The Serpent Bride
It took Vorstus eight days before he knocked one evening at the door to Maximilian’s bedchamber as Maximilian was preparing for evening court.
Maximilian waved away the servants, then indicated Vorstus should take a chair. “What can I do for you, Vorstus? You are normally cloistered in your library at this time of night.”
“What did you think of Serpent’s Nest, Maxel?”
Maximilian tugged at the cuffs of his linen shirt, making sure they sat comfortably under his heavy velvet over jacket. “I’d wondered why you did not come to me directly, Vorstus, instead of cloaking this offer in mystery. You know more than you are saying. What?”
“All I know is what I have told you. No one was more shocked than I when I saw that Serpent’s Nest is what was anciently called the Mountain at the Edge of the World.”
Maximilian shot him a deeply cynical look. As Abbot of the Order of Persimius, Vorstus was privy to almost all of its secrets.
“All I know is what I have told you,” Vorstus repeated quietly.
“How coincidental that the Mountain at the Edge of the World is now dedicated to a serpent god.”
“Perhaps just a coincidence.”
Maximilian stopped fiddling with his attire and looked at Vorstus directly. “Is Elcho Falling stirring, Vorstus?”
“I don’t know, Maxel.”
“I am sick of hearing your ‘I don’t knows’!”
“I —”
“Listen to me, Vorstus. I know that you were instrumental in aiding my escape from the Veins, and for that you know I am grateful. But I am not going to spend my life mired in debt to you, nor am I going to put up with you stepping coyly about something that has the power to destroy this entire world. Gods! Have I not had enough darkness in my life? Or do the gods demand something else from me besides losing seventeen years, seventeen years, Vorstus, to those damned, damned gloam mines? Have I not suffered enough”
“If Elcho Falling is waking, Maximilian Persimius, then you must do what needs to be done.”
The patronising idiot, Maximilian thought. “Ah, get out of here, Vorstus.”
Maximilian waited until Vorstus had his hand on the door handle before speaking again.
“One more thing, Vorstus. You know of the Persimius Chamber?”
Vorstus gave a wary nod.
“You know what it contains?”
Another wary nod.
“But you never took Cavor there. You never inducted him into the deeper mysteries of the Persimius throne.”
Vorstus now gave a very reluctant single shake of his head, and Maximilian could see that his hand had grown white-knuckled about the door handle.
“I was standing in the Persimius Chamber the other night, Vorstus, and a strange unsettling thought occurred to me. Here you are, Abbot of the Order of Persimius, and the only one apart from the king and his heir who knows what truly underpins the Persimius throne. But for seventeen years, when everyone save Cavor thought me dead, you never once took the opportunity of inducting Cavor into the mysteries? Should you not have done that? I can perhaps understand you waiting a year or so, hoping for a miracle, but seventeen?”
“I always had faith that you —”
“You knew, for those entire seventeen years, Vorstus, that I was alive. That is the only reason you did not induct Cavor into the mysteries. You knew I was coming back.”
“I —”
“Get out, Vorstus. Get out!”
When the door had closed behind him, Maximilian walked to a mirror and stood before it, seeing not a reflection of himself, but of the bleakness that had consumed him within the Veins.
“You knew where I was,” Maximilian whispered, “and you left me there for seventeen years.”
Much later that night, still unsettled and unable to turn his mind away from Elcho Falling, Maximilian sat in his darkened bedchamber, rested his head against the high back of the chair, and closed his eyes.
As he had visited the Persimius Chamber on a previous night, so now Maximilian visited another of the mysteries his father had taught him.
The Twisted Tower.
The crown of Elcho Falling carried with it many responsibilities, many duties, and a great depth of dark, writhing mystery. Each King of Escator, and his heir, had to learn it all in case they one day had to assume once more the crown of Elcho Falling.
There was an enormous amount of information, of ritual, of windings and wakings, and of magic so powerful that it took great skill, and an even better memory, to wield it. There was so much to recall, and to hand down through the generations, that long ago one of the Persimius kings, perhaps the last of the sitting Lords of Elcho Falling, had created a memory palace in which to store all the knowledge of Elcho Falling.
They called it the Twisted Tower.
Maximilian now entered the Twisted Tower, recalling as he did so the day his father had first taught him how to open the door.
“Visualise before you,” his father had said, “a great twisted tower, coiling into the sky. It stands ninety levels high, and contains but one door at ground level, and one window just below the roofline. On each level there is one single chamber. Can you picture it, Maxel?”
Maximilian, even though he was but nine, could do so easily. The strange tower — its masonry laid so that its courses lifted in corkscrews — rose before him as if he had known it intimately from birth and, under his father’s direction, Maximilian laid his hand to the handle of the door and opened it.
A chamber lay directly inside, crowded with furniture that was overlaid with so many objects Maximilian could only stand and stare.
“See here,” his father had said. “This blue and white plate as it sits on the table. It is the first object you see, and it contains a memory. Pick it up, Maxel, and tell me what you see.”
Maximilian picked up the plate. As he did so, a stanza of verse filled his mind, and his lips moved soundlessly as he rolled the words about his mouth.
“That is part of the great invocation meant to raise the gates of Elcho Falling,” said his father. “The second stanza lies right next to it, the red glass ball. Pick that up, now, and learn …”
Maximilian had not entered the Twisted Tower since his last lesson with his father, just before his fourteenth birthday when he’d been abducted. That lesson had, fortuitously, been the day his father had taken him into the final chamber at the very top of the Twisted Tower. Despite it being well over twenty years since he’d last entered, Maximilian had no trouble in recreating in his mind the Twisted Tower, and travelled it now, examining every object in each successive chamber and recalling their memories throughout the height of the tower.
As he rose, the chambers became increasingly empty.
It began at the thirty-sixth level chamber. This chamber was, as all the chambers below it, crammed with furniture, which in turn was crammed with objects, each containing a memory. But occasional empty places lay scattered about, marked by shapes in the dust, showing that objects had once rested there.
Maximilian turned to his father. “Why are there empty spaces, father?”
His father shifted uncomfortably. “The memories held within these objects have been passed down for many thousands of years, Maxel. Sometimes mistakes have been made in the passing, objects have been mislaid, memories forgotten. So much has been lost, son. I am sorry.”
“But what if we needed it, father? What if we needed to resurrect Elcho Falling?”
His father had not answered that question, which had in itself been answer enough for Maximilian.
Now Maximilian entered the final chamber at the very top of the tower.
It was utterly barren of any furniture or objects.
Everything it had once contained had been forgotten.
Maximilian stood there, turning about, thinking about how the chambers had become progressively emptier as he’d climbed through the tower.
He was glad that he had remembered everything his father had taught him, and that he could retrieve the memories intact as he took each object into his hands.
But, contrariwise, Maximilian was filled with despair at the thought that if, if, he was to be the King of Escator who once again had to shoulder the ancient responsibilities of Elcho Falling, he would need to do so with well over half of the memories, the rituals and the enchantments of Elcho Falling forgotten and lost for all time.
1
LAKE JUIT, TYRANNY OF ISEMBAARD
Lake Juit, as old as the land itself, lay still and quiet in the dawn. The sun had barely risen, and broad, rosy horizontal shafts of soft light illuminated the gently rippling expanse of the lake, and set the deep reed beds surrounding the lake into deep mauve-pocked shadow.
A man poled a punt out of the reed beds.
He was very tall, broad-shouldered and handsomely muscled, with a head of magnificent black tightly-braided hair that hung in a great sweep to a point mid-way down his back. He wore a white linen hipwrap, its simplicity a foil to the magnificent collar of pure gold and bejewelled links that draped over his shoulders and partway down his chest and back.
He was Isaiah, Tyrant of Isembaard, and the lake was surrounded by ten thousand of his spearmen, while on the ramshackle wooden pier from where he’d set out waited his court maniac, the elusively insane (but remarkably useful) Ba’al’uz.
Ba’al’uz narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he watched his tyrant. One did not expect one’s normally completely predictable tyrant to suddenly decamp from his palace at Aqhat, move ten thousand men and his maniac down to this humid and pest-ridden lake, saying nothing about his motives, and then get everyone up well before dawn to watch their tyrant set off by himself in a punt.
Ba’al’uz had no idea what Isaiah was about, and he did not like that at all.
Isaiah poled the punt slowly and steadily forward. He did not head out into the centre of the shallow lake, but kept close to the reed beds. Occasionally he smiled very slightly, as here and there a frog peeked out from behind the reeds.
As Isaiah got deeper into the lake, he watched the dawn light carefully, waiting for the precise moment.
He poled rhythmically, using the regular movements of his arms and body to concentrate on the matter at hand. What he was about to do was so dangerous that if he allowed himself to think about it he knew he would turn the punt back to the wharf and the watching Ba’al’uz.
But Isaiah could not afford to do that. He needed to concentrate —
At one with the water.
— and he needed to focus —
On the Song of the Frogs.
— and he needed to draw on all the power he contained within his body —
And allow it to ripple, to wash, and to run with the tide.
— and he needed today to be successful, because without that which he’d come for, Isaiah knew the task of the Lord of Elcho Falling would be nigh to impossible, and the land itself would fail.
Besides, he knew this would annoy Ba’al’uz, and annoying Ba’al’uz always brightened Isaiah’s day.
Above all, Isaiah was here because he needed something from the lake very, very badly, and he did not think the world would survive if he did not get that for which he’d come.
The sun was a little higher now, and nerves fluttered in Isaiah’s belly, threatening to break his concentration. His hands tightened fractionally on the pole, and he forced himself to focus.
The air, clear a few minutes ago, was now damp with mist seeping out from the reed banks.
Frogs began to sing, a low, sweet melody, and one or two of them hopped onto the prow of the punt.
Isaiah closed his eyes briefly, overcome with the sweetness of their song.
Then, hands tightened once more, eyes opening, he drew down on the deep well of power within himself.
Isaiah spoke the words that were needed, and the moment the last one dropped from his mouth the air about the entire lake exploded in sound and movement as millions of pink- and scarlet-hued juit birds rose screaming into the dawn light.
On the wharf, Ba’al’uz crouched down, arms over his head, and shrieked together with the birds.
About the lake, ten thousand men thrust their spears into the air, and screamed as one with Ba’al’uz.
On the lake, Isaiah poled into the reed banks, into magic and mystery, and into the strange borderland between worlds. Then, while the air still rang with the harsh cries of bird and man, as the frogs screamed, and as the sun suddenly topped the horizon and flooded the lake and reed beds with light, Isaiah dropped the pole, reached down into the water, and lifted a struggling, naked man into the punt.
2
BARON LIXEL’S RESIDENCE, MARGALIT
The journey to Margalit took almost three weeks, longer than expected. The winter was closing in, and drifts of snow had forced Ishbel and her escort to spend long days idle in wayside inns, waiting for the weather to improve enough that they might continue their journey.
Ishbel had spent most of the idle days praying that the weather would close in so greatly she’d be forced to return to Serpent’s Nest. Of course it hadn’t happened. The snow had always cleared in time for her to move forward, and, by the time they reached Margalit, she had managed to convince herself that no matter the trials ahead, she would manage.
Ishbel hoped only that this Maximilian was tolerable, and that he would be kind to her, and that the Great Serpent had not lied when he’d said that she would return to Serpent’s Nest, and that it would be her home, always.
She would be strong, because she had to be.
And, damn it, she was the archpriestess of the Coil, no matter how much she might hide that from Maximilian. She had courage and she had ability and she had pride, and she would endure.
Despite her carefully constructed shell of determination, it was a black moment for Ishbel when she first saw the smudge of Margalit in the distance. For an instant all the terrifying fear of her childhood threatened to swamp her, but Ishbel managed to bite down her nausea and panic, and maintain a calm exterior as they rode closer and closer to the city.
Then she took a deep breath, called on all her training and courage, and the moment passed. Margalit held no horrors for her now. All that was past.
Ishbel was to stay with Baron Lixel, Maximilian’s ambassador to the Outlands, in his house in Margalit. The house sat in one of Margalit’s more desirable quarters. It was a large, spacious house, single-storey like most of the Outlanders’ buildings, with thick walls, high ceilings, and decorative woodwork around doors and windows. Lixel had rented the property from the Margalit Town Guild when he’d first arrived in the city, and Ishbel had no reason to suppose that Lixel knew that the house was, in fact, one of the properties in her not inconsiderable inheritance.
Baron Lixel was there to greet Ishbel on her arrival, and he was not what Ishbel had imagined. Her fears had led her to expect a stern, forbidding man, uncommunicative and dismissive, but Lixel proved exactly the opposite. He was a pleasant man in middle age, very courtly, courteous, attentive without being fussy and with a charming habit of understatement in conversation, and Ishbel hoped it foretold well for Maximilian.
Ishbel spent a pleasant evening with him. Lixel seemed to intuit her anxiety and, surprisingly, managed to put Ishbel at her ease with his charming conversation and easy manner.
On the morrow Maximilian’s party was to arrive, and the negotiations for the contract of marriage to commence.
Lixel knocked on the door of Ishbel’s chamber at mid-morning, and bowed as she opened it. “Maximilian’s delegation has arrived,” Lixel said, offering Ishbel his arm. Then, as she took it, he added, “They won’t eat you.”
Ishbel gave a tense smile. “I feel very alone today, my lord. This is all most strange for me.”
They walked down the corridor towards the large reception rooms of the house. “You do not wish to wed?” Lixel said.
“I am missing my home, my lord, as noxious as that home must be to you.”
Ishbel was pushing Lixel a little too far with this statement, but she knew that his response would tell her a great deal about the man, as also, possibly, his master.
“A home is a home,” Lixel said, leading Ishbel out the door and down the long corridor towards the main reception room of the house, “whatever its strangenesses. I do not think Maximilian will begrudge it in the slightest if you yearn for a home you have lost.”
Not lost, Ishbel thought. I will return to Serpent’s Nest one day.
“I would not have thought him so generous towards the Coil,” Ishbel said, pushing just a little more.
“I was not speaking of the Coil,” Lixel said quietly, and led her into the reception room.
Ishbel might have responded to that, she still had time before they met the gaggle of people standing at the far end of the large chamber, but just then she caught sight of the leading member of Maximilian’s delegation, and she stopped dead, unable to repress a gasp.
It was a birdwoman. An Icarii. Ishbel had heard about them, and had heard about the land from which they had come, but had never seen one.
The birdwoman turned, looking directly at Ishbel with a discomforting frankness. She was clad all in black — form-fitting leather trousers and a top which allowed her wings freedom. She moved again, taking a half step forward, and Ishbel had her first glimpse of the stunning grace and elegance of the creatures.
The entire group had turned at her entrance now, and Ishbel tore her eyes away from the birdwoman long enough to see that several other Icarii were within the delegation.
Maximilian controlled Icarii?
Ishbel took a deep breath, hoping it wasn’t obvious, set a smile to her face, and walked forward.
She was the archpriestess of the Coil, and she would manage.
“You were very surprised to see me,” StarWeb said. “You paled considerably.”
They were alone, standing on the glassed verandah that opened off the reception room. Everyone else was still inside, talking, drinking, negotiating, but as soon as practicable after the introductions and initial chat, StarWeb had requested Ishbel join her for a private word.
“I have never seen one of your kind,” Ishbel said. “I was shocked.” Her mouth quirked. “The Icarii are almost myth here in the Outlands.”
StarWeb thought about being offended at the “your kind”, but decided that for the moment she would accomplish more without assuming affront. Full-on confrontation would prove far more effective.
“Then in your marriage,” she said, “you shall have to get used to us. There are many of ‘my kind’ at Maximilian’s court.”
“You know him well?”
“I am his lover.” There, Ishbel, StarWeb thought, make of that what you will.
To StarWeb’s surprise, Ishbel showed no emotion whatsoever. “That does not mean that you know him well.”
“But I expect that,” StarWeb countered, “should you become his wife, you shall come to know him well.”
“I expect,” Ishbel said, “that any man who has endured what Maximilian has experienced in life will be a man who lets only those he truly loves know him well. If he allows me that privilege, then I shall be honoured.”
“That was very good, my lady,” said StarWeb. “You managed to be self-effacing and insult me all in one. You shall do very well at a royal court, but I do not know that it should be Maximilian’s.”
“Will all Escator welcome me as generously as you, StarWeb?”
“Let me be frank with you, Ishbel — I may call you Ishbel, yes?”
“I would prefer that you did not.”
“Very well then, my lady, let me be quite frank with you. None of us here,” StarWeb gestured to the Escatorian delegation inside the reception room, “nor any back in Ruen among Maximilian’s inner circle, entirely trust this offer. We don’t trust who it comes from — the Coil are universally loathed —”
“Not by me,” said Ishbel quietly. “The Coil took me in when no one else would. They nurtured me, and were kind to me, and subjected me to none of the practices in which I hear rumoured they indulge.”
“Apparently so, my lady, for I believe your belly is still intact under that silken gown of yours. But allow me to return to the point, if I may. There are many about Maximilian who wonder about this offer and its timing. We wonder why a lady as lovely as you, and with such a dowry as yours, has only now decided to put herself on the marriage market, and to such a minor player — no, no, don’t protest, Maximilian isn’t the haughty kind — when she could have tempted a much nobler man, an emperor perhaps, or maybe even the Tyrant of Isembaard, for I have heard rumour he is looking for a new wife.”
“My dowry,” said Ishbel, her tone low, “would attract no emperor or tyrant. Particularly with, as you have been so kind to point out, such a home as I have enjoyed these past twenty years. Yes, the Coil is universally loathed, but not by me. I owe them a loyalty, StarWeb, that perhaps you cannot understand. It is one of love and gratitude. It is one of family. If you want a reason why I have not married in the past eight or nine years, when one might reasonably have expected me to take a husband, then it is because no man has interested me enough.”
StarWeb looked at her carefully. “Yet Maximilian does.”
“I think a man who has spent seventeen years in a black pit thinking his life at an end will have more understanding, more tolerance, than most.” Ishbel paused, her eyes glittering. “Yet perhaps I am mistaken, if the kind of woman he takes as lover is any indication.”
“Maximilian is a quiet man, of manner and mind,” said StarWeb, “and you are a very unquiet woman, Ishbel. I do not know how I shall report you to him.”
“Report me as a woman who can speak for herself,” snapped Ishbel, “and who does not need an arrogant and threatened lover to speak on her behalf.”
And with that she pushed past StarWeb and rejoined the reception.
3
PALACE OF AQHAT, TYRANNY OF ISEMBAARD
Isaiah, Tyrant of Isembaard, walked along the wide corridor of his palace of Aqhat. He’d returned from Lake Juit a few days earlier, together with his maniac Ba’al’uz, his ten thousand men, and the man he had pulled from the lake.
It was this man that Isaiah now went to visit. He had not seen him since he’d deposited him, dripping wet, on the wharf of Lake Juit for his servants to attend.
He approached the entrance to an apartment, and the guards standing outside stood back, bowing as one and touching the tips of their spears to the floor.
Isaiah ignored them.
He strode through the door, through the spacious room that served as the day chamber of the apartment, then into the bedchamber. He stopped just inside the door, more than mildly displeased to see that Ba’al’uz hovered just behind the physician who bent over the man lying on the bed.
Both Ba’al’uz and the physician bowed when they saw Isaiah, and the physician stepped back from the bed.
“His condition?” Isaiah said.
“Much better, Excellency,” said the physician. “The nausea has subsided, and his muscles grow stronger. I expect that within a day or two he can begin to spend some time out of bed.”