Cobweb Empire (6 page)

Other structures were similar works of art,
sporting exquisite stonework, mosaics of Venetian glass, sculpted
reliefs and cornices, veined marble overlaid with gold. And indeed
there was so much gold in the place, that if one ascended the
highest towers or took a bird’s eye view, the Sapphire Court was a
golden morass of light.

Why then, such a name? Why not a “Golden”
Court in the south to parallel the Silver Court in the north?

The answer was ensconced within the Palace
of the Sun. For inside its grandest hall stood a throne carved of a
single giant gemstone, a pale blue sapphire that undoubtedly had
immortal origins, and must have been a divine gift upon the first
Sovereign of the Domain.

The present Sovereign, Rumanar Avalais, sat
upon this impossible throne that was the color of wind, if wind had
swept down from the icy north and, while still in motion, turned to
solid glass, achieving an earthly hue—just a breath of color, an
ethereal hint of distance, a ghost of faint blue fading into
lavender.

And yet, when
she
sat upon the
Sapphire Throne, no one noticed its jeweled glory. They noticed
only her.

Rumanar Avalais was their greatest queen and
their ultimate mystery.

The noble line of Avalais was rumored to
have its roots in classical Hellenistic antiquity, hailing from the
shores of the Aegean, where the gods walked in the shadow of the
lofty Parnassus, in groves of olive and cypress. And as her
forefathers, Rumanar Avalais was ageless.

She was youthful, of indeterminate age; at
times appearing a virgin maiden, at other times a mature voluptuous
matron worthy of being the mother of the Domain. It seemed, one
looked upon her and always saw a different thing, fluid from moment
to moment. But it was always the one ideal vision that
felt
precisely right for that particular instance of perusal.

And somehow, once the onlooker’s gaze fell
upon her softly leashed splendor, it never occurred to question
anything of her nature—age, origins, ancestry, not even the
subtleties of her will, her desire, or her intent. Nothing mattered
once you saw her, and from that instant forward she merely
was
, and in her being, she fulfilled the purpose of any
gathering. Her presence within a room was the most natural
consequence of all lives, of all expectations.

It seemed that Rumanar Avalais had always
ruled, and no one knew or could recall her not being the Sovereign.
Her regal Sire was long-deceased, the oldest quavering duchesses at
court informed in rheumy whispers, when prompted. Or possibly it
was her mother, or grandmother, they added. In short, none could
remember the precise details, only that the glorious Sovereign of
the Domain appeared no older than thirty, and had been thus for as
long as one could recall.

Rumanar had skin as flawless and fair as
milk, painted with a rosy blush of Balmue wine. Her hair, when
undisguised by powdered wig or other headdress, was gold wedded to
persimmon, that rare intermediate hue of deep blonde or pale red
that makes the most brilliance. Her eyes were blue, as blue as the
sapphire upon which she sat, with a clear or languid look. When she
stood up and walked, she was statuesque and commanding, large and
overwhelming, yet pliant with a lithe grace of the wilderness. And
when she smiled, or spoke in her soft articulate voice, breaths
were held all around. . . .

To call the Sovereign a beauty would have
been a tawdry falsehood. It was best to admit that in her
perfection, she was terrifying.

O
n that one
particular day the Sovereign sat down upon the Sapphire Throne to
grant Court Audience to an agent of the King of Solemnis and a few
noble others, and to hear reports from abroad as relayed from her
various clandestine operatives.

The Sovereign wore a crinoline dress of
crimson, threaded with black, with midnight lace at the ends of her
long sleeves and around the delicate whiteness of her plunging
neckline. A cabochon jewel of blood-black, filled with tiny golden
embers of what appeared to be captured light, was suspended on a
fine gold chain around her throat, and rested in the deep crevice
between her succulent breasts. Her eyes were outlined in smoky
exquisite kohl, and her lips, like ripe bronzed plums. Not a hint
of other courtly paint anywhere else upon her face, its skin
retaining the unblemished perfection of matte alabaster. And her
own bountiful hair, free of wig or powder, was artfully twisted,
wound, threaded with jewels, and sculpted into a tall, intricate
headdress upon which rested the Sovereign Crown.

The grand Hall of the Sun was around her,
with its gilded ceiling and embroidered brocade curtains, its
molded walls and support columns of alabaster and marble, and its
infinite garlands of crystal suspended from hundreds of chandeliers
and sconces. At her feet was the polished floor of deep red
semi-precious stone inlay.

At her side was her favorite advisor, Ebrai
Fiomarre.

Ebrai was the eldest son of the traitor to
the enemy Realm, the Marquis Micul Fiomarre. After having been
banished, in ignominy and upon pain of death, from the Realm by the
Liguon Emperor himself (each man having received a discreet,
last-moment stay of execution only after the upper clergy
intervened with the Emperor upon a technicality of
clemency—circumstances which only a few in the Realm properly knew
or understood, for it was an ugly, muddled affair, the details of
which the Sovereign savored), the two Fiomarre noblemen made their
home here in the Sapphire Court. And here, they generously shared
their in-depth political knowledge and common hatred of their
former homeland with their new Avalais liege.

The Realm and the Domain were ever at odds
with each other, the Fiomarre were notorious exiles or believed to
be dead by most of their former countrymen, and the Sovereign found
much amusement in having them thus at her side.

After unburdening himself to the extent that
he was able in the early days, spilling his personal and political
bile before the Sovereign and her advisors, Micul Fiomarre soon
turned into a recluse and was rarely seen at Court functions.
Fortunately his son had no such desire to hide from the world. And
thus Ebrai Fiomarre became a fixture at the Sapphire Court.

“Your Brilliance, I am entirely at your
service,” often spoke the younger man, Ebrai, looking directly in
her eyes with his steady gaze of half-concealed dark intensity. It
was always there, the simmer just under the
surface. . . . And the Sovereign was not entirely
sure if it was a neutral passion fueled by general anger at
everything, at his bittersweet lot in life (bitter for the loss of
his homeland, and sweet for the gain of his place at her Court), or
if it was also a secret warm passion toward herself.

This made Ebrai entirely fascinating.

“And yet—” he always concluded his opening
declaration thus, with astounding bluntness—“Your Brilliance, I
would not place your full extent of trust in one such as myself, or
my noble father. For we have betrayed once. . . .
And as such, you must know that we are both unreliable.”

And in answer to such commendable rhetoric,
the Sovereign merely smiled. But first she observed the
dark-haired, fiercely handsome man before her with an unwavering
gaze of her own. And she willed her gaze to consume him. He was
either playing a remarkable game of political expediency to gain
her trust by a display of frankness, or he was indeed remarkable.
It mattered not; for the moment he continued to pique her
curiosity.

She derived pleasure from psychological
dissonance, from wondering—it was one of her few personal pleasures
of the mind. And hence, the cryptic smile—a gift of puzzlement in
turn, to him, every time. Her smiles, faint and rare, were more
potent that words.

Today however, Rumanar Avalais wore an
expression like a mask.

The Audience this morning promised a number
of possible complicated pieces of news. For the moment, the Hall
was empty except for the rows of her personal guards behind the
throne and lining the walls, and Ebrai, clad in black velvet,
standing just below the dais of the throne, at her left side.

To the right of the throne was a waist-high
slim marble pedestal, and upon it sat a small exquisite statuette
of a goddess wrought of pure gold, no more than two feet tall. The
golden female shape—nude except for a wide collar, matching wrist
bracelets, and an exotic headdress—was stilled in a seated
partial-lotus position with one knee upraised vertically, and her
hands folded at her feet.

It was to this antique pagan goddess that
the Sovereign turned for ultimate advice and in clandestine
worship, it was rumored—for why else give it such a place of
prominence?—even though no one had actually seen the Sovereign
engage in such activity, and even though she publicly observed the
true faith of the Church and attended holy mass in the chapel.

The Sovereign did not look at either her
left or her right side, and signaled with her finger to the
Chamberlains at the door.

The Audience commenced.

The first to approach through those doors
was the expected Duke Raulle Deotetti of Solemnis.

The Duke, in his late sixties, wore a formal
powdered wig. Clad in dark olive brocade and broad black sash of
honor that were the colors of Solemnis, he strode heavily the
entire length of the deep red mosaic floor, and stopped before the
dais with a deep weary bow. His courtly form was impeccable, and
yet it strained him to maintain it for the required lengthy
pause.

The Sovereign seemed to know his difficulty,
that imperceptible quivering of muscles in his waist and at his
knees, as he remained bent before her. And she let him remain thus,
for a few breaths longer than necessary, watching his pained
ordeal.

At last, she spoke.

“Welcome, my dear Raulle. Do rise. What news
do you bring us? But first—how is your lovely Beatrice?”

“Your Brilliance is ever kind,” replied
Deotetti, straightening his back slowly, and only the twitch in a
single facial muscle reflecting his plight. “The Duchess, my wife
sends her adoration and infinite regards to Your Brilliance. As for
her condition, I regret to say that she is—
deceased
, if one
may use such a term now. Her illness, as you might recall, was
lengthy, despite her relative youth, and the disease progressed and
culminated in a crisis just last week, so that her mortal flesh
failed. And now she requires neither rest nor sustenance. She sits
at her embroidery now, day and night.”

“As your Liege, we are grieved by her death,
but rejoice at her fortune of non-death.” The Sovereign spoke
softly. “And as a woman, I am relieved to know that she remains at
your side, and can thus tend to you and to the little ones. How
many are there now, four?”

“Five, Your Brilliance. A son was born just
this fall.”

“Ah, five. Well then, that one will be your
last. Take good care of your little one—an heir, is he not?—since
you will now have no more, unless you commit polygamy. Five becomes
your final number. Oh, and do bring them all here to Court, the
next time you visit.”

The Duke inclined his head in a short,
pained bow.

“Now then,” she continued. “What has your
King to say to me?”

Poor Duke Deotetti bowed for the third time,
conforming to protocol. “His Majesty, King Frederick Ourin of
Solemnis, sends His warmest regards to Your Brilliance,” he began.
“His Majesty also conveys that the battalions are ready to march,
upon Your Brilliance’s Orders.”

“Good. Tell His Majesty that my Orders are
hereby given. Have the battalions proceed north, by way of western
Balmue, and wait along the western shores of the River Styx, but do
not cross it.”

“If one might suggest,” Ebrai Fiomarre spoke
in a soft courtly manner, and his low compelling voice had the
richness of velvet, “it may be more prudent to cross the river at
that point, for the battalions will then be facing the Fiomarre
lands directly, at the border of Balmue and the Kingdom of Styx.
Otherwise they will still have to make a far more difficult
crossing farther up north, past the Domain border and within the
Realm itself. If you cross the river while still in Balmue, you
will have a strategic advantage. And, you will have me to guide you
through the lands of Fiomarre. . . .”

Ebrai spoke reasonably, turning his elegant
aquiline profile in the direction of the Duke, but gently
addressing the Sovereign.

She watched him indirectly, with her
peripheral vision—the impeccable lines of his jaw, the slight
dimple at his jutting chin, the dark shadow of stubble just under
the skin that could not be banished even by the most skilled
barber’s close blade. He was like a beautiful raven, with his wavy
locks unmarred by a wig, and his heavy expressive brows framing
dark eyes.

Such an earnest face.

“No,” said the Sovereign, interrupting
Ebrai, without looking in his direction, and all her attention upon
the elderly Duke. “The battalions will wait along the western
shores of the river, without crossing it.”

“Your Brilliance’s Orders will be conveyed
to His Majesty exactly.” Duke Deotetti confirmed, nodding his
bewigged head carefully.

“That is all,” said Rumanar Avalais. “You
may go with my blessings. Godspeed!”

And bowing for the last time, the Duke
backed away from the dais, and then hurried out of the Hall.

The Sovereign turned her face to Fiomarre.
“My dear Ebrai,” she said. “Do not interrupt me thus again. During
an Audience, you may only observe. Make your recommendations
privately, afterwards.”

Ebrai’s eyes were a study in leashed
intensity. He inclined his head, and whispered, “Afterwards may be
too late.”