"A—" Thyatis felt a finger press against her lips and fell silent.
"I have learned there is—there was—a second telecast in Constantinople. The mechanism allows an adept to look upon faraway places, to see and to hear what transpires there. If two of the telecasts are conjoined, as the prince effected, a man can move swiftly, instantly, from one device to another. Of itself, this is a powerful tool. But there are more than just two of these devices."
The Duchess sighed again, and shook her head, cursing herself for letting such a critical matter escape her attention. I knew Galen and Heraclius were carrying on secret correspondence! I should have marked its speed, and efficacy, and wormed out this secret... then there might have been time to do something. Before the Prince learned of the thing... before he stepped through the burning door!
"I do not know how many telecasts existed before the Drowning, but there is at least one more, hidden within Thira itself. That telecast has not been used in centuries and I pray it will escape detection. But I fear... I fear the prince and the Emperor will see the great use and advantage in war of these devices and they will seek to find more. If they do, then they may stumble upon Thira itself."
Thyatis laughed, an humorless acid sound. "You will wield one weapon—the prince—but not another? Isn't Rome worth it? What about your duty to the Empire?"
"You are insolent." Anastasia's voice turned cold. "I am a Daughter of the Archer, first, and a servant of Rome second. At the moment, I balance a precarious burden. Listen to me and think upon my words—what is the first edict of the Order? That no man ever be allowed to set foot on holy Thira itself. There is a reason, and the telecast held safe there is a great part of it.
"Possession of the telecasts will neither win nor lose this war for Rome, but their use might destroy Thira and the Order. The prince, if he were aware of the Thiran device, could call upon its power and step through, leaping across the leagues in a thought's instant. He would stand inside the depths of the mountain, within a chamber where no man has ever set foot. My sworn duty—your sworn duty as a Daughter of the Archer—is to prevent just such an event."
"Why? What will happen?"
Anastasia felt a sinking feeling, hearing the simple curiosity in her adopted daughter's voice. "I will not say," the Duchess said. "It is enough for you to know we must contrive a way to destroy the telecast now in the Emperor's possession and prevent any other such device from ever falling into his hands."
"Of course." The Duchess ground her teeth, hearing the smirk in Thyatis' voice. "Stealing from the Emperor isn't a crime..."
CHAPTER FIVE
The Pyrenees, The Western Roman Province of Narbonensis
Rain drummed on mossy stone, sluicing down out of a leaden sky. Clouds clung to the mountainside, slowly rolling across the crest of a narrow ridge. Among massive granite boulders, dwarf trees clung to the slope, glossy green leaves pointing downhill. A path wound among the stones, itself a tiny running stream as the sky rumbled and cracked with distant thunder.
A figure appeared out of the mist, head bent, a thin white hand gripping a tall bone-colored staff. Water beaded from a heavy woolen cowl and the woman climbed slowly, exhausted by the steep ascent from the valley floor. Mud beaded on her bare white feet, slipping away from the skin like oil separating from water. The path ended, opening out onto a narrow way surfaced with fitted stones. Fallen limbs and broken stones lay scattered across the road; grass, flowers and long-rooted shrubs grew in cracks between the slabs. No one had dared use the road up the mountain in a long time.
The sky grumbled, flashing intermittently with muted silver light. On the road, the woman made better time, striding wearily along, her will refusing to admit exhaustion, flat tendrils of sleek wine-red hair peeking out from under the hood of her robe.
The road wound around the shoulder of the mountain, rising steeply, then twisted back like a snake and ended in a looming, dark gate of scarred and blackened stone. The peak itself ended in a massive wall of granite and shale rising up into the mist. Once, a heavy gate closed the tunnel mouth, but the portal had been torn away long ago and hurled down the mountainside in anger. Without a pause, the woman strode into the passage, deftly stepping over and around blocks of fallen masonry and a scattering of ancient, rusted metal.
"Children!" The woman's tired voice whispered through the tiny yard beyond the gate passage. Slit windows stared mournfully down into the court. Blooming roses and dark green ivy climbed the walls, slowly eating away at the mortar. A ramp of steps led up onto a battlement on the left and another tunnel opened out to the right. "Attend me!"
The woman grimaced, dried rose-petal lips sliding into a frown. Where are the wretched creatures?
Standing in the shelter of the tunnel mouth, she flipped back her hood, revealing an elegant pale neck and colorless eyes. Despite the humidity, her hair did not tangle or run riot, but swept behind her head and over her shoulders like a bird's wing.
"If you do not come out to greet your Queen," she said, voice rising and carrying over muted thunder, "I shall come into this house and root you out, each and every one."
The soft padding of feet whispered out of the nearby tunnel. Yellow eyes flickered in the darkness, first one, then a dozen. A musky smell suffused the air and the Queen nodded, tucking the staff under one arm. "Come here, children, let me see you."
Something like a wolf, but with a longer, rangier body and larger head loped out of the tunnel and sniffed the Queen's feet. She smiled, teeth white in the dim light, and the creature whined and licked at her hands. Three more of the creatures slunk out of the tunnel, heads low, tails dragging on the cobblestones. The Queen laughed and pulled their ears and whispered to them, growling deep in her throat. At the sound—a merry greeting in their rough language—men and women crept out of the tunnel. Their hair was long and sleek, their tunics and shirts and woolen trousers simple and unadorned. They too bowed before the Queen.
"You are a ragged lot," she said, looking them over with a sharp eye. Rain continued to spatter out of the sky, but she ignored the soft mist beading on her porcelain skin as she went among her children. With care, the Queen examined their teeth, poked a long blood-red nail into their ears checking for mites, ran fine thin hands over their pelts, growled and bit at them. At last, she seemed satisfied. "Take me to my things, you rascals."
Grinning wolf grins, long red tongues lolling, the creatures coursed around her, leading the way into the depths of the old fortress. They did not howl or bay, but ravens and crows nesting in great numbers under the eaves of the castle fluttered up in a black cloud, cawing and wheeling in the dim white mist.
High above the storm, day reigned, the sun smiling down on a vast sweep of mountains buried in cloud.
—|—
The Queen stood at a window high on the side of the ruined fortress, looking out upon the surrounding peaks. The rounded granite helmets were bathed in sunshine. The storm had settled down into the lower valleys, drenching the little human farms and towns. Here, among the summits of the ancient peaks the air was pure as crystal. Below, in the courts and passages of the castle, there were intermittent sounds of banging and hammering. The Queen made a half smile. Her children needed pointed direction to complete complicated tasks.
The great ravens and crows nesting in the broken towers were far more willing to abide by her will—quartering the bright sky and spying on everything moving among the rumpled peaks and steep-sided valleys. The Queen was pleased with her refuge, a desolate, isolated land widely accounted to be worthless and hard. Suitable... suitable for a long rest, she thought.
"O Queen?" A gruff, rumbling voice intruded on her contemplation. Herrule stood at the door, massive shoulders brushing the stone frame on either side. "There is a man at the gate. He wishes to speak with you."
"Is there?" The Queen's eyes narrowed to slits, glittering like pearls. "Bring him to me."
The room was little more than a shell, with three mossy walls and a partial roof. At some distant time, a terrible fire had raged through the entire fortress, cracking the foundation stones and destroying anything supported by wood. Still the outer wall of the chamber remained and the simple arched shape of the remaining window pleased the Queen. Through its vantage, she saw the world framed and confined. She had not walked openly in the sun for a very long time—that would not have been prudent in her previous domicile—and the vast sweep of the world was dizzying.
"O Queen? Your guest, the man Shemuel." Herrule's voice rolled and rumbled and the Queen nodded, turning to look upon her visitor. The big Walach stepped out of the door and a small, round-shouldered man stepped into the room, his face rigid with tension. Graying curly hair hid under a small cap and a heavy dark wool cloak lay over his shoulders. His body showed the effort of climbing the mountain—shins caked with mud, an exhausted tremble in his hands—but his eyes were bright and aware. The Queen made a polite bow. She knew how the daywalker male felt.
"Good day, rev. Please, sit and take your ease. Herrule! Bring us wine, bread, something to eat." The Walach, still looming in the doorway, nodded and disappeared down the stairs.
The Queen remained standing by the broken wall, one slim hand on the windowsill.
"Why have you come to this place?" Shemuel's voice rasped—he was still breathing heavily from the climb. With an unsteady hand, he sat on a stone bench along the inner wall. "What is your business here, on this cursed mountain?"
"I seek privacy," she said, smiling faintly. Despite an almost automatic instinct to bend her will upon the man, to blind him with the glamour that was part and parcel of her as breathing was to him, the Queen restrained herself. To his eyes, she hoped to be only a thin, tired-looking woman of later middle age. "I assure you, rev, I will not trouble your village, your house of worship, even your shepherds in the forest meadows. My... friends... can find what they need among the high peaks, or in the secret places where your people do not go."
The man grimaced, brushing sweat from his forehead with the back of a white hand. The Queen saw he was near complete exhaustion. His hands could not stop trembling, yet he showed no signs of losing his focus. "Last week, one of your... friends... came down into the high pasture and took four good sheep. We are a poor community! Such a loss..."
The Queen raised a hand and Shemuel found his tongue cloven to his mouth. His eyes widened, unable to speak. Herrule entered, shouldering through the door, and laid a wooden board, polished and carved with interlocking designs of leaves and flowers and running dogs on the end of the stone bench. There was wine and fruit and fresh bread. Steam curled away from the golden loaf. At a motion from the Queen, the Walach left again. When he was well gone, the Queen's fingers tightened into a fist and Shemuel blurted out "—cannot be borne!"
He stopped, rubbing his jaw and glared at the thin woman. The Queen laughed, delighted by the outrage in his face and the way his eyes bulged out when he was angry. She had not intended to laugh, covering her mouth with a hand. Shemuel looked away, blushing furiously, and the Queen schooled her face back to impassivity. A little irritated with herself, she dampened the slowly rising glow around her, and banished the subtle scents of rose, coriander, myrrh beginning to pervade the air. Silly girl! How much trouble has this brought you before? Ages of strife are on your head! Leave this tired old man alone.
"Rev Shemuel, I will make good your loss, and be assured, I will restrain my children. They will not bother your herds or dwellings again. Will you say the same, for your people?" She bent her attention upon him, expression intent, watching the twitch of his eyes and marking the pattern of his breath. Shemuel recoiled from her scrutiny, but mastered himself and shook his head.
"They call you a queen. What is your name? Who do I treat with?"
"A fair question." The woman brushed a fingertip along the line of her jaw, beetle-red enamel bright against pale flawless skin. "If a name will ease your mind, then you may call me Aia, which is long familiar to me." She almost laughed again, thinking of distant youth, but then her face shadowed and became grim, thinking of what had come after.
"Aia..." Shemuel's face also turned, and she saw he was thinking furiously, dredging old memories. Then he looked up, gaze fierce and he tried to stand. His legs betrayed him, weak and depleted by the long climb through rocks, mud and slippery pine. "That is not a name to inspire confidence in me," the rev gasped, "but if it is your name, then you are a Queen and I will treat with you as such. I have never heard you broke an oath, when given."
"Are you a king?" The Queen tilted her head to one side, looking upon him with bright eyes. "Do you rule, with a scepter, with laurel, holly and gold in your hair?"
"I speak for my people, lady Aia, but I am not a... king. We have no king, not now."
The Queen's nostrils flared slightly, intrigued, and she stepped closer. Shemuel froze, remaining quite still, and the woman—hair hanging long around her face—circled him, tasting the air.
"You are lying." Her voice was intimate and he shuddered involuntarily. The Queen stepped away to the window. She looked down, upon the white clouds and the pine-clad slopes, her arms spread wide, hands resting on the chipped, dark gray stone. "We could strike a bargain, rev Shemuel. My aegis could watch over your people, my children could run in the woods, watching and listening for your enemies. Would that ease your mind? Make you feel safe?"
The man laughed, though it cost him carefully husbanded breath to do so. "As safe as any baker's pie! No, Queen of Aia, we will look after our own business and let you to yours. Let us say this—the people of the valleys will say nothing of what they might see on the peaks, and those living among the clouds will say nothing of what transpires below."
One of the Queen's eyebrows inched up, an alizarin wing on a white unwrinkled forehead. "You are a scholar, rev, but you make me wonder—is there aught to see below, in your villages and farms? This has ever been a land for those seeking sanctuary. Do you conspire, down under the clouds? Do you plot? Do you dream glorious, violent dreams, there in your whitewashed houses?"