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Schooling mutiny from her face, Dalia sat in her designated chair in the formal writing room adjoining the royal apartments and arranged her heavy blue courtly robes. How many times had she and Anji written notes at this very table, laughing and whispering to each other as they wrote? Only to be shushed by dear Valsignae from a nearby table, or by King Jonatan, who often worked in his adjoining chamber and loved his quiet.
Sweet, cranky King Jonatan. And Anji...
The door swung open and Cthar entered, her layered white gown showing in fragile contrast to a heavily embroidered crimson mantle held in elaborate folds by two bejeweled clasps at her shoulders. Her golden eyes were rimmed with stark black paint, and her lips and cheeks flaunted crimson to match her cloak. She lifted one stark eyebrow at Dalia and muttered, “Have your gown exchanged—I’ll not endure thrice-worn rags. Now, however, you will write to your lord-father—”
“He’s alive?” Dalia looked Cthar straight in the eyes, mutiny and thrice-worn indignities forgotten. “My lord-father’s alive!”
Cthar narrowed her golden gaze, resentment tightening her regal face. “Yes. Do not interrupt, Dalia of Tragobre, or I’ll have you whipped like the schoolgirl you should still be. Command your lord-father to cease gathering his militia, or I’ll be forced to deal with Tragobre again—with Kaphtor’s weapons this time, not merely with a show of force.”
“Kaphtor’s incendiaries?” Dalia shifted her gaze to the polished amethyst-stone tabletop, fighting down memories of the unquenchable arrows setting Tragobre’s ships ablaze.
Cthar seated herself stiffly opposite Dalia, her words clipped—every syllable edged with loathing. “The details needn’t concern you. Just warn your lord-father that I’ve an entire arsenal of incendiaries and I won’t hesitate to use them on Tragobre’s great hall, once I’m certain your parents are inside.”
One-Who-Sees, is it wrong to hate someone so much? Dalia lifted a silver stylus, touched it into an inkwell, and then glided the first word onto the paper. Dalia, Queen of Darzeq to her beloved parents and Tragobre. Greetings....
Cthar snatched the parchment from beneath Dalia’s hands. “You’ll write what you are. ‘Dalia of Tragobre, to her parents. Greetings.’”
“I am a married woman,” Dalia reminded her. “I will use the title my lord-husband and king bestowed upon me.”
“He’s a traitor and your marriage is illegal. You’ll use no title at all.”
Dalia folded her hands in her lap. Could the baby feel her inward tremors? Cthar’s eyes fixated upon her, scaln-like. Even to the blood-shot veins lacing themselves about her golden irises. Dalia met her gaze with Hradedh dignity. “My marriage to your only surviving grandson was witnessed by the Autumn Forum and blessed by the Infinite through Darzeq’s high priest! Furthermore, my lord-husband, your king, is not the criminal. If I’m not permitted to write the truth, then I’ll write nothing.”
The pupils in Cthar’s golden eyes dwindled to two tiny black dots. She leaned back in her chair. “Do you think I can be talked out of this? I won’t answer you with mere words, so don’t test me. Write to your lord-father. Then you will write to the Lady Rhiysa, in all courtesy, and tell her that if she wishes to appease me, she will travel to Arimna.”
How nice that Cthar could be so concerned with courtesy, having such bloodied hands. Dalia smiled beatifically, hoping she wasn’t overdoing sweetness. “I prefer to be realistic, Lady. Here’s the problem with your beloved Chaplet theology. According to your beliefs, we are all gods in flesh, and life is given to us to seek joy and to do what we deem as good, or needful and pleasing. What if none the other little ‘gods’ in flesh agree with what pleases you?”
Cthar stared at her, unblinking. Her loathing almost palpable, filling the writing room with its murderous presence. Raising her voice coolly, she beckoned the guard. “Khvel.”
Silence answered. Cthar stood. “Khvel!”
Dalia smiled. “Whoever Khvel is, he’s doing as he pleases.” And hopefully he would now run, because Cthar was ready to kill. Genuine color bloomed beneath Cthar’s spots of facial paint. She stormed through the open door and into the hallway.
Alone, Dalia eyed the nearest door—Valsignae’s. Smiling, she snatched the slippers from her feet and hurriedly crept off, blessing Valsignae’s sweet spirit for refusing to have locks installed in her apartment’s well-oiled doors. “Dear Infinite, One-Who-Sees—let me see no reminders of her death!”
Dalia closed herself inside Valsignae’s thankfully clean, linen-draped chamber, and then raced toward the secret panel. She pushed up on the carved hidden latch, slipped into the narrow stone tunnel behind the false wooden wall, and closed the secret door.
Just as Cthar screamed in the distance, “Dalia!”
Dalia was pleased not to answer. Instead, she dashed toward Aunt Pinny’s rooms—the dear and irreverent Princess Pinae-Sonem, who must surely be cheering her on. Dalia slid open the door, crept into Aunt Pinny’s former domain, then carefully closed the door and caught her breath. Whatever she did, she must hurry.
Where was the nearest storage area?
***
Her slippers carefully muddied to dullness, her hair coiled and knotted beneath a drab linen towel, and her scorned ceremonial robes ingloriously tied up beneath a servitor’s protective overtunic, Dalia merged into a line of servants waiting to exit the palace. In her arms, a linen bundle of draperies from Aunt Pinny’s rooms, which hid her courtly mantle.
Matteo would be proud of her—she looked as drab and servant-like as she’d ever appeared in Kiyrem. Several tradeswomen clustered together ahead of her, lugging baskets and bundles of fabric. Dalia approached them, her gaze on their worn sandals and boots as she joined the fringes of their ranks.
Ahead of Dalia, one of the women sighed and shifted a basket from her arm to her fabric-crowned head. “The wait’s longer today.” She eyed Dalia. “Haven’t seen you ‘bout. You’ve a heap to carry through. I thought they’d stopped sending out laundry.”
Dalia affected a bored sigh and a Tvirtove Gate accent. “Mendin’.” Her usual assigned task at Kiyrem.
“You good with ‘broidry?”
“I am. ‘Prenticed two years north o’ Tvirtove Gate.”
“Name?”
Dalia smiled and offered the nickname bestowed upon her by Matteo’s brother Sheth. “Lia.”
The guard was waving them through, clearly convinced by Dalia’s guise. The tradeswoman beckoned Dalia again. “You seem right enough. I’m Glenna. If you’re lookin’ for more work, we need a ‘broiderer at Gold Needle in the weavers ward. Be there at first light.”
“Thanks, an’ I will.” Dalia bobbed a polite ‘Lia agreement and watched Glenna walk away.
Placid, as if she’d walked the same lane for years, Dalia turned east, toward the city’s main gates.
***
Taking his usual place in Port Bascin’s great hall, Corban slouched into his cushioned chair, and studied the ancient Book of Praises in the evening light. Hear me when I cry to You, Infinite, Lord who grants me righteousness. You have upheld me in my suffering; reveal Your mercy now, and hear my prayer.
The words settled within him, calming as a night song, yet alive. The tranquility that had once permeated Araine’s letters to him returned as he read these verses. Finished, he closed his eyes.
Hear my prayer. Infinite, allow me to...
Goldensleeve swept into the hall, harried, his squared face drawn with concern. “Another courier bird’s descended upon the receiving tower. It’s our day for news. I’m off to tell the king.”
Corban opened his eyes and left his selfish prayer unfinished. Restlessness descended upon him again, unwelcome and exasperating. Nevertheless, the king might have received news of the Lady Dalia.
He sped across the great hall after Goldensleeve, and marched up the spiraling stairs toward the royal apartments. On the broad upper landing, he paused as Goldensleeve rapped on the king’s door. A rush of footsteps descended the spiraling steps from the tower loft above, where the courier birds were fed and sheltered. A servitor bowed to Corban, then kneeled, pleading, “My lord, it’s from Arimna! I beg you to present this to the king. If it’s bad news, I’ll never shake the disgrace of being its messenger.”
“As you please.” Corban accepted the thin gold-painted tube and waved off the servitor. “Run.”
Goldensleeve grunted. “You’ve more courage than me, my lord. The king’s called us to enter.” He stepped aside and bowed Corban through.
Corban bowed to Matteo and Ekiael, who stood on opposite sides of the huge writing table. Corban offered the gold cylinder to Matteo, mask-calm, but praying fiercely.
Infinite, grant my unspoken request, and this one: Let the queen be well!
Matteo passed a hand over his growing beard, accepted the message, broke its wax seal and read the tiny note. Then he laughed and shouted to the carved wooden ceiling beams, “Yes! My wife will rule all! Listen!” Grinning, he read aloud, “‘The Queen has been well and this morning escaped the palace. Yrs from Arimna.’”
Ekiael snorted in mock scorn. “That’s all?”
“It’s enough for now!” Matteo kissed the note and tucked it within his coin pouch. “Infinite, shield her until we can gather our army!”
So be it. Corban exhaled and dropped into a chair near the desk as Goldensleeve laughed and bowed in the doorway. “With your permission, Sire, I’m off to tell Port Bascin that our queen’s slipped the she-scaln’s claws.”
***
Dalia kept her gaze lowered, trained on her bundle of fabric. Ahead of her, a quarrel erupted at the city’s gate. A merchant haggling with the guard. “An eighth-weight of gold? Do you think I’m the king?”
“No,” the guard quipped. “The king has no money for a pass fee. But you—by the looks of your garments and horses—have more than enough. Measure out your gold or leave.”
A pass fee. Dalia winced. She’d forgotten about money for a pass fee. But wasn’t this illegal?
No money, no pass-through from Arimna, and too much attention from the guards to be risked. She sidled from the line, not bothering to hide her dejection.
Where to now? The longer she wandered in the open streets, the more certain she was to be caught. Between the spice market and the bakers’ ward, Dalia skimmed the city’s beautiful stonework spires. Gleaming golden light reflected from crown of the Infinite’s House, catching her attention. Dalia smiled. The Infinite would surely welcome her for one night’s refuge in the outlying courts of His Holy House. Was it entirely locked?
Perhaps she could even somehow reach the secret chambers Matteo had described that the priests had adjourned to on his last night in Arimna. From there, she might escape to the River Tinem without needing to pay the pass fee.
A coarse voice bellowed directly at her: “Lady!”
Dalia jumped, hugging her bundle tight. She’d been caught. Oh, One-Who-Sees, no ... please save me!
Dalia glanced toward the voice, awaiting her doom. A young man smiled and winked at her—a baker’s apprentice by the look of his dusted garments and that basket in his hands. “Last of the day’s cakes—given for the taking.”
Dear man, he was giving out samples of his master’s work. Or perhaps his own efforts. She smiled at him, all her relief and delight undoubtedly visible. The apprentice blushed and his grin widened as he held out the broad basket of golden cakes. “For that kindly look, lady, you’ll take several.”
“Thank you, sir, for your kindness.” One-Who-Sees, thank You for seeing my approaching hunger! She shifted her bundle and accepted two cakes.
“Of course,” the apprentice murmured. But he was looking at her wedding ring, all gilded silver, bound by the rich but stained cord fastened by Matteo’s hands on their wedding night. An odd expression passed over the young man’s face, and he gave her a sidelong look before turning away.
Dalia hurriedly tucked her ring and the cakes beneath the tunic’s sleeve and walked on. Any instant now, she would hear voices calling her to halt.
None called. No one else paid her heed as Arimna prepared for the evening, and the night to follow. Dalia trooped through the paved streets in the slanting evening light, winding her way toward the Holy House.
She reached the grand outer courtyards, tired enough to risk a rest behind the shadowed crenels of a mighty pillar. Leaning against the bundle, she chewed on one of the dense, lightly sweetened cakes, then placed a hand on Matteo’s unborn baby. Just beginning to show—though most would still never suspect. Almost inaudibly, she whispered to the baby, “With the Infinite’s blessings and mercy, we’ll live! I’ll see your sweet face.”
Heartened, Dalia scooped up her bundle and skirted the edges of the vast temple complex. To the south, the priests’ homes, all emptied and locked, formed a stone maze of secluded streets, with gardens lining walls. A beautifully woven and gilded gate revealed itself as she rounded an overgrown evergreen hedge. She nudged the woven metal and it swayed beneath her touch.
Unlocked.
Might she gain entry to the chambers below? “Beloved Infinite, forgive me if I’m trespassing. You see my heart, my wish for sanctuary.”
She crept inside, closed the gate, then made her way through the outer courts. Testing doors. Checking every wall and ingress for some unmarked entrance into the caverns below, rattling some of the smaller bronzed doors and drainage grates amid her growing frustration.
***
Throughout the night, Ekiael’s men checked the temple’s hidden hoards and kept watch, listening as the underground complex echoed with odd noises. As if their hidden presence had become known. The distant rattling of a grate unnerved one of the younger priests enough to mutter, “We should climb up and chase off whoever’s there!”
“You’d give us away,” an elder hissed. “Then how could we prepare for the king’s arrival? Obviously it’s no priest acquainted with our ways. Stay here and keep quiet!”
***
Dalia sat within the sheltering leaves of blooming odora shrubs, their tiny fragrant blossoms perfuming the air while the last scraps of nighttime unwound and yielded to dawn. The heady fruit-pine scent and fresh leaves pledged true spring, strengthening Dalia’s resolve. She finished the second cake, and then whispered to the baby, “We’ll go to the embroiderers and earn our way out of Arimna.”
Blessing her embroidery lessons with her mother and Sophereth in Kiyrem, Dalia retraced her steps through the Holy House complex, then out to the city beyond.
To the shop of the Gold Needle in the weavers ward.
The marketplaces were already awake and astir. With more than merchants calling out their spices, fabrics, and foods for sale. Here and there, soldiers lurked, eying Arimna’s citizens.
Looking for her?
Dalia veered unhurriedly around the traders’ stalls, avoiding all mortals.
But Commander Brune’s familiar voice almost stopped her cold as he bellowed, “By order of Lord Karvos, at the command of the Queen Cthar, these premises are to be searched. Stand clear!”
Oh, indeed, she’d stand clear. Not merely stand, but stroll away to the weavers’ ward. Why must Brune be so stinking dedicated to his duty?
And Lord Karvos! Was he still in favor with Cthar? Dalia almost huffed beneath her breath, recalling the man’s scornful, olive-drab face. Her own lord-father’s enemy—such a bitter word-stung loser.
Well, search as he might, Karvos wouldn’t find her. She hoped.
Brune bellowed in the distance, “Halt! You there...”
Dalia strolled on as if she hadn’t heard, then rounded a corner and scampered—a young woman rushing to her day’s work.