“Nay, forsooth, for I hold thee chained aboard my Dragonship, o maiden most fair, bound for exotic Isles hid beyond the farthest horizons. Treacherous Remoy hath betrayed thee into my hand. As truly as I live, never again shall our ways be parted.”
“I tremble, thou monster.”
“I heard about Princess Zuziana,” he said. “Is she recovered enough to attend?”
“Not enough, but she’s much better. Thank you for asking.”
Yolathion tugged lightly on her chain. “Walk with me, Aranya. My father had you fifteen days in captivity. I have only just begun.”
F lame stole into her belly at his words. Were all Sylakians like this, she wondered, glorying in the subjugation of the Islands? He said it flippantly. But how much truth lay behind his smiles? How much had Ignathion primed him–because if she judged the father correctly, Yolathion would not have been left uninformed about the Princess of Immadia.
She could not expunge the image of Zuziana’s broken, bloodied body from her memory.
So the banquet and the dancing became a strange time for her. Aranya felt somehow a traitor to Immadia, to her father and brothers and the Immadian people. Her volatile feelings swung from the pleasure of being with Yolathion to utter despair. What future could a political exile have with a rising star of the Sylakian realm? Could she hope that the exiles would one day be freed? The system of hostage-taking was nothing more than an archaic, unnecessary affectation of the Sylakian overlords. What had they to fear save Herimor? And no-one expected an invasion from there.
She spent a pleasant hour reacquainting herself with First War-Hammer Ignathion. Did his eyes glitter when he saw Aranya chained to his son? Ignathion introduced her to his two heavily made-up consorts, who were wearing traditional Sylakian gowns in deep red. She was pleased to be half a head taller than either of them, for their evident jealousy seemed only a little mollified by Yolathion’s presence at her side. But at one point in the conversation, like a squall striking unexpectedly out of the Cloudlands, Ignathion said:
“There’s a rumour doing the rounds in Sylakia, Aranya, that no-one who paints like you can be of mortal stock. They’re saying you have powers. Some wonder who she is who resides in the Tower of Sylakia, who commands fire and lightning and storms.”
Aranya manufactured a laugh. “And I fly over the Cloudlands by night in the form of a monstrous bat?”
But the oil lanterns in the great hall flared in cadence with her words.
Ignathion’s consorts exchanged glances.
Later, just before she was to present the portrait, Aranya caught sight of the two women moving away from Garthion’s table. Had they spoken to him? About what–an Immadian enchantress? What d id this portend? The fires churned afresh in her stomach.
Sparky. Trust her mother to choose such a fitting nickname. How could she have known?
All of the glittering notables of Sylakia were present at the Supreme Commander’s banquet. Few leaders, nobles and royalty from the other Islands had been invited. Reds and burgundies dominated the colour choices for the evening, from the ladies in their Sylakian evening gowns, flared from the waist into a wide train, to the hundred elite Crimson Hammers guarding the room in their black uniforms and red cloaks. Yolathion wore his dress uniform, highly polished black combat boots and black gloves. A ceremonial silver hammer hung from his belt. But his cloak was amethyst in keeping with her chosen colour for the evening. A brave choice, Aranya thought, wondering what it signified. Five medals of bravery and two of honour decorated Yolathion’s chest.
W hat passed for honour amongst Sylakians? Aranya held her head high. She was a Princess of Immadia.
The blast of a trump cut through the babble.
“Come,” said Yolathion. “It’s your turn.”
There had been speeches–mercifully brief speeches–between each of the courses of
“I tremble, thou monster.”
“I heard about Princess Zuziana,” he said. “Is she recovered enough to attend?”
“Not enough, but she’s much better. Thank you for asking.”
Yolathion tugged lightly on her chain. “Walk with me, Aranya. My father had you fifteen days in captivity. I have only just begun.”
F lame stole into her belly at his words. Were all Sylakians like this, she wondered, glorying in the subjugation of the Islands? He said it flippantly. But how much truth lay behind his smiles? How much had Ignathion primed him–because if she judged the father correctly, Yolathion would not have been left uninformed about the Princess of Immadia.
She could not expunge the image of Zuziana’s broken, bloodied body from her memory.
So the banquet and the dancing became a strange time for her. Aranya felt somehow a traitor to Immadia, to her father and brothers and the Immadian people. Her volatile feelings swung from the pleasure of being with Yolathion to utter despair. What future could a political exile have with a rising star of the Sylakian realm? Could she hope that the exiles would one day be freed? The system of hostage-taking was nothing more than an archaic, unnecessary affectation of the Sylakian overlords. What had they to fear save Herimor? And no-one expected an invasion from there.
She spent a pleasant hour reacquainting herself with First War-Hammer Ignathion. Did his eyes glitter when he saw Aranya chained to his son? Ignathion introduced her to his two heavily made-up consorts, who were wearing traditional Sylakian gowns in deep red. She was pleased to be half a head taller than either of them, for their evident jealousy seemed only a little mollified by Yolathion’s presence at her side. But at one point in the conversation, like a squall striking unexpectedly out of the Cloudlands, Ignathion said:
“There’s a rumour doing the rounds in Sylakia, Aranya, that no-one who paints like you can be of mortal stock. They’re saying you have powers. Some wonder who she is who resides in the Tower of Sylakia, who commands fire and lightning and storms.”
Aranya manufactured a laugh. “And I fly over the Cloudlands by night in the form of a monstrous bat?”
But the oil lanterns in the great hall flared in cadence with her words.
Ignathion’s consorts exchanged glances.
Later, just before she was to present the portrait, Aranya caught sight of the two women moving away from Garthion’s table. Had they spoken to him? About what–an Immadian enchantress? What d id this portend? The fires churned afresh in her stomach.
Sparky. Trust her mother to choose such a fitting nickname. How could she have known?
All of the glittering notables of Sylakia were present at the Supreme Commander’s banquet. Few leaders, nobles and royalty from the other Islands had been invited. Reds and burgundies dominated the colour choices for the evening, from the ladies in their Sylakian evening gowns, flared from the waist into a wide train, to the hundred elite Crimson Hammers guarding the room in their black uniforms and red cloaks. Yolathion wore his dress uniform, highly polished black combat boots and black gloves. A ceremonial silver hammer hung from his belt. But his cloak was amethyst in keeping with her chosen colour for the evening. A brave choice, Aranya thought, wondering what it signified. Five medals of bravery and two of honour decorated Yolathion’s chest.
W hat passed for honour amongst Sylakians? Aranya held her head high. She was a Princess of Immadia.
The blast of a trump cut through the babble.
“Come,” said Yolathion. “It’s your turn.”
There had been speeches–mercifully brief speeches–between each of the courses of
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