Joan Vinge - The Summer Queen

But a woman’s voice called out from the crowd, “I know Moon Dawntreader.”

Capella Goodventure’s broad, lined face frowned, as she peered into the crowd.

The Queen stared with her as the speaker pushed through the wall of faces. Jerusha saw a sturdy, dark-haired island woman in her mid-thirties; saw sudden recognition fill Moon’s face at the sight of her. “Clavally Bluestone Summer,” the woman identified herself, and Capella Goodventure’s frown deepened. “I made her a sibyl. She has the right to the trefoil, and to speak the Lady’s Will.”

“Then let her prove it!” Capella Goodventure said, her face mottling with anger. “If she has the right to speak as she does, then let her prove it.”

Moon nodded, looking surer now. “Ask, and I will answer,” she said again.

“No,” Capeila Goodventure said. “A sibyl Transfer can be faked, just like a tattoo. Let her show us real proof. Let the Sea give us a sign of Her Will!”

The Queen stood where she was, listening to the crowd murmur its doubts, her own face furrowing in a frown as she tried to imagine how to lay their doubts to rest. Jerusha stood unmoving, her body drawn with tension as she waited for a sign from the Queen to come forward and remove the Goodventure woman. But she knew that Moon could not take that step now, without losing all credibility.

Moon glanced over her shoulder at the Pit waiting behind her like a tangible symbol of her danger; looked back at Capella Goodventure again. “The Sea Mother is with us here,” she said, clearly enough for all the crowd to hear her. “Do you feel Her presence? The waters of the sea lie at the bottom of the Pit behind me. Smell the air, listen for Her voice calling up to you.” Capella Goodventure stood back, a faint smile of anticipation pulling at her mouth. But then the Queen held something out in her hand. Jerusha caught her breath as she saw what it was. “This is called a tone box. It controls the wind in the Hall of Winds; it is the only way for a person to cross the Pit safely.” She handed the control box to Capella Goodventure, and turned back toward the bridge.

Jerusha swore softly. “No—”

“Moon!”

Jerusha heard Sparks Dawntreader call out to his wife, reaching after her as she left his side.

The Queen glanced back over her shoulder; something in her look stopped him where he was, with dread on his face. She turned away again, raising her arms, bowing her head, and murmured something inaudible that might have been a prayer. Jerusha saw her body quiver slightly, as if she were going into Transfer. The moaning of the winds was loud in the sudden, utter silence of the hall, as she stepped out onto the bridge.

She swayed as the wind buffeted her; froze for an instant, regained her balance and took another step. Jerusha’s hands tightened; she felt a surge of sickness as she remembered her own terrifying, vertiginous passages over that span. She fought the urge to close her eyes.

The Queen took a third precarious step, braced against the wind. And then something happened. Jerusha looked up as the Queen looked up: she sucked in a deep breath of wonder. The clangorous sighing of the wind curtains faded, as the wind spilled from the sails, and the air currents died … as the open windows high above began to close. Blue and gold sunlight shafted down through the inert cloudforms of the curtains to light Moon’s hair like an aura. “By the Bastard Boatman—” Jerusha whispered, feeling Miroe’s hand tighten around her arm with painful awe.

“By the Lady,” his voice answered, deep and resonant; although she knew that he could not mean it.

A slow murmur spread through the crowd, and one by one the watchers dropped to their knees, sure that they were in the presence of a miracle, a Goddess, Her Chosen … until at last only Capella Good venture was left standing. As Jerusha watched, even she nodded, in acknowledgment, or defeat. The Queen stood a moment longer, her head held high, her face a mask that Jerusha could not read. The air stayed calm; the ancient hall and everyone in it seemed frozen in place. And then at last Moon Dawntreader moved again, stepping off of the bridge onto solid ground.

She looked back, at the flaccid curtains hanging in the air, as if she were waiting for something. But they did not begin to fill again; the window walls remained closed. She took a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling visibly, her own face showing traces of the awe that had silenced the crowd. She looked ahead again, with her gaze on her husband’s white, stunned face. She returned to his side; Jerusha saw the uncertainty that was almost fear in his eyes as she took his hand. “It is the Lady’s will,” she said, facing the crowd again, at last, “that I should be here, and that you should be here with me.” She gestured at the span behind her, open to anyone who chose to cross it, now that the winds had ceased. “This is Her sign to you that a true change has come; the ways of Winter are not forbidden to us anymore.”

She hesitated, looking out at their faces, her own face changed by the emotions that played across it. “We are who we are,” she said, “and the old ways have always been our survival. But no one’s ways are the only, or the best. Change is not always evil, it is the destiny of all things. It was not the will of the Lady that we were denied knowledge that could make our lives better; it was the will of the offworlders. And they are gone. I ask you to work with me now to do the Lady’s will, and work for change—”

Capella Goodventure threw down the tone box and stalked out of the hall. The echo of its clatter followed her into the darkness. But the rest of the watchers stayed, their eyes on the Queen, waiting for what came next; ready to listen, ready to work the Lady’s will at her bidding.

“How did she do it, Miroe?” Jerusha murmured. “How?”

He only shook his head, his face incredulous. “I don’t know,” he said. “I only hope she knows … because she didn’t do it herself.”

Jerusha looked up, her eyes searching the haunted shadows of the heights, her memory spinning out the past. But all the history of this place that she had experienced spanned less than two decades. The layers of dusty time, the hidden secrets, the haunted years of Carbuncle the city stretched back through millennia. Jerusha rubbed her arms, feeling its walls close around her like the cold embrace of a tomb, and said nothing more.

TIAMAT: Carbuncle

Sparks Dawntreader hesitated in the doorway to what had been the throne room, when this was the Snow Queen’s palace; suddenly as incapable of motion as if he had fallen under a spell. He stared at the throne, transfixed by its sublime beauty. Its blown-and welded-glass convolutions could have been carved from ice. Light caught in its folds and flowed over its shining surfaces until it seemed to possess an inner radiance.

It had seemed to him to be uncannily alive, the first time he had entered this room and seen her seated there: Arienrhod, the Snow Queen, impossibly wearing the face of Moon, the girl he had loved forever. It still struck him that way, even after all the years he had spent as Arienrhod’s lover … even now, as he found Moon seated there, wearing the face of Arienrhod; sitting silent and still in the vast white space, in the middle of the night, like a sleepwalker who had lost her way.

He took a deep breath, relieving the constriction in his chest, breaking the spell that held him as he forced himself forward into the room. He crossed the expanse of white carpet as silently as a ghost—his own ghost, he thought. “Moon,” he said softly, in warning.

Her body spasmed; she turned on the throne to stare at him. “What are you doing here?” he asked. He heard a knife-edge of anger that he had not intended in the words, and said hastily, “You should be resting, sleeping. … I thought Miroe gave you something to make you sleep.” After meeting with the sibyls this afternoon—after she had stopped the winds—she had come up the stairs from the Hall below ashen-faced with exhaustion. She had let him support her as they climbed; he had felt her shaking with fatigue. She had no reserves of strength these days; the child—or two—growing inside her demanded them all.