The man took a hesitant step to one side. ‘Majesty, please,’ he said piteously. ‘I’ll be punished if I allow you through.’
Exuding fear, and drained of the arrogance and disdain that was the hallmark of the Mathidrin, the man became more human, and Sylvriss relented slightly. ‘Find a senior officer immediately,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you two minutes.’
It did not help, however. The man swallowed. ‘I may not leave my post, Majesty,’ he said.
Some materials, when stressed, yield and move, giving outward signs of their condition. Others hold the stress within themselves, allowing it to build unseen, until one last increment bursts the fabric suddenly and catastrophically. So it was now with Sylvriss.
Fretful at the news of repression her contacts were bringing to her, and fearful for their safety as Dan-Tor swept aside the ancient Law and replaced it with the even more ancient law of superior force; fearful also for the safety of Dilrap, daily playing aide and would-be confidante to Dan-Tor; and above all, fearful for her husband, steadily improving in health away from the pernicious influence of his Chief Physician, and becoming increasingly anxious to take to himself some of the reins of government he had so long relinquished, Sylvriss needed her riding to be able to retain some inner peace and outward semblance of calm and composure.
Thundering through the City’s great parks, and sometimes beyond the City itself, the wind blowing in her face and at one with the powerful animal under her, she could find again the spirit of the Riddinvolk and renew her courage and the sense of purpose that would sustain her when she returned to the claustrophobic atmosphere of the Palace.
Now this was threatened and the many fears came together like sharp-pointed chisels to destroy her. Her mind knew that the guard was only doing as he had been bidden and that she was placing him in an intolerable position, but it was a small cry against the roar of her heart and spirit, and while it did not yield its right, it saw its defeat.
The Mathidrin saw it also, so acute had his fears made him, and he stepped back hastily even before the Queen urged her great horse forward and galloped through the gate regardless of him.
As the hoofbeats echoed into the distance, he recov-ered himself and, running over to an alarm bell hanging by the side of the gate, he rang out a clamorous carillon in celebration of the passing of his dilemma. He’d done everything he could, cried the bell, let the officers deal with her.
But Sylvriss and her mount were out of earshot before the first resonating vibrations left the bell. At full gallop she cascaded through the streets of the City heedless of direction and destination. What was important was to ride, to ride, to ride. To set aside the endless complexities and ambiguities of her life, and just be, just exist for a little while. She could not be constrained by guards and escorts any more than could the horses of Riddin be penned; free spirits both, they would either die or kill if pinioned.
How long she rode she could not have said, nor through what streets and by-ways, but gradually her passion ebbed and the mind’s voice became louder. She had been hasty with that guard. There had been a great deal of trouble in the City following the arrest of Eldric and Oremson, and she knew huge contingents of Mathidrin had been brought in from somewhere to contend with it. Her action had not been wise from any point of view except insofar as it eased her own inner pains. However, she could make amends and at least ensure the trooper was not punished. No great hurt need come of it.
Then, as her spirit quieted, she became aware of the sound of the horse’s hooves on the stone street as, reading her mood, it slowed down to a gentle canter. They echoed.
She reined to a halt and looked around. A deep silence pervaded everywhere and rang almost deafen-ingly in her ears. Only the familiar sound of creaking harness and the easy breathing of her horse told her she had not become suddenly deaf. The street was deserted. And from the silence it seemed as if the whole City was deserted.
She looked up at the surrounding buildings and identified where she was. Not one of the busier parts of the City but, even so, it was late morning and a great many people should have been about. She walked the horse forward, curiosity pushing all other concerns from her mind. For several minutes she moved quietly from street to street. All deserted. Unease began to temper her curiosity.
Glancing up, she saw a curtain flicker. She stared at it pensively for some time, then dismounted and went over to the small flight of stone steps which led up to the door of the house. The strangeness of her behaviour made her feel slightly disorientated but, following her impulse, she walked up the steps and took hold of the large heavy door knocker.
She found its cold contact reassuring and she brought her face close to it as if to hide from the rest of the world. The striker was a traditional iron ring with a radiant star at its centre, while the striking plate was a simple boss known colloquially as Sumeral’s pate. She brought the striker down purposefully.
The sound ruptured the silence and echoed up and down the street before it escaped out over the rooftops. It seemed to breed a myriad tiny whispers all pointing accusingly at her. It also brought her a little more to herself. She struck again and the answering whispers became terrified.
But no answer came from within. Her jaw stiffened and she beat a powerful tattoo on the door that seemed to raise dust whirls in the street. As the hissing echoes faded, she became aware of a presence behind the door.
‘Majesty,’ came a faint voice. ‘Majesty. What do you want?’ The voice was fearful, and the request peremp-tory.
Its tone dispelled her brief anger. ‘Open the door,’ she said. ‘Tell me what’s happening. Where is everyone? Why are the streets empty?’
‘Majesty, how can you not know?’ came the reply. ‘I beg of you, go away’.
Again anger fluttered inside Sylvriss, but she con-tained it. She knew that no one would speak to her thus except under some dire provocation. ‘Are you going to leave your Queen standing at your threshold like some pedlar?’ she said gently.
There was a long silence, then some scuffling and whispering from behind the door. Her horse whinnied softly, but she ignored it.
Then a woman’s voice. ‘Majesty, please, I beg you, leave now, for all our sakes.’
Sylvriss began to protest, but the words died on her lips, such was the fear in the whispered voice. Baffled she turned and walked back to her horse.
‘You there, stop!’
A raucous command shattered her reverie and brought her harshly back to the street. She turned to see a Mathidrin foot patrol approaching. Patting her horse’s neck she whispered, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t listen to you properly.’
Scanning the patrol she saw one or two familiar faces, but the Sirshiant at its head was unfamiliar. He was tall and well built, and carried himself with an attitude that set Sylvriss’s teeth on edge.
Leaving the patrol he strode towards her purpose-fully. Sylvriss drew herself up and met his gaze coldly, but his stride did not falter and knots of fear began to tangle in her stomach.
‘You’re aware of the punishment for being on the streets, wench,’ he said coldly, starting to draw his sword. There was a visible tremor in the ranks of the patrol behind him, and a disbelieving hiss of voices filled the air from no apparent source.
The Sirshiant faltered and then stopped. ‘Who was that?’ he said quietly and ominously. A trooper ran forward and spoke to him softly. Slowly he released his sword, tightening and untightening his grip on the hilt angrily. Then he slammed it back into its sheath and there was an undisguised snicker from someone in the patrol. His face became livid, but he turned again to the Queen.
‘Majesty,’ he said, as if the words were choking him. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t know who you were. We’ve very strict orders about how to deal with people disobeying the Ffyrst’s edicts.’