Glace squeezed through the cramped spur tunnel as quickly as he could, praying that Stasia would not reach the Spiral very far ahead of him. The Scouts reported Chraun had been active recently, increasing raids, patrolling the neutral territory, perhaps even breaking old treaties and mining something up here. Bad enough that he had been distracted by the burial chamber—what a find!—and Stasia would be late for Council; the last thing he needed was to run into a patrol. Even one Flame would be a danger in these tunnels.
When he popped out of the spur into the spacious Spiral, Stasia was waiting in the dark, by the entrance. “Walk,” he said, using his command voice, hoping she wouldn’t argue. “Better to be late than run headlong into a Flame patrol.”
Thankfully, she complied without protest. She probably preferred the delay, though it grated at his nerves. Walking, her strides were half his, and what had taken him a mere half-hour took more than an hour. Perhaps I should carry her, he thought, grinning in the dark, like a sack of fungal fodder.
As the tunnel flattened, widened and straightened, the air changed from the strange gradients of warm and cool to being solidly, deliciously cold. The heat did not make Glace ill as it did an Icer, but he did not like it. He was more comfortable in the cold, and he breathed in deep, sulfur-free breaths, glad to be home. The strange dreams and notions that possessed his little mistress to wander so far away baffled him, and he feared for her every time she ran off.
As soon as he saw blue icelights glowing in the distance, Glace grabbed Stasia's hand and pulled her down the tunnel as if they were children again. She did not resist, and for a moment he was able to forget the tension that had grown between them, and pretend they were children, playing hideme in the fungal caverns. The tunnel widened further, and branched into a labyrinth of different passages. They all led to Iskalon, but Glace picked the most direct. It would take them through the guildless tunnel, but it could not be helped. They had to make the Council.
When the new tunnel widened to a huge cavern, they startled two Guildsmen who were harvesting lacy morchella fungi from densely spaced columns. The ceiling was coated with a thin covering of burial ice, left in these caverns by the Ancestors. At the base of the columns, sour vase fungi grew in large brown funnels. Giant mounds of bolete mushrooms, broad, table-like bellinis, and slender piota caps teetering on thin stalks carpeted the vast cavern floor. In open spaces between the columns, stone vats of sweet, refreshing fineslime in its pre-spore stage awaited processing into sorbets. Vines of bulbous bliss fungi hung from the low ceiling. Not pausing in his stride, Glace reached up and grabbed a handful. Stasia giggled beside him like she had when they were children. He tossed the sweet, juicy harvest to her, and she caught it in midair, munching as she ran. She was beautiful, her pale skin shining blue with millions of tiny dots, her silver hair wild behind her, her yellow-green eyes glinting like gems. The skin on her hand was soft and cool and he could feel her pulse beating against his.
He would die someday protecting her. He had known that since he was twelve, and found her wandering alone in the wild Outer Tunnels. When he brought her back to the Palace, King Krevas had charged Glace with her safety. “If necessary, you will lay down your life to keep her safe,” Krevas ordered. Glace agreed. The little silver-haired cherub, playing with a power she didn't understand yet, would need protection.
But when Glace was twenty, he had been sent away from her for four whole years, relieved of duty by the King to train in the army and gain real battle experience. “You won’t learn how to protect her in the halls of the Palace,” Glace’s father had said, in agreement with the King’s decision. Glace did not regret his training, protecting Iskalon from raids and fighting real Flames and their well-armed Semija Warriors. He had made mistakes in battle and learned from them. Each scar on his face was a reminder of a particular mistake.
He had returned to his position as Captain of her Guard to find a different Stasia, no longer a little girl, but a beautiful, confident woman, a true princess. She was distracted by strange dreams that led her on strange quests. She disagreed with her father about where her boundaries should lie. And while Glace had learned duty, discipline and deference in the army, Stasia seemed to think that he was still her equal. Glace knew better. She was a princess, and he could not be familiar with her, could not meet her eyes or laugh with her. And he must somehow keep her from roaming into dangerous places. As a child, she had been easy to distract from her whims; now she was single-minded and sly, able to evade Glace and her other Guards with ease.
They passed through the fungal fields and into a long tunnel bordered with livestock dens, thick with the smell of manure. The stout, meaty cababar snarled and huffed as they passed. Small, sleek raihan raised their sharp horns and stomped their feet. Stasia paused to stroke the silky fur of the smaller chirat in their crowded pen, from which fine chirsh was woven for ice-armor and clothes. Glace tugged her along, stepping over shaggy baby molebear milling around on the tunnel floor. Musche hissed at their lumbering, protective mother, and Glace snapped the fingers of his free hand. The slink backed off and pushed past Stasia's legs, eager to be out of that passage. They took another turn, and then the tunnel of the guildless loomed before them. The guildless always made Glace uneasy.
Dressed in scavenged lakehide and chirsh rags, they milled in the wide tunnel, reaching out for alms. The stench here was worse than in the stock dens. Dirty faces crowded close, and quiet voices begged for food. Stasia stopped suddenly, and Glace almost crashed into her back. He tugged at her hand, urging her on, but she shook it free and looked down at her dress.
“It is ruined already,” she said. “The Palace servants will throw it on the midden.”
She began plucking off the sapphires and diamonds that were sewn on the collar and wrists, placing them into outstretched hands. Glace growled in frustration. True, the expensive websilk was torn to shreds by her wild trek, but the servants would have salvaged the gems. And if she really intended to pluck off every stone, it would eat up the time they had gained by coming this route. But he could not stop her short of picking her up and carrying her away, and he must not do that. Duty, discipline and deference, he reminded himself. He pulled a dagger from his belt and helped her by cutting away the gems. They were tiny and scattered from his fingers to the ground, where the guildless groveled for them. Stasia gave him a glare and knelt on the dirty floor to help the people pick them up. More and more of the guildless crowded near, and Glace began to push them back, saying “That’s enough, now. Make way. The Princess is late to an important meeting.” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, guiding her through the crowded tunnel. It was only when the guildless dwindled behind them that Glace relaxed and eased his grip on Stasia’s hand.
Ten minutes more down a narrow, empty tunnel brought them to an entrance to Iskalon. Glace led Stasia into the grand, vast cavern. It was the biggest cavern in all of Sholaen, and it was Glace’s home. To walk from where they stood at the foot of the Fire Bridge, across the island and to the other side of the King’s bridge, would take an entire hour, the cavern was so vast. They were still about a half hour from the Council Hall, and Glace chafed at any delay, but he stopped Stasia and stood with her for a moment, looking out across Lake Lentok.
The lake’s dark waters glittered with the reflection of the icelights of the Palace, which hung from the ceiling like giant, sparkling stalam, illuminating the whole vast cavern. The entire construction was ice, and grand balconies hung off the lowest levels, where Icers and Royalty could sit and view the city. The city stood on the island. It looked dim and dull under the Palace, rising from the lake to its pinnacle, the Council Hall, in the very center of the city, and reaching across the lake with four bridges. The Bridge of Ancestors rose far on the other side, and Glace could see the distant purple glow of the entrance to the burial chambers beyond it.
At the foot of the Fire Bridge, Glace could hear the lapping of Lentok’s shore, disturbed by Fishing Guild skiffs, and the trickle of a nearby stream, running off the lake and disappearing into a low tunnel in the cavern wall behind where he stood.
Stasia turned to face him. She was breathless, dirty sweat running down her skin, a wild look in her eyes. The holes in her dress, made worse by pulling the gems off, left little to the imagination. Her vaerce glowed faintly in the bright light of the Palace. She was framed by the tall abutments of the Fire Bridge. Beyond her, a Guard whom Glace did not recognize paced before the small gear-house atop the left abutment.
“Shall I escort you to your quarters before we attend the Council, for fresh garments?”
The wild look spread from her eyes to her mouth when she smiled. “Let Father and the rest see me as I am. It will serve him right, for dragging me to another meeting.”
Glace shrugged. That was between her and the King. And the entire Council, apparently. His duty was to protect her from physical harm, not from ridicule or paternal punishment. He stared for a moment at the sway of her behind, and the tantalizing holes in her dress, as she marched across the bridge in front of him. Then he shook himself. He was pretty sure ogling the princess was not included in duty, discipline, and deference. He cast his eyes down again.
Glace followed Stasia across the long bridge. A few carts wheeled creakily in the opposite direction, bearing supplies for the stock tunnels, and Glace saluted a Scout riding out on a raihan. At the end of the bridge, the fishy stench of Grimshore wafted up, and Glace hurried his charge through the narrow stone streets, uphill to the crest of the island. They passed the small hide-and-bone huts of labor Guildsmen, the fishers, miners and fungal workers. Here and there a grosbox fungus grew, a giant, hard mushroom from which a house would be hollowed. Little fungal gardens surrounded the houses and bordered the lanes, tended by a wife or son here, an elderly man there; they were cultivating and harvesting a few morchellas as well as medicinal mushrooms like bittercap and the dark, earthy truffide. Colorcaps blazed like gems, their variety of colors and lacy caps vivid under the bright blue glow of the Palace. Another time, Glace would have picked one and tucked it behind Stasia’s ear, and been rewarded with a smile, but he felt no desire to add to her brazen appearance today.
Beyond the small houses by the shores of the lake, the roads grew steeper, and the houses grew larger, several-story stone constructions housing the higher Guildsmen and their families; cooks, scribes, neithild handlers who produced websilk, gem cutters and tanners and healers. These houses stood quiet and empty; their inhabitants were in the Guild-houses working, in the Council Meeting, or in the Market.
Market Avenue, the wide lane surrounding the Council Hall, was a buzz of activity compared to the quiet streets. Smooth paving stones between the stalls were covered with carts pulled by big, shaggy molebear, laden with fish, gems, metals, fungi, rocksalt, and ice. At each stall, Guildsmen inscribed trades and purchases on gold plate, weighed out goods, and wrapped up packages. The smell of salted fish, pickled cababar, and bliss fungi pastries filled the air. A flag of chirsh interwoven with bright silver threads announced the cart of the royal tax collectors, who shopped the stalls and carried goods back to the Palace for the members of the Royal family, the Icers, and the Warrior Guild. Molebear hides piled on the cart would be made into boiled leather armor for new recruits; the King was expanding the army in response to the Scouts’ reports.
Stasia nodded to the wave of bows and curtseys that rippled around her, but Glace saw people whispering to each other after she had passed. Those whispers would reach Krevas' ears, and he would be angry with his wayward daughter. Of course, it would be nothing compared to his anger when he saw her enter the Council. Glace reminded himself again that her decorum was not part of his duty.
The Hall of the Council sat in the very center of Iskalon, surrounded in a great circle by Market Ave. The building had been shaped with T’Jas out of strong basalt, made to look like a fountain of frozen water spouting from the center of the lake surrounding the city. The rock was tiled in differing shades of blue gemstones, accentuating the dimensions of the water-jet. It towered above elaborate Guild-houses and the smaller family homes radiating from the center of the island to the shores of Lake Lentok.
In front of the main entrance to the Council Hall, a giant stone likeness of Queen Cataya stood watching the Market, over forty feet tall. Her dress was pure white, shaped from the finest limestone, and her eyes sparkled dark with onyx. An Ancestor, the first Queen and Founder of Iskalon, patron of the Heritage, and the only Dreamer known to history, before Stasia’s talent had been discovered. An acolyte of the Heritage stood watch by the stone folds of her skirt, chanting Her goodness. Glace removed the sword at his hip and knelt on it among offerings of colorcap, choice meats and fine gems. Even Stasia bowed before the greatest Queen Iskalon had ever seen.
But her bow was brief. Before Glace had sheathed his sword, she had marched right up the sapphire-inlaid steps and announced herself to the two warriors guarding the giant stone entryway. The Warriors struggled to keep smirks off their faces as they admitted her, but a hard look from Glace reminded them of their duty, and they straightened and resumed menacing postures. Glace snapped his fingers and pointed at an out-of-the-way spot by the steps; Musche wandered over to it nonchalantly and sniffed, then paced as if considering lying down. Glace grinned as he headed through the door his mistress had taken into the Hall. The slink liked to pretend it had a choice. Perhaps he should take that tactic with Stasia.
The little princess must have run all the way to the Council room, because she was gone when Glace entered the building. He hurried through the maze of ornately tiled corridors until he reached the center of the Hall. The double door of the council room was wide open, the icelights within dim. Stasia stared into the room, so still that he could hear her short breaths. Glace stopped just behind her, peering over her head. The grand, circular room was empty.
Stasia chewed at her lip pensively. Glace was ashamed at having failed in his duty to get her to the council, but also relieved for Stasia’s sake. She had missed the council, but at least she could change before facing her father's wrath.
Footsteps echoed behind Glace, and he spun, one hand on his mace, the other on his axe. There was little danger here in the heart of Iskalon, but he was still on edge from the trek into the neutral territory. Stasia turned as well, and Glace felt the air warm almost imperceptibly. She had pulled T'Jas into herself, preparing to fight.
The footsteps grew louder, and Glace relaxed when he saw that it was Prince Casser, King Krevas' brother and Stasia's uncle. Glace gave him a Warrior’s salute, fist to heart, and the Prince returned it curtly. Anger glinted in his dark eyes, and he ran his hand through salt and pepper hair before speaking. Unlike Stasia, his skin was bare of the glowing blue dots; whatever vitality remained in him, it was hidden under his glistening, wooly ice-armor.
“You go too far, Stasia. You will push your father too hard one day.”
“I didn't know the Council was meeting. Besides, normally the discussion lasts through second chime.” Stasia paced into the center of the room. Glace followed her, leaning against a column. Now that she was safe, he would have liked to put his second, Warrior Glint, in charge of guarding Stasia, and take a shower and get a snack in the mess. But he could not walk away from Prince Casser without being dismissed.
“You are lucky that this one didn't last. If your father saw you come in looking like one of the guildless, he might give you to them.”
“Ah, well. I can't have missed much. Father won't be happy, but then, he never is. To be honest I'm a bit relieved. I didn't really want to spend my time listening to the old duffers snap at each other like eels.” She fingered the blue tiles on a nearby column. Glace pulled a dagger from his boot and polished it silently against the oil-rich chirsh of his doublet, where it hung over the skirt of his armor. The blade could use a sharpening, but the noise would be intrusive.
“You should have been here, Stasia. The Council deadlocked, and they will meet again at first chime to resolve it. We don't have much time, and they are stalling all they can. Your presence is required at that meeting, do you understand?”
Stasia began pacing again, ranging farther into the room with each pass. “Yes, Uncle Casser. I'll be here.” She still sounded flippant. Glace had heard her promise that to the King himself, and still miss the Council. “What's the big deal, anyway? Don't we get enough in taxes from the Guilds already?”
“Chraun is planning to attack Iskalon.”
Stasia stopped mid-step and stared at her uncle. Glace's thumb slipped over the edge of the dagger and he cursed quietly, then stuck his thumb in his mouth, sucking at the blood welling out of the cut. War. Iskalon had not seen war in nearly a hundred years, certainly not in his lifetime. Glace was not afraid to fight. What terrified him was the thought of trying to keep Stasia from running straight for the front lines.
“Captain Glace?”
“Yes, Majesty.” He sheathed the dagger and saluted again, standing at attention.
“Glace, take her to her room and see that she gets changed. Krevas has enough to worry about without rumors flying around that his daughter is a guildless harlot. And watch her carefully until tomorrow's meeting. Sleep outside her chambers, eat when she eats. You are relieved of all other duties.”
“Yes, Majesty.” Stasia glared at Glace, and his heart sank. She was going to make it difficult, and this new restriction would only make the tension between them worse.
“I'm not a child, Uncle.”
“Then act your age, Stas.” Prince Casser’s tone was sharp, and Glace saw Stasia grip the skirt of her dress; in anger or fear, he could not say. “If you were young enough, I'd spank you and put you on rations. You are certainly not a child. Nineteen makes you old enough to sit in Council like any other citizen. Krevas must have the support he needs to pass martial law. Iskalon must respond to this attack with unity.”
Prince Casser turned on his heels and marched out of the room. Stasia rounded on Glace and gave him a solid, silent glare. Glace looked at the floor, waiting for her anger. When she did not speak, he looked up again. Her glare had dissolved and she looked vulnerable, a little afraid. “To think!” she said. “We were just in the Spiral Tunnel! We might have been killed, or captured.”
Glace nodded. At least she realized that. “Princess, I must escort you to your quarters now.”
The vulnerability faded as if it had never existed, dissolving into another glare. “Don't you ever think of anything but duty, Glace?”
Glace met her eyes. He knew that his duty was to quietly obey orders, to be stoic and deferential to his charge. He knew that he risked a reprimand. But Stasia would try a molebear’s patience. He reached out and scooped her up in his arms. She let out a cry of surprise, but did not resist, and the protest turned into an amused giggle. He cradled her to his chest like a child and carried her from the council room, down the hall, down back streets to the King’s bridge, and up into the Palace. She laughed like a child the whole way, and when he deposited her safely at her door, they were both breathless and laughing together.