We clattered into the streets of Remalna under a brilliant sky. The cobblestones were washed clean, the roofs of the houses steamed gently. A glorious day, which should have brought everyone out not just for market but to talk and walk and enjoy the clear air and sunshine.
But every window was shuttered, and we rode alone along the main streets. I sensed eyes on us from behind the barriers of curtain, shutter, and door, and my hand drifted near the saddle-sword that I still carried, poor as that might serve as a weapon against whatever awaited us.
And yet nothing halted our progress, not even when we reached the gates of Athanarel.
It was Vidanric who spotted the reason why. I blinked, suddenly aware of a weird singing in my ears, and shook my head, wishing I'd had more sleep. Vidanric edged his mount near mine. He lifted his chin and glanced up at the wall. My gaze followed his, and a pang of shock went through me when I saw the white statues of guards standing as stiff as stone in the place where living beings ought to be.
We rode through the gates and the singing in my ears intensified, a high, weird note. The edges of my vision scintillated with rainbow sparks and glitters, and I kept trying--unsuccessfully--to blink it away.
Athanarel was utterly still. It was like a winter's day, only there was no snow, just the bright glitter overlaying the quiet greenery and water, for even the fountains had stopped. Here and there more of the sinister white statues dotted the scene, people frozen midstride, or seated, or reaching to touch a door. A danger sense, more profound than any I had yet felt, gripped me. Beside me Vidanric rode with wary tension in his countenance, his gaze everywhere, watching, assessing.
We progressed into the great courtyard before the Royal Hall. The huge carved doors stood wide open, the liveried servants who tended them frozen and white.
We slowed our mounts and stopped at the terraced steps. Vidanric's face was grim as he dismounted. In silence we walked up the steps. I glanced at the door attendant, at her frozen white gaze focused beyond me, and shuddered.
Inside, the Throne Room was empty save for three or four white statues.
No, not empty.
As we walked further inside, the sun-dazzle diminished, and in the slanting rays of the west windows we saw the throne, its highlights firelined in gold and crimson.
Seated on it, dressed entirely in black, golden hair lit like a halo round his head, was Flauvic.
He smiled gently. "What took you so long, my dear cousin Vidanric?" he said.
But every window was shuttered, and we rode alone along the main streets. I sensed eyes on us from behind the barriers of curtain, shutter, and door, and my hand drifted near the saddle-sword that I still carried, poor as that might serve as a weapon against whatever awaited us.
And yet nothing halted our progress, not even when we reached the gates of Athanarel.
It was Vidanric who spotted the reason why. I blinked, suddenly aware of a weird singing in my ears, and shook my head, wishing I'd had more sleep. Vidanric edged his mount near mine. He lifted his chin and glanced up at the wall. My gaze followed his, and a pang of shock went through me when I saw the white statues of guards standing as stiff as stone in the place where living beings ought to be.
We rode through the gates and the singing in my ears intensified, a high, weird note. The edges of my vision scintillated with rainbow sparks and glitters, and I kept trying--unsuccessfully--to blink it away.
Athanarel was utterly still. It was like a winter's day, only there was no snow, just the bright glitter overlaying the quiet greenery and water, for even the fountains had stopped. Here and there more of the sinister white statues dotted the scene, people frozen midstride, or seated, or reaching to touch a door. A danger sense, more profound than any I had yet felt, gripped me. Beside me Vidanric rode with wary tension in his countenance, his gaze everywhere, watching, assessing.
We progressed into the great courtyard before the Royal Hall. The huge carved doors stood wide open, the liveried servants who tended them frozen and white.
We slowed our mounts and stopped at the terraced steps. Vidanric's face was grim as he dismounted. In silence we walked up the steps. I glanced at the door attendant, at her frozen white gaze focused beyond me, and shuddered.
Inside, the Throne Room was empty save for three or four white statues.
No, not empty.
As we walked further inside, the sun-dazzle diminished, and in the slanting rays of the west windows we saw the throne, its highlights firelined in gold and crimson.
Seated on it, dressed entirely in black, golden hair lit like a halo round his head, was Flauvic.
He smiled gently. "What took you so long, my dear cousin Vidanric?" he said.
( Sherwood Smith )
[ Court Duel ]
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