Robert Silverberg - The Queen of Springtime

“I know that it is. You are mine, child. You are of the Nest, and you can never do harm to it.”

Nialli Apuilana doesn’t reply. By way of answer she looks within herself, to that secret place in her soul where the Queen had placed a part of Herself long ago. And seizes it, and draws it out as though it were no more than a shallow splinter in her flesh, and hurls it from her. Down it tumbles through the many layers of the sky. And as it nears the surface of the world it bursts into flames and is consumed.

“Do You still think I am of the Nest?” Nialli Apuilana asks.

There’s another great silence.

Once again now Nialli Apuilana shows the Queen the vision of the final war: the Nest ripped open, its inhabitants consumed by flames, the royal chamber despoiled, the vast charred body, split apart and ruined, dead in the smoking depths.

“You know nothing of what it is to die,” says Nialli Apuilana. “You know nothing of pain. You know nothing of loss. You know nothing of defeat. But You’ll learn. You’ll perish in flame and agony; and the worst agony of all will be the knowledge that there is no way You can take revenge upon those who did this to You.”

The Queen doesn’t respond.

“It will happen,” Nialli Apuilana says. “We are a determined people. The gods have shaped us to be what we are.”

Silence.

“Well?” Nialli Apuilana says. “Is that Your answer? Is this what You’d have us do? Because I tell You that we will do it, if You won’t give us what we ask.”

Silence. Silence.

The Queen says at length, “What is it, then, that you want?”

“An end to the war. A truce between our peoples. A line drawn between Your lands and ours, never to be violated.”

“These are your only terms?”

“Our only terms, yes,” says Nialli Apuilana.

“And the alternative?”

“War to the death. With no quarter given.”

“You deceive yourself if you think there can ever be peace between us,” says the Queen.

“But there can be an absence of war.”

There is one last silence. It seems to stretch on forever.

“Yes,” replies the Queen finally. “There can be an absence of war. So be it. I grant you what you ask. There will be an absence of war.”

It was done. Nialli Apuilana bade the Queen farewell, and in a single moment withdrew from the high realm, sweeping swiftly downward toward the breast of the land, where dawn now had begun to glow. She relinquished her grasp on the Barak Dayir and sat up. She was back in the tent that she shared with Thu-Kimnibol.

He was just beginning to stir. He looked over at her and smiled.

“How strange. I slept like a child, lost to the world. And I dreamed the war was over. That a truce had been agreed on between ourselves and the Queen.”

“It was no dream,” said Nialli Apuilana.

The day was bright and fair, with a cool pleasant wind blowing out of the west, a sea-breeze, always a good omen. Taniane arose early, and went to the Temple of the Five to express her gratitude for the safe return of the army and to ask the gods’ blessings for the time to come; and then, for she was the chieftain of all the people, she went also to the Temple of Nakhaba and made her obeisance to the god of the Bengs. Afterward she called for her wagon of state, with four fine white xlendis to draw it, and made ready to ride out to the Emakkis Gate at the northern end of the city, where a great reviewing stand had been erected so that the chieftain and the Presidium could properly greet the troops as they arrived. She had the Mask of Koshmar with her, the shining black one that she sometimes wore on high occasions of state. This day seemed worthy of Koshmar’s mask.

Runners had been carrying word of the return for four days, now, stumbling breathless into the city with reports of the army’s southward progress. “They’re in Tik-haleret now!” came the cry, and almost at once, “They’ve reached Banarak,” and then, “No! They’re approaching Ghomino!” Thu-Kimnibol, the messengers said, rode proudly at the head of the column, with Nialli Apuilana beside him, and all the troops stretching on and on behind them as far as anyone could see.

Thu-Kimnibol had sent messengers of his own ahead as well, announcing the truce that had brought the war to its end. From the messengers, too, came the first official word of the death of Hresh. Which only confirmed what Taniane already knew, for she had not felt the presence of Hresh in the world since that day of strange numbness when Puit Kjai had come to her with his tales of insurrection; but it was hard news all the same. King Salaman also was dead, they said, dead of grief and weariness, after a great loss at the hands of the hjjks.

Taniane wondered what Hresh had been doing up there in hjjk country at the battlefront. That was the last place where she would have expected him to go. But evidently Hresh had remained Hresh to the very end, a law unto himself. Perhaps she would get the explanation of his mysterious final journey from Nialli Apuilana later.

Old Staip, trembling and unsteady, stood to Taniane’s left as she took her position on the reviewing stand. Simthala Honginda and Catiriil were beside him. Puit Kjai was at her right, and Chomrik Hamadel next to him, both of them grandly helmeted. Before them, occupying the outer rim of the stand’s lower level, was an array of city guardsmen led by Chevkija Aim.

One by one the other members of the Presidium mounted the stand. Taniane greeted them as they appeared. A crowd was gathering below.

Puit Kjai leaned his head toward hers and said quietly, “Be on your guard, lady. I think your enemies may well choose this day to make trouble.”

“Have you any proof of that?”

“Whisperings, only.”

Taniane shrugged. “Whisperings!”

“Such whisperings very often carry truth, lady.”

She pointed into the distance, where she thought she saw a far-off cloud of gray dust rising over the highway. “In a little while Thu-Kimnibol will be here,” she said. “And my daughter, and an army of their loyal followers. No one’s going to dare to make trouble with a force like that heading this way.”

“Be on your guard all the same.”

“I’m always on my guard,” Taniane said, running her fingers uneasily over the smooth shining surface of Koshmar’s mask. She glanced around. “Husathirn Mueri isn’t here. He’s the only one. Why is that?”

“I think he’s likely to get very little joy from Thu-Kimnibol’s triumphant return.”

“He’s a prince of the Presidium, all the same. His place is here among us.” She turned and beckoned to Catiriil. “Your brother!” she called sharply. “Where is he?”

“He said he’d be going to his chapel first. But he’ll be here in time. I’m sure that he will.”

“He’d better be,” Taniane said.

Husathirn Mueri had risen early that day also. It had been a long night for him, fitful rest at best, and he was glad enough to leave his bed at dawn. His dreams, when he’d been able to sleep at all, had been oppressive ones: chanting hjjk warriors filing round and round him in the darkness and the Queen’s crushing bulk, monstrous and bloated and pale, hovering over him like a titanic weight slowly falling from the sky.

The early service was already under way at the chapel when he arrived. Tikharein Tourb was presiding, with Chhia Kreun beside him at the altar. Husathirn Mueri slipped into the seat at the rear that he usually occupied. Chevkija Aim, deep in his devotions, gave him a perfunctory nod. The others nearby took no notice. By now it was no extraordinary thing to have a prince of the city present in a chapel.

“This is the day of revelation,” the boy-priest was saying. “This is the day when the seals are broken and the book is opened, and the secrets are brought forth, and the depths give up their mystery. This is the day of the Queen; and She is our comfort and our joy.”