“Nor am I yours, outright.”
“No?”
Cybele pressed her lips. “I will accompany the fleet.”
Gylain closed his eyes and stood a statue. Then, with a pleasant smile, “Of course, Cybele, and for that reason I have prepared a Marin to be your headquarters during the campaign.”
“My trust is not placed in vain.”
“I know.”
“As in everything else. I will occupy it immediately.”
“You will find it in good repair,” and Gylain turned to the Floatings. They were walking on the inner wall of the castle, fifty feet above the bustling streets. In the distance, the harbor city could be seen.
“Left that way by the Fardy brothers, then? A shame, for they amused me with their foolishness.” She paused. “How can idiots become wealthy? Were they not born poor?”
“Above all, yes: the sons of a glider merchant. Yet they are not fools, as you say. For how do we judge a man’s worth, but by his actions? And those by their results? The Fardy brothers have done more than many who are thought wise, as if placed by feudal fate to humble me: to show me that before God I have no more power than three bumbling idiots. They are fools, you say, but fate does not discount them; and fate is all that matters in such things. Vitam regit Fortuna, non Sapientia .”
“ Stulti timent Fortunam, sapientes ferunt ,” she retorted.
He sighed, as if looking upon foolishness in wisdom’s garb. “To whom it is not given, it is not known,” and he was silent.
Seeing Gylain eloping with his own mind, she bowed. “Tomorrow, then, for I must prepare my affairs.” He did not seem to hear, so she left and walked briskly to the inner courtyard.
Cybele was sharply beautiful in the morning light, a sword into the hearts of man. She wore a simple silk doublet with trousers beneath. It was not the dress of a queen of court, but she herself was not one, either. Her arms and neck were bare, her head covered only by her cloudy hair with its slight curls: enough that it was not wispy, yet not so much as to make it reckless. Her face was long, her features proportionate. Her nose bridged between her curious eyes and her storm-cloud lips, blossoming into a round bell flower near her mouth. She was tall, even for a man, and her form august and inaccessible. She was firm in her bearing, while not pedantic in her movement; accented in speech, while not vainly rhetorical. In a word, she valued substance over perception: cultivating the former without excuse, while not abdicating it in reaction to the latter.
Her carriage was brought out: narrow above while hollow and rounded below. It was at once carriage and boat, and could change from one to the other without stopping: Atiltian built, rather than Saxonian, since Atiltian horses could swim as easily as they could run. The rails swiveled on an axis not far from the coachman, allowing him to detach them for rowing – in the same fashion as the Lipels of the Floatings. Indeed, the carriage was but an elongated Lipel with wheels.
It was thus that Cybele crossed the harbor without leaving her carriage. She was also lost in the maze of her own mind during the journey, and only came to as they abutted the landing platform on the first floor, which was then above water. She leapt out and hurriedly entered the Marin, asking the short officer, Timultin, to take her to the captain’s room. He did, and she did not speak along the way. When they reached the bridge – adjacent to the captain’s room – several of her officers were assembled, taking charge of the crew.
“Gylain assembled you?” she asked.
“Yes, your majesty.”
“Very well, prepare the headquarters as you will.”
They stood back, surprised she did not superintend them, for she was normally an energetic leader. She saw their hesitation and added, as she turned to enter her room, “I have seen something while I passed through Eden, and I cannot remove her face from my mind.”
With that, she closed the door and took a seat in the far corner of her room. An expansive window graced the outer wall, looking over the inner circle of the Marin. From that side, the room tapered into a narrow way and reached across to the outer wall, where another window – albeit smaller – opened onto the Floatings beyond. The room was weighted toward the inner side and could only be reached by passing through the bridge.
“What will I do about her ?” she whispered in a violent agitation, “She has tainted me thus far, in mind if not in body. The conscience is a dangerous foe.” She was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.
“The someone has come,” one of the officers said from the other side.
Cybele shot up and looked about the room with a wild expression. Her face was the shadows cast by a candle: once shaded, then bright; once light, then dark. Her expressions changed like water flowing over a bed of rocks.
“Is it her ?” she asked at last and her voice trickled with power – synthetic hatred.
“It is I,” Celestine’s voice returned.
Silence nestled down on either side.
At last, “Enter, my sister: enter and be mine!”
Chapter 62
Cybele jumped from her seat as she told Celestine to enter, then she regained her stolid outsides and returned to her seat. A table stood beside her, bolted to the floor with a chart of soundings spread upon it. She leaned over under the pretense of examining it.
“Come in,” and she did not look up as Celestine entered, still covered in the peasant’s cloak. For a moment she pretended preoccupation, then stood, kissed her sister’s hand, and seated her at the table. Celestine faced the window overlooking the inner Marin.
“Your highness,” and Celestine lowered her head.
“Cybele; for I am your sister.”
“Cybele,” a pause, “Cybele, who are you?” Her voice wavered with sorrow’s vibrato.
“I am the one you remember, as a child.”
Celestine took heart, “Yet she was innocent and you are not.” In a lower voice, “But neither are you wholly guilty.”
“Am I not, Celestine? I have a bosom, but also a crown.”
“Crowns can be beaten into plow shears as easily as swords. Treaties can be forgotten, when they are made with tyranny.”
“Not when they have been signed in blood and that blood is not your own.”
“But blood can wash away sin as well as conceive it.”
“Can it?” Cybele laughed quietly, withdrawn for a moment. Then, “Is that why you have come, to turn me?”
Celestine did not answer, so Cybele continued, “I am not a reed, blown easily by the wind. Do not waste your love on me, for I am a dry sponge that will only soak and never splash.”
“No! You would not do evil, if you did not force yourself to do it.”
Cybele stood, “And neither would you do good, if you did not force yourself to do it. I only walk the paths of evil because I am eviclass="underline" I revel in it because I revel in pain. When I am gently caressed, I feel it and am pleased: but the feeling is weak. When I am beaten, I feel it in same way as the caress: but the feeling is overpowering.” She drew closer to Celestine. “When I give others the joy of pain, I am gratified still more: for a pained conscience has a stronger pulse than purity. Let us pray there truly is a Hades, for I look forward to it with longing.” She reached out and struck Celestine.
“Do you know why mother did what she did?” Cybele asked in a furry, “Do you know why her love transmuted into hatred?”
Celestine did not answer, but sat weeping at the table.
“Her love increased the pain her hatred caused, and thus the intensity of her pleasure. She shook, her limbs quivered, she could not breath for all the weight upon her chest. Her heart burned, at God and man; her nose tickled enough to drive her passions to a flame. Damnation!” she cried out in a fury. “You speak of righteousness, but what hope do the righteous have: that they may be good enough to enter heaven? With God there is doubt, for none can be good enough. But with the devil, there is only damnation. Blessed damnation! Oh, blessed damnation!”