SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

I ascend the hill and pass unchallenged through the middle terrace gate. The guards laugh and joke among themselves, sparing me only a glance. Bi-genders, being impossible to counterfeit, are not worth their concern; a fact, I’m sure has kept us as messengers generations after the death of the 14th Autarch.

The sky of the middle terrace is the pale, pearly pink of the interior of an oyster shell, though it can only be seen from the vantage of this terrace. By order of the tetrarch, a fine dust is sprayed upward daily from multiple points. It ascends no more than three times the height of the tallest building, and yet it appears to color the sky by catching the light in some way I don’t understand.

The road winds upward through the shops and villas. The brown clothes of a messenger protect me here, unlike Sabanach, where impotent anger at the world outweighs sense or caution. At last, I arrive before the third and final gate. Waved through again, I pass under the stone arch and emerge to a dome of pale lavender sky, the color most favored by this tetrarch.

The color is everywhere, in the piled hair of the gentry, in the stain of windows in the elaborate villas, and worked into the clothing of both men and women.

The palace of the tetrarch crowns the city with only the backdrop of the mountain beyond. The whole is gilded in a glittering gold material, the manufacture of which is long forgotten. Seven spires rise in the pattern of the seven stars of Agrenost and kiss the pale purple sky with needle-thin tips as delicate as crystal and as strong as iron.

My resolve doesn’t waver but anxiety toys with my breath nonetheless, catching at it as I enter the courtyard. I dismount and hand the reins of my horse to a boy who spares me no look. The horse belongs to the tetrarch, but I am less than nothing.

The palace halls are well known to me and I wend the maze of twists and turns to the heart of the labyrinthine building. The tetrarch is not in the throne room, but a soldier at the door knows his whereabouts and directs me to the Room of Dreams. One of the soldiers there confirms that the tetrarch is within and opens the door.

The walls and ceiling of the room are egg-shaped and the color is that of rich cream. Golden gilt bands the center of the room. The ceiling is painted the pale blue of a third season sky on the plains, with clouds rendered so realistically they seem to drift if one watches them too long. I enter, and my performance begins.

The tetrarch sits on the floor, as children of his age are wont to do, but I see why the soldier saw no need to escort me inside. Next to the tetrarch a giant prairie cat lies at his ease, propped on strong elbows. Eyes that were half closed in repose open, piercing me with orange and gold.

I have heard it rumored that the cats are prescient, if so, then perhaps I am doomed no matter how well I play my part. I do my best to mask my face with calmness, though the cat and the handler standing nearby—training stick in hand—make it more difficult still.

An attendant brushes the tetrarch’s brown hair. It has never felt the touch of shears in the eleven years of his life, and spills across the floor behind him. I sink to one knee by the door and bow my head as I have so many times before. Were this the Holy Autarch, I would prostrate myself. I reach into the pouch and withdraw the folded paper as carefully as possible. "A message, Exalted One," I say, proffering my lie.

Too late I see that the much abused wax of Zasna’s tetrarch is loosened and raised all across the lowest side. It remains sealed by the barest margin. Visions of the chambers of torment below the palace dance before my eyes, all the more vivid for never having seen them.

He nods and I approach, my arm still extended. I tense my muscles to keep from shaking as I hold the message and force myself not to stare at the defect in the seal. Both cats and children are sensitive to signs of uneasiness that adults might miss.

I hold my breath as the boy-ruler takes the message from my hand.

He will not fail to notice the defect when his attention reaches the seal and my dreams of freedom evaporate like morning mist. I spend a last wish hoping that Finagor will escape suspicion for his part in this duplicity.

In the heartbeat between the tetrarch slipping a finger beneath the fold and the imminent examination of the seal to break it open, the cat stretches forward to sniff the bottom of the paper. My heart lurches as I think he points out the falseness to his master.

Sweat trickles beneath my arms as the great ruff about the cat’s neck caresses the message, obscuring nearly half the folded paper. He nuzzles at it almost as if reading it with his near-sighted eyes. One hind leg extends as he leans forward, the joint reversed from other four-legged creatures. It’s said the cats can stand on their hind legs in the way of people, though I’ve never witnessed this.

The tetrarch glares at the cat and strikes the animal’s head with one thin elbow as he breaks the seal. The trainer is there in an instant. He jabs the cat hard in the hindquarters with the metal point of the stick. The cat jerks but suppresses a growl.

The message is open and no one has seen the defect. Relief leaves me lightheaded.

The tetrarch reads the message quickly and nods to a servant at the far end of the room. In the way that the most familiar and well-trained servants have, the man discerns his master’s intent and brings one of the small burning braziers, holding it carefully by its long, narrow stem. To my profound relief, the tetrarch tosses the message in and watches the flames devour it.

"I wish to reply," he says to me, and holds out one long-fingered and uncalloused hand.

The servant runs to a gilded box on a desk and returns with stationary and pen. The tetrarch disdains the offered board from my satchel and writes instead against the floor. I remain on bended knee until he has finished, then fold the message and wait while he seals it, marking the wax with the imprint of his ring.

Bowing my head once again I stand and back to the door, the new message in hand.

The Holy Autarch has noticed me on occasion, and the bright blue gems of his eyes disturb me. The tetrarch of my adopted city often acknowledges me. But this tetrarch has never once looked into my eyes. His cat does, though. He lifts that massive head, the chain about his neck clinking softly, and stares into my soul in a way that says he knows my secrets. I stumble but catch my balance, and am relieved to hear the snick of the door as the guard pulls it closed behind me.

Two hallways from the Room of Dreams my heart still labors. I wish nothing more than to run from the palace and ride from the city out into the empty lands and then to the east. But one last promise I must fulfill before I leave.

A tetrarch’s messenger may attract unwanted attention delivering a note to Finagor’s friend and so I spiral toward the outer halls, keeping watch for a local messenger. At last I pass one I know. My heart has slowed to normal and my voice, when I speak, is steady and matter-of-fact.

"I was given a message for Martine of House Saber by someone too rushed to find a palace messenger."

We are the only two in the hall and I receive a small roll of the eyes that some find us so interchangeable. The messenger takes the note and reverses direction, unaware of the seditious contents folded within that paper.

And just like that, it’s done. My last duties as a messenger completed. Zasna’s tetrarch will wait at least a fortnight for a reply; Alawea’s tetrarch even longer. I can be with the insurgents long before that.

The final set of doors loom ahead, leading outside and to freedom. My eyes are so fixed on that egress that I don’t hear or see the great cat step from the shadows of the cross hall until he is an arm span or two from me. His chain is still looped around his thick neck, but there is no handler at the other end.