The Verse:
Cold lips never kissed
Prophecies end in blood and blue eyes.
The Vision:
A nightmare. I am hidden in darkness, my hands covered in blood. I cannot scream or even allow myself to breathe too loudly, for I am being hunted by an assassin.
Commentary by Archbishop Co’oal Venesti:
At certain times, silence is golden, especially when it comes to deep mysteries of the Holy Church and matters requiring extreme political discretion.
Commentary by Elma, High Prophetess of Skarsia:
A moronic decision resulting in an enormous setback. And a lot of pain to your precious Ash, stupid girl.
Commentary by Archbishop Seth:
Although Her Eminence is absolutely correct in her interpretation of events, which may be verified through eyewitness accounts and legal correspondences which eventually result in the award of the Lordship of Skalisia to the deceased Sloane Redmond, it is the official position of the Archon that this never happened.
Commentary by Her Eminence Tara del D’myn, 6th Matriarch of Skarsia:
It falls upon me to tell this story, since I know Sloane never will. The events herein are accurately described to the best of my knowledge. Nevertheless, just because this happened doesn’t mean that it is true.
I awoke from my vision sure in the knowledge that my then-husband, Tenzain Merkht, had engaged an assassin. He had good reason to hate me: we had detested each other since childhood, and the marriage was arranged against both of our wishes. The hatred had deepened throughout my stay on Volparnu. For his part, he was humiliated by a wife who was continually intoxicated, rude, “unfeminine” (according to Volparnian standards), abusive, and worst of all, more intelligent, more well-educated and more adept at hand-to-hand combat than he was. I apologize if that statement seems arrogant, but it is confirmed through a wide range of exterior opinions. Besides, being more intelligent, well-educated and combat-proficient than Merkht does not take much doing – the average snowslug probably meets that definition. On my part, I resented him, my exile on Volparnu, but most of all the murder of my lover, Daniel, which in all fairness wasn’t Merkht’s fault, but rather my uncle’s. Nevertheless, if it weren’t for the betrothal, the butchery of Daniel would never have happened.
But more than mere hatred, Merkht had two other reasons to wish me dead. For one, he wanted Meliss, who would eventually marry his brother. He could’ve taken her for all I cared – and for all his brother, Ta’al Erich, cared also. The second reason was the sticking point: he needed an heir, and I couldn’t seem to get him one. I’d had four miscarriages, and my relocation to the Palace of Vuernaco on Sideria was the result of the recommendation of the CenGov doctor D.F. Traeger, who testified that the harsh Volparnian climate was too much for my delicate frame.
For the record, my frame is as delicate as a Tasean wildebeest’s, Traeger was lying through his teeth as a favor to my friend Johannon Deverre (and, as I was later to learn, for reasons of his own), and I would’ve quite likely had more success in carrying to term if I wasn’t using poisons from my garden to induce abortions.
In short, Merkht wanted a new wife, and divorce was not an option in Volparnian tradition.
I went immediately to my uncle to request heightened security. “So in a fit of drug-induced paranoia, you want me to turn the palace on its end? Do you understand how much that will upset the other people living here, as well as cause an embarrassing stir in the media?”
My uncle’s office was enormous and, unusual for Sideria, rather cold. He’d made no attempt at all to soften the effects of the stone which comprised walls, floors and ceilings. It was the most intimidating room in the palace, and he’d chosen it for just that reason. Nevertheless, I refused to back down. “Then simply increase my honor guard.”
“People will still notice. If you were to bring me some proof, perhaps, but not on the strength of a vision.”
“Then let me carry a gun. I can defend myself.”
He scowled. I was used to it – he’d been scowling at me since I was five years old, since my parents died. It was a scowl of irrational dislike. Nothing I ever did moved that scowl, and I kept trying until I was at least fourteen. It wasn’t until that day I stood with Hurley in front of my parents’ portrait that I understood the reason for it.
“Ladies of high birth do not walk around armed to the teeth.”
“Oh really? My mother was a battlequeen, and I’ve been in combat-training since the age of six.”
“Your mother was a Skarsian,” he said as if the word referred to a variety of toxic lizard, “but this is Sideria, and we are a civilized people.”
“Oh, I had forgotten that on Sideria, the word civilized is equivalent to gelded.” Well, that pretty much ended that conversation.
In all honesty, I hadn’t expected much from my uncle, but I thought he’d at least let me carry a weapon. My next recourse was to my one friend – and by that time, my lover – Johannon. I’d met him on Volparnu where we bonded in mutual dislike of the barbaric culture of that world. He’d been raised on Earth with the practice of absolute gender equality. Yet in certain ways he had “gone native” here in the Domha’vei, wearing his thick blond hair in an elaborate quiff and utilizing the face-paints often sported by the men on Skarsia. He wore an impressive brocaded coat and velvet pantaloons, with smart leather boots that showed off his shins. I doubt that any of this was a political rejection of the dull, gender-neutrality espoused by CenGov. Johannon was just vain.
He was eloquent, he was witty, he was clever, and for all that, there was something about him that was false and slightly grating. I didn’t realize just how much until years later, when I saw him at a diplomatic affair on Eirelantra side-by-side with a Dolparessan political attaché named Patrick Fitzroy. Johannon was more beautiful than Patrick, but Patrick was more attractive by far, possessed of a natural, unforced charisma and a true gentleman’s manners. It was on that occasion when I made a spontaneous and fateful decision to reject my suitors Ta’al Erich, Clive Rivers, and Johannon himself, instead proposing marriage to Patrick. But that’s another story.
At this time, I considered my relationship to Johannon to be solid. It lacked the romance, the passion, the physical fulfillment of my relationship with Daniel, but I found those detriments to be preferable. I had loved so deeply and lost – I never wanted to love anyone that much again. And I was under the “curse” of Wyrd Elma’s prophecy. I was afraid that if I got too close to a man, he’d be the next victim.
Looked at objectively, I had far more in common with Johannon, far more to talk about than with Daniel. But then again, Daniel and I had never really needed to talk. Those too-short months I had spent with him were like a floating excursion into fairyland.
And so, I had no reason to expect anything but aid and sympathy when I went to Johannon. I was completely blindsided by his response. “You don’t expect that I’d risk carrying a weapon on a diplomatic mission? Those kinds of things can be misinterpreted, Tara.”
“Well, can’t you get one for me, from your military connections?”
He looked at me directly, but he kept blinking. He was uncomfortable, but he was forcing himself to seem casual. Everything about him was studied. At that moment, I preferred my uncle’s sincere contempt. “You’re asking me to violate protocol. I can’t do that so easily.”
“Then stay with me. I doubt an assassin would strike so blatantly in front of you – there could be an interplanetary incident.”
He laughed. “And for how long? And how would your husband react to that? I’m afraid I agree with your uncle on this one. If there were any real proof…”
I saw through the smile, through the forced expression. He believed me. I’d noticed that he always listened with interest to the visions I’d had on Gyre. He always took them seriously. Later, I would find out that he was reporting them to Traeger, who was studying them. No, he didn’t think I was being ridiculous. He was afraid. He did not want to get caught in the crossfire.
I smiled at him insincerely. “I suppose you’re right.” I knew I’d never sleep with him again. I was the daughter of a battlequeen. I couldn’t countenance a coward in my bed.
That night, I only pretended to sleep. By my side was the best weapon I could scrounge – a pair of garden scissors dipped in a poison I’d obtained from my plants. I’d left the window open – I knew that any assassin worth the money could find a way to get in, so I was much more concerned that I would have a way to get out. I figured that my chances of survival were much greater in a public area.
At 3.20 hours, I heard a slight click as the door opened. It had been that easy. Either the lock had been hacked by a master, or…someone had given the codes to the assassin. And then it occurred to me. It was entirely possible that my uncle was abetting Merkht in his plan. Both of them would benefit from my death.
The assassin would be looking for the least suspicious cause of death possible. If our positions were reversed…I’d use a stun weapon and then go looking for something in the poison garden that could be used to cause an “accidental” overdose. Far more plausible than, say, inducing a heart attack in a healthy young woman, and then having to cover up the means used to induce it – difficult if there was a serious inquiry, which, of course, there might not be. But if my own poisons were used against me, no need to cover up the means of death at all.
S/he’d want to be silent, and so a hand-stunner would be used, applied to me as I slept. My best bet was to take the assassin by surprise. I could run for the window, but the assassin would probably lunge for me with the stunner. No, my best exit was the door, and my best defense was a good offense. I’d go through the assassin.
As the intruder approached my bedside, I jumped, swiping with the poisoned scissors. The assassin’s reflexes were excellent, and he (I could see it was a male now) ducked adeptly to the side, avoiding my blade. My momentum kept me going, and I was out into the hall.
I expected my assailant to take the easy route given to him, escaping through the window. Another attempt would follow, but this time, my uncle would take me seriously…
…the lock. Evidence of an inside job. The assassin couldn’t afford to let me live. And a second later, I heard footfalls behind me. I yelled for help.
The corridors were empty. Where were the servants, the footmen, the evening maintenance staff? It was an inside job, all right. I had no option at all. If I was going to survive, I had to fight back.
I heard the click of a trigger, and I realized that the assassin had a gun – probably a larger stun weapon that could be fired from a distance. This was the backup plan – messier, in that it would require cleanup, and require that the staff and residents of the hall had obeyed my uncle’s directive to clear out of this wing – surely they couldn’t all be in on the attempt on my life?
A bullet struck the stone wall near me, splintered into fragments. Messier than I’d anticipated, apparently, which meant a lot more people were in on it. I hadn’t realized how deeply I was hated – or perhaps it was just that I had failed to be loved. I was alone.
The assassin was closing in on me. I stopped in my tracks, fell to the floor and rolled backwards. My plan was to stab the assassin and keep rolling towards the library door. If I could get inside I could barricade the heavy door with the heavier leather couches, and wait for my attacker to die.
The plan only half-worked. I stabbed; he kicked. My momentum stopped a good bit short of the door, and I was doubled over, clutching my abdomen. But my blade was true. He was a dead man. The open question was whether I was a dead woman. He pulled his gun and aimed it at my head. I heard the click of the trigger.
The bullet never hit. Strong arms came from nowhere, pulling me out of the line of fire. I found myself being dragged back into the library. I was yanked to my feet and towed, supported on one side. I looked up into the kindest eyes I’d ever seen.
It was Sloane Redmond, my uncle’s Master of Horse. I’d first noticed him the night I’d fallen on the terrace, so drunk I’d broken the heel of my stiletto. I expected to hit the stone face-first, but these same strong hands had grabbed me. Then, as now, I’d had no idea where he’d come from. He’d said very little – he was a bit like the Byronic hero of a romance, except that his hair wasn’t the requisite ebony. He wasn’t an aristo by birth, but I could see he had the heart of a poet. I’d given him a book of Yeats for Solstice.
His eyes made me shiver. They were a particular shade of intense blue, almost iridescent, a color that in the right light seemed to glow with an inner radiance. I’d only seen those eyes in men of the Domha’vei, never in Earthers or IndWorlders. Daniel had eyes like that.
Sloane didn’t have time to close the door. Instead, he pushed against a panel, and a bookcase slid to the side. A hidden storeroom! In retrospect, I don’t know why I was surprised. Skarsian politics had always been a hotbed of intrigue. On Skarsia itself, the infighting tended to be through open hostilities between the posturing aristos. But on Sideria, war was more insidious.
I didn’t question how Sloane knew about the room – perhaps he had stumbled onto it in his long years of service to my uncle. How could I know that he was capable of smelling the exact positions of the walls, had known every exit, entrance, secret hall and hidden dungeon within ten minutes of first setting foot on the palace grounds?
He pushed me to the back as the bookcase slid closed. Now we waited.
I could hear footsteps. I could hear the cocking of a trigger.
There was a hail of gunfire. We had nowhere to go. Our enemy knew we were hidden in the room somewhere, and at this point, had to know his own time was limited. He was shooting up the room at random, hoping to hit something.
He hit something. He’d been using frangible rounds which went straight into Sloane’s heart and splintered onto pieces. Sloane’s lips parted slightly, and a rivulet of blood ran down onto his starched white shirt. I stifled a scream.
There was no fear in his eyes, no regret, no confusion. There was love. He gripped my hand. He was trying to comfort me.
Outside, I heard a thump as the assassin fell. I heard thrashing and some gurgled moans. The poison was in its final stages. Then all was still.
I waited what seemed like forever before I slid the door open carefully. The assassin was dead, foam dripping from his lips. His limbs were askew at an awkward angle.
I blinked in the light. Blood was everywhere. I held Sloane’s cooling body, saw the ruin of his chest. And then I loosed my voice, a keening wail of grief. The sun was coming up. Soon, I could no longer be ignored.
What I wanted most in that moment was Gyre. I wanted to crawl inside of my safe world of dreams, the world where my savior waited for me. And then I realized that I couldn’t, not ever again. The man in my arms had died for me – had loved me, and I had never noticed. No, perhaps I had noticed, but I couldn’t have been bothered to care. I refused to see, and I had lost something unspeakably precious.
It was years before the prophecies continued.