The Power and the Glory

Book 1 Chapter IX: Event Horizon

Finally they reached the main door. And promptly ran into an unforeseen obstacle.

Until now no one had taken them under their notice. A few people grumbled as they pushed past, but that was all. Now for the first time someone directly approached them.

"Excuse me? Are you Abihira-mirthal[1]?"

Damn it, Abi thought even as she turned to see who had spoken. When will we get out of here?

The speaker was a young woman, at least ninety years younger than Abi herself, dressed in a pale lavender mirvomon. The amethysts woven through her hair looked real at a distance, but when she bowed they didn't catch the light the way real gems would.

"I'm Luamon Haliranssvóeln," she said, straightening up again. "My mother, Haliran-rúdaun, asked me to pass on her hopes that you are happy to be home, and to extend an invitation for you to come to tea any time you want to."

It was just the typical pleasantries extended to someone who was in the capital for the first time in years and who everyone decided they should at least try to be polite to. Abi gave no more thought to it than she'd given to all the similar greetings. She made some vague polite response and left quickly, dragging Irímé after her.

There were so many carriages outside the theatre that it took ten minutes just to find theirs. The coachman stared suspiciously at Abi when she told him to drive back to the palace. From the look on his face he must have thought she'd committed some crime and was fleeing to evade capture. Only the presence of her ladies-in-waiting, out of breath and disgruntled after elbowing their way through the throngs, convinced him that there was nothing sinister afoot. Everyone knew that these ladies-in-waiting were not the ones who had accompanied Abi to Seroyawa. Those ones were still there, packing up her belongings and preparing to bring them back to Eldrin. These ones were some of her mother's more junior servants, with no personal loyalty to Abi and no reason to cover up for her if she was in trouble.

Irímé remained grimly silent for the entire trip home. At some point Abi realised his silence had changed from "shocked" to "angry". Oh well. It had to happen. She could only hope the inevitable explosion came when there was no chance of anyone overhearing.

Arafaren stuck his head over the rails on the landing when he heard the main door open. "You're back!" he exclaimed unnecessarily as Abi dismissed her maids. "How did it go?"

"Badly," Irímé muttered, stalking past Abi. He hesitated at the foot of the stairs, then abruptly turned and stormed into one of the sitting rooms. "Abihira, I want a word with you."

Abi grimaced and followed him, painfully aware of her annoying older brother's curious eyes watching the entire thing. She left the sitting room door open, but cast a spell to ensure no one could hear anything said inside.

"I suppose you're going to be angry and offended and complain I'm defying the gods or some such nonsense," she began before Irímé could speak. Her own anger made her words sharper than she intended. "And just when I thought we might possibly get on well enough together."

Irímé collapsed onto one of the chairs like a puppet that had its strings cut and buried his face in his hands. Through the open doorway Abi saw Arafaren approach, listening with all his might. He scowled at her when he realised he couldn't hear a word.

"Why?" Irímé asked. "Of all the things you could do, why did it have to be necromancy? Do you have some dead friend you want to resurrect?"

That was one of the marginally less offensive misconceptions about necromancers. They went mad with grief and broke the laws of nature, stories claimed. Perhaps it was true of some. But it was certainly not true of all.