"Well, my dear Meliara, that depends," Flauvic said, with
that hateful smile.
Was the sound louder?
"Maybe I'll change my mind," I mumbled, and I felt
Vidanric's quick glance. But I didn't dare to look at him.
"Will you save Branaric and Nimiar from being smashed if
I—" I couldn't say it, even to pretend.
Flauvic's gold-lit eyes narrowed. "Why the sudden affect of
cowardice?"
The sound was now like muted drums, though it could be the
rushing of my own blood in my ears. But the scintillation had
intensified, and I felt a tingle in my feet, the faintest
vibration.
Flauvic looked up sharply, and the diversion, brief as it
was, was lost. But it had been enough.
"For time," I said. "Look outside."
Flauvic shoved past us and ran in a few quick strides to the
doors. Vidanric and I were a step behind. Meeting our eyes was
the strangest sight I believe ever witnessed at Athanarel:
Standing in a ring, reaching both ways as far as we could see,
was what appeared at first glance to be trees. The
scintillation in the air had increased so much that the air had
taken on the qualities of light in water, wavering and
gleaming. It was hard to see with any clarity, but even so it
was obvious what had happened—what the mysterious breezes
just before dawn had been.
By the hundreds, from all directions, the Hill Folk had come
to Athanarel.
Flauvic's mouth tightened to a line of white as he stared at
me. "This is
your
work!" And before I could answer,
his hand moved swiftly, grasping my wrist. I tried to pull
free—I heard Vidranric rip his blade out of its
sheath—then Flauvic yanked me to him with a vicious twist
so that my arm bent up behind me, and my other was pinioned
between our bodies. A hot line of pain pricked me just under
the ear: the knife.
With me squirming and struggling, Flauvic backed into the
Throne Room again. "Tell them to vanish," he said to Vidanric.
"Or she dies."
"Don't do it—" I yelled, but the arm around me
tightened and my breath whooshed out.
Flauvic backed steadily, right to the edge of the dais.
Vidanric paced forward, sword in hand.
The moaning sound increased and became more distinct. The
rubbing of wood against hollow wood drums had slowly altered
into a rhythmic tapping, the deliberate thunder of Hill Folk
magic, a sound deep with menace.
For a moment no one moved, or spoke. The thunder
intensified.
"Tell them
now
!
"
Flauvic yelled, his voice
cracking.
And the pain in the side of my neck sent red shards across
my vision; warmth trickled down my neck. I gasped for breath,
then suddenly I was free, and I fell onto my hands and knees on
the dais. The knife clattered on the marble next to me.
I heard the sound of boot heels on stone, once, twice, and
arms scooped me up as the ground trembled.
I flung my head back against Vidanric's chest in time to see
Flauvic raise his arms and cry a series of strange words. A
greenish glow appeared between his hands, then shot out toward
us—but it diminished before reaching us and evaporated
like fog before the sun. The air between Flauvic and us now
wavered, and through it we saw Flauvic twist, his arms still
raised, his head thrown back and his golden hair streaming
down.
Loud cracks and booms shook the building, and with a
flourish of bright light, Flauvic's limbs grew and hardened,
reaching and branching. Down through the marble of the dais,
roots ramified from his feet. His legs and body twisted and
grew, magnificent with red and gold highlights. And with a
resounding smash, the branches above breached the high ceiling
and sent mortar and stone and glass raining harmlessly down
around us.
Abruptly the sound disappeared. Movement ceased. We remained
where we were, looking up at a great goldenwood tree where once
the throne had been.
Behind us we heard a cough, and we both turned, me dizzily,
to see one of the liveried door attendants fall to her knees,
sobbing for breath. A moment later she fell full length into
what appeared to be sleep. Her companion slumped down and
snored. On the floor near the great tree, the remains of the
Duke of Grumareth had turned into clear stones.
Beyond the doors, the street and the gates were empty. The
Hill Folk had vanished as mysteriously as they had come.
A shuddering sigh of relief, not my own, brought my
attention home and heartward. I shut my eyes, smiling, and
clung with all my strength to Vidanric as kisses rained on my
hair, my eyes, and finally—lingeringly—on my
lips.
The duel was over, and we had won.
AFTERWORD
IT HAS TAKEN ME VERY NEARLY A YEAR TO WRITE down this
record. In fact, today is my Name Day. As my adventures began
on that day two years ago, it seems appropriate to end the
story of my life thus far on its anniversary.
Will there be more adventures to write down? I don't know.
Vidanric thinks I am the kind of person who is destined to be
in the midst of great events despite herself. Flauvic's mighty
tree in the Throne Room is silent testimony to how great events
can overtake even the provincial denizens of a small, unknown
kingdom like Remalna. Word of the tree, and how it got there,
certainly spread beyond our borders, because visitors from far
beyond the empire have traveled here just to see it.
Who is to say if any among these observers have been the
ones who trained Flauvic in his magic? The Hill Folk do not
easily take lives. Flauvic might well continue to grow there,
silent witness to all that is good and bad in government, for
centuries. I suspect that the Hill Folk somehow know how to
commune with him, and it is my fancy, anyway, that someday,
should he suffer a change of heart, they will release him.
Unless, of course, those mysterious sorcerers from whom he
learned appear first, and we awaken one morning to find the
tree gone.
But that's for the future—generations ahead, I trust.
What I need to finish up is the past.
By the time everyone in Athanarel, from the highest to the
lowest status, had woken from the groggy slumber they'd fallen
into when released from that spell, Vidanric and I had had a
chance to comb through Merindar House. We found very little of
interest. The Marquise had taken her papers with her, and
Flauvic apparently kept all his plotting in his head. What we
did find were his magic books, which we took away and locked
safely in an archive.
After that, events progressed swiftly. On midsummer Branaric
and Nimiar were married amid great celebration. They withdrew
to Tlanth soon after, leaving me behind to lay down the stones,
one by one, for a new life-path—one I wanted, one that
gave me new things to learn every day. But from time to time,
usually when the wind rose, I would stop and look westward and
think about roaming freely over my beloved mountains, hearing
the distant windharps and reed pipes. I've promised myself that
when I have children, they will spend more than one summer up
there, running barefoot through the ancient mosses and dancing
through soft summer nights to the never-ending music of the
Hill Folk.
But here I am again, looking ahead.
Except there is little enough left to tell. At least, no
events of great import, save one, which I will come to anon.
The days passed swiftly in a series of little happinesses, each
forging a bright link in the living chain with which Vidanric
and I bound ourselves into a partnership. One can imagine how
many nights were needed to talk through, until dawn, to lay to
rest all the shadows of past misunderstanding. And of course
the business of government had to be carried on, for no longer
were our lives our own.
There were no more thrones in the Royal Hall, not with that
awe-inspiring monument to what can happen when ambition goes
astray. We sit on cushions, as do our petitioners—and the
Court, which in turn caused an alteration in Court fashions. In
fact, there is less constraint of formality—a loosening
of masks, and a corresponding increase in laughter—which
Vidanric insists has been like a fresh breeze blowing through
the ancient buildings, and which he attributes directly to my
influence.
Perhaps. I still wander sometimes from room to room in the
Royal Wing here and think back on the days when I slept in the
kitchen of our crumbling old castle at Erkan-Astiar, wearing my
single suit of clothes, and I marvel at how far my life has
come—and wonder where it might yet lead.
There is left to tell only that on New Year's Day was
Vidanric's and my wedding, and the coronation. I don't need to
describe those because the heralds and scribes wrote them up
exhaustively, right down to the numbers and quality of jewels
on each guest's clothing. The rituals are long, and old, and I
felt like an effigy most of that day. I still can't remember
most of it. The resulting celebrations—a much more
pleasant business!—went on for a month, after which the
Prince and Princess withdrew to Renselaeus, to take up once
again the quiet threads of their own lives.
And so I come to the end of my tale. I look through my
window at the early buds of spring and think of placing this
little book on the shelf here with all the other memoirs of
queens and kings past. Who is reading my words now? Are you a
great-granddaughter many years ahead of me? Ought I to offer
you advice? Somehow it doesn't seem appropriate to detail for
you how to properly go about organizing a revolt—and
likewise it seems kind of silly to exhort you to look, if you
should suddenly start receiving mysterious letters of
courtship, for possible inkstains on the fingers of the fellow
you quarrel with the most.
So let me end with the wish that you find the same kind of
happiness, and laughter, and love, that I have found, and that
you have the wisdom to make them last.