Shadows of the Scriptures

TWO: His Gracious Majesty

A superficial blush rose in the squire's cheek. "You required my assistance, your Grace?"

Alain sighed. "Indeed I did. Be a dear and tell Whasu to meet me in the Cupola at . . . let's say, the third chime."

"Do you mean General Steel - that is, General Alrej?"

"It's quite all right, Roste," Alain said even as the squire blushed deeper than ever. "I know perfectly well what he is called behind his back. In fact, if anyone has ever been birthed who deserves the title Steelballs, it is Alrej Whasu."

"What shall I say your need for him is?"

"He will know. Off you go, now. Straight to the stewards' chambers after delivering the message. Don't chase after me unless a cockatrice has its tail on fire or someone in the palace musters enough courage to call Whasu by that ridiculous name to his face."

"Your Grace -"

"I do not require your services for the day, Roste. Go try and woo Lady Vieira with the rest of the lads. Just send the General my message first."

"As you please, your Grace." And Roste loped away.

The King himself bade fare well to the temple. He wended his way to the royal quarters, past the daisies, past the plaza where the hedgerows were peering curiously at him, past the plinth where the likenesses of Shexa Jovanni and Gvother Carl - gatekeeper anointed gods of Vaven and Inira respectively - stood. It was said that Tanmay the Conqueror had hacked off the hands of the masons who had constructed those statues, so they could never recreate such art. Of course, there were more false stories surrounding Tanmay the Conqueror than could fill all the brothels in Pardel.

When at last he stood in the dingy landing before a poplar door behind which lay his destination, Alain turned round to face the Ardaunts. They were always hovering about him, stealthy as apprentice burglars, unsubtle as fledgling poets, such that Alain felt more like an artefact on display than a king.

"Go to the archers in the bailey," he ordered them. "Practice your aim. I am going in to meet my mother, not some lowly assassin from Charmat."

"We stay here," said one of the Ardaunts in the standard croaky voice they all had, and they stilled adjacent to the door, and that was that.

Alain put the brass door-knocker to use. A moment later, a frail voice crawled out of the poplar door: "Who comes here?"

"It is I, your son the king."

"Enter then. Alas, who am I to deny a king his station . . ."

Alain turned the crystal knob and marched into the antechamber. It was filled with various gewgaws: carnival glass, china, an alabaster idol of a wood nymph, a fancy ramekin with bits of celery, and many a faerie mask. Alain felt sweat dampening the loose but severely cut sleeves of his waistcoat.

Once he was inside, he saw why. Fire was crackling in the hearth of the bedchamber.

Eoli Khad was perched on the edge of her bed. Two stone lions guarded either side of it. His mother had been reading, by the looks of it. Optics bejeweled her sunken eyes, eyes white as daisies, eyes duplicate of his own. A book with frilled yellow pages, bound in what looked to be lanolin, rested beside her on the mattress.

Her hair was black dappled with grey of age, and it was tousled, barely staying put in their hairnet. She was dressed in a gown as green as reeds, interspersed with silver stitches and threads. Her wedding gown. It might once have been beautiful.

"What are you doing, mother?"

"Grieving, can't you see?" she said in a perfectly steady voice.