The Golden Queen

Chapter 10

The light shined all around the bridge, bathing every grass blade in a brilliant glow. Gravity waves shook the bridge, making it thunder and vibrate so that bits of dirt and paint rained down. Maggie hugged Gallen. Overhead, Gallen heard someone shout, “I’m not armed! I’m not armed!”

Someone’s up there, Gallen realized.

“I was only out for some exercise,” a man called. “There is no harm in that.” Gallen recognized the voice. Veriasse.

The flier hovered nearer. “Citizen, have you seen anyone pass you on the road?”

“Indeed,” Veriasse said. “A magcar flashed past me not five minutes ago.”

“Can you describe its occupants?”

“It carried only two-one was a woman. I cannot be sure of the sex of the driver.”

Without another word, the flier darted south. Gallen peeked out and saw a second white, saucer-shaped flier that had been zigzagging over the far side of the river do likewise.

Veriasse whispered, “Gallen? Maggie?”

“Down here.” Gallen started to climb up. “What are you doing back? I thought you were gone?”

“Shhh … talk softer. The gate we sought was guarded, so Everynne and I were forced to retreat. Don’t climb up here. The night scopes on the vanquisher’s flier can spot a man at forty miles. It is likely that I am being watched. Stay hidden and speak softly. The fliers can discern loud sounds, but softer sounds are masked by the fluctuation of air molecules that are disturbed by the fliers’ gravity waves. I’ll meet you at your camp at dawn. For now, follow the creek, keeping under heavy cover, then circle back through the woods. As an information manager for Fale, I’ve taken the liberty of issuing you false identifications. If you are captured, feign innocence. You will not be harmed.”

“I wondered how I got credits on that empty chip,” Gallen whispered. “I knew I had a hidden ally.”

“Good luck,” Veriasse whispered, and he hurried away.

Gallen led Maggie through the ravine into the hills. They crept under the starlight, more anxious to keep under cover than make good time. They reached camp before dawn, so they took shelter in a deep grotto to sleep.

At dawn, Veriasse woke them with a whistle. He stood at the top of a small rise, holding three bundles tied with string. He was gazing north. It took Gallen a second to realize that Veriasse was calling to Everynne and Orick. Gallen got up and stretched. In the distance, he could discern Everynne and Orick making their way through the woods. He wondered at the old man’s uncanny ability to walk softly in such heavy growth, to find them no matter where they hid.

Gallen shook Maggie awake, then walked up the rise. “Thank you again for your help last night, Veriasse. How did you know we were under the bridge?”

“I watched you from a distance,” Veriasse said. “I saw you enter Maggie’s room and effect her escape. I was impressed at the last, when you closed her window as you leapt out. I’m sure that it confused the guards, forcing them to search for you within the compound. In fact, they are probably still concentrating their main search inside. Anyway, I saw you leap into the river, and by gauging the flow of the current was able to guess where you would exit. I would say that you planned your escape fairly well, although your lack of education was almost your undoing.”

“In what way?” Gallen asked, perplexed.

“You didn’t know about the capabilities of modern pursuit vehicles. That was my fault, for not warning you. But you also tried to beat the motion detectors. I suspected you would, so I went to Maggie’s window and put jammers down before you arrived.”

“You mean you were there?”

“Just for a moment.”

“Why didn’t you rescue Maggie yourself?”

“And expose myself to unnecessary hazards? As long as you were willing to take the major risk, it seemed reasonable to let you. Besides, if you had failed, you would have needed me to rescue you both.”

Gallen stared at the ground, annoyed. Veriasse’s argument made sense, but an hour ago Gallen had felt like a hero. Now he felt like a child who had been caught doing something stupid. The older man must have guessed what he was thinking. “You are a talented and courageous young man. I’d like to imagine that I was as good when I was your age, but I was not. I have trained many guardians in my time. Would you like to be one of them?”

Gallen nodded.

Veriasse began unwrapping his bundles. He had brought a black cloak for Gallen, with black boots and gloves and a lavender mask. The outfit bore two scabbards, one for an incendiary rifle. Gallen stared at them in awe, for it was the attire he had seen worn not five nights ago by a man he had thought to be a sidhe.

“Those are the clothes of a Lord of Fale, but who wears these colors?” Gallen asked.

“I wore these colors when I was young,” Veriasse said. “They were my colors as Lord Protector. Lord Oboforron purchased them from me a few years back, but he was executed by the dronon recently, so I bought the title back last night. I told you I had issued you a new identity. You will need clothes to match the part. Put on the robe.”

Gallen put on the outfit. The boots shrunk around his feet as soon as he pulled them on, and he robe seemed massive, thick enough to foil a dagger blow, but was actually very light and comfortable. There was some type of metal padding in the gloves on the knuckles and at the palm and edge of the hand. Gallen imagined that if he landed a blow while wearing the gloves, it would be devastating. He strapped on the weapons.

With the outfit was a personal intelligence, a fine net with many triangles of silver. Gallen hesitated to put it on, for he had never worn a mantle. He was becoming familiar enough with personal intelligences that he did not know if he wanted to trust this one, but Veriasse urged, “Go ahead. It will whisper the intricacies of the protector’s art for you, and it can teach you much that will be of value.”

Gallen put on the silver mantle, felt the now familiar thrumming in his head as the intelligence established communication. Yet his mind did not flood with images like it had at the pidc. Instead, his muscles seemed to tighten involuntarily, as if he were preparing to leap into action, yet there was no tension. He felt almost relaxed, and his senses became heightened. Gallen almost felt as if … he listened, and in the distance to the south, perhaps twenty miles away, he heard a flier approaching. The vanquisher pilot was giving a report over the radio, telling his supervisors that he had found nothing in his search of the area.

“What?” Gallen said. “What is this thing doing to me?”

“This mantle has many sensors built into it,” Veriasse said. “It hears, sees, smells. It detects motions and weaponry better than any mere human ever could. If you want to see something in the distance, close your eyes and think of the thing you want to see. As long as the object is within your line of sight, its image will appear in your mind, in expanded form. Over time you will learn to access the mantle’s higher awareness without conscious thought.”

“How does this thing teach?” Gallen asked.

“When you are safe, away from harm, in quiet moments it will begin training you in earnest. But for now, you are in danger. The mantle will simply be prepared for whatever comes our way. In the early decades of your training, should anything put you in danger, just let yourself go, follow your instincts. Wisdom will flow to you in your time of need.”

Gallen picked up the mask. It looked like a thin layer of gel, but when he put it on his face, it stuck with an adhesive quality. He hadn’t fitted the mask perfectly, but like the boots, it flowed to fit the contours of his face.

For Maggie, Veriasse had a yellow-ocher robe with a pale green mask. Her mantle was large indeed, with dozens of round silver icons that flowed down her back to her waist. “I have decided to dress you as a Lady of Technicians,” he said. “You will find that this intelligence knows far more than your little Guide did, but it is a gentle servant, not a cruel master. You can remove it any time you wish.”

“I don’t understand,” Maggie said, pulling the yellow robe over her thin nightgown. “These mantles must be expensive.”

“Indeed,” Veriasse said, “but I have been very wealthy for a very long time. And, so, I am free to give you these.”

“You were Semarritte’s husband before the dronon overcame her?” Gallen asked.

“Husband?” Veriasse said. “An odd word, and a very old one, and I was not her husband in the way that you think, though I husbanded her. I nurtured her and protected her as much as any man could, and I made a career of it. Indeed, Gallen, I once thought of myself as being very much like you-a bodyguard, a protector. But I think the dronon have a clearer view of what I am.

“I played the part of Semarritte’s Lord Escort, the Waymaker. Among the dronon, the escorts battle for the right to become the Golden Queen’s personal honor guard. The winner takes the title of Lord Escort. The Lord Escorts from different hives then engage in ritual combat, and the winner’s Golden Queen takes the high throne, making her Lord of the Swarm. Thus her Lord Escort is also called the ‘Waymaker,’ he who secures the path to the throne.

“It was my job to fight Semarritte’s battles when needed, to protect her from other powerful lords. But I could never have been Semarritte’s husband in the sense that you mean. Only her caretaker. Now, I am the Waymaker to her daughter, Everynne.”

“You mean Everynne isn’t your daughter?” Maggie asked.

“Not my biological daughter,” Veriasse answered. “She is a Tharrin, from a race born to rule. I am from less elegant stock. She sometimes calls me father from affection, and I call her daughter perhaps because I raised her as my own. She is, in fact, a duplicate of Semarritte, cloned from her cells.”

As Orick accompanied Maggie to the top of the rise, Veriasse said, “Our magcar can carry all five of us, but I’m afraid that you, Orick, will be easily noticed. We will simply have to take our chances, keep you out of sight. I purchased a cloak to disguise you on our drive to the city of Guianne.”

Orick hugged Gallen and Maggie, and his heart swelled with joy. “My prayers have been answered. You are safe.”

“You should also thank Veriasse,” Gallen said. “The rescue went smoothly because of him.”

Orick wondered at this. It seemed to him that they were in trouble precisely for trying to help Everynne and Veriasse. It was only fit that Veriasse should help them in return.

Yet as he watched Maggie and Gallen, Orick realized that this adventure was not over. It had only begun, yet by Maggie’s pale features, the lines in her haunted face, he could tell that they had already suffered casualties. Gallen, in his mask of lavender starlight, looked as if he were fast becoming a sidhe. Maggie and Gallen would never recover from this trip. And Orick felt cast off, alone. Of them all, only he had had the strength to refuse to accept this world, preferring to suffer the consequences of that decision.

From his last bundle, Veriasse brought out a cloak in colors of forest brown, then began fastening it around Orick’s neck. But the fastener would not let Veriasse stretch the cloak around Orick’s neck completely. Orick was forced to stand for several minutes, and he grumbled at being compelled into an uncomfortable position for so long. Veriasse did not hurry.

Orick looked into Veriasse’s deep blue eyes as the old man worked at the fastener, and saw in them an intensity, a deliberateness that few men carried. Here was a man, Orick decided, who had become a fanatic, a man who could be driven beyond mortal efforts.

Veriasse managed to fasten the cloak, then led them to the magcar and drove south for an hour through a winding mountain pass. In that time, they had to stop at two inspection stations where green-skinned ogres questioned them. Yet after checking the false identification for Maggie and Everynne, the ogres let them pass.

As the magcar climbed over a last mountain, Orick could taste the scent of sea air even before they saw the water beyond. The city of Guianne gleamed white below them, a collection of exotic domes that rested on a sandy beach like broken eggshells from some giant bird. Above the city, people flew lazily in the air currents, clear wings strapped to their backs flashing like giant dragonflies.

It was only as Veriasse descended toward the city that Orick began to realize how large it must be. He drove for five minutes, and though the buildings loomed larger, they were still very far away.

Just as Orick began to get used to the idea of those enormous buildings, the winged people scattered away from one quadrant of the city, then one round building lifted into the air, defying gravity, and continued climbing straight up into the morning until it vanished behind a layer of clouds.

“By Saint Jermaine’s wagging beard, you’ll not get me in one of those buildings!” Orick shouted.

“That isn’t a building,” Maggie said. “It’s a starship. All of the domes are starships.” Orick looked over at Maggie. She wore a strange expression, one of both profound awe and conquest. He had never seen her so happy, so transformed by wonder. “And I know how they work.”

Orick crossed himself to ward off bad luck. He muttered under his breath. “I don’t know why I came here. Nothing good can come of it, as I’ve said all along. You stay right where you belong, Orick. Bears need the woods like birds need sky.”

The car skimmed over the highway, then turned onto one of many branching boulevards. When they neared the city, the egg-shaped ships loomed above them. Beneath the ships was a sprawling conglomeration of tunnels and passages that seemed to wind about in meandering patterns like veins in a leaf.

Veriasse pulled up to one huge tunnel-like opening and passed under an arch. The presence of the dronon vanquishers was heavier here than it had been in Toohkansay. A dozen vanquishers manned an outpost at the gate, brandishing oversized incendiary rifles. Veriasse stopped to give his identification.

The vanquishers let the car pass. Veriasse drove down a broad boulevard beneath the covered city, a vast arching tunnel whose ceiling could not have been less than three hundred feet high. Everywhere along the sides of the street were shops with exotic displays. The scent of foods unfamiliar to Orick wafted through the tunnel. Smaller side passages led off to living areas and uncovered parkways. Veriasse drove slowly, for many pedestrians and other vehicles also negotiated the great boulevard. A dozen times, Orick was tempted to ask Veriasse to stop so that he could tryout some pastry or other dish sold by vendors, but the old man kept driving for nearly an hour, heading down at a slight angle.

It was getting darker. Orick glanced up at the huge skylights, saw that they had descended below the ocean. Schools of fish swam in the green waters above them.

Far from the gates of the city, Veriasse halted the car in front of a building whose strange facade attracted Orick. The building displayed no markings to explain its purpose to passersby. Lampposts in front had glow globes attached, but the muted lights gave the place a somber appearance. To heighten the solemn atmosphere, Orick saw that there were no businesses nearby for hundreds of yards. The building was silent. A few people hurried in, some away, but all of them kept their heads low, as if to hide their identities. The building’s facade showed in bas-relief an image of a woman standing with arms outstretched. Behind her glittered a field of gold stars. The handiwork was astonishing, beautiful, but something more attracted Orick: the woman herself.

“Hey, that’s a picture of Everynne,” Orick said.

“Shhh,” Veriasse muttered. “It’s not Everynne. That is an image of Semarritte, Everynne’s mother, who was once our great judge. This is her tomb.”

Now Orick understood why the place was so quiet, so solemn.

“Why are the lights so low?” Everynne asked. “It looks as if the building is closed.” Indeed, beside the doors were two burly vanquishers, watching the entrance like ogres.

“The dronon would close the tomb, if they dared,” Veriasse said. “They want the memory of Semarritte to die with her. But too many remember her still. Too many revere her, and this confuses the dronon. Reverence for the vanquished is a concept that is alien to them.”

Orick didn’t say anything, but he doubted that anyone would revere a mere woman as much as the old man said. Semarritte was, after all, only human, but Veriasse spoke of her with an awe that Orick reserved only for God and his servants.

They got out of the car. Both Everynne and Veriasse refused to slouch and scurry to the entrance as others had. Instead, they walked tall and proud up the broad steps, toward a large ornate door. The green-skinned ogres stood silently, but when they saw Gallen, one of them reached out a hand to Gallen’s shoulder, stopping him. The guardian said, “There was a time when I served one who wore those colors.”

Gallen turned, looked up from beneath his black hood, and his lavender mask of starlight twisted in rage at being stopped, as if the ogre were some gnat that Gallen would squash. “Many things are changing,” Gallen said. “I hope you served him as well as you do your new lord.”

The ogre removed his hand from Gallen’s shoulder, and the group passed through the doors into what Orick recognized as a cathedral. The room was silent, heavily carpeted with red fabric, and the sound of a muttered word or cough did not echo back from the ceiling. They walked up an aisle between rows of pews, where a few mourners sat quietly. Most of the mourners were lords, with their glowing masks and somber robes, and Orick wondered at this. Apparently, the inside of this building was off limits to common folk. Or perhaps commoners feared to worship here.

Ahead was a great stone pulpit with what looked to be an image of the stricken Christ carved upon it. Upon the stone pulpit stood a ghostly apparition of Semarritte, speaking softly to the crowd. Her clear voice seemed to issue from her lips, saying, “The rightful duty of one who would be your leader is to become the Servant of All. We Tharrin believe that those who serve must do so in both thought and deed, subjugating all selfish desires. Any leader who does less is not worthy of either position or honor.…”

Orick listened enrapt, for the Lady Semarritte’s teachings were not like those he had ever heard from any puffed-up mayor or clan chieftain back in County Morgan. These words recalled to Orick’s mind the teachings of Christ to his disciples when they argued about who would become the greatest in the kingdom of heaven: “Let him who would be greatest among you, become the servant of all.” The hair began rising on the back of Orick’s neck, for here among the sidhe, this was indeed their church, and the Lady Semarritte had been their god.

As Orick got closer, he saw that it was not Christ at all carved upon the pulpit but a blackened skeleton fused against the stone. Here were the remains of Everynne’s mother. The flesh had burned from her bones and turned into a black, oily substance, but the whole skeleton was intact, hands clawed out protectively as if the dead woman had raised them to ward off a blow, legs tilted askew. Bits of dark hair and the chainmail netting of her mantle were fused into the stone, along with a necklace and other metal items.

This is what someone looks like after getting shot with an incendiary rifle, Orick realized. He’d seen Father Heany go down in flames back in Clere, but he had not realized the full magnitude of what the weapon could do.

The five of them lingered before the blasted remains. Veriasse knelt on one knee, and Everynne got down on both knees and wept softly over her mother’s body. Above them on the pulpit, the image of the dead queen continued her sermon for several minutes, detailing the rightful duties of a judge, pledging to fulfill those duties for as long as her people wanted her. When she finished, the image faded, and a voice floated through the hall, saying that the dead woman’s oration would be repeated in five minutes.

Veriasse touched Everynne’s shoulder and whispered, “It’s time, my daughter, my lord.” Several people got up to leave, but Veriasse walked to the back of the room, closed the inner doors to the chapel while Everynne went to the podium. When she reached the top, she pulled back her robe to expose her face, peeled away the pale blue mask.

She began speaking, reciting what Orick was sure must have been the beginning of Semarritte’s oration. “Through all the heavens, at all times, among all peoples, the greatest treasure of a nation has always been the quality and number of its good leaders. No abundance of wealth can quell the rapaciousness of a tyrant. No nation can count itself fortunate while groaning under the iron foot of war. No people can afford to tolerate corruption at the hands of a governor, whether that governor was chosen in free election or has maneuvered himself into position through influence.”

Orick’s hair bristled, and he wondered that Everynne would dare to speak so with the vanquishers out at the gates of the cathedral, but Everynne did not shrink from her duty. Instead, as she spoke she seemed to grow in size and power and majesty. She pulled off her outer robe, and beneath it she wore a pale blue gown. The light that had been shining upon the skeletal remains of Everynne’s dead mother now shone fully on her, and Everynne stood in the darkness, shining like a bolt of lightning.

Orick looked back at the pews, and these handful of mourners who had come to pay homage to the dead Semarritte now all stood, mouths agape, to see their great judge standing before them, as one raised from the dead. Some of them wept openly, and Orick watched one woman put her hand to her mouth and repeatedly cry out in astonishment.

Everynne continued. “And so you have fashioned us Tharrin to keep the peace among you, to establish order and ensure that every person is granted the right to life, liberty, and the freedom to prosper according to their best abilities.

“The rightful duty of one who would be your leader is to become the Servant of All. We Tharrin believe that those who serve must do so in both thought and deed, subjugating all selfish desires. Any leader who does less is not worthy of either position or honor.” At this point she cut the oration short, and said, “I stand before you, offering to become the leader you have sought. I am Everynne, the daughter to Semarritte, and I was born Tharrin. I seek to cast the dronon from the midst of our realm, but I cannot do it alone. Who among you will come to my aid?”

From every corner of the room, the people erupted with shouts of “I! I! I will help you!” and the proud lords in their gleaming masks rushed forward, weeping in glee like children to fall at Everynne’s knees. They knelt at her feet, reaching up their hands in adoration so that she could touch them, not daring to touch her on their own, and Everynne grasped each person’s hand firmly and thanked each lord.

And somehow, Orick the bear, who had always believed that he would become a servant of God, found himself rushing forward into the small crowd. He sat down and raised his paw, and Everynne smiled at him in surprise, tears filling her pale blue eyes. “Orick!” She laughed. “Even you?”

“I will aid you, lady, though I be the humblest of your servants,” he said firmly.

“No doubt you shall be among the most valiant,” Everynne said as she knelt to kiss his paw. And even though she had not asked it, Orick felt as if he ought to take his priestly vows of poverty and chastity.