Sumael shrugged her shoulders at Brand, and two frowning guards shut the doors on him with a final-sounding click.
THE GARDENS WERE LIKE something from a dream, all lit in strange colors by the purple sunset and the shifting torchlight, flames flickering from cages of coals that sent sparks dancing with every breath of wind. Nothing was the way the gods had made it, everything tortured by the hands of man. Grass shaved as carefully as a romancer’s jaw. Trees clipped into unnatural shapes and bowing under the weight of their own bloated, sweet-smelling blossom. Birds too, twittering from the twisted branches, and Thorn wondered why they didn’t fly away until she saw they were all tethered to their perches with silver chains fine as spider’s threads.
Paths of white stone twisted between statues of impossibly stern, impossibly slender women wafting scrolls, books, swords. Empresses of the past, Thorn reckoned, and all wondering why this half-shaved horror had been allowed among them. The guards looked as if they had the same question. Lots of guards, every mirror-bright sword and spear making her acutely aware of how unarmed she was. She sloped after Sumael around a star-shaped pool, crystal water tinkling into it from a fountain carved like snakes coiled together, up to the steps of a strange little building, a dome set on pillars with a curved bench beneath it.
On the bench sat Vialine, Empress of the South.
She had undergone quite a transformation since she visited Father Yarvi’s crumbling house. Her hair was twisted into a shining coil netted with golden wire and hung with jewels. Her bodice was set with tiny mirrors that twinkled blue and pink with the fading light, red and orange with the torch-flames. From a streak of dark paint across the bridge of her nose, her eyes gleamed brightest of all.
Thorn wasn’t sure she’d ever felt so far out of her depth. “What do I say?”
“She’s just a person,” said Sumael. “Talk to her like she’s a person.”
“What the hell do I know about talking to a person?”
“Just be honest.” Sumael slapped Thorn on the back and sent her stumbling forward. “And do it now.”
Thorn edged onto the lowest stair. “Your radiance,” she croaked out, trying to go down on one knee then realizing it couldn’t really be done on a set of steps.
“Vialine, and please don’t kneel. A week ago I was nobody much. It still makes me nervous.”
Thorn froze awkwardly halfway down, and wobbled back to an uncertain stoop. “Sumael says you sent for—”
“What is your name?”
“Thorn Bathu, your—”
“Vialine, please. The Thorn seems self-explanatory. The Bathu?”
“My father won a famous victory there the day I was born.”
“He was a warrior?”
“A great one.” Thorn fumbled for the pouch about her neck. “Chosen Shield to a queen of Gettland.”
“And your mother?”
“My mother … wishes I wasn’t me.” Sumael had told her to be honest, after all.
“My mother was a general who died in battle against the Alyuks.”
“Good for her,” said Thorn, then instantly thought better of it. “Though … not for you.” Worse and worse. “I suppose, your radiance …” She trailed off into mortified silence. Some bloody diplomat.
“Vialine.” The empress patted the bench beside her. “Sit with me.”
Thorn stepped up into the little pavilion, around a table, a silver platter on it heaped with enough perfect fruit to feed an army, and to a waist-high rail.
“Gods,” she breathed. She had scarcely thought about how many stairs she climbed, but now she saw they were on the palace roof. There was a cliff-like drop to more gardens far below. The First of Cities was spread out under the darkening sky beyond, a madman’s maze of buildings, lights twinkling in the blue evening, as many as stars in the sky. In the distance, across the black mirror of the straight, other clusters of lights. Other towns, other cities. Strange constellations, faint in the distance.
“And all this is yours,” Thorn whispered.
“All of it and none of it.” There was something in the set of Vialine’s jaw, jutting proudly forward, that Thorn thought she recognized. That she had seen in her mother’s mirror, long ago. That made her think the empress was used to wearing a brave face of her own.
“That must be quite a weight to carry,” she said.
Vialine’s shoulders seemed to sag a little. “Something of a burden.”
“Empress, I don’t know anything about politics.” Thorn perched herself on the bench in a manner she hoped was respectful, whatever that looked like, she’d never been too comfortable sitting unless it was at an oar. “I don’t know anything about anything. You’d be much better talking to Father Yarvi—”
“I don’t want to talk about politics.”
Thorn sat in prickling awkwardness. “So …”
“You’re a woman.” Vialine leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap and her eyes fixed on Thorn’s face. Disarmingly close. Closer than Thorn was used to having anyone, let alone an empress.