The Sleeping Life

Chapter Three

"Lady Rennyn."

Rennyn blinked, and realised she’d been asleep. This happened too frequently for her to be surprised, but it annoyed her to be caught unaware. Wondering how long the Queen had been in the room, she gathered herself to stand and curtsey, since it wouldn’t do to start out being offensive.

"No, don’t rise," said the Queen, holding out a belaying hand as she sat opposite. This was to be a private audience, ostensibly to discuss the Surclere Duchy, and while the Queen seemed withdrawn she at least wasn’t going to stand on ceremony. Astranelle Montjuste was a blond woman of nearly seventy years, though of course she was able to afford an attendant mage to lengthen her life and preserve an appearance of youth. She looked delicate and sweet, and it was difficult to match her to her reputation of cold competence until you heard her unexpectedly resonant and commanding voice. "The healers have informed me that you have not recovered as you should."

"No," Rennyn agreed, with a wry thought for the visit she’d made to the Sentene’s Senior Healer yesterday. Of course she would report to the Queen. "Your Majesty knows that my—Prince Helecho—attempted a Symbolic casting on me. It would have made me a slave of sorts, but he used the removal of my focus as a symbol of that casting, and because he had not at that time discovered my true focus, the spell went awry."

Queen Astranelle nodded. She had witnessed the Eferum-Get prince, Rennyn’s very distant relative, attempting the casting, and would have felt the power warping away from the original intent. "So it slows, but does not prevent your recovery?"

"Yes and no. The focus was a symbol of my strength, and instead of subsuming my will, the miscasting sapped my physical resilience. Bones that should have been whole by now are only partially knit." And still made their presence felt when she coughed or laughed or lay on her side. "They will heal eventually, just as the bruises went, and the wound. But…the spell is still there, and like most Symbolic castings, is not going to be easy to shift. So I have little endurance, I’m at great risk of disease, and the toll casting places on me…" Rennyn shrugged. "There is a measure of physical exertion in casting, and it exhausts me quickly."

The Queen considered this while a swarm of servants swept in to lay out spiced tea and a collection of intriguing little cakes. Rennyn liked trying new sweets, and wondered if she could take one of each without looking more interested in eating than talking. Having staved off a private audience this long, it would probably set the wrong tone.

Queen Astranelle had too many reasons not to like Rennyn as it was. Although Rennyn’s ancestor, King Tiandel, had abdicated his throne three hundred years ago, there were some in Tyrland who had suggested that Rennyn was Tyrland’s true Queen. Fomenting mischief. It wouldn’t lead anywhere, but it was an annoyance to a Queen already less than impressed by Rennyn’s failure to keep her informed about anything during the crisis of Solace’s attempted return. Secrecy had been necessary, but she could have at least attempted not to act like Queen Astranelle was entirely irrelevant to proceedings. Perhaps worse, she had most inconveniently married a Kellian without letting anyone official know first, and if the Queen guessed at the reasons for the haste it would almost amount to a direct insult.

"Lady Weston tells me that, as yet, she sees no way of removing this casting from you."

The Grand Magister had barely been able to detect it. "It may not be possible," Rennyn said baldly. "It doesn’t respond to dispels, and trying to pull it from me by force, even if we could get a hold on it, would probably kill me."

"You are very matter-of-fact," the Queen commented. "Will you accept such a limited life?" The strong do not enjoy being weak, her cool gaze added, and Rennyn had been very strong.

"No. I am going to hunt my Wicked Uncle down and kill him." Rennyn took a sip of spiced tea, recalling the Grand Magister’s advice that she should request permission to leave Tyrland, and ask for support. But she found she’d rather simply explain and see how the Queen reacted. "He cast the spell, and he later took my true focus. Killing him will drastically increase my chances of overcoming this spell. Particularly since the symbology was one of him controlling me."

The Queen sat back in her chair. "The best Tyrland can muster has yet to find the creature calling itself Helecho. It has likely left the country. Even if it can be found, you yourself named it one of the most dangerous of the creatures born of the Eferum. The abilities of a mage, the form of a human, and the command of other Hells-spawned creatures."

"I don’t have a great deal of choice," Rennyn said, bluntly. "Other than the broken bones finishing their healing, I am not going to recover further physically. And while it might be possible to accept living in this fashion, I’m simply too vulnerable to infection. A harsh winter would finish me without the constant care of a healer. Besides, regardless of my own problems, he needs to die."

"That I do not dispute." Rennyn’s Wicked Uncle had been quite despicable all around. "How, then, do you propose to locate it?"

"He has my focus. Even were I not ill, the distances involved would be too great for me to track it properly. But my brother has created a very general directional spell using me as a subject. Nothing more than over there," she gestured vaguely to the west, "but it can be recast as we get closer."

"And when you find it?" The Queen didn’t bother pointing out Rennyn’s frailties, but then she made a gesture as if to put aside the discussion so far. "We are prevaricating. Even if it is not currently among us, this creature is a threat—not simply to Tyrland but to any that Hells-spawn would feed upon. It is not a matter for you alone. Nor do I imagine you so short-sighted as to expose both yourself and your brother to this creature, given the consequences of your deaths."

Her Wicked Uncle inheriting the ability to control the Kellian would be a disaster, and Rennyn didn’t bother pretending that she hadn’t seen this, or wanted Seb anywhere near Prince Helecho. "You will assist?" she asked simply.

"The Sentene’s role is to hunt the monsters from the Eferum. They will hunt this one, with your assistance. The difficulty lies in taking a military force outside Tyrland’s borders. Even in those lands inclined to cooperate with us, it would cause alarm."

This was not an aspect that had occurred to Rennyn, but it made sense. "A large group would be too noticeable to him, anyway. But there’s no reason I can’t travel as a private individual—there’s a property in Kole that has been left abandoned since the last of that branch of my family died. It would not be remarkable for me to be accompanied while I attended to removing anything of worth and selling the house. And if a second small group travelled separately, and joined me there, then they are simply mages with their own personal guard. I don’t know if he’s in the Kolan Empire, of course, but it’s a good starting point, and in the right direction."

"The Emperor’s intelligencers are not to be underestimated. But, on the balancing hand, Corusar is no fool, and it might be possible to apply to him—even in relation to your health. At the moment he is no doubt more than usually inclined toward an exchange of assistance."

The Emperor of Kole had had a formidable reputation as a healer-mage before he’d taken his throne. But that had been nearly three hundred years ago, and he most certainly no longer practiced those arts. Still, there were other scholar-mages in Kole that Rennyn intended to consult.

"At the moment?" she repeated.

"You have not heard that Kole has misplaced Arugar, Keshkant—and quite a number of other mages?"

"Misplaced? Mages?"

"Gone without trace. It began a short time after Solace’s attempted return, so perhaps their disappearances are related to the monster you seek. You hope to depart soon?"

Rennyn hadn’t heard anything about missing mages, but then she had enough trouble with local news, and had not been paying attention to Kole. "Being ill has delayed me too long already."

The Queen nodded, sparing Rennyn the arguments the healers had insisted on boring her with and instead saying practically: "I will make a ship available to you. Avoiding the Vandalusian roads should keep the journey from being improbably arduous, and side-step any chance of being caught in their mountains by early autumn rains."

This settled, the Queen turned the discussion to Surclere. The title had been left untenanted by agreement between Rennyn’s ancestor Tiandel and the Montjuste in whose favour he had abdicated. The Duchy itself was small and now badly neglected. A mountainous part of the kingdom’s north-west, it had never been a very rich area, and Rennyn was treated to a precise summary of what would be due to her, and required of her, when she became its Duchess.

Rennyn forced herself to concentrate. She couldn’t become Surclere’s Duchess and then ignore it, but the mountain of legal precedent and economics she would need to climb was daunting. Illidian would help, of course, but she would be ultimately responsible. Duty. It was a word she had thought to leave behind after Solace’s defeat. Still, there was still a chance that before she formally became a Duchess the Kellian might decide their future was not in Tyrland, and that would change everything. Illidian might want to make a home in Surclere, but could Tyrland be their home when there was so much hatred for the Kellian as a people?

Sharp anxiety washed over her, but Rennyn pushed it back. She hated this unreasonable fear that would creep up on her whenever she wasn’t entirely certain where Illidian was. Despite two months of recovery, a part of her remained convinced that he was dead, or in urgent danger, and she was always being overwhelmed by this need to see him, to make certain he breathed. And still chose not to hate her.

As if she had read Rennyn’s mind, the Queen stopped talking about wool and said: "You make no representations on behalf of the Kellian, Lady Rennyn?"

"I don’t speak for the Kellian," Rennyn said, trying not to sound wary. "I inherited the ability to control them, not authority over them."

"But you are naturally partisan."

"Very," Rennyn replied, wondering where this was going. The Queen had long treated the Kellian as a necessary evil, whether because they were a link to the old Montjuste-Surclere rule or because they were descendants of golems. The last few months had been the worst in Kellian history, and because Queen Astranelle had made no show of support, the anti-Kellian factions had been spurred to outright venom.

Rennyn found the whole situation endlessly frustrating. Her desire to protect and support Illidian warred with a disinclination to battle for public opinion. She had trained to manipulate magic, not people. She couldn’t force Tyrians to value the Kellian, any more than she could make the Kellian come to terms with her family’s ability to command them. And she doubted even Illidian would appreciate her taking it upon herself to fight Kellian battles anyway.

"I constantly receive representations about the Kellian," the Queen continued. "They have as many supporters as detractors. Yet never have they themselves put forward their case. Lady Weston tells me this is because the Kellian consider it impolite to try to influence the decisions of others. I would be curious to hear if this is your own view."

"It would be at least one of the reasons," Rennyn said, after thinking it over. "It’s true enough that they place great weight on personal choice." She looked at the Queen. "I suspect that they also consider the situation self-evident. You will support them, or you won’t."

"Do they presume to judge me? I have not countenanced the calls for punishment. This spate of talk will pass, and is only natural."

"I hope that you are right, Your Majesty," Rennyn said, putting her cup down. "It seems to me to grow louder and shriller every day, but I am oversensitive where my husband is concerned."

Further than this she would not be drawn. Perhaps Queen Astranelle was correct, and all this misplaced concern would die down. Rennyn was aware that her own reason for wanting the Kellian to decide to leave Tyrland was due to her anger with those who did not appreciate them. But it was not a good solution.

She had expected Illidian to be waiting for her, but instead found a man almost as wide as he was tall, his face permanently shadowed by a hint of reddish-brown beard. The all-enveloping black coat of the Sentene, with its brilliant phoenix blazon, seemed to double his size: a wall of a man.

"Don’t look so disappointed," he said, with a rumbling chuckle. For a moment his gaze drifted, inevitably, to her throat, but he was too polite to stare openly.

"How are you, Captain Medan?"

"Passing fair. It’s good to see you on your feet, Lady Rennyn." He made a shooing gesture at the two royal guards lining up as escort. "Faille asked me to see you back to quarters."

Only Kellian had been at the meeting, so Illidian must have returned to the Houses of Magic. "He’s caught up?" she asked, taking the arm the Captain proffered, and trying not to lean too much.

"Senior Captains are always in demand. And most of us have been in the field almost constantly since the Grand Summoning. Tremendous amount of organising, signing off, catching up."

Rennyn waited, for she’d found Nikolar Medan to be forthright enough. His pace quickened for a few steps, then he let out a gusty breath.

"Most of the Sentene mages haven’t seen Faille since you regained consciousness. Your marriage came as more than a shock. A bit of reassurance will go a long way."

"Do they really think the Kellian would let me live if I’d ordered Illidian into my bed?"

"It’s not that, though I won’t deny we worry. The idea of you commanding them fills us with horror, for all you’ve never given the least sign of wanting to. But hasty marriages are unprecedented, you know. Kellian are cautious taking human lovers, let alone establishing permanent bonds. Particularly ever-rare male Kellian. Too many people think them all very fine and exotic and noble, with a delightful dangerous frisson, and then can’t bear that they never smile, that they forget to start conversations. Because they don’t act human enough."

Rennyn wondered what colour her face had gone, but knew Medan was more messenger than accuser. "Is so little weight placed on Illidian’s judgment?"

Captain Medan snorted. "Not to mention his much-vaunted instinct. It’s not sensible—or anyone’s business—but it’s been a bad few months and we’d all heard of course that he cut short his nails. It will make them feel better to talk to Faille for a while, and see that he is happy."

This time his gaze dropped to her waist, since everyone knew Solace had used Illidian Faille to slash open Rennyn’s side. The pointed Kellian nails were effective weapons: a facet of the race’s overarching enchantments that hadn’t been commonly known. But they were also part of the Kellian identity, a matter of pride, and Illidian had been one of the few who had kept both hands untrimmed.

Rennyn didn’t answer his unspoken question, spotting a useful low wall holding back a drift of early autumn leaves. She’d made it almost halfway from the Old Palace to the Houses, and needed her legs to stop feeling like jelly.

"You make quite a picture in that dress," Captain Medan offered.

This earned only a faint smile. "Sarana Illuma told me yesterday that even she finds herself avoiding me; that at times she has to force herself to go into a room if she knows I’m there. This embarrasses her, but she is too honest to pretend that being glad I saved them from a worse fate has reconciled the Kellian to my ability to control them. Illidian loves me, but he can’t be immune to that instinctual aversion. And then, to twist everything further, Solace used him to injure me. Even though there’s no logic in blaming himself for my injuries, he can’t stand the thought of my blood beneath his nails. So he keeps them short."

She sighed. "And I can’t say I’ve handled well not being able to stand up, let alone the limits on my casting. I’m a bad patient, and when I’ve been too weak even to read I’ve had to struggle not to hate everyone around me. But I am on the mend. My wounds were only physical, Captain. Illidian has yet to recover from his. He sleeps so little because of the nightmares, and I’m a tremendously difficult person for him to be with. There are so many things that we will have to work against, to not be pulled apart, but I’ve come to realise our marriage is practically the only thing he is happy about. And you’re right—it’s nobody’s business."

That kept him silent all the way to the stair that led up to Illidian’s quarters.

"If you think I’m going to watch you try to climb these, you sadly underestimate me."

"It’s probably why he picked you to send," Rennyn said. Illidian had firm opinions on Rennyn and flights of stairs, and was uncharacteristically disinclined to restrain that view.

"Sweeping young ladies off their feet is a hobby of mine," Medan said, lifting her delicately. "Feel free to call on me for any minor hillock that comes your way."

Rennyn shifted, since he hadn’t picked her up in a way that favoured her ribs. The healers had explained that what they called a callus had formed to join her broken bones, and this was slowly turning to bone itself. Until it had strengthened, she had to put up with twinges and avoid jarring or stressing her side. It had been a bad break, collapsing a lung, and even now she never felt like she could take a proper breath. Her ribs were her greatest annoyance, and she wondered what all these too-interested people would think if they knew how chaste those fractures had left her marriage.

"Do you know anything about plays, Captain?"

"I can quote the entire opening soliloquy from Siana of Kole. Or perhaps you’d like the victory speech of Lady Nidama?"

Regaining her feet, Rennyn shook her head as she led the way into Illidian’s quarters. "That’s all meaningless to me, I’m afraid. I’ve never been to a play. I was wondering if you could think of any way I could see this one." She handed him the newssheet, then tried to not be too obvious about her need to sit down.

"You really want to see this?" Medan asked, lifting heavy brows.

"Illidian said the other day that what was being printed in the 'sheets would be forgotten soon enough. That it was the stories people told that had the greatest impact. It seems the papers aren’t going to change what they’re saying—so I want to see what the stories that will be remembered will be."

"Hmn. Well, I haven’t heard much about this piece. The playwright’s an up-and-comer. Lucius Sandrey. I saw his last, and liked it. Bawdy and full-blooded and very, very funny."

Rennyn blinked, trying to think of anything involving Kellian and bawdy. "It’s not likely to be a comedy."

"Not described like this, anyway." He handed her back the newssheet. "I do know someone with a private box at the Faranea and they may…well, I will let you know. If their box is available, then good timing and the most minor of illusions would make it an easy matter."

He bowed himself out and, left to herself, Rennyn abandoned the newssheet to gaze about the book-lined room. Shelves covered all available space in this and the spare bedroom, with only a patch left bare for a mounted selection of swords. Faintly daunting. It was not that Illidian read more than she did, but all her studies had been focused on magic, while her husband’s collection ranged through every imaginable topic, and included extensive forays into poetry, novels and all the luxuries of the mind Rennyn had never allowed herself. There were moments when this ranked knowledge made her feel tremendously ignorant, but for the most part she found Illidian’s quarters a comforting place.

Not least because Illidian was usually there with her. Determined to train herself to cope with his absences, she made certain to not look too relieved when, after five or ten minutes, he arrived. It would do neither of them any good if she acted like a baby every time he was out of her sight.

Sarana Illuma accompanied him, carrying a cloth-wrapped book, and Rennyn tried to guess from their posture how the meeting had gone. But they walked with their usual ease: that efficiency of movement which wasted no gesture. Both were well over six feet tall, lean muscle corded over a wide-shouldered frame. Only their cobweb-fine hair, so colourless it looked grey in most lights, provided a hint of softness. Their proportions were faintly wrong, elongated, and many found them uncomfortable to be around, especially because they did not fidget and never smiled, though Rennyn had not failed to notice how many of the Sentene mages became wholly devoted to their Kellian partners.

"Your audience with Queen Astranelle went as expected?" Illidian asked, moving a footstool up beside her while Sarana took the other seat. His voice was thin, as if strained from overuse—or lack of use. The original Kellian had been mute, for Solace had seen no reason for her construct guards to have voices, and that their descendants could speak at all had been a surprise to Rennyn’s family. Almost every other facet of the spell that made them Kellian had been passed on unchanged.

"Nothing particularly surprising." Rennyn smiled as Illidian curled his hand over hers, then told them of the Queen’s offer of a ship, and of the question asked about the Kellian. "Do you consider yourselves the leaders of the Kellian?" she asked when she was done.

Illidian lifted fine, straight brows, which for him was more than ordinary surprise. "At most, designated speakers."

"I did wonder if that was what was behind the question. No-one within the Kellian is an ultimate authority. If the Kellian consider that the individual must make their own choices, then the Queen cannot truly command you as a group."

"All who stay within Tyrland’s borders acknowledge the authority of the monarch," Illidian said. "By remaining, we agree to obey Queen Astranelle in matters of duty."

"Exactly," Rennyn said, and after a moment he nodded.

"A distinction Her Majesty would not enjoy," Sarana agreed. "As for service itself, until this current wave of Eferum-Get has been dealt with we cannot properly decide our future in Tyrland. Those few who are not actively serving with the Sentene have departed to the Ten. And that is something I have been asked to speak to you about."

The Kellian woman glanced down at the wrapped book, a thick and formidable block now resting in her lap. "First, we thank you for allowing us to study this. It has been…illuminating." She started to lift it, but Rennyn shook her head.

"That’s the only original of Solace’s work journals that will not be presented to the Houses." Because the method Solace had used to create the Kellian, and her subsequent study of them, was not knowledge Rennyn cared to share with the entire kingdom. "I can’t think of more appropriate custodians than you and Sukata."

"Thank you," Sarana said, more softly than usual, her hands shifting around the bundle. Rennyn wasn’t certain if this meant she was pleased, but Illidian tightened his grip and rubbed his thumb against Rennyn’s palm, so she decided it had been the right thing to do.

"The terms of our existence," Sarana added, smoothing the cloth. "You said, that day, that we were part of a continuing enchantment, that to be Kellian was to be at the command of the Montjuste-Surcleres. This has led us to ask, if there were no Montjuste-Surcleres, would we be Kellian?"

Rennyn had discussed the same question with her father, many years ago. Back then it had only been an intellectual puzzle.

"Symbolic Magic is not given to hard and fast certainties," she said carefully. "Anything I say would be no more than a guess. But—yes—if Solace’s line ended, it’s possible that the spell that makes you Kellian would unwind." She glanced at Illidian, who as usual showed only intelligent attention. "I don’t think that would kill you. But the magical aspects would be lost." The speed, the strength, long life, effects with light, the sense of awareness the Sentene called Kellian instinct. And… "I couldn’t say how greatly your personalities would be affected."

"It would be interesting to know," Illidian said, perhaps less daunted by the prospect than Rennyn. Kellian were by no means identical, but they all shared a certain calm, a patience and a loyalty it was hard to picture them without.

"The need for the bloodline to continue was something we too guessed at," Sarana continued. "But I am less certain on another point. The Ten were the creation of the casting, not us. We are a side-effect, not covered in the structure, though you have…events have proven to us that we are constrained as the Ten are."

The original ten golems created by Solace Montjuste-Surclere were a difficult topic for all the Kellian. Not for the will-less years serving Solace, or even the devastating abandonment following her departure, when Solace’s son Tiandel had ordered them to leave Tyrland and never return. They had survived, grown into something more than constructs, even found new purpose after a violent assault had unexpectedly shown them they could bear children. But as the years had stretched, they had lost the energy for daily activity, had retreated into a sleep far beyond any weariness of Rennyn’s. In the three hundred years since their exile, one of the Ten had been killed, but the rest neither died nor truly lived.

"The question we have now is, if the Ten did not endure, would we remain as we are?"

Rennyn blinked at Sarana’s calm grey eyes, then looked up at Illidian. She could always read his emotions best of any of the Kellian. Resolute. Worried, but determined.

"It doesn’t make any difference what I answer, does it?"

"It will not decide our course," Sarana acknowledged.

"Again I can’t rule out anything absolutely, but I would consider it unlikely that the spell would dissipate. What is it you want to ask of me?"

"That you visit the resting place of the Ten. And allow them to decide their own fates."

Rennyn looked up at Illidian again, aware that she’d gripped his hand very hard. "You want me to command them to wake?"

"If that is the only way," he said. "It is sometimes possible to wake them, and they did revive during Queen Solace’s return."

Illidian’s voice was even, but the vertical lines that bracketed his mouth had deepened. He was unhappy about this, not least because he knew how much she would hate it. Over sixty people were at her absolute command, and they had nightmares about her because of that fact. She had given Sarana a command to prove to them that she could, and Illidian a command because he had asked her to. Then promised herself, over and over, that she would never again give an order to any of the Kellian, not accidentally, not even in an emergency. And certainly not like this.

"You want me to give them leave to die."