Sunday's Child(31)
The cloister wound downward and back, cutting deep into the heart of the mountain. Green witchfire flickering in the torches lining the walls lit her way, giving the hall a ghostly, iridescent glow. This was the product of magic, and the light gave off no heat as she paused, passing her hand over one of the emerald flames.
She had seen such things in her time here in Helenrisia. The country bordered the Wastelands, its warped magic an awesome, living thing felt by all the denizens of the north. Nearly everyone she met could perform some small enchantment as the residual effects of ancient forces bled across the forbidden borders, touching upon anyone living nearby. Hel’s king was the most obvious recipient of its power.
Unlike her own people, the Helenese didn’t find his appearance so strange or frightening. Castil had wondered about it until a few conversations enlightened her. It was Thesla who revealed the cause of Doranis’s coloration, or lack thereof, and his skill with the many enchantments he could perform.
“His mother was abducted, you know.” She worked with Castil to fold back the bed linens and run the warming pan across the cold sheets.
“Abducted? By whom?”
“The Bahauran, when she carried His Majesty in her belly. My mother says the old king went nearly mad with rage.”
Bahauran. Legendary denizens of the Wastelands. Descendents of the vanished Elders, they lived in the frozen, ruined cities, surrounded by the magic that twisted their bodies over eons of time. But where it took, it also gave back. There were tales told in scrolls and around campfires as far south as the Sedbar Islands, of the great sorcerers who lived in the ancient and forbidden Wastelands.
“Why would they kidnap the queen?”
The girl shrugged. “No one knows. She was returned four days later, her memory of her time among them gone. But you see what that sojourn did?”
Castil nodded, her brow knitted. The prince had been marked before his birth by his mother’s capture. He was a magus king now, like and yet unlike the Bahauran. Leached of all color as they were, with the power of the Wastelands coming easily to him, he was neither misshapen nor mad. His people, who lived within the shadow of the forbidden territory, accepted him easily enough. It was only outside their borders that the fear abided, the uneasiness at gazing upon a man so obviously graced with an ancient and mysterious force.
The green light brightened when Castil neared a door surrounded by numerous small torches. The hinges squeaked in protest as she opened it and stepped inside. Her delighted inhalation echoed in the chamber at the sight of a large bubbling spring, nearly hidden within swathing veils of steam drifting off the water. Narrow steps cut into the floor descended into the pool to disappear from view under the water.
The chamber housing the spring was vast, with sloping tunnels that disappeared farther into the belly of the mountain. A skilled painter had depicted scenes of Helenese life on some of the smoother walls, and heavy tapestries covered portions of the floor to cushion one’s feet. It was a sumptuous place, especially among the more austere surroundings of the Frozen Maiden.
Castil placed her dry cloth, tunic and shoes in a neat pile on one of the rugs before shrugging out of her robe and chemise. Without the protection of the garments, she shuddered from the damp chill. The water looked inviting, and she dipped her toe in to test its warmth. It was hot, but not so hot as to scald, and the effervescent bubbling tickled her feet. She descended the steps and sank into the water with a happy sigh.
An amused, throaty voice shattered her assumption that she was alone. “That certainly took you long enough.”
Castil yelped, startled by the unexpected company. Her heart pounded in her chest. She sank lower into the water and discovered Doranis swimming lazily toward her, his white skin flushed a pale rose from the heat. His light eyes were narrowed with laughter and something else as he waded closer to her.
“You-you-your Majesty,” she stammered, “you scared me. I thought I was alone.”
He circled her in a lazy lap around the pool, the motion emphasizing his muscled back and arms as he slid through the water. “Forgive me, Castil. It wasn’t my intention to frighten you.”
She tracked his movements, pivoting so she always faced him. The water was cloudy, but offered very little modesty. And he certainly got an eyeful when she undressed, unaware that he lurked in the pool, watching. His eyes, lit with a faint, mocking humor, assured her of that particular truth.
“You should have spoken sooner.” She scolded him, her voice severe. “Sire,” she added in grudging tones.
Doranis laughed, swimming ever closer to her in diminishing circles. “Indeed? And why is that? I was treated to the most beautiful sight. A lovely woman descending into a bath is a blessing of the gods, Castil il Veras.”
A hard ache settled beneath her ribs at his words. She knew her strengths. Intelligent, practical and friendly; these were all the things given to her at birth, traits of which she was proud. But beauty was not among them. “Plain as an unfinished door,” some of her less sensitive relatives had said, and she had come to accept that a lack of beauty combined with a lack of wealth would leave her locked from the marriage market. For who among the boyars would want a homely, dowerless scribes woman? Such a future had never bothered her. Until now.
She looked beyond him to the ripple and slope of a rock wall at the chamber’s far end, her voice tense. “Why do you say these things?” She felt the water still.