Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [72]
Demascus drew in a surprised breath when he realized Arathane wore the gown.
Who else but the queen could wear something so magnificent with such royal certitude? The garment’s faultless lines draped a queen and a woman, revealing strength and beauty in equal measure. Her arms and shoulders were bare, and her lavender skin made the surrounding blooms seem almost lifeless. Silvery lines like intricate tattoos traced her arms, throat, and spiraled upon her cheeks.
Arathane’s hair was a bundle of braids composed of crystalline silver, and over them rested a white circlet whose flawless lines bespoke faultless craftsmanship. A faint glimmer of radiance played through the circlet, like the light of a distant storm cloud on the horizon. Her eyes seemed to faintly echo that light as they stared directly back into his.
Demascus’s composure fled like a startled flock of shrieking jays. He’d rarely, or perhaps never, seen a woman so beguiling as Queen Arathane.
His legs didn’t so much lose their strength as become unmoored from the ground.
“Merciful gods,” he muttered.
Carmenere strode into the bower. She occluded Demascus’s view of the queen, and the world came back. He sucked in a breath as if surfacing in deep water.
The silverstar clasped hands with the queen. Chant inched ahead and stood at the entrance. Riltana remained where she was, as did Demascus. The thief was looking at him.
She said in a low voice, “Are you feeling well?”
Demascus said, “Yes. I … Uh. I see the queen is a stormsoul.”
Riltana suppressed a grin. She said, “She can have that effect on some people. Come on, let’s meet her before she decides you’re a simpleton.”
Demascus nodded, but let Riltana and Chant precede him into the bower. Then they all bowed, more or less in unison.
Queen Arathane said, “We’re not in court; please don’t waste time on formalities. I get enough of that every day. So … Carmenere said you had something urgent to explain? But tell me your names first.” Her voice was pleasant but firm.
Carmenere said, “Arathane, you remember Riltana?”
The queen nodded at the thief. “Of course. It’s good to see you again.”
Riltana seemed perfectly at ease as she nodded back, but Demascus saw the tension in her shoulders.
“And this,” said Carmenere as she gestured at the pawnbroker, “is Chant Morven. He runs a shop in Airspur.”
“Among other things,” Riltana murmured to Demascus.
“Your Majesty,” said Chant, who made as if to bow again, then obviously remembered what the queen had just asked, and ended up performing an odd little head motion.
The queen had the grace not to notice. Her eyes fixed on Demascus.
The funny feeling in his knees returned.
“This is Demascus,” said Carmenere.
“Thanks for agreeing to see us so quickly,” he said. He thought his voice came out normal, thank the gods.
“Demascus; that’s an odd name,” said Arathane. “You must come from across the Sea of Fallen Stars.”
Was she asking him a question? He didn’t want to bumble through explaining his missing mind, and all the rest. It would only complicate things.
He settled on, “I do, Your Majesty.” It was even the truth, sort of. He came from across the sea, all right, way across and beyond the confines of Faerûn itself.
She cocked one eyebrow and smiled at him. “Mysterious. When time permits, I’d like to hear more of your homeland, Demascus.”
His brain seemed to fuzz. He swallowed with relief when her regard left him again. What was wrong with him?
The queen motioned to the pillow-strewn benches that lined the open-air structure. “Please sit, all of you, and we’ll talk.”
The earthsoul sat down next to Arathane. Demascus followed Carmenere’s lead and lowered himself onto the broad seat across from the monarch. Chant positioned himself on Arathane’s other side, but left a respectful distance. Instead of sitting on the bench, Riltana plopped down on the floor with her legs stuck out. Demascus wondered if Arathane thought it a disrespectful pose. Probably not; the bower lent the meeting a surreal informality.