Marina and Sergei Dyachenko
Access History
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The dancers came out, looking like stubby flagpoles in their bright dresses. The drums were struck. The basses were loud enough to make sand grains bounce on the brick steps. The dancers created a small whirlwind, and the flames flickered in their glass jars.
Yanina was not watching the dancers. The poets were much more interesting to watch just then: the tall bearded one, considered the capital's best composer, and the thin lad, fair-haired and unshaven, completely unknown to anyone until this day. It was the fifth round of the "tongue battles": both poets had just been asked to improvise a lyrical confession in four verses, that would mention tin horses, an axe and chrysanthemums, all lines to begin with the letter "B", and the last line of each verse to be "By the bed's black velvet". The poets had five minutes to consider this. The dancers kept the public entertained while the bearded master sorted through prepared material in his head, and the young, nervous poet, looking lost in the drum rattle, noise and the public's rapt attention - that one fell deeper and deeper into despair, before his eyes flickered, his lips moved and he tapped his fingers to an inner rhythm.
The sleeves of his kaftan were short. The daring one had either bought his smart clothes from a second hand stall, or perhaps had simply carried on growing, like a child or a tree, his spindly twig-arms stretching faster than he could earn enough for new clothes. He was uncomfortably aware that he looked strange and out of place; nevertheless, he braved the judges and the public, convinced of his right to be there.
Yanina was sympathetic. All around, in the open-air amphitheater, the bearded one's supporters thronged in their multitude, and they set the tone: their servants stamped their feet on command, their maids put their hands together to support the king of the poets. If the tournament were to be determined by the crowd, the beard would long since have won. But the judges were in charge, and they were fair; and so the competition drew into its fifth close round, even though a normal "battle of the tongues" would be decided after just two or three.
An intellectual entertainment, Yanina thought sadly. The capital is like a carriage rolling down a steep mountain slope: loud, fun, terrifying, endlessly interesting. We have no such things in our province; perhaps this is the last time I can see these dances, these tiers of candles in glass hoods, the wavering flames, the square, all one bright bauble. And the poets. For whatever reason, there are no poets in our Ustock. Would that I could meet this lad, tell him to his face just how talented he is.
On the other hand, home is calm. The sunset over the lake is no less beautiful than the fires, the dances, the rich entertainment. The dawn, of course, is better met in the company of a real poet...
She shuffled about on the cushions. The competition was dragging on; it was already almost dark, and yet the judges might well announce a sixth round. A pity that Yanina was not at the capital of her own will, and lacked a traveller's usual freedom. She was still an aspirant, though her chances were measured at one in a thousand. She was a descendant of the Iron Mountain, and though her branch was a long way from the trunk and had withered far from the capital, it was her duty to attend.
Yanina held in a sigh.
In truth, she had tried to convince her aunt that none would notice if she was absent. The older or the younger daughter of the baron of Wheaten Hill would be chosen for the prince's wife - more likely the younger, she was healthier and prettier. The others were called up to honour traditions, and also so that the new princess might feel herself specially chosen from among many. The ceremony of the choosing of the bride would be the more spectacular the more girls in bright dresses awaited the royal decision. So spoke Yanina, but the aunt was steadfast: they must attend. The crown had sent money for the trip, had paid for the week's stay, and who are you to waste the crown's money? What is one to say when the taxmen come!..
The taxman was the aunt's eternal bugbear, though she lived frugally and paid the taxes due on her estate fairly. The aunt dreamt of travelling with Yanina and seeing the ceremony, but shortly before the trip had managed to break her arm. What misery, the poor thing! Yanina would gladly have sent the aunt in her stead if she could. The latter was not yet so old she could not pass for a girl in a crowd, with a bit of makeup...
The dancers fled the stage, like flags scattered by the wind. Lots were thrown. The bearded king of the poets pretended good-natured boredom, but a corner of his mouth twitched. From her place - first tier, third row - Yanina could see it clearly.
The youth, meanwhile, paled, then filled with light like a streetlamp in its orange glass hood, and stepped confidently forward. He was to read first.
He began to speak. The square was perfectly arranged for declamation - words spoken on the stage would echo around all the tiers.
Наброском майской синевы,
Неразличимым – еле-еле —
Нежнейшим – так лежали вы
На черном бархате постели.
Немой, как пень, с недавних пор,
Нагой – в глубинах цитадели
Не я схватился за топор
На черном бархате постели.
Над хризантемой взвился рок —
Нет!.. Лепестки похолодели —
Не кровь, не смерть, но серебро
На черном бархате постели!
Ночь оловянных лошадей,
Ночь безъязыких свиристелей,
Надежда двух слепых людей
На черном бархате постели…
"Not bad", the chaperone said. "Expressive."
Yanina clapped, and this time many supported the youth. But the beard came out, coughed into his fist, and the resonators amplified his cough to a roar. He had chosen a simple strategy: each line contradicted the last and began with "But".
Но если так, пускай. Финал.
Но если нет? – под шум метели.
Но если да? – я это знал
На черном бархате постели.
Но если ты? – свистит топор.
Но если мы осиротели?
Но если?.. – кончен давний спор
На черном бархате постели.
Но оловянен быстрый конь,
Но неподкупны в чаще ели,
Но не погас святой огонь
На черном бархате постели.
Но хризантемы отцвели,
Но саксофоны онемели,
Но вот он, самый край земли —
На черном бархате постели…
Yanina stood up to see better, convinced that with this the judges would declare the youth victorious. But the judges, after just a few moments' conferring, gave the contest to the beard - his fourtieth or fiftieth, no-one remembered any more. The crowd of his supporters screamed in delight, and Yanina suddenly realised that it was late, very late, and her guardian would be waiting - she had promised the aunt that she would watch over Yanina in the capital. And the hotel owner must have repeated a dozen times today that she had been specially ordered to care for the "honoured guests of the crown". It was said that all hotel owners were officially in the crown's service and would report weekly on their guests' behaviour; though, of course, this may have been lies.
The young poet, in an instant, became a waxen corpse, lifeless and bleak. He stood aside, a stranger to the proceedings, his five rounds of brilliant improvisation, on par with the best poet in the country, instantly forgotten. Roses flew at the stage, ruffled and daring as the girls that threw them at the feet of the curly-haired beard.
"This is unjust", Yanina said aloud. "Listen, Illy..."
She shut up, realising that her idea was daring enough for a whole army of crazy supporters.
(On the other hand, why not? It was perfectly natural for famous ladies to invite poets and musicians to their holdings, it was called patronage of the arts. What would the aunt say?!)
"Listen, Illy. Go to this... what is his name, anyway?"
"Agate." The chaperone's dull eyes were round and shone in surprise.
"No, not him!" Yanina barely restrained the indignation in her voice; Agate was the curly-haired king of poets' pseudonym. "That one, Bastian; and suggest that he..."
The expression on the chaperone's face was simultaneously hilarious and worrying.
"I wish to be a patron of the arts", said Yanina, interrupting herself in a different tone. "This youth deserved victory today; he is insulted, and likely poor." (The aunt was not rich either, Yanina thought briefly.) "Suggest, firstly, that he visit us in the hotel tomorrow evening, after the choosing of the bride. And secondly, hint that talented folk are gratefully welcomed at our estate. Perhaps - not for long, but for a few weeks - he could perform there."
The square, meanwhile, had come to life. The expensive, privileged tiers emptied first - the ones where gold and china plates glinted between the candles. The crowd had been a long time sitting down, the lords and ladies were stretching their feet; soon, everyone would be mixed together - the rows, the tiers, the poets, the supporters, the judges, the guards, the pickpockets, the punters...
"Hurry, Illy! I'll walk out with the flow, I'll meet you by the carriage!"
The chaperone could be fast, faster than Yanina herself. The candles wavered, the wide hem flashed with blinding whiteness of well-starched petticoats. Illy easily traversed the velvet barrier and her red cap moved confidently through the river of heads towards the stage.
The loser was already surrounded. The taunts had begun (so Yanina guessed by the sugary sweet grins) and, perhaps, the sympathy as well. How surprised you'll all be, Yanina thought, when Illy delivers the invitation!
Now, with the first shock of defeat past, the poet's cheeks were a little brighter. He is more talented than all of you put together, Yanina thought bitterly. He will be a new sun-poet. You'll remember yet how you stole this well deserved victory from him!
The guards invited her tier to exit, and Yanina strode up the brick steps. She was very impressed by the rapid transformation of the market square to a performing hall rich enough for even a queen to attend. A pity that the last queen had long since died and the next not yet chosen. It was said that the daughters of the baron of Wheaten Hill were spoilt and ill-bred. This was likely ordinary badmouthing, though - so many girls from so many counties and territories dreamed of sitting on that throne next to the prince and cursed, cursed the stronger competition.
Let him accept, Yanina thought of the poet. If he were to refuse... would that be an insult? Already she regretted her impulse. Though, if she had reined herself in, not invited the poet, she would now be regretting her indecisiveness and cowardice. There were some situations that would always result in telling yourself off, best to simply accept that and bear with it. When Illy returned, she would know, one way or the other...
The square holding the carriages was surrounded by many guards, and by gated fences; ordinary citizens were not permitted entry at this hour. Yanina pulled a narrow cardboard rectangle from her sleeve, placing it in a slot in the gatepost. The slot glowed green, and the gate swung open. Yanina pushed the creaky thing the rest of the way and stepped over a puddle, past a carriage that had once been imposing but was now faded. She looked around for her coach and coachman.
"Lady Yanina from Ustock?"
Royal guards had approached her, right and left. Each was a head taller than any town watchman.
"Yes." Yanina stumbled and managed to land her right foot in the puddle. "What are you..."
"Royal Guard," the first one said casually, as though Yanina was blind and could not see his uniform. "Please follow me."
"But my carriage and my chaperone..."
"Please follow me."
In silence, suddenly shivering at the evening's cold, Yanina followed him into the darkness. The other guard walked behind her, completely soundlessly; if not for his shadow, occasionally visible on the paving, Yanina would have thought he had disappeared.
They stopped in front of a large carriage, unmarked and undecorated, with its footsteps lowered. The first guard opened the door for Yanina.
"Sirs, I..."
"King's orders."
Completely mesmerized by his wooden, somehow inhuman resolve, Yanina climbed the two steep steps (her leg muscles protesting) and fumbled through the velvet curtain. The curtain was sharply pulled back. Inside the carriage was a man, alone, a dim lantern on a folding tabletop before him.
"My lady." The voice was unpleasant; moreover, it contained not a hint of doubt in the speaker's absolute right to sternly reproach Yanina. "How can a guest of the crown permit herself to remain at a show so late into the night? How dare a guest of the crown walk the streets alone, unaccompanied - in the night, I repeat?"
The suddenness of these accusations made Yanina stare at the man's face. She did not recognise him immediately, but after a tense pause she realised - it was the king.
She straightened as best she could. Being offended, being scared - it always made her straighten her back. Especially the fear.
"Your majesty," - gratefully, she realised her voice was not shaking. "I am sorry that the show did indeed go on for longer than expected. I am sorry that I have, it seems, disappointed you..."
She trailed off, realising this was not precisely correct. Disappointed? She had, it seems, insulted or offended him somehow, though she could not see how, and indeed the whole situation was strange, stupid...
What next? Eternal disfavour? Exile back to Ustock?
"My chaperone is here. Simply, a few minutes ago I sent her on an errand; likely, she has by now returned and is waiting by my carriage. My sponsor is aware - she was informed of my plans this night, and approved. This was not a show for the commoners, your majesty, it was a competition of poets." Yanina had now straightened to her full height, and her hair brushed the velvet covering of the carriage ceiling. "Please accept my apologies for this... unfortunate coincidence of events."
The king regarded her silently.
In his fourties, he was almost entirely bald. The wrinkles on his forehead had closed together in a mesh of prison bars. His eyes, deeply dark, looked almost lined with ink, although there was no ink. Yanina howled inside herself under his heavy dark gaze.
Another minute passed.
The king lifted himself to pull back the curtain in front of the half-open door, and called to the guard:
"Find her carriage and maid. Send them to the hotel."
Outside, the footsteps got folded away and the door was closed. Almost immediately, the carriage began to move - very smoothly, on the gentlest of suspensions.
Where were they bound?
Yanina squeezed her lips tight. There was still a possibility that this was not the king, but some robber in disguise. It was unclear why the royal guard would follow a robber's orders, but supposing...
"Yanina from Ustock," the king spoke in a strange tone of voice. "A lover of poetry. Who won?"
"With your majesty's permission," - Yanina could feel her back tense, - "the poet Agate."
"I have news for you, lady Yanina. You have been selected as the prince's bride."
He spoke with no change in his intonation, staring dully at a dark corner of the carriage.
"You must be joking!" - she blurted out, stupidly, harshly, with even a note of disdain. Instantly, she was terrified by her own daring. "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean... that is, I wanted to say..."
Her face was numb; her blood had fled it.
"Do choose your expressions carefully, darling," - the king spoke, turning his terrifying immobile black eyes towards her, and Yanina clenched her hands into tight fists on the silk cloth of her evening dress.
"I beg your pardon." She realised she was on the verge of tears. She decided that this would, in fact, be appropriate, that the king might feel a little pity for tears; but as soon as Yanina thought this, her tears dried up, leaving only dizziness and the chills. "I meant to say that my chances were listed as one in a thousand; my blood is old, but thin, distant, this cannot..."
She broke off. "This cannot be." All she needed now was for the king to order her tongue removed for contradicting him; this was, she was certain, quite possible.
"This can be." His voice was somewhat gentler. "You will be the prince's bride. Then his wife. Later, the queen. The mother of the heir. The mother and wife of a king. Do stop being so visibly displeased by the prospect!"
In surprise, she let go of her crumpled dress.
"I was simply very surprised, your majesty. I was not expecting this. I... am happy."
The carriage swayed, like a boat. The king's gaze on Yanina was lighter - some of the mad pressure had gone.
"You had other plans, yes?"
She breathed.
"Yes."
He nodded, as though that was exactly what he'd expected.
"You're in love with someone?"
"No."
"That is good. You understand, of course - from this minute on, you will love the prince, only the prince, and no-one else. You will be a faithful wife to him. You understand?"
"Yes..." Yanina whispered. The patterns on the carriage lining suddenly resolved themselves into a chessboard pattern of faces: a mocking one, an angry one, another mocking one, all across the wall.
"I wanted to deliver this news myself." The king leaned forward towards her. "Can you guess why?"
"Yes." Yanina's voice shook. "But... all those girls... the daughters of the baron of Wheaten Cliff, they..."
The king's face darkened.
"Indeed. Immediately after the choice is declared, you will be in great danger. A fall under carriage-wheels, bad meat at dinner, a falling brick... not unexpected for a new bride, is that not so?"
Surprisingly, Yanina realised, she was not scared. What had already happened to her was so huge that her fears paled before this burden.
"Therefore, from the moment of the declaration and until the wedding itself, you will be kept in a secret place. I personally will oversee your security. Tomorrow will be a difficult day - you cannot be absent when the selection is declared."
The mocking and angry faces, composed of flowers and little bouquets, swam before Yanina's eyes.
* * *
The hotel doors were under watch all night. The guards sat in the front room, played dice, and none of the residents, not even the owner herself, were permitted to leave.
The chaperone stared at Yanina with eyes like two broad beans on edge. No-one had told her what was happening; she had assumed, at first, that she and her mistress were both under arrest and on their way to prison.
"We need to sleep," Yanina said, not moving. She sat in an armchair in the middle of the spatious dining room of their expensive suite. Her soaking shoes were on the rug next to her. The fireplace burned fiercely on this warm, damp spring night, but Yanina still felt cold. "We must sleep. A carriage will come for me at dawn."
"For you? And what about me, shouldn't I..."
Yanina closed her eyes.
"Illy, I would love to trade places with you. For you to go to the palace, and for me to stay."
"But why?" The broadbean-eyes shone. "Once in a lifetime! The announcement of the prince's bride! And it's you!"
The chaperone jumped up and danced around the room, raising a breeze with her pirouettes. Then she dropped to the floor in front of Yanina, spreading her enormous skirt:
"Please, please ask them to take me along! I am your handmaid, I simply must be present!"
"They're afraid that you'll let something slip", Yanina confessed.
"Absolutely not!"
"Illy, what can I do?" The cry came from her depths, from her tightly clenched stomach. "I control none of it - nether my fate, not yours."
"But you will be the queen..."
Yanina sighed deeply.
"You spoke with the poet?"
"Yes. He agreed to come to your holding, and stay as long as you wish him to."
"We will have to refuse him", Yanina said after a long pause.
"Why? Invite him to the palace!"
"Illy, you're a bright girl." Yanina looked at the fireplace with its blue tiles, at the red holes in the fireguard. "You're a bright girl; so why do you keep saying silly things that make me miserable?"
Outside the window, the clock on the city tower struck one.
* * *
Behind the curtain, in an alcove intended for morning ablutions, water slowly cooled in an enormous tub. Yanina lit the kerosene burner herself and climbed into the tub without taking off her thin shift.
After five minutes, it became warm; after six minutes, Yanina realised that she will soon cook and asked Illy to put out the burner. She pulled her shift over her head and washed it right there in the tub. The shift was thinner than a cobweb, yet stronger than sheet steel; on the inside, it was covered in a pattern like writing, or perhaps in writing like a pattern. Over the years, Yanina was used to the shift drying as she wore it; she wiped herself off with a towel, then squeezed out the shift and put it on - just a few minutes later, it would be dry.
The clock outside the window struck three.
"We really must sleep", Yanina repeated. With surprise, she realised she was finding it hard to keep her eyes open.
* * *
The next morning she did not greatly stand out from the other aspirants arriving for the ceremony. The girls, their endless pedigrees trailing after them like tails, fretted; as many as one in two were stupid enough to believe in fortune and hope for the throne. Few had slept well that night. None were surprised at Yanina's pale face and red eyes.
The carriage had arrived at seven. Yanina, sleepy and hungry, sat on the leather cushions, and fifteen minutes later she was already at the palace. There, without quite noticing how she got there, she found herself in a long room that resembled the trunk of a giant tree, hollowed out from the inside. Alien maids, seamstresses, servants circled around her like moths around a flame; they removed Yanina's own dress, brought from her home for the ceremony, and dressed her in another - simpler, rougher, with a tight corset, and Yanina could not understand why the new dress was better than the old one that her loving aunt had put so much time, effort and imagination into.
Yanina categorically refused to change out of her shift. Although, it was clear that its intricate patterns impressed the seamstresses; they had clearly not often seen work of this quality.
Yanina was moved in front of a mirror; her hands clad with gloves that reached to her elbows. Then, suddenly, the seamstresses and maids scattered, like mice from a creaking door, and the king appeared.
He was wearing - Yanina saw - something bright, incredibly golden, luxurious and yet warlike. He threw his hat on a chair as he walked in. The head maid closed the doors tightly. The king examined Yanina in a critical, businesslike manner, as though gauging her chances of not being flattened under a hammer strike.
"Brighten the lips", he said to someone over his shoulder. "Lift the fringe higher. You have half an hour for everything. Give me your hands."
That last was to Yanina. Slowly she lifted her gloved hands, and the king rapidly, as though he had been doing it all his life, began to place rings on her fingers.
He was pulling them from a brocade pouch at his belt. Each one slid on easily and stayed on as though set. The king muttered over them and occasionally touched the stones; these were all dull, unremarkable, milky and mousy greys. Four rings on the right hand, four on the left.
"Lower your arms."
Yanina obeyed.
"Listen closely to what I say. You will stand in your spot amidst the potential brides when your name is declared. Make no response - not happiness, not surprise. Simply walk forward; you will be shown the way and sat next to the prince. The less expression shows on your face, the better."
He paused, as though confirming that she was absorbing the lesson.
"The rings will fall from your fingers", he said quietly. "On no account react to this. Do not turn your head. Picking them up - you understand that this would be quite incompatible with your dignity?"
"Yes, your majesty."
"Excellent."
* * *
"The king has decreed, and his advisors confirmed, and the royal court sealed its approval. The bride of Novin the prince has been chosen, from among the other worthy, a virgin, an heir of the Iron Mountain, noble, pure, faultless. Her name will now be declared in this hall. Her name..."
The girls on the podium held their breath.
They stood there, arranged by the ceremony masters like flowers, like skittles; each one visible from all sides, and yet the entired perfumed, silken multitude merged into a whole, a composition of impeccable taste. They stood deliberately, not looking at each other. The girls from Wheaten Cliff were placed in the very center, while Yanina was in the front row, at the bottom, on the right. The herald paused, the aspirants held their breath, the invited guests - the members of the court, the dignitaries, the land owners - froze in their armchairs, the public floor - enclosed by three rings of guards and rope, a reservation for the town crowd - fell silent.
Admittance to the public floor was by gold ticket, Yanina knew. These people, the lucky few that would later tell their neighbours, their children and grandchildren, of this day, were selected, if anything, more carefully than the aspirants themselves. She could see the curly locks of the town's head poet - he was here, he was invited, whereas the other, the youth denied a victory at last night's "battle of the tongues", would be outside, or perhaps had already left the city.
Suddenly, the crowd roared. They shouted, rumbled, clapped. At that moment, the giant golden ring on the first finger of her right hand became very heavy and slipped off her glove.
They were all looking at her.
The crowd's attention struck her, like a damp cloth to the face, and Yanina instinctively straightened her back. This was it; they had already called her name. She had missed the herald calling out her name. The ring on her little finger tensed and slid off, but amidst the noise, the insincere congratulations of her nearby neighbours, the ringing of gold on the marble floor was inaudible.
She found herself at the front, on the edge of the podium, not noticing how. Two guards and two ceremony masters, then two noblemen, took her arms and passed her along to each other, like a vase. She felt steps under her feet, but she did not even need to step - she was carefully lowered down. Two more rings slipped off her fingers. No-one, seemingly, noticed.
They are cursing me, Yanina understood, and her shift stuck to her back with sweat. I am being cursed, right now, this minute, by those who wanted to be in my place or near it.
Through the haze surrounding her she saw the face of the king. It was completely blank - even statues might show an expression of kindness or contempt, because their creators want them to look like people. The king, at this moment, was like a log, like a rough wooden dummy of the sort the peasants put up at the village borders to frighten off evil spirits.
Then she saw the prince.
The prince stood up to meet her. He was plump, soft, very pale, his forehead beaded with sweat. His eyes were enormous like the king's, light blue, dull. Yanina could see terror in them.
The prince took her hand and helped her to the seat next to him. His hand was gloved, with just a single ring on the first finger of his right hand. And, in the moment she touched his palm with hers, Yanina understood: the prince's hand would offer no support. As water offers no support. Water will hold you up, if you swim with regular, strong strokes. But when you are drowning, your hands just pass through it. The prince's hands were clammy, she could feel that through the thin velvet of the glove.
What was he afraid of?
She sat up straighter, as though trying to touch the ceiling with her head. There was music. The herald made some kind of steady speech. People of some sort appeared before Yanina and the prince, knelt, bowed, spoke: they are congratulating us, Yanina understood. They are congratulating me. So I really am a bride and this is not some stupid joke.
To distract herself, she thought of home. Of the sandy beach in the forest depths, where the oaks part to reveal a lake. She would swim there, in her shift, because on her deathbed her mother willed her never to take it off. And so Yanina never did, except for a few moments in the bath.
She did not, at first, think it strange that her shift grew with her.
There, on the sand, there were beetled with red backs. The swans were not afraid of people, and would watch their own reflections. They lived in the lake, it seemed, just to admire themselves in the mirror every minute. A swan is a nice thing to see. Although, if one thought about it, the water's mirror reflected many beautiful things: the swans would see the sky behind their heads, the dawn and sunset, the clouds, lit by slanting beams of sunlight, the balloons on their way from the capital to distant lands, the flocks of swallows...
"Lady, it is time."
They lifted her from the chair; she did not resist. The king could be pleased with her: she had spent the entire ceremony with as little expression on her face as he had on his.
Novin the prince was next to her, she could feel it. The prince stumbled on the carpet and almost fell; hands supported him.
"We go?" She heard his quiet, utterly miserable voice. "We leave?"
"Just a little more, your highness. There's just a little more to go. His majesty will be pleased with you."
They walked a wide arc around the podium, cleared for the purpose, and retreated through the velvet-framed doors, wide as a gaping maw.
* * *
In the semi-dark corridor, the force that had been assaulting Yanina for the last hour rapidly dwindled. She looked at her hands; no rings were left.
A strange whining noise was coming from nearby. She turned around. The prince was breathing rapidly; his blue eyes were full of tears.
"There, there." A man in a purple dressing-gown approached, pushing aside numerous servants. Ignoring Yanina, he took the prince's hand. "There, there, it's all done now. Let's go."
The man in the purple dressing-gown led the prince away; the door shut behind them, and the curtain was drawn over it, and for a few moments Yanina found herself nearly alone in the hallway - the servants were busy rolling up the enormous carpet, and Yanina stepped to one side to keep out of their way.
The simple, light thought came to her that now, with the performance over, she could perhaps return home. Maybe she could even take the poet with her. It would be fun to ride back in a carriage together, windows open wide, or perhaps even on the roof, having poems read out to her - the poet did not seem like someone who would be lost for words...
"Where are the guards?"
Yanina startled. The king had appeared, as was his wont, suddenly and from nowhere, and his expression was so furious that Yanina shrunk back.
Two guards came forward, massive, bulky as draft horses.
"Did I not - order you - to remain with her - at all times? Not to leave her alone - even for a moment?!"
The guards were speechless. Yanina straightened her back:
"Your majesty, I was not alone even for a moment, because..."
"Shut. Your. Mouth." The king did not even turn to look at her. "Do not open it again without permission. Ever."
* * *
Later she found out that Illy and her sponsor, together with all their property, the coachman and the carriage were all sent back to Ustock the same day - with congratulations, with an official letter for the aunt, but without an invitation to court.
Yanina did not open her mouth. No-one had ever spoken so offensively to her before. Although, even the night before, in the carriage with the mocking and angry faces, she had already realised that her life would change utterly.
She kept silent. She was changed into travel clothes, fed - she barely touched the food - and seated in a carriage with windows tightly shut. The carriage was old, creaky and shaky; on the turns, it felt like it was about to fall apart.
Yanina managed to sleep a little. She dreamed of the prince's face, the face of the man that was to be her husband. Beads of sweat on his forehead, and tears in his eyes. He looked like a boy terrified of doing something wrong and drawing the anger of his mentor.
She had spent her life in the province, knowing little of court life. It was said that the prince led a private and frugal existence, largely avoiding the public - showing up only at the most important official ceremonies that absolutely could not be avoided. Did this mean that the prince was a dreamer with a fragile nature? Did he spend his days lost in thought, buried in books? Or was he perhaps ill? After the ceremony was over, Yanina had seen suffering in his face. The man in the purple dressing-gown - a doctor? But why was he dressed so informally, on a festival day?
She remembered the king, and felt close to despair. Despair is a venomous creature, it comes stealthily, like a snake up a waterspout, and takes away strength, reason, will. Her will was not something Yanina was ready to concede.
She thought of home. She thought of how happy her aunt would be. Because she definitely would be happy, and proud. She would throw a feast. All the neighbours would come. They would drink, sing, and imagine Yanina on the throne, Yanina the queen.
Sooner or later, the king would die, Yanina thought with a cold calmness. Then I - then the prince and I would be free. None will dare offend me.
She looked at her hands and suddenly recalled the rings. The back of her head went cold: in the place she had just left there were those who hated her and wished for her death. Just a day ago, none had known her, and now they were ready to tear off her neck. She wanted to tell them: choke on it. Take the crown, fight over it, just leave me be, let me sit alone on the sandy beach in the forest...
The carriage stopped. The footrest was lowered. A lackey bowed to Yanina and offered a hand.
* * *
For three days she spoke only when absolutely necessary. Would she prefer fish or fowl for supper? Fish. Would she prefer a hard mattress, or a soft one? Soft. The place she had been sent to was like a very comfortable prison: a little castle, with a tiny courtyard, watchmen on the walls and even, apparently, cannons over the gates. From the moment of Yanina's arrival, none of the occupants had ventured outside the castle bounds. There was plenty of food stocked, and even fresh fish in a seaweed-covered pond.
The dress arrived on the third day.
Yanina did not know even approximately when the wedding would be. The dress had been sewn to the measures taken on the day of the bride choosing; it hung on her like a sack - over the three days, Yanina had lost weight. The seamstresses were confused, and conferred quietly; Yanina could hear the occasional fragment:
"They're correct, exact measurements, I have the document here..."
"We should compare it with the dress she wore to the ceremony..."
"You can't prove anything. When he's like this, you can't prove anything to him, and just now he..."
"Hush! Get sewing. We'll make do. The train sits well, at least..."
Yanina stood there like a mannequin. In the mirror she saw a thin, dark bride, defeated by sorrow. Ripe for the grave.
"What's this sack you've put on her?", a voice came. Yanina would have recognised it were she blindfolded.
The seamstresses rushed to explain. In the multitude of mirrors, cleaned to total clarity, all sides of a bald, nearly spherical head were reflected. The king did not listen to the seamstresses, his eyes were on Yanina. She made a belated curtsey: wilted, like a flower, for a second and a half, then straightened her back once more.
"Why are you silent, princess? Do you like the dress?"
"Your majesty did not give me leave to speak."
He silenced the seamstresses' explanations with a wave.
"You bear grudges?", he asked with surprise. "You were described to me as a kind, good-natured girl."
"I must surely be kind and good-natured, then." She bowed once more. "At your majesty's service."
The corners of his cruel lips lifted slightly.
"And so, in three days of peaceful life with full board you managed to lose weight, to these good people's distress?" He nodded at the seamstresses. Yanina thought she could hear irony in his voice. Perhaps mistakenly; the king had not previously lowered himself to such trifles as taunting.
"I would suppose," - it seemed to Yanina that the word "suppose" would serve to convey the utter indifference with which she regarded the wedding preparations, - "I would suppose that the masters will be able to find some solution. The train sits well, at least."
"Indeed." He looked at the seamstresses, who took a step back. "And what are these reports I hear of a shift you are particular about wearing?"
Yanina blushed. Tactlessness was even harder to bear than rudeness.
"My late mother gave me this shift. Together with her blessing. That's all there is to it."
He nodded, as though entirely satisfied with the answer.
"The wedding will be a week from now."
"So soon?!"
She sincerely hoped that her voice held only surprise, and not a note of despair.
"So soon, yes, because we are quite entirely out of time." The king turned, and all his reflections circled like dolls on a carousel. "I have things to tell you, princess. Please join me in the courtyard when you are done with these rags."
* * *
She entered the courtyard feeling as though she was going to her execution. A square turf, unnaturally green, surrounded a marble plaza with a fountain and a pair of wooden benches. The fountain gurgled, but its sound brought no calm: the water was at work and knew it. Its noise was there to hide conversations that were held on the benches: in this place, completely visible from the walls, it was impossible to hear conversations held but two paces away.
The king sat, leg over leg, watching the clouds gather in the sky. The sun, covered by a uniform grey shroud, was a white circle - the eye of a cooked fish.
Yanina approached and wilted in a silent curtsey.
"Sit", he pointed at a space next to him. She sat, and found herself almost as close to him as she had been in the carriage a few days ago.
"You saw my son?"
"Yes, your majesty."
"He is very ill."
Yanina's stomach clenched.
"You noticed, did you not?" The king was watching her.
"Yes; but I could not understand what was wrong - is he..."
"He is an idiot", the king said, and suddenly smiled.
If not for that smile, Yanina would have found herself at a loss; perhaps she would have asked something, spent a time trying to comprehend and then come to terms with the situation. But the smile was so terrible that Yanina froze and made no sound - did not even flinch.
"He is an idiot", the king repeated, "a miserable, terrified creature. The people believe him strange, an eccentric, at worst a fool. Not many know the truth. A very few people know the whole truth. His nurse, the most faithful servants and myself. And now also you. Naturally, you will keep silent on this matter."
Yanina swallowed the lump in her throat.
"He is incapable of ruling a country." The king looked at the sky once more. "But this is not the most important problem. An intelligent regent would resolve this adequately. Novin is unable to carry out the chief duty of the king: his blood, whether due to his illness or for some other reason, is rejected by the sacrificial stone."
Yanina was silent.
The sacrificial stone was a flat black slab in the hall of the court of law. Everyone in the country knew of it. Once a year, on the day of Sacrifice, the king would wet the stone with his blood. At one time, Yanina had researched this ceremony; its strangeness and incongruity, the way it was at odds with other tradition, attracted her curiosity. She had read all she could gather on the subject, even sent for books from the capital's library, with engravings.
"Therefore," the king watched her, "the country urgently needs an heir. With properties of the blood that would satisfy the black stone. I have spent a long time studying the family trees of all the descendants of the Iron Mountain. You were not selected for your intelligence, or your beauty, or your kindness, or any other such trifle. You are simply the one with the highest chances of producing a healthy boy by a crippled husband. It has to be a boy. The stone does not accept the blood of girls, for reasons unknown to us."
"It is a recessive gene?", Yanina whispered. Her hair, which had stood on end a minute ago, felt cold.
"Yes", the king said shortly. "I believe so."
He gave her a considering look.
"You studied somewhere?"
"At home. Biology, the natural sciences..."
"This is good." His dark eyes brightened briefly. "It is very fortunate, it will save us a great deal of time..."
He sat back on the bench. His face relaxed, as though melting in the heat.
"I was expecting you to burst into tears, have hysterics..." He breathed heavily, as though he had just run a marathon. "In this, at least, it seems I am fortunate. I presume you do not know how the sacrificial stone works, of course?"
"I can only theorise." Yanina leaned forward and lowered her palm into the fountain's icy water. "It's a sensor, yes? Like the ones that allow ticket holders into the theatre, like the ones that permit people to pass into the closed city quarters..."
"It is more complex than those. But you are correct. It is a sensor, and the ticket is a code. A genetic code. Do not ask me what that is, I do not know myself. I only know that it exists, and that the stone reads it, and that in my son this code is corrupt."
He took a deep breath and slowly breathed out, his shoulders going up and back down. Interesting, Yanina thought. This is happening to me, right now. It is I that will marry an idiot with dull blue eyes. Forever. For all time, because queens - even widows - never remarry...
"I understand", the king said hoarsely. She stared at him in horror: could he read her mind?
Then she looked down at her clammy hands:
"The rings. They all fell. Immediately after the name was declared."
"I understand", he repeated through gritted teeth. "The daughters of the baron of Wheaten Cliff have thirteen and sixteen chances respectively of birthing a healthy son by Novin. Out of a hundred, that is. In truth, I should arrest the baron after all the provocations he has arranged in the city - there is unrest in the capital, you know? Oh, but how would you... the baron paid wandering prophets to prophesy horrors that await the populace in the event of your coming to power. I paid others, who prophesy a golden age. All oracles are for sale, did you know this?"
"But... there are real ones, too..."
"There are none", the king said with such conviction that Yanina immediately believed him. "I should have had the baron beheaded in the town square, this is clear rebellion... but I lack the strength for war. I dare not risk the price of bread. I will have to somehow make amends with him, give him presents, instead of just hanging him from the nearest branch, the rebel and traitor..."
The king was talking to the fountain.
"Therefore the wedding, as I already said, will be in one week. It is very difficult to prepare Novin. He is scared of people, terrified of crowds. They pump him full of sedatives, a normal person would fall asleep on the spot, but this one still has strength to shake and jerk about. I beg your forgiveness, princess, but you will have to meet your husband later, after the wedding ceremony. I dare not distress him more than absolutely necessary right now."
"He... does he understand what is happening?" Yanina asked quietly. "Does he... recognise people at all? Or..."
"An unnecessary question", the king said through his teeth.
"I beg your pardon."
"He can recognise people, of course. The few he is attached to. Do not worry yourself about it ahead of time. I will order the catalogue from the closed sections of the library to be sent to you, request whatever you like. I can see you're one of those. A bookworm."
"Th-thank you."
* * *
Seven days on, no sooner and no later, Novin the prince heir and Yanina from Ustock were joined by duty and law. The ceremony was restrained, not fancy and not very populous - just enough to fulfil the requirements of protocol.
The prince stood like a warm wax statue - puffy, soft, terror and resignation in his dull blue eyes. Two burly servants loomed either side of the prince. Every time he began to glance around or shuffle from foot to foot, they would edge closer. Once, light glinted off a syringe of the one furthest from Yanina.
When the time came for the prince to respond to the city judge, to answer the question of whether he agreed to take Yanina from Ustock and live with her in peace and happiness until death did them part - when this moment came, that same servant made a slight gesture. Yanina noticed it only because she stood so close; in response to the hidden gesture of the servant, the prince said "yes". That is, he cried out, but it sounded very like agreement, and the ceremony continued.
After dinner, in the evening and at night, the city streets filled with activity, and here there was no longer restraint, no strictness, not even propriety. Thousands of barrels were distributed around the city, each filled with excellent wine and not the vinegar that the frugal masters were used to. Prophets, oracles, wandering conjurers bought with the crown's coin prophesied riches and fertility for the country under the new queen's rule. The night was not without drunken fights and confrontations, but the royal guard, battle-ready, quashed disturbances before they could begin.
A feast for the chosen took place in the palace. The baron of Wheaten Cliff was invited with all his multitude of relatives, announced with honour and rewarded with a medal "for service to the crown". It was unclear what service was meant, but the diamond-studded star had a hypnotic effect on the baron. The baron, star and sated eyes shining, sat in the best place before the rich spread. Some of the oracles he had bought still prophesied trouble by inertia, but few listened.
The young husband and wife were in the hall - as tradition dictated - for the first ten minutes of the feast. They were then conducted to their suite. It was early evening, the sky was still light - it was late spring.
The man in the purple dressing-gown - the prince's nurse - led him to distant rooms; from there, suppressed sobs could be heard, and a consoling voice, and finally silence. Yanina remained alone in the bridal suite, in an enormous four poster bed. Coloured, perfumed candles floated in crystal vases.
She felt empty as a vase drained of water. She felt light. The unbearably long day was finally over; she was alone and could cry if she wished.
* * *
"Your majesty, please, allow me."
The man in the purple gown stood in such a way that a stranger who did not know the specifics of palace life might think that the prince's nurse was barring the king's path. Naturally, this would be quite impossible. Strangers were not permitted here.
"These ceremonies have taken so much out of him. Please, allow me to introduce him to his... wife myself."
The king remained silent. Not a word, not a gesture - it was as though the king neither heard nor saw the nurse. He simply took a step forward, and the man in the purple gown folded and shrunk back towards the wall. Yanina, obeying the snap of long bony fingers, stepped over the room's threshold, following the king.
The prince's bedroom, large and very light, was surprising in its emptiness and freedom. A low bed with no headboard, cushions on the floor - which was covered with rugs, or perhaps duvets. No table, no chairs. The prince, in a velvet gown, sat on cushions in the furthest corner. On seeing the king and those accompanying him, he hid himself deeper in his unreliable soft shelter.
"Hello, Novin," the king spoke in a voice that combined a show of softness with the implacability of a cruel doctor. "Come here. This is your wife."
The prince stood and approached on stiff legs.
"Behave yourself," the king said with a smile.
The prince shrunk back. His fair hair, falling onto his forehead, separated him from his visitors by a fragile curtain.
"This is your wife", the king took the prince's limp, unwilling hand. "She is beautiful and clever. She will love you."
At the word "love", the prince quickly lifted his head and gave Yanina a brief, shuddering glance. His jaw dropped, as though a monster confronted him, and he screamed.
His face distorted in a grimace, he tried to tear his hand free of the king's, but the latter held tight as a bear trap.
"Stay. I will punish."
The prince tugged with all his strength and managed to break free. He ran to his corner and dug into the cushions, repeating through sobs: "No! No!"
"Come here", the king said, and shivers went down Yanina's back from the tone of his voice. "To me!"
"Leave him alone", she spoke before sho could think.
The king turned his balding head in her direction:
"What?"
"He is my husband." She realised it was too late for retreat. "I am his wife. I will not permit you..."
At this point her head spun, because to say "I will not permit" to a king was a monstrous error.
"...I gave an oath."
The king's nostrils quivered.
Feeling as though she was falling, with no footing, Yanina walked to the centre of the soft room, the piles of swan fluff stitched into the sheets making it even harder to walk on her suddenly weak legs.
"He is my husband! I will resolve this myself, do not interfere!"
The king's face swam before her eyes, but she could clearly see the nurse in his purple gown. He stood behind the king, and his elderly, wrinked face looked like it was made of crumpled paper. He stared at Yanina, tears of adoration in his eyes.
The king left. The nurse immediately followed him. Yanina sat on the floor.
The prince whimpered in his corner. A minute, two, three. She kept waiting for him to calm down, approach her, then she could talk to him gently and he would finally stop making those high-pitched whining sounds. But he kept whimpering, and Yanina felt irritation.
The king, his father, surely knew best how to deal with him. The will of the king, sometimes tough, made the prince at least a little human. By himself, Novin was like liquid, formless, spineless. Another's will could perhaps hold him up, give him shape, as a mould does to jelly. The king had left so that she, Yanina, could better see and understand this.
"Shut up!", she said with unexpected anger.
She wanted to kick the whimpering prince. Make him howl louder, or finally go silent.
"Shut up! Shut your mouth..."
(...and do not open it again without permission. Ever.)
She wept - for the first time since the day of the wedding. For the first time since she had been chosen to be the prince's bride.
* * *
On the day of the summer solstice, the hall of the court of law once more filled with people. This time there was no flamboyance, merely sternness. The sacrifice on the black stone was ritual, but no celebration.
Yanina had read of this in her childhood, and had seen engravings in books. But she had never before been a witness.
The prince was not by her side. Since the wedding day, the king stopped being so careful about having the prince attend the important state ceremonies. Yanina took the prince's place, and filled the role of princess quite adequately. Every such presentation was work, but it was simple work. Especially if the unpredictable, permanently terrified Novin was not around.
Speeches appropriate to the occasion were read out, all in accordance with the scenario laid down by tradition. The head judge, as the voice of state power, turned to the black stone with a prayer for acceptance of the sacrifice: "For harvest, for sunlight, for trade, for the fishermen, for the blossoming of the country, the capital and the provinces, accept our sacrifice, o great stone".
Then the king, who had stood to one side until this point, stepped forward. He walked, stepping carefully, along the narrow paving leading to the stone's bulk along the northern wall. Two guards followed behind, matching him step for step.
The king stood before the stone. The guards simultaneously stepped forward and removed his black cloak. The king was left wearing a white shirt - the left sleeve buttoned at his wrist, the right rolled up to his elbow. From where she sat, Yanina could see his bare, wiry arm, cris-crossed with thin scars.
The king raised both arms, said something inaudible, and sliced with a knife that had appeared from somewhere. Yanina would certainly have shuddered, were she not at that moment playing the role of a princess - a person in ideal control of herself.
The black stone did not change. The blood that fell on its surface disappeared. The king stood, watching the altar dispassionately; Yanina fancied she saw contempt in his expression, and even a little repulsion.
Then the stone glowed. Yanina saw green light reflected in the king's face, on his damp forehead, in the points of the crown. From books she knew of the writing that would now be visible on the altar: "Access confirmed."
"Access confirmed", the king declared.
The courtiers, the nobles, the land owners all shouted in joy and hugged each other. Applause echoed from the hall archways; all knew that the stone would confirm access, but every time - at the last moment - felt something like a holy fear: what if? What if, one day, the prophesy that told of the end of the world came true?
The guards draped the cloak over the king's shoulders.
Yanina sat in her place, not moving, until a servant informed her with a bow that it was time to leave.
* * *
The prince's nurse wore a purple dressing-gown because the prince liked to see him informally clothed. The prince calmed down when he saw the dressing-gown. The dressing-gown meant that everything was normal, routine. Bitter experience had taught the prince that when all around him wore official or parade, shining, clanking uniforms with long trains - there was some trial to come. Any ceremony before a crowd was torture for the prince.
The nurse knocked on the door of Yanina's separate bedroom the day after the sacrifice. The wrinkles in his older face that looked like crumpled paper were deeper, darker.
"Princess," he began immediately after the greetings. "I am very grateful to you for the sympathy you have shown my poor boy. You pity him, I can see. No others here feel for him except you and I."
Yanina knew this to be true.
"But *he*" - the nurse gave a shuddering sigh. - "He will not leave you in peace for long. Yesterday, he questioned the old woman..."
"The old woman" was what the nurse called the servant, energetic and not particularly old, that had been assigned to Yanina as a personal maid, confidante and spy. "The old woman" was called Mouse; this was, of course, a nickname, and Yanina had not asked her real name.
"She told *him* that nothing had happened between you and the prince. Two months have passed since you were wed. *He* is once more... well, you understand."
Yanina lowered her head.
"*He* spoke of terrible things. I can but hope that all he did was speak. But it may be that he will *do*... Princess, listen to me. It is not too late. Let us do as I first suggested..."
In the very first days after the wedding, the nurse had explained to Yanina how to win the prince's heart. She should come daily, at the same time, into his room and bring him vanilla ice-cream. The prince was powerless before vanilla ice-cream. He emptied the little pot in a few minutes, his face and hands would be covered with white goo, and for a brief time there would be happiness in his eyes.
Yanina brought the ice-cream twice. She was repelled by the sight of the prince eating the sickly, sticky treat. On the third day, she refused:
"He is not an animal. I cannot tame him as one would tame an animal."
"And how do you suppose people are tamed?", the nurse tried to argue his case.
He failed.
Yanina came to the prince daily - made herself visit - and spoke to him, gently, kindly, at length. She smiled, stroked his soft, clammy arm, looked into his dull blue eyes. But the prince did not respond to her kindness - he was no longer scared of Yanina, she annoyed him. He pulled his arm away, retreated to his corner, mumbled "Go away!"
With each week, her visits grew rarer. If he does not wish to see me, she thought, perhaps there should be a break in the visits.
And then, she thought, perhaps everything will sort itself out. We'll hold out until the day of Sacrifice, and then...
Now the nurse scared her and saddened her. He left, trailing the gown's long folds over the carpet, and Yanina walked to the window and lifted her eyes to the setting sun. The clouds looked like feathers against the orange background; the feathers combined into a giant, lonely wing.
Had she ever dreamed of married life? Of course, many times, on just such golden evenings by her window. How did she see her future husband? A rider on a white charger, a youth and mature at the same time. None of the men she had ever met resembled the imaginary knight. Except, perhaps, the poet - the one that had lost the "battle of tongues" in the town square. He could have been a friend to Yanina.
In that place where the wing filled the sky there was no room for drooling idiots, stupid rituals and barbaric rules. I could run away, Yanina suddenly thought. I made a vow before duty and love, but there is no love, and as for duty... is anyone held responsible for me?
The aunt? It would be unlikely that she would be punished severely were I to run away. She may spend a time in disgrace, perhaps, but hopefully she would not hold it against me when she learned the truth. I honestly tried. But either I run away now, if I can, or...
The door behind her back opened. Only one person would enter without knocking. Yanina did not turn.
"I gave you time, princess."
They had not spoken since the day Yanina had stood between the king and his son: "This is my husband! I will resolve this myself, do not interfere!"
"I gave you two months, even more, to sort out your personal life. Have you succeeded? No."
Without looking, she could feel him cross the enormous bedroom to approach her. The distant cloud looked warm. Yanina leaned forward, lifted herself up onto the marble windowsill.
"Don't come any closer." Now she turned around.
Had the path across her bedroom been shorter by just a few steps, there would not have been time. But the king stopped the moment he saw her face.
"Come no closer." Yanina smiled. "It is very high up here."
He stood there for a moment, then retreated. Yanina had won. The king turned around and walked to the door along carpets with patterns that changed depending on the direction of the strands. One could draw on such carpets by stroking them with one's palms. The king's heels left semicircles in the deep pile.
Yanina remained on the windowsill. The sky in the west paled, losing its gold. She suddenly thought: if he leaves now, without saying anything - all that remained would be to carry out the threat. Straight down, head first.
He paused in the doorway for a second.
"I thought you were a woman of your word," he said, without anger or irritation.
He left.
* * *
On the next day, Yanina went to the prince. He was sitting on a round balcony, hidden from unwelcome eyes by grapevines. The grapes twined around thin, strong bars: the prince could not have flown from here had he wings.
The prince sat, watching the sun through a pinhole in a vine leaf. The bright spot wandered across his round cheeks, the prince squinted in clear pleasure. Whenever the beam hit his eyes, he squeezed them shut and laughed.
Yanina sat on a pillow a few steps away and watched the sun with him.
The prince was just shy of twenty. He could have been a cheerful young man, a little spoiled perhaps, a little rough, but noble. He would have made jokes on this balcony, Yanina would have laughed, and there would have been no bars, no thick vines. They would have gone wandering, riding, would have visited the aunt in her provincial home, the neighbours would have gone mad with good-natured envy. Yanina felt like this other, better reality was somewhere very close by. That if she concentrated her will, she could break through to that place where everything was well. She squeezed her eyes tight and imagined that the prince was healthy, that the loved each other. Faith can change a person, an idea can change a people, why can a wish, a powerful wish, not change reality?
She opened her eyes. The prince had set down the vine leaf and was looking at Yanina.
"Novin?", Yanina called quietly.
The prince heard his name. Now he frowned. His dull blue eyes looked lost.
"It will all be all right," she said in a fake voice, and instantly corrected herself: "No, everything is really bad. Really bad, my friend."
Novin tilted his head. It looked to Yanina as though his face had shifted, his eyes shone a little. As though the mask of empty indifference that he always wore in her presence was ready to fall.
"Novin! Do you remember me? My name is Yanina, I'm your wife..."
The prince's nose twitched. He got bored of staring at Yanina - he lifted his crumpled vine leaf once more and resumed watching the sun.
It hadn't worked; Yanina took a leaf for herself. She made a little hole with a nail, and looked at the sun. It was unexpectedly pleasant: a calm green light, dark veins and a spot of sunlight like a brightly lit road ahead. I understand what he is looking for, Yanina thought as she felt a ray of sunlight touch her skin. He has no past, no future; he lives in this minute. Perhaps right now, green and sunlit, he is happy...
A long few minutes passed, the sun hid itself behind a cloud and Yanina lowered her lead. The prince was staring over her shoulder, his face was once more frozen, and his blue eyes filled with terror.
Yanina counted to three in her head, then stood up, turned around and greeted the king with a curtsey.
* * *
"Don't fool yourself. Don't make things up, princess. He is an idiot and will remain so."
"He is a human being."
"I believe human beings deserve to be treated more kindly by fate. Perhaps it should treat us with more respect."
"Us?"
"Indeed. To wed a girl, innocent of wrongdoing, for life to my son - what is that, if not a mockery?"
Yanina did not believe her ears.
"You are saying this to me? You?"
"To torture a poor child, to display it before a crowd like an advertising poster - what is that, if not a mockery?"
"But it is you doing these things! You yourself! So stop it..."
"Stop what? What, princess Yanina, is it that I should stop?"
They were walking through the palace garden. The king instinctively - or perhaps deliberately - avoided the places where their conversation might be accidentally - or deliberately - overheard. The park was close shaved like a new recruit, empty and bare, though it was the middle of summer. The flowers were afraid to raise their heads above the gardener's measured mark. Any plant that did not grow according to plan was slated for execution.
"This sacrifical stone," - Yanina began. "A sensor."
"Indeed."
"If it does not accept the heir's blood, this would be an ill omen."
"A very, very ill omen."
"But all oracles lie. You said so yourself."
"Oracles lie to please those who pay them."
"So pay the stone. None but you can see the writing at the moment of sacrifice. Lie to the crowd. 'Access confirmed' - so let it be confirmed for eternity! With no stupid ritual once a year!"
She caught herself; her speech was very daring. It was probably a result of the evening before. Of the moment when her death seemed a certain thing.
"Listen, the payment is too high for a ritual," she continued, less confidently. "Broken lives..."
The king stopped. He turned to face Yanina. The prison-bar wrinkles on his forehead grew deeper and harsher.
"Have you ever thought about how our world is made?"
* * *
The edges of the enormous slab were covered in patterns, pleasant to the touch: it almost seemed like one could read a writing there with the tips of one's fingers, or hear music recorded in the stone. In its centre, the slab was perfectly smooth. It had long since been cleaned of blood. It was dry, matte and very cold.
"Have you ever thought about the meaning of the words, 'Access confirmed'"?
"A ritual phrase?"
"You're a bookworm. Have you never read of the System?"
"A mystical teaching..." She paused. "A philosophical theory, an artistic trope: all things in the world are interconnected, all are one, and life continues while the circuit is closed. It is beautiful and logical: a man is connected to an ant, an ant to the sun, the sun to water, water to enlightenment, to inspiration... the System is beautiful, imaginary poetry."
"No. It is real and quite concrete. Although things are pretty much as you describe: everything is connected to everything else and lives while the circuit is closed. Once a year, the System asks for confirmation that the throne is held by a legal heir, a descendant of the First People and the Iron Mountain. It is not a ritual. It is technology. The sensor reads the genetic code. The circuit is closed. The System continues to operate."
The king spat on the stone. The blackness glowed green, symbols ran across it, and Yanina, astonished, read the archaic, strange-looking, but entirely comprehensible text: "Access confirmed."
"What did you do?!"
"An unscheduled query affects nothing. This contraption reads the code. The blood is just for show, I could as easily spit on the slab or piss on it. Imagine what *that* ceremony would be like."
He grinned, showing sharp, yellow teeth:
"Yanina, have you really never been surprised by how our world is made?"
"I know of no other worlds," she spoke after a silence.
The hall of the court of law was empty and echoed. Guards were on duty outside the doors, but inside, in the space where half the city could fit, there were only shadows, dust, a smell of damp, the king and Yanina. The black stone still glowed with its shaky green light: "Access confirmed."
"Our books describe devices that we can never build. They are not accidental, they have some kind of purpose, but we are unable to comprehend what it is. Descriptions of the world in old textbooks agree with reality. But we cannot comprehend how this knowledge was obtained. Who and by what principle constructed the magical incantations? What, really, is DNA? Do you know?"
"It is a kind of spiral that consists of repeating fragments..."
"How do you know this? From books? Yes, it is a truth, but *how* could people have thought of it? The biggest magnifying glass in the world will not show you the structure of an organic compound!"
"But we can perform experiments. Plant peas, green and yellow..." She fought solely from stubbornness. More precisely, she wasn't fighting - merely trying to put off that moment when she would have to accept that the king was right.
"Yanina, you already understand what I am talking about."
"Yes." She stared at the king's spit on the altar. "What would it mean if the System does not receive its confirmation?"
"The circuit will be broken. The System will cease operation."
"What would it mean - for us?"
The king pulled out a silk handkerchief and wiped his spit from the altar. The green glow faded, then went out entirely. The darkness in the hall looked slightly brown to Yanina.
"Not here," the king said abruptly.
* * *
"Our world is not a hundred centuries old. It is much younger. The old books are confused. The confusion is man-made. Our history was made up, it is still being made up today. And what of the star charts?"
"What of them?"
"They are manipulated. Either the laws of physics lie - and they do not - or our sky is subject to special laws. I believe it is the System that shoves the spheres of the heavens around."
The king paced his office, scrunching, tugging, teasing apart a black velvet glove.
"Our world was artificial from the moment of creation. Our energy source is not inside the world, it is outside. The purpose of our existence is also outside. Without the System our world will not support life, and the black stone is the key to the System. If once it fails to receive its confirmation, the System will break its circuits and the sun will stop."
Yanina straightened her back as taught as she could.
The king stared at her with a demented gleam in his eyes, a yellow fire in their depths. He is insane, Yanina thought, and her head spun. One time in her life she had fallen into a faint. In a summer, in a field, the grass up to her knees and the butterflies as glints in the water, the maddening roar of cicadas, the sun baking her hair...
The king caught her and helped her settle on a couch. Semiconscious, Yanina felt cuffs of firm cloth under the gaudy sleeves - enormous, from his wrist most of the way back to his elbow. Under these are scars, Yanina thought. How many?
"How many times have you done it?", Yanina asked.
He did not clarify what she was referring to.
"Twenty seven. My father died young. You think I am crazy, don't you?"
She looked up:
"Yes."
He was silent. Then suddenly he smiled:
"That would be... wonderful. Prove to me that I am crazy. I would be happy."
"What connection could there be between a black slab and the sun in the sky?"
"What connection could there be between a curse and a ring falling from your finger? How does a sensor know if your ticket is valid? I spilt Novin's blood on the stone, and the stone replied: 'Access denied.'"
"And yet, nothing happened."
"It was an unscheduled query. The System started a countdown: I had sixty seconds to supply confirmation. Novin squealed like a pig being slaughtered, he had to be carried away... I confirmed access using my own genetic material. The countdown stopped."
The king's breathing was heavy, as though the recollection cost him considerable effort.
Yanina closed her eyes. The fields in the summer, the butterflies, the stalks of rye on the smooth basalt slopes... if you lie at the edge of a field, press your face to the cold base, you can hear the water streaming through the tiny, barely visible tubes in the basalt. If you cut such a tube apart with a knife, a clear bead of water appears, you can lick it. A common childhood pastime. Though, of course, children get scolded for it something fierce - the tubes repair themselves very slowly, and without them the harvest would fail...
"We live in an artificial world, created for an unknown purpose," the king said. "The condition for its continued existence - an heir of the First People and the Iron Mountain must sit on the throne. Our world is very compact. You have, of course, read of overseas countries?"
"Yes, but..."
"...but none of those now living have ever been to any. Overseas travelers are frauds and charlatans. Our world is much smaller than we normally admit. It is very economical: one set of parents never have more than three children. Even three is rare."
The king dropped the glove near his feet.
"I had a daughter, she was born first. She had a tragic death."
Yanina knew nothing of this. There had been some vague rumours: there was a princess, or she had been made up, or she had drowned, or she had fallen from a tower...
"Novin is my second child. There will be no third. My resources," - he grinned unpleasantly, - "are depleted. Do you know how old I am?"
"Fourty."
"Fourty-one. Have you ever considered that people are given as long a life as it takes them to carry out their life's work?"
"No."
"Check the census data. The craftsmen live the longest. Their age is a tool for them, they must accumulate skill, then pass it on. Skill, not knowledge. Scientists' lives are a little shorter - they are teachers, they must make the next generation read books, then test the lessons were learned. Women live longer than men - they give birth, they nurse and bring up, and then they must pass on the knowledge of how to nurse and give birth. Men live while they have the strength to work. As for kings, they die the moment their heirs come of age. The moment their work is done and the stone receives new blood."
"You are definitely crazy," Yanina said with relief. "You're a maniac."
"Yeah, sure. There are twelve months left before the next ritual. If I die tomorrow - the country has a chance to receive fresh blood before the day of the summer solstice."
"The blood of a baby?!"
"Snot, spit, whatever. But there must be a baby. A boy."
"Why are you focused on death?!"
"My father died aged thirty four. No king has ever lived to the age of fifty. If Novin had been a normal, healthy youth - I would not now be talking to you, Yanina. I would not be begging you that which I beg of you now... I married for love, knowing that my wife's ancestors were plagued by mutations. I hoped that love would conquer all. It turned out otherwise: my daughter died. Novin is an idiot. I have one hope left - you."
The king stood before Yanina. Then he got on his knees.
* * *
It rained for several days straight. Mists, not yet cold, but already damp and cloying like a cellar, filled the lowlands, poured through the city and reached the upper floors of the palace.
Early one dull, thick morning, Yanina left the prince's room on shaky legs, and there was no-one around. Not the nurse (she had forbidden him to appear in the chamber until morning). No servants, no guards, no Mouse the nanny-spy. Yanina walked, holding the wall. A warm shawl trailed after her, and she clutched a handful of dust - all that was left of a dried vine leaf.
The prince had fallen asleep in his bed, low, with no headboard; in his sleep, his face was calm, normal. He looked like he was about to open his eyes, stretch out, say, looking into her eyes with a clear blue gaze: "Good morning, princess, I am well now, you have broken my curse; we will live a long and happy life, because I love you, and you... can you accept me, the way I have become?"
Yanina so wanted those words that she stroked his fair hair, bringing him gently awake. He opened his eyes slightly, scared from the sudden wakening, cried out, but quickly calmed, whispered "'Nina" and fell asleep once more.
Then she stood, dressed in the semidarkness, threw a shawl over her shoulders and walked to her own room. At the last moment she spotted the dried leaf that had found its way to the prince's pillow. Yanina picked it up and clutched it in her fist.
What would this boy have been like, had it been possible to "break his curse"?
Very gentle, certainly. Weak. But very sincere.
* * *
That same day she dined with the king at the top of the highest tower. There was no wind; the town spread below, with thin smoke rising from the bakeries and smithies, and the roofs looked like they were covered in checkerboard - so many swallows circled over the town.
"Perhaps you would like dances?", the king asked. "Shall we arrange a ball?"
"No."
"What about poets? You like poems? Let's declare a 'battle of the tongues', a big one, three days without a break."
Yanina smiled.
"I want you to enjoy yourself," the king pressed. "A ballet performance? A festival of the arts? What sights would you like to see? Everything is in our power. Just ask."
Yanina shook her head.
"Would you like fireworks?" - the king did not give up. "I'd like... I'd like there to be many lights, noise, cannon-fire."
"Novin is scared of cannons."
"We'll take him outside the city limits first..."
The king cut off. Yanina smiled.
"I'm babbling like a fool," the king said quietly. "I have to ask..."
"...what it was like?"
"Yes."
"Novin is my husband. I love him because I must. And I fear..." - she paused. "I fear that from this day he will have something that interests him even more than vanilla ice-cream."
Yanina instantly regretted her words. The king looked like a man holding a handful of live coals.
* * *
One morning, Mouse, who had since a certain time turned wonderfully servile, came to her with a report: Bastian the poet, a youth, but already recognised in the city, has three times (or four?) in the last day begged for an audience.
Yanina lit up inside.
Her maids helped her dress. In a small guest hall that the king had given Yanina for her own use, she met the man she had once wanted to see as a guest in Ustock.
How long had it been? Only a few months. Everything had changed completely. But when the poet bowed low, a warm, crafty smile touching the corners of his lips, Yanina's heart ached.
He knew that one of his listeners, a most discerning connoisseur of poetry, had granted him the honour of an invitation on the eve of the day she was fated to become the prince's bride. All the days past he had watched her from afar. He had hoped that sooner or later he would have the opportunity to express his gratitude. And also read her poems devoted to Yanina from Ustock, princess and queen.
Yanina blushed. She was not yet a queen. She thought with horror of the day the king would speak of calmly: the day of his death. But the poet smiled, he was handsome, clever, and fascinated by Yanina. She prepared to listen; sat, watching the poet with an indulgent smile; and she was not disappointed.
She was like a musical instrument to him. With his poems he caused her to smile, sorrow, think of the sky and of stone, of wax and of death - and instantly of the sun. He astonished her: that other evening, at the "battle of tongues", his improvisations had not half the depth of feeling, precision and consonance that she found in his lines now.
"I wish for you to entertain me every day", she said as the poet, with his burning cheeks and daring eyes, bowed low before her. "I grant you the title of my court poet... if you accept," she added shyly.
He gratefully accepted.
* * *
That night, for the first time, the prince hugged her as he fell asleep. Although his arms soon weakened and slipped off.
Yanina covered him, tucked him in like a mother. She stroked his head and went back to her room.
She dressed - fully, without her maids' help. It was the third hour of the night. Yanina combed her hair, gathered it into a bundle, woke Mouse and gave her a strange order.
"But, my princess, it is very late...", Mouse tried to object.
"It is an order."
Mouse left and soon returned; quietly, invisibly slipping into the room, justifying her nickname:
"His majesty will receive you, your highness."
Her expression was puzzled.
At the entrance to the king's chambers she was greeted by guards. The king, as she had supposed, was not even thinking of sleep - he sat, booted legs resting on a table, a book in his lap.
When Yanina entered, he swung his legs off the table with evident regret and stood up:
"Has something happened?"
"Nothing, your majesty. I had suspected that you were not asleep."
"I almost never sleep. I do not like what I see in my dreams."
"I just wanted to ask. If Novin were to suddenly become healthy... would such a thing be forbidden by the world's laws? The System's laws?"
The king gave her a sharp look.
"It is forbidden by the mundane laws that govern our daily lives. But it is not precluded by the higher laws that govern reality."
Yanina did not understand; he guessed this from her face, and smiled patronisingly:
"Take two sets, the set of women and the set of stupid women. The former clearly contains the latter, but there remains a nonempty part of it which is not in the latter set."
"What are you implying?!", Yanina whispered.
"Perhaps I am trying to pay you a compliment... If Novin were to suddenly become healthy, this would be one of the set of phenomena commonly named miracles. Does that answer your question?"
Yanina bowed and wished him a good night (more like a good morning) before returning to her own chambers. Mouse was not asleep; she was curious. Yanina gave her the next order.
"But, princess, that would be most improper!"
"We are in the royal palace, what impropriety could there be? I will meet him in the hall. You can be present."
They walked through the long corridors that were lit day and night, and the guards at their posts greeted them with ill-suppressed surprise. The poet awaited them in the small meeting hall - pale, somewhat bedraggled, but very polite.
"I have made a decision," Yanina stood before him. "Here."
She handed him a small, almost weightless bundle.
The poet bowed low. He took the bundle with both hands; the palm of the left was tightly bound by a leather strap - the poet had been injured recently, defending himself in an alley from some sort of ruffians.
The previous night they had spent a long time in conversation. The poet told Yanina of the power of words and signs. Of incantations that were, in essence, a concentrated form of poetry, so filled with meaning that a human was incapable of deciphering them.
Yanina surprised herself by telling him about her shift, covered all over in symbols. Perhaps those, too, were incantations?
The poet became very excited. He had heard legends, he said, of such shirts. Inside were encoded not only formulas for the health and safety of the wearers, but - most often - ciphered incantations for the granting of their wishes. Most often - a single wish, provided, of course, that it did not contradict the laws of reality. "The laws of the System," Yanina thought to herself.
"How much time will you need?"
"I cannot say. Tomorrow I will be able to tell you."
"Hurry. I have never in my life removed it for long. Without it, I feel... strange."
"Do not worry, princess, I understand that this is a great treasure, and will return it to you safe and sound!"
Before she went to bed, she visited the head of the guards and gave another order.
* * *
She slept for two hours, if that.
"Your highness, you ordered us to wake you if there was any word from the guard..."
Yanina woke up instantly. She felt cold sweat: when taking the precautions, she had hoped they would never be needed.
"What happened?"
"The lord poet was detained during an attempt to hurriedly leave the palace. He is saying you ordered..."
From that point, her memories were fragmented.
As soon as she was dressed, she ran to the central guard post. The poet, ruffled, with mad terrified eyes, was by that point tied up - so fiercely had he demanded his freedom, so set was he on his right to leave the palace.
On seeing Yanina he went terribly pale.
"What happened?" She watched his eyes. "Where were you going?"
"I required certain books, I did not have time to decipher..."
As he spoke, his eyes wandered. Yanina felt light-headed.
"Where is it? Where is my shift?"
"Give me time, I will return it, just please, give me time..."
Yanina ran to the room where the poet, by her grace, had been staying. The curtains, the carpets, all the clothes smelt of smoke, although the window was wide open. A last snippet of thin, finely patterned cloth smouldered in the fireplace.
* * *
"It is a screen," the king said as he examined the piece of cloth with its charred black edges. "It is definitely a screen. The item protected you from something... from some constantly present factor... or, conversely, it protected the world from you. How long have you been wearing it?"
"From birth."
"What?!"
"It grew with me."
The king flung the rag away angrily.
"What did I say about the set of women and the subset of fools?!"
"You were right."
Yanina shut her dry, inflamed, sore eyes.
The poet stood nearby. Two guards were holding his elbows behind his back. He was no longer trying to escape - he just breathed heavily.
"This was not your idea," - the king told him.
"I will tell you everything," - the poet whispered with broken lips.
"Show me your hands. Hey, let him go, I want to see his palms..."
The king tore off the strip of black leather wrapping the poet's left palm. The skin was revealed - the hand, on the back and on the palm, was black, and visible upon it were glyphs like a pattern, or perhaps a pattern that was like glyphs.
"I will tell you everything," - the poet said quietly, somehow intimately. "Please."
* * *
The chief royal executioner was a thin, nondescript man, a father of two adult daughters. He had a particularly distasteful, from Yanina's point of view, quality: after the first hour in the interrogation room, a subject was in love with the executioner, would speak to him in a voice full of tenderness, would cry from the inability to speak of more than he knew.
The poet spoke without a pause.
He had noticed Yanina during the "battle of the tongues". Or perhaps later, after the invitation passed on by the chaperone, he had convinced himself that he had noticed the woman sitting in the first box. All the more astonishing was the news that Yanina would become the bride of the prince.
His defeat in battle had wounded him harder than she had supposed. He understood that he was unfairly cheated. "I was beside myself; I have an artistic temperament; I remember little of those days save the feelings of betrayal, despair... I thought my life was over..."
He decided to turn to a warlock; not a charlatan of the sort that filled the city. To a real warlock, of the forbidden sort that lived in deep caves in the wild places. It was said that a true warlock could make a talented man into a genius; the word "genius" was whispered, it had several meanings including ones that were quite dangerous. But the poet feared nothing at that moment: the offense was too deeply seated. He craved fame.
He was lucky: he quickly found such a warlock, and the latter undertook to teach him. What the warlock taught him and how, the poet could not remember, however much he tried. Most likely, the warlock had taught him nothing at all; merely showed him "the blue flame that makes the body as a tree and the sight as a tree root". The poet, following this, walked confidently, obediently, and his sight, it seemed to him, could penetrate the essence of things. The warlock covered his hand in symbols, then let him go. The arcane knowledge of how the world is made suggested to the poet that he should appear before Yanina, find "that" and destroy it.
The root-sight that grew in things told him that "that" was Yanina's shift. As soon as the bundle was in his hands, the blue flame appeared once more: the poet burned the shirt in the fireplace, although the thin cloth did not want to catch fire.
Where the warlock might be found he could not say, though he really really wanted to. His thoughts wandered. Sometimes he would improvise, speak in poems, and polished verse would float in a soup of formless, banal speech.
After the interrogation he died, and this without the aid of the royal executioner. Likely, the poet had fulfilled his purpose: he mutttered "blue flame", went limp and stopped breathing.
* * *
The thinnest, softest cloth, silk or cotton, or spiderweb, seemed to her heavy and rough and irritated her skin. Yanina was tormented, as though it was her own skin that had been burned in the fireplace. One minute she loathed the poet and grudged the thief his easy death. The next she would repent and feel guilty. What mischance had brought her to the "battle of the tongues" that evening?! How did it come about that she, without meaning to, had become a curse to a fine, talented - if a little obsessed with fame - man, and he to her? They deserved each other.
The day after the event, the king summoned her. Yanina went to his chambers, back straight and teeth clenched, but nothing terrible happened: the king helped her to a chair, and at length, in great detail, questioned her about the particulars of her birth, her mother's death, the aunt, her childhood. It later turned out that he had sent to Ustock agents to carry out similar inquiries in secret there.
"I had a twin sister," - Yanina said. "She died within a day."
"This explains nothing," - the king muttered.
He spoke to Yanina almost without irritation. Just a few times, falling silent, he would stare into space, and his expression terrified her.
"Wards", he said, finally. "I will put on you whatever I can think of - in case the shirt was protecting you from some kind of old curse. If, at your birth, some enemy of the family..."
"We have no enemies."
"How would you know? Enemies are not flies, they don't hover around a child. If one of your family's enemies cursed you at birth, and the curse, perhaps, killed your sister, but you, perhaps, survived thanks to the shirt... The shirt grew with you, you say? Very, very fine work, I would dearly like to meet the master that could do this. But we have some things too, yes, masters have served the crown at times as well..."
He opened a chest bound by blue steel.
"Here are rings. Wear them at all times. If one falls, on no account pick it up." His voice was so confident and matter-of-fact that Yanina suddenly, pitifully burst out:
"Will it help?"
"If the shirt helped, so will this," - he replied, holding an enormous azure stone up to the light to examine it. "These are some of the most powerful wards that exist in the world. Here is a belt," - he pulled out a strip of leather, - "wear it underneath your clothing, in contact with your skin. When you become pregnant, it will stretch."
Yanina bit her tongue.
"If the shirt was protecting you from an old curse - you will be safe without it. But if the shirt had some other purpose..." He shook his head. "I will teach you some incantations. If you feel even slightly unwell - repeat them aloud until your tongue goes numb."
* * *
Throughout the next month, Yanina recited incantations. She would stop only when with the prince - to avoid scaring him.
She fancied she heard voices saying her name, calling her. Sometimes in the middle of the night she wanted to get up, leave the city, but she suppressed the mad desire, telling herself: these monsters are born from my own mind. I am outside my comfort zone, I am perpetually irritated, chemical processed in my brain become anxiety and uneasy dreams in which I see my dead twin baby sister. No-one but me can put these demons to rest.
She felt ill without the shirt. Her skin itched. She was sick in the mornings. Her head spun.
"Princess," Mouse said reproachfully. "Why, you're with child!"
* * *
Spring came once more.
Late one evening Yanina was summoned to the king's bedchamber. The king, unusually, was not sitting with a book. He was lying, stretched out on the bed like a lone string on a white fretboard, and a healer was trying to slide a pillow under his head with shaking arms.
Yanina understood with the first glance. The baby, conceived six months earlier, had kicked in her stomach for the first time.
"Listen," the king said, willing her closer with a gesture. "First: you are regent. Second: the baron of Wheaten Cliff must die. Otherwise, you will not survive the rebellion."
"Your majesty..."
"Quiet. The baron has powerful enemies. You know them. Simply pay the killer."
"Your..."
"Quiet. Never stop wearing the things I have given you. I am going to my death calmly - because you remain here. Good luck, my queen."
The prison bars of wrinkles on his forehead smoothed - as though the king had finally permitted himself rest.
* * *
The prince woke as soon as Yanina stepped over the threshold, although she moved silently and the bedchamber door did not creak, and the thick carpet pile extinguished all sound. The prince (now the king?) sat up in his bed. His worried blue eyes glinted a little in the semidarkness.
Yanina sat on the edge of the bed. The prince smiled, took her hand, stroked it.
"Your father is dead," Yanina said.
The prince frowned.
She kissed him on the forehead, like a child.
* * *
Respect and tradition demanded that Novin be present at the funeral, but Yanina ordered otherwise. The mourning capital heard from heralds that the new king was unwell after his father's death and his doctors had forbidden him exercise.
The nurse in the purple gown was terrible at hiding his joy. It seemed the king's death was like being freed from a cell for him: he began to hum whenever he was convinced that no servants would hear, and bowed very low to Yanina, calling her "your majesty" a hundred times a day.
Yanina's black dress was sewn in a day and two nights - in such a way as to emphasize the new queen's pregnancy. Yanina's big stomach hung over the king's casket as Yanina, standing on a pedestal, accepted the condolences of nobles, land owners and gentry. The baron of Wheaten Cliff attended as well; Yanina gave him a particularly hearty nod.
The baby kicked up a fuss inside her several days later as she entertained an unpleasant fellow with a bloated, supercilious face at a distant holding. She handed him a purse of money "for the construction of new grain silos".
The baron of Wheaten Cliff drowned during a fishing trip. Everyone knew his sport; the baron left the shore in a sturdy boat, but the bottom suddenly cracked. The water in the mountain lake was unbearably cold; when they pulled the baron out, he was as blue as the sky.
* * *
Yanina was returning to the capital from the distant holding, travelling slowly, in a large carriage, unmarked and undecorated. The lining, if one looked in a special way, resembled a multitude of faces, angry and mocking, arranged in a chessboard pattern.
Peasants and craftsmen, meeting the carriage on the road, bowed to it: it looked too imposing, moved too smoothly, the thick curtains were drawn so tight that none could see inside.
The road wound along the mountainside, the grass was green over the the sandstone and the clay, the carriage moved smoothly, but nevertheless Yanina asked the coachman to stop every hour - where possible, in surroundings that would please the eye. Once more they stopped by a spring: a copper pipe, green with age, that came, it seemed, from the very heart of the mountain. Water gurgled as it fell into a little circular pond. A girl in dusty travel clothes sat on a stone bench placed for wanderers to rest. On seeing Yanina, she quickly stood.
"Stay," the queen said to her in a friendly tone. "You won't be in my way... you're travelling alone?"
The girl bowed her head:
"I have no-one to accompany me, your majesty. I am an orphan."
Yanina listened to her story - the girl had grown up in a town by the sea, not knowing her father or mother, helping at a tavern since she was little; but there came a day when she decided to leave the town and the people she knew and travel to see the capital. As though something was pushing her inside: the girl was searching, perhaps, for a better life, or perhaps...
"Love," Yanina said with a smile. "At your age, dear" - (although the girl seemed only slightly younger than the queen), - "at your age it is natural to seek happiness, even just wandering the roads..."
The girl did not dispute this.
Yanina expressed a wish to walk the beautiful section of road on foot, and the carriage followed her, delicately touching the road with its rubber-dressed wheels. The coachman sat on top, his black gloved hands on the steering wheel. Yanina walked, shifting her weight heavily from foot to foot, carrying her stomach before her. No healer could tell her with certainty whether she was carrying a boy or a girl: "your majesty, the foetal orientation makes it difficult to determine..."
The fields were like carpets with a rich pile. A giant palm, the size of a cloud, might stroke them, changing the direction of the threads, changing the colour. Yanina walked and thought of the king. Too little time had passed since his death. It was too tempting to think of him as still being around.
"Have you ever thought about how our world is made?"
These fields and paddies on the stone and clay slopes, the wells in solid basalt, the craftsmen that pass the secrets of their mastery from generation to generation. None can understand the principles - all mechanically repeat the results. Like birds that begin to build their nests without yet knowing why. Knowing nothing of the properties of materials or the laws of architecture.
The poet had spoken to her so beautifully of the great meanings encoded in incantations. What is DNA? What is a protein? What is the code hidden in every living creature? The poet - Yanina remembered him with pity and with hatred. She still had dreams in which she wore the shirt: she would lift her arm, touch her collar and feel ordinary, though very thin, cloth.
By her order, secret agents scoured the distant towns and hidden villages, searching for warlocks. They took several charlatans. No warlocks permitted themselves to be captured. Yanina became firmly convinced that it was a warlock she needed.
How is the world made? Who made it, and for what purpose?
Following the death of the baron of Wheaten Cliff there was a minor disturbance, and the prices of bread did rise a little. But a few days from now the baron's heir, the husband of his oldest daughter, would finally come into his full inheritance. Then the markets would stop panicking, and the caravans full of grain, held up on the border of the barony, would resume the journeys to their destinations.
Yanina put both hands on her stomach. I am doing everything right, she told the king. I am doing everything just like you said. The design of our world is not stupid; the more I learn of it, the more impressed I am by its perfection. And its artificiality, you are right. We are learning from alien textbooks. We use alien technologies. Our own history is only a few generations old.
Every village believes in a being that created the world - in their own being; some carve a bird from stone, others a man; others yet - an incredible monster with five heads. Each believes that the creator looked like that. Cruel, kind, vengeful, gentle...
Yanina noticed that the girl in the travel clothes was following her, keeping a distance back, and gave her a friendly nod.
She was very beautiful, this girl, with a profile that shone and was fine as a crescent moon. But whenever she looked away, Yanina could not recall her face.
* * *
She gave birth silently. A single question tormented her more than the birth pains.
Finally, the baby cried. Instead of breaking the silence - deep enough to drown the city - the howling underscored it.
"Well?", Yanina asked as soon as she could breathe again. "Is it a boy or a girl?"
An answer came through the foggy curtain:
"It's a boy."
Yanina passed out.
* * *
The girl with the fine face of a crescent moon made her home in the palace. She'd appeared of her own accord, soon after Yanina's return, and asked for work - anything, however low. She was sent to clean the rooms of the guards, in the expectation that - as many before her in that position - she would soon fall and become an easy victory for some Casanova coming off watch. But the girl turned out to be modest and hardworking; her effort and rectitude were soon valued. Yanina spotted the girl as, armed with garden clippers, she rapidly and skilfully trimmed a hedge in a garden alley.
"Where did you come from, child?", Yanina asked. (A nanny followed her, carrying the little prince, who wore nothing but a thin nappy due to the heat).
The girl bowed low and explained very briefly, with just a few words, that she was an orphan; her parents, both minor traders, had, not so long ago, fallen down a cliffside into a chasm along with their carriage on their way to a market. At that time, something pushed the girl - she left her settlement and went to the capital, to forget her sorrow in a new life...
Yanina expressed her sympathy for the poor girl. She nodded to the nanny and carried on walking along the alley, to the decorative waterfall, but something bothered her. Some thought, simple but sharp, like a stone in a shoe.
Something to do with this nice girl... a strange face: quite impossible to remember.
* * *
Novin the king abdicated a few days before the solstice, returning to himself the title of prince. He expressed a desire to distance himself from the world and dedicate his days to thoughts about beautiful things - thus it was written in the official documents, thus the heralds informed the people. The prince's nurse was beside himself with joy; even his crumpled-paper face looked a little smoother. No longer would Novin be threatened with public events; in his country manor peace and silence awaited him; he could walk in the fresh air, surrounded by people wearing dressing-gowns - no armour, dress uniforms or dresses with enormous crinolines.
Novin seemed to Yanina to be very sad when they parted. He did not want to let go of her hand, stroked it, mumbled: "Inina, Inina..." He made it very clear to his nurse that he wished to see his wife beside him, but the nurse distracted him with something, promised icecream, bade him follow, and Yanina managed to slip away.
She returned to her bedroom and sat on the windowsill. Feathery clouds glowed orange in the west, swallows circled in the zenith. Yanina looked at the low sun through her fingers - as through a vine leaf with a pinhole in it. But the low sun no longer warmed. Yanina felt no heat on her face.
In the courtyard below, a girl swept the cobbles - Yanina vaguely recalled that she was an orphan that had found her way to court, a city girl whose father, drunk, fell under the wheels of a carriage, and whose mother died of the flux...
Once more she felt vague apprehension.
* * *
Novin the Second was declared king. Yanina had not pondered long over the name.
Good news came from the country residence: the prince was calm, well, had even gained weight. The prince missed Yanina, but the nurse understood that she could not leave the city at this time; and to bring Novin to the capital would be to destroy his fragile peace. Yanina agreed.
She had not lately thought much of her husband. There were too many things that needed to be done, and too many things to be prevented. All the nobles that traced their lines back to the First People, and all the girls considered to be descended from the Iron Mountain were under Yanina's observation. She awaited rebellion - and she got it.
The assassins were in her bedroom just moments after the faithful Mouse whispered the words of warning. Yanina picked up her son and left through the secret passage, once revealed to her by the king, and secret from all others in the palace. Not even Mouse knew of it.
After a week of disturbance, martial law, street fights and attacks on bread caravans, order was restored. Yanina appeared before the citizens, alive and unharmed, with the king in her hands; and thus, holding the baby, she stood the entire time while the executions continued. Four nobles were beheaded that day, and many common rebels hung.
"I have done everything just like you said."
* * *
Three times a week there were shows in the town square. In the space of a few hours stalls were moved, becoming the rows of theatre seats, and the day trading centre became the stage. The "battles of the tongues" still had the love of the commoners and nobles, but the queen never gave the poets the honour of attending.
One day she received a report that a magician, who was also a scientist, would be demonstrating his art in the square. It was said that he spoke - simply and entertainingly - of how the world is made. Yanina's curiosity was piqued and ordered him invited to the palace: let him give an entertaining lecture to the courtiers and nobles.
The magician was well past middle age. His long hair was graced with silver threads woven through the black. His eyelids were heavy and he always looked down, as though scared of frightening off his audience with a glance.
They sat in the small entertaining hall - the close courtiers, a few of the ministers, Mouse. The guards were on watch by the doors - since the assassination attempt, Yanina's security had doubled.
The magician came forth. He waved an empty canvas cap in front of the queen's face and suddenly a pigeon appeared. It flew out of the hall through an open window as everyone gasped. The old man produced a second pigeon from his narrow sleeve, and a third from his mouth. The courtiers applauded wildly.
Pulling open the curtain over the entrance, the girl with the fine profile of a crescent moon walked in and stopped indecisively. She had perhaps been sent here with some errand, but, on seeing the miracles, had frozen, momentarily distracted.
"Have you ever thought about how our world is made?", the magician asked gently.
A light appeared in his hands. A warm ball hung in the air, like the yolk in an egg, held by the thinnest threads. Yanina watched, fascinated - it was like looking at the sun through a pinhole in a vine leaf...
At that moment, the light became blue.
She saw in that light the king's face with his dark, mad eyes and the criss-cross bars of wrinkles on his forehead. She saw Novin as he could have been - a fair-haired, handsome man with laughter in his eyes. She saw her son - already an adult, standing before the stone, spilling his blood over it.
Her body no longer obeyed her. But her sight became as a root, sprouting in everything within view. Blue fire, this is what the poet was talking about before his death. Blue flame.
Yanina straightened her back.
All in the room were frozen, staring into the blue flame. All were paralyzed: the guards at the doors, and the girl with the fine profile. The magician-warlock had obtained in that minute power over the bodies and souls of his audience.
Yanina stood up.
It was impossible, but she stood and walked away. She walked, dragging along the terrible weight of her wooden body, tearing through the solidified air, because her sole thought was - her son. He was in the palace. He could be kidnapped or killed.
"He is safe," the warlock said.
I do not believe you, Yanina thought.
"You sought a meeting with me. There is much I can tell you."
Of how the world is made? - Yanina asked in her mind.
But the warlock did not read minds. He simply guessed what was happening in the queen's soul.
Gritting her teeth, she made her way out of the small entertaining hall and fell immediately. All that were at the show with her did not so much as shift in that time; only the girl with the fine profile made it out after Yanina. She looked very lost, confused, near to tears.
"Your majesty," - she held out a hand to Yanina.
Yanina grabbed for it - and was astonished that she did not feel contact. As she watched, the girl's hand, her clean, calloused,skinny arm, passed through Yanina's wrist and merged with it.
"Who are you?!"
"It is not my fault..." - the girl whispered.
She fluttered like a piece of cloth. She crumpled and suddenly flowed. A blue stream washed over Yanina, covering her head to foot. Guards ran along the corridor and the floor shook.
Yanina saw the queen's body, spread out on the floor. And next to it - the body of the serving-girl. She saw the guards run to the queen, ignoring the girl with the fine profile, and try to lift that other Yanina. She recognised her face, bloodless, tilted back.
"Dead?!"
"There is no hearbeat..."
"A healer!"
"She breathes..."
Silently, unnoticed, Yanina passed through the curtain and found herself once more in the small entertaining hall. The warlock had no intention of hiding: he stood before the frozen people, paralyzed in their seats, and the glow between his hands had almost faded.
"What did you want to tell me?" - Yanina asked. She spoke, sending waves through the room's air, moving neither her lips nor her tongue.
The warlock lifted his head; his eyes went wide.
"I know the truth about you. You were born... such are called geniuses. To avoid pain for you and for those around you, you were split into two..."
"By whom?!"
"Not who, but what. It is a biological or a social mechanism, the agent may be anyone: the mother, the nanny, the midwife... genius babies are split in twain so that the two halves can have normal lives. Almost normal."
"Twins?"
"A disguise. Most often, separated twins are two halves of a genius. They are immediately taken to different parts of the world, because they are drawn to each other. To shield you from the attraction, you were clothed in a shirt. A screen. A ward."
"Who destroyed my ward? You?!"
"I did... because I wanted you to be restored to your full potential."
"This woman is my sister?"
"She is also you. She is not of this world. Her fate flows, like water. Today a fisherman's daughter, tomorrow - a baker's, and every time it is the truth, it is so. She is not lying. She herself flows like water."
"And now we are merged?"
"Not yet. When you merge, you the genius, you will be able to... you will become... you will learn the truth of how our world is made. I beg you of one thing only: execute me in whatever manner you wish, but first tell me of how our world really is made!"
Slowly, the curtain was drawn back. Slowly, ever so slowly, guards ran into the room full of frozen people.
* * *
The whole town gathered to watch the warlock's execution. The square, a theatre with a scaffold on the stage, creaked and threatened to collapse from the weight of the crowd. It was decided that the warlock would be beheaded and then burned. Many considered Yanina to be too kind to the villain.
The warlock stood, bound in iron; the chains and handcuffs were covered in incantations of holding, and his fingers were bound by rings. Watched by the dully growling crowd, the rings fell on the scaffold, clinking metallicaly.
Murmurings. Growls of hatred. A cry of pain - the crowd had pressed someone too close. Suddenly, total silence - Yanina walked onto the stage, in a blue dress - not in mourning for the first time.
Yanina stopped before the condemned. The guardsmen tensed: this warlock was the mightiest magician that had been known in the last hundred years.
"You promised", he said.
She smiled calmly:
"Listen. Our world is a planet, a piece of rock that turns around an enormous star. Most of its surface is covered by water and fog. We live on the only scrap of dry land - it is not very large. Our sun gives us energy. Plants are the factories of life, they produce protein from sunlight and carbon dioxide."
"Are you lying to me?", the warlock said distrustfully. "Do you lie to me in the moments before my death?"
"No." Yanina shook her head. "I know what you sacrificed to know the truth. I know how long you searched for me, and how you searched for a way to get near, and how you destroyed the poet... He was self-obsessed, but nice."
"But you succeeded," the warlock said. "I can see it in your eyes. You became the one you were fated to become!"
"For a moment. It was enough. You know, the idea of splitting geniuses at birth - it is humane, warlock."
"Is it terrible?"
"Terrible, funny... and impossible. I remember what happened to me, but I do not wish it to happen again."
"What, then, is the System?", the warlock asked quietly. "What is the black stone?"
"It is superstition", Yanina said very gently. "A superstition that has cost many their minds or their lives. Our world is in harmony with the laws of nature that are unchanged throughout the whole Universe. The System is the forces of gravity, friction, entropy, the law of conservation of energy..."
"I hear no lie in your words," the warlock spoke after a time. "And I am trained to discern lies."
"Imagine: a planet that turns in orbit around a star... A day is the time it takes for one rotation around its own axis; a year is the period of rotation about the sun... and all around is a velvet darkness, full of stars. Imagine. It is beautiful."
The warlock closed his heavy eyelids:
"Thank you."
"I have done everything as it must be done," the queen whispered to him. "Be at peace."
Stepping back, she nodded to the executioner.
* * *
The girl with the fine profile of a crescent moon lay in a fever, unconscious, and the healers said that she would never again wake. Yanina stood next to her for a time, holding her calloused, skinny arm.
Then she nodded to the maid and left. The carriage with no markings or decorations awaited her: on this day, the eve of the summer solstice, Yanina wished to visit her husband.
The prince ran to her, mumbling "Inina", hugged her with soft, cold hands and mumbled something about ice-cream, about the sun, about the beetles on the lawn. Yanina watched his happiness, the shine in his murky blue eyes, and pleasure warmed her to her fingertips.
They spent the night together.
In the morning, Yanina kissed the top of the prince's head and promised to return soon. The prince asked to be taken along. There will be many people, Yanina said with a smile, you don't like crowds. The prince frowned and shook his head:
"Stay..."
"I can't, sweetling. I promise I will return very soon. And I will take you, after all, to the palace: there is a park there as well, we can arrange everything as necessary, why should a husband and wife live apart?"
The nurse stared at her, blinking rapidly. Yanina smiled at him too, kissed the prince once more and left.
The sun rose. The heavy carriage rolled slowly along the mountain path between the waterless fields, green on the bare stone. Curtain pulled back, Yanina watched the sky.
Perhaps the most brave thing she had done - the very bravest, of which she could be proud - she had done before the execution. She had really wanted to throw the truth in the warlock's face and watch him go grey.
But he was heading to his death.
Yanina did not know if she had had vengeance upon the warlock, or if it had been a kindness. The knowledge he had desired...
The hair crawled on the back of her head. Her back straightened. Yanina's head touched the soft lining of the carriage. And, as she always did at a difficult time, she turned to the king in her thoughts.
I would not have dared lie to you, Yanina said. To you, I would have told all I know. It would have been weakness: now I must live with this alone... I saved the warlock, my enemy, from this knowledge, but you I could not have saved, because I could not have lied while looking you in the eye.
I would have told you that our world exists on a square of silicon, on its very edge, and its sun, and its green grass are flowing streams of ones and zeros. There is no death and no life, we have no god, we were created by an imperfect, temporal mind, and we were created for entertainment.
I would have told you that I accept this world as it is, without miracles. When I look in Novin's eyes, in the eyes of your son, whom I love. When I look in the mindless baby eyes of your grandson, whom I adore.
Our world has no life after death, and you no longer exist - anywhere, you are simply not. But I turn to you.
Do you hear me? I accept this world.
* * *
On the day of the summer solstice, the queen walked up to the sacrificial stone, holding her son aloft. The little king cried, displeased by the stuffy air and the semidarkness. Or perhaps he felt Yanina's anxiety: this was the first time for Novin the Second to confirm access rights.
The ceremony was crowded as never before. Yanina had deliberately invited as many as could be fitted into the hall of the court of law, and those who could not fit filled the entryway and passed back news of what was happening. Their heads knocked together like baubles. Through the gaping open doors, Yanina could see tidings flow back from the hall to the exits - circles on the water, swings of a pendulum, the wavelike nature of information.
Standing before the black stone, Yanina first turned to the king in her mind: "I am here and doing everything I should; be at peace."
The little king cried, producing ample snot and saliva. Gently rocking him, Yanina wiped his lips with a snow white handkerchief. Then with the same cloth, now damp, she wiped the matte surface of the altar.
Her hand shook, but her back remained straight. As straight as only a woman holding a child can be.
The surface of the stone rippled like water. Green bands flickered across it. Yanina gripped the baby tightly, he screamed louder, she caught herself and rocked him, trying to calm him or perhaps herself.
The bundle in her arms suddenly grew very wet. It ran down her arms, dripped onto the stone, and - more brightly than usual - the green letters lit up.
"Access confirmed".