Forget Me Not, (5 page)

He shook his head
slightly, offering her an amused smile. “You take this small matter
too..."

"Small matter?" She drew
herself up to frown at him, wishing that her veils were not so
clouded. "We are going to see the High Precept this evening whether
they have prepared the Convotion or not. You may not realize the
greatness of this slight, but I do. They should have called someone
else to the duty if they didn't want it done according to
tradition.”

He stared at her, seeming
at a loss for words. Finally he softly said, "I will inform the
High Precept of your intent."

"Indeed," she said,
stepping out of the hall and into the garden, relieved that the
conversation was over. Gardeners should not argue back, not when
you were discussing protocol rather than beans.

"The Barbarian is hardly
likely to be here as an ambassador. Spy or assassin is more like,"
he said coolly, following her.

"Obviously," she replied
keeping her voice even with a great deal of effort. How much easier
it was to go through life without noticing that anyone else was in
it. "However, if we wish to be above Barbarians, we must treat them
as we know we ought, instead of stooping to their
level."

"Do you know their level?
Do you realize how close we are to complete destruction?" His voice
came out cold, emotionless, but when she looked in his eyes, she
felt fear, his fear.

"Things that come into
existence must pass out of it."

"I know the name,
Balthaar, a general who leads his men fearlessly against us,
knowing all our ways the better to destroy us. They say that he's
killed so many Elves that he's taken on our immortality, spreading
death and terror in an endless red parade. We should kill him while
he is in our power."

She blanched at his easy
sentence to one she'd been assigned guide and protect. "If an
execution order comes, you may take him away. Until then, we
proceed with our guest according to custom. If you are
uncomfortable with the Barbarian's presence, I will ask the High
Precept to release you from your duty.”

"And leave you alone with
the calloused murderer?"

She lifted her chin. "I am
hardly defenseless."

He had the temerity to
laugh. Elsyrian laughter should hold joy and spread like a flame to
those around them. His laughter tasted of acid, eating away at all
it touched. He bowed, one hand on his heart. When he straightened,
the laughter had gone, replaced by Elven calm.

"My Lady Perr has
spoken."

"So, she has," she nodded,
passing him to the fountain. His words seemed to echo in her ears.
Murder. Destruction. All of that seemed so familiar.

"What did you do before
you were my gardener?” she asked.

"Ever since I came from
the hermitage up north. You know the Olbase,” he replied evenly
enough, but there was something off about his words. The Olbase
housed injured soldiers coaxing them back to full health. The
gardener seemed too young and mentally whole to be a retired
soldier. She couldn’t imagine being in his way when he carried his
pruning shears. If he had one of the enormous swords that the Rasha
carried... She shuddered.

She could almost see him
with a sword, dust rising around him as he smiled, sharp glistening
teeth before he spun and brought the sword down. She blinked and
the sound of metal clashing and men screaming, the smell of blood
and dirt, sweat and fear was replaced by the sound of the fountain
in the courtyard where the gardener stood calmly gazing into the
distance.

She rubbed her temples,
willing the scenes far away. She'd been asked to guide and guard
the Barbarian. So she would as long as the High Precept needed her,
even if it made her heart ache and her throat grow tight to hear a
Barbarian say her name exactly like he had.

Chapter 10

As she stood waiting with
the gardener, mixed images flitted in front of Lady Perr’s mind's
eye: screams, blood, a large sky stretched infinitely above her, a
bright blue flower crushed underfoot. The gardener spoke but the
meaning of his words eluded her. When she looked at him, his face
may as well have been carved from stone as he looked past her and
made a crusty bow.

She forced herself to
focus. She’d have to keep an eye on him to make sure the viceroy
didn’t wake up dead one morning—no, not viceroy,
ambassador.

She turned slowly and
ignored the gardener's revulsion at the figure walking towards her
down the steps. Enemy. She sidestepped away from the gardener and
looked up at the sky, irritated by the fabric that kept her from
feeling the breeze on her skin. When she realized that she was
muttering, she pressed her lips in a prim line before the Barbarian
came close enough to make out the words.

“
Viceroy. Excellent
timing. I was admiring the make of your boots. Are they this
century Barbarian? I seem to recall a similar model back in…” her
voice trailed off as he stared over her shoulder, a look of
absolute boredom on his face.

"Ambassador," he
replied.

Lady Perr stood for a
moment, embarrassment at her mistake warring with shock at the
sound of his voice. He sounded warm, like the sun-streaked land he
came from. She knew that voice with every fiber of her
being.

"Are you ready for your
Convotion with the High Precept, Ambassador?" she asked in
trembling voice.

"On my feet the finest
leather awaits the Precept's majesty."

Lady Perr stared at his
face. Barbarian humor never slid towards inane. Perhaps he was
trying to adapt to circumstances. Being given a mad host who took
you for a long dead memory couldn’t be comfortable.

"Indeed. And on my
feet..." she trailed off as she realized a smear of dried herbs was
all that she wore. She shrugged. "Excellent. Shall we go by water
or by stone?"

"Water?" he asked with a
glint that spoke of a spy assessing the lay of the land.

"You'll be happy to know
that a web of waterways connect the river to the High Palace. They
are too shallow for a ship of any size, but make transporting
supplies very feasible."

"You are too informative,"
the Barbarian said.

Lady Perr smiled blandly
at the spy. "Not at all."

"By stone," the Barbarian
said, shifting to cross black gloves over his chest.

She nodded her agreement
and turned to lead him out of the courtyard. Behind her the
Barbarian followed, shadowed by the gardener and the two Rasha in
their silver armor.

He seemed bored as he
followed, his dark Barbarian brows fixed in a dark Barbarian scowl
as she danced over the stone path as it rose higher, into the tops
of the trees. She felt an answer in each step, a thrum as her foot
touched stone and the stone touched her, suspended over the
earth.

She hummed as she moved
quickly over the stone bridges and through the tunnels of green,
where they passed trees. She very nearly forgot about the parade
behind her of Barbarian, warriors, and gardener.

“
Good evening Stallius,”
she said, greeting a statue that emerged from the shadows. “This is
my friend. He’s notorious for archery and good eyesight,” she said,
turning to make introductions to the Viceroy. She hesitated with
her hand on his sleeve. Something seemed so strange about this walk
which should be like the thousands she’d taken before. She couldn’t
remember what she was doing or why she was taking Balthaar to meet
the High Precept. She gripped the sleeve for a moment frowning
before she shrugged and let her hand slide from his arm. She went
to the statue and cocked her head before she ran her hands over the
stone bow he held. “It’s a pity that you can’t come to the
celebration, Stallius. I’ll bring you back something.”

She walked on, quietly for
a moment before she ran lightly to another statue of a beautiful
woman who resembled Hatia. “Hello, grandmother,” she said smiling
at the face which for a moment seemed to smile back. “I would like
you to meet someone. Balthaar,” she said, turning to beam at
him.

He walked placidly to the
statue, performed a perfunctory bow over the stone hand, and turned
to Hatia. “I see the resemblance,” he murmured as he brushed a hand
against the veil. “She’s very beautiful.”

She pulled away, blinking
at him in confusion. Her statues, her dreams, and her memories
should not be talking back, should not be touching her. She glanced
past him and saw the scowl of the gardener before he assumed his
placid expression that matched the other two men.

“
Come. We mustn’t be
late,” she said, not quite remembering about the Convotion, but
still determined to do her duty in spite of the shadows that
clouded her mind. They emerged from a long, twisting tunnel that
left Balthaar blinking when they emerged into the twilight. A
waterfall tumbled down rocks to their left while the intricate
stone bridge rose over the rushing water beneath their
feet.

Balthaar paused on the
bridge, soaking in the beauty of water reflecting moonlight while
Hatia, the Lady of Perr fluttered around him.

She swayed beneath the
moon, inhaling the effervescent droplets that rose around them,
like drops of moonbeams hanging in the air. She moved faster,
spinning and kicking her legs before she came down with a bustle
and rush of gauze. She spun around and felt the edge of the bridge
beneath her foot before the Barbarian caught her arm, his strong,
calloused hand holding her on the brink while his gaze pierced the
flimsy fabric that covered her face.

Her chest rose and fell as
she looked up at him, his golden eyes warm in spite of the cool
night as he gazed down at her, ignoring the fabric between them.
The two contrasted sharply with each other, one pale and
unsubstantial, the other dark and sturdy, like a tree deeply rooted
while delicate cherry blossoms floated away.

“
Lady of Perr,” the
gardener said in a disinterested monotone that spurred the woman
into motion, spinning away from Balthaar across the bridge and down
the path, away from the moonlight’s spells.

"Gardener, who do you
think the Viceroy should meet?" she asked in Barabbas. She barely
glanced at the Viceroy who walked steadily after her, muscular arms
across his chest, looking like he wanted a mace or something like
to embrace. He looked like a soldier, patiently waiting for an
irritation to dissipate.

“
Whoever is willing to
meet the Ambassador I suppose, Lady,” the gardener said, reminding
her that he didn't approve of the Barbarian and that she kept using
the wrong title.

She frowned fiercely at
the gardener, but he simply waited with his arms over his chest, in
a similar pose as the Barbarian neither of which seemed remotely
repentant. She knew perfectly well that her fame came far more from
being a madwoman than a lady. Dancing randomly along the sky stones
lacked dignity, but the two of them had enough dignity for the
entire world.

“
Well then, Viceroy,
you’re in luck. All the young ladies are certain to want to meet
you.  When you dance be careful not to trod on any toes. The
toes of our people are very delicate.”

"Ambassador," he grunted,
but that was all. Good. Grunting was exactly what one expected of a
Barbarian. They continued on their way, passing the statues rising
out of darkness in silence.

“
I suppose you'll lead the
dance,” the Barbarian said as they passed beside an extremely
fragrant white blooming tree that smelled too sweet. Sickly sweet.
Lady Perr wrinkled her nose. She preferred the grunting.

“
Dancing is for young
ladies,” she murmured.

The barbarian grunted as
he raised an eyebrow at her, reminding her of the spinning a moment
before and his steadying touch. She walked sedately as a mourner
for a moment while her skin warmed from embarrassment. If one was
going to be mad, it was best if one didn’t have lapses of sanity to
embarrass oneself.

“
I would prefer not to
dance with young ladies.” Balthaar said sounding grouchy, like a
battle- hardened captain who’d been sent to dance when he should be
fighting.

She looked over her
shoulder at him and caught in a flash of glowlight a frown that
looked more concerned than grumpy. She raised her hand as if to
brush the frown away then fisted her fingers, forcing herself to
behave as a diplomat should.

In the close darkness the
smell of cimarron seemed to bloom from the Barbarian like a
fragrant crushed herb, pungent and spicy. Her heart thumped like a
drum, calling the warriors home.

The trail of lights grew
closer together as they neared the High Palace. Lady Perr
straightened up and adjusted the gauze around her face. Maybe the
gardener was right about not springing the Barbarian on the High
Precept. She felt reluctant to take the Viceroy in to be passed
around by the ladies with their lovely arms. Who was she trying to
protect, them or him? She muttered words that not even she could
quite make out, a curse or a prayer, maybe the two mingling on her
cool breath into the night air.

Chapter 11

She danced and sang ahead
of them, sometimes in sing-song Elsyrian then switching to Barabbas
with the accent of a Diplomat. Balthaar had picked the way least
known to his kind but instead of mapping out the paths, he watched
his guide, who appeared utterly caught up in her own aimless
meanderings, darting here and there to snatch a flower, cradling it
to her face before spinning then flinging it out, past the edge of
the stone walkway to plummet to the ground, far below.