The beholden, p.7
The Beholden, page 7
“Yes. It was the only way. But I did not sink into our lady’s cold embrace.” The priest stared into Ico’s eyes, his expression manic. “I didn’t even sink into the ocean of death. It is gone. All gone.”
The man had clearly lost his mind. Ico held up the box and the sun caught in the ice, making the message inside glow. The priest gave as a sigh of contentment.
“I hope it’s a message of hope,” he murmured. “Please, North Wind, set it on the bench there. And then return to Illira. Tell her what you found here.”
“What did I find here?” Ico spat out.
The priest pulled his sleeves back over his arms, hiding the ugly, screaming wounds. “We suspect—” He looked over at the flowers “We suspect the Dark Lord. His magic altered the Eirenese landscape before. Now it’s doing it again.”
“The Dark Lord?” Fragments of history fluttered at the edges of Ico’s thought. The Dark Lord had been part of the Last War. Leader of the losing side—right? As a child he’d never studied the Last War. Akuran hadn’t fought in it.
“Yes. Please. Tell Illira. She’ll know what to do. Hurry!”
The last word was imbued with an urgency that cut Ico through to his core.
Ico set the box down on the bench, his skin crawling.
“Thank you, thank you,” mumbled the man. “Now run, child. Flee, before the Dark Lord’s aberrancy spreads to you. Go!”
Ico wasn’t of a mind to stick around and play hero. He nodded once and then walked backwards up to the gate, which opened for him, dragging along inch by inch. The man plucked up the box from the bench.
The gate opened. A blast of north wind spilled in, smelling as sweet as summer.
Ico turned and ran.
Celestia dipped her pen into the pot of ink and then poised it above her paper. Already she had written Dear Izara, but that was the easy part.
Rain pattered outside, and the humidity drifted in through the open windows of Celestia’s morning room, making the edges of the paper curl. She smoothed them down with her free hand. Touched her pen nub to the paper.
How are you? I hope this letter finds you well.
She paused and considered writing, I hope it finds you at all, but decided against it, as that sort of flippancy would decrease the letter’s chances of ever making it through the readers at the Academy. They were known to burn letters that questioned the policies.
Things continue apace here at Cross Winds. Our mango crop this year was abundant, and we have recently begun shaping the sugar cane in preparation for a new crop next year—
It was easy to talk about Cross Winds, and safe besides. The pen scratched across the paper as if moved by some hand other than Celestia’s. She told her sister about the visit from Aurelia and the adventurers, although she truncated their story about the northern warlord and left out mention of Crell’s version of events entirely—that would certainly mark the letter as dangerous, and it would guarantee that Izara would never see it. When she finished, Celestia read over what she had written. Her hand dropped distractedly to her stomach. She had delayed telling Lindon out of anxiety, but her reticence in writing to Izara about her pregnancy grew out of the fact that she wished she could tell her face to face. Izara was her only sister—her only family, now that both of their parents had passed away. And yet she had to write the words on a letter that might not even make it through the Academy’s absurd security protocols.
Sighing, Celestia dipped her in pen in the ink.
One last thing, she wrote, her handwriting quick and slanted, I do wish I knew when you’d be free to come visit so I could tell you then, but I know it would be too late—I’m pregnant, sister. Pregnant, finally! An heir for Cross Winds. I don’t know the sex, because I wish to be surprised. Lindon hopes it’s a boy, but I of course want a girl. I hope she’s as clever as you are, and as beautiful as the Empress. The world would be hers to command, don’t you think?
Celestia smiled, although she felt sad. She wished she could see Izara’s face when she found out about Celestia’s pregnancy. Izara was never one for wild displays of emotions—she kept everything close to her heart, tucked beneath the surface. Most people found her cold for it, but Celestia knew better. Her sister was far from cold; she only shared her feelings with the slightest of facial tics, the subtlest of tonal shifts. And Celestia knew how to interpret her.
I hope to see you soon, Celestia wrote, which was a safe phrase, guaranteed to make it past the readers. Anything too critical of the Academy and its policies would be confiscated. I hope your studies are going well. Another safe phrase, the closet she could come to asking about Izara’s work at the Academy. Then she signed off the letter, flourishing her signature, and blew on the ink to dry it. In this weather, with that damp steam rising off the ground from the rain, it would take longer than usual. She carried the letter over to the opposite side of the room, away from the windows, and set it on her dresser.
Someone knocked at her door.
“Yes?” she called out.
Mr. Medulla entered. She glanced up at him, distracted, but then froze when she saw the expression on his face.
He seemed—worried.
“Yes?” she said, turning toward him. “Is—did something happen?”
“You have guests, Lady De Malena. Rather—important ones.”
Celestia frowned. “What do you mean by important?”
Mr. Medulla glanced at the window, where the rain was still falling in a shimmery sun-lit mist.
“They say they’re from the Emperor, my lady.”
Celestia’s entire body went numb. She pressed up against the dresser to steady herself. “The Emperor?” she whispered. “Did you—did you confirm?”
Mr. Medulla nodded, still looking out the window. “They carried the correct papers, my lady.”
“Marked with the Emperor’s alchemical seal?”
“Yes. I examined it myself.” He paused. “They were officials, my lady. Not—sorcerers.”
Celestia sucked in a deep breath. Starless Mages, he meant. The Emperor’s army of dark magicians.
She ran her hands over her hair, smoothing out the wayward curls that always appeared in the humidity. She wasn’t dressed to meet with the Emperor’s men. She would need to change, as quickly as possible, and then deal with the matters of hospitality—
“They wish to speak to Master De Malena. They said it’s a matter of great importance.” Mr. Medulla turned from the window. His face was grave. “They wouldn’t tell me anything beyond that. I’ve already sent Gregori out into the forest to fetch him.”
Celestia nodded. “Yes, thank you. Have you told Cookie about their arrival? Will they be staying? At the very least they should sample the sparkling mango drink, or some of Cookie’s pineapple cake.”
“I’ll tell her right away, my lady.”
“And send up Alia. I’ll need her help dressing.”
“Of course.” Mr. Medulla gave a shallow bow. Celestia still felt disoriented, certain she had forgotten something—
“Are they in the sitting room?” Celestia asked.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Put them up in the drawing room, and be sure to pull the curtains back. I want them to have a view of the forest.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Thank you, Mr. Medulla.” Celestia sighed. “I’ll be down as quickly as I can to entertain them while Master De Malena readies himself.”
Another shallow bow, and then Mr. Medulla slipped out of the morning room. Celestia checked the letter to Izara, running her fingers over her signature—but the ink still smudged. Curses, she thought. She gathered up the letter and slid it into the drawer of her writing desk and then locked it, to avoid snooping from the staff. Then she bustled up to her room to change. Alia was waiting for her, a silk day dress stretched out on the bed.
“I chose the nicest thing in your closet, m’lady,” Alia said, smoothing down the dress. “I do hope this works.”
“It’s perfect.” Celestia stepped out of her thin cotton slippers and pulled on the sash tied around her waist. Alia immediately began undoing the buttons on the day dress. It was a lovely thing, a gift from Lindon from before they were married, the white silk hand-painted with delicate red hibiscus flowers. It was an appropriate thing for her to wear while she sat by her husband’s side as he met with emissaries from the Emperor.
She slid out of her housedress and let it puddle on the floor. Alia helped her into the day dress and did up the buttons with deft fingers. Celestia stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair was still springing clear from the humidity, and she ran her hands together and then smoothed it over the side of her head. She had no time to rebraid it.
“A hat,” she said to Alia, who was still looping up the buttons. “Something small and unobtrusive—my hair’s a dreadful mess.”
“What about flowers, m’lady? I can fetch some from the garden before you meet with your guests.”
Celestia smiled at her reflection. Behind her, Alia squinted at the buttons. “That would be perfect,” she said.
Alia finished the buttons and then draped the wide sash around Celestia’s waist, crossing it in the front and then tying it off in the back. The effect pinched in Celestia’s waist in the Jaila-Seraphine style.
“Perfect,” Celestia said. “Run down and fetch the flowers. I’ll meet you in the riverside hallway.”
Alia dipped her head and then rushed out of the room. Celestia examined her reflection, looking for flaws. The hair would be taken care of, and it wouldn’t be proper to apply makeup to meet with the emissaries. The dress worked well. She couldn’t wear her old slippers, though; Celestia whirled away from the mirror and opened up her wardrobe and selected the thin white leather boots she’d had made at the cobbler down river. They slid on easily. Then she rushed out of her room, her skirt fluttering out around her ankles. The preparations had distracted her from the question of why these men where here, but as she made her way down the back staircase, different possibilities spun through her head. Lindon had often accepted assignments from the Emperor during his adventuring days. That was how he had earned his money. But he was no longer an adventurer.
Surely they weren’t here to arrest him, then—
Celestia’s chest constricted. She moved more quickly, skittering down the stairs and through the dappled forestside hallway. Her footsteps echoed against the walls of the house. The Emperor was not known for sending his representatives down into the river basin. He was too paranoid to let the court go roaming—that was what the rumors always claimed, all those stories Celestia had learned growing up, as all noble children did. He preferred to stay ensconced in his Palace in the Sky, cloaked in strange magics, hidden away from the eyes of his people. Even the landed gentry were rarely invited to court; it was rumored that such an invitation was not worth the isolation of that palace. Isolation or worse—the stories of the Starless Mages alone had been enough to wipe away any of Celestia’s dreams of going to court when she was younger. Magic used to torture, the stories said, to murder. All at the behest of the Emperor. Supposedly the Emperor had even learned to keep the Airiana away from the palace.
Celestia turned the corner and found Alia waiting for her with a bouquet of red tasselflowers, still damp with rainwater. She sighed with relief.
“Here, m’lady,” Alia said, plucking one of the flowers from the bouquet. She peered up at Celestia’s hair. “Perhaps a crown styling?”
“Yes, perfect.” Celestia glanced down the hallway. Around the corner waited the door to the drawing room, and inside the drawing room waited the emissaries of the emperor.
Alia stood on her tiptoes and waved the flower around. Celestia bent down, still looking to the end of the hallway. She couldn’t hear anything—no voices, no laughter, no footsteps. Even the rain had stopped.
Alia hummed to herself, an old folksong of the poor, and one that Celestia had heard before. She couldn’t say where. The melody was a haunting one, and it caught on Celestia’s thoughts and stayed there. She did not like it as a backdrop to this meeting.
“There you are, m’lady,” Alia stepped back and tilted her head. “Looks quite fetching, if I may be so bold.”
“You may,” said Celestia. “Did you bring a mirror?”
Alia reached into her pocket and produced the little round handheld mirror the cleaning girls were always using to admire their reflections. She held it up to Celestia and Celestia twisted her head right and left. Yes, the flowers did a good job of masking the wayward curls of her hair, and they matched the dress besides.
“Excellent work, Alia,” Celestia said. “I’ll ring if I need anything else.”
Alia nodded and dropped the mirror to her side. Celestia turned and smoothed down her skirts. She took a deep breath.
And then she walked down the hallway.
Mr. Medulla was waiting outside the drawing room. He nodded as she approached and pulled the door open for her. A wisp of sweet-smelling smoke drifted out into the hallway. Celestia stepped inside.
There were two of them, both men. One was tall and thin, his thick black hair pulled back into a queue at the base of his neck. The other was older, and he wore his hair shorter, in the Nemia-Seraphine style. He was the source of the smoke, a cigarette burning between yellow-stained fingers.
“Lady De Malena,” said the younger man, standing up to greet her. “My name is Juro, and this is my associate Anselm.” He gestured at the older man, who tilted his head down. The cigarette burned white smoke. “We wish to speak to your husband. It’s a matter of utmost importance to the empire.”
Celestia watched him, trying to read his features for clues as to what could be so important that the emissaries traveled all this way. The older man was a blank: too well-trained for Celestia to read. He brought his cigarette to his lips and inhaled smoke.
“My husband oversees the work in the forest,” Celestia said. “He’ll be joining us briefly.”
Juro nodded. Anselm smoked.
A knock at the door. Both men turned toward it, but it was Mr. Medulla who stepped inside, carrying a tray of sparkling mango drinks. He set it on the low-slung table in front of the sofa, bowed once, and then disappeared out into the hallway. Four drinks total. The men looked down at them, and Celestia reached forward and selected one and took a sip. “This is a Cross Winds specialty,” she told them.
“Yes, your butler told us as much,” said Juro. He picked up two cups and offered one to Anselm.
“I hope your travel was enjoyable.”
“Yes,” said Juro. “It was an uneventful trip, which is all we ask for. And the mountains are still warm this time of year.”
“Of course.” Celestia sipped from her sparkling mango. They would have traveled from the seat of the Empire, high up in the mountains, at the source of the Seraphine River. It was a difficult journey, even in the summer months.
Celestia’s hand shook, the sparkling mango trembling in her cup. Two emissaries came all this way, traversing the same ancient path that had been built with the Emperor’s palace a thousand years ago. Nothing ever changed in the mountains.
Anselm blew out a thick plume of smoke. It reminded Celestia of burning bougainvillea. “Your husband is taking his time, Lady De Malena.”
Celestia put down her cup, grateful that she could steady her hand enough to set it smoothly against the table. “His work takes him deep into the forest, I’m afraid. I promise you he’ll be here soon.”
“It’s rare for a lord to work his own land, isn’t it?” said Juro.
“Yes.” Celestia smiled. “But my husband is a rare man, as I’m sure you know, and he worked on an acreage like Cross Winds as a child.”
Juro raised an eyebrow over his cup. “I did not know that. Did you, Anselm?” He turned to his companion, who scowled through his haze of smoke. “I take it this was before he came under the Emperor’s employ as an adventurer.”
“Long before,” she agreed with a smile.
“It wouldn’t surprise me, though, to learn that your husband was a child adventurer.” Juro swirled his cup around. “With the stories I’ve heard about him.”
Celestia gave another polite smile, but her thoughts whirred wildly. Juro was not talking like a man about to arrest Lindon, although the same could not be said of Anselm, who had not touched his sparkling mango and continued to scowl through his smoke. Perhaps Juro only hoped to put her at ease—or perhaps she was being paranoid.
Footsteps thudded in the hallway outside the drawing room. Celestia took a deep breath and settled back into her chair. She recognized the clomp of those footsteps. They belonged to Lindon, Lindon and his heavy wooden-soled workboots.
The door swung open, and there stood Lindon, his clothes still sweat-stained from working in the forest. His hair fell loose from its queue, and mud clumped on his boots and streaked across the bottom half of his trousers. At least his hands were clean.
Juro and Celestia both stood up in greeting. Anselm, however, stayed seated, staring at Lindon through the smoke.
“Your associate is more polite than you are, Anselm,” Lindon said as he settled into his chair. Celestia sank down beside him.
“You are not a true lord,” Anselm said darkly. “As much as you may have begged for it.”
Juro coughed uncomfortably, and Celestia sat ramrod straight, keeping her expression blank. She knew Lindon had been eager for a title—it was the reason he had taken her name. And she had long suspected it was his reason for adventuring for the Emperor. It appeared her suspicions were correct.
Lindon, for his part, ignored Amselm’s barb. “Emissaries of the Emperor,” he said flatly. “I am honored, even if you pulled me away from tending to the new avocado trees we’re planting this season.”
Juro leaned forward, his eyes bright. “Master De Malena, thank you for seeing us on such short—”
Lindon held up one hand. “Forgive me for my rudeness, but I would like to see your credentials before we proceed.”
Anselm let out a sharp laugh. “Hurt your feelings that I won’t my lord you, did it?”
