Authors: Vera Nazarian
She tensed, thinking,
It is him, Vorn
.
To the back of her bed, one of the tapestries moved outward and to the side on the right wall. More scratching.
She watched it in wicked silence, ready for anything, her fingers clutching nervously at the silk bedding.
The hanging moved on the wall, and a panel slid out. From behind it came a man, cowled in a hood.
She opened her mouth to scream, but the strange gesture of his upraised hand stilled her just in time.
“
Your Grace!” came a whisper of a somehow familiar voice, and Deileala recognized him then, with a great swell of joy, this man who had lazy secretive eyes, who had casually lain with her upon more than one occasion—the assassin lord.
Behind him, another face peeked into the chamber, also vaguely familiar. Where had she seen this face—ah, this was the irritating woman bodyguard who had stood at Lord Vaeste’s side. Only, what was she, of all people, doing here?
Before Deileala allowed her thoughts to further tumble, Elasirr came forward, putting a single gloved finger up to his lips in a gesture of silence. He then motioned for her to move, and Deileala did not need to be told twice.
She stepped daintily toward him, and suddenly flung herself forward, wrapped her hands about his neck, hugging him tight, and whispered, “Thank the gods! I am more than happy to see you, my beautiful assassin!”
Elasirr grinned down at her, easily producing his perpetual smirk that Ranhé came to recognize now for the insolent front that he put on before those who did not know his true role.
“
Come, Your Grace” was all he whispered, putting a finger against her lips and effectively silencing any more of her words.
But the Regentrix was not as easily put off. “Where are you taking me?” she whispered. “And what of Hestiam? Or Lirr, or Barsadt?”
But in reply she was pulled into the safe darkness of the secret passageway, gleefully thinking of the guards outside her door that would never know. And if they did, it would be far too late.
In the passage, it was explained to her that her chamber was the only one accessible in this manner. To Elasirr’s great regret, it had turned out that all the other prisoners were either too closely guarded, or too far from the network of passages. And Hestiam himself—he explained to Deileala—was being held in a room with two guards constantly in his presence.
“
We will come back for the others separately. For now, at least one of the Grelias is free,” said Elasirr. “Frankly, we need to have your presence to give focus to the resistance.”
“
Resistance?” echoed Deileala weakly, in surprise, as they moved quickly through a short inner corridor.
“
Yes,” replied Elasirr firmly. “Now I will ask you to shut your pretty mouth and keep it so, Your Grace, until I tell you it is safe.”
From the outside, through the inner walls, they could hear definite Qurthe voices in the Palace corridors. And they were approaching.
One of them Deileala would know in her dreams.
“
Vorn!” she gasped, but in that instant, Elasirr put a gloved hand against her mouth, and they froze into silence.
And in the dark, Ranhé felt her hand involuntarily sliding to the hilt of one of her hidden daggers.
T
he most difficult part was getting the Regentrix out of the Palace unnoticed. Once outside in the Inner Gardens, they had to lower her down slowly with a rope, against a long steep overhang of Inner Wall. Surprisingly, she understood the gravity of their situation, and remained cooperative, without even crying out when she scraped her scantily clad knees and elbows against the stones, and landed on the ground painfully, nearly twisting her ankle.
At some point, true evening began, for the sun-disk had sunk out of sight beyond the filigree horizon.
The Outer Gardens, thrown into sudden utter blackness.
Not a single torch burning here, on this remote side of the walls. Even the guards were remote, for this section of wall should have been unpassable.
They stood, all three of them, on the ground, pressing close to the Inner Walls, three shapes of darkness. All they had to do now was find their way back through the Outer
Dirvan
toward the same sewer trapdoor, somewhere near a gravel path.
The dark shape that was Elasirr leaned close to Ranhé’s ear and barely mouthed, “Now would be a good time for you to enhance the darkness around us. I saw what you did on our way here, how you created a black
nothing
which protected me from the Qurthe’s sight. Whatever the hell it is that you did—do that again.”
And Ranhé nodded silently, and focused, seeing the dark unfurl from within her like a cool soft safe thing.
No one is here . . . Nothing.
And under the strange blanket of translucence—a mere thickening of twilight, a change in the gradation of shadow in the place they occupied—they began to move carefully through the pitch-black gardens.
Such thick unpassable dark it was that the Regentrix continuously tripped, and cried out softly. Finally Elasirr had to lead her by the hand, while Ranhé brought up the rear.
“
I have no shoes!” Deileala hissed at one point. “They took all my shoes away. I’m doing the best I can under these filthy circumstances!”
“
Only a little longer, Your Grace . . .” said Ranhé, while her thoughts continuously wrought the black fog around them.
After some time in the darkness they came once again upon the dimly visible silhouette of the old Mausoleum.
“
Ah, the Tomb,” whispered Deileala, panting with uncustomary exertion. “I simply need to rest! The floor is smooth cool marble here, I remember. . . . Just give me a moment.”
And saying that, she limped over to the shallow steps of the structure, and sat down on the top stair, to examine the wounded soles of her feet.
Elasirr followed her, then entered the domed overhang of the Mausoleum, and paused before the actual centerpiece casket. He stood, arms folded at his chest, and stared before him into the shadowed dark obscuring the grand stone pillar dais.
Ranhé came up the steps slowly behind them. She watched the Regentrix fuss over her stubbed toes. And then, something also prompted her to approach the casket in the center.
They stood, both of them, observing the darkness. Overhead, the sky was an abysmal void, but the crescent sliver of the moon had newly arisen, and poured a sickly almost phosphorescent glow upon the pale polished marble, falling from up above through the skylight. From there, it cast a circular spot of weak glimmer upon the glass of the casket, and the face of the dead King.
Ranhé felt herself inordinately drawn to it, to the face. She could barely make it out from where she stood, because of the railing and the gaping space between the dais, and could only see a pallid blotch.
And then she started somewhat, because Elasirr began to speak, softly, and she had not heard such sadness in him before.
“
Here lies the last Monteyn,” he said. “What mockery, for us to see what we may never have!”
“
I am rested now,” said Deileala meanwhile, standing up shakily. “We can continue. . . .”
But he appeared not to hear her.
“
He only sleeps, they say. He is not dead really, but is stilled in a condition near death, Stasis . . .” muttered Elasirr, under his breath.
There was a wild light in his eyes.
As the crescent glowed down upon them in gray dullness, Ranhé and Deileala watched—in horrible fascination—the assassin move suddenly, as he neared the railing, and then deftly climbed it and leaped across the separation, landing upon the marble carved border of the dais, near the glass casket itself.
He leaned for an instant, pausing, hugging the glass with his hands, as he stood precariously upon the edge.
“
What are you doing, my lord?” gasped Ranhé.
But Elasirr remained, in horrible silence, staring at the face of the King, leaning over him.
The skylight poured weak light upon him, upon the smooth glass. Reflections of the moon stared back at Elasirr, and he thought for a moment that he saw shadows cast by his own eyes, their fever glow.
There was a sudden stillness within him—a madness coupled with a chill and a heat, both rising simultaneously. He felt he could not breathe, as he looked upon the wax face-mask that was the pale skin of the dead man. The pale shadow of stubble on his cheeks, almost living.
“
So real . . .” whispered Elasirr. “He is—”
“
It’s no time for philosophy, Elas,” said Deileala, wiping her forehead tiredly, and beginning to shiver in the cold evening wind—for she was wearing only a fine shift.
“
My lord?” said Ranhé again.
But he ignored them both, leaning over the corpse of Monteyn. He stared intensely, frozen by the weight of a new decision that took form before him, even as a part of him was in terror at the very thought.
“
What are you waiting for, my dear?” mocked Deileala. “Maybe he’s the answer we’re looking for. Go ahead and break the glass, and just maybe our beloved antique will wake? Or, do you think I should go and kiss him on his cold lips?” She snorted, then continued, “I am freezing cold, and I would like for you to finish rescuing me now, my pretty Bilhaar. Come!”
Only Ranhé, sensitive to the nature of his look, the moment of choice before him, saw it coming when it did—the blow.
Elasirr straightened suddenly, strung tense as an arrow, still balancing on the edge of the dais. His right hand slipped to his long knife and drew it from its holder.
“
Elasirr!” Ranhé cried out, just as he raised the knife, putting both hands on the hilt, his head upraised, weak moonlight sliding over his stark face, his eyelids closed. . . .
And then he struck down. It was a precise, violent, perfect move of hand combat, the point of the blade hitting the glass of the casket just in the center balance point.
His downstroke was swift and clever and forceful enough to break the glass, yet was cut short so as not to harm the body below.
The glass shattered.
Deileala gave a weak scream, putting her hands to her face, unbelieving, while Ranhé found herself in a clenched position, ready to spring forward, and yet could not move.
The crescent glowed down upon them. It glowed upon the broken shards—they reflected a million miniature crescents. It glowed upon the stilled silhouette of the man standing with his head hung low, a long dagger lowered at his side.
Air had rushed in to sweep the ancient skin, pale and long-dead, and untouched for such an impossible span of time. Evening wind moved upon the cold cheeks, the tendrils of the dead man’s brilliant pale hair, the antique metal armor.
A silent pause of interminable measure.
And then Elasirr went insane. Breathing hard, leaning forward, he pulled at the broken glass with his gloved fingers, started to clear the fragments, throwing them all around into the abyss on all the sides of the dais, using his dagger to pry at the glass that was still standing, chipping away carefully at the exposed area around the face, for here the glass must not land and harm the dead man’s skin.
“
Oh Blessed Rainbow! What have you done!” whispered Deileala. Her normally confident look was replaced with genuine fear. “It’s a sacrilege! I can’t believe you did this! Nothing warranted such a thing! What have you done, madman!”
Ranhé meanwhile, still silent, her mind stilled by the cold reality of what had just happened, moved forward slowly, and then, also climbed the railing of the fence. And then, she jumped the abyss, and landed on the dais next to Elasirr. Stilling her breath, gripping herself from the inside, she allowed her gloved fingers to reach forward. And then she touched him also, the sacred metal armor of he who had lain undisturbed for over two centuries.
“
All right,” Elasirr was muttering, his voice strained, angry, alien, as he continued to break off the glass. “Awake, Monteyn! Awake, our King! Come back to us, breathe, damn you!”
Ranhé reached forward, and started to clear the glass on the other side.
“
Here . . . Help me . . .” Elasirr pointed to her, and she saw that his face was terrible.
She continued to touch the shards, to pick off carefully, while her gaze was afraid to slide higher, to actually look at
him
who lay before her, only inches away.
Soon, they were done, and, with Deileala beginning to sob nearby, Elasirr turned his feverish attention to the body before them.
Removing his gloves, he paused, breathing hard, and then reached out with his bare fingers to feel the dead one’s cheek.
It was cold.
“
Take off your gloves!” whispered Elasirr furiously, turning to Ranhé. “Quickly, touch him, yes, right here! Do you—feel anything?”
She obeyed, and put her trembling fingers forward to touch the skin of history.
There was a moment of inner shock, of understanding. Not so much of any living sense, just a feeling of horror combined with awe, with a stilling, forever-preserved moment of intensity.
She had touched him, the dead King of Tronaelend-Lis, the legend.