Cobweb Empire (44 page)

“The direction which you indicate is indeed
the same direction as the Sapphire Court.” The Count mentioned.

“How far is it?” asked the knight.

The Count, riding an elegant Arabian grey
stallion, took a while to answer, as he gazed at the close line of
the hill-swept horizon. “So much has changed,” he said. “Even as
short a time ago as yesterday, this land was wider, more sprawling.
Again, I have no means of explaining, but—parts of the landscape
have been mysteriously disappearing, all around the Domain. Unlike
Ulpheo they are gone entirely, without a trace. They tell us that a
white-cliffed island has gone missing from the balmy southern sea
near Tanathe. And in our own Balmue, the plains and hills upon
which we ride are only a small part of what used to be sprawling
picturesque countryside. Also, to the east, fair Elysium with its
blessed flowering fields is now a wistful
memory. . . .”

“In the Realm, we have whole cities and
towns gone, as if the earth is shrinking upon itself.”

“It is a curse! A vile misfortune upon
mortal kind . . .” the Countess muttered, ending
with some other inaudible words that were spoken under her breath.
She was seated on an ornate side-saddle fit for an upper class
matron, upon a docile white mare. And although the mare paced
softly, the Countess held the reins in a trembling fixed grip.

“If nothing else disappears, Ulpheo lies
beyond the next two hills. Soon you shall see it. Once we pass
around it, we should reach the Sapphire Court before evening.”

“And then?” Beltain persisted.

“Then, I will conduct you to the place you
seek,” replied the Count D’Arvu.

“And the Goddess Thesmos shall watch over
you!” added Arabella D’Arvu, glancing up at them with a hopeful
gaze.

T
hey made good
time, and in minutes the hills opened to a strange sight that was
indeed like a mirage, impossible for the eye to grasp.

The sun illuminated a dreamlike panorama
that at first seemed to be the vision of a distant city witnessed
through a milk haze. Except, it was not distant at all, with the
walls beginning within a few hundred feet. Once the eye forced
itself to accept the impossible, everything indeed was recognized
as
translucent
, so that the walls appeared to be made not of
stone but of a dark grey-tinted glass. On the inside, streets and
houses and figures were visible, moving as if in a
dream. . . . And everything was taking place in
perfect, abysmal silence.

Overhead, distant clouds sailed in the
heavens. A few birds flew near the parapets, but they suddenly
struck an invisible wall of air upon approaching the city perimeter
and several had fallen upon impact.

There were many people gathered outside the
walls, observing, arguing, bewailing, and the living sounds they
made was the only noise in the vicinity.

Percy was amazed, for the silence of the
city extended into her sixth sense. She could feel no death shadows
beyond the translucent walls, as though they had all indeed receded
to a distant other place, beyond mortal
reach. . . .

“Behold, Ulpheo, the proud capital of
Balmue!” said Count Lecrant D’Arvu bitterly. “We shall not linger
at this sorry sight, for apparently even Thesmos has gone—for I see
no golden Goddess figure rising to the clouds, do you? Indeed, had
she even been there in the first place? Or was she but a
hallucination?”

“Lecrant!” said the Countess in reproach. “I
believe she was there, and it is enough.”

Thus, without more argument they rode around
the milling crowds near the walls, and past the misfortunate,
impossible city itself, following the road south.

From thereon, the morning and afternoon flew
by in a monotonous haze of rolling taupe and sienna and sand browns
of the countryside. The Count and his wife were gentle company,
with the Count D’Arvu speaking for the most part, telling of his
views on war and his recent ordeals at the complex Court of the
Sovereign.

Beltain mostly listened and remarked
occasionally, while Percy reclined against the black knight’s
chest, cleaving to him softly, all her form exuding such a wordless
peace and contentment that even the others noticed. The Count
leaned to the Countess with a smile and whispered something about
“young lovers” that made her stoic gaze regain a moment of soft
clarity.

The road beyond Ulpheo was mostly free of
traffic, and a few occasional peasants traveled it. Once again, no
one paid a second glance to the knight, for he again chose not to
wear his surcoat with the Chidair colors, and such anonymity was
prudent. They also noticed no military formations passing, and
Beltain wondered about it.

“Since the Trovadii had passed, it is to be
expected. They have all gone forward past your border already, or
are milling about Ulpheo,” the Count said. “I know not what Tanathe
and Serenoa will do, and whether or not they will send their forces
to supplement the Trovadii, but Solemnis is on the move in the
west, and I assume they have advanced already. Thus, nothing more
to expect here.”

Percy was relieved to know that Beltain
would not have to make the choice of engaging in needless combat
with anyone on the road.

At some point, Beltain asked about the
Trovadii, and how it was that they were all dead, to a man. The
Count related, with a grim face, the events of Trova Square.

“That was the moment when the patriots of
the Domain felt their faith shaken and in many cases
destroyed.”

“I am surprised the Sovereign has ordered
such an ungodly act of suicide upon her own most loyal of troops,”
Beltain mused. “Even from pure strategic reasons, what sense is
there in a dead army, except for an immediate short-term conquest?
They are unreliable, at best. And once death resumes and the
natural order is restored—as I firmly believe will happen, since
the alternative is unthinkable—then the entire army will be no
longer.”

“Maybe,” the Count responded. “Maybe the
Sovereign knows something we do not, considering what happened at
Ulpheo. And maybe her purpose is so far removed from that of a
normal ruler that—oh what use is there in speculating? My lady wife
here thinks our queen’s a witch.”

“And what do
you
think?” Beltain
watched the older man with an astute gaze.

“I think there are two kinds of kings or
queens—those who rule and those who are ruled. History knows both.
The former are the tyrants and the benevolent despots who leave a
mark, while the latter are the weak nothings who also leave a mark,
or rather, a splatter, like squashed flies. Unfortunately both
kinds are messy. I think the present Sovereign, Her Brilliance, is
both a benevolent tyrant and a madwoman, and possibly something
else altogether. In the past, she has done enough for the Domain to
be remembered, but due to more recent events, she will be
remembered in ways both good and bad.”

“You are far too kind, my love,” said the
Countess D’Arvu. “Rumanar Avalais is neither. I have not yet
decided
what
she is. And what she has done to our
Leonora—”

And again the Countess went silent, while
moisture welled in her eyes.

W
hen the sun
slanted toward evening and the heavens turned deep orange and
persimmon along the western horizon, they saw before them, upon a
hill, the towering golden walls of the Sapphire Court.

No, they were not gilded, merely a bright
yellow sandstone color that reflected the light with a warm
radiance worthy of the golden citadel it contained.

Even this close to the city, the traffic was
not overwhelming on the thoroughfare, and consisted mostly of
civilians of the lower and working classes, not much different from
the peasantry of Lethe or Morphaea. One detail stood out
however—the complete lack of snow. It must have disappeared subtly
since morning as they had traveled the countryside. Or, possibly it
was gone long before, but the land itself had corrugated together
and carried some remnants along into places where they did not
belong.

Percy looked around her in curiosity, and
also in a constant state of hyper-vigilance, because now a constant
blessed silence was in her mind—she could feel only a few dead
beyond the city walls before her—indeed they had all gone to
war.

But she felt, like a butterfly puling at
her, the single death presence of the one she came to regard in her
mind as the Cobweb Bride.

“She is nearby!” Percy whispered, looking up
at Beltain. “I can feel her, beyond the walls!”

And the black knight merely gazed upon her
with a soft-eyed look of undisguised emotion that combined wonder
and adoration.

The Count D’Arvu took charge and rode
forward with his spouse, moving ahead of them, with Beltain
discreetly following on his great charger, keeping his black cloak
pulled about him to downplay his suit of armor. At the gates they
were examined only cursorily, treated as part of the D’Arvu
traveling party.

And then, they rode into the exotic wonder
of the Sapphire Court.

Sunset turned the golden roofs to liquid
fire. . . . Percy covered her eyes from the
overwhelming splendor, a perfect complement to their own Silver
Court. Except, the latter was a northern jewel of ice to this
southern jewel of flame.

The city perspective here was drawn in the
same magnificent arrow-straight design, with streets and boulevards
laid out in concentric circles or perfect parallels or
perpendiculars, by some ancient genius architect, to be seen as a
carpet of intricate symmetry from the tallest vantage points of the
citadel, the cathedrals, and the Palace of the Sun.

“Come along, no time to
waste . . .” Count D’Arvu told them, as they rode
past one of the many lesser squares, glancing around like
countrified tourists at the marvels of architecture.

In a quarter of an hour, just as twilight
grew and the street lanterns bloomed forth in rosy gilded points of
radiance, lit by diligent evening watchmen, they arrived in the
center of the citadel, before a tall, ornate brick house of at
least four stories, situated just a few blocks away from Trova
Square.

“You will share with us a supper in our home
and a brief rest,” said the Count, stopping before the front
entryway, and observing the footmen of his household approach in
haste, bowing, ready to take their horses. “And as soon as darkness
falls, we will proceed.”

Beltain nodded, though even now he never
fully let down his guard, and they were assisted by the diligent
footmen to dismount and go inside.

A
fter a nearly
silent weary meal of finely prepared yet perfectly tasteless
foodstuff, consumed in a beautifully appointed dining room that had
a lofty ceiling painted with antique frescoes, the Count asked them
to wait.

He was gone then, for at least half an hour,
while Beltain and Percy sat on a finely upholstered divan and
watched the sky turn dark blue then black outside the arching
windows. The Countess had retired to lie down meanwhile, for she
was exhausted and rather unwell after their day-long journey. But
she insisted she would be going along with them on their final
stage to the Palace.

“Do you trust them?” whispered Beltain at
some point, looking deeply into Percy’s eyes. “Please, be wary,
Percy . . . for despite their words we truly
know nothing of them or their intent—”

“Yes, I trust them . . .” she
responded gently. “The mother’s grief is true, and the father shows
honor. Everything else matters not.”

And to that he nodded, and then took her
hands and pressed them between his own warm palms, sending the sun
flowing through her veins. . . .

Eventually, the Count returned, accompanied
by a nondescript man dressed in working attire, with pockmarked
skin and a seedy appearance. The man bowed politely before the
knight, appraised him with one sharp look, and then introduced
himself as Diril.

“He will guide us through the underground
maze,” said D’Arvu. “I have worked with this man many times, and
will vouch for him.”

“Then lead on!” Beltain said, rising from
his seat, and Percy got up also.

As they walked down a marble staircase, the
Countess D’Arvu was waiting for them below, covered in a dark lace
veil and cloak. “You shall not go without me,” she insisted. “For I
must see my daughter for myself. I must be there when she is
found—”

“My dear, I am afraid the way will not be
comfortable,” her husband protested. “We shall go through filthy
dark tunnels, and—”

“I care not for filth or darkness!” the
Countess exclaimed. “Let’s go!”

And thus, they all followed Diril who took
them outside into the street. They made a turn into another street,
just before Trova Square, then entered an older venerable building
through a small side-door.

Next, there was shadowed darkness and many,
many slippery mildewed stairs going down. . . .

Their way lay through a brick-trimmed tunnel
space, consisting of a long corridor that stretched underneath the
length of the Square itself, with occasional horizontal wooden
support beams overhead, garlanded in spider silk and cobwebs. Knife
scratches and scrawlings of antique graffiti made by generations of
criminal denizens of the city’s underbelly, decorated the
bricks.

None of it had any detrimental effect on the
Countess D’Arvu who walked steadily after her husband, unafraid of
the squalor of the tunnel.

Diril walked before them all, carrying a
small candle lantern that he had lit only once they were inside.
Percy and Beltain came last, and the knight periodically moved his
gauntleted arm to the pommel of his sword, ready to act in a split
second.

The tunnel turned in different directions a
number of times, then widened into a small square room with a stone
floor covered in deep dust. There was a door, and Diril opened it
with the skill of a lock-pick, then proceeded upwards through the
narrowest stairwell imaginable, black and covered with soot.