Yet the cage itself had thus far resisted the castle’s every effort at control. Thus far, the House could only look at it, and suffer under it and curse.
There was one bright spot in all of this. Though its colorful curses were quite untranslatable into human speech, they were nevertheless perfectly audible to human ears. Whenever it cursed, every servant’s bell in the entire palace threatened to ring itself right off the wall.
“Those bells again!” Ligne snapped, as fourteen guards, nine serving girls, four butlers, a maid, and the bearer of royal chamber pot came scuttling breathlessly into the throne room. “When is Kherda going to fix those bells?” she screamed. The collection of servants all disappeared as hastily as they had assembled except for the pot bearer.
Experience had taught him to move deliberately.
“Have you any idea why they ring so?” she asked her sinewy young captive. As usual, Rosha made no reply.
He felt little motivation to there was nothing to be gained by replying. Nor, in fact, would he gain anything by not replying. He’d been cut off from his love, cut off from his sword, cut off from his land all those things that had made his life worthwhile. And now he was cut off even from looking at the world, for Ligne had ordered her chief falconer to fit the young man’s head with a hood of brown leather. It covered his face down to the bridge of his nose, cutting off all light. His arms were manacled behind him above the elbows.
He’d been kept so for three days, and was gradually losing interest in anything but his own thought. His difficulty with speech had always made talking a chore. He felt little inclination to engage in meaningless conversation now.
Prime Minister Kherda came dashing down the hall, holding his long skirts out of the way of his feet as his sandals clipped along the tile floor. When he reached the doorway of the throne room he paused, leaning against the richly carved walnut doorjamb to suck in gulps of air between stammered phrases: “I don’t… understand why… these bells… keep ringing so!” He panted momentarily, then continued bravely in the face of Ligne’s ice-cold stare. “I’ve done… my best
… to find… someone who’s qualified… to find the problem. No one knows!”
“Then why not send to Ngandib-Mar for a sorcerer?” Ligne asked sweetly. “Surely a power shaper could find the problem.” The Queen was mocking him, Kherda realized. Ligne didn’t believe in magic any more than he did.
“There are no power shapers he muttered wearily.
“But there must be power shapers she continued, sneering. “Who but a power shaper could have witched this castle to behave so?” Suddenly Ligne dropped her mocking pretense and snarled: “I don’t want to see your face until you find me a craftsman who can fix those bells.
Unless, of course, you wish to be strangled with a bell cord?”
Kherda had grown accustomed to such threats from his tigerish monarch.
Even so, he retreated from her chamber hastily. Ligne turned back to her captive in time to catch the shadow of a grin chase across his lips and disappear. “And what are you laughing at? Are you laughing at me?” she demanded.
Rosha said nothing. But Ligne imagined that she saw in his tight-lipped frown an expression of self-satisfied derision. It both irritated and inflamed her. Her voice softened. “You’re the only one who dares. Why do I allow it?” She ran her hand down the length of one of his bound forearms, and he balled his fist in response a silent signal,
but one she clearly understood. “I know. You don’t like for me to touch you.” To tease him, she began massaging the corded muscles in his back and shoulders, cautiously staying out of the short range of that fist. Rosha would swing at her, given the chance. That was the reason for his chains. “Why is that, Rosha mod Dorlyth? Do you hate my entrails so passionately that you’ve never noticed my more visible physical attributes?” Ligne felt she had good cause to boast in her appearance. She was still a young woman, and her oval face was free of any trace of those lines of care so frequently in evidence on the faces of more responsible monarchs. Her blue eyes could be dazzling if she chose to charm, dangerous if she chose to threaten but never could they be dull. It was on the basis of her great beauty that she had vaulted to her exalted position by way of Talith’s bed, of course. Nor did she feel any shame in that. It fact, it fed her ego to recall how she’d seduced the late King not only into bed, but into his grave as well assuming anyone bothered to bury the proud oaf. Ligne carefully cultivated her saucy, brazen appearance, clothing herself in scintillating materials of shocking colors, tailored to expose to best advantage those portions of her figure she thought most entrancing, while hiding those flaws visible only to herself. With flowing hair the color of a raven’s inky cloak, Ligne was far more than just striking. She was more than just lovely. Hers was the perfect standard of beauty, against which all the men who knew her measured their wives and lovers. She praised her own appearance by that unconscious arrogance of one who has never been anything but beautiful.
Yet it was all lost on Rosha. And for a perfectly obvious reason.
“How am I to s-s-see your f-f-fabled beauty while you c-constantly keep this hood on my h-head?” His frustration nearly gagged him.
“You know I’d gladly remove that mask, my pretty friend. Such a shame, to hide such handsome dark curls. But how can I, when you’ve promised that the moment I do, you’re going to kick me in the face? Can you tell me if that good night’s rest on the cold floor of my dungeon brought about some change of heart?”
Rosha had subsided again into silent attention. His lips wore the patient expression of a carnivore on the prowl mute, passive, but ready to strike any time.
“I thought not,” Ligne answered herself, smiling with feigned indifference. “I suppose I should give my guards permission to burn or club you into submission to me…” She tried to make it sound like a threat, but it wasn’t, and Rosha knew it. Ligne sighed. “But, of course, I couldn’t do that, any more than I could beat the spirit out of one of my falcons. Would you like to visit the falcons again, Rosha? Would you like to have fellowship with your brothers under the hood?”
Rosha shrugged. It meant nothing to him. He heard Ligne summon a guard and soon felt a tug on the chain that encircled his chest. That meant he was to move forward. Rosha obeyed without a struggle waiting patiently.
The mews where the royal falcons were kept contrasted sharply with the giant aviary that stood on the roof nearby. Where the floor of the aviary was lined with white dung, the floor of the mews was spotless.
While the aviary rocked with the constant chaotic screeching and fluttering of brilliantly plumed birds from exotic jungle climes, the mews was as silent as a cliff. Its gray and brown occupants stood on their perches at quiet, sightless attention, like feathered soldiers awaiting orders to charge. Maliff, the falconer, shuffled from bird to bird, giving vigilant attention to each scrape of a talon or fluffing of wings.
“Hushhh…” Maliff whispered softly. “Hush now. Be cam.” His voice soothed his feathery charges. “You’ll see. You’ll get some fine red chunks of dinner soon, when my boy crimbs back up from the kitchen.” The birds seemed satisfied fay his words. They were not bothered by Maliff s inability to pronouce the middle consonant of his own name.
The falconer heard the wicket gate open behind him and scowled. “Took you long enough!”
“Just what do you mean by that?” Ligne snapped, and Maliff whipped around to apologize to his Queen.
“My Rady! I had no idea! I thought it was my boy fetching me some broody meat for my far cons