by ‘As waiting rooms go,’ said Jay, ‘This one isn’t bad.’ He reposed himself upon the grass once more, shut his eyes, and apparently dozed off.
I stood watching him for a few minutes, undecided about whether or not to interrupt his nap. As opportunities for R&R went, the locale was ideal but the timing was pretty bad.
But he looked so comfortable lying stretched out in the verdure, with a tiny half-smile on his sun-bathed face, that I didn’t have the heart.
He didn’t seem to mind that he was exhausted, yet expected to soldier on; nor that Milady kept him hopping, week in, week out. He never complained. Either he loved the job that much, or he had one hell of a work ethic.
Which made me wonder, once again, about the Jay behind the workhorse façade. Though we’d been working together for some weeks now, I was aware that I still didn’t know him very well. There had hardly been the time to try. The Jay I knew was tireless, unbelievably dedicated, magickally remarkable, and very self-contained. He’d occasionally got a little irritated with me (my fault, always), but his temper rarely frayed, he never panicked, and he hardly ever worried. A cool cucumber, you might say.
But nobody was like that all the time. Em Rogan had called him “controlled”, and she was right. Where was the real Jay, behind the top-of-the-class star student of the Hidden University? What did he care about, besides his studies and his mission with the Society? The only glimpses I’d really had into his inner world were disparate things like his dress sense (that jacket didn’t quite go with the image), the motorbike (ditto), and…
Nope, that was about it.
Might have something to do with the family, I mused. The only time I really saw him animated was when he talked about his siblings, of which there were at least three—
‘You’re staring at me,’ said Jay, and I realised with a start that his dark eyes were open.
‘Was not,’ I said automatically.
‘And you had that pensive look on your face.’
‘Pensive?’ I tried my best smile on him. ‘Wasn’t thinking anything, I swear.’
‘One might even say, inquisitive.’ Jay sat up with a slight groan, and brushed grass seeds out of his hair. ‘Whatever I’ve done to deserve such scrutiny, I beg mercy.’
‘I was just wondering,’ I began, but with a whoosh of magick — tasting like clear air after a thunderstorm, and smelling of white wine — our not-so-friendly local sprite was back.
She’d developed a smile.
‘My name is—’ she said, followed by several unpronounceable syllables I will not attempt to recreate. ‘It means flow of bright water in your tongue.’
‘…Is it all right if we call you that?’ I said.
‘Maybe just “Flow”,’ Jay amended.
Flow bowed her assent. ‘You are welcome in Aylligranir, Cordelia Vesper and Jay Patel,’ she announced. ‘Her Majesty is eager to meet the envoys of Queen Delia. If you will follow me?’
Her manner being far more gracious than before, I was somewhat surprised, and a shade uneasy. Obviously, our ruse had succeeded better than I had expected. Hopefully, anyway. That, or this was a counter-ruse, and upon accepting Flow’s gracious invitation we were to be thrown into a deep, dark dungeon.
And how was it that she knew our names? I didn’t remember telling her mine, let alone Jay’s.
‘Our fame has preceded us,’ I whispered to Jay, as Flow walked, stately and straight-backed, towards the sheer hillside.
‘Can’t decide if that’s a good thing or bad,’ Jay muttered.
Neither could I.
Instead of coming to an abrupt halt at the base of the emerald-green hill, Flow wavered like the water whose namesake she was, and vanished.
‘Um,’ said Jay. ‘What do we do?’
I eyed the impenetrable verdure, no less confused. ‘When in doubt, follow suit,’ I said, and walked after Flow, putting my feet, as best I could, exactly where she had stepped.
It’s hard to walk face-first into a slab of rock, so I shut my eyes.
No impact. No grazed nose. I took two steps, then three, then five, and when I still felt free-flowing air around my face I hazarded a glance.
‘Oh,’ I said, and stopped.
Flow had walked us into the middle of a city. Right into the middle: we stood in the centre of a wide street, paved in pale, silver-touched stone. To my left and right, and all around me, stupendous buildings soared. They were tall, they were graceful, they were pale and interesting, yet touched here and there with bright motes of colour. Starstone liberally glimmered, everywhere I looked. Pointed arches embraced grand, clear windows bordered in stained glass; engraved pilasters and carved friezes graced every façade.
I heard music: faint, ethereal, enticing. Faerie bells upon a summer breeze.
It reminded me, sharply, of the music I had twice heard Jay draw forth from a piano, or a spinet, and I looked keenly at him.
‘What?’ he said. ‘I can’t possibly be more interesting to look at than all of this.’
‘Nothing. Sorry.’ I needed to put a lid on my curiosity. Jay wasn’t a mystery to solve.
Flow, oblivious alike to our awed wonder and our conversation, floated away down the street. I hurried to catch up. There were not many other Yllanfallen abroad; our footsteps echoed in the quiet, and the distant music teased insistently at me.
Ahead of us loomed a structure of such size and splendour as to put all the rest to shame: a palace, in other words, set in gardens of such verdure, such ethereal beauty, I could have lived there forever.
And as such, I was obliged to stifle an intense desire to turn tail and run away.
We were here on one errand: find out what the Yllanfallen knew about magickal silver, or indeed about Mary or Cicily Werewode, if the two things proved to be connected. But in posing as envoys from my mother, we would now be obliged to be envoys from my mother. And who knew what seductive magick this deliriously gorgeous place would work on our senses while we were at it? Aylligranir was like Ygranyllon, only… better. More beautiful. Less wrecked.
I glanced behind me. Jay walked at my left elbow, and several feet behind both of us strolled a pair of Yllanfallen men. They looked innocuous enough at first glance, but something about their demeanour, the matching dark-blue raiment they wore, and the incidental fact that they were armed tipped me off. These were guards. Either Flow had summoned them to keep us in order, or they had fallen in with us once we’d passed through the palace gates.
So much for my stirrings of a plan to sneak away. Not that it would have availed me very much, this time; it’s not like Flow wouldn’t notice.
No, we would have to brazen it out.
Palaces are never of meagre proportions, and this one was a fair specimen of its kind, in being far too big and improbably convoluted. Once through the soaring double doors, another ten minutes’ walking had to be gone through before we at last arrived at an audience chamber. Presumably. Flow liked the palace; I judged this from the dancing gait she’d adopted once inside the pale, cool walls, and the way her sea-foam gown frisked around her legs. She stopped before a tall, narrow door of solid starstone, the stuff gleaming pale and faintly blue even at this early hour, and bestowed upon us a smile of such angelic exaltation I began to wonder who we were to meet. A queen, or a god?
She said nothing, however, only faded away, as she had before: and the starstone door swung slowly open.
No throne-room lay beyond. No grand, imposing chamber of any sort, in fact; more of a salon, sumptuously decorated but surprisingly comfortable. A carpet the colour of rose quartz covered a silvered floor. Matching, gossamer curtains framed the tall, slim window of clear glass overlooking a profusion of yellow rose bushes below. Velvet divans with plump, embroidered cushions and deep armchairs made up the furniture, surrounding a low table of silvery stone.
The room’s only occupant was a slim woman seated at a birchwood desk near the window, pen in hand, eyes fixed upon something faraway. Her black hair was bound back in a simple plait, with a ribbon threaded through, and she wore a loose jade-green robe. Her skin was the colour of amber-touched honey. She looked a little out of place in the pale, elegant room; her vivid colouring washed out the delicate tints of the furnishings. In contrast with her, everything looked a little faded.
She did not look up as we entered the salon, nor did she make any sign that she had noticed us.
I paused a moment, uncertain. Would Flow return? Were we not to be introduced? Even the guards did not seem disposed to assist, having taken up positions upon either side of the door — on the outside.
The door had decided no further visitors were required, and quietly closed itself behind us.
When a couple of minutes passed in silence, I finally cleared my throat. ‘Um, good morning. We—’
‘Oh!’ said the lady, and jumped. She looked at us in round-eyed surprise, and dropped her pen. ‘Oh,’ she said after a moment. ‘The envoys? I had quite lost myself in thought, hadn’t I? Please.’ She stood up, came towards us with an eager step, and shook my hand heartily, and then Jay’s. ‘Do tell me your names,’ she said. ‘I am sure I was told, but I am afraid I was only half listening, and have forgotten.’
I repressed an urge to steal a look at Jay. Was he as confused as I? Who exactly had we been delivered to meet? Flow had implied that the queen would receive us, but this vibrant, daydreaming woman surely could not be her.
‘Cordelia Vesper, my lady,’ I said, with a curtsey. I could have no idea of her title, supposing she possessed one, but it never hurts to be polite.
‘Delia’s daughter.’ It was not a question, more of a statement, and came with a considering look that took in everything about me, from my hair to my shoes.
‘Jay Patel,’ said Jay, with a trace of diffidence rather unlike him. Had the splendour of Aylligranir and its palace intimidated him? Surely not, after our sojourn at Mandridore.
‘Patel,’ repeated her ladyship — the queen? She was, if anything, as arrested by Jay’s name as by mine, and subjected him to a fresh scrutiny.
Which did not appear to surprise Jay, though it did discomfit him. He endured it in silence, though his jaw clenched.
‘Yes,’ she said at last, and with one last, keen look, she released Jay from the pressure of her regard, and looked once more at me.
Llirriallon the Gentle, my hat. Welcoming she may be, but something about her was beginning to scare me.
‘Now then, what has my sister-queen to say?’ said she, confirming once and for all her identity. Did they not do pomp and ceremony?
I straightened, as if that would help. ‘Erm. Her Majesty, Queen Delia of Ygranyllon, has sent us to— er, to convey her greetings and respects, and—’
‘But she has not, has she?’ interrupted Queen Llirriallon, gently enough, but the words stopped me dead.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I stammered.
‘Two envoys from Ygranyllon arrived not three days ago,’ said the queen calmly. ‘The business they arrived to transact is already in hand; therefore I cannot imagine why Delia would trouble to send another, and so soon.’
