Raven's Ladder (26 page)

Reunited with their mother, the dogs whimpered happily and lay down beside her in front of the fireplace. Willow sniffed them fondly, her tail slapping the floor.

Cyndere moved through more curtains into her mother’s bedchamber. She glanced to the vast bed, its oceanic quilts in disarray as if the queen had dreamt of a tumultuous storm.

But her mother, who could so often be found sitting up in bed and addressing uncomfortable guests, was seated at the washtable, her back to her daughter, her face down in a pan of a thick, white, fizzing paste. A towel was swept about her neck. Her bejeweled hands hung limp by her ankles. Her feet were tucked under, her toes in their purple slippers pointed backward.

“Oh,” came a timid hoot. Beside the queen on the table sat her pet whiskiro. Bunny, like all whiskiros, looked like an overstuffed rabbit without
any forelegs, just two bundles of toes emerging from beneath a furry belly’s bulge.

“Mother, I’m here.” Cyndere sat on the edge of the bed and tried not to look at the Seer who bent over her mother.

Tyriban Xa—a woman painted in brash colors and exotic tattoos as if she were trying to hide her spindly, emaciated form—moved as awkwardly as a stork, clad in almost as many white feathers. Each of the Seers had particular talents; Tyriban Xa was renowned for her capacity to transform the appearances of men and women.

A splash from a small glass vial, and that white paste darkened to green. Cyndere waited. The Seer drew the queen back in her chair so that her face emerged from the gurgling soup.

The queen laughed. “I’m busy.”

“You called for me. Remember? The sun’s already high in the sky. You wanted to discuss the council before its session begins.”

Tyriban Xa glared at Cyndere, put her hand behind the queen’s neck, and then leaned in with a small brush. Her toothy grin murmured into Thesera’s ear as she began to scrub her face. “Why not postpone this council until your face is ready?”

“It won’t be ready?”

“Why face the council in a mask, my perfect rose? In just a few days, you can show them your true face.”

“A mask? At the most important council session of the season? No, the council must, with proper ceremony, pledge allegiance to Partayn for the coming days while I am off to the islands. Partayn will be sovereign during my absence.” The queen slammed her fist on the washtable, rattling the trays, spoons, and brushes. “Make my face ready, Tyriban. Now.”

“Mother, Partayn is not the only subject for the session today.”

“You’re troubling the queen,” Tyriban Xa chirped. “Why not let her do one thing at a time?”

“Mother, are you so old and feeble that we should treat you as a weakling?” Cyndere walked to the window and opened the curtains so that light fell on the Seer, who raised her hands to block it. “I suspect the Seers are not happy about today’s session.”

“I am not old!” Thesera shouted. “Old,” hooted the whiskiro.

The Seer wriggled her long, curling nails like a cat clawing the air. “We make no political decisions. We only mean to…improve.” She lifted a bowl of flesh-colored putty in one hand, took careful aim with the other, and flicked a dry flake of makeup from the edge of the queen’s ear.

“Mother, we must appoint a tasker for Abascar’s people. The Seers are rallying support for Ryllion.”

The whiskiro clicked its tongue and said, “Oh.”

“I think that’s a grand idea!” the queen managed to exclaim as the Seer puttied her nose. “Ryllion will make them cooperate.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Abascar needs a caretaker, not a punisher.”

“Are they really so frail?”

“They’re exhausted. Many are sick. They came for help, desperate for grace. We stuffed them into crude tents and fed them table crumbs. Can you imagine sleeping beside the harbor’s din? Soon they’ll feel betrayed and begin to resent us. They’ll wish they’d never come.”

“House Abascar’s collapse is not your mother’s fault.” The Seer spoke like a schoolteacher to an impertinent child. “Those people should—”

“Has my mother given you such privilege that you dare interrupt me? Paste your mouth shut with some of that glue, or I’ll—”

“You’ll what?”

“Noise, noise!” shouted the queen, pounding on the tray. “Tyriban, do your job and begone, or I’ll summon Myrton to repair the damage you’ve done.” She snatched the whiskiro and tucked the animal under her chin, where its worried mutter smoothed into a purr.

“Mother,” said Cyndere, stepping close to lay her hand on the queen’s. “Remember our plan?”

“My memory’s failing now? Yes, I remember.” The queen tapped her purple-slippered toes.

“As I promised, I’ve come with names of those who have volunteered to serve.”

“Why not Ryllion?” sang the Seer.

“There’s another matter, my little beachcomber.” Such sudden affection
in her mother’s voice put Cyndere on her guard. “We must decide who will be your escort to my birthday banquet.”

“Drunkard,” Cyndere snapped, and the black dog trotted in, tail wagging giddily. “Drunkard will be my escort.”

“Squawk, squawk,” groaned the queen. “You need a man to worship you.”

“I’m a widow, mother.”

“Why must that make a difference?”

“So…
you’re
bringing an escort, then?” Cyndere asked.

“Why not? I want the people to see that I still have certain powers.”

“I won’t accept Ryllion. Not as my escort nor as the Abascar tasker. Everybody knows he’s looking for a shortcut to the throne.”

“Why, look who has arrived!” exclaimed the Seer, clapping her hands. “You speak the good captain’s name, and he appears!”

The dogs had all come in now, backs hunched, baring their teeth toward the door where Ryllion stood.

Cyndere bared her teeth as well, stepping between the soldier and the queen as he ducked into the room.

Ryllion’s transformation in recent months had become impossible to disguise. His hands were enlarged, the nails gone dark on his fingertips. His jaw jutted forward, and his eyes were harsh and burning gold. His hair, once yellow as straw, was now striped with black. Beneath cloaks perfumed to cover other changes, he trembled as if always on the edge of violence.

At the soldier’s name, the queen had lurched up in her chair. “You’re not ready, my sweet rose,” said the Seer, clasping the back of her neck. “We have to soak you again.” The hand forced Thesera’s head down into the vat of warm jelly, and she did not have time to take a breath. “She’s going to be beautiful, Captain,” the Seer sang.

“The queen is always beautiful.” Ryllion flashed a grin at Cyndere.

The Seer went on smiling. “Closer to her true face all the time. She is so patient.”

Cyndere stepped closer to block him from taking another step. “You’re still barging into bedchambers without permission.”

“The queen,” said Ryllion, “does not have your inhibitions.”

“You used to address me respectfully.”

“I used to call you heiress.” Ryllion smiled. “With Partayn back in his rightful place, how would you have me address you?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“My moon-spirit sent me.” His voice was hoarse, as if he had swallowed a torch. “Told me I might be of service to the queen.”

“You came because you saw me visiting my mother, and you do not like to be kept in the dark.”

Thesera suddenly planted her hands against the edge of the vat and pushed. The Seer let go, and Thesera’s head flung back. Green jelly dripped and wriggled down beneath her collar while a wash of it splashed across the floor. “Mirrors,” she panted. “Don’t let the captain see me like this. I’m not finished.”

As she reached up to her face, the Seer grabbed her hands. “Don’t touch. It’s still in a delicate state.”

“It itches. I hate this part.”

“A few moments, then the bath. You’ll look young again, my queen. If only your daughter would observe what we can do to erase what time and grief have wrought.”

“Is Ryllion still here?” the queen’s voice came, trembling.

“Shall I command him to leave?” asked Cyndere eagerly.

Ryllion stepped past Cyndere as if she were a piece of furniture. “I’ve a report for you to carry to the council.” The dogs surrounded and stopped him. When Cyndere moved to stand with the defensive hounds, she shuddered to see how much the soldier’s eyes had become like an angry dog’s. “The Seers,” he said, “have finished their examination of the Cent Regus carcasses from my recent sweep. A ship now carries the dead out to sea to be tossed overboard, where nothing of their corruption can taint our ground.”

“I’m pleased you’ve cleaned up the mess,” the queen said, “but why must you report such ugly details?”

“He’s looking at you,” said Cyndere, “but he’s talking to me. He knows my objection to this slaughter. And he knows that the Cent Regus are not a threat. It’s one of the ways he gets even.”

“Some of the materials that are saving your mother from time’s abuses are made from elements that were wasted on those monsters,” snarled Ryllion.

“And why not?” intoned Tyriban. “Consider this very paste, which was taken from—”

“Noise! Begone! All of you! Tyriban, clean me up. It’s time for the council.”

“Patience, my queen.” The Seer cast a withering glare at Cyndere. “I will not speak again.” She ripped the skin of makeup off Thesera’s face. Cyndere cringed at the sight of the transparent visage hanging between the Seer’s hands as it slowly sagged, the mouth turning down into a grotesque frown, eye cavities drooping. As Tyriban shook it out like a handkerchief, Cyndere turned away and slumped to a couch.

Somewhere out in the harbor, a distant voice rose in a melancholy sailor’s song—something about a white horse galloping on the sea. Cyndere never heard that melody sung without her mother pointing out that it was Helpryn’s favorite song.

“Your father loved that song,” sighed the queen.

Clearing his throat, Ryllion knelt. “My lady, I am ready to humbly accept responsibility as a principal tasker for Abascar.”

“You do nothing humbly,” said Cyndere.

Another voice had taken up a harmony line in the song of the faraway sailor. But this voice came from the base of the stair, quickly approaching.

Ryllion winced and licked his large teeth. But the dogs, distracted from their defense of the queen, began to wag their tails again.

Queen Thesera spun around in her chair. “Partayn!” she shouted, arms open wide. With her hair pulled back tight, her face—green and dripping—seemed drawn into a smile as manic as those of the Seers. “My son!”

Partayn stepped into the room, brushing the curtain back over his shoulder as if it were a cape. Ryllion ducked as if afraid of the man, and he was gone from the room in an instant.

“Thank you,” Cyndere sighed. “You’re the only one who can make Ryllion feel he might not be in control. It’s the best way to get him to leave.”

It was back—that black, wooly beard that Partayn had been wearing on the day he returned, as if from the grave, to House Bel Amica. His mother, so shocked at the news of his arrival that she could not stand for a full day, had demanded that the beard be shorn even before he arrived in her
chamber, even before she embraced him, weeping so loudly and long that she could be heard from the base of her tower.

There had been no report of his survival, no warning of his impending return, only Wilus Caroon, that cantankerous Tilianpurth guard, arriving unexpectedly. Captain Ryllion had hastened out on horseback across the long floating bridge to Bel Amica’s front gate, where he loudly chastised the old soldier for abandoning his post.

But Caroon had sworn that his appearance was an act of obedience.

To whose authority? Ryllion had demanded.

Caroon gestured to the one-man carriage harnessed to his horse, then asked for Cyndere and the queen to come down and meet him. Ryllion denied that request. Caroon then asked to be given an audience with the royal court, which Ryllion also refused.

Partayn then stepped from the carriage. He informed the speechless captain that, for his insolence and rudeness, he would not be invited to the homecoming celebration unless he consented to get down on all fours and serve as a footrest.

Ryllion demanded all manner of proof. So the gratuitously bearded survivor climbed atop the carriage and turned his face toward the queen’s tower. He began to sing.

As Partayn unfurled his voice, his lineage was unmistakable—he was one of the blessed, one of the descendants of Tammos Raak. His was a voice that charmed harmonic tones from panes of glass throughout the house. Flames became fierce at the sound of his song. Dogs stopped barking and sat at attention. Cats purred. Some swore that bottled ale improved. The train drivers threw the brakes to silence their wagons so all could hear that distant music.

Cyndere had been strolling through fog along the inlet’s sandy shore. Drunkard and Trumpet had been bounding and barking at the surf, while Shakey and Willow strained at their leashes, dreaming of being so young again.

It was Willow who had turned, woofing a question into the air. Then Shakey had joined her in wild excitement, ears pricked toward the house. Cyndere surrendered, letting them lead.

And then she heard his voice.

Her laughter turned to breathlessness. She dropped the leashes and ran.

When she reached the floating bridge, she saw a man standing on a carriage, surrounded by a mob. She saw the singer’s hands raised to the sky, saw that long, wild beard. Then the song suddenly halted a few notes from its conclusion. His eyes met hers. And in the midst of that preposterous beard, she saw her brother’s crooked smile.

Partayn said what he always said when he saw his sister approach. It was an affectionate exaggeration of what their father always said when they, as toddlers, had come into a room. Helpryn had folded his hands over his impressive corpulence and boomed a long, smiling “Yes.”

“Yes,” Cyndere whispered to her brother in return. Then she ran to him and wept into that scratchy beard. The crowd had surrounded them both, embracing their embrace.

Reports rushed like bees from the gateway to the top of Bel Amica’s rock. The story spread along the Rushtide Inlet, down into the harbors and shipyards, and eventually out to the island-bound ships, where many asked permission to come home and hear his voice again.