot. He referred to the hand-opening gesture, she realized and knew he meant
to distract her. For a moment, she could have kissed him.
"It's asking
the Gods to stay on Mount Halkyan, Majesty," the second attendant said.
"Your gods
live there?"
"They do,
Majesty." There was a long pause, and the man asked. "Is it true?
That your gods live among you all year round?"
The Prince said. "Of
course. It seems strange not to have them here. We miss them, but they don't
travel well. At least you're spared foreign gods visiting you."
"Amen,"
the pilot said.
Bluestocking made
herself open her eyes again. Taking deep breaths, she stared at the rock,
trying not to think about falling. She prayed: Nangharai, Mother of the Gods,
let me walk on solid ground, and I'll light you a candle every night again. Of
course, Nangharai wouldn't listen. Even if Bluestocking's prayer carried all
the way back to Ravlatt, why would the goddess heed the prayer of someone who'd
turned her back on the gods?
"Blue,"
the Prince said, so quietly she almost missed it. "Blue, take my hand. No
one will know." She looked up at him, then away from the pity in his eyes,
but took his hand. "Look outwards," the Prince said as gently as to a
skittish colt. "Look across, not down."
Gripping the
basket with her free hand, Bluestocking made herself look northwards. The rain
had cleared, revealing the nearest peaks of the northern Spine stabbing the
bright blue sky.
"You could
gallop across this Kingdom in a day on a fresh horse," the Prince said. "So
small, yet a fulcrum for the world."
He's right, she thought, glancing westwards
toward the distant hills shimmering in the afternoon sun, toward the
easternmost of the ragbag caliphates and emirates that made up The Western
Alliance. I wonder if it's true that they're all fanatics and madmen, and
the greatest threat our empire has ever faced.
The Kingdom of
Whiterock provided the only lowland crossing of the Spine Range that separated
the Empire and the Alliance. Other passes required that the traveller overcome
altitude sickness, bitter winds, snow and the risk of snow-trolls sending
avalanches down onto the unwary.
Looking back,
beyond the waist-high tumuli that they'd ridden past earlier, a faun ducked for
cover. "Not a house to be seen," Bluestocking muttered. She watched
the peasants bowed double over rows of cabbages stretching into the distance,
probably all the way to the marshes at Llamarghesa that were the Kingdom's Northern Frontier and separated
it from the mountains. "If they all live in those tent-towns, it must get
very crowded."
A sudden gust
caught them; the basket wobbled. Bluestocking redoubled her prayers, just in
case the priests told lies and the goddess listened even to heretics.
"Milady,"
the Prince said. "You must loosen your grip, unless I'm to be in the care
of a physic for the next few weeks." He added, "And I swear I do not
jest."
With a huge
effort, she loosened her grip. He grimaced in relief. Despite her terror, she
almost laughed. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
He sighed. "No
matter."
They cleared the
outer wall that ran around the lip of the rock. Now if this thing collapses,
Bluestocking thought with grim humour, I'll only have a short fall before
dashing my brains out.
"I dare say
you'll be pleased to get there, won't you?" The Prince said softly.
She nodded, tears
prickling, suddenly homesick for relief from three weeks of shared rooms in
lodges or taverns, and respite from the noise from the next room of the comfort
women's grunted, groaning couplings with the soldiers. While her room had often
been bigger than her rented chamber back in Ravlatt, there'd been no privacy or
peace with the paper-thin walls.
The rope tautened
and they were reeled into a huge open square in front of the palace, full of
soldiers in gaudy uniforms whose helmets gleamed in the sunlight. The basket
was hauled to rest against a gantry like those on the ground, wooden planks ten
feet above the cobbled expanse. Hands reached in, and the Prince pushed her
forward. "Take the lady first," he said.
Out of the corner
of her eye, Bluestocking glimpsed a wizard performing an invocation.
She stood
unsteadily and gripped the hand of the man nearest her as he helped her down
the steps to the ground as if she were drowning and he were a lifeline. "There,
there. No need for tears." His kindness almost undid her, but somehow she
stayed on her feet, reaching down to touch the cobbles for reassurance that
they were real.
"My name is
Ariel," the man said. He was a rotund little figure with a mouth slightly
too wide for his features, which gave the impression that he was smiling all
the time. His eyes protruded, and his tongue flicked in and out. An ornate cap
only partly covered sandy hair. A huge gold chain hung round his neck over his
dark robes.
As the others
disembarked, Bluestocking looked up at the walls of the citadel. In front of
them, a small group watched the new arrivals. The Prince led his group forward.
At the front of
the waiting group, a giant of a man towered above the others, robes trailing on
the floor. Square-headed with a bull-like neck, red-gold hair tumbled in curls
to his shoulders, while his short beard was flecked with grey. Below a simple
crown half-covering his forehead, wide-set eyes studied them, passing over her
in an instant, dismissing her as unimportant. In that instant, she felt the
King's terrible, restless energy and his willpower that changed the very course
of wind and rain. The moment passed, and once again he was simply a big man
lording it over a tiny backwater.
The King bowed
from the waist. "Welcome to Whiterock, Prince Casimiripian."
The Prince seemed
taken aback. He paused, as if collecting his thoughts, then laughing bowed too.
"A short, simple, yet elegant greeting, your Majesty. I'd prepared a long
flowery response full of pomp and wind. Instead, I'll simply say that I'm very
pleased to be here."
The King nodded a
half-dozen times, then grinned, his teeth whiter and more regular than any
Bluestocking had ever seen. "Well said. There'll be enough time for
speeches later. We're simple people here, slow of thought and direct of speech."
He threw open his arms. Casimiripian hesitated, but stepped forward into the
King's bear-hug. Lifting his hands, he patted the King's back.
Beside the King
stood a dark-haired woman, only as tall as his shoulder. Her face was pinched,
thin and sour-looking. But when the King touched her arm, she looked up at him
with a tender look that transformed her face. The King said, "My wife,
Queen Juliophelana."
"Majesty,"
the Prince bowed again.
The Queen
curtsied and said in a lilting voice, "Call me Ana, son-in-law to be."
Ana? Bluestocking thought. They talk
as if they're mere commoners!
"Let others
worry whether shortening their names erodes their status," the King added.
"Life's too short; we know who we are. We don't have to parade our names
to remind us."
"Then call
me Cas," the Prince said with a nervy laugh, and Bluestocking wondered how
much that concession cost him.
A large,
pug-nosed woman stood to the King's right, looking, Bluestocking decided, as if
she could smell something nasty. The King introduced the Prince to, "My
eldest daughter, Princess Evivalesinan. Evi is High Priestess of the Church of
Brighannon."
The Princess
boomed, "The main church of Whiterock."
To Evi's right
stood a slightly younger woman who shared her father's red-gold hair but whose
features were more delicate. "The Princess Lexnovoswartoner," the
King said. "Lexi is betrothed to the Emir of Blackwater."
Lexi never took
her eyes off Prince Cas except when he kissed her hand, when she closed them. "My
fiancé's ambassador, the Vizier of Talaben," she said in a low voice and
waved vaguely at her left shoulder, behind which stood a bronze-skinned man.
His nose was a hooked beak, and the fierce eyes which scanned them all in turn
were set in a face whose triangular shape was emphasised by a white, pointed
beard. His left arm, which was slightly withered, hung at an awkward angle.
To Lexi's right
stood a girl with Queen Ana's dark complexion but the King's open features. "My
youngest, your fiancé," the King said. "Princess Cavendsilperisha.
Cavi."
"Majesty,"
the Prince knelt at her feet.
"Arise, Your
Majesty," Cavi said, laughing. "May I also call you Cas?"
"You can
call me anything you want, Cavi," the Prince said, standing up.
"You'll be
tired from your long journey," the King's voice boomed over the breeze. "But
before we retire, we'll stroll around the castle walls and show you our
surroundings."
They followed the
Royal party up the path from the square, through the main gate into a shaded
antechamber. Inside the walls was another courtyard, but rather than cross it,
they turned right. Something small and dark scuttled into a doorway, but when
they passed there was nothing there, although the door had stayed closed.
A little way
along the corridor they climbed up one, two, three and even a fourth flight of
corkscrewing stone stairs up to the grey stone battlements. On the way they
passed a chanting mage who glanced up without pausing in his ritual. "He's
strengthening the fortifications," Cavi explained. "Those who would
harm Whiterock constantly try to undermine us."
Looking around at
the fields laid out below the gap in the walls in a pastoral scene of apparent
tranquillity, Bluestocking wondered whether everyone in Whiterock believed in
invisible enemies and whether or not they were paranoid.
They stood on the
very walls themselves, with only a thin chest-high lip of stone between them
and infinity. Bluestocking's heart hammered both from exertion and sheer
terror.
Turning to her,
Cas murmured, "Bluestocking, please walk before me."
With a thin
smile, Bluestocking obeyed.
The wind up here
tore at their hair, plucked at their sleeves. Despite the warm south wind, it
was cold; Bluestocking shivered. Cas murmured to one of his men, who wrapped
his cape around Bluestocking's shoulders. She mumbled thanks and looked up to
see Cavi watching her. She felt the flush rise up her neck.
A shape flashed
close by. There was a flare, a shriek and the sound of frying bacon, and she
saw the amorphous, semi-transparent shape of an elemental impaled on the palace's
invisible defences.
No one seemed
concerned. "I thought that we'd start here," Princess Cavi said,
smiling. The King seemed happy to let her do the talking now. "This whole
edifice," she waved vaguely around her, "is just the latest layer of
skin on a scab dating back centuries." She added, "The other reason
for taking you on this little tour is that it's a good excuse to indulge
another of our guests. Lexi and I believe that Daragel doesn't see his homeland
often enough."
"I have her
Majesty's beauty as consolation," the vizier replied with a flash of
brilliant white teeth in his bronzed face, bowing to Lexi. "And helping to
look after both her and my Prince's interests is a great solace."
"The other
reason," Cavi's ignored Daragel's flattery, "is that this is probably
the nearest Cas has been to the alliance. True?"
The Prince
nodded.
Daragel said, "You
see, Majesty, we are mere mortals, nothing to fear."
Cas smiled
acknowledgment.
"There it
is," the Princess waved at the distant hills, now partly obscured in low
clouds. "The Alliance of Free Rulers. The Western Alliance, as it's known
in the Karnaki Empire. It has almost as many names as there are Kingdoms,
Emirates and protectorates within it." She added, "Please correct me
if I talk nonsense, Daragel."
"I'm sure
that won't be necessary, Your Highness."
"Most of the
territories beyond are semi-desert," Princess Cavi said. "The people
there believe in letting the gods dictate their climate or if you echo their
beliefs, in letting Mother Earth choose when to water the soil. If we allowed
this to happen to Whiterock, we'd have weather similar to theirs."
"Do you
believe that this is a good thing?" Cas asked. There was a sharp intake of
breath from someone nearby.
"What I
believe is unimportant," the Princess said, smiling, putting a finger to the
Prince's lips. He looked dazed.
Cavi resumed. "The
palace walls are made from stone quarried from the Southern Spine. Stone from
Whiterock, while moderately hard, wouldn't withstand siege engines. We've had
peace for centuries, but the palace predates our tranquil times. Let's walk
around the battlements."
As they walked.
Prince Cas whispered, "Are you all right?"
Bluestocking
nodded, gripping the inside wall of the battlements. "I'm …all right,"
she waved her free hand to emphasize the word, "as long as I'm away from
the outer walls, and I have something to hold onto." She was exaggerating
how safe she felt– the wind was like a siren song, plucking her toward the wall–
but she didn't want the pity of strangers.
Bluestocking grew
increasingly restless at their snail-like pace. Preoccupied with the scrolls,
her thoughts turned to The Great Library. Even deep within the Karnaki Empire,
scholars knew of the vast trove of books, manuscripts, scrolls and letters that
comprised the greatest repository of knowledge in the known world - Whiterock
Library. She wanted to be at those books with a gnawing hunger that grew minute
by minute.
Toward the
southern end, they passed an open square. The Prince asked, "What's there?"
"Gallows
Square," Cavi said, and the subject was dropped. Even the small town where
Bluestocking had grown up had its Gallows Square.
At last they
returned to their starting point.
Cavi said, "Let's
go below."
They descended
the steps and went indoors. "Are we near The Great Library?"
Bluestocking blurted. No one answered. I'll find it on my own, then, she
thought.
As they passed a
side corridor, Ariel had Bluestocking separated from the others and taken down
it by a page. "These are your quarters, madam. There wasn't space for you
to be with the Prince's party, so we put you in this block."
"Where do I
go to pay the tax?" Seeing his puzzled look, Bluestocking added, "I
thought that all travellers had to pay a tax?"
Ariel smiled. "You
needn't worry about that." He threw open the door for her, and his
footsteps receded down the corridor.
Bluestocking
pushed the heavy door shut with her foot. "Well, I'm here at last,"
she said to the empty room.
Her jaw dropped.