The Serpent Bride
“You need to keep safe,” Egalion said.
“I don’t need a guard.” Maximilian’s voice was sharp.
“I won’t send men to shadow you, Maximilian. But keep safe.”
Maximilian tried a small smile, which didn’t quite manage to warm into life. “What part of the world can be more boring, more safe, than the western plains of Pelemere, my friend?”
Garth had wandered over and had heard enough of the conversation to know what was happening. “Maxel?”
“The hanging wall,” Maximilian said, referring to the ceiling of rock that had hung over him for so much of his life, “is bearing down on me, just a little too much. Let me go, Garth.”
Garth and Egalion exchanged a glance, then Garth nodded. “Keep safe, Maxel.”
“I will rejoin you a day outside of Pelemere.”
Maximilian stepped back, his eyes holding those of Egalion and Garth for just a moment, then he vanished into the gloom of dusk.
Maximilian pushed his horse for five hours into the night, angling a little north-east of the route Egalion, Garth and the Emerald Guard would take, until the animal was almost dropping from weariness. He halted in the shelter of a small grove, made his horse comfortable, then gathered enough dry wood for a fire.
Maximilian felt exhausted himself, but he knew he would not sleep.
There was something he wanted to do.
He just didn’t know what Ishbel represented. Contentment, or the ruination of peace? Maximilian wasn’t even sure that meeting her would solve the puzzle: Ishbel was likely to be an enigma not easily explained within the first five minutes of acquaintance.
Once the fire was blazing, Maximilian set out some food … then ignored it.
He would eat once he was finished.
Pushing the food to one side, he slid the Persimius ring from his left hand, then took the queen’s ring from his cloak pocket. Holding them loosely in his hand for a moment, Maximilian took a deep breath, then set them down, slightly apart from each other, before the fire. The Whispering Rings could do more than just set his day on edge with their irritating chat.
Trying not to think too much about what he was about to do, Maximilian took a long stick, poked it into the fire, then scraped a goodly quantity of the bright coals over the rings.
They hissed, then hissed again, more violently than previously.
“Tell me what you see,” Maximilian whispered.
For a moment nothing happened, then vision consumed his mind.
He strode through a corridor that appeared as if it stretched into eternity. Its walls glowed turquoise and white.
Behind him, he knew the corridor vanished into the darkness that trailed from his shoulders like a cloak.
Maximilian strode ahead, his steps determined.
He walked the hallways of Elcho Falling.
He turned a corner, and halted, transfixed.
A woman sat in a bath, her back to him, her fair hair caught up about the crown of her head with pins, tipping water from an exquisite goblet encrusted with frogs over her shoulders so that it trickled slowly down her spine.
She turned very slightly as she became aware of his presence.
“My love? Is that you?”
He felt overwhelming grief at the sight of her, and could not understand it, for he knew also that he loved her.
He turned, and resumed his walk down the corridor, brushing irritably at a weight about his brow.
After some time (hours, days perhaps), he became aware that something approached from behind him.
He turned, thinking (hoping) it might be the woman.
Instead, it was something so dark, so terrible, that Maximilian screamed, throwing his arms up about his face.
It was not a creature or person at all. Instead, Maximilian found himself staring into the open doorway of the Twisted Tower, and seeing that it was now entirely empty.
Not a single object remained in any of the chambers.
He had lost everything, every memory, every ritual, every piece of magic, that he needed to resurrect Elcho Falling.
He woke, his heart still thudding, just after dawn.
All he could remember for the moment was the horror of staring into the doorway of the Twisted Tower and realising it was now entirely empty.
Terrified, but knowing he had to do it, Maximilian closed his eyes once more, and called forth the Twisted Tower. Trembling, he laid his hand to the handle of the door and opened it.
The first chamber lay before him, groaning with the weight of its objects.
Relieved beyond measure, Maximilian opened his eyes, looking across once more at the fire.
The rings lay in cold, drifting ash.
Maximilian reached over and picked them up, sliding his own ring on his hand, and slipping the queen’s ring away in his cloak.
What was he supposed to make of what he’d dreamed?
He busied himself with some breakfast, discovering himself starving. He set aside the problem of the dream for the moment, instead concentrating on the simple tasks of breaking camp, grooming and saddling his horse, and riding out.
Towards the end of the day, when he was dismounting from the horse in order to make camp, Maximilian realised that there was something about the vision that he had not been conscious of while he’d been experiencing it, but of which he’d become aware, very gradually, in the past few hours.
As he’d been striding the corridors of Elcho Falling, he’d carried the weight of a crown about his head.
Maximilian had his answer.
Elcho Falling was waking.
He sank to his haunches, absolutely appalled, lowering his face into one hand.
Elcho Falling was waking, and he was the one who would need to assume once again the responsibilities of its crown.
For several minutes he crouched in turmoil, unable to order his thoughts. Finally, however, Maximilian managed a deep breath.
What should he do?
Carry on, put one foot in front of the other, until the way ahead became clear.
Taking another deep breath, Maximilian finally rose to his feet. Perhaps this Ishbel Brunelle would have some answers.
13
PELEMERE, CENTRAL KINGDOMS
The train of carts and horses and riders wound its slow, miserable way towards the city of Pelemere. Winter had set in and grey sleet drove down over the train, drenching horses and riders and even those Icarii sheltering inside the canvas-covered carts. Everyone huddled as deep as they could within cloaks, heads down against the driving rain, hands almost too cold and stiff to keep grip on reins. Horses plodded forward, heads down, tails plastered to their hind legs, eyes more than half closed against the rain. Mud splattered up from their hooves, coating their underbellies and the legs of their riders.
No one noticed the rider emerge from the shadows of a small wood and attach himself to the rear of the train. Within heartbeats he looked as though he had been there since the train had set out from Margalit weeks previously, face hidden beneath the hood of a sodden cloak, shoulders hunched against the cold.
A deputation from Pelemere met the train some four miles out of the city. It wasn’t a very large deputation, for this was the train only of the possible wife of the rather poor King of Escator (when Maximilian arrived he would rate a slightly more ostentatious welcome), but it was a welcome, and Baron Lixel, riding at the head of the train, was pleased to see them.
If nothing else the deputation meant food and shelter and a warm bed were nigh.
There were a few brief words of welcome, faces from the Pelemere deputation peering through the gloom to nod at the Lady Ishbel sitting her mare five or six riders back, and then everyone headed as fast as they might for Pelemere. No one wanted to remain outside in this weather.
The city had almost entirely shut down for the night, but there was one gate left open and it was through this small, insignificant side gate that the Lady Ishbel Brunelle and her train were escorted to their residence in the eastern quarter of the city. The house was one which the king, Sirus, had lent to Ishbel for the coming weeks as a gesture of goodwill towards Maximilian. It was not particularly large, but it had a covered courtyard, and Ishbel was never so glad of anything as she was of that sudden relief from the wind and rain when she pulled her mare to a stop with cold-numbed hands.
A servant from the house hurried forward to help her to the ground, then left her to aid someone else.
Ishbel stood, alone in the milling activity of the courtyard, wishing only for someone to escort her to a bath and a bed.
For an instant a gap opened in the crowd of horses and riders, and Ishbel saw a heavily cloaked man watching her from the far edge of the courtyard.
There was a moment when Ishbel felt that their eyes met even though his face was hidden beneath the hood of his cloak, and then a horse moved between them, the moment was broken, and Ishbel turned away.
Please, please, she thought, let someone lead me away from this cold and misery soon.
Then Baron Lixel was at her side, and a man who Lixel introduced as Fleathand, who was the steward of the house, and within moments Fleathand was leading her inside, and Ishbel could finally, gratefully, contemplate some solitude, some warmth, some rest and, perhaps amid all that, a little bit of comfort.
Two hours later, fed and bathed and sitting alone in her chamber, Ishbel finally felt as if she could relax.
But she dared not. Relaxing meant Ishbel might weep with exhaustion and anxiety and overstrung emotion, and she was not quite ready to give in to tears.
She sat in her chair by the shuttered window, clad in her night robe with an outer wrap pulled loosely about her, and tried to relax. The past weeks since leaving the Coil had been taxing; she was constantly on edge, alert for any stray word that might betray her, and the emotional wrench at her parting from everything she loved and trusted grew worse with each passing day. Well might Aziel, the Great Serpent, and the entire firmament for all she cared, insist that she would return one day, but right at this moment Ishbel could not see that eventuality. She felt utterly lost and abandoned and, caught in her loneliness and melancholy, she simply couldn’t believe that she would ever return to her home.
If only she knew why this marriage was so important. If only the Great Serpent would tell her. It was all very well to argue that this marriage was the only thing that would save her homeland from devastation, but Ishbel could not see why. It made no sense to her.
Ishbel thought about how she had been loved and valued and cherished by the Coil.
Then she thought about Maximilian, and about her humiliation at his insistence through Star Web’s demands.
She sighed, the sound ragged and heart-rending. She tipped her head against the headrest of the chair, closing her eyes, and tried to think about something, anything, happier than her current situation.
It was only after long minutes that Ishbel came to realise she was not the only person in the chamber.
She jerked to her feet, staring wildly into the dimness beyond the lamp, and finally saw him.
He was standing in the shadows at the very rear wall of the large chamber, dressed in damp travelling leathers, leaning against the wall, arms folded, as still as the darkness itself, watching her.
Ishbel knew instantly who it was.
14
PELEMERE, CENTRAL KINGDOMS
Maximilian had travelled hard and fast once he’d left his first night’s campsite to reach Pelemere at the same time as Ishbel. He was numb at the realisation that Elcho Falling was probably waking, but as he had no idea what direction he should take, or what he should do, Maximilian simply continued on as he had originally planned.
Meet Ishbel, discover for himself what she was like.
The only thing that Maximilian knew was that, whatever else, Ishbel was somehow integral to Elcho Falling.
No one had spotted him as he slipped in at the back of Ishbel’s train. Maximilian was dressed in clothes similar to those of Ishbel’s escort, plus everyone’s attention was on Pelemere and the necessity to get there as soon as possible, rather than on the actual number of men trailing along behind.
He dismounted in a quiet corner of the yard, looking about for Ishbel.
Maximilian had spotted her almost immediately, and his first thought was that she was the woman he’d seen in his vision.
The second was that he’d never seen anyone more alone than she was at that moment.
She had no retinue. No one. Not a maid, not a valet, not a single companion that she could trust and lean on for support.
Absolutely isolated, and looking lost and afraid because of it.
Maximilian had seen the look on her face, and had recognised it instantly. He’d seen it on face after face of men condemned to the Veins — a hopeless, trapped expression that was impossible to fake.
She must truly be driven, then, to come all this way for a marriage she could not want.
Ishbel eventually vanished behind the milling horses and their dismounted riders, and Maximilian had taken the opportunity to slip into the house, and merge with his old friend, the darkness.
He’d stood there, completely motionless, allowing the dark to curl about and hide him while Ishbel unpacked a single valise, ate a meal brought to her by a servant, and bathed in the hip bath set by the fire. He’d waited and watched, motionless, secreted, as Ishbel had dried herself, pulled on her nightgown and then the robe, summoned the servant to take away the bath, and then sat in the chair by the shuttered window, resting soft and silent and very, very still until the moment she tipped her head back against the chair and sighed with such misery that Maximilian felt his heart turn over.
It was the ultimate betrayal, this silent watching of a woman’s most intimate moments, but Maximilian had needed to do it. He hadn’t hoped to discover any of the secrets StarWeb had said Ishbel trailed behind her, nor had he hoped to discover the true reasons behind her journey to this point (whatever Ishbel thought they might be). What he’d wanted to do was discover, as best he might, the real Ishbel, the woman behind whatever intrigue she carried with her, and this was, he thought, one of the few times he would be able to observe her completely naked, physically, emotionally and spiritually.
What he had discovered was that, no matter the exterior she showed to the world, Ishbel was very vulnerable, and very sad.
He had discovered that she didn’t have the mark of the Coil anywhere on her body.
And Maximilian had discovered that he wanted this woman for his wife.
It was not so much her physical beauty — Ishbel was a lovely woman with her mass of dark blonde hair, her soft hazel eyes, translucent skin and strong lithe body — but her quietness of movement that attracted Maximilian. StarWeb had said that Ishbel was very unquiet, but her movements about the room had been so soft, so simple, so contained, that Maximilian thought that she would be a very peaceful woman to have at his side.
If he could ever trust her, and if she could ever forgive him this inexcusable intrusion into her privacy.
He moved, breathed just a little more heavily, disturbed the shadows clinging to him, and Ishbel instantly realised his presence.
She leapt to her feet, staring at him, and Maximilian very slowly unfolded his arms, straightened up from the wall, and stepped forward.
“Ishbel —”
“You are Maximilian.”
He came to a halt some three or four paces from her and gave a slow nod, his eyes not leaving hers. She was angry and hurt and frightened, and he was surprised by none of those. He was also intrigued: she had not taken a step back at his approach, and, even with her knowing who he was, he would have expected that.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Since you entered,” Maximilian said.
She drew in a long breath, her eyes huge, her face paling, then suddenly flaring in colour.
“Yes,” Maximilian said, “you may think all those things of me, and more. My behaviour has been inexcusable, but necessary.”
“Why?” The word was shot at him, almost hissed.
“Because I needed to see you for who you are, without any artifice.”
“And for that you used all the artifice you could muster.”
He tilted his head, conceding the point, his eyes still locked onto hers.
“I am sorry you are so very alone here,” he said, and that sympathy accomplished what his previous words had not.
Her eyes flooded with tears, and her shoulders sagged. She half turned away from him, a hand over her mouth.
“Can we talk?” Maximilian said. He had taken a step closer to her.
“No. Go away.”
“It is better we talk now, than be forced to talk before our assembled retinues at our ‘official’ meeting at my ‘official arrival’ in three days’ time. Far better we talk now, Ishbel.” He took another step closer.
“Go away!”
“Ishbel …” Now Maximilian was very close, and she turned back, ready to throw off his hand.
But he was standing again as he had been when first she’d seen him, arms folded, leaning this time against the high post at the end of the bed.
“Why do you want to marry me?” he said.
“I don’t.” Ishbel was too tired, and still too shocked by Maximilian’s appearance, to dissemble.
“Then why are you here?”
“Because the Coil told me to come. They were the ones who insisted I marry you.”
“Why?”
A small hesitation. “I don’t know.” And that was only a small white lie, Ishbel thought. She had no idea at all why the Great Serpent thought marriage to this man would make a difference.
“They are prepared to offer me you and all your riches … just because …”
“I have never questioned the way of the Coil,” Ishbel said, relieved that a measure of dignity had crept back into her voice.
He smiled, and Ishbel was taken aback by the difference it made to his face. He had striking looks with his aquiline nose and deep blue eyes, but was somewhat forbidding (not even considering the circumstances of his arrival into her room). But his smile lit up his face and made his eyes dance with mischievousness.
“You were honest,” he said. “Thank you. But you do realise,” he went on, “that once married to you, I will owe the Coil no debt? They have offered you, but I shall not be tied to them through that offering.”
“They would not expect it.”
“I am marrying you, not the Coil.”
“I did not realise we had settled definitely on the marriage.”
He smiled again, that slow, mischievous smile.
“And Star Web?” Ishbel said, desperate to say something, anything.
He sobered immediately. “I apologise for StarWeb. She took matters too far. She —”
“She took matters as far as you gave her licence.”
“I wanted to push you. To see if —”
“You have almost pushed me too far,” Ishbel said, very softly.
“Then take my hand,” he said, holding out his left hand, “and let me pull you back from the brink.”
She waited a full five heartbeats, wishing she had the strength and the resources to clasp her hands behind her back and step away from him. Then, with a soft sigh of resignation, Ishbel offered up her hand.
Maximilian clasped it in his, then jerked a little, his eyes widening.
In that instant, as his flesh touched hers, Maximilian’s entire world tipped on its axis. Gods! He had expected everything but this!
Ishbel might bear the name Brunelle, but she carried within her the ancient bloodlines of Persimius.
Maybe she did carry with her the ancient, lost memories!
While Maximilian’s mind and heart were in turmoil, his calm exterior returned virtually instantaneously.
“I seem to have arrived most unexpectedly,” he said, “and do not have a place for the night. May I sleep in your bed, my Lady Ishbel Brunelle?”
15
PELEMERE, CENTRAL KINGDOMS
Ishbel allowed him to do what he wanted, for two reasons. Firstly, the Great Serpent had told her to allow nothing to stand in the way of this marriage, and Ishbel supposed that refusing Maximilian here might anger him enough to withdraw his offer. But the principal reason Ishbel allowed Maximilian to lead her slowly, gently, towards the bed was that he overwhelmed her utterly. She had expected to find a man who was … tedious. Someone she might regard with contempt. Nothing she’d heard had prepared her for the sheer presence and, she had to admit it, charm, of the man. She was tired and emotionally overwrought, but she could use neither of these states as an excuse.
Ishbel was simply incapable of refusing him.
Besides, when he’d touched her, something had happened. He had been shocked for a moment, and she … well, there had been something … enough, when combined with everything else, to strip Ishbel of all resistance.
He led her to the bed, took her face in gentle hands, and kissed her.
Ishbel struggled momentarily, then relaxed, again succumbing to whatever presence it was that Maximilian commanded. She allowed him to unclothe her (he had already witnessed her naked, what did it matter now?), and to run his hands and mouth over her body, and to bear her down to the bed and then, eventually, to mount and enter her.
It was not as abhorrent as she had expected. It was easier to relax and to allow his warmth and care to comfort her than it was to resist, or fear.
He was, she supposed, a good lover. She understood that he took great care with her, was infinitely gentle, and suffused their bedding with a self-deprecating humour that had her, unbelievably, smiling with genuine humour on one or two occasions.
There was some pain, a little discomfort, but mostly … an extraordinary sense of sinking into someone else’s care. Ishbel had expected to feel used, or violated, but Maximilian made her feel none of these things.
Everything about him was not what she had expected.
They lay in the dim light in silence for some time, then Maximilian propped himself on an elbow.
“You are such a mystery,” he said. “Not what I expected.”
“Neither are you what I expected,” she said, a hint of dryness in her voice.
“Tell me about where you come from. Tell me about the Coil.”
She tensed. “They took me in and cared for me when no one else would. I owe them everything.”
“Save your loyalty, for that you shall shortly owe me.”
She turned her head and looked at him. “Of course.”
“Of course,” he echoed. “Ishbel, I need to know that when you become my wife, then your loyalty will be mine, not left lingering with a … a …”
“With what? A bunch of murderous soothsayers?”
“They do not provide the best family for any bride, Ishbel. Why did they send you to me?”
“I don’t know.”
Maximilian wondered if she was lying. He didn’t know her well enough to tell. Did she understand the ancient mysteries, or had she no knowledge at all? She sounded genuine, but …