Chapter Text
HAMLET [...] I loved you not.
OPHELIA I was the more deceived.
HAMLET Get thee to a nunnery. Why wouldst thou be
a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest,
but yet I could accuse me of such things that it
were better my mother had not borne me: I am
very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offenses
at my beck than I have thoughts to put them
in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act
them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling
between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves
all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery.
Where’s your father?
OPHELIA At home, my lord.
HAMLET Let the doors be shut upon him that he may
play the fool nowhere but in ’s own house. Farewell.
(Hamlet 3.1.127-144)
Chenelo woke just before the dawn, and lit her customary candle for the dead, whom she could not reach— and for the living, whom she was not permitted to.
She blew out the match when it started to catch her fingers, and sat with her hands in her lap, watching the smoke curl. She inhaled, caught the hot, sweet smell of the burning wick, and pressed her hands flat together to meditate.
She caught the rhythm of her breathing, the mantra, with the speed thirty years of practice could bring. By the time she opened her eyes, the light of Anmura had stained the sky with streaks of purple-pink, and the surrounding cells were shuffling with the subtle scuffles of the other women waking up, making prayers, washing. The bell for lauds would go soon, but she would not take it with the rest of the sisters.
Chenelo got up, stretched, and went to wash and dress, taking out a fresh outer robe and veil. She did not, she considered as she put on her talismans, entirely miss the interminable fuss of dressing that had come with being a noblewoman— but she did rather miss frivolous jewellery, from time to time. Well, she was only mortal.
She secured her robe with the belt that clasped with the interlocking moons of Ulis, then bent over her candle and cupped the flame in her hands. She murmured a platitude, then pinched it out with her thumb and index finger. Between the sewing and the candlewicks, she had really quite limited feeling in some of her fingertips, these days.
She pulled her veil down, emerged from her cell, and walked at a brisk pace to the outer ring of the convent where the Dach'osmerrem’s chamber was, letting her sleeves trail so they covered her hands. It was bitingly cold this morning— autumn coming to call at last— and she regretted leaving her stole behind. Some of the sisters, the elven northerners, never seemed to be cold— but Chenelo had never truly adjusted well to the unforgiving chill of the Ethuveraz. She comforted herself with the knowledge that the visiting pilgrim's chambers were always heated better than the sister’s cells, since they often took in elderly widows.
Like all the other pilgrims, Chenelo knew no name for the Dach'osmerrem she was currently seeing to— such was the standard for all the widows, grieving mothers, pious noblewomen, and disgraced family members that came to do worship of Ulis. According to the notes given to her by the Dach’othalo, this particular woman had been on a tour of several Thu-Tetar nunneries, and at each of them she had requested a Barizheise sister to teach her a little of the custom of prayer. Not unusual, since the practice was popular in Thu-Tetar, and it had plenty of Barizheise sisters— here, Chenelo had been dispatched for the task. Or at least, she was there for the Dach’osmerrem to watch, since they were not permitted to speak to one another, in observance of the silence of Ulis. Chenelo did not particularly mind being stared at in prayer— the rites were relatively simple, and being observed by a few women was not enough to put her off, not when she had once been mocked by an entire court for her piety.
She slipped out of the promenade and into the chilly, still-shadowed kitchen garden to check on her herbs— not something she had known much about before coming here, but she had liked to learn. The Great Avar’s daughters did not cook for themselves, and Empresses certainly didn’t, but sisters of Ulis were required to be largely self-sufficient, and Chenelo had found she enjoyed spending time with the plants.
She pinched a little of the dew-damp mint from the stalk and rubbed it between her hands as she walked, thinking of Isvaroë and the great bushels of the stuff that had grown unchecked along the eastern wall of the house. She had often sat on the lawn and crushed it or chewed on it, while Maia tottered precariously on unstable toddler legs nearby. She had never worried about him going particularly far from her, for he never did; even if he saw something he wanted to investigate, he would simply stay very still and stare vehemently, until Chenelo came to see what he was so interested in. The peculiar intensity of his toddler stare had been badly exacerbated by the Drazhada grey eyes, and Chenelo’s maid Nerinu had once whispered that he scared her a little. Chenelo had just laughed, and said he was only curious.
Now, Chenelo gathered up her skirt and went up the side steps into the pilgrim’s wing, making a silent prayer to Csaivo to protect her son, who had now spent longer in this world without his mother than he had with her. She had probably made thousands of appeals over the last almost-twelve years— but even if Csaivo heeded her, she certainly never would know. And yet she made them still.
As she approached the Dach'osmerrem’s chamber, she wondered again what manner of woman she was. An elvish noblewoman, yes— but Chenelo suspected a rather magnificent one, even for the Dach’ prefix. She had only two waiting-women, she wore no jewellery except her oath-ring, and her hands were calloused in a way that most noblewomen’s weren’t— which Chenelo knew, because she too pinched out wicks without the slightest suggestion of pain— but nobility was always obvious. Perhaps a fine widow, but Chenelo thought not; widows often swapped their oath rings to the left hand, and hers was on the correct side. Besides, she was young, her ladies were young, and she didn’t have the weariness or the stress pressed into her posture that most widows had. A young bride, then? Perhaps she had been dispatched to marry one of the minor Avarsin in northern Barizhan, and that was why she had taken up Barizheise prayer? Or she was an ambassador’s wife? It would require Ethuveraz tensions with Barizhan to have eased considerably, but certainly Chenelo wouldn’t know. The votaries of Ulis lived in perpetual stillness and silence, in honour of their cold god, not disturbed by the outside world. Sometimes Chenelo doubted she would even hear if Varenechibel died. Perhaps it would be better if she didn’t.
As Chenelo came down the corridor, she realised the door to the Dach’osmerrem’s room was slightly ajar, presumably anticipating her arrival— but also that the women inside were whispering.
It was so strange to hear any voices here, except the Dach’othalo’s or visiting prelates’, that Chenelo paused in surprise, only able to hear the odd snatch of conversation:
“...undeniable, in my view…”
“...only seeing what thou wishest… for the sake of the…”
“...Maia's…”
Maia. Would the grace of Csaivo work so quickly?
Chenelo clamped her hand tightly over her mouth before she could do anything foolish, like make a noise— then was smothered by the lingering smell of the mint she had crushed. Her heart tried to sink and leap at the same time, and she felt as if she had been punched.
“...admittedly… anyone would be able to convince…”
“...not the crash, nor the conspiracy—”
“...so how can we be sure…?”
A pause. Someone said quietly.
“...we cannot. Yet.”
They went silent. Chenelo stayed frozen, her hand still to her mouth. It was plain the Untheileneise Court— and it had to be at court, for these were noblewomen, and they had spoken with Cetho accents— had seen turmoil, and a conspiracy was plain, if bleak, in its meaning. But what crash? A coach? An airship?
Anything so dire was sure to have had an effect on the royal family— and someone in there had mentioned Maia by name.
She stood outside for a moment longer, pulse beating in her throat, ears pinned so flat to her head that they were beginning to hurt— then, hastily, shook herself and went to stand outside the door, deliberately letting her footfalls echo. She would not find out this way; they had ceased to talk, and, expecting her, they would not start again.
Someone must have heard her, this time, because a moment later the door was pulled open for her, and the elven Dach’osmerrem was where she had been every day this last week— waiting in the outer chamber, kneeling patiently on the stone floor while her women fidgeted about her.
She was a tall young lady with strong white hands and a long stride— veiled, of course, as they all were, but Chenelo felt very distinctly this morning that she was being watched closely by her. She did not entirely like it, though she didn’t think it was exactly hostile— but it was an intense sort of attention. Overly interested.
The bell rang for lauds, and Chenelo sat down opposite the Dach’osmerrem, who bowed her head to her politely. Unnecessary, but a kind courtesy. Veiled and silent as they both were, it wasn’t as if they had ever spoken to each other, but Chenelo liked her anyway, despite her staring habit. There was a brisk confidence in her stride and posture, and she always waited politely for the votaries to pass before moving on herself.
Discipline seemed to come easily to her, too; today, as each previous day, she was very still in the Devotion of Folded Hands. While Chenelo did not think she was deeply pious— she moved without any real reverence about the place, and it seemed to Chenelo that her attention sometimes drifted— she was very dutiful, and whatever she thought about while she sat, it seemed to bring some calm to her. She and her ladies blew the candles out, then were surprisingly dutiful to the set of prayers offered to the Emperor at the end of lauds. Chenelo watched them out of the corner of her eye while she got the excess candles out, surprised— but perhaps at court, one got used to doing it properly, for fear of what would happen if you were not seen to wish good health and fortune upon the Emperor. She couldn’t imagine Varenechibel and his disdain for women had won many genuine loyalists among the young women of the Untheileneise Court. At Isvaroë, Maia had used to race through the obligatory prayers for Varenechibel so he could go to have breakfast sooner, and Chenelo had never quite had the heart to tell him to slow down, like she did with everything else. The Emperor was perhaps the only man in the Ethuveraz who had enough prayers in his name.
She turned her attention to the personal candle-lighting, watching as the Dach’osmerrem lit her customary two. Chenelo could only assume she was making observances to both her husband’s house, and the house she had been born into. She herself had long given up making prayers for her husband.
She would rather make no prayers at all, than false ones.
But despite the observances, there was still no calm to be had in Chenelo— she left the Dach’osmerrem soon afterwards to go to the taper-chapel attached to the Ulistheileian.
She slipped inside, relieved there was no one else there, and sank down on the cool stone floor, smooth and knobbled in places with dried candlewax. The chapel was dim, fitted with only a few narrow vent-like windows— but perpetually glimmered with candlelight, and smelled of smoke and beeswax, and the hot swell of hundreds of tiny flames.
And where art thou now, Maia ? She thought, crossing her legs and settling on the floor. She couldn’t know, of course, and likely never would— the logic behind sending her here had been to isolate her from the world, after all. At one time, she had been almost happy to slip into the insensibility of isolated prayer and mindless routine. But as the years had gone on, she had begun to worry as violently as she had when she had first been brought here. She had invented increasingly implausible ideas as to how Maia might have been done wrong, hurt, maligned, or even assassinated— and she would never know. And now here were court women, mentioning him in tandem with disaster.
Feeling the rising spike of panic again, Chenelo pressed her palms to the floor hard, squeezing her eyes shut. She had thought to search for the Cairazhasan mantra, but instead she found herself following a memory of Maia, as he had been the first time she had ever properly discussed Varenechibel with him. She had known she was ill again, though not how ill; how could she? She certainly hadn't thought poisoned.
But that night it had stormed terribly, and the noise of the thunder and the pain in her limbs had kept Chenelo awake. She had lain and sewn slowly by candlelight, until she heard the expected patter of feet, and the door creaking open.
“Well now, I think thou’rt supposed to be in thy bed,” said Chenelo gently. She tucked in her needle and put her embroidery hoop away, watching Maia trot across the floor and scrabble onto her bed beside her.
“Art afraid?” she said.
“No,” said Maia, wriggling down under her duvet and pressing himself along her hip and leg. Chenelo tried to shift subtly against the twinge it caused, but Maia must have noticed, because he went very still. “But awake,” he added.
“As am I,” said Chenelo, wincing as another great grumble of thunder shook the windows. “Anmura and Osreian must be quarrelling very badly.”
“What do they quarrel about?” said Maia.
“What do any husband and wife quarrel about? Perhaps he is inconsiderate of her. Perhaps she leaves her stockings about. Perhaps she does not like his brother, or he does not like her mother. Perhaps he embarrassed her at a party.”
Maia smiled, but he looked thoughtful. He hesitated, then said:
“Didst— didst thou quarrel with the Emperor? Is that why he does not like us?”
Chenelo looked down at him. He was staring fixedly at her, ears flattened slightly, mouth tense. She knew why he was asking; the Emperor and his elder sons had these last few weeks formed a hunting party at Csedo, the closest the Imperial household had come to Isvaroë for years. There had been no messenger, no calls, and no proposal that the Empress and the youngest Archduke attend on them. Chenelo had not expected one, but she had noticed Maia listening to the servant's chatter about the proximity of the Emperor’s household. Perhaps he had hoped for one— or at least thought to wonder why they did not come.
When she did not answer, Maia pressed: “He does not like us, does he? That is why no one comes to see us, and we never go to court. All my brothers and sisters live at court, but not I.”
“Well, thou'rt much younger than thy siblings…” Chenelo mumbled. Maia gazed solemnly at her, not at all fooled.
Chenelo looked at her hands in her lap for a moment, then sighed. She leant over and pinched out the candle, then lay down opposite Maia, pulling him carefully to her.
“Thy father, though he is the Emperor and must be obeyed,” she said, “May not always do as he wishes— for he has a great many responsibilities and considerations that weigh upon him, and often they stop him doing as he actually desires. ‘Tis so with great rulers. It is as if there are two men in one— the Emperor Varenechibel Zhas is the first, and he must often win against the man Nemera Drazhar, the second. Seest thou?”
Maia nodded, though Chenelo was not really sure if he did or not. She said:
“Nemera Drazhar still mourned very badly for his old wife, Empress Pazhiro, whom he loved— but Varenechibel Zhas needed a new wife and an alliance with Barizhan, and therefore he married me. But I was not to Nemera Drazhar’s tastes, for he has no religion, knows little of Barizhan, and still desires above all else his late wife, and it made him—” she hesitated. “Sad and cross, to remember that I was not the wife he wanted.”
“But ‘tis not thy fault,” said Maia stoutly.
“To be sure,” said Chenelo, who had nonetheless sometimes wondered if it was her fault– if she had been more verbose and less pious, would things have been different? “But ‘tis the case nonetheless. And so, in order for him to be Varenechibel Zhas, and not Nemera Drazhar… he finds it best that I am not at court, so then he might not think of me, and he might get on with the business of ruling.”
“Why does he not send thee back home to Barizhan, then?” said Maia. “Thou desirest to go home, I know thou dost.”
“...I am the Empress of the Ethuveraz,” said Chenelo, who hadn’t realised he had intiuted that so closely. “And so I must be here. I am Chenelo Zhasan now, not Chenelo Sevraseched.”
“Is that why thy father dost not answer thy letters?” said Maia quietly.
Chenelo thought, I do not know why he does not answer my letters. She smoothed Maia’s hair, noticed that he had braided it very badly, and leant over him to fix it. She said, fiddling with where he had knotted it: “Yes— he is very busy, and he knows I am well taken care of in my new life. He does not need to worry about me. He knows we are safe here.”
“Oh,” said Maia. He did not seem quite convinced, but he waited until she was done with his hair to say; “So then… as I am thy son, it also displeases my father to see me, for he wants none of me.” He shifted. “He has three sons and no need for a fourth.”
“Tis not thy fault or thy matter, and most men should recognise that,” said Chenelo tersely. She sighed. “We should do thy father the respect he is due, Maia, as the Ethuverazid Zhas— but as he thinks not of us, think not of him. He may bring thee to court when thou'rt at thy majority, or he may not, but that's all one. What thou must remember is that I—” she kissed one of his cheeks— “love thee—” she kissed the other, and he giggled. “And thou'rt mine, as I am thine, so ‘tis no matter if we are not his.”
Maia pressed his head into her neck and locked his skinny arms around her waist. He is lonely, thought Chenelo— he is lonely, and starting to understand why.
She wrapped her arms around his narrow shoulders and kissed the crown of his head— and she thought he had fallen asleep, when he said suddenly:
“Could not Varenechibel Zhas and Nemera Drazhar be as one man? Instead of two? It seems so… complicated.”
“Perhaps,” said Chenelo, slightly surprised. “But I do not know if many Emperors can think how to do such a thing. But I suppose they might at least come… closer. If a man could understand how to do it.”
“Like the eclipses of Ulis,” said Maia sleepily.
“Yes,” said Chenelo. “Like that, I suppose.”
Now, Chenelo looked up at the statue of Ulis, rendered strange and umbral in the firelight, his extended hands almost seeming to tremble in the flickering light. Maia had been lonely then; she was not sure he could not be any better, now. And loneliness was easily exploitable. Those women had known him by name; perhaps he was at court. But it did not seem as if the court was either safe or stable.
Unspoken Lord, help me to know I cannot help him, she prayed. Help me to have faith he can survive alone— that he has survived alone.
The dinner bell rang, but she did not move, staring beseechingly up at the blank stone face of Ulis, waiting for something to come from those great open palms; but nothing came, as ever. Perhaps he thought she did not need it. She could only hope that was the reason.
It was not as if it was the first time her appeals to a great man had been ignored, but she had faith in Ulis. She could not say the same for the mortal men who had failed her.
The Dach’osmerrem took her leave the next day, when all the comings and goings of the convent happened; prelates and pilgrims arrived and departed, deliveries came in, the sisters went out to forage for the week’s firewood and provisions.
Chenelo saw her off at the inner gate, not failing to notice the unusual sounds of guards in armour lurking outside. A very fine woman indeed. Perhaps she was from one of the great elven houses, like the Tethimada or the Rohethada. Perhaps she was even married to one of the Princes.
Surprised at her shyness, Chenelo hesitated at some length before she presented she and her women with the gloves she had embroidered with the moons of Ulis. She embroidered something for all of her postulants, but this time, she felt abashed— though she hadn't the faintest idea why, her work being just as satisfactory as all her other pieces. But they took them promptly and looked at them with some seeming interest— then the Dach'osmerrem reached out and pressed Chenelo’s hand tightly in thanks. She had a very firm grip, and though her face was nothing but the most indistinct white oval through her veil, Chenelo fancied that she smiled.
The Dach’osmerrem bowed to Chenelo, in another unnecessary courtesy, then turned and made her way across the courtyard, her ladies trailing her. There was a prelate at the gates, a man about Chenelo’s age with fine, curly white hair and brass rings in his ears, presenting his papers to the Dach’othalo. Chenelo supposed he must have been one of the visiting othalei; it was almost time for the ritual question, the tradition upon the changing of the month that allowed the sisters to ask one question of the outside world to a sanctified prelate of Ulis.
The Dach’osmerrem bowed her head to him as she passed him, and the prelate returned the gesture, shooting her a slightly unreadable look before they proceeded past one another— and the Dach’osmerrem was gone.
The prelates who took the ritual questions had to be visiting othalei; none of the prelates who lived at the convent could possibly have known enough about the world to answer. It was meant to be quieting, an opportunity for sisters to put to rest things that had been bothering them, give them the opportunity to let go. Chenelo knew some of the younger or newer sisters asked questions as frequently as they could, given to nervousness about war or pestilence, but she herself had never made a habit of asking. All she knew was it could not be frivolous, and it could not compromise your ability to wholly devote yourself to Ulis— no distracting questions about previous acquaintances or political investments. Besides, most prelates would not know anything so specific as a family member’s health or the state of those left behind, so it would have been fruitless anyway. She had rarely asked anything, not sure how to do it without risking revealing her identity— besides, most of her questions would have been frivolous. And she had never been particularly fond of many of the visiting prelates, who often had something objectionable about them. But Othala Celehar, as this prelate was called, just looked weary. It was a weariness of the soul rather than the body, Chenelo thought— he moved and stood in some ways like the widows who came to their seclusion; beaten and creased, but too early in life. Whatever he bore, he bore it heavily. It was a pity for a prelate of Ulis to struggle to let go. Chenelo hoped his god could take it from his hands in time.
“We— were a clerical Witness for the Dead,” Celehar said quietly, when she was shown in to see him. It was odd to hear someone other than the Dach’othalo speak in this silent chapel, and his voice was incredibly damaged; Chenelo suspected he had survived a sessiva. Were suggested he had burnt out, too, and she was sorry for him; they often had the older Witnesses here, bereft after being robbed of their calling. He was perhaps a little young for it, but who knew when, or why, Ulis withdrew his hand from the Witnesses for the Dead? “We have served in Amalo, and in Lohaiso, and Aveio. And we were at the court for a time, a year or two ago.”
Chenelo’s heart leapt. The court. She could put something to him, and he might actually know. She had come to him with a feeble expectation of asking something roundabout or vague about the welfare of the imperial family, but this was hope of a real answer. And it would be so easy. All she needed to do was ask. She could not hope for stillness or tranquility in honour of Ulis, not when she had no closure. The conversation of the elven court women had scared her badly. If something terrible had befallen the royal house, she had no way of knowing if it had taken Maia with it, and she could not be quieted until she knew.
"If you have a question for us, Sister, we will answer it," said Othala Celehar.
Chenelo was silent for a long moment. She had let go of everything else; hope of a retrieval, hope of an apology, hope of seeing her sisters or her son again. It would be enough to know. She did not have to do anything with the knowledge. Ulis would understand. Surely he would.
She said, in a voice hoarse from disuse: “Othala, take our burden from us in the name of Ulis. Answer us this question to the best of your knowledge, so that we may continue in our silence and our solitude with renewed spirit.”
But Varenechibel certainly would not be so understanding, and she did not know how to ask the question without risking revealing herself. There was no one here who knew who she really was; the current Dach’othalo had not been the Dach’othalo when Chenelo had been brought here. Her predecessor had died of a bronchine three winters ago, and Chenelo had always assumed that the secret of her identity had died with her. She had not been an unkind woman, but she had been loyal to the Emperor, and her god. She would never have permitted Chenelo to do anything that might have led to a discovery. They had not admitted pilgrims or prelates when she had been the Dach’othalo; she had foreseen the risk, possibly. But now…
There was every possibility that Othala Celehar would merely consider it a strange, if innocuous, question. There was no reason he should have a suspicion of Chenelo surviving, let alone being a Sister of Ulis in Thu-Tetar. He had been at court, yes, but there was no indication he had been in Varenechibel's confidence. Perhaps from a Barizheise sister, it would read as lingering nationalism, or a sort of misguided sympathetic sentiment. What she did risk, was that the asking of it would get back to the Witness for the Prelacy. But she had faced him once— if he came to her in person again, she would not be afraid of him.
As if recognising the reason for her hesitation, the Othala said:
“Sister, we would not put you at risk by disclosing your query. We are bound not to lie when asked a direct question, but we do not volunteer information carelessly.”
Chenelo found herself believing him, even though there was really no good reason she should have. She glanced up, and found Othala Celehar looking directly at her, eyes very intense, all of a sudden. She thought, in a blur of confusion and paranoia; he suspects.
But how could he ever?
And so she reached up and took his hand, and prepared to pin all of her hopes on this young, weary prelate. If he told no one, it would be well— but only if he told no one. If it got back to Varenechibel, she did not want to know what would happen to Maia. No matter that he was almost twenty, and old enough for his own household. If Varenechibel wanted to make him miserable, he could.
And, she knew, he probably still did.
Chenelo whispered: “To the best of your knowledge, Othala— is the Archduke Maia alive and safe?”
Thara Celehar stared at her for a very long moment, his grip on her trembling fingers very firm. Then he said;
“Sister— he is.”
Nothing came of it.
Chenelo had not expected anything to, and was honestly relieved when Thara Celehar left without another word to her. She knew; it was enough. She stayed in her cell, prayed for her son, and began to sew a twelfth level of detail onto the cover of the prayer-book she had kept for him. She tried to finish a new embellishment by every Winternight— and she had not failed to notice when the Winternights she had been with Maia, outnumbered the ones she hadn't. She went to prayers, swept wax from the floor of the taper chapel, saw to her plants, read, sewed, mended, fed the mousing cats and guiltily gave special attention to the little stripling tomcat which had been the runt of the litter, and—
Then, very early one morning, Dach’othalo was at her cell door.
“Sister,” she said. “Come with us.”
She offered no explanation, just turned and left. Chenelo got up and followed her, trailing after her in mute bewilderment—
Then bewilderment caved abruptly and dropped her into panic, when she entered the Dach’othala’s office and saw the Imperial messenger standing there.
He was a young man in his early twenties, wearing courier’s leathers— but also the baldric with the Drazhada seal which entitled him to Alcethmeret business. He had a fair, sweet face with the classic colourless elvish features, but it was a face that seemed to hold almost no expression; the same way fine hair kept no curl or braid, his features washed away most expressions as soon as they came, settling back to a mildly blank mask. Chenelo found him rather prim for a courier; he stood very rigidly, with his hands clasped before him. He did not look like a man who had ever slouched in his life. He wore no rings and limited jewellery on his ears and hair, and his dispatch case was on the table behind him. He turned and bowed to her as she came in, and though he gave no hint of disapproval or admonishment, Chenelo's heart was slamming as she bowed back. An imperial messenger, three weeks after she had asked Thara Celehar if Maia was alive.
“This is most unusual, you understand,” the Dach’othalo was saying uneasily. “We are aware there have been imperial— informants in the convent as of late, and in deference to the Emperor we allowed it— but we personally know nothing of the matter you raise.”
Informants? Thought Chenelo. Spies? She felt rapidly sick, and even more so, when the Dach’othalo said:
“Our sisters’ birth names are not known to us, and the files—”
“Are kept in the Untheileneise’meire’s records, as are all matters relating to votaries in the Ethuveraz.” said the courier. “We are aware. We thank you, Dach’othalo, but we have the appropriate file with us. It was accessed by the Archprelate at the Emperor’s personal request.”
Chenelo gripped her hands together to stop them visibly trembling. Thara Celehar had told the Emperor. He must have. Had he lied to her? Or had he been apprehended and questioned, and unable to lie due to his oaths? If it had been under duress, she was sorry for him. If it had been purposeful, she had never hated anyone more.
The messenger drew from his dispatch case a sealed file, which he handed to the Dach’othalo. She examined it for a long, long time, while Chenelo stared at the messenger in unbanked horror. Then the Dach’othalo looked up at Chenelo, and said;
“Is’t true, Sister? Did you enter this place as Chenelo Drazharan?”
It had been so long since she’d heard her name— even mispronounced, and with her married surname attached— that Chenelo could only nod weakly.
“We see,” was all the Dach’othalo had to say to that. She looked back at the file unhappily. “Well, the messenger here seems most legitimate, but—”
As if he had been expecting this, the messenger held something out wordlessly. It was a seal; Chenelo could not see it from where she was standing, but the Dach’othalo said stiffly;
“This is not the seal of Varenechibel Zhas.”
“No,” agreed the courier pleasantly, mildly. “This is the seal of our master, Edrehasivar Zhas, seventh of his name. Isolated as you may be, Dach’othalo, we find it hard to believe you have not heard of the death of one Emperor and the accession of the other, even if you have not shared the information with the sisters by command of the Ulineise Mysteries.”
It took every bit of Chenelo’s will not to move; she closed her eyes briefly, pressed her hands together. Varenechibel was dead. She would burn the wick for him, but she could not be sorry. He was gone to Ulis; she could be a widow, finally. She had felt like one for nearly as long as she had been here— longer, even— but now it was official. She wondered if he had died in that crash the Dach’osmerrem’s women had mentioned, or in that conspiracy; neither sounded like a peaceful death. She mentally recited the prayer of compassion for the dead to herself, the first prayer she’d made for Varenechibel in years— then, remembering, she offered a prayer of apology for Thara Celehar, who had known more than she could have hoped to, and had not given her up to Varenechibel as she had thought.
This interference then, these spies— they were from Nemolis? Edrehasivar was a radical choice of regnal name… but who knew what sort of man the rigidly proper teenaged Prince had become? He had been a nice boy, polite to her and kind about the baby brother he surely hadn’t really wanted, but she found it hard to see him caring so much about her memory that he would have stumbled over a conspiracy. Nemolis had practically been the same age as her; she would have expected him to be embarrassed to remember her at all. And she found it equally hard to believe Varenechibel would ever have told Nemolis what had happened to her. A deathbed confession, maybe, but it hardly seemed likely. Varenechibel never admitted when he was wrong, and he hadn't been so pious he might have feared Ulis's wrath for matters left untouched.
Pure hopeful delusion made Chenelo search for Maia’s hand in this, somehow, somewhere— she had no idea how it could be so, but surely Nemolis would not have cared so much without some kind of thought for, or supplication from, his half-brother?
“We had heard of the ascension,” agreed the Dach’othalo tightly. "Very little else, however."
“Then you will hear us when we say we have been commanded by the Emperor to put a suit to Chenelo Zhasanai,” said the courier. Chenelo noted the correct pronunciation of her name and started, taken aback. “If she wishes it, she may leave her seclusion immediately and go where she will, when she will, with the Emperor’s blessing. If she does not wish to depart, however, we will leave her in peace, and not return unless she wishes us to. She risks nothing— and no one— by doing this, and the initial terms of her seclusion are null, since the men she agreed to it with are all dead, and Varenechibel’s will on the matter was never constrained to writing.”
The Dach’othalo was very quiet. The courier added, mildly, but with a distinct edge to it;
“And, Dach’othalo, if she wishes to go and you do not let her, we tell you quite frankly we shall make such a scene that you will simply be forced to throw us both out, for disturbing the silence of Ulis.”
Chenelo bit down the bizarre urge to laugh— both at the declaration, and the look on the Dach’othalo’s face.
“That will not be necessary, Master Secretary,” the Dach’othalo said tersely, “Though we do admire your— tenacity in this matter. Your loyalty to your master must be commended.”
Master Secretary? Then surely he was only pretending at being a courier; but he looked and stood and spoke exactly like all the Imperial couriers Chenelo remembered. He bowed solemnly in response to the Dach’othalo’s words.
“Well,” she said, standing. “You may unveil and speak with the Emperor’s man, Sister, if you wish it. Make your decision in your time. We will not press you on the matter.”
She left briskly, frowning, leaving Chenelo alone with the Secretary.
Chenelo stared at him, wringing her veil hesitantly in her hands. Why had Nemolis wasted his personal secretary’s time with the matter of his barely-familiar stepmother? It was a shock and an embarrassment for the court, to be sure, but that did not truly account for it. Perhaps her father had threatened some retribution, if it was not dealt with immediately? She found that hard to believe. He was too old to be war-mongering, these days.
“We are sorry you have come so far on our account, Master Secretary,” she said, and found her voice scratchy with disuse. “And we are sorry this seems to have caused so much… difficulty.”
Awkwardly, she drew off her veil and folded it ineffectively in her clammy hands, unused to being visible. She did not think she would appear much like a Zhasanai, or even a Barizheise princess. She was diminished, thin and tired, she knew that well enough.
But it was rude not to meet his eyes, and so she resolved herself, looked at him, and said: “Would you tell us your name, so we might address you properly?”
Something about her— what she said, how she looked— seemed to surprise him a little, because his ears lifted— then he smiled, and bowed.
“There is no need to apologise to us, Zhasanai. It is our job. We are Csevet Aisava, and we are entirely at your service.”
He did seem to be in earnest, though Chenelo did not understand why he appeared to amuse himself with the response.
“Do not do us honours we are not entitled to, Osmer Aisava,” she said hesitantly. “We do not think our late husband would have liked us to be styled Zhasanai.”
“Dach’osmerrem, then, until we find something more fitting. But surely you will do us the same courtesy— for we are only entitled to Mer.”
“But you are Master Secretary,” said Chenelo, sure that Varenechibel’s secretary had been Osmer.
“Less than two years ago we were a Chancery courier,” said Csevet. “We have been… created, and we have no noble house to our name.”
Chenelo had to admit that she had never heard of an Aisavada— apparently there was not much of an Aisavada to hear of. She had forgotten that terrible Ethuveraz class tell— - ar for the noblemen and the gentry and the learned men, -a for the common men.
Mer Aisava shook his head slightly, and straightened. “Dach’osmerrem,” he said, folding his hands before him. “A grievous wrong has been done to you—”
“We are well aware, Mer Aisava,” said Chenelo, a tad primly. “Our husband allowed us to be mistreated, poisoned, separated from our son and cast aside in a ridiculous plot that belongs in a blue-back novel. We are old friends with indignity, but we have spent ten years with the god of letting go. We have made peace with the matter the best that we can. We will cherish our freedom, and do not think us insensible to the implications of the situation, but please— we have no interest in rehashing the matter. It is not ours to be shocked by any longer. Will you not instead tell us of our son, the Archduke Maia?”
Csevet just looked at her for a moment, his eyes very alert and his ears very high. He opened his mouth— he hesitated, then shut it again. Then he said;
“Dach’osmerrem, the situation with your son is… unexpected.”
Chenelo’s heart stumbled. “...unexpected?”
But Thara Celehar had told her Maia was alive and safe. Unless, of course, he had been stripped of his titles and barred from the succession, in which case Chenelo would rend the Witness for the Prelacy’s eyes with her nails for daring to lie to her, but—
Wordlessly, Csevet held out the seal he had shown the Dach’othalo. Chenelo took it and stared at it, bewildered. It was no Emperor’s seal she had ever seen; it was the half-cat half-serpent she had originally commissioned for her own signet, the one Varenechibel had vetoed. One of the first signs to her naive sixteen year old self that her marriage was unsalvageable, that her bridegroom truly resented her and scorned his alliance with the Sevrasecheds.
“But this isn’t the Emperor’s seal at all,” Chenelo said, perplexed. “This is ours. Or— it is the one we wanted, but Varenechibel refused us. Why would you—”
Csevet said, firmly but quite calmly; “Dach’osmerrem— Varenechibel IV died in an airship crash a little under two years ago. Prince Nemolis, Archduke Nazhira, and Archduke Ciris died with him. They were returning from a wedding and the ship was sabotaged by a conspiracy. This is the Emperor’s seal— the seal of Edrehasivar VII Zhas, who inherited the throne as the only remaining son of the Emperor.” He paused, and seeing that she did not understand, added, very gently: “Born Archduke Maia Drazhar, the fourth son of Varenechibel IV— and yourself, Chenelo Zhasanai.” And he said: “Zhas’maro, we were sent here by your son, the Emperor.”
They stood, staring at each other, for a bare few seconds. Chenelo thought, vaguely, of the courtesy Zhas’maro; an old title, unfashionable, a little too righteous, a very literal portmanteau. Still, it did well to distinguish the Emperor’s mother from the late Emperor’s first wife, Arbelan—
The Emperor’s mother.
Slightly hysterically, Chenelo laughed. It echoed, and she clamped her hands over her mouth.
She stood there for a second, struggling to regain herself, to put meaning to what she had just heard. Slowly, she drew her hands away from her face, pressed them together, and took a deep breath.
She said, in a voice which was rather less strong than she had hoped for:
“You are not— making fun of us, Mer Aisava?”
“Zhas’maro,” said Csevet gravely, “We would not. We were the courier originally sent to tell the Emperor of his accession, and we have been at his service ever since that night.”
“Forgive us for doubting you,” murmured Chenelo vaguely. Emperor at a scant eighteen, Maia? Csevet sent to him in the middle of the night, Maia no doubt dragged out of bed to be told he was Emperor— he had always been so mild, and with three older brothers he hardly could have been coached for the burden. How could he possibly have borne it?
Abruptly, Chenelo felt very light-headed— she remembered belatedly that she had fasted last night, and had not broken it when she should have. She moved very hastily to sit down, and her knees buckled slightly; Csevet caught her arm gently and guided her carefully to the nearest chair.
“Our apologies, Zhas’maro. We should have advised you to sit down first. We were warned by your son that you might not believe us.”
“You're Maia's secretary,” said Chenelo faintly, even though that had very much been established.
Csevet bowed. “Yes, and we are sorry for the deliberate omission. We had to be sure of the situation.”
“How might you be sure? You have not interrogated us. We could be an imposter yet.” It was foolish talk, enabled only by the persistent buzzing in her head and the feeling that she was about to cough up her heart, but Csevet just smiled.
“Forgive us for the lapse, Zhas’maro, but we personally eliminated that possibility the second you took off your veil and asked us our name. You are very like your son.”
“Everyone said he looked like Varenechibel,” Chenelo mumbled through numb lips, gripping the edge of the seat. “He is very Drazhada— in his face—”
“Perhaps,” said Csevet. “But your manners are, if you will permit us to say, nearly identical. And we think it would be difficult for a cloistered votary of Ulis to have made such an effective study of the Emperor that she could mimic his mannerisms so completely.”
Chenelo smiled weakly, but her hands were trembling so hard she was struggling to keep a grip on the side of the pew.
“We might ask, however, when you feel yourself equal to the task— to hear from you what exactly happened,” said Csevet. “We have had spies in this convent for weeks, who have all been satisfied that you are who we suspected— Othala Celehar, who took your ritual question, was sent here by the Emperor, and the ladies who met you a few weeks ago were also from the court— but our understanding of this matter is pieced together from faulty witness statements and hearsay, and the Emperor had no inkling of it. He was, like everyone else, quite sure you had died in his eighth year.”
“Ah,” said Chenelo. She took a deep breath and sat up, trying to compose herself. Spies— that explained everything about the Dach’osmerrem and her ladies’ conversation, except for the impulse to call Maia by his given name. Perhaps they had been Drazhada women— or perhaps they had been trying to get her attention. “Well… it is very simple, really, Mer Aisava. The Witness for the Prelacy tried to kill us.”