Whatever the king had anticipated, Nora evidently did not live up to his expectations. His broad face wore a faint, dull frown of puzzlement as she answered his questions.
He showed a stirring of interest when she mentioned that her world had no magicians in it. “But how can that be?” he asked.
“Machinery,” said Nora in a clear, confident tone that, she hoped, implied that the exact functioning of such devices was self-evident. She was still mindful of having once tried and failed to explain electricity to Mrs. Toristel. “We have complex mechanisms that do the work that magicians do in this world. Machines that can fly or travel at great speeds—all kinds of things.”
The king seemed struck by this idea. “These mechanisms, can they make war?”
“No,” Nora lied firmly. It had taken him no time to make that particular connection. Rulers must be much the same in all worlds, she thought. She lost his attention for good when she mentioned that there were also very few kings in her world. He dismissed her with a nod.
Nora curtsied and backed away, glancing behind just in time to avoid falling off the dais. She descended to the main level of the banquet hall, into the throng of courtiers. In the press of silk, velvet, and brocade, she was uncomfortably aware of the plainness of her dress; Hirizjahkinis had pressed a palace maid into finding Nora something more suitable for court than Mrs. Toristel’s hand-me-down, but even Nora could tell that the severe blue-and-black gown she’d borrowed was unquestionably out of style. At least her fingernails were clean now.
This was different from Ilissa’s court, she thought, struggling through the crowd. The candles were smokier, dimmer, hotter, making the room unpleasantly warm. The people in it were lavishly dressed but not all of them were young, slender, and lovely. They moved less gracefully than the Faitoren did, with more vigor. They were at work, she thought as she watched one man waylay two more richly dressed courtiers, ignoring their attempt to ignore him. A young man addressed a middle-aged woman, his eyes sliding to the teenage girl behind her. There was more at stake here than at a Faitoren ball, Nora guessed: matches to be made, patrons to be flattered, alliances to be forged, enemies to be humiliated. Not that all those things didn’t happen among the Faitoren, too, but it was more of a game for them, to keep from dying of boredom in their tiny prison kingdom. Or maybe, she thought, the energy in this room had something to do with the fact that the people before her were human beings, not Faitoren, with only a human lifetime to accomplish all of the things that they wanted to do.
Of course, some people in the room had already had more than a human lifetime. Her eyes sought out Aruendiel, his dark head visible above the crowd. What was it like to die and return to life? No wonder there was something spooky about him. But he had saved her life today, she reminded herself. Again. Even if only to get back at Ilissa.
The music coming from the gallery suddenly grew louder. A bard was singing, and the crowd moved toward the walls, opening a space in the center of the room. Nora found a perch on steps leading to a side door. A pair of dwarfs cartwheeled through the crowd and began juggling glass balls. Then a third dwarf, a woman, joined them for an acrobatics exhibition that was bawdy, borderline sadistic, and extremely funny if you liked fart jokes. Most of the court apparently did. The dwarfs were followed by another bard, who sang for a long time in what sounded like a very old-fashioned form of Ors about a battle, a river, and a boat with black sails. As he sang, the room filled with the cheerful buzz of conversation again. The queen yawned.
When the bard finally finished, a new figure came forward, the young magician whom Hirizjahkinis had addressed as Dorneng. Bowing, he plucked a silver apple from the fruits embroidered on the draperies of the king’s throne, and cut slices for the king and queen. Then he dropped the apple core into a goblet and made it grow into a full-size tree. At his nod, it exploded into bloom.
Nora had seen something like this before, performed by the ordinary, sleight-of-hand magicians of her world. It was even more impressive when you knew actual magic was involved. If only Dorneng had kept it simple. Instead, the apple tree began to sing. A chorus of sugary voices rose from the blossoms, singing an anthem in honor of the king and queen. It was not as long as the bard’s song, but long enough.
Finally the song was over. The tree grew heavy with silver fruit. Ceremoniously, Dorneng picked an apple and placed it back on the drapery.
“I’ll take care of the tree, Dorneng.” Hirizjahkinis had joined him in front of the dais. Was every magician present expected to perform? Nora wondered. She glanced apprehensively at where Aruendiel stood.
Hirizjahkinis put one hand on her breast, touching the leopard skin she wore, and smiled at the crowd. Nora began to feel a throb of physical anxiety in her own body. Either part of her dinner disagreed with her, or there was strong magic going on nearby.
At first it was hard to say exactly how the room was different. But the candle flames in the silver chandeliers flickered. The same draft ruffled the leaves of the apple tree.
Nora turned and saw that the door and wall behind her had vanished, replaced by heavy, aromatic darkness. A pale green moth fluttered toward the candles. Looking up through leaves and branches, Nora could see the moon and a spill of stars. This night had a humid, tropical feel, alive with the trilling of insects.
She turned back to the assembly, still lit by chandeliers suspended from God knows what, since the ceiling was gone. The king’s and queen’s thrones looked faintly absurd, their carved legs sunk in green grass. The courtiers murmured uneasily.
The king cleared his throat. “Lady Hirizjahkinis, this is indeed a marvel. May we ask what you have done with our palace?”
“Your palace is perfectly fine, Your Majesty,” Hirizjahkinis said politely. “I have taken you and your court out of it for a few minutes, that is all. We are in the land of my birth, in the forest just outside the temple precincts of Gahz. It is only a short walk to the temple itself, a very beautiful sight by moonlight. The hunting here is also very good.” An animal’s scream cut through the darkness, not far away.
The king looked hard in the direction from which the scream had come. “Thank you,” he said. “Very interesting indeed. We prefer to return to Semr now.”
“Of course,” Hirizjahkinis said. The paneled walls of the banquet hall took shape, blocking out the night sky and the shadowy foliage. The smell of candle smoke, perfume, and overheated, overdressed bodies returned to Nora’s nostrils. Everyone seemed to start talking at once, their voices loud with relief. The apple tree was gone.
The door behind her opened, and someone slipped in beside her. “Have I missed dinner?” he asked.
Nora turned to look at him: A man about her own age, ginger-haired, with lively eyes and a face that comfortably occupied the middle ground between ordinary and good-looking. Wearing a blue tunic and a short gray cloak, he was more plainly dressed than most of the courtiers in attendance.
“I just rode in from Luerwisiac, and I’m completely famished. Is it too late for me to get a morsel of food?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said. “They finished dinner some time ago.”
“Ah, the only thing keeping me going those last dozen miles was the thought of a nice slab of roast beef.”
Nora smiled back at him. “It was roast goose, oysters, and venison tonight.”
“Please don’t make it harder for me. Where else can I find some food?”
“You can try the palace kitchen.”
“I’ll do that. And what is happening here? They don’t seem to have started the dancing.”
“No, some of the magicians have been performing magic.”
“Oh, Bouragonr?” the man asked carelessly. “Did he do the fire maiden again?”
“Not Bouragonr,” Nora said, emphatically enough that the ginger-haired man looked curious. Then she felt obliged to tell him of Bouragonr’s capture and rescue, although she left out her own part in the events because it seemed too complicated to explain. The man listened with deepening interest.
“Now I’m even sorrier that I was late. I’ve never seen a Faitoren. Is the Faitoren queen as beautiful as they say?”
“She’s all right,” Nora said. “Oh, I don’t mean to sound sour. If you like them beautiful and deadly, she’s the woman for you.”
After an instant, the man laughed. “Thank you for the warning. Well, she must be as old as a rock by now, if what I’ve heard about her is true. And you say it was the wizard Lord Aruendiel who freed Bouragonr?”
“Partly, yes.” She wished now that she had mentioned her own role. She would have liked to impress this young man a little.
“Is he here tonight?”
“Yes, right over there. The tall man with dark hair—the black woman is talking to him.” Hirizjahkinis was nodding for emphasis. Aruendiel’s crooked back looked especially stiff and unyielding, as though he were annoyed at what she was saying.
On the dais, the king turned his broad face toward the two magicians. “Lord Aruendiel,” he called out. “We have admired the wonders these other magic-workers have conjured. Now we would be pleased by a demonstration of your art, as well.”
Aruendiel hesitated, then stepped forward—propelled in part, Nora saw, by Hirizjahkinis’s hand on the back of his arm. As he made his way into the center of the gathering, the room grew quieter.
“Your Highness, I fear that I would make only a poor showing after the remarkable and intricate spells worked by my colleagues. They have done magic with an artistry few could match. I beg Your Majesty to be content with the magic that I have performed earlier today in your service, as well as the delightful enchantments that the magicians Hirizjahkinis and Dorneng have so brilliantly wrought.”
It was a surprisingly graceful speech for Aruendiel, Nora thought, but it lost some of its effectiveness by being delivered in a tone of rapid-fire contempt. The king leaned forward.
“Lord Aruendiel, you are too modest. We will judge for ourselves the artistry of your magic. Please commence.”
With a wooden bow, Aruendiel replied: “Then I will do my best to please. What sort of magic does Your Highness wish to see?”
The queen spoke up quickly. “Lord Aruendiel, I have a great curiosity to speak with the dead. I have always wondered what life is like for the dead.”
At the back of the room, someone tittered. Aruendiel’s face was immobile. “Many others have wondered the same thing,” he said simply.
“Then let us find out the answer!” There was a bright, challenging smile on the queen’s young face. “Bring back one of the dead, and let us ask what lies after death. Do the dead eat? Do they sleep? Do they marry? How do they amuse themselves?”
“Your Highness, each of us will find out the answers to these questions in good time.”
“I would like to know now,” said the queen. Aruendiel was shaking his head, but she went on: “I would like to speak with my aunt, the Lady Mirigian of Akl. We were always very close. I am sure she would be very happy to speak with me. I am also curious to hear how she came to fall down the staircase, because she was not a clumsy woman, and no one saw her fall, not even my uncle, who was in the next room. So I want you to summon her.
“Except—” The queen paused. “Well, if she is very frightful-looking now, perhaps her voice would be enough. It would be a great pleasure for me to hear even her voice again. You can do this, can you not?”
“Your Highness, I will not. I am sorry. I will not raise your aunt, nor any of the dead.”
“You are afraid to do this,” the queen said. “Or you cannot.” The king made a move as though to intervene, but Aruendiel spoke first.
“It is a perilous thing to raise the dead. They may not wish to be raised. But you have given me an idea. I will not revive the dead, but I will revive a sort of shadow of the dead.”
The queen looked suspicious and not at all pleased by this promise. Aruendiel walked a few paces, his gaze lifted. Nora realized that he was looking at the portraits that hung on the walls. He stopped near a full-length painting of a young woman in a blue dress more high-waisted and full-sleeved than the current fashion. She stood outdoors in a space framed by green leaves, one hand resting on a gate, the other holding a wide-brimmed straw hat.
“Queen Tulivie,” Aruendiel said. “She was your grandmother, I believe, Your Highness?”
He had addressed King Abele, who nodded. “Yes, my father’s mother. But I never knew her.” After a moment, the king added, “The same artist painted her in her coronation robes—that portrait hangs in the long gallery—but my father preferred this one.”
“It is a good likeness,” Aruendiel agreed. “It captures not just her beauty, but something of her gentleness.” The words hung in the air for a moment. “Well, she is dead and gone, and we will not disturb her. But this portrait can show us a little of what she was, on that summer day when it was painted.”
“Of course it can,” the queen broke in. “But that has nothing to do with magic.”
“Your Highness!” Aruendiel said, raising his voice. “Your Highness!” But he had turned away from the king and queen to face the painting.
The woman in the portrait moved her head, a movement so quick that Nora almost missed it. The painted eyes now gazed toward Aruendiel. A whisper went around the room.
“Your Highness!” Aruendiel called again.
This time there was no mistake. The figure in the painting leaned forward, lifting her hand to shade her eyes. “Who is calling me?” she asked.
“It is the magician Aruendiel, ma’am.”
“Oh, it’s you!” she said, smiling. “Can’t you see that I am having my portrait painted?”
“I apologize for disturbing you.”
“No matter, I am getting horribly stiff.” She gave a quick, unregal shrug of her shoulders. “But what are you doing here? I thought that you and my husband were closeted with the Orvetian ambassador. Is the king finally finished? I’ve barely seen him all day.”
“I imagine he is still occupied, Your Highness.” There was something constrained in Aruendiel’s voice, as though he were searching hard for the right words and the right tone.
“A pity. Nurse is bringing the baby into the garden after his nap, and we’re going to see the new plantings around the oval basin. Will you tell the king, when you go back? He might want to join us.” The portrait of Tulivie gave a frown. “It is too bad that he will probably have to leave again on campaign so soon. The prince has barely had a chance to know his papa.”
“It will be a short campaign, ma’am.”
“You sound so sure! Does your magic tell you this?”
Gathering up her skirts, the image of Tulivie started forward as if to hear more, stepping lightly onto the floor of the banquet hall. She bore herself confidently, apparently unaware that she had left her canvas garden behind or that a roomful of people were staring at her.
It was impossible not to stare. She was so obviously not flesh and blood—Nora could see the brushstrokes on her skirt—and yet she was not a paper doll. Her body was solid-seeming; she moved through space like any living creature. She also looked brighter, more vivid than any of the people around her. Like a cartoon, Nora thought. Everything a little simplified or exaggerated, closer to the ideal than we ever see in real life.
Aruendiel took a step forward, too, moving into the shadow of the column beside him. “I am no fortune-teller,” he said. “But I know this to be true. The Orvetians are ill-prepared for war, and your husband will beat them soundly. So you must put your mind at ease, Your Highness.”
“Thank you, I will try.” She added, a little wistfully: “Are you sure you cannot tell what is to come? There are a few things that I would like to know.”
“Such as?” he asked warily.
“Such as—will it rain soon? I am worried about my new plantings. It has been so dry lately. If the king were not so occupied with these stubborn Orvetians, I would ask him to lend me his chief magician to ensure that we have some favorable weather.”
“Your Highness, I am always happy to be of service to you.”
“Then perhaps you could arrange a little rain sometime after midnight, after my dinner guests have gone home? Enough to give the ground a good soaking. And then, of course, another clear day tomorrow.”
Up until this point, she and Aruendiel had been conversing as though it were only the two of them, both standing in the garden where she was posing for her portrait. (Presumably the painter was waiting at a respectful distance nearby.) The watching court was absolutely silent.
But now there came a minor commotion in the crowd, the sound of sobbing. At the edge of the crowd, Nora glimpsed a bent white head. An old woman crying, racked with untidy grief.
The painted queen turned with concern on her smooth, uncanny face. For the first time she seemed to notice someone else in the room besides the magician. “Oh, the poor thing,” she said. “What is the matter? My dear old grandma’am, what’s the matter?”
The old woman held out a skinny hand toward the queen. It took her a minute to restrain her sobs. “Dear lady, it is so good to see you,” she said, gulping. “It has been so many years. You are just the way I remembered you.”
“Am I? That’s good. Now, we must get you looked after.” She glanced over at Aruendiel. “She’s confused, poor thing. Someone must have left her here; I don’t think she could have wandered far by herself. What is your name, grandma’am?”
“I’m Lady Marisiek Uliveran,” the old woman said with a hint of pride.
“Oh,” the portrait said, puzzled. “One of the ladies of my bedchamber is Lady Marisiek. Are you one of her relations? I will summon her at once.”
“No, that’s me, Your Highness. Surely you know me. I was one of your ladies before I married. I used to help you dress the little princes. You gave me a pendant, a gold peacock with emeralds. Look, I am still wearing it,” she said, fumbling in her dress. “I remember that day so clearly, clearer than yesterday. Well, I am old, you know, but you are just the same. I don’t quite understand it. I thought you were gone, how many years ago? It rained at the funeral; they could hardly get the pyre to burn. Oh, that was a sad day. How is it that you are here again, as beautiful as ever?”
As Marisiek spoke, Tulivie’s image stared at the tiny gold bird that the old woman had pulled from under her shawl, and then looked hard at her gnarled face. “Marisiek?” she said finally. “Marisiek? Merciful gods, what has happened to you? Impossible!” She looked to Aruendiel again, her hand gripping Marisiek’s shoulder protectively. “This is some wicked enchantment. Lord Aruendiel, you must do something.”
Aruendiel said nothing. After a moment, he shook his head gently.
“What do you mean? Someone has put a spell on this girl and turned her into an old woman. I command you to undo this evil magic.”
“It is not magic. It is only time.” His voice was slow, as though the words were heavy.
“Time? What do you mean? I saw Marisiek only this morning. Of course this is magic, and we must find the magician who has cast such a terrible spell.”
“Madame!” It was the king who had spoken. “Madame, there is no need to fear,” he called from the dais. “We would like to welcome you to the court of Semr—welcome you back, that is. We are greatly honored by your presence.”
“Who is this man?” Tulivie’s portrait asked with open bewilderment. “Welcome me back to the court of Semr, when I am already here? What is he talking about?”
“I am privileged to follow your husband on the throne of Semr.” When she still looked blank—and a little angry—the king added, “I am Abele the Fourth, King of Greater Semr. My father was your son, Abele the Third. I am your grandson.”
“My grandson!” Now she looked as though she would like to laugh. “My boy Abele is a baby. He is just learning to walk. This is absurd.”
“Nonetheless, I am your grandson,” the king said with a trace of starchiness. He rose and bowed. “Grandmother, this is a rare and remarkable meeting. I used to hear my father speak of you. I have admired your beauty in your portraits here in the palace. I never thought that I would one day greet you face-to-face.”
“How could you be my grandson? You are a man of middle age. You are at least twenty years older than I am!”
(“At least,” Nora murmured. The man in the gray cloak caught her eye and smiled.)
“This is strange to me, too, Grandmother. Lord Aruendiel has brought you out of the past to visit us tonight, that much I understand.”
“Lord Aruendiel, what is he talking about?” The portrait of Tulivie turned back to the magician. “What kind of magic have you done? Who is this man—and who are all these people?” She glanced around with an air of disquiet; she had just noticed that she was surrounded by strangers. “What have you done?”
“He is right. There is no need to fear—” Aruendiel began.
“But what have you done?”
“I have opened up a window, in a manner of speaking, between one day and another,” he said carefully, and then paused as though to observe her reaction.
“You are speaking in riddles.”
“It is not a real window,” he continued. “But it allows you, Your Majesty, to look forward at these people, as it allows them to look back at you.” When she shook her head in incomprehension, he added: “Forward in time. Into future years.”
“I am looking forward in time?” Her gaze fell upon the aged woman with horrified understanding. “You mean, this is Marisiek, and she is old because—she is old?”
“Yes,” Aruendiel said, bowing his head a fraction.
“And this man here?” she asked, gesturing at the king.
“He spoke the truth. He is your grandson.”
“My grandson. And he sits on the throne of Semr?”
Her confusion and distress were painful to watch; the painted face registered emotions with a heightened intensity. One could almost read the thoughts cascading behind it like falling dominoes: “If this man is king of Semr, then my husband is dead, and if this king is my grandson, then my son is dead, too. And as for me—” The image from the portrait glanced around the room, as though dreading to find a superannuated version of herself.
But not to see yourself, Nora thought, that would be worse.
“No!” the portrait said, shuddering.
“Grandmother, are you not pleased to see that your line continues and that your descendants still rule Semr?” the king asked. “I wish that my second daughter were here tonight. She resembles you closely, although her hair is darker.”
“Why would you do such a terrible spell?” the portrait said to Aruendiel.
“Tulivie—” He made a gesture as though to calm her, but he did not leave the shadow where he stood.
“Why would you show me such wicked lies? My son is a baby, asleep in his nursery. My husband is king. I am queen. Marisiek is a girl of seventeen. I know these things are true.”
After a long moment, Aruendiel said quietly, “Yes, they are true.”
“Of course they are true!” She drew herself up. “I do not understand what sort of magic you employed to trick me just now, Lord Aruendiel, but I do not appreciate it.”
“I apologize, Your Majesty.”
“You have played a very bad joke on me.”
“I could not agree more.”
“The king would be displeased if he learned of how you have been tormenting me today,” she said.
“Yes, he would.”
She smiled suddenly. “I will forgive you, though, and not tell him, if you promise not to frighten me again like that.”
“I promise.” Meeting her gaze, he added, “You know I wish nothing but Your Majesty’s continued happiness.” There was something rough and raw in Aruendiel’s voice, under the polite formula.
“Thank you, that is very kind of you! And now I must let the painter finish for the day. Although he can come back tomorrow—if it doesn’t rain.”
“It will not rain,” he said. “I promise.”
She laughed. “I will hold you to that promise, too.” With a rustle of painted skirts, she walked swiftly back to the tenantless painting. Stepping into the frame, she took up her pose again, one hand on the gate, the other holding her hat. “Tell my husband not to dally too long with the Orvetians,” she called out. “I will declare war on them myself if they keep him much longer.”
The ribbon on her hat rippled gently in an unseen breeze and then stopped moving. The surface of the canvas darkened slightly, as her face and body took on a hard, flat sheen. She smiled out at the room, blindly young and happy.
There was no sound in the room, except for the soft, querulous voice of the old woman muttering something that no one could make out.