“Good morn to you, men! I am Lordling Marcot’s mother-in-marriage, Stahlia of Wyndton. Lord Matwyck told me that I might study the grand tapestries in this room. I am a weaver, as you may have heard.”
“Yes, missus,” said one of the guards, “we heard that. But to let anyone into the Throne Room, we’d need Lord Matwyck’s permission.”
“I just told you, Lord Matwyck gave me permission”—Stahlia wrinkled her eyebrows in great puzzlement—“when we walked by the other day. Weren’t you on duty then?”
“Not us,” said one of the men. “Might have been a pair of our fellows. I’ll ask around the corners.”
“That would be so kind,” said Stahlia.
One guard left his post, leaving the other, who had keys hanging at his waist on a ring, standing impassively in front of them. Tilim, feigning reluctance in front of this audience, started complaining under his breath, “Mama, I don’t want to see these tapestries; all my life I’ve seen scores of ’em; why are you dragging me around to see more?”
The first man came back shaking his head. “No luck on that side; let me just try the other for you, missus.” He disappeared around the southern corner. Although Stahlia actually rued each tick, she tried to appear relaxed. She took advantage of the situation to smooth Tilim’s hair and pull his sleeves straighter; though she knew he would hate such fussing, at the moment he couldn’t complain.
The helpful guard came back with an older man who boasted an impressive mustache.
“I am Athelbern, the sergeant on duty. How can I be of assistance, missus?”
Stahlia repeated her story.
“Oh, aye. I was here on the East Entrance when Lord Matwyck walked by with you, and I overheard him. It would be best, however, if the Lord Regent was here with you now to give permission.”
“Really?” Stahlia asked with polite disbelief. “I believe the lord and all his visitors are sleeping in after the late-night festivities. Us country folk, you know, we rise with the roosters no matter what. No lie-a-bed for us, as I’m sure there’s no such luxuries for hard-working guards like you.” She spoke faster and put a bit of pleading in her tone. “I feel kind of low, what with my daughter leaving me, and I thought, ‘This would be a perfect time to look at the tapestries.’ Do you mean I have to wait for Lord Matwyck—or even, by requesting to see him, wake him up?”
“I don’t know, missus. I only know my standing orders,” said Sergeant Athelbern.
Stahlia stole a glance at the sand seeping through the timepiece.
Nana had been loitering nearby, sitting on a bench with one shoe off, rubbing her bunion, pretending not to watch the interaction out of the corner of her eye. Now, she popped on her shoe and strode over.
“Milady,” she said, addressing Stahlia with a term of higher respect than the guards had used. “Can I assist you? Is there a misunderstanding?”
Sergeant Athelbern apprised Nana of the situation.
“Oh, Athelbern, don’t be such a lackwit. Since he has already given this lady permission, Lord Matwyck will be mighty wroth with you if you bar her entry. ’Tis not only the proper but the polite thing to do with such a distinguished visitor.”
“Nana, will you bear his wrath?” asked Sergeant Athelbern.
“Aye, but get moving now. She’d be in and out before anyone even rises if you’d just step lively.”
Ponderously working his big key, the sergeant unlocked the East Entrance.
And with that, Stahlia and Tilim made their way inside.
Stahlia looked around, gasping at the room’s grandeur, clearly visible even without lanterns because of the morning light streaming through the stained glass upper stories.
They had entered the Throne Room on a mezzanine level. This low walkway stretched the whole circuit of the room, providing an opportunity for visitors to inspect the magnificent tapestries that hung on the wall. Five broad steps led down to the polished marble on the ground level. A dais, two-thirds of the way down the length of the room, rose above the floor. A small-sized empty throne, shimmering silver arms and legs with blue upholstery, stately in its simplicity, sat beside a large, unhewn pillar of rock. Water arced down the front of the rock, hitting a golden basin with a continual splash, and the basin overflowed to a pool on the dais in a solid, shining curtain of water.
Without warning, three tan-and-white mountain lions, each about the weight of a deer, raced toward their tiny group. They came so close that Stahlia could see the black rims all around their blue eyes and the brown markings on their foreheads. Although they made no noise or threat, Stahlia shrank away.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Athelbern. “They never come up here on the gangway. Just ignore them.” And indeed, the cats stopped underneath them, looking up at the intruders, and just twitched their noses and whiskers.
“Now here,” the sergeant said, proudly indicating a tapestry to the left of the doorway, “is one of the real masterworks. ‘Queen Chitta Instructing the Glaziers,’ this one is called.”
Stahlia pulled her gaze away from the beasts to look at the tapestry. Though her mind churned with the day’s mysteries, the weaver in her came to the fore. “Oh! So marvelous! Look at the sense of depth! Look at her hair. Who was the artist?”
As Athelbern started to answer, Tilim tugged on the back of her pendant chain to remind her of the time, then, with his hand on his scabbard, quietly moved directly behind the officer, who had started to discourse about the tapestry.
Suddenly, the catamounts raced away, coursing as fast as water through a broken dam in the direction of the opposite end of the room.
A fourth catamount crawled through a swinging portal in the floor, deep in the recesses of the hall. The beast was followed by the figure of a woman in trousers and a beret, who rose to her feet, brushing off dirt. Stahlia sighed with relief that she had fulfilled her commission in time.
Then all four mountain lions leapt at Wren. Stahlia’s satisfaction transmuted to terror for fear that the beasts intended to injure her. She couldn’t stop a small shriek escaping from her throat.
“Hey! Hey you! What the—!” Athelbern called out.
To Stahlia’s astonishment, Tilim pulled his sword and pressed it into the sergeant’s back, just at the level of his kidney. “Stand still and shut up,” he ordered.
Stahlia stared, paralyzed with dread, but the catamounts did not harm her foster daughter. One rested its oversized, fluffy paws on Wren’s chest; she had to brace herself with her back leg to withstand its weight. Wren scratched the lion behind its ears and caressed its white chin and throat, and the overgrown house cat closed its eyes and butted her hand with its head. It smelled her mouth and licked her chin with a long pink tongue.
The other three beasts surrounded her; they began rubbing their heads against her legs; one side of their face, then the other, or they sniffed her boots. Their black-tipped tails rose almost to her shoulders; these coyly wrapped and twitched around her. Their rumbling purrs were so loud that Stahlia could hear them wafting across the empty hall. Wren reached down to pet each of the adoring animals in turn. As she kept her head bent, the black beret she wore fell to the floor.
A river of shimmering hair tumbled out of the hat. Hair the likes of which Stahlia had never seen before—hair she had often imagined and tried to capture in her tapestries. Hair of shades of blue-green. Hair the color of a blue tanager’s feathers.