Cobweb Empire (45 page)

They followed him silently, and emerged from
a doorway behind a wall-hanging inside a dark corridor—elegant,
dimly lit, and at least three stories above street level. They were
now inside the Palace of the Sun.

The man named Diril extinguished the
lantern, motioned for silence, and for them to follow. They moved
through the empty corridor for about fifty feet, following its
turns and observing a veritable gallery of old paintings in gilded
frames and various hangings every few feet on both sides of the
corridor.

Diril stopped before one particular floor
length tapestry depicting an antique scene of battle. He lifted the
corner end of it, and a discreet door was revealed, painted the
same color as the walls. He opened it with a skill born of
familiarity, and they were again faced with a claustrophobic
passage. In they went, without light, and this time walked for
interminable minutes in unknown directions, by feel, moving between
walls, and taking endless turns past what felt like quite a few
other doorways that Diril ignored.

At last he stopped before one, and he opened
it a crack. He paused, listening, then moved aside what must have
been a large hanging, and in the shadows they could see his hand
motioning to follow.

They emerged from a shadowed corner into a
grand splendid Hall—possibly the grandest Percy had ever seen. This
was the Hall of the Sun. It was perfectly empty and silent, locked
from the outside, and no candelabras were lit. But the curtains
were not drawn, and thus the moonlight filled the expanse with
silver illumination, bright as day, and set the crystal garlands
suspended from sconces everywhere to a cold winter sparkle.

The Countess D’Arvu drew her breath in
sharply, and put her hands over her own mouth in an emotional
reaction at the sight of the Hall and the memory of the last time
she stood here.

Diril remained near the secret doorway while
the rest of them walked in soft careful steps along the polished
parquet floor.

Before them, all the way on the other end of
the Hall loomed the Sapphire Throne, a grand single perfect jewel
upon a dais. . . . Even from a distance it sparkled
fiercely with a cold immortal fire in the moonlight, its smooth
sharp facets and cabochon rounded edges capturing the light in
their own ways, transforming it in prismatic motion.

Percy went still, her breath catching, and
she clutched Beltain’s hand. “She is here . . .” she
whispered, and pointed at the throne.

Up on a column pedestal on the right of the
throne sat a small golden statue of the goddess.

They neared the throne, taking each step in
such silence that they could hear their own breath and nothing
else.

Before the dais they paused. Percy stood,
dumbstruck, and then she reached out with her own death
sense
because the pull of the Cobweb Bride had grown
overwhelming. The golden figure of the goddess was before her, and
yet, it was not what called her, and thus she glanced at it only
momentarily. But the Cobweb Bride—
she
was here too, yes!
Only—

Percy turned around slowly, compelled by the
pull, the impossible need of the death shadow. And she approached
the Sapphire Throne itself.

She did the unthinkable, by climbing the
three ceremonial steps directly up to the throne, a place that only
the Sovereign had the right to occupy. She stood on the top step,
right before the throne—so near, she could sit upon it if she
chose—breathing deeply, and sensing the single death billowing,
fluttering . . .
under
her feet.

Thus, she pointed down at the throne, and
underneath it, and she whispered: “Here . . .
here
lies the Cobweb Bride.”

They stood watching her in a mixture of
fear, wonder and urgency.

Percy turned her back on the Sapphire Throne
and walked back down the stairs of the dais, pausing before the
pedestal with the Goddess Thesmos. “Is there something down there?”
she whispered, looking at her companions. “Down, underneath the
Throne?”

The Count shook his head negatively.
“No . . . That is, I don’t know.”

“Could there be a hidden passage,” said
Percy. “Similar to the one we just used? Anything?”

“Ask your man,” Beltain said softly,
pointing to Diril who remained on the other end of the Hall.

The Count raised his hand and beckoned for
Diril to approach. The man neared, and they consulted in whispers,
and Diril shook his head negatively several times.

It was Countess D’Arvu who interrupted. “We
must pray!” she exclaimed in a stifled whisper. “Pray to Thesmos
for truth! The answers must lie here, else she would not have
called us to her! Pray, child!” and the Countess wrung Percy’s hand
with her clammy own.

Nodding to her, Percy turned to the
Goddess.

The golden shape was smooth and exquisite, a
statue formed by a master sculptor. The true brightness of gold was
leached by the moonlight into a silvery cream softness. The face of
the Goddess has a serene expression, languid half-closed eyes. Her
lips were shaped at the corners in the faintest shadow of a
smile.

Percy reached out and placed her fingers
upon the folded leg of the statue, trembling at the touch of cool
metal that was somehow also warm, in an impossible dichotomy of the
senses.

“Oh, no! You mustn’t touch!” The Countess
put her hand to her mouth in worry.

“Why not?” said the Count D’Arvu. “She may
be able to call upon Thesmos with her touch. It is said that
touching the gods’ sacred effigies can heal the sick and bring
enlightenment upon those who seek answers—”

Percy let go, then sighed and continued
gazing at the divine form before her. Moonlight shone softly from
the great windows, and just for an instant a spark glittered on the
very top point of the headdress, sliding like a pinpoint star upon
the braided wheat of the harvest crown. It beckoned
her. . . .

Percy was compelled. She reached out with
her fingers and placed them on top of the crown, reaching for the
elusive spark of brilliance, moon silver upon tangible gold.

She touched, and then, because it seemed the
right thing to do, she extended her palm and rested it fully upon
the spot on top, feeling a sudden effusion of warmth coming to her,
or maybe leaving her flesh and entering the cool metal.

How strange it was, that she felt the need
to press her palm in just such a manner, to give and receive
warmth, as though this was the perfect spot, and her hand a source
of inner fire. . . .

Long moments passed. Her hand—it was now a
part of the goddess, flesh to flesh, and the warmth had become a
thing of love.

The spot no longer felt like anything but an
extension of her own mortal body. Moved by instinct, Percy pressed
down and then caressed it, with a slight turn of her wrist.

As she did thus, the goddess figurine
moved
. It rotated softly, turning on its base, until it
reached ninety degrees. At the same time, a grinding noise sounded,
coming from the back of the Sapphire Throne.

Several gasps sounded. One of them belonged
to Diril, a sound of grim satisfaction. The Countess and her
husband were staring, their countenances filled with terror and
hope.

“Ah! It is indeed a
key!
” Diril began
to speak in an energetic whisper, excitement in his eyes, for the
first time showing a living expression behind a mask of
impassivity. “All these years, we have suspected! We in
intelligence have searched for the meaning behind this effigy!
Skilled hands from many factions have touched it, examined it
variously for hidden latches, for any signs, and all for
nothing—until now! The trick is to hold it down for long moments,
then turn! A simple but effective combination!”

They swiftly went to observe what had been
revealed behind the throne. “Come!” Diril signaled eagerly. “It’s a
passage leading down! What a magnificent discovery!”

The parquet floor had been moved aside along
interlocking geometric portions of its mosaic pattern, sliding
apart to reveal a dark passage.

One by one they entered and descended, with
Percy and Beltain walking last, behind the others. The darkness
became soft grey in hue, then resolved into a strange illumination
that seemed to have no source. A sterile stone chamber was before
them, and ahead a passage corridor with arches and light sconces in
each niche, their lanterns like disembodied moons behind frosted
glass.

They walked, following the corridor, and the
Countess D’Arvu moved unsteadily, held by her husband who gently
assisted her.

At last they emerged into an impossible
larger chamber, filled with soft overwhelming light, anemic
lavender.

Percy felt herself trembling because the
pull was so strong now, the Cobweb Bride and her death, were here,
were just ahead. . . .

She entered last, after everyone else who
had paused at the entrance, stilled in what must have been terrible
mind-freezing shock.

The room was filled with people—with
women
. They were motionless and covered in fine, white
cobwebs. A sargasso sea of cobwebs.

They seemed to be statues, but somehow Percy
knew they were not—because at the side of each was a gentle
mournful thing of supernatural smoke, a death shadow, also
petrified somehow, suspended into an impossibility—a shadow
imprisoned, turned into invisible stone. Stilled in different
positions, seated on chairs, standing upright, lying in repose on
the smooth stone floor, these women and their shadows were a
chilling sight, possibly because of their pristine beauty coupled
with mortality. Not even dust here, only clean spun magic of silken
strands, like a lace forest. And they were drowned in
it. . . .

Percy sensed their different deaths, held,
imprisoned,
changed
in nature. And yet, she registered it
all with only a periphery of her attention.

Her main intensity was focused upon only
one
.

She
lay in the very center of the
chamber, upon a long slab of ornate marble, her funereal slab. All
in white she was, young and fair and ageless. Not a blemish upon
her, only a soft matte sheen of infinite silken threads.

The Cobweb Bride.

Percy moved forward, past Beltain and Diril
and the Count and Countess.

And she entered the cobweb forest.

“Leonora! Oh,
Leonora!
”

Somewhere behind her, Percy heard the
Countess cry out in a piteous rending sound of despair. And there
was a rush as they moved frantically toward one of the frozen
figures, the one seated closest the entrance, right before their
eyes—the one whom they recognized at last as their missing
daughter.

But Percy did not look around, and continued
moving forward. A few more steps, past stilled women-statues whose
strangely untouched, open, living eyes seemed to follow her
motion.

A few more steps, through a forest of fine
spider silk that made her skin crawl and sent shudders of
instinctive revulsion throughout her body. Percy used her fingers
to move the strands out of her face and hair, closing her eyes when
it became unbearable, and persisted forward.

Just another step. . . .

And Percy stood at last before the Cobweb
Bride.

The maiden lay before her, fragile and
anemic and
perfect
, her eyes opened wide, gazing eternally
upward. There was a spot of curious darkness here, surrounding her
in a shadow cocoon, for the infinite layers of cobwebs filtered the
light down to a faint glow.

Percy stopped and she was now right before
the death shadow—a mere breath away. It stood, translucent and
petrified, formed of both twilight and pallor, shadow and light, as
though the two had become intermingled and thus fixed in place.

Percy put her finger forward and touched it.
And it rang! It was like touching impossible immortal glass. At the
point of contact, the shadow rang and resounded, singing like
crystal, for it was encased in an impenetrable field of energy. It
seemed to strain, to want to cleave to Percy, but it could
not
.

Percy frowned. She looked down at the
maiden, and observed her for several long curious moments—hearing
meanwhile behind her the sobbing of the Countess and the subdued
voices of the men. And then she leaned over the maiden and examined
her face even closer, noting the odd pattern of lights reflected in
the pupils of her eyes.

Those were the colored stars she had seen in
a vision so many days ago it seemed, when she was inside Death’s
mind at his Keep. She knew them now for distant prismatic
reflections from overhead—for directly above in the ceiling was the
base of the Sapphire Throne, and it was like a star field, burning
with dots of colors, casting a reflection directly down, in a
rainbow sieve of pinpoints of light.

The same dots of light sparkled in the
whiteness of the maiden’s hair, as though she was sprinkled with
powdered sugar. Such was the strange optical illusion spun by the
cobwebs.

Look closer—through the cobweb filaments of
her hair and along each strand shine
stars. . . .

And Percy forced herself to look. She made
her vision into razors, and she cut through the air and narrowed in
a beam of force on the edge of infinite sharpness.

She put her fingertips upon the maiden’s
white hair, sensing the granules of crystalline energy ring also,
in the same manner as the death shadow.

They were both encased in it, death and the
maiden.

It was a
veil
, this energy—a veil
between life and death. And it was never meant to be.

Percy felt herself shuddering, her mind
filling with the tolling of cathedral bells, deep, primeval, bass
tones of dark power. She let go of the maiden’s cobweb-spun hair,
and clenched her hands to herself, until her knuckles were
bloodless white—