The Dragon of Mishbil by Brenda W. Clough

Author:Brenda W. Clough [Clough, Brenda W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8: Mid Winter Day

This time Zaryas chose a good ship for the voyage north, captained by a well-seasoned man. Xerlanthor exerted himself at the Neck up to the very hour of departure. Zaryas sent a sedan chair to fetch him lest the sailing tide ebb. But when the last good-bye had been waved to the harbor folk, and when sprawling Mishbil had slipped away astern he tucked one arm around her waist and sighed, “How can it have been so long?”

The salt sea-air did not quite mask the faint delicious smell of his flesh and hair. “I have my own cabin this trip,” she said in his ear.

Once such happiness would have made her uneasy. Nothing has been unalloyed since the beginning when the Sun joined his incandescent life with cool Ennelith’s nature. Thus all that exists is two-souled, at war with itself. But on that voyage Zaryas delighted in the joy that poured over them, undiluted, unmixed. It seemed hardly possible to muffle the fire of their ecstasy in the narrow cabin’s narrower bed. Yet the exaltation was no less palpable in sitting handfast on the steering-deck to watch the Sun set, and wait for the first sight of the City. “Shall we always be so happy?” she asked him, more to hear his voice than to get an answer.

“It’s of no importance,” he replied. “Now, this moment, is all you can encompass. You taught me that. Embrace it, drink it dry, while it’s yours.” “Oh, I shall.” She hugged him, compressing the firm-padded ribs under his red linen robe until he wriggled in protest. “But I will remember today forever.”

“And tonight.” He nodded at their destination, the Palace and Temple a shining-bright crown over the purple-dark Lower City. “I hope His Shan Majesty allotted us a large bed.”

“He will,” Zaryas said with confidence, and when they docked and presented themselves at the Palace they found it was so. “I’m a prophetess,” Zaryas gloated as they retired.

It was strange yet delightful to sleep so high, and to wake with the Sun picking out flecks of white fire on the azure sea so far below. “Let us build our marriage chamber where your little balcony is now,” Xerlanthor proposed, “so that we can see all Mishbil, and the sky.”

“And bake like raisins in the summertime,” she retorted. “You are the most impractical man.”

For the audience Zaryas dressed with care, brushing and braiding her black hair until it was arranged smooth and intricate as carved granite. Her maids had shaken out and smoothed the white-and-green formal robe. After donning it she uncovered the great square mirror for a quick glimpse of herself. Her narrow sharp face seemed newly softened with happiness, oddly at variance with the dignified trappings of power. “Have I changed?” she asked aloud. “I don’t want to change.”

“The gray threads lend a distinguished air,” her maid said helpfully. “But if my lady wishes I know of a preparation whereby blackness may be restored…”

“No, no.” Zaryas laughed and gave her place to Xerlanthor.

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