The Black Queen (Book 6) (47 page)

He continued to walk forward, amazed at how big this section of the fortress was. The ceilings were low, indicating that there were three stories on this part of the building instead of the two which he had assumed. This section also had a feeling of very great age.

Two
slivan
were replastering a crack off to his left. To his right, heat blew at him, and he smelled the iron scent of metal work. No wonder the
slivan
wore no shirts. Their work kept them warm enough.

Then Jalung opened two more wooden doors—these made of pine—and stepped outside. Gift and Xihu followed. They found themselves in a massive courtyard—if that was the proper phrase. It was like a small city in itself. There were trees in the center, and a vegetable garden to the right. A well sat off to the left, and beyond that, a small shrine which he recognized as part of Ghitlan’s major religion. He assumed it was for the Ghitlan: most Fey had no religion at all.

Stone paths wove throughout the dirt, all leading to different doors in the exterior walls.

“We’ll have grass and flowers soon,” Jalung said. “In the summer, we have so many different kinds of flowers that the hummingbirds come, even though it is said they prefer warmer climates.”

“It must be beautiful,” Xihu said.

Jalung smiled. “It is my favorite time.” She led them along a side path. The stones were flat and even, and Gift could see places in the dirt where someone had worked to make certain that a stone fit into its place after the winter snows. It took him a moment to notice that this part of the yard was filled with people, most of them in plain brown robes, most of them on their hands and knees tending the plants.

He felt his amazement grow. His family hadn’t lived here in hundreds of years. The last member of his family to visit had probably been his great-grandfather, Rugad, decades ago, and still this place were tended as if the Black Family would return at any moment. He had done that, he supposed. He was taking advantage of a system that had been set up so long ago that to disturb it would probably disturb all the rituals of the city below.

The far side of the courtyard had built-in areas for outdoor work. Several firepits lined the front, and beyond them was a large pool. It was deep and the water clear. It wasn’t a reflecting pool then, but one that was used for cleanliness and perhaps drinking water at times when the well wasn’t working.

Just beyond that was the building he had seen from outside. Up close, it was even more spectacular: straight, high mud-brick walls that disappeared into the clouds. The windows were blocked with woven shutters and, higher up, with very expensive glass. Halfway up the building were more multi-colored strings, and at their bases, small bells that jingled in the wind. It sounded like a small bell choir above, with the tones chosen at random.

Jalung did not stop. Instead, she led him across a small footbridge that arched over the pool, and into the fortress proper. The ceilings were high here, and the sense of space incredible. There were frescoes on the walls and ceilings, most of them of battles fought on horseback. The people on the horses were clearly Fey; their victims had Ghitlan features, but were shorter, and squarer. Surprisingly, the Fey were extremely pale-skinned in the frescoes. It was the Ghitlan who had the dark skin that most cultures associated with the Fey.

Jalung saw him staring at that. “The Ghitlan gave us many gifts,” she said. “They gave us color. And they taught us how important it was to be ruthless.”

He looked at her, startled.

She shrugged. “They defeated us for years before we began to refine our magick. Don’t you know the stories?”

He did, but only in the simple phrases—one sentence aphorisms about each country conquered by the Fey.
When they encountered the swords of the Ghitlus, the Fey learned how to die at someone else’s hand.
How inadequate those aphorisms were.

The main hall had several fireplaces and sitting areas all around them. Big furs draped the walls and floors. The entire place looked comfortable.

But Jalung did not lead him there. She turned down a side corridor, and led him under an archway. The room had dozens of arched alcoves and a large fireplace on one wall. The furs were thick across the floor, and several more covered the benches that encircled the room. In the center was a large throne-like chair, with lamps around it, and a huge table at its side.

It wasn’t until Gift walked in farther that he realized the alcoves were all filled with books. The musty scent was welcoming. He hadn’t spent enough time with books since he had come to Vion, but he had, in the years before that, learned to love the feel of leather under his hands.

Jalung saw his startled expression. “The Ghitlan have a long literary history, and all of their books are illustrated. We have several other books from Vion cultures, and Fey war histories as well. When you return to your home, we would appreciate it if you send us some books from Blue Isle. We’re trying to complete our collection. We would like books from every country in the Empire.”

“It looks like you’re close,” Gift said.

Jalung shook her head. “We have almost no books from Galinas, and only half of what we need from Etanien. So many countries want more than another book in trade, not realizing that information is a valuable thing.”

This woman was consistently proving herself to be sharper than he expected. He started to go deeper into the room, but she stopped him.

“It is our tradition to remove our boots before walking on the rugs.” She indicated a small bench beside the door. “We have slippers if you want to keep your feet covered.”

“We’re waiting here for the guide?” Xihu asked. She hadn’t said a word through the walk, as if absorbing things were more than enough for her.

“Yes,” Jalung said. “I will make certain you have refreshments while you wait.”

Gift sat on the bench, and leaned his head against the whitewashed section of wall. Xihu sat beside him.

“I never realized,” he said, “despite that week I spent in Dzaan, that anything like this was possible.”

“You were not raised like the other members of the Black Family.” Xihu bent over and untied her boots. She slipped off the first and then rooted beneath the bench. She came up with a pair of fleece slippers and put one on. It came up to her ankle, and looked strange with her robes.

“They would know about this?” Gift bent over to untie his boots as well. He could fall asleep in this position—he could fall asleep in any position at the moment—and so he made himself concentrate on the very simple task before him.

“If they didn’t know,” Xihu said, “they would demand something like it, even if it meant taking the best house in the city.”

Gift whistled softly. His adoptive parents raised him to be unassuming, even though they knew who he was. Perhaps they had done that on purpose.

He pulled off the other boot and found some slippers for himself. They were soft and warm and unlike any shoe he had ever worn. It took him a moment to realize that they probably had been Domestic spelled for comfort.

While Xihu put on her remaining slipper, Gift stood and walked into the center of the room. The fur rugs were even softer—it felt as if he were walking on cushions. He hadn’t felt luxury like this since he left Blue Isle—and even what he remembered of his life there hadn’t been this comfortable.

A man could get used to this. A man could grow to love it.

Two Domestics came in the main door and set down a tray with brick tea, more sweet biscuits and some fruit he didn’t recognize. He picked up a mug of tea. It had been flavored with soda, butter, and salt, making it rich and filling, nothing like the ritual green tea. He sank into the throne-like chair, and closed his eyes.

It seemed like only a moment later that Xihu touched his shoulder.

“I fell asleep,” he said groggily.

“Well, wake up.” Xihu’s whisper was crisp. “I hear Jalung down the hall with your guide.”

Gift blinked, then rubbed his eyes. He heard something too—the jingle of many bells. He ran a hand over his face, then made himself stand and stretch. The short nap had helped him. He didn’t feel refreshed, but he also didn’t feel as if he would fall asleep at a moment’s notice.

Jalung came through the arched doors. She wasn’t wearing any bells and she hadn’t changed clothes. The sound Xihu had awakened him for must have come from the guide, who remained outside.

“Gift,” Jalung said in a very formal tone. “I bring you the best guide in all of Ghitlus, Skya.”

Jalung stepped aside, and a woman came out of the shadows in the hallway. She was Fey, which surprised Gift. He had been expecting, for some reason, a pure Ghitlan. She was also quite tall, suggesting she had strong magick.

Gift took a step forward. He couldn’t help it. Her dark eyes were powerful, her narrow face angled that it looked as if someone had carefully formed the bones into a perfect Fey face. She wore her black hair in a bun around the crown of her head, but strands fell alongside her face, softening it. Around her neck, she wore a small collar of bells. Her robes were not Ghitlan nor were they Fey: they were made of purple, red and gold silk, and covered her in layers. She had sword tied around her waist, and a knife in a hilt strapped under her left arm.

He knew he should say something, but he felt as if the power of speech had left him. He had never seen a woman like this, and knew he probably never would again.

Skya crossed her arms. Apparently she wasn’t going to speak until he did.

It was Xihu who saved him. “We are honored,” she said softly. “Thank you for making the trip to the Mountain.”

“I wouldn’t have missed seeing the Black Heir for anything.” Skya’s voice was low and musical.

Her slightly sarcastic comment broke the moment. Gift felt a surge of irritation. He was beginning to hate being called the Black Heir. “Call me Gift,” he said.

“Hmm.” Her eyebrows raised, making the amusement on her face even clearer. “A L’Nacin name. And I thought you were born on Blue Isle.”

He wasn’t going to defend himself or his name. “I didn’t expect to see a Fey, especially one with magick.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “We don’t have ‘guiding’ magick, more’s the pity. It would have been easier.”

“Than?”

“Answering this question every time a Fey party wants to hire me.” She crossed her arms. “I was born in Co to an Infantry soldier whose Vision was so slight he never transferred out, and a DreamRider mother. I am by nature a Spell Warder, but I can think of no drearier way to spend my time than thinking up spells for other Fey to cast on their great adventures.”

“Warders are rare,” Gift said. “You were given dispensation?”

Her gaze went up and down his Shamanic garb. “Black Family members are rare. Were you given dispensation to leave your warrior heritage and attempt Domestic magick?”

She was more defensive than he would have expected. “I was asking about you,” he said calmly.

“And I answered you long before you asked the question,” she said. “I did not mention dispensation. Dispensation is for people who care.”

True enough. He almost grinned, but he felt that would be inappropriate. “I need to get to Blue Isle as quickly as possible, which means I need to cross Ghitlus fast, and then find a guide who will get me to Nye so that I can find the fastest boat to take me across the Infrin Sea.”

“Why don’t you send for some Beast Riders and make them take you home?” she asked.

“Because it would take them time to get me, they would tire, and I would need more. Besides, Beast Riders—especially Horse Riders—resent passengers. Is this a test to see if a blue-eyed man is really Fey or is this the way you greet all of your customers?”

To his surprise, she smiled. The smile softened the angles on her face and turned the rigid perfection into a welcoming beauty. “It’s the way I treat members of the Black Family.”

“You’ve guided others then.”

“No,” she said. “You’re my first.”

He smiled in return. He liked her honesty and her directness. He hadn’t had enough of that all day. In fact, he hadn’t had enough directness since he’d come to the Eccrasian Mountains.

“So,” he said, “now that the preliminaries are out of the way and you’ve heard my route and my needs, can you help me?”

“No.”

Jalung looked at Skya as if she had committed an unpardonable sin. Gift almost laughed at Jalung’s expression, but managed, somehow, to keep the laughter inside. He suspected it escaped through his eyes anyway.

“No?” he asked.

“It’s silly to hire a second guide, and it’s even sillier to go all the way to Nye by land. I propose we go to Btsan and sail to Tashco. You should be able to find a ship from there that will take you to Blue Isle.”

“I have never been to Tashco,” Gift said. “Do the Tashil have ships that can handle a sustained ocean voyage?”

For the first time since she entered the room, she looked at him with surprise. He felt a flush warm his cheeks. Apparently he had asked a stupid question—stupid, at least, for a member of the Black Family, who should know everything about the Fey Empire.

“The Tashil,” she said, “are the major ship-builders in Galinas. The Nyeians run a distant second. In fact, I suspect many of the Nyeian ships are Tashil in design, with a redecorated interior.”