Chapter XXXI

In the Chamber of the Handmaiden

In which they face the Handmaiden

They regrouped. The drake took off, carrying Zareen Prime and the general. They watched it grow smaller and smaller until at last it disappeared from view. Only then did Alia asked a beast master to take the gryphons to higher ground outside. From this point forward, the group couldn’t maneuver so readily with them.

Through his scrying globe Zaran Tertius scouted ahead. “We have a straight line to her…no arsh’atûm to contend with. But I can’t See anything coming from Erebossa until it gets here, just so you know.”

“Understood,” Edana said. “Let’s pick up the pace.”

The watchmen took point, their swords drawn. The Salamandra took up the rear. The Lyrcanians kept out their guns, and Bessa and Edana held fast to their thunder maces.

Each room in the royal wing carried a theme. They passed through what Tregarde dubbed the peacock room, for it was furnished and accessorized in peacock blue and green, with peacock motifs in the murals and woven through the curtains.

As they jogged, Bessa wondered aloud if the drakaina had been placed to guard the Handmaiden…or to trap her?

Alia glanced sharply at her. “What do you mean?”

Bessa made a sweeping gesture, as if to encompass the room. “Unleashing all of these monsters seems out of character, doesn’t it? Up to this point everything she kept her actions hidden, subtle. It took all of us to put it together. Now she just flings monsters and the death wind left and right? Why? Because the protector is dead? That’s quite a bit of a tantrum, for someone who’s kept her cool so far.”

They rounded a corner, entering a creamy white and pale green room dedicated to the hellebores, which bloomed in winter.

“You’re assuming that she was in control of everything. Maybe the lord protector was holding her leash,” Sheridan countered.

The open corridor to their right earned a quick visual sweep from Alia. “Safe! And Sheridan has a point: Junius held the leash of the Chaos Lords. The protector could have been in charge of everything here. But Zareen Tertia said there was an arsh’atûm guarding the gate. How do we know it wasn’t running things?”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” Bessa said.

Double doors brought them to an antechamber. Fine tawny marbles of lion-bodied lamassu lined a grand staircase. Twenty-four steps up, the landing featured a marble alcove displaying a gold and ivory statue of a legendary king of Elamis, from the time before the city’s rulers had become vassals of the shahanshah. From that landing the staircase branched into two, with both halves hidden by the walls.

“Do we split up?” Nima asked.

“No,” Bessa insisted. “We’re down two people as it is. We stay together.”

“We must split up, because we can’t see the ends of the right or left staircases. Someone or something can trap us if we choose the wrong branch,” Edana pointed out.

Edana disagreed. They couldn’t see the ends of either the right or left staircase, she pointed out. She turned to Zaran Tertius, who wore white jade rings as well as blue chalcedony.

“Do you sense anything?”

He did not, but consulted his globe anyway to be certain. “Either way is clear. All the same, I think at least two should wait here. As I said, something could come at us from Erebossa.”

“As Selàna did,” Edana said quietly, before lapsing into a brooding silence.

Tregarde and Zaran Secundus decided to keep watch on the landing, while the others ascended the right staircase.

Locked double doors confronted them at the summit of the right staircase. The ornate doors, constructed of burnished gold, engraved with motifs of soaring peacocks and glorious poppies, swung open with minimal creaking when Bessa applied her thunder mace to the locks.

“I wonder what the Ellura company would do with those,” Alia mused, pointing to Bessa’s thunder mace.

“Hopefully something other than destroy things with it. The Ellura company seem to make fantastic wonders,” Bessa said.

Assured no trap lay ahead of them, they waited for Tregarde and Zaran Secundus to rejoin them.

In this quarter, the curtains remained shut, leaving the rooms in a deep gloom. Rich carpets lining the corridors muffled their footsteps. Methodically, Alia and the watchmen threw open every closed door along the way, checking for any potential threats to sneak up behind them.

They found the woman in the fifth room.

Beautifully appointed, the room clearly served as a gathering area. Three couches were arranged around a korsi. Unlikely the homey furniture of the inn, these couches were upholstered in sea silk and dyed a deep violet. Courtesy of a hitherto-unseen winter garden, vases on every table displayed pale pink roses.

The watchmen whistled at this display of wealth.

“Wonder what the shahanshah has, if our lord protector had this,” one said, gesturing at the sofa.

Having entered the room first, Alia remained a few paces in front of them. Thus, all eyes were upon her when she put a finger to her lips. Instantly on guard, everyone quieted, and looked where she pointed.

Behind the middle couch, a huge gold mirror was fixed against the wall.

Revealing a woman crouched behind the middle couch.

“You there: Put your hands up and step out where we can see you,” Alia demanded, using Anshani.

The woman shrieked, then she uncurled herself from her fetal position and slowly eased her head up. Brown eyes peered at them below raised eyebrows. Her eyes rounded when she saw the array of weapons pointing at her.

“Be quick about it,” Alia prodded. In Pelasgian she added, “People who don’t want to be found don’t hide in front of mirrors.”

The woman obeyed, and meekly stared at them.

“The she-wolves,” she whispered.

Alia and Edana rolled their eyes, and Alia said, “Even I would not be thoughtless enough to insult someone who is pointing a weapon at me. Let alone a group of people. If I have to tell you a third time to show yourself it well not go well for you. Understood?”

Now the young woman hurried from around the couch and stood in front of the korsi table. She looked no older than Bessa and Edana, and wore a fine, heavy gown of floral-patterned silk. She stared at them with doe-like eyes, but something about her stare pricked the hairs on the back of their necks. They fanned out around her, ensuring she could not escape them.

Alia began the interrogation. “We’ve been held up long enough. Answer every question we put to you without delay. Who are you, and what are you doing in here?”

“I-I-I am Friya. I’m the handmaiden of Zephyra. I heard the screams in the palace and I hid. Please don’t—”

Bessa cocked an eyebrow, and Alia asked the question that occurred to all of them. “If you’re her handmaiden, why aren’t you with her? Why cower here? Doesn’t she need you?”

“She’s gone mad,” Friya said promptly. “First she slew the Magister of War, and she banished me from her side as well. I tried to persuade her to escape with me, but she’s looking for something.”

In Rasenan Bessa said, “It’s an odd thing, for a mistress to have so little trust in her slave.”

Friya; however, spoke Rasenan, and savagely retorted, “She is mad with grief. You killed her father, after all! And my mistress always wants to be alone when she’s upset.”

“It bothers you that we killed the protector, but you seem unconcerned that his blood turned into rabisu,” Alia said. With her left hand she steadied her right hand, which gripped her gun.

Friya’s mouth worked silently as she warily eyed Alia’s weapon. Then her gaze slid to Edana’s daggers of moonbow steel.

The sigils on her knives were glowing.

Bright, snowy white light filled the room, and Edana held the knives out to make sure everyone saw.

“What is your true shape, Friya?” Edana demanded.

Friya folded her arms and clenched her jaw.

“Does Zephyra know?” Alia asked her. “Does she know you’re not a person? What kind of shadowborn are you?”

“Damn you!” Friya screeched. The lines of her face reformed as the bones stretched in her cheekbones and shrank in her jaws. Before the metamorphosis could be completed, her former appearance reasserted itself. It had all happened in the blink of an eye, but they needed no further confirmation. The watchmen swore.

“You’ve found me out. It will do you no good: I’ve already succeeded in my mission.” Friya laughed, long and loud. When she stopped laughing she plunked herself down on the couch to the right of the korsi table, and crossed her legs in a relaxed pose.

“Where is Zephyra?” Alia demanded. “Have you done something to her?”

Friya laughed again. “I can say nothing you can trust, huntress. Behold, you see that not even my shape is true. Nothing I say you’ll believe. I am the one the tiresome priests of Arenavachi”—she spit on the floor, the saliva landing only an inch from Sheridan’s boots—“tell you not to be led astray by.”

“The Deceiver!” Zaran Tertius shouted, recognizing her at last.

Friya shrugged, and only smiled.

The others exchanged glances with each other. A spirit of lies. They had always heard of such things, but to be confronted by one in the flesh was another matter.

“This is a diversion we can’t afford,” Edana warned. “Dividing the truth from what she says will take more time than we have. Let’s—”

Zaran Tertius broke ranks with them and snarled, “In the name of Arenavachi!” He flung out his arm and the sleeves of his robe fell back, revealing what he held in his hand: a gleaming ring, the same diameter as a bracelet. Through it he channeled his fire, which turned gold, and unerringly found its way to Friya.

She vanished without even a scream.

Astonished, Bessa looked from the ring to the now-empty spot where Friya had sat. She sighed in frustration. “I wish we knew what that thing was lying about. Is the handmaiden insane? Did she kill some magister? Is she even looking for something?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Zaran Tertius replied, sliding the ring back onto his wrist like a bracelet. “When her kind speak they don’t solely tell lies. Even the truth will be made their slave, in service of lies. If they want you to believe they are a friend, they will tell you true things to gain your trust. Then come the half-truths, the careful omissions, and finally the outright falsehoods.”

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“If Zephyra is searching for something, we better stop her before she finds it,” Alia pointed out.

Once again they picked up the pace, stopping only for a sweep of the other rooms until at last they came to one with an open door. Through the open door they glimpsed a lone occupant.

Her back was to them, but Edana immediately recognized the black silk gown, embroidered as it was in golden opium poppies and belladonnas.

“Now,” Edana cried.

Zephyra had only time to turn her head before silvery chains flew from Tregarde’s hands to coil themselves around her wrists. A box crashed from her hands to the floor. Zephyra made no other sound as Tregarde twisted her to face them, then pulled, dragging her towards them. Where she halted, an Eitanite priest uttered a word, and a silver circle appeared beneath her feet. Tregarde still did not let go, but Zaran Secundus took hold of one of the chains, and Zaran Tertius approached her.

Edana’s heart leapt. They successfully captured Lady Nensela’s daughter.

Alive.

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Zephyra glared at them, but said nothing. Here they stood, the three women she’d vowed to destroy. What an interesting alliance: an Eitanite, a Ta-Setian, and a Siluran, coming together to fight her. To think, she once fancied she could make a present of the fire-hair’s hands and tongue, for the sake of Amavand. Now she was the one in chains, bound by some means she did not understand.

Bound in a way preventing her from shifting into Erebossa. Mentally she cursed herself for getting caught by the Eitanite woman. Of course the she-wolves—the foreigners—figured out her powers, and therefore how to keep her from shadow-walking again.

Alia Ironwing’s eyes blazed as she stepped forward, making sure Zephyra saw her. For the first time it occurred to Zephyra to fear the priestess. The iron woman had yet to show mercy to anyone allied with Amavand, and Zephyra suspected she never would.

“I was told not to kill you,” Ironwing began. “The Huntress forbids it. But She said nothing about whether I should let you pay for your crimes.”

Zephyra raised her chin. No doubt she was supposed to torture herself by imagining what torments the iron woman would dream up for her. But Zephyra was not one to cower or beg, and at the end of the day she did not believe the priestess intended to force her to.

But the cold chains burned, and Zephyra couldn’t stop herself from chafing her wrists. The human man holding one of her chains misinterpreted her actions.

“Don’t bother trying to escape,” he said, twisting the chain around his fist. “The chains and the circle keep you bound to this world. You can’t get out of this by going into Erebossa. So settle down, little miss.”

Little miss? He dared to be so insolent with her? Inwardly she sighed. So it began. This was how conquerers treated their conquered: tossing them down from their previously exalted positions and ruthlessly grinding them underfoot.

“What do you want?” she said it quietly, so he would know he was not getting to her.

Zephyra stared past him. Two men guarded the door. One appeared to be Anshani. The second could pass for Rasenan, but he was dressed as a Lyrcanian. The Lyrcanian held a strange weapon, true to what she heard about the people of that enigmatic nation. This must be one of the weapons whose manufacture was a well-guarded secret.

The Eitanite priest seized Amavand’s box and turned it over in his hands. He would see its intricate lock but he would not be able to get past it, she was sure. Not so long as she kept the key.

Ironwing snapped her out of her reverie with a caustic, “I want to send you to the Abyss where you belong. You’ve earned it a hundred times over. But for now we’ll start with your damned abyssal you call a goddess. Zaran Tertius.” She nodded at the Salamandra standing next to Zephyra, and he seized Zephyra’s right hand.

Zephyra gasped; she had not expected a Salamandra’s hand to be so cool. He gripped her tightly, a silent threat.

“You poisoned my grove, and abducted my aunts,” Ironwing began. Her long, slender fingers gripped her amulet. “Why does your mistress want the daughters of the Huntress?”

Zephyra swallowed. Two hours ago she could have tossed off a ready answer. But now? The wraiths that had seized Amavand’s soul, and the—thing—inside the flesh of Artostes made her less certain of what she knew. Amavand had mocked her, claiming she was letting herself be swayed from the Greatest One because of ugly appearances. That Zephyra should not be influenced by the hideousness of the creatures the Greatest One had called to do her bidding.

The rabisu. The alû. The strix. The lamia. And whatever Artostes was. None of these creatures did anything good, and she could not fool herself into thinking a goddess who would summon them was good, either.

It’s not their looks, Father. It’s what they do, she thought. Could Amavand hear her? Or had the wraiths taken him to a place beyond all hope of him hearing her thoughts and knowing that she was thinking of him?

For the first time in her life her mind was bereft of any plans, any answers. Her enemies were before her and would likely kill her, and she couldn’t even bring herself to care. Kill her or not—What did it matter either way? But then she started, realizing what Ironwing had said.

The Huntress didn’t want her to be killed? Why? That made no sense at all.

“What makes you think you can believe what I say?” Zephyra finally asked.

“If you lie I’ll burn you,” Zaran Tertius said with a shrug.

That was when she noticed the white jadestone hanging from his third spike. Getting burned by Salamandra fire was reputedly similar to getting touched by an asrai, except instead of feeling cold, whatever part had been touched by that fire would burn forever more. He trapped her right hand. If the rumors were right, she would have to cut it off just to escape lifelong torment.

Or she could just die and get it over with.

“Fine. You’ve made your point. I am in your power. Exult if you will. As for your question: the dryads are Her enemies. Why wouldn’t She kill them?”

Ironwing’s cool stare made her look so very much like the statues of the Huntress at that moment.

“And that was enough for you?” Ironwing demanded. “You just sent people all the way to Lyrcania just to kill some dryads you don’t like? It didn’t have anything to do with your wanting more lamias and soul-thieves brought into this world, did it? What does it say to you, that your queen is the enemy of One who protects people from these horrors?”

Soul thieves? A bone-deep cold seeped into Zephyra at the thought. Why steal a soul? To do what? Coyness felt repugnant to her now. The foreigners had come a long way to find her, and their accusations against her, against Amavand, against the Greatest One, could not be lightly dodged. She had no justification for soul-taking. The presence of the lamia and strix were bad enough, and those evils were unleashed by her side.

“This is what I know: Lord Protector Amavand taught me the dryads and the naiads once faithfully served the Greatest One, in a bygone age. Then along came the False Ones—whom you worship as gods—and the dryads and such turned aside from their paths. Six years ago, men, women, and children were massacred in this palace. Slain by dryads and their khrestai servants. I am sure you would deny all of this.”

Her hand warmed slightly, and she would have jerked it away but for the iron grip of Zaran Tertius. He glared down at her, his eyes small and glinting. Should she make one wrong move he would render her to fat and ash in a heartbeat, she was sure of it. A faint tinge bloomed on his spikes, and it was all she could do not to cry out in terror.

“What part of what you say don’t you believe?” he demanded.

Zephyra swallowed. Undoubtedly he thought killing her would be justified. Could she count on him to be honorable enough to listen to her, or would he twist her words to find an excuse for killing her? Ironwing could hardly stop him in time, could she? Wait—! How had it come to pass that she was relying on Ironwing for protection?!

“I believe that the protector told me those things,” she said carefully. Her chest hurt as she forced herself to say, “I no longer know that I believe what he said.”

“Oh? And why is that?” Ironwing scoffed.

Without heat Zephyra replied, “If arsh’atûm and other fiends bowed down to you, and saluted your presence, you might question a few things, too. Especially if you saw the soul wraiths take your father.”

That made them pause. They glanced at each other.

Zaran Tertius broke the silence. “She believes that,” he judged.

The pale foreigner—Zephyra forced herself to remember that the woman’s name was Bessa—looked askance at her. She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped herself.

However the Eitanite woman, whose name she had never heard, said something that made Zephyra’s breath catch.

“That man was not your father.”

Zephyra stepped back, then jerked sideways when she brushed Zaran Tertius’s robes.

“How do you know that?”

All control vanished, she could not hide her astonishment as she gaped at the foreigners. How had the foreigner known what Zephyra herself had only learned a few hours ago?

Zephyra’s heart pounded so loudly she was sure the others could hear it. What did it mean that the foreigner had known something about her that she herself had not known? Maybe the Eitanite had not been frightened when she’d seen Zephyra in Arenavachi’s temple. Maybe her look was one of recognition?

The woman dryly replied, “The protector did not appear to be a Pelasgian sea captain. I will answer your questions, but first you answer ours: where will Rahqu send the Atta’u?”

Reeling, Zephyra blinked stupidly in response. A Pelasgian captain of a ship? And he had died in the storm Artostes had made…the storm Artostes made on the orders of the Goddess—fellshade.

Fellshade.

So. How easily she demoted her goddess to a mere fellshade. And—who was her true father? The question sparked something deep inside her.

Until this moment she was not sure if she wanted to live or die. Those who could answer her questions had refused to enlighten her before they died. In death they separated her from the truth. From knowledge. From certainty.

“Rahqu?” she asked, unable to keep the bewilderment from her voice.

“That’s the name of your ‘goddess.’ Said the blood of the man you called ‘Father,’” Alia said, undisguised scorn in her voice.

Thousands of questions spun in Zephyra’s mind. Her enemies knew far more about her than she did. Guile would not serve her now. No point in trying to gain any advantage. These people only wanted answers from her. And she only wanted answers from them.

She straightened her spine. For hours her mind and her heart waged war with each other. Should she believe anything Amavand and his goddess told her? Or should she seek after the prophet who had warned her? Should she flee from, or destroy the women who had destroyed the man she’d thought was her father? Hours earlier she would have prayed for wisdom. But now? What god would hear her now?

Only one certainty presented itself to her: no longer did she desire to kill the women responsible for Amavand’s death.

But. Somehow, she must keep them from killing her. Ironwing had claimed she wouldn’t, and so far she had never lied to Zephyra. All the same, safety lay in making herself useful.

Her palm was still warm.

“I don’t know where she’ll send the giants,” she admitted at last. “In truth I tell you I am no longer sure of what I knew. It may profit you to know what the lord protector and I were to do in Elamis.”

Haltingly at first, she told them. She started with what Amavand had shown her of his memories. Then her training: she was to undo the works of the False Ones. Her first test was in ensuring that the dryads faltered. They were keeping out the Greatest One, keeping her trapped in Erebossa, and they needed to be eliminated.

“We brought the dryads here. Though I asked, they never admitted they were corrupted as I had been told they’d been. But it didn’t matter,” Zephyra said dully. “We took their seeds, so the saplings could grow uncorrupted when we plant them. The Greatest One asked that we slay the dryads, that they could be returned to her side and reborn as pure as they once were.”

Ironwing tightened her grip on her weapon. Her nostrils flared.

“Ironwing,” the Lyrcanian man by the door said, his tone urgent. “Ironwing, the Huntress—”

“I know what She said,” Ironwing snapped. Her voice shook with rage as she asked, “How could you possibly have believed this nonsense? Such appallingly obvious lies, and you fell for it?”

“With the spirit of deception, and an Erebossan queen’s servant lying to her every day, how could she not have been deceived?” Bessa pointed out. “Lies surrounded her everywhere she turned.”

“Don’t make excuses for her!”

Prudently, Zephyra held her tongue. No excuses came to mind—none she herself would believe—and she would not attempt to manufacture any. Her hand not withstanding, the icy daggers in her soul still chilled her. Praying for wisdom was not an option, she reminded herself. She had made herself the enemy of the known gods. She had turned her back on the Greatest One. If Ironwing or the Salamandra slew her now, the soul wraiths would take her away.

Of this she was certain.

Bessa walked over to Ironwing and clasped her shoulders. She waited until the woman lowered her weapon and looked her in the eyes before saying, “You heard what your aunt said. Selàna was corrupted. And you know what we have to do if we’re going to save everyone.”

Selàna?

“We have her now,” the Eitanite woman said. “Keep the chains on her and we can take her with us. If the others can’t close the shadow gate after all we can destroy the citadel. ”

Destroy the palace? Would they really do something so barbaric? But even the Anshani men nodded at this suggestion, and if they were willing…

“Erebossi have walked here. We should bring it down regardless,” Ironwing insisted. She gestured to the Eitanite priest. “Banish the circle. We’re taking her with us.”

The priest handed the box to Ironwing, and came over to Zephyra. The tall sorcerer was still holding one of her chains. He stepped forward as well. The priest had looped the chain over her wrist, now he clamped cuffs on her instead. Eitanite symbols incised into them glowed with a violet light. One symbol represented life, and the other referred to a yoke. So, they used Eitanite powers to trap her, she realized.

Not that it mattered. Escaping was no longer her goal. Instead she looked around her bedchamber, taking it in. After all, she would never return here once her captors dragged her away.

But when she looked around the room, she found that the emptiness in her heart would not fill: she was not attached to anything. Not the sumptuous furnishings upholstered in blue and ivory silk, not the expensive baubles and trinkets scattered in her jewel boxes, nothing moved her. The room was a lie, being designated for a member of the lord protector’s family.

And she was not his family.

Only the altar held some significance for her, as it was the place where she communed with her goddess. The altar—

Zephyra shrieked as the altar burst in an explosion of stone and wood. It collapsed in a heap, shattered beyond repair. The scent of a thunderstorm filled the air, and she realized she had seen a flash of lightning and heard a clap of thunder.

Ironwing. The huntress was still pointing the lightning quiver, obviously having snatched it from its now-empty sheath on Bessa’s belt. Cool and calm, Ironwing turned back to face a stunned-looking Bessa and handed her the weapon, nodding once at her.

“Let’s go,” the priestess said.

She didn’t even look at Zephyra as she swept from the room.