The Snow Queen

50

Sparks moved through the dimly lit rooms of Starbuck’s suite like a stranger, sleepless, aimless. No longer a part of them — but no longer free to leave. Both the public and the private entrances to the suite were watched now — not by the Queen’s guards, but by Summers furious over her attempt to stop the Change. They were guarding Arienrhod, too — and somehow her plot had been overthrown. But when he had tried to ask them about Moon, and whether she had been the one who told them, they didn’t know, or wouldn’t tell him. And when he had tried to get them to let him out, or to convince them that he was only a Summer like they were, they had laughed at him, and driven him back into the room with harpoons and knives: They knew who he was; Arienrhod had told them. And they would keep him here until the sacrifice.

Arienrhod would not let him go. If her dreams were ruined, then his would be, too. He would die tomorrow if she died; she had bound him to her as inescapably as they would be bound together when they were thrown into the sea. She was the Sea incarnate, and Starbuck was Her consort, and they would be reborn on the new tide… but as new bodies with fresh, untainted souls — Summer souls. That was the way it had been since the beginning of time, and even though the off worlders had twisted it to suit their own purposes, it had endured, and always would. Who was he to change Change? Moon had tried to save him from it, but his fate had been stronger than them both. He tried not to think about what had happened between Arienrhod and Moon after he had been taken away — when Moon must have learned the truth about herself at last Even if Moon had somehow escaped Arienrhod, there was no way she could come back to him now. He could only be grateful that he had been given one last hour with her, a condemned man’s last comfort . and the final irony of a wasted life.

He rummaged in a gilded chest, found the bundle of clothes he had worn when he first came to the palace, and brought them out. He spread them carefully on the soft surface of the carpet, finding at their core the beads he had bought himself on his second day in the city… and his flute. He laid the flute aside, took off the clothes he wore, and pulled on the loose, heavy pants and the rainbow shirt that belonged with the beads, dressing as though for a ritual. He took up his father’s medal from the dresser top when he finished, hung it about his neck in completion. He picked the flute up gently and sat with it on the edge of the heavy-legged reclining couch.

Sparks raised the flute to his lips, lowered it again, his mouth suddenly dry, too dry for song. He swallowed, feeling the pulse in his temple slow. He raised the fragile, hollow shell again. Positioning his fingers over the opening, he breathed into the mouthpiece. A tremulous note filled the air around him, like a spirit amazed to find itself free from the silence it had thought would be eternal. The breath clogged in his throat and he swallowed again; melody after melody filled his head, trying to escape into the air. He began to play, haltingly, with wrong fingers responding to memory’s patterns, shrill overtones stabbing his ears. But gradually his fingers loosened, the water of song poured sweet and pure from the depths of his being again and carried him back to the world he had lost. Arienrhod had tried to ruin his last meeting with Moon, to take away even that, as she had taken away his pleasure in any beauty or joy that was not of her; but she had failed. Moon’s passion and belief were as pure as song, and the memory of her carried away all shame, healed all wounds, righted all wrongs…

He looked up, the song and the spell broken, as the guarded door to the suite unlatched and opened unexpectedly before him. Two figures hooded and robed entered. One moved slowly, grotesquely.

The door closed again behind them. “Sparks Dawntreader Summer…”

Sparks squinted, reaching up to brighten the suspended lamp. “What do you want? It isn’t time—”

“It’s time… after twenty-odd years.” The first man, the one who moved easily, came forward into the globe of light and pushed back his hood.

“What?” Sparks saw the face of a man on the young end of middle-age, an off worlder. A Kharemoughi, he thought at first, but with paler skin and a heavier frame, a rounder face. That face… something about it he knew…

“After twenty-odd years, it’s time that we met, Sparks. I only wish the setting were more appropriate to a joyful reunion.”

“Who are you?” Sparks rose from the couch.

“I am your first ancestor.” The words registered, without meaning he shook his head. “Your father, Sparks.” Something in the your was incomplete, as though the stranger could not express all that he really felt by it.

Sparks sat down again, dizzy, as the blood fell away from his head. The stranger — his father — unfastened his cloak and shrugged it off onto a chair; under it he wore a plain silver-gray jump suit, and the ornamental badge and collar of a member of the Hegemonic Assembly. He made a small, formal bow, somehow awkward for all its grace, as though he were equally uncertain about how to begin. “First Secretary Temmon Ashwini Sirus.” The second man — a servant? — turned and shuffled away, disappearing into the next room without comment, leaving them alone.

Sparks laughed, to cover another sound. “What is this, some kind of joke? Did Arienrhod put you up to this?” He covered his off worlder medal with his hand, wrapping his fingers around it, tightening his fist until it whitened… remembering how she had teased him and tormented him, telling him she knew who it belonged to, the name of his father; telling him lies.

“No. I explained to the Summers that I had come to see my son, and they showed me where you were.”

Sparks jerked the medal off over his head. He threw it out to land at Sirus’s feet, his voice harsh with disbelief. “Then this must belong to you, hero — it sure as hell doesn’t belong on Starbuck. It took a lot of guts to come here and stick a knife into me… here’s your reward. Take it and get out.” He shut his eyes, trying not to look for resemblances. He heard Sirus lean over and pick up the medal. “‘To our noble son Temmon…’” The resonant voice grew transparent. “How is your mother? I gave her this on the Mask Night… your legacy.”

“She’s dead, foreigner.” He opened his eyes deliberately to watch Sirus’s face. “I killed her.” He let the shock recoil. “She died the day I was born.”

The shock turned to grief, disbelief. “She died in childbirth?” as though he actually cared whether it had happened.

Sparks nodded. “They don’t have all the modern conveniences in Summer. They won’t have them here either, after the Change.” He ran his hands along the rough cloth of his pants. “But that won’t matter to me. Or you.”

“Son. Son…” Sirus turned the medal over and over between his fingers. “What can I say to you? The Prime Minister is my own father, your grandfather. When he came back to me, it was all so simple. His blood in my veins made me royal in the eyes of my league — it made me a leader; gave me a right to rule, nothing but success and happiness. When he returned again to Samathe, he gave me this medal with his own hands, and took me into the Assembly.” He let the medal slip through his fingers. It circled on its chain, catching light, like a fiery wheel. “I gave this to your mother because she was so like my mother’s people, with her eyes as blue as a woodland lake, and her hair like sunlight… She carried me back to my homeworld for a night, when I was lonely and it was far away.” He looked up, offering the medal from his outstretched hand. “This was hers, yours, and it always will be.”

Sparks felt his bones dissolve and his body turn to smoke. “You bastard… why did you come here now? Where were you then, years ago, when I needed you? I waited for you to come back, I tried to do everything to be what I thought you’d be, so you’d want me when you saw me.” He spread his hands, surrounded by the technological mysteries he had solved so painstakingly, so pointlessly. “But now, when it’s all gone, and I’ve ruined my life… you come and see me like this!”

“Sparks, your life isn’t ruined. Your life isn’t over. I’ve come to — to make amends.” He hesitated; Sparks turned back to him slowly. “Your cousin Moon told me about you. It was Moon who sent me here.”

“Moon?” Sparks swallowed his heart.

“Yes, son.” Sirus’s smile filled with encouragement and reassurance. “Her mind is behind this reunion, and her heart, I think, is waiting for another one… Having met your cousin, I know that you come from a fine family line.” Sparks glanced away, silent. “And having collided with her belief in you,” ruefully, “I don’t think there could be anything that would make me ashamed to have you for a son.” Sims gazed past him and around him at the instruments and machines, the silent testimony of their common blood, their shared heritage.

Sparks got to his feet as his father came toward him. Sirus hung the medal around his neck again, looking at his face and deeply into his eyes. “You favor your mother more… but I can see that you have a Technician’s need to know why. How I wish there were an answer for every question…” He put his hand on Sparks’s shoulder tentatively, as though he was not sure that it would be allowed to stay.

But Sparks held his father’s eyes, absorbing the moment and the touch, as the cold empty cell where a part of his wholeness had been captive for years was thrown open at last, to let light and warmth pour in. “You came. You came for me — Father…” He spoke the word he had never expected to hear from his own lips; put his own hands over Sirus’s hand on his shoulder, clinging to it like a child. “Father!”

“Very touching.” The second man shuffled back into the room, breaking apart the moment. “Now, if you don’t mind, Your Holiness, I want to get this over with.”

Sparks released his father’s hand, turned resentfully to see the other man unfasten his cloak and take it off. “Herne! What—?”

Herne grinned darkly. “The Child Stealer sent me. I’m your changeling, Dawntreader.” His paralyzed legs were meshed in a clumsy exoskeleton.

“What’s he talking about?” Sparks looked back at his father. “What’s he doing here?”

“Your cousin Moon brought him to me. She said he was willing to take your place at the sacrifice of the Change.”

“Take my place?” Sparks shook his head. “Herne? You?… Why, Herne? Why would you do that for me?” Not letting himself hope.

Herne laughed once. “Not for you, Dawntreader. For her. They’re more alike than you know. More than you know…” His eyes turned distant. “Moon knew. She knew what I needed, and wanted: Arienrhod, my self-respect… and an end to it, the last laugh. And she’s given it all to me. Gods, I want to see Arienrhod’s face when she learns she’s been cheated in everything! I’ll have her to myself forever, after all… that should be enough of hell, and heaven, for both of us.” His vision telescoped back to their faces. “Go to your flawed copy, Dawntreader, and I hope you’re satisfied with her. You never were man enough for the real thing.” He held out the cloak.

Sparks took it from him, threw it around his own shoulders. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.” He fastened the catch at his throat. His father held out a small jar of brownish paste. “Stain your face and hands, so that the guards will take you for a Kharemoughi.”

“One of the galaxy’s Chosen.” Herne smirked.

Sparks went to the mirror, smeared the stain over his skin obediently, watching himself disappear. Behind his own reflection he saw Sirus waiting, and Herne searching the room with eager possessiveness — saw Starbuck in his element, and a son with his father, and they were two different men. Two different men, who had been the same man; who had loved the same woman who was not the same woman, and loved her now for the ways in which she was different. One of them ready to return to life, and one of them ready to die…

He finished coloring his skin and raised his hood, went back to Sirus’s side. “I’m ready,” smiling at last at his father’s smile.

“Son of a First Secretary, grandson of a Prime Minister… you suit the role admirably.” His father nodded. “Is there anything you want to take with you?”

Sparks remembered his flute lying on the couch, picked it up. “This is all.” He glanced at the clutter of hardware briefly, and away again.

“Herne—” Sirus said something humbly in Kharemoughi, and for Sparks repeated it: “Thank you for giving me my son.”

Sparks took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

Herne folded his arms, enjoying something that Sparks did not fully understand. “Any time, sadhu. Just make sure you remember that you owe it all to me. Now get out of my chambers, you bastards. I want to start enjoying them, and I don’t have much time left.”

Sirus tapped on the door; it opened. Sparks looked back quickly at Herne standing in his element, taking his own place. Goodbye, Arienrhod… Sirus went out with his shuffling servant, leaving Starbuck alone.