“The armies clamor at the gates, and the dead are all around. Even if this mortal world falls,” said Vlau suddenly, “we are here together, you and I.”
“Always,” she said, looking out from the roof at the panorama below.
And then Jack Frost snapped his fingers, and far away against the grey dreary sky, a tiny shooting star appeared. It fell like a firefly and landed on a small snow-covered frozen fountain pond inside someone’s garden. As the light struck the surface of the ice, it shattered and reformed, and to Claere’s delight, a tiny ice sculpture appeared, a petite maiden of ice, and next to her, a tiny young man, perfect replicas of themselves, fixed in transparent ice.
“There we are!” the Snow Maiden exclaimed. “How did you do that?”
“Art, my dear!” he replied in a parody of a courtier’s nasal tone.
She laughed. “Will I be spending eternity with a court jester? Little did I know! It is lovely. But it will melt, eventually, you do realize. . . . That is, if sorrowful spring will ever come.”
“Of course, just as all things eventually do. With or without armies to expedite the dreaded end.”
“Then why put such glorious effort into something so ephemeral?”
“Beauty, my dear!” Again, his mocking nasal tone.
“So is beauty and art the justifying purpose of all things?”
“What else is there?”
“Love,” she said.
“Stories!” he replied.
“Ah, such is to be our tedious eternity, filled with Beauty, Art, Love, and Stories!” She gazed at him with a mocking smile of mischief.
“We’ll have children . . .” he whispered suddenly, his eyes becoming serious and his pupils widened with desire.
“They will be flurries of girl snowflakes and little frost boys with ruddy noses and blue cheeks!”
But he was still serious, gazing at her, and his carnal desire was submerged, made secondary somehow. It was transformed, replaced with divine love.
Far below them, Letheburg, with its sorrowful reality, receded. Or at least so it seemed. It too was ephemeral, for the time being. And with it, was the mortal world.
Chapter 13
Percy moved into the mist and emerged on the other side . . . into bitter cold.
No, this was not Death’s Keep.
Instead, a stark winter forest stood around her, sparse trees drawn black in hairline-sharp contrast upon whiteness of snow. She inhaled scalding cold air, and was immediately grateful for her usual winter coat and mittens, and pulled her woolen shawl up from her shoulders and over her hair.
The sound of many horses neighing and various human speech came from about fifty feet away, and Percy turned, seeing the site of a camp being made, and the familiar figures of the people of the town of San Quellenne now shivering in their somewhat meager winter clothing, and no doubt glad that they had listened to her and dressed warmly.
But as the full range of sound made itself known to her from all directions, she realized these were not only the people she had helped transport through the shadows—this was a large camp, and it had soldiers and knights, and some ordinary people who looked very much like residents of Lethe. There were many fires burning among the trees, and stacks of grey smoke rising up into the frigid air. Clanging metal, military commands being given, messages conveyed, even occasional banter and the mewling cries of infants and the barking of dogs.
“Percy!”
Beltain was approaching her.
The black knight in his full plate armor walked effortlessly through the snow, his tall imposing figure sending a jolt of wordless joy and relief through Percy. In that instant she saw him, she knew once and for all that he was the essence of homecoming. Wherever he was for her, it was the place she recognized as home.
“Are you all right?” he asked, looking at her closely. Vapor curled from his breath in the icy air. His slate-blue eyes—indeed, a single deep glance from them—caused warmth to rise in her cheeks.
“What is going on?” she said, “I am not sure what happened! Did all the people and you come through here, and not in Death’s Keep?”
“Apparently so.”
“And where is ‘here?’ Where are we?”
He glanced around, pointed to the trees. “The forest looks familiar. If I did not know better I would say it is the Chidair part of the northern forest. We are on my own land. However—” He paused and pointed again, through the trees, in the direction of the camp. “These men over there are Goraque soldiers. Which means that either there is a whole lot of land missing, or they are here on other business. But to complicate things even more, there are all manner of others here too. Women and children, ordinary country folk—”
While Beltain was speaking, Percy noticed the energetic figure of Lady Jelavie in her knight’s armor, approaching with a few other San Quellenne townsmen at her side. Little Flavio ran beside her, kicking up snow with enthusiasm.
“You, girl! Where is my mother?” Jelavie said in a bright commanding voice. “And where in Heaven’s name are we?”
Percy felt a pang of sorrow, and for a moment it was difficult to meet the lady’s eyes. “The Lady Calliope chose to stay behind. I am very sorry.”
“What?” Jelavie San Quellenne’s expression was furious and tragic. And then she turned on Percy. “You killed her, didn’t you? You left her behind on purpose! You left my mother all alone to die in that awful, cursed, fading place! You—”
“Enough!” Beltain interrupted in a hard voice. “Whatever Percy Ayren has done on behalf of your mother and indeed all your people, is something to be thankful for—My Lady.”
“I am truly sorry. She was already dead,” Percy said. “I simply helped her to pass on with the dignity that she had wanted—that she chose for herself. When I left her body, it was in a spot she selected for herself. She was looking at the sea . . . in the direction of the island which is now gone. . . . She told me of Saga Mountain, where your father is buried. . . .”
“No!” Lady Jelavie San Quellenne burst into hard sobs.
Flavio San Quellenne came up to his sister and tugged her by the hand. “Jelavie!” he said. “What’s wrong? Is mother gone to Saga Mountain?”
“Yes . . . yes she is!” And Jelavie wept even harder, with ragged gasps. Then just as forcefully she quieted herself, wiping her face and nose violently against her gauntlet and took a deep gulp of air. In seconds her face was back to being stony and proud, only the smear of tears remained, freezing on her ruddy skin in a manner of seconds.
The townspeople of San Quellenne approached their group, one by one, and there were many questions as they stood around together with their belongings. The Count D’Arvu and his wife and daughter, were among them.
“You are our Lady now,” many of the townspeople spoke. “What should we do?”
At the sound of their general noise and voices, the Tanathe newcomers were noticed at last by the denizens of the camp beyond the trees. Soon, there were several figures approaching from the encampment behind them. They were armed.
“Wait here,” Beltain said calmly, with authority, “while I go speak with them.” And he turned back and went to meet the soldiers of the camp. His great sword was prominent at his side, but it was sheathed and he made a point of showing that his gauntleted hands carried no hidden weapons. After a few minutes of conversation in muted voices with what appeared to be a Goraque knight, Beltain nodded, then returned to Percy and the group of refugees from San Quellenne.
“All is well,” he said. “These people are not only Goraque soldiers, but apparently there are villagers from all around the countryside, including Chidair, and the towns of Duarden, Fioren, your own Oarclaven, Tussecan, and quite a few stragglers from outside the Kingdom of Lethe. As I stood speaking to that knight, I could recognize Styx dialects coming from beyond the copse of trees. And there are quite a few very tired, battle-worn Morphaea soldiers from the Balmue border battlefields.”
“What does
that mean?” the new Lady San Quellenne asked. “We are in your Realm, I can see, but do they know who we are? Did you tell them we are Tanathe? What will they do with us?”
“Nothing,” the black knight replied mildly. “They know you are from the Domain, just as they know that I am the son of the Duke Chidair who only a few weeks ago was their prime enemy. However, the feud lines have been redrawn. This strange war and this world fading around us have changed all that. It is now a conflict between the living and the dead—and between the gods.”
Lady Jelavie stared at him with a frown. “What gods?”
“Your Sovereign,” Percy replied softly. “She is the Goddess Persephone.”
“Who?” There was a look of complete confusion on Jelavie’s face.
“Throughout the course of your noble education, have you not had the fortune to read the Ancient Greeks?” Beltain said with an edge.
“I beg you not to insult my family’s ability to educate our children! I assure you, we of Tanathe are not savages! And ah, you mean to say, classical Persephone of the Greek Underworld? But it is a silly old myth, a story! We were told it by our tutors, and they made us read histories mixed in with mythic fabrications—Hesiod and Ovid, Pindar and Aristophanes, Virgil and of course the lofty verses of Homer in the original, which indeed I much prefer for its heroic splendor to the other less valiant histories and myths—But, Persephone?” Lady Jelavie appeared stunned.
“Yes, that same Persephone. It seems the fabled stories are histories after all.”
“So you say,” Jelavie continued, “that the Sovereign of the Domain—our Sovereign—is in fact Persephone, out of old classical texts? She is immortal?”
“It is exactly so. And had you been so fortunate as to have ended up in Death’s Keep, you would’ve had the pleasure of meeting her immortal consort, Lord Hades.”
“If this is a joke—”
“Unfortunately, Lord Beltain speaks the truth,” the Count D’Arvu put in, coming closer through the crowd of San Quellenne refugees. “My Lady San Quellenne, we have not had the pleasure yet, but allow me to introduce myself and my noble family, I am Count Lecrant D’Arvu of Balmue, your countryman, and we have only recently arrived from the Sapphire Court, and had every intention of settling in your delightful spot of paradise that had been San Quellenne.”
And then the Count related to Lady Jelavie some of the events of the past days and weeks at Court. “And thus,” he concluded, “as you can see, the Sovereign is the enemy now, of all of us. Indeed, she is the enemy of the mortal world.”
“Now you have a choice to make, Lady San Quellenne. Are you willing to fight for your Sovereign, and fight all these people in that camp? No? If not, then they have no interest in fighting you,” said the black knight.
“We do not wish to fight them, no,” said Lady Jelavie, with a proud look. “But we will not stand and be slaughtered. However, I am willing to take your noble word as a Peer of the Realm that we shall not be harmed.”
“And much relief be to that,” said Beltain.
“Are you a real Peer of the Realm?” said the boy Flavio suddenly. He neared the black knight and tapped a plate of his dark metal armor with the palm of his hand, making it ring, and then stared at the sheathed great sword, mesmerized. “Can I see your sword?”
“Flavio!” Lady Jelavie exclaimed. “Stand back from the Lord, immediately. Keep away from underfoot now—really, now is hardly the time. And put those mittens on, your hands are turning blue!”
But Beltain gave the boy an amused look and raised one brow. “Maybe later, little man,” he said.
“Here, child, come with me.” It was the Countess Arabella D’Arvu, and she took the boy gently by the hand, the same way she had when they were about to cross the curtain of grey mist and he was about to lose his mother.
“Thank you. . . .” Jelavie gave the Countess a grateful look.
Percy meanwhile watched the young lady who stood next to the Countess D’Arvu.
Lady Leonora, the Cobweb Bride, and her death shadow, were right here, before her.
“My Lady . . .” Percy said.
Leonora inclined her head in a slight nod. And then, saying nothing, she retreated behind her mother.
The group from Tanathe entered the large Goraque camp slowly, taking care not to provoke any hostility, but soon realized that they were received as fellow refugees in an amicable manner. They walked past endless fire pits, small tents and holes dug in the snow and lined with wooden thatch and canvas tarp. Food was being rationed, but for the moment a smell of cooking smoked sausage and salted pork hung in the air. There were little children running everywhere, and there were soldiers of all ranks, attending to weapons and horses.
Looks were exchanged, but friendly casual ones for the most part.
The sight of Lord Beltain Chidair seemed to make more of an impression upon the military men than the appearance of refugees from the Domain. All the Goraque knights and soldiers knew him, the “invincible Black Knight,” from years of armed conflict with Chidair—and in many cases from the wounds he had dealt them personally—and he was given quite a few hard stares as he walked near the front, leading his great black warhorse behind him.
They walked deeper into the camp, following a large bearded knight wearing a red surcoat with the Goraque crest. He introduced himself to Lord Beltain as Baron Gundar Dureval, saying that fortunately he had not had the pleasure of meeting the black knight in battle, unlike most of the men here, and hence was quite free of grudges.
“Fear not,” Baron Dureval added for the sake of the Lady San Quellenne and her people, and the Count D’Arvu. “You will be perfectly safe here, for you are merely foreigners of the Domain and not Chidair.” And then he gave a wink to Beltain, who took the minor jab as well as possible under the circumstances, keeping a composed face.
“Where are you taking us?” asked Lady Jelavie, walking in front in a confident manner.
“The Duke would like to see you first, before you join the camp.”
“It is understandable.” The young lady nodded with a stonelike face.
They arrived before a modestly large tent, flying the red-and-gold pennants and crest of Goraque. While the bulk of the newcomers remained outside, Beltain, Percy, the Lady San Quellenne, and the Count D’Arvu followed by Countess Arabella and Lady Leonora, all entered the tent, past the guards.
Duke Vitalio Goraque was hunched over a table covered with a large detailed map that took up most of the room in the tent, and next to him were several Goraque knights, commanding officers, and advisors. Vitalio Goraque was a middle-aged man of medium built, with a well-groomed small sharp beard and stylish wavy brown hair, and rather nondescript but generally pleasing features. He had the look and smooth manners of a courtier, as was reflected in the softly erudite and composed cadence of his voice, as he discussed the map with his advisors.
The Duke looked up and the arrivals were introduced. At the sight of Lord Beltain Chidair, Duke Goraque paled slightly, but then recovered his composure, while Beltain nodded curtly, maintaining a very closed and bland expression.
“So the Black Knight has broken with his father,” said Goraque. “Well, this should be interesting.”
“My father is dead,” replied Beltain. “I have broken with a madman to whom I cannot owe allegiance.”
“And so you think you can just march in here, into my camp, and all will be forgiven? All years of grievances forgotten? Do you know, Chidair whelp, that I still have an old, poorly healed cut on my thigh that you have delivered unto me three years ago?”
“Is that so, Your Grace?” Beltain’s countenance was granite. “I do believe my own arm has a scratch from you, and all other parts of me can thank quite a few of your men for their well-placed favors. We are as even as can be.”
The Duke maintained a stare, and then he exhaled wearily. “No doubt, you are right, Lord Beltain,” he said, giving up any more pretence of posturing, for he was more tired than he
let on. “And apparently our differences have now become secondary. We are at war with things we cannot explain, forces that are unnatural. . . . Now, who are all these people with you, Chidair?”
The introductions were made, and Duke Vitalio Goraque politely acknowledged the newcomers. He gave a slightly longer glance to the new Lady Jelavie San Quellenne, no doubt noticing her youth, and then upon learning the circumstances, expressed his condolences on the recent loss of her mother. He then introduced the knights present in the room, including a high ranking operative of the Emperor, a well-composed handsome man with raven-dark hair and fierce aquiline features, by the name of Ebrai Fiomarre.
Percy started at the name and immediately understood why the man looked so familiar. Beltain mentioned that he knew a “Marquis Vlau Fiomarre.”
A notable change came to Ebrai’s features, a complete closing off, so that he was an impenetrable blank. “Yes,” he replied in a neutral tone. “It is my brother.” And then he said nothing else.
At one point, Goraque’s gaze rested upon Percy.
Percy, in her ordinary peasant attire and poor coat, looked out of place in this gathering of nobles, and was originally assumed to be someone’s attending servant or lady’s maid—something she did not mind perpetuating. But seeing the Duke’s attention upon her, Lady Jelavie pronounced: “And this girl has some kind of sorcerous ability with the dead. However she has served my people well in leading us through the mist and here into your Realm—”
Beltain paled slightly, for he had hoped to keep Percy and her role as quiet as possible, considering Goraque’s general intentions were still unclear—but it was too late.
“I am Percy Ayren, Your Grace,” she said, with a modest curtsey.
“And she is under my protection,” Beltain added in a forceful voice, glancing at the Duke point-blank, and then at all the rest of the men in the room.
Duke Goraque raised one brow, noting Beltain’s agitated forcefulness. But then he examined Percy with renewed interest and an evaluating stare. “So, who are you exactly, girl? Sorcery over the dead? Ah! Are you by any chance that girl they talk about who can kill the dead? What is it they call you—Death’s Champion?”