Authors: Vera Nazarian
“
Raise the price, Elas!” wailed Molhveth Beis, her warm eyes frightened out of their ordinary kind gentility. “Good sirs! Would anyone please—”
“
Mother!” whispered Lixa like a snake, without changing her expression and barely moving her lips. “It is unseemly, the way you—”
Nilmet felt a twinge of pity. The fear of the assassins was genuine in the old woman.
Jirve Lan looked around the room in nervous anticipation, seeing only the merchant finishing his second course of dinner leisurely and getting ready to retire upstairs, and Nilmet with that scrawny sexless female seated at the far table. What the hell was she anyway?
The one newly hired man, Pheyl Milhas, standing to the side, was beginning to look as if he was reconsidering his decision.
“
My offer stands, until morning, to anyone who is willing,” spoke Elasand then, calmly. The last glimpse he had of the freewoman in the corner showed a far greater indifference on her part than seemed natural under the circumstances. She was working so hard at it that he was beginning to have hopes after all.
“
My lady, Aunt,” he said. “The two of you best retire for the night now.”
And as the noblewomen rose obediently, too worn out with the events of the day to even argue, Jirve Lan hurried to “escort” them personally to the bedchamber, calling servants on the way.
Nilmet chuckled. “If only Master Jirve was hirable, I’m sure he’d be willing to perform both jobs. I never did ask him how well he handles the sword, if at all.”
And suddenly he remembered what Ranhé had said earlier.
“
Freewoman, weren’t you just telling me that you were traveling to the City for hire? I notice a sword there, at your side. Why don’t you consider this offer?”
* * *
Postulate Six: Rainbow is Pain.
* * *
T
he young boy stood before a great monolithic statue of precious gray stone and metal, its fifty-foot bulk representing the likeness of a god. All around, the dimly illuminated Temple swept upwards into eternity, resting on doric columns of stark granite.
The boy looked about him, his eyes oddly unaccustomed to the natural illumination produced by torches. Their colorless gray fire flickered low on the walls, but left the immense ceiling a shadow-mystery. Everything stood bland, single-hued, gold and silver and granite distinguished only by the fine texture of surfaces. And in places winked the small gray suns that were the finely faceted jewels of smoky hue, exploding into light when the torches caught on their razor facets.
He looked about him and for a moment wondered what would happen if a
color
monochrome, like the one in his bedchamber back in
Dirvan
, were to be lit here. The one in his bedroom happened to be of an ultimate pale
blue
hue, and really was not what he might have preferred to have as his own. It was so cold, so utterly chill, the feeling that he got when he sat in his bedchamber.
Chill.
He looked at the great god before him, Alhveh Himself, the god of Empty Skies and Death. The statue, boldly hewn of granite, was of a man-shape in elaborate stone folds of clothing, all details of Him merely suggested at by geometric flow, except for His Face and His Hands, which were exquisite, and covered by a thin layer of precious metal. In the irregular torchlight those parts gleamed.
Alhveh wore the Face of a beautiful cold man. And His Hands, detailed elegant and powerful—each finger exquisitely formed on a grand scale—His Hands were strangely harsh yet gentle. For, one great Hand was slightly extended forward, palm upwards, in a gesture either of receptivity or of offering, while the other was clenched in a fist of locked power.
The boy gazed up, straining to see the Face and simultaneously ignore the Hands. For, somehow They frightened him in Their ambiguity, while the Face, though cold, was open to him, and therefore to be comprehended.
From where he was, at the very base of the statue, he could only see the chin and the fine flaring nostrils of the god, while the brows and forehead and the ambiguous flowing stone hair ended fifty feet high and far into the shadow.
Lord Alhveh . . . It is I again.
So bland, so passive on the surface, in actuality his very thought trembled.
You can hear me, can You not, lord? I know You don’t like to answer directly into my head, but—I know that someday, yes, I will hear from You. Yes?
I know it’s not time yet. When it will be time, You will tell me. And I will know, yes.
And since as yet there was silence from the god, the boy—knowing and expecting nothing else, really—continued standing passively, blankly, his outer shell of apathy unbroken.
From behind him, someone called. An old unsteady voice. “Your Grace, Heir Lissean!”
And when the boy turned, seeing the familiar old priest, the man said kindly, “What brings you yet once again here, my lord?”
“
Good day to you, Priest Nestre. I’ve come to contemplate the god Alhveh. My studies for today are over, so this is my own, free time.”
“
Ah, of course,” said the old priest. The same three words as always. He looked at the young child-man before him, softening and for a moment forgetting that this was anything more than a boy. But the child’s precocious bearing and serious tone (not to mention the silk clothing and glittering seal-ring on his small thin hands) did not fail to remind that this one was a prince of Grelias, and the Regent Heir.
The boy-prince came here regularly. Old Nestre took notice of him earlier, but began to speak to him only after seeing that Lissean was here obviously of his own free will, and not due to some conventional duty placed on him by his elders. He would come in, almost creeping, silently, and stand beneath the god’s statue, sometimes almost an hour, in an autistic state that never quite approached that what the priest was used to seeing as worship, at least from others. And then, just as silently, he would leave, never having spoken words of prayer out loud, never having bought a sacrificial candle to place at the god’s feet.
When the first time he was approached by the priest, the boy turned cold, clear, haughty eyes on him, quite unlike what Nestre expected in that instant. And he merely said that he was here to “contemplate Alhveh.” His voice had been measured, adult, and its control chilled the old priest.
But from then on, the prince took polite notice of him and greeted him regularly. And gradually, he would come to talk to him, at last bestowing trust, so that the priest began to know his reasons for coming here, or at least, to guess at them.
For, why would a young boy come to visit such a god as Alhveh? Were there not more appropriate, brighter deities to serve, for a boy his age, than this Shadowy One? And why Serve at all? Nestre remembered his own halfhearted apprenticeship when he was that age, his desire for other things, the living ones. His apprenticeship to this priesthood had come more out of necessity than piety. Only later did he come to deepen in his understanding, to really see the nature of this god. . . .
“
So, Your Grace,” spoke the old priest. “Has the god spoken to you today?”
“
Not quite, Lord Priest . . .” Lissean’s words came impeccable, polite. He never faltered in what he wanted to say, even if uttering the words hurt him to the quick.
Just as he had not faltered that one time, when, looking into the old man’s expectant eyes, he had said the one thing that the priest himself would’ve had difficulty in saying:
“
They tell me I have the White Plague, the same thing my Father died of when I was too young to know him. It is the disease of lords, one that runs in our line, priest. You have heard of it, I assume. As the disease progresses, one grows paler, for the blood becomes anemic, thinner. Eventually there is an onset of such weakness that one can no longer move. . . . And one is pale, pale as death, pale as that thing called
white
. And then—but I’ll not speak anymore. I am not quite so pale myself. Not yet. Truly, I should be proud to be dying of such an ailment. But—I only want to hear Alhveh Himself speak to me and tell me
why
. Why must it be
I
, of all people.”
When he had said it that one time, there was
emotion
in the boy’s eyes, a boiling pot of it. Since then, not a word. And not a single feeling in his gaze. But the priest knew it was unnecessary. Never would they forget what was uttered once. To
face it
once was enough.
And now, the old man would play along, play the pretense game, ask the boy-prince. It had become a game with them, to ask whether that day the god had spoken, and to give the answer “no, not quite.”
For it seemed that if ever the lord of Empty Skies and Death made His voice heard, that would be the
end
of certain things. The end of that final tentative hope that nestled in Lissean like the wings of a summer moth.
“
I will go now, Priest Nestre,” said Lissean. “Good day.”
He turned then, and walked quickly, slipping away like a shadow, out of the great hueless Temple.
“
Good day to you, Heir Lissean,” replied the old priest, looking at the receding figure, and hearing not even a soft echo of his footsteps against the marble floor. Only eerie dusk and silence.
He was a shadow indeed then, this boy Heir, who would never live to be Heir of the Regent. For only shadows left no echoes in their wake. And only the dead put the heart into silence.
* * *
A
t first Ranhé froze. Elasand, talking with Pheyl Milhas on the other side of the room, watched her from the corner of his eye.
The woman is odd, no doubt,
he thought,
with a pride beyond her apparent condition. But I have seen her fight effectively. Which is more than I can claim for the others
.
“
Master Nilmet,” Ranhé said then, smiling lightly. “A mere presence of a blade hardly means it’ll be used. I carry it as a deterrent against attack, and I am rather unreliable with it.”
“
Indeed?” said Nilmet with a shadow smile. “There’s no need to put yourself down.”
“
I wouldn’t dream of doing that.”
She is perverse
. . . .
Elasand slowly made his way, Pheyl at his side, in their direction.
Layers upon convoluted layers of perverse pride. Oh, I know her, yes. Like myself
.
“
Well, suit yourself.” Nilmet shrugged. “Except that seventy
dahr
is far too great a price not to consider.”
“
Why not take it yourself?”
Nilmet smiled gently. “Oh, I couldn’t. I was only joking there. You don’t eat meat, and I don’t wield a blade. Not even in self-defense. It’s my philosophy, shall we say.”
“
Somehow, I overheard your words,” said Elas, pausing before their table. He nodded a greeting at Nilmet—and for a bizarre moment Ranhé thought that the look that passed between them was that of old acquaintances. But then his glance went straight to Ranhé.
For an instant, silence. Then she looked up at Elas, a contained gaze, and her mouth was smiling faintly. “Your pardon, my lord?”
Curiously, in that moment, the first thought that came to him, almost superstitiously, was to make sure of the expression in her eyes. Yes, he saw then, there was nothing out of the ordinary, no secret in her pale irises. Instead, they were almost
too
bland. Whatever happened to that spark of quick brightness, like the forest fox, which he’d once seen there?
“
You were discussing my offer, freewoman, were you not?”
“
He was, not I.” She shrugged it off. “I repeat, I am not suited for the job.”
It was as though she laughed in his face.
He made every word meaningful. “Come now. My judgment tells me you
would
do as well as any other.”
Don’t think I underestimate the service that you’ve done
. He was willing her to read his mind.
“
Indeed, my lord, you say this to a stranger whom you know nothing about.”
“
I know that you wear a sword,” he said.
“
A sword,” she echoed. “Why, it might be but a blunt stick, part of a jester’s costume, a traveling player’s prop.”
“
Or it might be steel.”
“
Even so. You’d trust me to guard you and yours where others refuse? Really. You think I’m mad, to tangle with Bilhaar?” She made a delicate gesture with the wrist, and looked away, rolling her eyes like a buffoon.
Mad she is indeed, and crafty. The fox is enjoying herself. I believe she wants not so much for me to raise the price, as to see me ask her more than once
.
“
So your final word is—”
“
My lord, my final word is that it’s time for me to get up and go to my sleeping place. I need no gold, nor your
silver
.” And she indeed got up. He read the stressed meaning in the last word, and thought of the pouch of silver lying upon the black garments of a corpse.
The lying bitch. You’re down to your last coppers. Maybe indeed I shouldn’t have insisted thus on paying you, back there on the road, or you wouldn’t have bristled so
.