Samples from books that we have published under the Eartherean Press imprint.
This is another in a series from the second book in the 4-book series The Doom-Quest of Ara-Karn: The Divine Queen.
© 1982 by A. Adam Corby
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License. The license is included as an appendix to this work.
The City Over the World
BENEATH THE MOVELESS GODDESS-SUN, Tarendahardil lay supreme. She was more beautiful than her greatest poets could proclaim; lovelier even than an unremembered dream. Her streets were lined with statues of brass and iron, jade, silver, topaz and unveined marble; her harbors traded with the world; her temples attracted the faithful from all the Hundred Cities. Within her bosom dwelled such enormous numbers of peoples, of all races, professions and ranks, that no mortal mind could imagine them all. City Over the World, Most Holy, the seat of the Empire of the Bordakasha, cultural and mercantile hub of the world, Tarendahardil: a deathless Queen among cities, as much beyond her sisters as Goddess is beyond mortal women.
There was all of culture in that Tarendahardil. There were recitations of the elegiac odes of Golonan, Ulsus Radnor and Charoneira. There were festival celebrations in which comedies, mimicries and tragedies were enacted at the numerous theaters, and harmonies of alisets and throaty Dorcian flutes; spectacles of bloodied combat, shows of wild beasts imported from exotic climes and even, at staggering expense, mock battles of the glorious past of that city of legends, with runaway slaves and condemned men garbed like the barbarians of old, and a play-Elna to lead the Imperial troops to utter triumph. The women were more beautiful in Tarendahardil than in any other city of the world. Even the women of the docks were known for their beguilements, and as for the famous well-born hetairai of High Town, they were not to be matched by pastoral virgins with the bloom still upon their cheeks. Tales were told of wealthy men from Tezmon and Postio who bankrupted themselves just to taste the sumptuous joys of a season with a lady of the reputation, artistry and beauty of an Oleola – and, if the tales be true, departed not unsatisfied therefrom.
And more famous than even the women was the statuary of Tarendahardil. Great Elna had begun it in his distant time, and since then not an Emperor but had added to the figures thronging the city. They lined every street, stood above every portal, and surrounded fountains, bazaars and latrines alike. Nowhere were they more wonderful than along the great Way of Kings, where each of the many Emperors and heroes of the Empire was represented, three times the height of living men, their colors shining in the dusty gilded light, poised and watchful like sentinels ever vigilant, guarding even in death this City that had been theirs. In the prime ages of holy Tarendahardil they were everywhere, and they were everywhere beautiful.
Tarendahardil was bordered on the north by stone quays and harbors on the Sea of Elna, and by field and farm and hillside palaces upon her three other faces. Tarendahardil had no defensive walls: what need of them for the Mistress of the World? The gently sloping land was all but invisible beneath its mantle of roofs and towers, thrusting spires, and domes of gleaming brass and porphyry. More streets had Tarendahardil than most nations; an immense, wholly paved labyrinth known fully to no man, not even the city’s great low-born Regent. If the weather were fine an observer might see from the topmost towers of the high Citadel the shimmering azure line that was the sea, and the martial fields brightward of the city; if not, Tarendahardil would seem to pass into an infinite distance – from which, perhaps, some notion might be gleaned of the size of the City Over the World.
From the midst of the great city rose the rocky plateau of High Town, the ancient core of the city. There were the most venerable edifices, the Brown Temple of Goddess, the Hall of Kings, the ancient Baths of Rule where, of old, every monarch had come yearly to be anointed anew in that sacred hidden spring where Goddess Herself had bathed and been surprised by Elna. There too were the great mansions of the wealthiest and most nobly born citizens: for all the graceful charai and handsome charanti of the tributary nations and provinces maintained palaces in High Town, to be the nearer to the main and wintering court of the Divine Queen.
And there, bursting from the southernmost edge of the plateau like a stony stair into Heaven, rose an upthrust fist of rock; and there, its walls of black stone and jade a continuation of the rocky cliffs, was perched aloft the greatfamed Citadel of Elna: the Black Citadel, the Citadel Crowned with Cloud. Its rocky walls were unscalable, its Twin Gates impregnable, its great Palace more a city in the stone than mere single edifice. Story after story ascended that high Palace, of white marble, granite, black stone and jade; and to end, gleaming from the roof of the topmost of all towers, the great gold Disk of Goddess, like a second sun in the brow of heaven. Windows and balconies were sprinkled over those many curving walls like the myriad eyes of some phantasmagoric beast; and in one window high in the highest tower, far, far above the level of the sprawling falling city below, sat a woman looking out.
Through the window (for it was small) only her face could be seen, and one slender forearm upon whose elegant jeweled hand rested her soft cheek. In the shadow of the thick stone the woman’s face seemed pensive, the expression that of some waiting captive; yet her thick mane of hair, of the luster of burnished, purest gold, shone as if it laughed.
Opposite the window rose the peak of the first and greatest of all the statues of the city: that Pillar Elna had caused to be erected before his Citadel, a man-made spire to contest with, and almost surpass, the natural wonder of that monumental fist of rock.
Up the shaft of the pillar, from its base so very far below in the square outside the walls of the Citadel, ran a spiral relief most cunningly drawn, telling the tale of Elna’s career: of his birth in the rocky fortress of Bollakarvil and his legendary youth: of his marshaling of all the civilized peoples and his great Vow sworn to Goddess of the utter destruction of the barbarians: of his chasing of those barbarians into the frozen wilds of the far North: of his vanquishing of them there: of his return in high triumph as sole sovereign of the South and his giving out of edicts still cited for their wisdom and true justice: of his founding of cities and fortresses, Gerso and Tezmon and many others still standing: and to end, at the very topmost curls of the spiral just below that beautiful figure of naked Victory, her wings upswept to fling her above the clouds, of how Elna had built up Tarendahardil and made of her his capital, the fount of all that was cultured and good in the world.
Now, however, the lines of the pillar and its statue were softened and obscure. An ill wind had brought a storm down from the North, gathering moisture as it passed over the Sea of Elna; and now beyond the dark glistening Pillar the dockyards and the sea were invisible, concealed by a dreary drizzling rain; and the light of Goddess was turned from gold to lead of a corrupt hue. The city fell down into the maw of the chill mists as if the world came to an end before Tarendahardil, and all that existed of the world was this city, alone and undefended.
At the window the lovely golden-haired woman shuddered, and withdrew into the chamber.
She descended from her perch by the window down a series of steep steps built into the high stone wall of the gloomy chamber. The soft scrape of her sandals echoed off cold and naked walls. It was a great room made larger by the hollowness of its echoes; a room cool and still against even the worst of Goddess’s glowing heat. It was open, as if by accident or in a final condescension, only at the small window placed just below the vaulted edge of the ceiling.
Reaching the floor, the woman passed with unconsciously graceful movements to the side of a great canopied bed three times the height of her body. There she lighted a lamp fashioned of strands of gold and pearl and marked with the seal of the Charan of Rukor. She trimmed back the wick and pulled at a cord at the wall.
A woman entered in response, not through the great oaken doors on the far side of the chamber but rather through the hangings of a small opening upon the hither wall.
‘Majesty,’ the woman uttered, bowing.
‘Prepare our bath, Emsha,’ said the golden-haired woman. ‘Is it chill out?’
‘Somewhat, your majesty. Autumn is not far off now. Will your majesty wish warm robes this waking?’
‘And bow in submission before this wind from the North? I think not. Get me instead something light and gay with the color of bandar green. That is the springtime color of the beast, if the tales be true.’
‘Yes, majesty.’
The Queen glanced up at the window. ‘Do they await us below?’
‘Yes, majesty, as always. They have begun to grow concerned at the lateness of your rising. Did your majesty sleep well?’
‘Well enough.’ For a time she studied the older woman’s face, the rounded features, familiar lines and merry wrinkles. ‘No,’ she murmured, ‘I’ll not send them away. What would be the cause?’ A chilling draught crept down into the chamber through the narrow window; Emsha shivered, but the Empress Allissál merely shook herself as if to shrug the cold away.
‘Have them await us in the Gardens,’ she said. ‘We shall hold a picnic to amuse us, as if it were Spring returned again. Nay, it shall be Spring, by Imperial decree. Make sure that they are all informed of this; and let them wear only spring finery and gay manners.’
The older woman bowed humbly. ‘Yes, majesty.’
§
THE ROYAL BATH-CHAMBER was situated some stories below, upon the second floor of the White Tower. In the midst of the hivelike room, between seven decorative pillars of alabaster wrought with floral designs of gold and jade leaves, was the bath itself. Deep and circular it was, two fathoms across and one-and-a-half deep at its center. Its sides were of yellow hexagonal tiles interset with smaller square red tiles. Upon its bottom were worked three scenes. The first was of the mythical, earliest times, when God and Goddess inhabited the earth together, before they had created men and women. The second scene was of the sundering of the lands, when God in His jealousy went away to the Darklands; but Goddess built up Her throne of golden Fire, that Her beloved men might have light and warmth. The third scene showed Goddess serene within Her throne of Fire, ruling over the happy destinies of men; while behind, in the darkening sky, God went on in His jade chariot, restless and forlorn, ever seeking to entice Her back to His side. So pellucid were the steaming, blossom-scented waters of the bath, that every detail of the mosaics could be clearly seen.
Over them, half-floating in the undulant waters, half-supported upon her forearms on the cushion provided her at the edge of the bath, the Empress Allissál lazed, while her slave-maidens chafed away the soil of sleep with perfumed sponges and carved ivory scrapers. In all, there were a dozen of these maidens in personal attendance upon the Queen, each chosen for her beauty and skill.
By the wall of the chamber, several ladies of the court sat fully clothed in the latest fashions, upon benches of carved faltis wood inlaid with gold and ivory. These were Allissál’s intimates of the court, all of the highest rank and most perfect lineage, all young, all beautiful, all current in the latest rumors, scandals, and fashions of Tarendahardil. The Chara Ilal of Corthio jested, and the Charai Oriouti, Piatary, and Gisailchis laughed beautifully; but the Chara Braonver, whose latest lover was an actor of comedies renowned for his fickleness, only smiled courteously at the jests.
Huge towels smothered Allissál’s body as she arose dripping from the water, steam and perfume coiling from her flesh. She was laid upon the marble slab nearby, first upon her back and then upon her breasts, as the maidens rubbed scented oils and unguents into her skin, to keep it supple and young and protect it from the drying rays of the moveless sun.
The ladies at the benches picked daintily from among the bowls of fruit and nuts the slaves offered them. After a while, one thought to ask how her majesty’s sleeping had gone.
Allissál turned slightly beneath the ministering hands. ‘Tolerably well,’ she answered softly. ‘But the dreams came again.’
Ilal, who was the prettiest and most boldly dressed of the ladies, burst into a delightful laugh. ‘Yes, and every country lass should know what such dreams mean,’ she said.
The Queen took one of the wet sponges and threw it in that lady’s direction. ‘Really, Ilal, how insolent you can be! We ought to have you beaten on the soles of your prettily arched feet just as we would with an impudent slave. It would do you good.’
‘Indeed yes, your Imperial Majesty,’ the chara uttered, bowing so low that the delicately coiffed curls of her fashionably dressed wig whispered on the marble floor. ‘Most humbly I beg pardon, gracious Queen, and would willingly submit to any punishment you might see fit to bestow upon me; even,’ she added with a quick glance at the other charai, ‘if your majesty should order me to prostitute myself with the horrid Ara-Karn himself.’
‘That would indeed be an idea,’ retorted the Queen, laughing despite herself; ‘yet though the barbarians are said by some to be the most vigorous and well-proportioned of lovers, none of them could possibly match your skills, Ilal. No, all that we shall require of you is that you kiss the High Regent Dornan Ural upon his lips, and publicly declare him to be the handsomest and most desirable man at court.’
The charai laughed merrily as Ilal staggered back in pretended horror. ‘No, not that! Give me the barbarian instead, with all his rank breath and dirtied limbs! I’d as soon mate with a swine as kiss Dornan Ural.’
‘By the tale his wife tells, there’s little enough difference,’ said another of the ladies.
‘You have our command,’ said the Empress. ‘And we expect to see it obeyed this very pass, or it will be the worse for a certain one of the Empress’s ladies.’
At this, all the ladies laughed again, even, under their breaths, some of the newer of the slave-girls. These had by now finished anointing the body of their mistress, so that she rose again to allow them to towel off the excess with those thick, soft towels never used before or again. Other slaves now brought forth the Empress’s bath-chair and mirror of highly polished silver, along with the various combs, ribands, pots of paint and perfume. The Chara Ilal, as her majesty’s favorite, claimed for herself the right to comb and arrange the gleaming cascade of her majesty’s golden hair, symbol and glory of her house.
The Queen fell silent once again, as though the reference to the barbarian had disturbed her. The other ladies, seeing this, chatted softly among themselves while the Empress eyed herself critically in the long mirror. From the depths of the silver stared back the image of a woman taller than most women, with long legs sinuous as a dancer’s, broad yet supple hips and upstanding rose-peaked breasts perhaps a trifle too small. Above the long and graceful neck, the oval features were symmetrically beautiful in the fashion of a queen: with something indefinable and spiritual shining through the whole. The lips of the image were full and sensual, but pursed more often than parted; the eyes pearly, shifting softly now between pure blue and deep silver; the forehead high and smooth, denoting courage, intelligence and a determination verging upon willfulness. If there was a flaw to that face, it was that it tended to be too serious, too thoughtful for a woman – though not so, perhaps, for an Empress. Also the face seemed darkened; yet this may have been only the contrast with that shimmering wonder streaming down the length of her body. The Queen never wore a wig, although it was the fashion.
‘In truth, my figure is not so bad,’ she murmured to the image.
‘Indeed not,’ cried Ilal indignantly. ‘Should anyone ever see your majesty thus – though, alas, far too few do – they would not guess your age at so much as twenty-five summers. Truly, do you know what the new ambassadors say when they see your majesty and Prince Elnavis together for the first time?’ the chara asked, her voice a low, conspiratorial whisper.
‘No,’ responded the Queen in like manner. ‘Tell us what they say, saucy.’ The other ladies craned their necks discreetly forward to catch every word.
‘Well, you will not credit it, but I swear upon all my honor – never mind your smiles, ’tis true – that they take his highness to be your majesty’s elder brother! And in consternation they ask, “Why were we not informed that the Empress had had two children?’ I swear it is truth, your majesty: I had it from their very lips.”
‘Along with many other things, no doubt. Ilal, you were born with the tongue of a mocking wild bird, but we love you for it all the same. And in truth, our son does look older than his years.’
‘Older, stronger, and wiser, your majesty. It’s a crime, some more of these old men’s foolishnesses, that he does not hold the scepter even now. We are all more than a little in love with Elnavis.’ And the name of the prince slipped from painted lips to painted lips in sighs of heartfelt assent.
The Queen looked into the silver as Ilal carefully set the last of the golden strands into place. ‘Where is my son now?’ she inquired, turning her head slightly so that one of the slaves might apply the last trace of delicate pigment to her cheek.
‘As we entered the bath-chambers we heard of his highness that he was on the way to the martial fields with the Companions to exercise their steeds. He is probably there even now,’ Ilal pouted. ‘He spends far too much time practicing there in military dress.’
‘—And not nearly enough time among the charai of the court executing in amatory dress, eh?’ In the mirror, the Queen could see the rare carmine blush, none of it painted, suffusing her lady’s cheeks and bared breasts.
‘Come, that is enough time spent upon our toilet,’ the Queen declared. ‘We look well enough – and if we are to believe Ilal, paints could little augment this countenance of less than twenty-and-five summers. Where are the gowns?’
Emsha came bustling into the baths, her squat, heavily robed peasant figure contrasting comically with the lithe, gauze-wrapped beauties surrounding her.
‘Here, majesty,’ the old nurse puffed, one gray lock falling aslant her left eye. Her hands being burdened with the garments, she attempted to raise the hair by blowing at it out of the corner of her mouth. The lock rose only to fall back even lower; whereat the charai burst into laughter, their voices pealing like little silver bells.
‘Now,’ said the Empress with great sternness, ‘we’ll not have you mocking dear Emsha, who has tended us since our infancy, and is wise beyond all your years. Do you hear, Ilal?’
‘Never mind, majesty, it is of no account,’ said Emsha, blushing confusedly. ‘I am used to it by now; and it is good to see your majesty smiling.’
The lovely charai tried dutifully to suppress their laughter but, eying one another behind the Empress and over Emsha’s bowed head, only burst forth in redoubled force moments later. So charmingly did the peals echo off the painted marble walls that soon the Empress and Emsha herself good-humoredly joined in the merriment.
When all was satisfactorily finished, the ladies accompanied her majesty from the bath down long corridors decorated with frescoes and elaborate tapestries. Through the depths of the huge Palace they proceeded, the darkling shadows about them dispelled at frequent intervals by fragrant lamps of brass and gold. The many servants abased themselves before her majesty as she passed. In time the shadows of the intricate hallways lightened, and with sinuous, exquisite grace the Empress Allissál and her ladies passed through the colonnade opening to the Imperial Gardens.
