The Fall of Neskaya (22 page)

F
or a long minute, Taniquel could not breathe. Her heart froze within her body. The close darkness of the entrance smothered all her senses. As if a veil lifted from her eyes, the moment of shock passed. She lifted her chin. She was
comynara
of the blood of Hastur and Cassilda, as well as Queen of Acosta. She had no time for sentiment or weakness.

She swept through the inner gates, where the household guards stood at attention, and into the central hall. The three senior counselors—once her husband’s and now hers—waited, faces grim. None of them had put on their formal robes of office, for they were not men who ordinarily prized the appearance of rank. The eldest had helped tutor her along with Padrik. In the back of her mind, she could almost hear his voice painting the dull facts of history and protocol in vivid colors. Gavriel was his name,
nedestro
son of a minor branch of Elhalyn, come here as a youth in the days of Padrik’s father to make his way in the world.

“The gates are breached and my lord fallen in battle,” she told the counselors. With an iron will she had not known was hers, she kept her voice steady. “We must prepare to receive the invader.”

Gavriel nodded imperceptibly. The slight movement steadied her beyond any words.

“Let us prepare quickly.” She motioned to the castle
coridom
standing with his cadre of servants. He stepped forward and bowed to her.

“There will be wounded to attend to,” she said. “See that a place is prepared for them. Summon the chief surgeon and have anyone with healing skill made ready. We will need hot water, bandages, salves, and beds.”

As he bowed again and turned to give instructions to his people, Taniquel studied the hall. Tapestries covered the stone walls, some of them faded, already ancient when she came here as a child. A few shone with brighter colors, including the scene of Cassilda and Camilla which she and her ladies had finished only last Midwinter. The great carved throne gleamed with polish, although the cushions were a bit threadbare. Not a spot of dust marred the room, for the
coridom
and his housekeepers were nothing but efficient. Watery gray light sifted through the high slit windows to blend with the soft yellow of the wall sconces. The immense fireplace, stones in shades of gray pieced together in an exquisite mosaic depicting the Acosta eagle, stood dark and cold, for winter had passed and Padrik was not one to waste fuel on ostentation.

Rapidly, Taniquel gave orders for every candle and torch to be lit. She passed over the fireplace, for there would not be time for a proper blaze. “You and you and you—” she pointed to the three ladies who seemed to still have their wits about them. “Come with me.” They scrambled after her as she strode off toward her chambers. Piadora, the pregnant girl, waited there, face blotched with tears. She opened her mouth but closed it again when she saw Taniquel’s expression.

In the dressing chamber, Taniquel went to the huge wardrobe, carved in an ornate style of flowers and swans. She jerked open the doors. The profusion of colors and textures assaulted her senses—the gown of peacock silk dripping with silver-edged lace, long tunics stiff with gold-and-purple embroidery on soft wool the color of the finest Acosta wines, the cloak trimmed with snow-leopard fur, and boxes of headdresses, fans, gloves and slippers. The mingled smells of cedar incense and rosemary filled her head. She pointed to the gold brocade gown.

“That one.”

“My lady?” squeaked Verella Castamir, a sweet young willow of a girl from the Venza Hills.

Taniquel’s temper came perilously close to the breaking point. What did these idiots think, that she would meet Deslucido—or her victorious husband, if by some miracle he had survived, though by the pangs which split her heart, she had no hope there—with her hair every which way, wearing an old, mud-stained dress?

Given something familiar to do, a routine they knew as intimately as the insides of their own boudoirs, the ladies sprang into action. Verella unlaced and eased the amber-colored dress over Taniquel’s head, Rosalys unstrapped the wrist guard and wiped away the mud with rose-scented water, while Betteny, the third, readied the laced, boned linex undergown and silken hose. By the time the brocade was settled into place, Piadora had joined in, helping to hook the rows of tiny yellow-diamond buttons. The gown’s neckline was higher than was currently fashionable, but it hugged her breasts and hips, flaring out from a waistline which came to a low point in front to give the illusion of greater length of torso. Delicate spider-silk lace touched with gold threads hung from the wide sleeves.

“Colors,” Taniquel said, and a moment later, wore two tartan sashes, Acosta and Hastur. The gold of the gown and its unadorned bodice set them off perfectly.

Verella and Betteny stood ready with powder and paint, brushes and combs, crystal bottles of scented oils, matching jeweled hair netting and a necklace of precious copper filigree.

Just as Rosalys held out the velvet-lined box of rings, there came a tap on the door. At Taniquel’s command, a young Acosta officer entered. Bright blood soaked the cloth over his right shoulder.

Taniquel brushed aside the box of rings. She had run out of time.

“M-m—Your M-m—” He threw himself to his knees before her, head bowed. His shoulders trembled with weeping.

He’s barely a child
, she thought, although she was but a few years older. She knew, with deadly certainty, what he was struggling to say. With that fragmentary
laran
which had been deemed not worth training, she knew.

“I saw him fall,” she said. Would she be repeating those words all day?

“He—he is slain, lady. He is—” Another spasm shook the boy’s frame. With a visible effort, he gathered himself and looked up at her. Mud and tears streaked his beardless face “You have come from Captain Branciforte? Then return to him with this command. He is to offer a truce to the Deslucido forces in order to negotiate the terms of surrender. Let the fighting cease, let there be no more bloodshed. I will receive their representatives in the throne room.”

The boy scrambled to his feet, bowed deeply, and departed.

“Attend me.” In an instant, Taniquel assessed her ladies, holding on to one another, eyes wide, visibly shaking. They had been raised to nothing more challenging than a complicated embroidery stitch or how to decline a second dance with a suitor they found unappealing. If they turned into rabbit-horns in the face of battle, that was hardly their fault.

Taniquel schooled her voice to gentleness. “And whatever happens, remember that you are nobly-born and serve a Queen.”

Taniquel entered the throne room through the side door which Padrik had always favored. With a courtly word of welcome, Gavriel offered his arm and escorted her up the dais steps.

The
coridom
had done his work well. The hall blazed to rival the sun on Midsummer Day. Gold and velvet glowed like gemstones, and even the age-faded tapestries shone. A few courtiers, ladies and men too old to fight, stood talking in whispers. As one, they bowed to her, all except the lady sitting on the bench against the far wall, comforting a sobbing page. The two steel-gray wolfhounds that had been Padrik’s favorites paced and circled the base of the throne. The bitch growled as Taniquel approached, but the dog ran to her and licked her hand.

Taniquel passed by the smaller chair which had been hers and lowered herself on the throne, for a moment grateful that Padrik scorned the softness of pillows. She needed its unyielding support.

“Stay by me,” she said to Gavriel, and he took up his usual post behind Padrik’s chair.

More and more of the castle household streamed into the room, each one bowing silently to her, although few approached the throne. Many, she saw, had never appeared in formal court before, had probably known this room only as a place to be polished or dusted. Some bore children in their arms, one a nursing baby.

Gavriel approached with the scepter which had been so rarely used. “The wounded are being tended,” he said, and detailed the arrangements.

“Tell the
coridom
he has done well,” she told him, with a gesture encompassing the brilliance of the room and the presence of the community.

He bowed again. “Is there anything else we might do for Your Majesty?”

“No, there is nothing to be done. Our fate is in the hands of the gods. Take your place.”

Oh, Padrik!
came a silent wail at the back of her mind.
You will never know about your son!
She smothered the words into silence, set her jaw, and lifted her chin. Her free hand she kept on the arm of the chair. She would give away nothing, no trace of agitation or grief, before the invader.

She had not long to wait before the clatter of boots and the jingle of spurs and harness sounded in the corridor outside. Adrenaline tinged the air. Men in Deslucido colors, swords drawn, swept into the room. Courtiers cringed before them. A few cried out, while others glanced wild-eyed toward the throne. Though her heart yammered against her ribs, Taniquel sat without moving. As long as she held firm, as long as she herself did not break, neither would her people.

I am
comynara
and Hastur. I carry the Acosta heir.
The thought brought desperation as well as strength.

She recognized the Ambervale officers by their dress and carriage, the arrogant way they took up positions to the side of the dais without so much as a nod in her direction. Opposite them stood a figure in a long gray robe, hood shadowing the face.

Laranzu!
She knew that she looked now at the source of the compulsion to keep the gates closed. A feeling akin to dread crept over her.

Horns sounded from outside, a brassy five-note challenge which set the stones ringing. The mass of armed men parted. Two men strode down the center of the room, followed closely by an older, grizzled man in a general’s uniform. The first man moved with unbridled confidence and ease. The armor beneath his black-and-white cloak was modeled with exquisite simplicity and shone with the patina of much polishing. Not until he had approached did she see the lines of his face, for his movements gave no hint of his age. He might have been sixteen or sixty. This must be Deslucido himself, Taniquel realized with a quickly suppressed move of surprise, come to do his own negotiating instead of leaving it to a lieutenant. He must be very sure of himself.

Her gaze flickered to the younger man, carefully positioned to the side and a half-step behind him. Rarely had she seen a man of such surpassing beauty. Eyes blue as chips of summer sky regarded her levelly, measuring her in a way that sent prickles up the back of her neck. Golden hair glittered as if the room had been created specifically to enhance his brilliance. In her experience, such looks often betokened arrogance and self-centeredness. Although she saw no trace of either in the young man’s bearing, she disliked him immediately.

Deslucido took a stance a few feet away and gave a short bow, as a gentleman might accord a lady of lower rank. “There is no need to rise,
vai domna,
as you bid us welcome.”

“I have no intention of quitting my seat,” she replied stiffly, “and you are hardly
well come
to Acosta.” Brave words, she told herself. What did she hope to gain by a pitiful delay? Yet . . . there must be something he wanted, or he would have dragged her from the throne and either cut off her head or thrown her into the apple cellars, which passed at Acosta Castle for a dungeon.

A smile flashed across Deslucido’s features as he caught her play of words. Then his mouth hardened. “Your lord husband lies dead, your forces disarmed, your castle occupied by my men. Even if you had some means to resist, you could not rule this land by yourself, a mere woman. Your only option is a graceful surrender.”

Taniquel swallowed a barbed retort. The fingers of her free hand dug into the carved arm rest, but she permitted herself no other sign. “What are your conditions, then?”

“My lady, gracious Queen,” this time he bowed in earnest, “I have no desire to molest you or your people. Indeed, it is my wish that all within these walls, all within the bounds of Acosta, live in peace and fellowship. I understand this may be difficult for you to accept, with this rabble,” a jerk of his chin indicating his own men, the quirk of a smile inviting her to share his joke, “occupying your home. Yet in time, you will come to see that no more harm was done than was absolutely necessary and that the greater good, a secure and lasting peace, merited this small sacrifice.”

“This is what I intend, that your people will continue to live as they have always done, by their own customs, owing allegiance only to Acosta, but an Acosta now bound by unbreakable ties of alliance to my greater kingdoms of Ambervale and Linn. You yourself shall live here, in the manner to which you are accustomed, attended by your own servants. You may bury your husband with all the rites and honor due him, just as if he had won. Because, in the far larger sense, Acosta has already won.” These last words rang through the hall, met with stares of confusion and surprise.