“Enough, Deileala!” came the Regent’s own voice then. “Release him in peace, I have real business to conduct with this man. Come here, Elasand-re, so I wouldn’t have to yell or get up from where I am—he-he-he. Must I always wrestle this one from your clutching grasp, my sister, love?”
Deileala turned her perfect profile in her brother’s direction and raised one disdainful brow. “Really now . . .” she snorted. “As if you ever have business. What nonsense is it today, Hestiam, love?”
Hestiam ran his fingers through his unadorned wavy hair. “You know what it is,” he said. “I must receive him—the dark stranger. It cannot be put off any longer.”
Elasand neared the dais and bowed before the Regent. “Your Grace, I’ve been told of this Lord Vorn, hailing from some remote place he calls Qurth. I am also familiar with the—psychic deaths he apparently induced at the Inner Gates. I am here therefore, to be at your side. To assist you in any way possible with what I know.”
Hestiam nodded at him, then motioned away all superfluous servants and courtiers, so that the vicinity was cleared, except for one slightly balding older man, and a couple of others, including a tall man with long sun-hair who stood with his back to them. With a discreet glance, Ranhé recognized the Lord Chancellor himself, Rollen Lirr, and several of the ministers, including Raelin Barsadt, the Minister General, who would normally never attend the Regent at his breakfast. Clearly, something was afoot.
“What shall I do, Elasand-re?” complained the Regent, as he again picked up his goblet and popped a grape in his mouth, alternating between fear and gluttony.
Deileala neared the throne. “I say, brother, you should receive him,” she drawled. “And do it as soon as possible, before you strain your nerves and become utterly unbearable. Besides, I would like to see this—Lord Vorn.”
The balding man, Chancellor Lirr, cleared his throat. “Your Grace,” he said to the Regent, “I agree with Her Grace. It is unavoidable you must receive this stranger. And I’m sure Lord Vaeste agrees with us all in this matter.” At which point he stared meaningfully at Elasand.
Hestiam swallowed deeply of his drink, then again turned to face Elasand. “Well?” he said. “Do you think I am too casual maybe, with no crown upon my head and no imposing bejeweled coat? Would not the stranger scoff at me for receiving him at breakfast?”
“Rather, Your Grace’s—ahem—matter-of-factness will but imply a greater self-confidence,” said Lirr.
And Elasand smiled. “Receive him now, Your Grace,” he said softly, gently, and finally, so that his words, quiet as they were, carried across the hall. “Receive him, for we will all be at your side.”
Hestiam slammed down the goblet and clapped his hands together. He breathed in deeply, and exclaimed, “So it shall be! I’ve always trusted your counsel, Elasand-re! I will see him now, this instant!”
At which Deileala rolled her eyes.
Immediately Chancellor Lirr motioned for the guards who left to fetch the dearly unwanted guest, before the Regent changed his mind.
Even for a casual reception, the situation called for a minimum of protocol. Waves of conversations went through the crowd and quieted, while the courtiers shifted like puppets to assume more formal stylized positions near the dais. Ranhé blended with them, taking her place behind Lord Vaeste, who stood at the right hand of the Regent, next to Lirr.
From her back, a few feet away, she was being observed by a man with long sun-hair.
Deileala leisurely strolled to take the elevated empty seat next to Hestiam. She swung one sculptured leg over the other, leaning her elbow against the arm of the chair and cupping her chin. “Do proceed with the charade,” she whispered loudly in her brother’s ear, while her eyes momentarily caressed Elasand.
They did not have to wait long.
“The Lord Araht Vorn!” resounded the High Servant from the entrance, preceding a dark giant shape of a man and his two retainers.
The hall fell into silence.
He was like absolute night, a yawning hole against the gaudy gray brightness of the marble chamber and latticed sunlight.
Ranhé blinked, feeling a sort of momentary dizziness, as a small part of her unexpectedly responded to him, to the darkness of this presence against the bright grays of everything else. He was so black that before seeing him, she realized, she had never seen true blackness, never tasted night.
He wore all black. No armor, simply black thick voluminous darkness that was a robe, and underneath, an indistinguishable void. He was taller than any present in the room, a true giant, with large limbs and a sun-scorched stone face. His coarse dark hair of another race was held back by a band of leather, also black, like the wide armbands spanning his huge wrists, the ornate belt from which hung a feral cross-dagger, and the metal-embellished boots.
Behind Lord Vorn stood two men, also clad in all black, and daggered. They had blank faces and dark-filled opaque eyes. In an unprecedented display of this City’s weakness, they were allowed these weapons in the presence of the Regent.
The black man approached the dais, his heavy steps echoing against marble, then stopped. And in the silence of the hall, his voice shattered them inwardly as though it had the ability to bludgeon. “I am the Lord Araht Vorn, Emissary of the One who comes after me. Why was I detained for two days? Are you the one called Regent?”
Hestiam involuntarily stiffened at the first sound of the thunder, but held himself in check. Ranhé could see he was in control, except for the fluttering of an eyelid. He parted his lips to speak.
Instead, came the calm voice of Elasand.
“Welcome, Lord Vorn,” he said, as though nothing were amiss, stepping down from the dais, pausing but a couple of steps away. “You are in the presence of His Grace Hestiam Grelias, the Regent of Tronaelend-Lis before the Throne of Monteyn, and his sister, Her Grace, Deileala Grelias, the Regentrix. I suggest you bow before this Throne, before His Grace acknowledges your presence.”
A horrible silence.
The black giant froze, in amazement, it seemed. He looked down upon Elasand who, although tall, was a head shorter. For a moment Ranhé had the greatest urge to spring forward in Vaeste’s defense, for she had a feeling the black one was contemplating murder on the spot.
But she underestimated the complexity of Vorn.
The face of the black man remained stonelike. He stared at Elasand, then ignored him and slowly turned his face back to the Regents. And then, even more slowly, he barely inclined his head in the most vague semblance of deference that this Court had ever seen. They all sensed that it cost him a piece of his pride, and he knew it too—knew that sometime he would be repaid.
Hestiam regained his voice. “Lord Vorn,” he said loudly and formally. “We welcome you. What brings you to this City? What land do you hail from, and who is your lord and liege?”
The stone face of Lord Vorn took on a disdainful look. “I am of Qurth,” he said, his voice battering down upon them, making the marble of the chamber ring. Ranhé wondered about the odd quality of his speech, the hollowness and the harsh accent.
“And where is this Qurth of yours?”
All faces turned at the contrast, for a sultry female voice now pierced the silence. Deileala stared down at the black lord, her head leaned to the side, her eyes bright and absolutely fearless.
And for the first time, this induced a reaction from the dark giant. He turned barely, focusing his fathomless black eyes upon the woman who dared speak with such lightness.
Although she never revealed it, that dark gaze succeeded in startling Deileala. But not as much as his consequent words.
“Lady,” he uttered, not taking his eyes off her. And then, “Qurth is many leagues from here to the East, a great land. And my Liege Lord is the Twilight One, whose name is not to be pronounced.”
Deileala was still angered by that original pang of fear that she had felt upon first meeting his gaze. But now she had recovered quite well from it.
“Not to be pronounced?” she exclaimed. “How is that? I command you to pronounce it before us, Lord Vorn!”
“Then I must obey,” said Vorn with an odd softer intonation. For several heartbeats, he simply looked at her, and it was hard to fathom that look. And then again his voice grew to thunder. “He is the Twilight One, Feale who is lord of all Qurth, and all the East! He is the Glorious One, and He sends me as His Emissary, as the one who comes before Him!”
Silence.
“Are you saying that your Liege, this unpronounceable Twilight One, is about to pay us a visit?” said Hestiam, his voice taking on a falsely casual ring. “How charming! Tronaelend-Lis is always known for its hospitality to neighbors. We would like to have your Liege as our Guest indeed.”
“And when are we to expect your Twilight Liege?” said Deileala, her eyes in turn boring into the dark man.
“You mock me,” he said softly, his bass voice turning to shadows. “It is apparent that you do not understand the nature of the Twilight One. But—no need. You simply must prepare to welcome him. That is all that need be known for now. For He is coming, even now as we speak, and all must be ready for Him.”
“Why, of course.” Hestiam casually stroked his beard. “If your lord is on his way, we must make preparations for a series of feast days. It has always been in our mutual interest to further relations with all adjacent territories, to expand our trade, our knowledge, our friendships. My Lord Chancellor will be happy to discuss such details with you further, when the time comes.”
“A feast day, how marvelous!” exclaimed the Regentrix in a suddenly bright voice. “And how very opportune!” she continued, making a great point of turning her gaze to Elasand.
All Dirvan turned to stare with her. For an instant the dark lord was forgotten.
“Lord Vaeste,” she said, “is it not true that your young cousin on the Beis side is about to wed a certain lord of Daqua, this very month?”
Elasand was silent a moment longer than necessary. He looked at the Regentrix with a cold straight gaze. And then he replied, like ice. “It is true . . . Your Grace.”
“Well then the gods be praised! And what is your cousin’s name, Lord Vaeste?”
“Lady Lixa Beis. She is to marry Lord Harlian Daqua two weeks from now—”
“Ah, not so! Not any longer, Elasand-re. I’ve decided to honor her and gift her a feast day for her Wedding. Three feast days, in fact! Your cousin Lady Lixa will marry tomorrow, here in Our Presence, in Dirvan, and her Wedding will mark the first day of three of celebration for the City, with Lord Vorn as an honored guest of the Regency.”
“That will not be necessary, Your Grace,” protested Elasand. “The Ceremony was planned to be a small private one—”
“Actually,” said Hestiam, who was catching on fast, “that’s a splendid idea. We’ll make this Wedding a precursor to the welcome that Lord Vorn’s Liege will have when he arrives.”
“But Your Grace—” Elasand began.
“It is decided then, and not another word, Elasand-re. Send your minion—there, the one that stands behind you—to the Beis Villa to let them know of their unexpected honor. Tell them to make haste, but not to fear, for all their expenses shall be taken care of by us. And I mean, all expenses. Oh, and tell your cousin to expect a bolt of the finest gauze fabric, and ten of my sewing maidens who will make her a Bride Gown, a gift from me, before the day is over.”
By “minion,” Deileala had meant Ranhé. Both Elasand and Ranhé chose to ignore her meaning, and Ranhé in fact took a minuscule step even farther behind his back.
Elasand was furious with this turn of events, but responded in a calm voice, “Very well, I shall inform Beis of their honor personally.”
He was well aware that this turn of events was a means of buying time for the Grelias. They were desperate enough to implement absurd delay tactics, stalling before the ominous unknown, and he had to grudgingly agree that it was reasonable under the circumstances. Everyone was playing a game, the end goal of which was the indefinite postponement of the truth of what Lord Vorn represented. But then, this had always been the way of the Grelias and their Court—ridiculous convoluted cowardice, and underneath, impotence.
But in the Regentrix, it was something else, for she was no coward, ever. “Well,” Deileala said, turning her gaze back to the dark Lord Vorn. “Is there anything else you want to convey that your Feale would like us to know?”
If such a thing was possible, then Lord Vorn cringed at the sound of the name “Feale” spoken with such lightness.
“No, O lady,” he responded, however, his low voice calling forth a hiss-echo from the stones of the chamber, “I am merely his emissary, and come before him to make way.”
“Enough said, lord,” said Deileala, staring at him insolently. “You are beginning to repeat yourself. You will attend the Wedding tomorrow as our Guest, for we want the emissary to enjoy himself as much as the one who will come after.”
Few read the irony in her words, but Vorn was one.
And only a few of those present noticed the thin, terrible smile forming on his dark stone mouth.
From a few feet away, the man with sun-hair noticed that smile.
“Beautiful one,” said Lord Vorn irreverently to Deileala, without using her title, and boring into her eyes with a gaze of intensity and darkness. “This emissary will attend your Wedding feast tomorrow, and will enjoy himself more than you think.”
And with that and a short nod of the head to her only, he turned, never again acknowledging Hestiam, not waiting for a dismissal, and left the chamber, followed by his two dark silent guards.
“Well!” said Deileala. “The insolence!”
Everyone in the chamber took a big breath of relief, while Hestiam urged Chancellor Lirr after the departed. “Go in haste!” whispered the Regent, rubbing his beard nervously, and not caring that others saw him thus. “Go, and don’t let him out of your sight! Show him the sights of the City, make any excuse to accompany him and keep him busy, and if all else fails, be his shadow and watch him.”
Designated thus to be an involuntary buffoon, Chancellor Lirr hurried away in pursuit.
“Hestiam, now that I consider it, no need for such extreme drama. Let the man be; after all, he will not go far. No one will mistake someone of such unusual size and—darkness.”
Grelias threw a vague look of fear at his sister, before turning to Elasand and the other ministers that were present. “So? Do you think it went—well?” he inquired.
“I suppose well, for the moment, Your Grace,” said the Minister General, Raelin Barsadt, watching with consternation the face of the Regent grow infantile in fear.
What a strange turn of events. Barsadt, like all the others, had come here to marginally support the Regent, full of unresolved grievances against him. They were all this way, filled with complaints and ideas of the Guilds Council, ready to plunge into the everyday City politics. But now—as of this morning all grievances aside, they were finding themselves fellow conspirators with this weak man who stood as the last insecure bastion of City unity against a quickly approaching unknown.
“All shall be well,” said Elasand meanwhile, his optimism appearing insincere to himself at least, but it was enough to again allow the Regent his self-delusion.
Hestiam took him by the sleeve in a familiar gesture, drawing Elasand closer to him, and then again spoke in a near-whisper, “Elasand-re, I am sorry to have complicated things by involving your kinswoman’s Wedding, but you must understand why we did this, why—”
“It is all right, I do understand,” said Elasand, pitying the man, though not half so charitable toward his sister.
Elasand decided not to bring up after all a certain matter that he had planned to mention, choosing to postpone the discussion of the Guilds Council. Instead he said, “I will now go inform my kin of the change in Wedding plans, and of the honor bestowed upon them. In the meantime, Your Grace, this Vorn shall be watched closely.”
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“I trust you, Elasand-re,” repeated the Regent again, in his wake. “Remember, I trust you, that is why I do what I do.”
Elasand bowed, and made his way out of the chamber, with Ranhé following—silent and self-effacing a few steps behind.
“Wait!” came a demanding female voice.
And before they crossed the room, Deileala was at his side, running practically, and taking him by the elbow. “I’ll walk with you, Elasand-re,” she whispered, looking up at him, the pupils of her eyes swelling with an odd receptiveness.
She ignored Ranhé as though the other were a column. At the exit, just as they entered the marble corridor, the Regentrix drew Elasand into a small shadowy niche which housed a pale statue.
Here, as Ranhé watched wide-eyed from only a couple of steps away, the Regentrix drew up her arms, and placed her fingers around the tall man’s neck, brushing away the long midnight hair, and drawing him down to her face, so that their shape mingled in the twilight of the alcove into one hazy form of monochrome.
There was a feeling like stones grinding slowly. Like marble coming to lie on her diaphragm, as Ranhé watched the momentary embrace. At that instant she too was a statue, a stone basilisk.
But a heartbeat later, Elasand drew away. His voice carried clear to Ranhé as he said, “I am afraid I cannot—my lady.”
And something—a demon maybe—made Ranhé draw forward, and stop being his invisible shadow for one instant, in order to say, “Begging pardon, but we must be on our way, Lord Vaeste! Come!”
“What’s this?” spoke Deileala, as for the first time she glanced toward Ranhé and deigned to notice, “Who is this? How dare you?”
“It is merely a loyal retainer of mine, Your Grace,” said Elasand gently, throwing an unreadable look at Ranhé. “And my retainer is right, I must be on my way.”
And Ranhé lowered her head in a bow, cast her gaze to the ground, remaining vague and androgynous, and repeated softly, “I beg pardon, Your Grace.”