The Rose of Sarifal (34 page)

“All die,” he whispered. “Hot blood mixing in shadow and black mud, except for you. This is what Araithe tells me. Why is that? Tell me why.”

On one side of the smoky guardroom, lit only by a plate of charcoal on an iron tripod, the drow captain
stood with the priestess behind him, the young handmaiden of Lolth. With his left hand he held her by the forearm. On the other side of the stone room, Amaranth and the wolf and the watersoul genasi, and Lukas also holding onto her forearm, until she drew her arm away.

“Too late,” whispered the drow. “Araithe sent me to bring you back. To bring you back and kill the rest, press their blood out in the dark. Because I have not done this, do not think I pity you.”

The little room was full, but he spoke as if it were empty save for him and her, as if even the whimpering girl he held fast by the forearm did not exist. “Let their blood flow in the dark,” he repeated. Then he smiled. Or at least, he twisted his black, thin lips in an approximation. “Lady, the citadel is not a bright or healthy place for you. I believe you will not thrive there or be glad. You would not shine there like a jewel or a seam of silver.”

Over the past hour, Amaranth had come to much the same conclusion. Standing erect in the low, smoky room, she felt too exhausted to be frightened. She had left her refuge on Moray Island with mixed feelings; part anger and sulky spite, to see her work there disparaged and destroyed. Part longing for home, and to be with her own kind. Part heartsick with the transience of mortal creatures. And partly from a sense of frustrated destiny, which she had used to muffle any fears she had for her reception.

Now her fears were more than realized, and now she had felt the sting of her sister’s malice, her nephew’s
selfishness and bloated arrogance. Yes, they had humiliated her and shamed her, and she had found the experience … exhilarating. Frozen in place, she had willed Lukas to look at her, and he had turned his stupid mortal eyes away. But maybe it took shame to set her free. Cheeks burning, she had willed them all to look at her, while at the same time she was thinking: Is this all you have for me? I am Princess Amaranth leShay, the Yellow Rose of Sarifal, untouched by mortal laws.

In this way and in this way only she was like the other members of her family. When they were struggling and scrounging in the grass under her feet, she had felt her power over them. For ten years in the wilderness she had built a fortress of virtue and rectitude, and the gods had plundered it, knocked down her walls. Now she was home.

She said nothing, but she raised her chin, staring down the drow captain, her cheeks red with shame. For the first time she felt the permanence of her endless life, in which one day or ten years was as nothing. These other creatures in the room with her, they were as shadows in the smoky air.

If the drow understood anything of what she was thinking, he gave no sign. He grimaced, hissed, and expelled his breath as if in pain. “By the black Lady Araushnee, I fear you. Weak as you are, weak as dry dust, I believe I see in you the fall of leShay. Already the knights of the Llewyrr have left the boundaries of Synnoria. They are riding through the darkness and the
light, hoping to find you and put you on the crystal throne in Karador. But my pact is not with you. It is with your sister and Prince Araithe. Tell me, if you were queen of Sarifal, would you let me bring my people from the Underdark, my daughters and my sons, to walk under the night sky? Would you let us build a temple to our goddess here in Winterglen?”

The princess did not lie. For half a minute the drow captain studied her face, before he stuck out his black tongue. “I did not think so. Ten years ago Araithe sent me to bring you back, because you had almost come of age to serve his purpose. I lost you in the highlands at Crane Point. Too late to fix that. If I give you to the prince, if I give you to the queen, they will kill each other—no mistake. Same result. And then what happens to me? Araithe has promised me Winterglen and the citadel, all of it, when he moves to Karador after his mother’s death.

“Not that he longs for that,” he continued moodily, lowering his head, staring into the glowing brazier. “He would destroy anyone who touched a hair of her head. He is a dutiful … son, that way.”

His voice, despite its harshness, was so soft that Amaranth had to strain to hear. In these last murmurings, she imagined it had passed beyond the range of human ears, and that he spoke to her only or to the wolf. Now he spoke a little louder, “Aah, I must send you away. Or I will take back the head of one of you and say the rest escaped. No, but what a failure that would be. Ah—no.” His face twisted with frustration. “All of you must
leave me. All of you must go. My daughter will show you—Amaka will show you the way. Go to Synnoria, to Chrysalis, and find your knights, and raise your rebellion. That is the only chance for you. Mark you, when I meet you again, and lead the dark elves into battle, I will do your family’s bidding, I will promise you. Whatever they ask, I will do it. If they want you cut apart so they can share you, that is what I will do. Heart on one side, bowels on the other. Living head on one side, living womb on the other. I will avenge years of failure. Remember that. Remember what I say, if in the future you are tempted to hope for better things. The drow will always choose the winning side.”

I
N
S
YNNORIA

B
UT IN
H
ARROWFAST, IN THE MOUNTAINS ABOVE
Synnoria, in a council chamber cut out of the rock, things weren’t going well. Irritated and distracted, Suka lounged on a stone seat that had been carved for someone many times her size, one of a semicircular row that ran along the west side of the chamber, away from the action, yet not so far away that she felt comfortable falling asleep on the yellow cushions, or picking her nose, or anything like that. Below her, at the bottom of the stepped floor, Ughoth and Marabaldia sat at a stone table, side by side, representing the fomorians. Opposite them were Lord Mindarion and several other knights from Chrysalis. Mindarion himself, though he occupied the seat of honor, was scarcely part of the proceedings, because of the damage he had sustained in the fight with the darkwalker; he slumped in his chair with his eyes closed, a pained expression on his face. In Suka’s opinion this was less a product of his wound, and more of a reaction to the absurdity of the eladrin representatives who spoke for him, or claimed to. From
time to time he raised his long, pale fingers to his cheek and pushed away a lock of his pale hair, struck now with gray, Suka perceived for the first time.

His wound was not visible. It showed itself in weakness and lassitude, as if he no longer cared about the project for which, after all, he had committed his life, and betrayed his sovereign, and entered into these negotiations with the ancient enemies of his race. He no longer looked as if he gave two shits about any of that, in Suka’s opinion. No, she guessed, his thoughts were far away, trembling upon some leafy bow in Synnoria, overlooking the sweet waters of the lake, while up here in the rocks these other morons made a mess of things.

Of all races in the mortal realm, the eladrin were the worst diplomats. No one else even came close. Orcs would have been more successful. But the eladrin were incapable of hiding the contempt they felt for everyone unlucky enough not to be one of them. They treated Captain Rurik as men might treat a chimpanzee with whom they’d had to share a meal. With the fomorians they were even worse, forever rolling their eyes, fanning their noses, or holding up their scented handkerchiefs, while at the same time fumbling with each other for the farthest seat, and mumbling about the lack of fresh air. Lord Askepel, who had taken over the negotiations, seemed incapable of grasping his own position—that he had embarked on a revolt that had no hope of succeeding without help. Nor had he grasped that of his potential allies, the fomorians were motivated only by a sense of grievance, because of the injury done to
their noble and generous and sentimental princess. As for Captain Rurik and the Ffolk, there was no reason for them to be part of this without significant concessions, and freedom from the bondage of a hundred years.

No—Lord Askepel thought it was their duty to help him. He thought they would rejoice at the chance, as lesser beings who had been given an opportunity to improve themselves. It would be unnatural and perverse for them to expect anything in return.

Bored and uncomfortable, Suka hugged her shins, nearly toppling out of her stone niche—her feet didn’t reach the floor. The room was vaguely circular, lit and ventilated through long shafts to the outside air, which was not enough to dispel a damp, dim chill. She rubbed her hands together, peering down at the four eladrin on one side of the table, dressed in their ornate armor of gilded scales, expressions of haughty disdain poisoning their regular yet vacant features, coloring their beardless cheeks, while Captain Rurik walked back and forth along one side of the chamber, hands behind his back. Unarmed, he wore his battered mail and leather jerkin, strode in his seaboots, and showed every sign of impatience, an emotion the eladrin maybe couldn’t even feel. Maybe you lose that capacity after all those years of contemplating … whatever—other people’s labor and invention, mostly, she supposed.

Now Askepel was talking about Princess Amaranth, a subject Suka, if she’d been consulted, would have advised him to avoid like the plague—don’t even bring it up. Was he stupid, or just utterly without a clue? That was a question too deep to resolve here.

“It gives me pain to admit it,” he persevered, “especially to outsiders, and to the … people gathered here together in … fellowship. But I myself have noticed over the past sixty years that the current situation is intolerable, and the leShay, the proudest, most ancient race on Gwynneth Island, the tree, so to speak, from which we all have sprung, is now increasingly infirm. It must be pruned in order to regain its health. Fortunately, there is a perfect flower.”

Translation (thought Suka): Ordalf is a whack job, and her son is worse, and they both have to be put down like rabid rats before they wreck the whole joint. But luckily, this demonic family of degenerate psychotics has managed to push out one final diseased excrescence, to whom I’m hoping you’ll swear loyalty for the next thousand years.

Good luck with that, Suka thought. She watched the muscles work in Captain Rurik’s jaw under his gray beard. She watched the livid scar that split his lips and made him ugly. “She is not my queen,” he said. “Some of the Ffolk will go with King Derid in Alaron. Some already have. I have no love for him, and neither do any of the Northlanders who fight with me. But I’d prefer ten thousand of him to another one of the leShay. Let her be queen of Moray Island and the wild beasts. If she sets foot on Gwynneth Island, then she is my enemy, no less than her sister …”

A short man, he was scarcely taller standing up than Askepel sitting down. But he glowered at him and put his fist on the stone table, where there were documents
waiting for his signature—they would wait a long time, Suka decided. The only hope was to defer the whole problem, as long as Lady Amaranth was stuck on Moray with no one to bring her home. For the first time she wished that Lukas might fail, and that the
Sphinx
was at the bottom of the sea, though all her crew, of course, safe and sound—of course. No, but with all her heart she wished Lukas was sitting next to her, his long legs outstretched, and she could lean over and whisper how Lord Askepel, as he wrinkled his fine nose, looked very much as if the Northlander captain had farted in his face, and he was trying to overlook the insult, because of his superior ancestry and breeding and long experience. Marabaldia was speaking now, her voice soft and melodious—no one was listening. At that same moment, as if on cue, two more eladrin knights appeared at the entrance to the chamber, supporting between them a creature Suka had heard of but never seen—a winged elf, a hairless, wizened creature with a torso scarcely larger than a baby’s, who chose that moment to announce, as his escort brought him down over the shallow tiers of steps and through the double line of solemn marble figures, that Lady Amaranth had been seen in Winterglen with several other refugees from Moray Island, at Citadel Umbra in the presence of the queen and prince. This was supposed to be good news, Suka guessed, or at least all the eladrin thought so. A melancholy bunch, they rarely smiled, but they were smiling now. Finding herself ignored, Marabaldia had stopped speaking. Ughoth had risen to his feet, an
angry expression on his face. And when Suka looked around, she saw Rurik had gone.

Suka jumped down from her seat. “Who was with her?” she cried, not because she thought anyone would answer her. None of the eladrin had said a word to her since Mindarion had been struck down. Tall creatures, they could not bend their necks to look. “Was Captain Lukas there with her, and a genasi water-soul?” she said, as if to herself.