12: The Palace of Mujal (Part I)

Chapter 12: The Palace of Mujal (Part I)

The Time: Present Day (720 AE)

The Place: The kingdom of Saimr

As it happens, Ari doesn’t get a chance to disappear into the wilderness for a good, medicinal sulk. The second she emerges from the command tent, she stops dead, blinking in honest bewilderment.

In the cheery light of morning, the little clearing that had seen such clamor last night is pristine—not a dead demon or smoking heap of earth in sight! The broadleaf oaks surrounding the glade rustle in a temperate spring breeze, tall and proud and miraculously unscarred; verdant bluestem grasses (soft and virginal) wave their fluffy seeding heads in time with the wind. The sky overhead is clear. Even the Amnion feels comfortingly sturdy when she reaches for it, all of the rips and tears from the night before patched so seamlessly it’s like they were never there.

Did… Velnyr do this? Well—of course she did; who else could it be?! It’s just that it boggles the mind! How in the world did Velnyr find the time and energy to rout a heavenly incursion, stamp MINE DO NOT TOUCH on Ari’s soul, and dispose of an entire dead army in a single night? Even thinking about the amount of energy it would take to mold the earth into shape like this makes her head hurt.

Ari has never been ignorant of Velnyr’s power, but this is… this is on an entirely different level. She was frightening before. Now, after claiming a domain of her own, she’s a living fortress. This is absurd.

Again, she can’t help but wonder what a person like this might want with her. What could she possibly offer Velnyr that she can’t already do for herself?

But, as she looks around, she discovers there’s another pressing matter at hand: not only is the clearing void of corpses and battle scars, it’s also completely empty of any sign of Kachai Coven. The last remaining hint of human habitation is the lonely command tent, and the only other person around to see it is Lord Suyan, who stands with her back to Ari as her arms ripple with a series of somatic incantations.

Ari’s whole body chills. What… exactly did Velnyr do with her sectmates? Did she send them ahead alone? Why? Were they even in any shape to travel? It takes time to recover from the Ascendant Flame’s influence, Your Worship; you ought to know that better than anyone! Couldn’t you at least spare them an escort??

She’s so busy fretting that she entirely misses her window to stomp off dramatically through the woods to pout and/or have a breakdown. The velvety flaps of the command tent part behind her, and Velnyr ducks down to emerge into the morning sun with only the faintest grimace. As a native deep-dweller, Velnyr by all rights ought to be entirely nocturnal. Solar magic or no, the drow people simply weren’t built for life aboveground! But of course the stalwart Black Blade of Leviathan wouldn’t let a little thing like sun sensitivity get in her way; in all the years Ari traveled with her, the only sign Velnyr ever gave of being anything less than 100% comfortable living diurnally was an occasional wince at direct light when she was exhausted.

Well, at least the queen is still gracious enough to be tired after performing a spate of miraculous feats!

In the brightness of morning, Ari is depressed to find that Velnyr is even more ethereally beautiful. Her black silken robes—arranged cleverly in such a way that each layer is visible through some slit or fold—are loose enough to give her an air of mystique but tight enough about the shoulders and waist to emphasize both her strength and her innate femininity. The silver embroidery is spare enough to be classy instead of gaudy, a perfect complement to her many accessories and the matching pale gleam of her irises. Even her headdress is immaculately-styled, just elaborate enough to invite awe without being so unwieldy that it interferes with her mobility.

Perhaps the worst thing about the headdress is that it adds another several inches to Velnyr’s already staggeringly tall frame. Over the past few years, Ari has gotten used to being, if not the tallest person in the room, at least a close second! But Velnyr has nearly a full head on her—Ari is eye-level with her collarbones. Unwillingly, she’s back to feeling like a gangling, awkward, unimpressive teenager. Ugh.

She’d have to crane her neck to make out the queen’s expression, which she isn’t entirely sure she wants to do anyway. Instead, she engages in a staring contest with the delicate little star-shaped pins clasping the high collar of Velnyr’s outer robes together.

“Your Worship,” she says carefully, “where is, uh. The rest of my coven?”

Completely disregarding her earlier reticence, Ari lifts her head to meet the queen’s gaze. Not that it does her any good: Velnyr’s expression has been hammered into a brick wall. Or… well, that’s not quite right, actually. It’s so faint you’d miss it if you didn’t know exactly what you were looking for, but there’s a fault line in that stony facade again. Ari couldn’t guess what lies beneath it, but just knowing that it’s there makes her stomach flip.

Bizarre. Maybe she really is tired, to let any chink in her armor show.

Instead of answering her, Velnyr’s dark lips curve into a frown. She’s looking very intently at Ari’s face. Then, abruptly, she lifts her hand and places it at the base of Ari’s neck (Ari makes a concerted effort to wriggle away like a fish off a hook, but that hand holds her well in place).

What! What now!

A tingling starts at the base of Ari’s neck and travels up over her scalp—and, seconds later, Ari’s mass of loose hair begins to wind itself together, knots and tangles smoothed away, individual sections weaving themselves into an elegant plait that hangs heavy past her shoulder blades. It’s a deceptively complex thaumaturgy spell: it might look simple on the surface, but to command so many individual moving pieces with such accuracy, such dexterity—lesser mages would weep to see it!

This sort of magic feels different on Ari’s skin than the solar arts. Softer. Most witches can’t wield thaumaturgy—the innate magic of this world—after they bloom, but of course Velnyr is the exception to this rule as well. She came to prominence as an Archmage, after all!

The spell fizzles away, and Ari hesitantly reaches up to pat at her new braid. Perfect, of course. The pattern is unfamiliar. An Elvish style, maybe.

“Don’t unbind your hair for anyone but me,” Velnyr says coldly.

Ari could spit blood. You were the one who took my hair down in the first damn place!!!

She doesn’t say that, but hopefully it shows on her face. “I wasn’t planning on it,” she replies blandly. “Are we going someplace where I should have my hair up?”

Again, Velnyr ignores her question, opting instead to examine her handiwork and arrange loose strands until they suit her fancy. Ari endures it with less than perfect patience, quite like the way she used to squirm when her mother sat her down to wrangle her hair. Finally, Velnyr withdraws, evidently satisfied—though not before dragging one lock of unbound hair slowly through the pads of her fingers from root to tip until it falls in a soft wave over Ari’s cheekbone. That feather-light touch sends an unwanted shiver down her spine.

She can make neither heads nor tails of this unexpected… dare she call it tenderness? Velnyr had never been particularly tactile with her, so what’s all this about? She really is starting to feel like a favored pet!

It’s hard not to be bitter about it. If all of this coddling is meant to curry her favor, it’s too little too late (though whyever Velnyr would bother, she has no clue)—but if pampering comes so easily to her, why is Velnyr employing it only now, when it doesn’t matter anymore? If her former master had given her a fraction of this sentimentality during her younger years, she shudders to think how well her principles would have fared in the face of affection returned.

If Velnyr had ever wanted to treat her kindly, to douse her in this warmhearted solicitation, then why couldn’t she have done it back then? Why, why, why? Ari wants to stamp her feet like a child. If Velnyr had never urged her to wed Seda—if she’d instead showered Ari in fondness, if she’d fought tooth and nail to keep her disciple by her side—how differently might things have unfolded? Why is it that this person can only bring herself to reveal a soft corner of her heart after thoroughly smashing Ari’s to bits?

Wasn’t she supposed to be some unmatched genius?! Ari’s feelings had never been anything like a secret, so why hadn’t she used them? Ari wouldn’t even have minded back then, as long as it meant her sahan wouldn’t throw her away.

Part of her wants to just… ask. The rest of her knows there’s no point—and doesn’t really want to hear the answer anyway.

No closer to uncovering Velnyr’s motives now than when she woke, Ari gives up and steps away, putting some much-needed distance between herself and the queen.

“What did you do with the Kachai delegation?” she asks again, snappish this time, determined to wring some sort of blood from this stone if it kills her.

Velnyr’s upper lip curls in a well-worn expression of faint disdain, but there’s a flicker of something more dangerous in it as well. “I see. Even now, your first concern is the fate of your filthy rabble, though they abandoned you without a backwards glance. How loyal you are.”

Ari refuses to nibble that bait. “Where. Are. They.”

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Velnyr’s face darkens even further. “Does it matter? If I turned them to dust and let them blow away in the wind, what could you do? If I hung every last one of them from the palace walls and let them choke on their own innards for daring to think they could keep you a secret from me, what could you do?”

Infuriating woman!!! Just answer the question! What is this childish tantrum?! That’s Ari’s tactic, thank you!

Ari keeps her voice level. “Well? Did you?”

Velnyr glowers at her, but for once Ari doesn’t allow herself to be cowed. If her new “owner” truly wants to punish her, Ari can’t stop her, so why fake acquiescence?

Finally, Velnyr spits out, “I transported them safely to the capital in the night, that they might recover from their tribulations in the comfort of my palace—sup from my table and rest their heads within my halls.”

Argh! Ari throws up her hands. “That’s all you had to say, then!”

The tension in her back eases. She hadn’t really thought Velnyr would string up her own faithful for no reason, but it’s a relief to have it confirmed. What she doesn’t understand is this… petulance! Honestly! There’s no need for pointless mind games, Your Worship; this humble servant is thoroughly at your mercy!

Velnyr appears to have entirely given up on modulating her expression, because she looks as irritated as Ari feels. “Those vermin have no claim to you anymore,” she declares. “They’ve served their purpose adequately, and for that I’ll forgive them their indiscretion. But you are the property of the crown now and naught else; you may as well strike those pests from your mind. You will not be crawling through the dirt with them again.”

Well, obviously! Ari barely refrains from rolling her eyes and instead focuses on the burning candle of her frustration to keep the shadows of grief at bay. Of course the minute she finds a place she might like to call home, it’s ripped away in a single evening. Of course. Stupid of her, frankly, to let herself get attached.

“Fine,” she snaps. “Whatever you say, right, Your Worship? That’s how this goes now?”

Velnyr’s eyes narrow. “Yes. That’s precisely how this goes now. You don’t have to enjoy it, but you will remain with me from here on.”

Ari’s blood boils. “Yeah, well, once upon a time I would have enjoyed it! You were the one who threw me out! You were the one who decided I wasn’t worth calling your disciple anymore! You were the one who treated my life like it was a fun little toy you could trash when you were done with it! The hell do you get off acting like you were hard-done-by when I didn’t come crawling out to kiss your feet after Varul brought me back?! You wanted me dead, right? Congratulations! You got what you asked for, again!”

In the wake of her outburst, the clearing is quiet save for the incongruously merry chirps of the birds and the branches of the nearby trees rustling in the wind. Ari’s whole face feels hot. If she cries now she’s going to throw herself in a hole and rot there.

Velnyr’s jaw tics. She looks like she wants to say something, then stops herself. Ari wishes she would say something! She’d pay dearly to know what the hell is going through her former master’s head!

Naturally, she doesn’t receive anything so satisfying as an answer, or even an acknowledgment. Instead, Velnyr turns away abruptly, a veil of nonchalance settling over her with practiced ease.

“You’ll be returning to the palace with me,” she says calmly in lieu of a proper response. Like Ari was speaking in tongues just now and not throwing very specific and inflammatory accusations directly at her! “Lord Suyan will take Varul to recuperate elsewhere. I’ve made preparations for your arrival; I believe you’ll find your accommodations quite satisfactory.” She sounds pleased with herself.

“Stop ignoring me,” Ari says churlishly, unable to keep a note of childish sulkiness from her tone. “Don’t you owe me some kind of explanation, after everything you’ve done?”

The look Velnyr gives her could freeze boiling water. “I owe you nothing. You live on my sufferance, as you always have. There is much I cannot tell you, not yet. But if you truly cannot rest without an answer…” She looms suddenly closer, and Ari startles. The black cat’s-eye pupils swimming in her irises are dilated with some unnameable emotion. “...then is it enough to know that I have missed you? That I am not infallible, that I too have regrets?”

Her voice is soft, intimate. Ari’s back explodes in a wave of gooseflesh. Velnyr leans down even further, until the cool gusts of her breath strike Ari’s forehead with each word. “It is my good fortune that I have the rest of eternity to make up for them. Come, child. I would show you the jewel of a new empire.”

***

The inside of Ari’s skull feels smooth like hot pudding by the time Velnyr whips out another Archmage Special to convey them halfway across the kingdom in an instant. She’s… just choosing not to think about her earlier conversation with Velnyr. She can puzzle that mess out when she’s alone. Compartmentalize and move on! Her specialty!

As far as Ari is aware, there are two methods by which a caster might deliver people over great distances very quickly. The first, utilized almost exclusively by the powerful mages of Imtheria, is to open an Amniotic Gate. Such gates pinch two disparate points together through the Amnion for a brief period, allowing immediate passage to and fro for as many travelers as time and space allow. Very useful! Also, very risky and very costly: there’s a reason even Velnyr doesn’t show off that little party trick on a whim. Sustaining an Amniotic Gate requires a ridiculous amount of magic, and one small misstep can send all your would-be travelers tumbling down a mountainside—if you’re lucky.

The second method is one devised by high-level experts of the Holy Shadow: the Unlit Roads. Ari has only traveled them a handful of times with Velnyr’s guidance, and every time she’d wished they’d simply taken the scenic route, even if cost them weeks of travel through the real world. The Unlit Roads are a winding tangle of shadowy paths behind the curtains of reality. There are horrible things lurking there, and the paths themselves can change direction on a whim, eager to trap any interlopers bold enough to venture into the dark.

Velnyr opts to utilize the former approach, which Ari finds a little surprising until she considers that after five years Velnyr has certainly had ample time to construct an anchor—a permanent arcane ballast that stabilizes passage to a fixed point from any other location as long as the caster is attuned to that mooring. Still, anchor or no anchor, it’s not a piddling little spell, and Ari begrudgingly finds herself impressed that Velnyr has the strength to pull off yet another high-level working with no apparent strain. Twice, apparently! She had to deliver Ari’s sectmates to Tsimeda as well!

And then she finally emerges into the new queen’s palace, and whatever thoughts are still floating around in her head are sucked out into thin air, replaced by mounting awe.

As she steps through a rippling doorway of raw magical energy, she finds herself standing on the other side in the center of a tall, tall, tall stone chamber lined with dozens of thin crystalline windows that dilute the sunlight shining through into a kaleidoscope of glittering diamonds. The domed roof overhead is shaped of the same stuff, and the luminance from it casts the polished, tea-colored limestone floor in gold. The complex lines of the anchor glyph glow a pale blue beneath her feet. Climbing vines of manicured dark ivy pepper the walls; billowing silken tapestries in black and silver hang from that high ceiling.

The decor otherwise is minimal; the furnishings nonexistent. This chamber must be exclusively for transportation. Ari turns in a slow circle, gawping at it nevertheless. It’s only on her second pass that she realizes there’s another person in here: standing in a massive arching doorway, and made even smaller in comparison, is a blue-skinned deep gnome woman! Ari’s never actually met one in person before! A lot of smallfolk work as merchants, crossing the Worldrift to deliver goods from Ulor to Imtheria and vice versa, but during their travels Velnyr had never made contact with any of the three elven enclaves in Saimr where such traders would base their operations.

This woman doesn’t look like a merchant, though. She’s dressed well but plainly, in an unfussy dark blue tunic trimmed in hints of silver thread—fine enough not to look out of place, practical enough to work in. Her white hair is pulled into a knot at the base of her neck, and the expression on her face is a blend of mild intrigue and unflappable professionalism. A servant, maybe? Perhaps a seneschal or chamberlain.

Before Ari can think of something suitably polite to say to her, Velnyr follows her through the gate, which soon peters out behind them.

When the gnome woman speaks, it’s in Elvish. Ari is pretty comfortable with this language, but only in the sense that if she were lost in some random elven city she might feasibly be able to ask for directions home. As befitting an ancient, long-lived people with a thousand different stupid social conventions, the Elvish language is rife with baffling complexities: there are a half-dozen different ways to say the words “I” and “you”, all depending on your status relative to the person you’re speaking to. The gnome woman speaks to Velnyr, but without any of the blazing reverence one would expect from a common maid addressing her queen. She doesn’t use the form of “I” one might pull out with an equal, but she talks as though she’s catching up with a respected old friend.

“Finally,” the gnome woman starts flippantly. “Welcome back, Boss. If you’d been gone another hour I think Yasima would’ve started playing kickball with the Laevydan ambassador’s head. Poor guy nearly pisses himself every time she walks into the same room.”

Velnyr hums noncommittally, adjusting the cuffs of her outer robes. “Then he’s wiser than he appears.”

The gnome woman takes this in stride before turning to regard Ari with eyes as green as fresh clover. “So this is her?” She tilts her head speculatively. “Mm. Cute, I guess. I like the dimples.”

At this, Velnyr frowns faintly, her gaze becoming rather more cutting than it was a moment ago. Ari feels struck. It was just a compliment! It wasn’t even a particularly sincere one!

The gnome woman holds up her hands apologetically. “Sorry, sorry. Wasn’t thinking.” She turns to Ari again, this time all business. “Hey, you. Name’s Mellie. Just Mellie, if you’re the type to care about that kind of thing. I’m the boss lady’s head steward. That means I take care of the accounting and logistics and shit around here, so don’t go asking me to run your laundry or fetch your morning tea. Save that for Adanias—you’ll know him when you meet him. You’ll probably be seeing me around, so if you got a name other than the one the boss lady gave me, tell me now.”

Ari blinks down at… just Mellie, finding herself oddly comforted by this indifference. “Uh, hey. I’m Ari. Ah, Ari Megradzi.”

Strangely, Mellie makes a sudden sound of understanding. “Ohhh. Yeah, okay. Makes sense.”

What… what does?

“Alright,” Mellie continues. “Well, I’ll leave the boss lady to give you the grand tour. Boss, I can give you a full report later, but off the top: everything’s fine; no one’s wanted to fuck with Žanha. Take your time doing… whatever. I’ll fetch Ghudar if there’s a problem before you’re ready to come back.”

Velnyr nods and raises a hand to dismiss her. Mellie turns on her heel and disappears through the archway without fanfare, the short heels of her boots clicking purposefully.

Velnyr regards Ari with her version of good humor, the distant cousin of a smile crossing her dark, lovely lips. She even holds out her arm, as though she’s willing to let Ari cling to her elbow like some fainting maiden. “Come. This place will be your home now. You should know it well.”

Ari hesitates. But what good will it do to kick up a fuss? Velnyr is right—from here on, her home is wherever the crown says it is.

Slowly, she reaches out and takes the crook of Velnyr’s arm, resolutely refusing to notice the firm muscle beneath the smooth, sleek plane of fabric. If Velnyr is willing to act the part of doting host, she can at least match her efforts. And Velnyr does look pleased when Ari attaches herself to her side, however reluctantly.

“Alright,” she says, forcing herself to sound more at ease than she feels. “Lead the way, Your Worship.”

***

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

Adanias: Ah-DAH-nee-ahs. An Elvish name; from the root word adan, meaning 'diligence'.

Ghudar: Goo-DAHR. A Heavenstongue name meaning 'dreamer'; one of Velnyr's Heavenly Blades.

Megradzi: Meh-GRAH-dzee. A Saimerian surname; from the root word megra, meaning 'weaver'.

Mellie: MEH-lee. A Gnomish name.

Mujal: Moo-JAHL. A Heavenstongue word meaning 'reflection'.