The formal dining hall to which we were led was only a little larger than Ignmatmar’s breakfast room had been. A fire burned on one long wall, a scenic tapestry depicting the valley below hung on the wall opposite, flanked by banners in the blue and white colors of the house. The foot of the table was decorated with lovely floral arrangements surrounding a beautiful wooden statue of a sao`ashan woman in clinging robes.
Our host sat, not at the head of the table, but off-center, near the fire. To their right sat a blue-robed giant, their scarred face half-hidden behind an eyeless golden mask. At first I wasn’t even certain whether he was Jor or cyclops. Then I saw the tattoo on his brow that marked him as xian g`ul. Another cyclops stood at his right, waiting to serve us when we sat. We were seated opposite our host: Elana directly across, Rennin to her right, me to her left, and Derrek at my other side.
Dinner was already laid out between us: a vat of steaming floral rice, a lurid orange curry, still bubbling in its carafe, piles of battered and fried vegetables and dumplings. To my surprise it looked and smelled more like what we had eaten travelling with Darjaran and his caravan than anything we had been offered in the various city-states.
“Welcome,” said Vol Mak Khan. “Allow me to introduce my xian g`ul companion, Shava Rhahan.”
We nodded our thanks and murmured greetings. The masked cyclops gave us a smile and a short bow in return.
“It is our honor and pleasure to host your delegation from the lands beyond the Ice Wall,” he said. “You may consider this your home for the duration of your stay, and I ask only that you give us some warning if you are going to bring guests. I am, as I said, a healer and doctor, and will not be closing my practice for the duration.”
“Of course,” said Elana, giving Derrek a moment to translate for her. “We are deeply grateful for your hospitality, and would never wish to impose on your trade. We have, in fact, been stunned beyond words at the generosity and welcome we have received since stumbling into the Holy Empire.”
Vol Mak Khan smiled and nodded, then waved broadly at the food before us.
“Tales of your travels have made my cook nostalgic, and she has prepared dishes from her youth as a caravan-rider. I hope you have not yet grown tired of tikka.”
We had not, and – through Derrek – said so. The tikka, made with some local fowl only Derrek had ever heard of, was excellent. To my delight, which I neglected to mention, it was every bit as flavorful but not nearly as spicy as that made by Darjaran’s cook, and it was served with both milk and clear water to wash it down.
We made small talk as we ate, relating bits of our journey. Our host spoke of their own long-ago travels – through the jungles of the Holy Lands, and to the port-cities of Shendryl, and across the dark, rocky terrain of the Shadowrealm, as an exiled youth and then, later, with Shava Rhahan at his side, and then across the Holy Empire, when their exile was lifted.
“Hospitality is, I think,” said Vol Mak Khan, “the greatest virtue of our Holy Empire. The priestesses, of course, would argue for piety, and that is their right and privilege. But my position stands, and I hope for a day when we once again open our borders to strangers.”
After that we went to bed, and I slept as deeply as the honored dead.
We were given three whole days to rest.
We spoke little the first day, not even amongst ourselves. Elana and Rennin barely left their room. Derrek spent the entire morning in the bath. I made myself at home in the gardenlike sitting room, looking out over the magnificent rock-cut city and the steaming valley below, simultaneously awestruck and horrified, certain that it was one of the great and terrible cities of llamenan legend, where so many of our people had died that the sao`ashan might live in luxury.
The second day we made better use of the hospitality we were offered. Vol Mak Khan served four meals each day, and invited us to join them at each, but took no offence if we declined. They had their servants show us the library, and the tearoom, and our every want and need was well-tended to.
On the third day, Elana broached the subject of preparation. But Derrek only shrugged.
“I could spin out endless possible scenarios,” he said. “But in truth, I think it best that we wait and see what happens. The archons have offered us a warm welcome, but they have not received us. Nor have we yet had a chance – that we know of – to speak with a representative of the prince. The will of the archons will determine our place in the city, but it’s the prince who will say whether and on what terms we can move south from here.”
Elana nodded, then finally asked the question we had spent the last months avoiding.
“What can we do if we are refused, or never permitted to ask?”
“If we cannot see the prince,” Derrek said, “or if we are refused but not constrained, then when spring comes I will lead us to Starview, the hieropolis where I was raised, and from there we will sneak back into the Compact via Handar. If we are refused, and sent to the Holy Emperor, we will petition him. If we are refused by the Emperor, or bound to this city, I will devote all my efforts and imagination to reproducing Ierichus’ teleportation spell that he used to drop the Heart’s Guard into So’renner.”
Elana nodded slowly.
“And if we are constrained more forcefully?” she asked.
“Then Yma Rinlo will die, mourned by few, and Derrek Rowan will leave a crater that will change, if not necessarily improve, our negotiating position.” He sighed, running a hand over his bald head. “A dramatic and violent display of power is obviously my very last resort. It is much more likely that we will be asked to complete an impossible or costly task, or to be bound to secrecy like the traders of old, or simply be put off again and again until whatever terrible possibilities the dragons saw in the stars can be averted.”
He rubbed his hand over his head again, and sipped his tea.
“The receptions we have received so far lead me to guess that the prince had made his decision, already, but disdained to announce or telegraph it. We will need to be polite and patient, lest we offend, but we should speak our wants and needs clearly that they can be heard. Beyond that, I can only speculate wildly.”
Elana turned to me, as she so often did when she doubted or disliked Derrek’s advice. I could only shrug. As I had told her before, what little I knew of the Holy Empire was from my people’s oldest legends, well beyond the reach of anything that could reasonably be called history. If everything – or anything – he had told us was true, the course of action he proposed was probably the most reasonable. It was not that I did not share her doubts – none of our original concerns had ever really been allayed, and the fact that he had concealed his alien origins from the world for more than thirty years only added to our suspicions – but I had no better answers for her.
The next day, events once more churned into motion. With the dawn came a green-liveried messenger, announcing that the archons would see us that evening, and that a palanquin would appear to bring us an hour before dusk. And, so, we each began the work of preparing ourselves to stand before the highest ranked officials we had yet encountered. In honor of those who had welcomed us first, we collectively decided to wear the finest of the clothes gifted to us by the archons of Khrigo City, and an assortment of jewels from across the long road we had travelled. I swallowed my pride, and begged Derrek and Elana to help me with my braids. That took most of the morning, but they worked deftly in concert, and the task was accomplished before the sun reached its low and early wintery zenith.
Rennin and I dressed in stylish approximations of sorcerers’ garb: voluminous but square pants and jackets, wide sashes, fluttering capes. Elana and Derrek draped themselves in priestesses’ finery: vividly colored dalmaticas and stoles, beltless but with heavy necklaces and bracelets and circlets with pearls dripping from the temples. For the first time since we had come to the Holy Empire, Derrek wore his gold and diamond and obsidian wizard’s claw – though not his steel bracelets or mask or dagger.
“I will save those silent declarations for the prince,” he said. After a moment’s consideration, I decided to follow his example, leaving my Black Mask and enchanted himation folded away in my wizard’s chest.
To my surprise, our host made themselves scarce, though they left their xian g`ul and seneschal at our disposal. Our meals were delivered to our rooms, as were seemingly endless pots of tea. We did not see Vol Mak Khan even once before our palanquin arrived.
There were no sao`ashan among our escort, this time, just two pairs of massive Jor twins – one at each corner of our enormous palanquin – and a pair of cyclops, each with the glyph I now recognized as the sign of the xian g`ul tattooed upon their brow. Of the dozen such marks I had seen, no two had been exactly the same, but of all the many hundreds of people we had seen across a dozen city-states in two provinces, many with piercings, brands, and tattoos, none but the xian g`ul had any mark in that place. They ushered us into the carriage with utmost courtesy, and we rode up the mountain in nervous silence.
The archon’s palace to which we were led was not a step-pyramid, like those of the Lightning Plains, nor a crenelated and onion-domed fortification like we had seen in the rest of the White Steppes. This was a rock-cut wonder: a small mountain peak, its natural point intact and snow-capped, with buttresses of raw stone sweeping out at the points between each of the squared faces. More wonderous, still, were the silhouettes of the two other palaces that rose up behind it, each taller than the one before, just visible in the dusking twilight.
We could only see two of the palace’s faces as we approached, but the angles led me to guess that there were six. The one we were set down in front of boasted a gate tall enough to admit three Jor standing shoulder to shoulder, with a fourth standing on the middle giant’s shoulders. To either side of that portal was carved a gargantuan statue of a sao`ashan figure in robes too different from what they now wore for me to identify them as sorcerer or priestess. The one to the right held a sword, the one to the left held a set of scales.
The massive gate boasted enormous bronze doors to match, with a lesser arch inset by which a single giant – or several creatures our own size – might more easily be admitted to a tall, arched entryway, every rock surface elaborately carved with alternating figures and patterns. The figures were wildly varied: sao`ashan and cyclops and Jor and – to my equal horror and strange relief, proof that my people had been here in ancient times – elves and dwarves. Some stood. Some knelt. Some – though never the sao`ashan – supported others on their backs. A half-dozen arches – lesser, but only in comparison to the one through which we had come – led away from that entry chamber, and I barely had time to process what I was seeing before our xian g`ul escorts ushered us down one of those passages.
The throne room, as always, was built to a massive scale – though, oddly, less so than the entry chamber – and the thrones of the archon triumvirate rose above our heads just past the center line. No crystal topped the vaults above this chamber, directing natural light down upon the suppliants at the feet of the thrones. Instead, the entire room was lit by steady, blue-white, magical light, and a gleaming tourmilated quartz disk, large enough for a giant to stretch out on without touching any edge, rose a half-step from the granite mountainside from which the palace had been carved.
Well accustomed, now, to the steps of this ritual, we took our places on the disk and bowed low, but did not kneel.
A seneschal rang a bell and announced us. Derrek continued his redundant translations.
“All hail the archons of Ghol Vidar,” she said. “The Lady Archon Rhinaloa, priestess of the Flame. The Lady Archon Amra Olin, priestess of the Mother. The Lady Archon Aijimani, priestess of the Stars.”
The seneschal rang her bell again.
“O noble archons,” she continued, “these suppliants stand before you. The Tyrant Elana Traiana of Vencar. Her consort companion Rennin Ösh. The llamenan sorcerer Khanaarre of the Black Mask. Their companion, Yma Rinlo, priestess of the Stars, late of the Western Reaches.”
A final ringing of the bell, and we stood tall.
Unnamed, I might or might not have recognized the archons as the priestesses who had met us outside the city. They had traded their green and gold and white livery for the formal golden dalmatica preferred by the majority of archons that we had met. Pearls hung from their temples, and around their necks. But I remembered Rhinaloa, and could see the curious and courteous woman I had shared a palanquin with in the dignified and distant ruler who looked down on me, now, from her throne.
“Welcome, o travelers,” said the Lady Archon Amra Olin, “to the city of Ghol Vidar. We are honored to host such august visitors from lands so distant as to border on legend.”
She spoke in the language of the Compact, and I was deeply grateful. I was exhausted of pretending that I did not understand, and of waiting for Derrek to translate. I still understood and agreed with the necessity of the ruse, but I wished it could end and could only imagine that Derrek wished so more than I.
“Thank you, O archons,” said Elana. We had done this many times, now. There was a rhythm to it, a rough script. Elana did not let the peculiarity of them having escorted us, incognito, into the city, disrupt that rhythm. “It has been an honor to travel your wondrous nation, and to enjoy the prodigious hospitality of the Holy Empire.”
Our first meeting with each archon, or set of archons, was always in the throne room. We might be introduced by a guard, a seneschal, or by Derrek. Elana would greet them as a near-equal, a diplomatic nicety between the would-be-ruler of a nation but current ruler of only a resistance and the undisputed rulers of city-states equal to the capitols, if not the nations, of the Compact. And then the archon, or archons, would ask for our story, and if there were any aid or hospitality that they could offer us.
“Rumor has preceded you, of course,” Rhinaloa continued, “but we would hear it from your own mouths. How have you come to the Holy Empire?”
As had often been the case, chairs were brought for us, now. It was always a relief. Looking up at the archons was easier when seated.
“We came seeking a magic sword,” said Elana. We had a script for this, too. We had told some archons more – the archons of Khrigo City, in particular – and others less, depending on their mood and interest. But the sword was the main thing. “The Blade of Xadaer, in a crypt near the veil between the Wolfwood and the Holy Lands, which we believe will help us overcome the magical defenses of the man who stole my throne. Though the quest for the sword was successful, we were barred from passing back the way we came, and turned north to follow in the footsteps of the famous bard, Dano`ar, who spoke of travelling the Lightning Plains to the Great Ice Wall, though he made no mention of your people.”
“Yma Rinlo,” said Aijimani, also speaking in the language of the Compact. “Tell us. How did you come to be in this company?”
“I was once close with the sorcerer Usurper,” he said. “It was I who knew where the sword could be found.”
“Why did the dragons bar your passage?” asked Amra Olin.
The way the archons traded turns speaking was more uncanny than the other triumvirates we had seen. There was a … unison between them, now, that there had not been when they had met us on the road.
“We don’t know,” said Elana. “One dragon tried to keep us from the Holy Lands, saying that the stars spoke against our crossing. We defeated her and made our way through. When we returned, we found three dragons barring our way home.”
“A fascinating tale,” said Aijimani. “We would hear it in greater detail, in the days to come.”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Elana, inclining her head.
When we had first shared that part of the story, we had feared that we would be treated poorly. But the sao`ashan showed no reverence for dragonkind or their augury. In fact, it seemed that they have a passion for tales of conflict with dragons that I had never imagined.
The hall fell silent for a few heartbeats.
“And what would you have of us,” asked Rhinaloa, “now that you are here?”
She already knew, of course. There was no way that had not been chief among the news that had preceded us. But the question, Derrek had explained, was deeply rooted in the sao`ashan’s culture of hospitality. And though the answer to most who had asked it previously had begun “to be given passage to Ghol Vidar”, the rest was as true, now, as it had been when we first laid it out before the archons of Khrigo city.
“We are trying to go home,” Elana said. “By any route, though we came seeking the Great Ice Wall. We would be most grateful for any aid that the archons could render to that end.”
“It is not within our power to grant what you ask,” Amra Olin after a long moment, “but we will render you what aid and hospitality we can.”
“It is the Prince of the White Steppes who can grant or deny you passage down the Great Ice Wall,” said Aijimani. “As I am sure, by now, you know. We are equally sure that he has already heard rumor of your coming, but we can and we will put your names before him. The Prince will grant you an audience in his own time.”
“Whenever the Prince deigns to call upon you,” said Amra Olin, “and whatever he decrees, understand that winter has only begun to fall, and the journey is already dangerous beyond imagining.”
“To that end,” said Rhinaloa, “we offer you our hospitality through the whole of winter.”
“Please tell us,” said Aijimani, “have you been content with the house of Vol Mak Khan, so far?”
“We have been very happy in the house of the doctor Vol Mak Khan,” said Elana. “And we are grateful for any and every aid you can render us. We understand that we must await the dignity, and the judgement, of the Prince, and that the coming snow and ice do not.”
“We are pleased to hear this,” said Rhinaloa.
“Sorcerer Khanaarre of the Black Mask,” said Amra Olin. “We have long considered what we would do if ever we came back in contact with the llamenan. We are distraught to learn that, in failing to recognize the Dragon Bard as a representative of your people, we have unknowingly squandered our first opportunity. We recognize that you come not as an envoy from your people, but as a companion to the Tyrant Elana. In spite of that, we hope, in good faith, that the hospitality we show to you and your tyrant may be the first step in righting the ancient wrongs between our peoples.”
I bowed my head, stunned and speechless. This was no part of our script. I had no idea what to say.
“I hear,” I said, calling on courtesies my mothers had taught me but for which I had never had need, “and am grateful for your words.”
I was listening, and I would continue to listen, but I made no promise that agreement – or forgiveness – was forthcoming. And yet … I believed that she was sincere, and began to wonder what that might mean.
“In the days that come,” said Aijimani, addressing us all equally, “as we all await the will of the prince, we hope that you will join us in less formal settings, and that we may come to be friends.”
Elana bowed her head again.
“It would be our pleasure,” she said.
“Go then,” said Rhinaloa, “as our honored guests and as free people in the Holy Empire. Go forth into the city as you please. If there is anything that you need, only speak to Vol Mak Khan and they will provide what they can, and turn to us for what they cannot. We will call upon you in the coming days, as we all await the pleasure of the prince.”
We stood, all of us, and bowed low. When Elana thanked the archons for their generous hospitality, she spoke for all of us. Our xian g`ul escort led us out as they had led us in, and we climbed into the palanquin to descend back to the house of Vol Mak Khan.
“We have done everything that we could,” said Elana, half asking.
“Yes,” said Derrek. “And now we await the pleasure and judgement of the Prince of the White Steppes.”
Elana looked at me next, and I thought she might ask me to elaborate on what Amra Olin had said, but she seemed to think better of it. Perhaps my face was not as neutral a mask as I had hoped to make it.
The meeting had been relatively short, and we had done almost no walking, ourselves, but still I felt wrung out and exhausted by the scrutiny of the archons. My companions looked little better. But Elana was right. We had, for now, done all that we could.
Vol Mak Khan’s seneschal – whose name I had never quite picked up – was waiting for us when we returned.
“Honored guests,” he greeted us warmly. “You have visitors.”
Derrek translated, and we all exchanged confused glances. In all the months we had travelled across the Holy Empire, none but the archons and Darjaran had ever sought out our company. Derrek raised his eyebrows, and Elana nodded.
“Thank you, Shaelodor,” said Derrek, who had absorbed the man’s name. “We will be happy to see them. Could you perhaps arrange for tea, as well?”
Shaelodor bowed his shaggy head.
“Of course,” he said. “Follow me.”
Shaelodor led us to the greenhouse sitting room that overlooked the city and the valley. Two women were waiting there: a sao`ashan priestess and a cyclops woman, both dressed in silks that, while fine, were considerably less rich than anything we had seen outside of Darjaran’s caravan. They turned their heads as we entered, and rose to greet us. Both were tall and dark for their peoples, the cyclops’ face deeply tanned and lined and her eye closer to green than to blue; the priestess’ complexion was more tarnished than golden, and her eyes flashed with pale gold light.
Shaelodor introduced them formally – “Almanata, priestess of the Stars, and her companion Jijuma, of the Starview hieropolis in the Western Reaches.” – but it was Derrek’s reaction that captured my attention. He froze, stiff as a board, and did not even remember to translate for us.
“Mothers?” he said, instead, slipping into the giants’ tongue without noticing, his voice catching and breaking.
The two women smiled broadly, and Derrek staggered forward to meet them. The cyclops knelt and spread her arms to catch him in a warm and powerful hug. When she released him, he turned to the priestess and bowed low. Their embrace was more stately, but I doubted that it was any less heartfelt. Then the cyclops woman took him in her arms again.
Finally, he tuned back toward us. His eyes were wide and his face was flushed and when he opened his mouth to speak, no words came out. I think I saw tears in the corners of his eyes as he closed them and took a deep breath to center himself.
“Your grace,” he said, enunciating the human words carefully, “allow me to introduce my adoptive mothers, Almanata, a priestess of the Stars, and Jijuma, both of the hieropolis of Starview.”
Although he addressed Elana, he looked at her only briefly. It was my gaze he sought, found, and held. I could not say, exactly, what he was thinking or feeling in that moment, but I knew that I had never seen him so vulnerable. I tried to smile, but he had already turned away, introducing us to his mothers in their native immortal tongue. I hoped that the smile I turned to them was more convincing.
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