Authors: Vera Nazarian
Molhveth was herself a daughter of Vaeste, sister to the late Lord Rendvahl Vaeste, who had been the father of Elasand. In her exceedingly ripe middle age, Dame Beis was still beautiful, like an old angel, despite the wrinkled skin and faded hair which had once been utter luxurious darkness. She was also too kindhearted, gave alms to random strangers on the street who appeared poor, and retained servants who stole from her on a regular basis. This, Lixa despised—kindness was incompatible with nobility.
Lixa, stern and old-fashioned like her father, felt that she was, thank the gods, the better perpetrator of her heritage. Thus, she played the subtle superior, in contrast to her mother’s straightforward warmth, and avoided contact with those beneath their rank.
Both had lived, for most of Lixa’s life, away from the City—which her mother did not mind in the least—and the Court, called
Dirvan
by the aristocrat elite, as it was in vogue then to employ archaic terms for things. In her isolation, Lixa learned to harbor a very odd set of feelings toward the Court and the modern ways of the aristocrats. She loved and hated it simultaneously, hungered for it, yet pretended severe disapproval of the noble ways.
Dirvan
, and its lush brilliant decadence, drew her vaguely, repelling at the same time, and Lixa unconsciously looked forward to every visit to Tronaelend-Lis.
This particular visit held the greatest significance yet. Lixa was to be wed.
She had never met her husband-to-be. She was not even well acquainted with his Family which had been recommended to her mother, during their few visits to the City. Indeed, the only items of substance about him she had learned through subtle inquiry of a childhood friend. And despite her poise, her calm, her considerable theoretical knowledge of
things
and ways, she was not very well acquainted with men.
Truly, Elasand Vaeste, a cousin, was the only younger man that Lixa knew at all.
Yes, that same madman who now drove their carriage. . . .
Dame Molhveth had said, however, that Elasand was not representative of men in general. He was just too eccentric and perfect.
Perfectly mad
, thought Lixa,
He is perfect and mad. And he can fight like ten men—who would’ve guessed?
In the opinion of Molhveth Beis, Elasand, the only son of her sister, was not of this world. He was impossibly proud, and yet it was a pride so vaguely connected to any sense of heritage, or Family, or distinction, so pure and for its own sake, that it was incomprehensible.
Even now, he says nothing
, thought Lixa.
Well then, let him remain mute.
Elasand also adhered to a lofty and impossible ideal. Dame Beis liked to repeat that gods held high judgment, yet Elas held it even higher, judged more harshly, and his discrimination was impeccable. Lecture him as she might, he would eventually put a stop to all her reproaches with one rational absolute argument.
Elasand was thus extraordinary in his personal power, confident, worldly and aware of all possibilities. Most of the time, despite her critical banter, his aunt was secretly in awe of him.
But not Lixa. She was not in awe at all. Instead, she merely observed and studied him.
Innocently wise cousin Lixa.
But she did not know enough to compare. For, compared with most men, he was a beautiful aloof god. In some Families it was considered ill fortune for any unattached man to be aloof like
him
, and so the young daughters turned their longing eyes elsewhere.
She did not know that a quirk of his pride forbade Elas to ever pursue others. Instead, they all came to
him
, men and women, drawn like moths to a flame. He, meanwhile, never expressed a need for anything. Molhveth Beis even believed her nephew had no needs.
Lixa believed he was a subtle liar.
Lixa, having no one else to question, asked him about men and their nature. “I am to be wed, and I must know such things. What is the male essence, cousin?” she would say, her intense eyes holding his, so that Elasand always wanted to smile. She had that way about her.
“
Gods only know, Lixa. What is the female essence? What is the essence of anything?” He loved to answer with other questions.
To this the young woman with a face cool like the moon would raise one fine eyebrow calmly, and smirk, saying, “If you want to remain vacuous, I’m sorry to have brought up the subject.”
“
In that case,” he replied, “I must tell you something, I suppose.”
They were both so cynical at times, so perfectly harmoniously cynical, that no matter what the topic, they would smoothly come to a mutual understanding of things, endlessly mixing sarcasm with indifference. Indeed, one’s indifference prompted the other to be more obliging. Or, was it that serpentine Lixa had simply fathomed the correct way with Elas?
H
e leaned forward into the wind, giving the horses free rein, and forward they thundered, headlong into blind night, effortlessly pulling the carriage behind them.
How far was this infernal inn anyway?
Elasand had his own private business in the City. Besides accompanying his aunt and Lixa the bride to her uncertainly joyful destination, he was answering a Summons.
The Summons, in the form of an elegant silver-fringed missive, that famous regal parchment with a metallic border and wax seal, came from the Regents. The Double-Headed Lioness imprinted in the wax was from the coat of arms of the Family Grelias, representing the Regent and Regentrix. Normally it invoked unspeakable alarm and awe in its recipients, even those most securely in favor. Yet upon first seeing it, Elas did not even blink.
One must never refuse Hestiam Grelias and his sister Deileala. As Elas had broken the seal several days ago, when they were still at the Vaeste country estate, he knew that a trip to the City of volatile dreams, Tronaelend-Lis, was inevitable.
“
Elasand-re Vaeste, you are required to present yourself at
Dirvan
for an Audience with Their Graces, the Regents,” said the letter, stilted, curt, and unspecific. At least they had remembered to include the lordly “re” ending after his name.
If he hadn’t been calm already at that moment, prepared for anything, Elasand would’ve let out a breath of relief. Their acknowledgment of his rank meant that he was not out of favor. He remembered the several known instances where a Summons to an aristocrat without the “re” ending was but an elegant death warrant, one which could not be refused in honor.
So convenient
, he thought,
I will attend both the gilded dross of
Dirvan,
and the traditional nonsense of my cousin’s Wedding. Both, achieved in one trip. For, I refuse to make a second trip to that luckless fools’ City within one month.
He would never voice any of this, of course. In addition to the strict idealism, there was that other side of him. Elas rarely communicated what he thought exactly the way it first came to him. His thoughts had to be modified, even to himself, before he presented them to others.
Both Dame Beis and cousin Lixa did not know it, but not only was Elasand Vaeste a lord of considerable position and bloodline, but he was a professional clandestine diplomat. His connections ranged from the Regents’ advisor circle to the most powerful Guilds, and extended out to the underworld. He was often a mediator between opposing factions, and had a talent for tactfully smoothing out all interactions and working together with Chancellor Lirr.
Elasand Vaeste, suave diplomat and righteous idealist, remained a mystery.
It had grown cold now. Sitting high up in the driver’s seat, Elasand wrapped his cloak tighter against the night.
What sad turbulent times these were. . . . They had set out to Tronaelend-Lis, as custom demanded, with only Lixa and one older woman relative attending her—for it was the bridegroom Family’s duty to make the splendid Wedding, while the Bride came traditionally as “pauper” to be exalted by the Groom, the “king.”
For this journey Elas had expected all simplicity. He had calmly excluded the possibility of any adversity. Yet in this one rare instance, he had gravely misjudged the situation. By traveling without an escort, he had thought to avoid bringing attention upon himself and his kin. Yet there was now a great deal of political unrest, and he was as always not as innocent of it as his kin believed.
I am a slack-minded fool
, he berated himself mentally, outwardly cool as always, if only more grim, as his gloved hands fingered the reins of the carriage that carried his aunt and cousin. Both women were still in that terrified subdued state which was the result of having their blind trust in Elasand’s judgment undermined.
* * *
Postulate Five: Rainbow is Illusion.
* * *
Y
llva Caexis sat in the cheerful opulent guest room, surrounded by a dozen of her friends. This was a small, comfortable gathering, unlike the usual crowds that would come to partake of the social charms of the Caexis Villa, and gleefully “plot the overthrow of Grelias” over a cup of fragrant tea.
Such “plotting” was no secret to anyone, and no surprise to the Regents themselves, for it stemmed from an ancient pointless rivalry. Indeed, on a perverse whim, the Grelias brother and sister tolerated this unabashed form of “treachery,” and in fact, found some amusement in it. Caexis and Grelias had been badmouthing each other for generations, and at some points, there had been blood spilled. But that was oh so long ago, and now the rivalry had grown old and stolid, and rather an idiotic joke.
Not that the Regents were soft. Were anyone else to drop a suggestion of treachery, a glimmer, even in jest—that would be their end. But with Caexis, it was quite a different matter. They did not fall within the scope of ordinary limits. They could ignite the world with anti-Grelias propaganda and remain unscathed. Indeed, upon one unprecedented occasion, Lord Neran Caexis, brother of Yllva, addressed the Regentrix Deileala before all of
Dirvan
as “one who has lain on as many silk bedsheets as there are in the Palace.”
In response, Deileala laughed in his face, until the splendid globes of her breasts quivered in her low-cut bodice. She said: “Then, my dear Lord Caexis, you must think it’s a pity I have never lain on yours.”
Yllva Caexis, like her brother, enjoyed the game of hate with the Grelias. Bright and ever charming, she was always the center of attention at Court. And as the hostess of the Caexis Villa, she knew how to stir up pure bubbling excitement, entertaining her guests like no other.
Everyone loved the sparkling mischievous Yllva, with her loud distinctive voice, her lightning wit, and the aura of joy-madness that came to permeate all around her. Yllva was never known to be in a bad mood, was never seen with sad eyes. Even the servants tending her since childhood used to say that Yllva was their little happy sprite—for when Neran and Yllva became orphaned at a young age, it was Yllva who consoled her weeping older brother, Yllva who smiled bravely when older relatives trained pitying eyes on them both.
And it was Yllva of the sunshine smile who now sat in a circle of her closest friends and told brilliant little gems of stories to those attentively listening to her.
Few would notice that day the slight feverish sparkle in her eyes, the more than usually raucous tone to her laughter. None of the young men and women dressed in Court finery paid the least attention to the occasional nervous tremor in her wrist, as she personally served a cup of tea to her friends, as was her custom.
Yllva glanced around the room, her gaze bouncing like quicksilver, never resting on anyone longer than a wink—for that too was her charming way. Yet upon one of those present she would never look. Only one. . . .
She had called them all here today, all of her friends, in honor of the upcoming nuptials of two of her closest and dearest. It was to be a grand Wedding involving a joining of two of the Noble Ten Families, and Yllva had been personally asked by the Bride to serve as her Maiden of the Heart.
The Bride, her childhood friend, was Lixa Beis, even now on her way to Tronaelend-Lis and
Dirvan
, and expected to arrive here before nightfall of the next day. The Groom, by the oddest of chances, was also an old friend—Lord Harlian Daqua. And he was here, in the room, today.
According to custom, the Bride and Groom had never met each other, and the Wedding was completely arranged. And yet, as the gaunt Lord Daqua now sat in an easy chair, sipping the traitorous “anti-Grelias tea,” those who knew him would have noticed an uncustomary heavy-lidded lifelessness in his eyes. And Yllva, who had arranged the whole evening in his honor, and who had not once spoken a direct word to him or looked in his eyes, sensed it, never needing to actually see.
She knew he would never admit it, for he could never admit to being wrong. Nor would she, for she could never be less than fair to those she loved.
She knew that Harlian had been pointed in the direction of this union by his Family. And yet, he had never been pressed to it. He could have refused to take the initiative, to make a Marriage Plea to Beis for their daughter. It was but his inexplicable love of duty that made him travel to the country, to the Beis holdings far outside the City, and fall on his knees in the tradition of the Humbled Wedding King before elderly Dame Molhveth Beis. To her, the matron of the Family, he offered the Symbol, a single fully-opened rose, of the palest
color
that could be found to approach what is known to be
white
.