(Shadowmarch #1) Shadowmarch (51 page)

The preparations were so exhausting and kept her up so late that even as she was being hustled down the hallways of the Orchard Palace to her morning meeting with the autarch, and having got out of bed only an hour before, Qinnitan was stumbling with fatigue. She was also still suffering the effects of the potion the high priest had given her the previous day, feeling it much more strongly than she ever had before. Even in these shadowed halls the light seemed too painfully bright, the echoes too persistent—it made her want to run back to bed and pull something over her face.

At the golden doors of the autarch’s reclining chamber, she and her small retinue had to step back and wait as the great litter she had seen once before was maneuvered somewhat awkwardly out into the passage. The crippled Scotarch Prusas pulled a curtain aside with his cramped fingers to watch the proceedings; then he caught sight of Qinnitan and his head twisted toward her, mouth hanging open as though in shock, although she thought that was more the slackness of his jaw than any real surprise at seeing a minor bride-to-be waiting for an audience with the autarch. He looked her up and down, his head trembling on his thin neck, and if the look he gave her was not contempt or even hatred, she was certain it was something close, a chilly examination made more disturbing still by his twitches and little gasps of breath.

Why would the most powerful man in the world pick such a frail, mad creature as this for his scotarch? Qinnitan could not even guess. The scotarchy was an old tradition of the Falcon Throne, meant to make sure an heir was always in place until an autarch’s own son was old enough to take power; it was designed to forestall crippling warfare that had often broken out between factions when the autarch died without an heir ready. The strongest and oldest part of the ritualistic tradition, however, was that if the scotarch died it meant that the autarch had lost favor with heaven and thus he had to give up his throne as well. This had been meant to stave off treachery from sons and relatives not likely to be named as heir, and because of this ancient Xixian constraint on even their god-kings, scotarchs were chosen not so much for their actual worthiness to rule but for health and likely endurance, prized like racehorses for brightness of eye and strength of heart. Until a few generations back, they had always been chosen during ceremonial games in which all contestants but the winner might die. This had been deemed fitting, since the path to the Falcon Throne for aspiring autarchs also tended to work the same way, except that the deaths were not generally so public.

As Qinnitan watched the trembling figure of Prusas withdraw into the cushioned depths of his litter with a stammering cry that his bearers should hurry on, she could only wonder how anyone, especially someone like Sulepis with no suitable male heirs even born, let alone ready to rule, could have chosen such a pathetic creature as Prusas for his scotarch, a cripple who looked to be tottering on the lip of the grave. (Qinnitan was not alone, of course:
nobody
in the Seclusion seemed to know the answer to that question, although it was much guessed-at throughout the entire Orchard Palace. Some brave ones whispered that it proved that Autarch Sulepis was either the maddest of his unstable family or, putting a more pleasant face on it, touched by the gods.)

The tall doors had barely swung shut behind the scotarch’s litter before they swung open again for Qinnitan and her pair of attendant maids and complementary pair of Favored guards.

The Reclining Chamber with its slender purple-and-gold columns was only slightly smaller than the great throne room, although there were many fewer people in it, only a dozen soldiers mostly ranged at the back of the dais and another two dozen servants and priests. In any other circumstances it would have felt strange to be the object of so many male stares after so long in the Seclusion, but even with Jeddin one of those watching her, the Leopard captain’s eyes rapt but his thoughts hidden as though behind a curtain, Qinnitan’s gaze was drawn to the man on the white stone bench as though by a lodestone. It was not just the autarch’s obvious power that seized her attention, the way the others in the room stayed as close to him as they could while still obviously fearing him, like freezing peasants around a huge bonfire, or even the fierce madness of his eyes, pitiless as a hunting bird’s, whose force she could feel even from a dozen paces away. This time, there was another reason for her fascination: except for the golden circlet in his hair and the golden stalls on his fingertips, the autarch was completely naked.

Qinnitan realized that her cheeks were growing hot, as though the god-king really did burn with some kind of flame. She didn’t quite know where to look. Nakedness itself did not bother her, even that of a grown man—she had often seen her father and brothers bathe themselves, and the people of Great Xis did not wear much even when they were walking in the crowded, sun-blasted streets—and the autarch’s golden-brown limbs although long and thin were by no means ugly. Still, there was a disturbing heedlessness to Sulepis that made his unclothed form seem somehow more like that of an animal that did not know it was naked than a man who knew and reveled in it. There was a shiny film of sweat on all his skin. His member lay against his thighs, limp and long as the snout of some blind thing.

“Ah,” the autarch said in a bored tone that didn’t match the expression in his eyes, “here she is, the young bride-to-be. Am I not right, Panhyssir? Is this not her?”

“You are right, as always, Golden One.” The priest stepped out from behind the slaves with the fans and waited behind the couch.

“And her name was . . . was . . .”

“Qinnitan, Golden One—daughter of Cheshret of the Third Temple.”

“Such an unusual name you have, child.” The autarch lifted his hand, crooked a long, shining finger at her. “Come closer.”

Never in her life had she wanted more fervently to turn and run away as fast as she could, a beast-panic that struck her as shockingly as if a jar of cold water had been dashed against her skin. For a moment she could feel again the endless depths that had suddenly opened before her after drinking the Sun’s Blood elixir: it seemed that if she did not do something, she would fall into blackness and never stop falling. Qinnitan stood, desperate to escape although she couldn’t quite say why, but in any case unable to do so and fighting for breath.

“Step forward!” Panhyssir said harshly. “The Golden One has spoken to you, girl.”

His eyes held hers now and she found herself taking one small step forward, then another. The gold-tipped finger curled and she moved still closer, until she stood beside the couch with the god-king’s long face only a handsbreadth or two below her own. She had never seen such eyes, she knew now; she could not imagine such bright, mad depths attached to anything that walked on two legs. Beneath the attar of roses and other perfumes lurked something base and disturbing, a salty tang like blood or even hot metal—the autarch’s breath.

“Her parentage shows, I think.” The mightiest man on earth reached up his hand to touch her. She flinched, then held steady as his fingertip in its little basket of warm gold mesh drew a line down her cheek that in her imagination rasped her skin and left behind a bloody path. She closed her eyes, feeling as though at any moment some terrible joke would be revealed and someone would step forward, throw her down, and hack off her head. It almost seemed it might come as a relief.

“Open your eyes, girl. Am I so frightening? The Seclusion is full of women who have felt my touch with joy, and many others still praying I will come to them soon.”

She looked at him. It was very difficult. There seemed nothing else in the great room—no columns, no guards, nothing but herself and those eyes the color of old linen.

“Do not fear,” he said quietly. “Rather, rejoice. You will be the mother of my immortality, little bride-to-be. An honor like no other.”

She could not speak, could not even nod until she swallowed down the lump in her throat.

“Good. Do what the old priest bids you and you will have a wedding night that lifts you in glory above all others.” He let his hand slide from her face to her breast and she felt her nipples harden as if with fever-chill beneath the thin robe. “Remember, all this belongs to your god.” His hand slipped down over her belly, the finger-stalls hard and cruel as a vulture’s talons as he carelessly cupped her groin. She could not suppress a little grunt of shock. “Prepare and rejoice.”

He let her go and turned away, lifted his hand. A cup-bearer sprang forward to give him something to drink.

The autarch was clearly finished with her. Panhyssir clapped and the guards led her toward the door. Qinnitan was trembling so badly as she left the Reclining Chamber that she almost fell and had to be steadied. Beneath her robe she thought she could still feel every instant of his touch, as though his fingers had left a burning stain.

20

Lost in the Moon’s Land

B
ARRICK WAS FURIOUS, to be summoned across the huge residence to Avin Brone’s chamber in the middle of the night as though he were a mere courtier. He growled at the small boy who opened the lord constable’s door when the child did not get out of the way fast enough, but he was disturbed as well by the urgent words of Brone’s messenger.

“The lord constable begs you to come to his rooms, Highness,”
the page had told him.
“He respectfully asks that you come quickly.”

Barrick’s sleep had been plagued again, as so often, by evil dreams; as the door opened a sickly fearful part of him wondered if the big man planned some treachery. Barrick almost flinched when the lord constable came across the small sitting room toward him, dressed in a monstrous nightgown, his buckled shoes pulled directly onto his bare feet. When Brone did nothing more suspicious than to bow slightly and hold the door open, another fear occurred to Barrick.

“Where is my sister? Is she well?”

“To the best of my knowledge. I imagine she will arrive any moment.” Brone gestured to a chair, one of two placed side by side. “Please, Highness, sit down. I will explain all.” His beard, uncombed and unribboned, strayed all over his face and chest like a wild shrub: apparently whatever had caused this unlikely summons had come after the Lord of Landsend was in bed.

When Barrick had seated himself, Brone lowered his own large frame onto a stool, leaving the other chair empty. “I have sent the boy for some wine. Forgive the meagerness of my hospitality.”

Barrick shrugged. “I will take some mulled.”

“Good choice. There is an ugly chill in the corridors.”

“There certainly is,” Briony announced from the doorway. “I’m sure you have good reason for getting me out of my warm bed, Lord Brone.”

Briony’s huge, hooded velvet mantle did not entirely disguise the fact that she, too, was in her nightdress. Of the three, only Barrick wore dayclothes. He did not like preparing himself for bed, these days, and preferred falling asleep in a chair while still dressed. Somehow it seemed as though that might make it harder for the bad dreams to find him.

“Thank you, Highness.” Brone rose again and made a bow before leading Briony to the other chair. He winced a little as he moved. Barrick was at first merely interested—the lord constable had always seemed, like Shaso, a man made of something sterner than mere flesh—but a moment later he felt a pang of worry. What if Brone died? He was not a young man, after all. With their father and the master of arms both prisoners, and Kendrick dead, there were few people left that the Eddons could trust who knew all the political business of Southmarch. Barrick suddenly felt more than ever like a child sent out to do a grown man’s chore.

The lord constable must have seen something of this thought in Barrick’s face. His smile was grim. “These cold nights are a trial to my old joints, Highness, but nothing I cannot weather. Still, I am glad that you have many, many years ahead of you before you must worry about such things.”

Briony seemed more interested in her brother than in the lord constable’s infirmities. “Have you not been to bed, Barrick?”

He didn’t like being asked in front of Avin Brone, as though she were his older sister, or even his mother, instead of his twin. “I was reading. Does that meet with your approval, Your Highness?”

She flushed a little. “I only wondered . . .”

“I have been meaning to ask you, Princess,” the lord constable asked, “whether my niece Rose Trelling was giving you good service.” He did not meet her eye. Brone’s look was distracted, almost confused, as though they had woken him up rather than the other way around. “We were very grateful for your kindness to her. She is a good girl, if a little silly sometimes.”

“I am very happy with Rose.” Briony stared at him. “But I cannot believe you woke us after the midnight bell to ask whether my ladies-in-waiting are serving me well.”

“Forgive me, Highness, but I am waiting our true business until . . .” The lord constable fell silent, nodding significantly as the page returned with three flagons of wine. The boy knelt by the fire and heated them one by one with a poker, then served Briony first. It was clear Avin Brone wouldn’t speak until the boy had left, so they all sat and watched the seemingly endless process, the room silent but for the quiet rumble and crackle of the fire.

When the boy was gone, Brone leaned forward. “Again, I apologize for calling you both here, out of your beds. The fact is, it is easier for me to empty my rooms of listening ears and less conspicuous to do so. If I had come to you and asked for all your pages and maids and guards to be sent away, it would be the talk of the castle tomorrow.”

“And you do not think anybody will know or discuss the fact that Barrick and I came across the castle to your rooms?”