Capella Goodventure was gone. Standing in the hall at the top of the stairs, a Winter servant stood smirking at the Summer woman’s abrupt departure. “You get away from there!” Moon shouted, her voice breaking. He turned, his smirk falling away. “Yes, your majesty.” He scuttled out of her sight.
She stood staring after him. Your majesty … He had not been seeing her, but the image of a ghost she wore in her face, felt in her anger— Sometimes they still called her that, the Winter staff, cringing away when she snapped at them, as if she were not the Summer Queen but the Snow Queen, and her anger was as deadly as frost.
But Arienrhod was dead … like Lelark Dawntreader, the sandy-haired, sea-smelling woman who had rocked a sleepy child in her arms beside the fire, so long ago. They were both dead. And she was the Summer Queen.
She shook her head, pressed nerveless fingers against her mouth, as she became aware of Ariele and Tammis clinging to her, their faces buried in the homespun cloth of her robes—their voices crying at her like the voices of seabirds that it was all right. Comforting her, needing her comfort. She let her hands fall to their slender shoulders, felt the tension begin to loosen in their small bodies and her own, as she gently rubbed their backs. “It’s all right, treasures,” she murmured, hearing her voice falter as she spoke the words. “Why don’t you take Gran down to dinner. She’s come such a long way. …”
“You come too!” “I don’t want to go without you—” The children clung to her hands more tightly than before, their eyes still filled with need, until she nodded. “Yes, all right … we’ll all go.” She looked back at her grandmother; away again from the look in her eyes, her outstretched hand. Seeing her grandmother’s sympathy, sorrow, apology, concern, she felt her own tears rise. If she let herself take that hand she would become a child again too; and she could not afford to do that. She turned away, keeping her eyes downcast, watching her footsteps lead her one at a time out of the room and down the hallway, down the echoing stairs.
Sparks Dawntreader Summer—cousin, husband, consort of the Summer Queen—stepped silently out into the night-lit familiarity of Olivine Alley. It had been called “Blue Alley” when Winter ruled, and the blue-uniformed offworlder Police had made its ancient buildings their headquarters. He had avoided this place then; now, he almost made it his home. He began his nightly walk toward the alley’s mouth, to meet the long steep spiral of the Street, which would carry him inevitably to the palace no matter how slow he made his steps.
After eight years he still hated the palace, and so he spent as much time as possible outside it. But always he returned there at the end of each day, because Moon was waiting for him and he loved her, as he had always loved her, and always would. She was as much a part of him as his music, as much a part of him as his soul—the things Arienrhod had stolen from him, and Moon had given back to him. Life went on, whether he deserved it or not. And his children, living proof of their love, waited for him there, among the relics and the memories.
“Hallo, Sparks!” Sparks stopped, glancing toward the brightly lit doorway and the figure limned by its glow.
“We’re celebrating! Come, be my guest. I owe you, for your support with the College—”
He recognized the voice now; his eyes filled in the old/young features of Kirard Set Way away s. Kirard Set stood in the entrance to a tavern called the Old Days, formerly one of the most flamboyant and expensive gaming hells on the Street. Now its equipment lay cold and silent, while the surviving nobility of the Snow Queen’s reign sat among its ghosts, drinking to their memories and tossing bone dice—almost the only pleasures left to them now, aside from conspicuous consumption and sex
“What are you celebrating?” he asked, curious but wary, as he stepped into the light. The old Queen’s favorites knew him too well, for better or worse. He became aware of the rich smell of fried meal-cakes, heard other voices calling his name. Talk and laughter spilled past him into the street; he heard someone plucking a mindle with virtuoso skill, and drumming, whistling, voices singing.
He touched the pouch at his belt. He always carried his flute with him; telling himself that he never knew when he would find time to practice or a chance to play… . But he wore it more as a talisman now, the way a sibyl wore a trefoil; because it had come to symbolize a higher order which music had first revealed to him—a greater truth which music never betrayed. His work with the Sibyl College had shown him the beauty of mathematics and physics; how they lay at the secret heart of everything, including music itself. Every day new facets of that universal order revealed themselves to him. He had begun to study mathematics in every free moment, experiencing a purity of pleasure he had never found in anything before, except his playing….
The music pulled at him, suddenly irresistible. He stepped into the tavern’s brightly lit interior, and Kirard Set pressed a crystal goblet of wine into his hand. “We’re celebrating the choice of Wayaways land for the site of the new foundry,” Kirard Set said, and he shook his head, smiling. “She’s really incredible, you know, the Queen—” He put an arm around Sparks’s shoulders. Sparks resisted the urge to shrug it off. “But of course you know that, better than anyone… . How did she do it, anyway? How did she— But never mind, of course your lips are sealed with a kiss.” Kirard Set made a moue with his lips, and nudged Sparks’s shoulder.
Sparks took a long drink of the wine, imported offworlder wine, leftover stock. The nobles had hoarded it the way they had hoarded technology, before the offworlders’ departure. At least the Hegemony had not been able to spoil its wine the way it had killed its abandoned hardware. Sparks sat down at a table, following Kirard Set’s lead without comment. What had once been a hologramic gaming array was covered now by a slab of wood, and a tapestry cloth that had originally draped the window of some offworlder official’s exclusive townhouse.
Sparks studied Kirard Set’s smiling face, and wondered what actually went on in his mind. Not much, he supposed. He had always found Kirard Set’s behavior either unpleasant or unfathomable. But one thing was obvious; Kirard Set, and a number of the other former nobles, actually believed the Summer Queen was the same flesh and blood woman who had ruled Winter; that somehow Arienrhod had cheated the Summers, the Hegemony, and Death itself to go on ruling her world. pursuing the goal she had sworn to achieve: independence from offworlder control.
Sparks glanced away again, with a sigh. Across the room he noticed Danaquil Lu Wayaways with his wife and child, standing apart, looking uncomfortable. Merovy was asleep, held in her father’s arms. Sparks felt a twinge of guilt, remembering his own family waiting for him at the palace. He had stayed at the College far too long, later even than usual, caught up in his studies. His own children would be asleep, by now. He shook his head, putting down the wine-filled goblet. “I can’t stay.” He began to get up.
“Sparks!” A woman’s voice called his name, a hand caught his arm as he rose. “Darling, you can’t leave us already. We never see enough of you anymore.” Shelachie Fainsie tweaked the laces of his shirt, half pulling it open. He took hold of her jewel-decorated hand and plucked it from his shirtfront like an insect.
She twitched her hand free from his grasp. “Aren’t we hard-to-get,” she said, matching his frown. He noticed the lines in her face that deepened with her frown.
“You know I don’t do that anymore,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral, reminding himself that in the New Tiamat, Shelachie Fairisle controlled ore reserves that would be needed soon for another foundry. He could not afford to insult her casually.