Labyrinth Gate by Kate Elliott
“Highness.” The image flickered in the light of the lanterns as the Regent swayed back and forth, eyes half shut. “The city is vast. Even with a crew of one hundred laborers, only a small part can be uncovered at a time. And the professor is fickle. His wishes change daily as his mood alters.”
The Regent shut her eyes, hands grasping the smooth edge of the table. “Fickle!” she breathed in an undertone of disgust. “Surely the Earl of Elen does not tolerate such inefficiency.”
The image made a movement with its shoulders, fading into dark on the fringe. “The earl has his own business. He does not seem to concern himself with the excavation. But I have, highness, put a few innocent questions to the foreman, Southern, and from his words and actions it is clear that he heeds the orders of the professor’s daughter above those of the professor.”
“The daughter—ah—the Countess of Elen, I take it.”
A nod.
“Interesting.” One hand rubbed the grain of wood caressingly as she considered some thought. “Southern,” she murmured finally, as if the name reminded her of something. Her rocking gentled and slowed and she released the table edge, opening her eyes. “You must remove the boy from that place. I would prefer to have him alive—he is too fine a material for the final spell that I would willingly throw him away—but if you cannot remove him alive, then kill him.”
“It will be difficult, highness. He has attached himself to the earl’s party.”
She grimaced, rocking harder again. “One or the other. Do you understand?”
Even as he said, “Yes, highness,” her rocking stopped suddenly and she gasped twice. The image flickered out of existence, leaving only the three burning lantern wicks to cast shadows across the room. Her skirts rustled about her, and she relaxed as her waiting woman came forward and helped her up and out of the chamber.
In her dressing room she washed and changed into a new gown, and afterwards went to her private receiving room to look over the written reports of her numerous agents. Into this calm the Princess Georgiana was admitted.
“My dear.” The Regent rose and came forward to take the princess’s hands in hers, a look of concern on her handsome face. “You still look pale. Are you feeling no better?”
The princess squeezed her aunt’s hands, but could scarcely manage a smile. She sank down onto a couch and the Regent sat beside her, one hand still on her niece’s sleeve. “No, indeed, Aunt,” Georgiana answered in a voice more subdued than usual. “I seem unable to recover my usual vigor.”
The Regent frowned. “Your father had these very same symptoms—but I will say no more. What does your physician say?”
Georgiana shook her head. Her eyes had a lackluster cast, and shadows ringed them. “My physician has had to return to her family home—her father is quite ill, and she wishes to care for him in his last days. So I asked for that man that you recommended, Aunt. He suggests a stay at the ocean. He says many a young woman approaching her wedding and coronation will feel a trifle under the weather. It was meant to be a joke, I believe.”
“I feel sure it was,” said the Regent, soothing. She coughed behind her hand. “I find his suggestion to be a sound one. A few weeks out of Heffield, the good summer sea winds, and you shall be right again in no time.”
“I am sure you are correct, Aunt,” said Georgiana in a low voice, but she did not look convinced.
“Indeed.” The Regent stood up. “Now, there is no reason to delay. I will order your carriage to be ready tomorrow, and your maids to pack your things.”
“Shall I take William and Jasmina with me?”
“No, dear.” She helped her niece to her feet with gentle solicitude. “You will want to be quiet, to recover as quickly as you can.”
“Oh, of course.” Georgiana looked unsure and slightly confused. “I suppose I will.”
“Then you had best be on your way. I will call—”
A footman appeared in the doorway. “Lord Felton, your highness,” he announced, followed quite abruptly by the entrance of Lord Felton himself.
“Lord Felton.” If the Regent’s tone was less than welcoming, only the footman was in a state of mind to notice it.
“Your highness,” Lord Felton began, stopped. “Your highness!” He bowed to Georgiana with obvious sincerity. “I had not expected to see you here.”
Georgiana inclined her head, but she was already drifting towards the door, propelled by the light pressure of her aunt’s hand on her back. “It is good to see you, my lord,” she said, as though she meant it. “Forgive me. I was just leaving.”
He bowed again. There was a short silence after she left as he stared after her.
“Lord Felton.” The Regent sat again, clearly impatient.
His glance returned to her as if he had forgotten her presence. The firm line of his mouth tightened as he regarded her with far less respect than he had previously regarded her niece. “The princess looks pale, your highness,” he said in a sharp tone. “Has a physician been called to attend her?”
“Of course, Lord Felton. It is a mild ailment, merely, but a lingering one. The physician is sure that it bears no relation to the disease that carried off my brother.”
“Of course it isn’t,” said Lord Felton impatiently. “You and I are well aware that your brother died of his own excesses.”
“Nevertheless, as a precaution he has recommended that her highness spend some time convalescing by the ocean. She leaves tomorrow. With a proper retinue, of course.” When Lord Felton said nothing, she smiled slightly. “Does this displease you, Lord Felton?”
His mouth was still tight. “Do not forget, Princess Blessa, that I was privileged to serve as an advisor to your gracious mother and sister and that I have known you all your life, both as a member of your family’s court and as tutor to yourself in the ways of statecraft.”
She did not comment.
“I have often thought,” he continued, slowly but with the vigor of a much younger man, “that it rankled that the inheritance passed to William’s children. We both of us know that your brother had few principles and fewer wits. Indeed, I often felt that you received the greatest share of intelligence in your family, and I have often wondered if it would have been better for you to have gotten fewer wits and more complacency.”
“This is plain speaking, Lord Felton.”
“Your highness knows that my highest loyalty is to the throne of Anglia, and to its heir, her highness, Princess Georgiana.”
“As is all of ours,” she answered.
He coughed, a keen look in his lined and aged face. “Your highness also knows that I am a very old man, and have less to fear than a younger man would.”
“Indeed.” Her voice was a trifle edged. “Is that all you wished to say?”
He gave her the briefest of bows. “Only that I expect to see Princess Georgiana back in Heffield soon, your highness. I have been working closely with her on the matter of her wedding and coronation.”
“Of course.” She rose now and walked to the doors that opened on to a little balcony. The view looked out over the courtyard of Blackstone Palace, a pleasant garden of walks and shrubbery. “And your visit here today?”
He followed her to stand in the doorway. “Your highness, I find inexplicable this sudden decision to delay the arrival of the princess’s betrothed and his family until a mere five days before the coronation. More than inexplicable—unreasonable!” His voice was low, but not at all hesitant.
The Regent had been leaning on the railing that edged the balcony. Now she turned. “Are you questioning my judgement?”
“Yes.” He met her gaze. “You can have no good reason for this whim. Prince Frederick can scarcely be expected to—”
“Lord Felton!” Her voice cut through his complaint. “I have made the decision. You will abide by it. I do not expect argument.” With a wave of one hand, she dismissed him. “You may leave.”
“Your highness—”
“You may leave,”
For a few moments she regarded the garden. Then her gaze wandered to a latticework that had been recently constructed on one side of the balcony. She walked across and ran her hands along it as though it were her lover. A single pot sat at its base, but no plant yet grew in it or climbed the trellis.
“Yes,” she said in a pleased voice. “Once I have the power, no one will suspect your fate, my princess.” A moment longer she caressed it; then she turned and went back inside and rang for a servant.
“Bring Colonel Whitmore to me,” she ordered. She sat and perused her papers until the colonel arrived. He was a young man, handsome in a florid way, with that flush in his cheeks and eyes that betrayed a weakness for the pleasures of the flesh. He eyed her greedily but with some circumspection.
She rose after a moment and went to stand near him. “I have long known, Colonel,” she said in a slow, husky tone, “how you wish to be of service to me.”
“Your highness,” he said profoundly, and offered her a deep bow. “It is my greatest desire.”
“First, you will assign three of your most trustworthy men to report to me all the movements of Lord Felton. I suspect his lordship of certain—indiscretions.”
He inclined his head but showed no emotion at this charge.
“Good,” she said. “You, with the rest of your troop, will ride north. I must be apprised of certain activities that may be a danger to my person. And if you complete both these charges successfully—” She rested a hand on the sleeve of his military coat, letting her voice trail off.
“Your highness.” He dropped to one knee. “I pledge to serve you, with my life if need be.”
She smiled. “Don’t be careless of your pledges, Colonel. Sometimes the full price must be paid.” But she took him by the hand and raised him up. “Let us hope you find the reward worthwhile.”
For a moment he forgot himself, and let his eyes wander over the curve of her figure.
She chuckled, and he dropped his gaze quickly. “I have great faith in your desires, Colonel. Now go, and report back to me when you are ready to leave. I will give you further instructions then.”
He bowed and left.
She stood motionless for a long while. The colonel occupied her thoughts for only a brief moment: he was a pawn, to be used and discarded for what gain he could bring her—and she had no doubt that she would find him useful. He was a man of little imagination and great ego. He would serve to fuel her magic; that was enough. Lord Felton concerned her more. Immune to the lure of gold or flesh, he might well prove the greatest barrier to her plans. Silent and pensive, she rang at last for one of her waiting women.
“Bring my cards to me,” she said when the woman arrived. “I will be on the balcony.”
She simply held the cards for a time after they were brought to her. At last she set them down on the little sidetable that was the only furniture on the balcony. The summer sun bathed the cards in its mellow afternoon light as she regarded them, flipping through them one by one. She stopped finally when she reached The Heiress.
“Yes.” An expression of great satisfaction crossed her face. The card was brown at the edges, as if it were deteriorating slowly, and a trace of the decay also showed at the very center. “It progresses well, indeed,” she muttered, and laid the card on the table. The Heiress, young and clear-faced, gazed into a mirror, seeing the clarity of her face reflected within. And in the reflection, so that one knew it stood on the wall behind her, arched a latticework on which climbed a thick-leafed, blooming briar-rose.
Chapter 15:
Dusk
CHRYSE ROSE FROM THE table at which she sat transcribing to greet her husband with a kiss. Above their heads, the canvas ceiling stirred, brought to life by a dusk breeze; the heavy material of the tent muffled the wind’s eerie call across the valley. The kiss prolonged, metamorphosing into an embrace.
“Would you put that thing down?” asked Chryse finally, shifting so that she could speak. “It’s incredibly uncomfortable.”
Sanjay chuckled and pulled away from her. He laid the sketchbook which had been pressing into her back down on the table and, as he removed his coat, examined the lined sheets of paper she had been working on. “Oboe?” he asked as he draped his coat over the back of her chair. “Are you composing?”
“Sanjay!” She picked up the coat. “Would you please hang this up? I get really tired of telling you.” She held it out.
For a moment he did nothing; finally he took it. “Don’t worry,” he said as he went to the makeshift wardrobe in which their clothing was stowed. “I get tired of you telling me too.”
There was a brief silence.
“Maybe we should change the subject,” said Chryse. “Yes, I am.” She sat down at the table and gazed pensively at the music sketched in on the staves. “You know I’ve been collecting the songs the workers sing, and it has been becoming increasingly clear to me that they fall into three categories: rhythmic work songs, the kind of thing that helps pass the time in tedious labor—here—” She shuffled the papers and brought out a sheaf with dark notes scrawled across the page, small words written around and underneath the stave, “and what we would call folk songs in general—”
“Is that two categories?” He stood now with his hands on her shoulders, leaning to gaze over her head at her work.
“No, that’s the first one. Work songs and folk songs and sad romances set to music. All very familiar in content and style. The second category is hymns—A Mighty Fortress, high-church stuff, you know the thing.”
“Well, actually, I don’t, but I’ll take your word for it.”
Chryse turned her head enough to make a face at him, but immediately rummaged back through the papers to withdraw four sheets of manuscript paper that were starred at the top: “And then there’s this.” She held up the sheets, shaking them as if their presence in the air was explanation enough. “It doesn’t match anything I’m familiar with—and god knows I had every survey course the university offered.”
“Yes,” said Sanjay, musing. “You used to say you were looking for something.”
A perplexed look crossed her face. “I did, didn’t I?” she murmured. “Because, Sanjay, I think I’ve found it.” She spread the four sheets out before her, a few lines of sparse notes, a few words penciled in below. “Fragments, that’s all I get. These two were being hummed by two of the laborers. One of them said it was just aimless humming, but look at this correspondence here—” she began to point.
“You know I can’t read music. Why don’t you sing it?”
“It’s so strange,” she said. “But exactly right for what it is. Now this, what he hummed—” She began to sing. She had a clear mezzo, carefully trained and quite precise. It was a peculiar little tune, never quite resolving into a definite cadence, but not quite meandering either. “And this,” she continued, “is what I heard one evening while I was out watching the stars.” She sang again, using a slightly different color in her voice. “Do you see the correspondence?” she asked when she had finished.
“Chryse, what do you mean, you heard it one evening?”
“Exactly that: as if some person, or some thing, were just over the next rise. Maybe it was an echo. Or a ghost. Not quite a voice, but not any instrument I’ve ever heard, either.”
“Have you seen anything strange here?” he asked suddenly, moving to sit in the other chair.
She shrugged. “Other than that it’s a strange place—no.” She looked up abruptly from her paper to examine him carefully. “I suppose you have.” It wasn’t a question.
He nodded, looking a little sheepish. “Not anything I could really explain or even describe to you, but other—” He opened his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Other presences.”
She rubbed the end of her pen along one corner of her mouth. “It strikes me that we’re not much surprised by things anymore.” Not waiting for an answer, she went on. ?
“What are you thinking?”
“Don’t laugh at me, love.” She stopped, grinned self-consciously. “As if you would, being where we are.” She traced a finger across the notes. “I don’t think it’s human music. It’s really caught me—it’s almost as if I’m compelled to compose, using—not any one of those tunes, really, but—” In the yellow glow of the lanterns hung from the crosspiece of the tent, her face held an intent, serious concentration. “It’s all an organic piece, like a circle, or—or a long series of spirals. It doesn’t really have an end or a beginning.”
“Sing it for me,” he said, taking her hand in his.
“No.” She shook her head, withdrawing the hand. “I can’t. I don’t dare. Not until it’s finished. It’s too strong. I think it’s going to be a symphony, but I don’t have any control over it at all.” She grimaced, with a swift, determined movement sweeping the papers into a neat stack. “What have you done today?” she asked in a totally different voice, brisk and curious.
“Funny you should mention spirals.” He opened his sketchbook. Page after page of beautiful, precise illustrations revealed themselves as he flipped through the volume. Half-ruined walls rising from earth, graced by faint traceries in the stone and the rumpled form of a sweating laborer with a pick-ax; a delicate flower, detailed even to the finest suggestion of texture; a three-story building of a slightly alien cast traced over a sketch of rubble, the construction of his artist’s imagination.