Star of Cursrah (13 page)

“Am I to wear this tonight?” the young samira asked. “I’m not sure it goes with my outfit.”

The queen stifled a sigh and said, “Wear it anyway.”

On the pillow was cradled a tiara, a silver headband scrolled with zigzagging squares around a square-cut moonstone of milk white radiance. Star settled it on her head and found that it fit perfectly; naturally, since the royal silversmiths knew all her sizes. Star remained aloof, since she received exquisite gifts daily.

“How does this complement tonight’s … historic occasion?” she asked her mother.

“The moonstone is a storytelling charm. It remembers all it sees and can later recall the images for the wearer, as if dreaming. Wear it tonight and record your coming-of-age ceremony, though you refuse to come of age. There’s a matching piece of jewelry to go with it—but that’s a surprise for later.”

Star admired her tiara in a polished bronze mirror. It went well with her dusky skin and accented her noble nose and brow. Mention of matching jewelry intrigued her, but before she could ask, her mother rambled on.

“… Everyone will be eager to see you, so do arrive promptly at midnight, dear, or else.”

Her mother swept from the wing with a score of retainers in her train.

A dozen wide-eyed maids awaited Star’s next move. Opening her closet door, she grabbed an armful of clothes, all her new-sewn gowns, and flung them to the floor.

“You heard my mother,” she said. “I need a fine gown. Throw these rags in the fire pit. We’ve got two hours before midnight. Fetch me a dozen seamstresses if you have to break down doors and drag them here by the hair.”

Maids scurried like quail, but Star snagged her secretary’s wrist.

“Bring papyrus and quill,” Star ordered, “I’ll send a message to Gheqet and Tafir… and see what my mother thinks of that!”

“Are you sure your family won’t object?”

By the light of a dozen bronze lamps, Amenstar held various outfits in front of Gheqet and Tafir, clothes looted from her brothers’ apartments.

“Trust me,” she said.

Star had finally settled on a red sheath with many delicate pleats that complemented her red-brown skin, all sewn with silver thread that matched her silver tiara. The gown clung from just above her nipples to the floor, its sheerness providing a peekaboo effect she hoped would detract from her limp—her calf still ached as if a dagger were buried in the muscle. Her hair was freshly braided into cornrows with pearls and silver beads that jarred musically when she moved, and perfumed with myrrh for a resinous, woodsy smell. The moonstone tiara, newly polished, glittered as if alive.

“You look stunning, Star,” said Tafir, “almost like a princess.”

“Except all that kohl around your eyes makes you look like a cross-eyed zebra,” smirked Gheqet.

“Yes. Don’t your eyelids droop from the weight?” returned Tafir.

Maids standing along the walls tittered.

“Hush.” The princess flung clothes at the men, a green samite tunic to Tafir and a yellow-and-white striped toga to Gheqet, and said, “Wear that, Taf. It goes with your coloring. Gheq, this makes you look taller. Hurry! Strip!”

The young men balked, and the maids giggled. Since arriving, Tafir and Gheqet hadn’t been able to take their eyes off the maids, each selected for personal beauty in imitation of Star, and dressed in the palace’s next-to-nothing shifts.

Actually, the men were boggled just being in the royal residence and Star’s personal chambers. Summoned with messages delivered by maids in dark cloaks, they’d been smuggled into the royal compound’s dizzying tunnels—the same tunnels, so ran rumors, where trespassers died excruciating deaths at the hands of the vizars. Amenstar assured her visitors that they were safe, and her personal bodyguards stared right through them, yet a nervous queasiness lingered.

Star’s fabulous, casual wealth stunned them. Room after room of her chambers exhibited embroidered rugs, exotic pets with jeweled collars, gold-leafed mirrors, blue glass chandeliers, elegant guards with lyre-shaped halberds, glowing mosaics, even two gold chamber pots, and now the First Samira of Cursrah wanted them to crash a formal ball in the Palace of the Phoenix.

“I said hurry!” Star clapped her hands, and the fellows jumped. “Don those clothes so the maids can dress your hair, and stop gawking. They’re just common hussies. You can take a few home if you like, after the ball. Heaven knows they’re useless to me. Now get dressed!”

Precisely at midnight, Samira Amenstar and her entourage marched into the Palace of the Phoenix.

First stamped M’saba, the gigantic rhinaur, her kinky hair upswept and painted blue, her long body draped in a blue, star-painted mantle as big as a tent. In hands the size of bushel baskets was clutched a halberd with a lyre-shaped blade, its keen top edge winking. The halberd’s pole trailed a banner emblazoned with Star’s eight-pointed emblem. Next strode two regal horn blowers with four-foot, silver-chased ram’s horns, then Captain Anhur and twelve bodyguards, all in blue and gold, and six maids in demure sheathes and shawls of brilliant beads. Star reclined on a leopard skin draped across a sedan chair decorated with gold leaf that sat atop the shoulders of more guards. Trailing came a page girl carrying a giant rainbow fan of ostrich feathers, more maids, the thunderstruck Gheqet and Tafir in princes’ finery, and finally more stone-faced guards leading or carrying the slate-blue saluqis, gabbling parrots, sleepy ocelot, and on a velvet blue pillow, a rarely seen tressym. This unusual creature from the far north was a silver-furred, slant-eyed cat with gossamer wings dappled like a peacock’s.

A band blared, and five hundred guests applauded as the princess’s procession filed to the center of the palace.

The circular hall was ablaze with lamps and candles. The gorgeous wall frescoes, recently scrubbed, glowed as if the flat, angular subjects might step out to join the party. The milling party guests were equally gorgeous: men and women, nobles, scholars, diplomats, and royalty from the four corners of the civilized world. Stationed along the walls and between archways and columns ornately carved with zigzags, stood the most impressive of the Bakkal’s Heavy Infantry. They were humans in shimmering red tunics and kilts, tall, hulking rhinaurs, and even four strange manscorpions, foreign mercenaries with rustred torsos and scorpion bodies. There were a hundred retainers: waiters, wine stewards, table setters, linen dressers, and more serving the guests’ every need.

Aside from the raised thrones, the only furniture thought worthy to grace the palace were depictions of its royal inhabitants. Ranged along the round walls stood statues of the bakkal, the four samas, their parents, the princes and princesses of the realm, and many cousins; anyone of royal blood, a link in the chain of the reigning dynasty. Each statue was life-sized—the childrens’ were replaced yearly—and all were so exquisitely painted that the statues could be expected to applaud along with the living.

High above the celebration, a waxing moon shone through the circular hole in the roof, for the palace’s royal court, the Chamber of the Moon, was also an erstwhile temple to the all-seeing orb. Amenstar was ferried around the room in her sedan chair to more applause and adoration. She nodded and bowed to all the guests.

Her sedan was carried before her parents’ dais last, so the princess might be formally presented. As her high perch was eased down, Amenstar alighted and knelt before the throne. Her father, the Bakkal of Cursrah, He Who Reigns from On High, Lord of the Living and Speaker for the Dead, wore his most formal clothes. His red tunic was gathered in multiple pleats, and a lacquered, jeweled collar jutted past his shoulders. His kaffiyeh was blue and gold with an upright cobra that hissed from his headband. His eyes were darkened with kohl, his frown distant and distracted. Standing behind his throne, an ancient general in full armor held aloft a ceremonial axe with a long silver shaft and a half moon shaped blade of shining gold. Immediately flanking the throne dais were the statue replicas of the bakkal and first sama, frozen in stone and paint like eerie doppelgangers.

The bakkal was attended by his four wives, and Star noticed her mother frowning when she saw Gheqet and Tafir in Star’s train. Having been announced with her full titles, Amenstar rose, bowed, and remounted her sedan chair without turning her back on the bakkal. Hoisted, the samira was carried ninety feet, and again alighted before her own low and smaller throne at one side of the room. Standing nearby, mute, was a stone replica of Amenstar, perfect down to the incipient pout that lingered on her full lips. From her miniature throne, Star would entertain visitors, beginning with a reception line.

As a band played a tune pleasing to the ear, Samira Amenstar greeted each local and foreign dignitary while Vrinda, the tasked administrator genie, towered behind and whispered names and ranks. Amenstar shook hands until her fingers throbbed and had her hand kissed until it wrinkled. People came in all colors, clothing, accents, and more than a few races. Star was surprised to greet northern elves in their soft brown leathers and capes with red stripes that celebrated Tethir Dragonslayer’s victory over Xaxathart the Retributor. Elves were rarely seen now that the forests were gone. She met dwarves of High Shanatar, whose tunics of orange fustian were blazoned with three gold urns and a hammer. All the while Amenstar greeted guests, despite her earlier protestations, she looked for her supposed suitors.

Finally the line ended, and the genie hissed in her old-fashioned accent, “We go to meet the princes now.”

Leading from behind, slate palette pinned under one arm, the ginger-topped genie in the flouncy folds steered Amenstar and her entourage—a mere six maids and six guards—toward a small group not far from the musicians.

“Why need I, the guest of honor, walk to welcome a guest?” Amenstar hissed. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

“Don’t help me administer, please, Your Highness. Troubled times require compromises, and I’ve moved the moon and stars to prepare this ball,” Vrinda explained, then shook her head at some errant thought. Star noted that the genie’s ginger braid was longer than Star was tall. “Oxonsis and Zubat are on the verge of open war. I’ve separated the two princes to opposite sides of the hall. We pay them every honor, but it’s a delicate question as to whom you meet first. I’m banking on goodwill and minor enchantments to smooth the diplomatic bumps.”

“You’d friend-charm an ally? Does my father know—”

“Hist! Notice how the prince and his entourage are dressed plainly but alike?”

“So?”

Her tiara itched, yet she didn’t dare touch its shining surface and leave fingerprints. Putting on a royal display was exasperating at times.

Vrinda almost sighed and said, “They wear military uniforms. Why, you might wonder, dress for battle in peacetime? Why show their uniforms to the gathered nobles of so many nations? Could it be Oxonsis is prepared, even eager, for war?”

“I don’t know,” Star said. “Could it?”

Inexplicably the samira’s heart fluttered as they approached the darksome prince and his attendants. Star’s maids fanned back to form wings framing the princess, while Captain Anhur stamped so precisely and so hard Star wondered that her hobnails didn’t crack the marble floor.

Smiling, Vrinda raised her voice and said, “Your Esteemed Highness, may I present Amenstar, First Samira of the Palace of the Phoenix in Cursrah. Samira, may I present Samir Pallaton, heir to the throne of Oxonsis and commander in chief of her army.”

Amenstar extended her hand for a kiss while staring boldly at the prince, who gallantly rose from a carved rosewood throne. Easy to look upon, the solid, swarthy young man boasted a wealth of dark hair curling around his head, wreathing his face, and erupting from his neckline. He wore a form-hugging tunic of undyed linen, leather crossbelts and shoulder wings, and on his breast a badge with the red ox-head emblem of his city. Very military and proper, Star conceded, as was the royal headband with upright serpent, much like her father’s.

Pallaton was braced by a dozen hard-eyed attendants, all in military garb but without weapons. Their only artifact was a tall staff held by a page, and Star saw Vrinda study it. Taller than a man, the staff was artfully carved of dark wood and gilded to resemble a column of genie smoke. At the top, where the “cloud” coalesced, nestled a scintillating sapphire that itself contained a roiling, blue-white cloud. A queer thing to bring to a ball, Star thought, then dismissed it. The prince had trapped her hand.

Although she strove to remain cool, Star was thrilled when Samir Pallaton kissed her hand. His mustache tickled, and his teeth almost nipped her skin. A shiver sizzled to Star’s toes and pointed her nipples, and the prince smiled slyly at their protruding. For a second Star wondered what it would be like to marry such a handsome, dashing man.

Still, she chilled her voice to formal levels and said, “It’s kind of you to grace Cursrah with your presence, Samir Pallaton. I hope you find our humble entertainments amusing.”

The prince held her hand as he stared, a half-smile hiding in his soft beard. “Cursrah is the center of civilization, Your Highness, so everyone comes here eventually,” he said. “I’d have come much sooner had I known Cursrah boasts such a fair first princess.”

Again he kissed Star’s hand, and this time it was impossible to disguise her shiver.

“Uh, we thank you … kindly, Sa-Samir.” No longer frosty and aloof, her voice quaked, “Now please ex—uh— excuse me. I have other guests to greet.”

Star turned and marched off, feeling the samir’s eyes burning into her spine.

“A handsome youth,” proclaimed Vrinda from her great height.

“The desert wolf could use a good brushing,” sniffed Star. “With those fangs, he’d probably eat a girl alive. Who’s next?”

“Samir Nagid of Zubat, a man of considerable education.”

“Unlike Pallaton the Wolf, eh, who’s been educated in the stable and the armory?”

“You guess correctly,” fluted Vrinda. “Here we are.”

As before, Samira Amenstar was formally introduced to Samir Nagid who was slender, tall, red-haired, and dressed in the gaudy elegance of a stage actor. He wore a long embroidered shirt, blooming trousers, pointed shoes, parti-colored hose, and a cutaway cape with a checkered hem and upright collar. Like Star’s, his hair was perfumed with lilac water. Attending him were four somber bodyguards and many happy, colorful youngsters Star took for students.