A Song of Silk and Shadowsby Fakeminsk

  One: The Old King’s DeathNews of the old king’s death spread swiftly across Sangriferia.

  In the gambling dens and weather-battered taverns of Fishtown, rough men cashed in bets on the monarch’s demise. In the halls of Houses great and small, lords plotted and prepared for war. The so-called barbarian kings of the Northern Reaches summoned councillors to their wind-swept longhouses to decide whether the death of this weak monarch was an opportunity to exploit. And in the glimmering darkness of the candlelit Obsidian Halls, the veiled virgins of the Twilight Lady began the sonorous week-long dirge that would carry the dead king to the afterlife.

  But it was to the capitol that the news spread fastest, where the fashionable dies of the Crimson Court stood, as still and sculpted as ornate columns in the opulent chambers of power. Only a year ago—but no, not even a year, not so long as that—fashion had followed the example of Princess Elowen and her unbridled spirit: long hair fell freely and the most daring women abandoned dresses and skirts in favour of clothes in the style of the princess’s riding breeches and masculine tunics. But with her tragic and scandalous death—the inevitable outcome of a father’s inability to restrain his daughter, some whispered—the liberated fashion died, as did the deviant habit of women in trousers.

  Her mother, the young Queen Kalia favoured dresses, in the style of her homend across the Stardrop Seas, elegant and free flowing, fttering to her boyish figure, tight in the waist but fluttering and shimmering like butterfly wings as she flew and danced through the many-chambered quarters of the capitol. Briefly, following her daughter’s death, the parties became ever more vish and vibrant and wild, the desperate reaching for life that follows death. But it was in her ever-more tightly braided hair and the ever-darkening clothes she wore that her grief expressed itself, the wasting grief that eventually consumed her a short six months ter.

  With both Princess and Queen gone, who to dictate the female fashions of Sanguinna, the capitol, the so-called Castle of Blood sprawled across the high, ft expanse of Blood’s Rest overlooking the sea and city below? Strong-willed, striking yet distant, it was the Lady Teneira of House Malveil who took charge. During the funeral of the Queen, some doubt remained as to whose influence would reign supreme, as the dies of the great houses vied, subtly yet fiercely, for dominance, through the cunning cut of a veil, the design of a dress, the drop and colour and texture of a skirt or daring fsh of a patterned stocking.

  All doubts were firmly dispelled at the Festival of the Sisters the following week. Teneira’s main rival, the Lady Timora, had yet to show her face following her debasement that evening.

  Gone, then, the ruinous liberty of the Princess’s masculine attire. Some say her preference in footwear endured, in the form of delicately heeled shoes and boots, no longer designed for locking into stirrups but rather for showcasing the skilful sway of a woman’s slow walk.

  (Or perhaps, some said, always men, for hooking a woman’s thighs around her lovers’ torso, for the aristocratic sluts of the Court to grip as they knelt, arms behind their back, and serviced their men.)

  Gone too those loose and flowing dresses of the Queen, so well suited to wild dances and rushed walks along gardens and courtyards and gleeful chases through sun-dappled meadows. Instead, it was the memory of her grief that endured. The tight weave of her hair and the dark, heavy fabrics she wore at the end: both inspired the fierce constriction of the fashion that followed. Under Lady Teneira’s knowing smirk and baleful eyes, crushingly restrictive dresses once again seized women in their silken grasp, restricting them to the shallowest breaths and mincing gait as they hobbled in their towering shoes. Weighed down by jewellery, the heavy dangling earrings and gilt chain belts, decorated most meticulously with cosmetics, breathless in the tight grip of corsetry, the dies of the Crimson Court became like finely sculpted figurines, poised, positioned and painted, shaped into the exquisite form that the Lady Teneira presented so naturally.

  And so when the news of the old King’s death reach Lady Aubriel, it was not shock and horror alone that left her breathless.

  “My dy?” Her handmaiden, the always attentive Maya, held Aubriel by the elbow. Her eyes sparkled with mirth. As a servant, she was dressed far less severely, and moved with enviable freedom. With her simple grey tunic and mousy-brown hair, she all but disappeared into the background when not directly addressed.

  Together, they withdrew to one of the secluded alcoves of the Whispering Gallery. The curved walls were carved with reliefs of the great figures of the past: Talgart Atrebar, the Brave, who drove off the heathen barbarians who once skulked along the shores of the Aelgis river that now ran beneath the capitol; Aesandra Lannorin, the Pure, whose divine visions brought the Seven Sisters; Aric McAsdair, the Ravenshield who seized the North. Above them all, Sangrifiera, the Sister of Sacrifice whose death brought peace, the lost Goddess after whom the Kingdom and capital city took its name.

  In passing the great carved and painted history of the kingdom’s founding, Lady Aubriel’s hand, as always, reached out to brush the figure of the Ravenshield. Glittering nails, long and shaped, lingered over the bearded, fierce figure of Aric. She felt the carved detail of the hero’s strong features beneath her graceful touch, the wide jaw and clenched muscles. He raised his massive axe, Kral, in defiance against the massed enemy hordes of the North.

  Aubriel sighed, and then grimaced, her painted lips forming a worried pout. The Whispering Gallery was named for the way sound travelled along the curved walls, and people at opposite ends of the expansive chamber could hear each other’s voice. The sound of her compint was undignified; dies didn’t sigh, unless with pleasure; or compin, unless with desire. It wouldn’t do for other courtiers to hear.

  Fortunately, the main vaulting chamber was rgely empty, though the many alcoves were not. The Whispering Gallery was also named for courtiers’ tendency to use its many private nooks—from which sound most certainly did not travel—to whisper and plot in private. More nobles fell to whispered pns formed in the alcoves of the Gallery in a single year, it was said, than in a century of open combat.

  With her handmaiden guiding her by the elbow, she retreated towards the nearest alcove. Aubriel glided rather than walked, her many months of training and punishment smoothing—reshaping—her stride into one that was slow and sinuous. The tightness of her dress, coiled in shimmering swaths of fabric down to her calves without vent or slit, allowed only the daintiest of steps. Every move appeared affected and deliberate, somehow both coquettish and demure. A dy, at least under current fashion, never rushed, even if she wanted to.

  Fortunately, the nearest retreat was empty, quiet and dark, one of many quiet recesses that lined the central gallery. Along this side of the Whispering Gallery—the women’s side—ten archways led to small chapels dedicated to either one of the Sisters, or to the Twilight Lady in one of her three incarnations. The other side of the Gallery was for the men and therefore dedicated to the Old Gods, or the New. So it was that Aubriel took refuge under the auspices of the Sister of Submission, Untera.

  Even there, in quiet and seclusion, she knew better than to give in to the grief and anger and fear that threatened to overwhelm her. As a dy it was a duty—an honour, even—to beautify the halls of the Crimson Court. As a woman she must always present her best self; as a girl, to know her pce and obey; and as the youngest and only unmarried child of House Malveil she carried the reputation of her adopted family on her slender shoulders.

  Such unworthy shoulders, she was often reminded; a shame to the family; a clumsy, inelegant fool, a stupid girl, weak and soft, and so very stubborn and slow in learning the finer skills of feminine aristocracy.

  “My dy?”

  And there was Maya, of course. Without her handmaiden, Aubriel knew she would be lost. Maya, so quick to spot any infractions; Maya, so eager to report her failings to House Mistress Castigen. Maya, who delighted in dressing her Lady, in pulling corset cing savagely tight and then slowly and sensuously sliding stockings up her slender legs before attaching them tautly to the dangling tabs. But also, Maya who deftly deflected the most inappropriate insinuations (or outright lewdness, or aggressive advances) of privileged men and young courtiers, who guided her unfailingly through the byrinthian back passages of the ancient pace, and who helped the inexperienced Aubriel manoeuvre the intrigues of court.

  “I need—” To breathe, Aubriel wanted to say, to take in great gasps of air; but bound tightly in her corset this was impossible. To sit, to relieve the agony of burning calves and instep, but though the alcove was generously lined with padded seats, this too was impossible. A dy—especially one under Castigen’s tutege—did not sit. Rather the opposite: it was an indicator of dignity and css, of aristocratic demeanour, to bear the challenge to its extremity. The greatest dies were those who wore their corset the tightest, who walked with confidence in the most precarious of shoes. They did not sit—or kneel, or lie—unless at the bequest of their better, or a man or in the privacy of their own chambers.

  Yet she felt the all-too familiar panic seize her, one brought on by both the constriction of her clothing and by the restrictions of her position. Aubriel’s hands fluttered at her side. She felt she might faint. A sudden, insane desire seized her—a need gripping her with all the unyielding insistence of the corset around her waist: to rip off these clothes, tear away the restrictive garments, kick off the shoes and scream, howl and rage through the whispering halls. I never agreed to this, she wanted to say, this wasn’t part of the deal.

  An impossibility, of course: the corset was locked, the shoes’ cing too intricate and unreachable in her current dress, the bodice tightly tied off behind her back. There was no escape, from either the fashions of Court or her role as a Lady. And the price to pay for such—insanity, for such disobedience—the punishment: Aubriel shuddered.

  She shuddered and so she reached for the Litany of Submission. It was inscribed in heavy gilt letting over the silvered oval mirror mounted on the wall of the alcove. Untera, Sister of Submission: this was her chapel, and she invited its occupants to gaze upon themselves and yield. Even without the written reminder, Aubriel knew the litany well. It had been drilled into her as part of her training prior to joining the court.

  “With downcast eyes, demure under your dominion,” she began, and the words felt heavy and her tongue thick despite months of practice. She’d little to do with the Sisters before joining House Malveil – at most, a prudent prayer to the Sister of Sughter in passing. But never the other sisters. “I surrender to you.”

  In the mirror, Aubriel saw herself and even after all these months she marvelled at what she had become. Another sparkling jewel for the Garnd Crown, the embodiment of social etiquette and feminine decorum, beautiful and alluring; a flirtatious, vapid tease; a pretty, painted face; a frivolous, weak, useless girl. Her fingers curled into tight fists at her side, the long, sharp nails digging into the soft skin, and with fists clenched Aubriel squeezed her eyes shut and fought back tears.

  “The litany, my dy.” Maya’s came from far away. “In submission,” the handmaiden began. “I find strength.”

  “In submission, I find strength,” Aubriel repeated.

  “In obedience—”

  “Freedom,” she finished.

  Down the ash-slurry cobblestones of Sooton Road, where artisans and craftsmen hammered and carved and wrought their wares, Aubriel knew what men thought of aristocratic women. A woman of court was a decorated vase for every flower with a prickly thorn, said the potters. A pot for every brush, to the painters; a bin for every nail to the carpenters. Along the high-walled barracks of The Walk, soldiers joked of scabbards oiled for every bde: dagger or rapier, broadsword or bastard.

  “My weakness is my strength,” Aubriel continued, and with speaking her tongue loosened and the words flowed more freely. “Through surrender, I assert my true nature; my nature is manifest in the truths of the gentle grace that guides me to my pce.”

  The words were taught to every girl from their earliest years. From the expansive fields of the southern reaches, where warm winds and gentle rains coaxed rich golden harvests from the nd to the storm-battered port cities and fishing vilges nestled in the rocky crags of the West, girls—but especially those of noble heritage or aristocratic aspirations—were taught from an early age their pce. Only in the wild North, where both men and women remained too proud and fierce to submit did women spurn the Sister’s words.

  Aubriel continued the litany. Maya nodded in approval and remained silent as her mistress continued the recitation on her own, finishing and repeating the words with growing confidence. Her gentle murmur filled the small space with the melody of her lilting voice. With each repetition she felt her earlier panic subside. The words quashed her thoughts and fears.

  Orndo, she thought. My King. This wasn’t—your protection—I can’t—like soap bubbles over a bath, her fears rose and popped and faded. Only the mantra remained, the litany, and as her fear and resentment subsided it was repced by a desire—the terrible wanting—need, even—to submit, to surrender; to achieve the promised strength that might finally bring the peace and tranquillity for which she desperately yearned.

  And for the first time since taking on the role of adopted daughter, she felt the first brush of newfound calm sweep over her, like one walking slowly through the trailing wisps of a morning fog. Surrender, yield, submit and obey – words once difficult now dripped like honey from her lips and she felt a pleasant tingle deep in her belly, a spreading warmth beneath the steel boning and metal csps and straps and buckles and ce and ribbons that contained her. Docile, passive and meek; submission and compliance: Aubriel completed the litany a fourth and final time and closed her eyes and sighed.

  A presence moved within the Chapel. The presence entered her, settled within her: it brought a comforting stillness.

  A deep breath, and Aubriel gazed upon herself in the mirror.

  She was beautiful.

  Her eyes were a loamy, deep hazel, flecked with green as vibrant as the fertile hills of her homend after the snows thawed and the rivers ran gorged with meltwaters. Large and expressive in the dimness of the room, there was something—haunted, in those eyes, anger or sadness lurked behind her new-found composure. Many had commented on those eyes in recent months, mostly men, holding her hand and speaking of her beauty with great earnestness, of the jewels buried in the rich earth of her gaze, of gardens veiled behind the thickness of fluttering shes.

  And they were right to do so, she realised: her eyes were beautiful and deep and deserving of praise. Especially considering the effort she made to highlight them, the effort of taming her heavy brows, the recently acquired skills with cosmetics, the feathering of browns and greens on the eyelids, the touch of bronze, the careful line of the pencil along the lids—Aubriel felt for the first-time genuine pride in her newfound artistry.

  The same for her lips, full and skilfully painted in the dark reds popur in court, a rich velvety burgundy that contrasted with the natural paleness of her skin. Her nose, thin with a little upturn. High cheekbones and a wide forehead. A narrow, weak chin; she smiled, wryly.

  But it was her namesake, the lush and luxurious reddish-brown hair that cascaded over her shoulder and down her back, that demanded attention. Jealousy, from other women of the Court, especially those forced to rely on the nob-thatcher—the wig-maker—to fill out their threadbare scalp to meet the demands of fashion. In a court following Lady Teneira’s preference for the tight coils of eborately woven braids, Aubriel alone enjoyed the freedom to wear her hair loose and full.

  She watched her reflection pull long nails through thick tresses below the glittering hair net adorning her scalp and understood why. She’d cursed her hair and the effort needed to maintain it, the hundred daily strokes to subdue it, and the constant distraction of it tickling her cheeks and neck, the way it fell across her eyes, the demand for her constant attention. But in a Court filled with fiercely tamed and rigid women, her hair burst free like wildfire. Every unconscious poke, prod and sweep back of her hair drew the admiring gaze of men—and the ire of women.

  Long, heavy, dangling earrings reached nearly to her shoulders and though she once found the weight nearly unbearable, they now felt comfortable, the tug at her lobes a constant reminder of her pce. The rge, square-cut emeralds twirled slowly, surrounded by clusters of tiny, sparkling diamonds, all set in gold burnished to a bright gleam. Around her neck, a heavy pendant decorated with another gleaming stone, a conspicuous dispy of wealth nestled between her breasts.

  Her breasts. For so long now she’d blushed with shame and embarrassment at their size, at how swiftly they’d grown and then the way corsetry and other female trickery exhibited the fullness of her cleavage. But beyond the shame she suddenly found—pride, pleasure even, in her curves. Why deny the reality of what she saw? Her tits were gorgeous and—she bit her lip and flushed—they felt good, when touched. She felt her nipples tighten, her hand drifting upwards, the gentle warmth in her belly slowly creeping along her neck; and the reality of her femininity—the reality that men gazed upon her tits with lust and desired her and that their heavy, strong hands—to submit to that touch—could bring—what harm in yielding, after so many months of resisting…?

  A warning throb below stilled her hand.

  “I suppose,” Maya mused, her voice cutting through Aubriel’s distraction. “With the old king dead, there won’t be any further objection to your marriage.”

  Aubriel shook her head. Submission to her fate, acceptance of the sacrifice she’d made those many months ago, yes, maybe; but this—to marry—a man!—of Lord Edmund Malveil’s choosing….?

  “Surely Lord Malveil has greater concerns than the marriage prospects of an insignificant girl,” Aubriel whispered. “The King is dead.” And then stopped, and swallowed, and felt an almost overwhelming grief seize her by the throat. The King was dead. King Orndo—dead. Her King; her friend, once.

  Maya shrugged. “Dead, and every house lord, minor and major with pretentions for the Garnd Crown will be plotting their little plots and to what end? The throne is Edmund’s. Has been for years.”

  “The support of the East rises and falls with the sun.” Aubriel repeated the well-known proverb. “And the Western houses won’t abide a king with daughters tied to southern thrones.”

  “And what of the North?” Her smirk was unbefitting a servant. “Where does the North’s loyalty lie?”

  “With the stone and the snow,” she answered, softly and to herself. “With wind and wyrd.” Then, because a dy didn’t say such things, she answered louder, “The McAsdairs won’t stand for it. Angus can’t accept Malveil’s cim. The minor houses would rebel.”

  “Lord McAsdair, dy,” Maya corrected. “Earl of the North. Remember your pce.”

  Aubriel clenched her hands tightly together to stop their fluttering and nodded.

  “My Lady Aubriel?” A voice, at the entrance to the chapel; a male presence standing just outside the threshold, a servant shadowed by the lights of the Whispering Gallery. “Lord Malveil requests your presence.”

  She knew the request was anything but. She dismissed the servant with a graceful nod of the head and took a moment to compose herself. The peace she felt following her recital of the litany remained incomplete. For the first time, she felt able to suppress certain instincts and accept her pce as a young girl, her role as a dy, and her position within House Malveil. But her anxiety over the future remained, as well as grief over the death of the king.

  Aubriel turned to leave. Her reflection fshed in a second mirror pced opposite the first. Her image multiplied and cast itself backwards into an infinity of echoed selves. And it seemed that across the many versions of herself she glimpsed some that reminded her of who she used to be—and many, who she might yet be: an adornment to a great man’s arm; a decorative addition to a House; the demure bride; the servile wife; even the tired and devoted mother. Her breath caught in her throat. Yet she also glimpsed other selves—few and hard to discern among the many—that somehow exuded a different strength—reminding her of a past best forgotten—and in reflection the inscribed words of the litany appeared changed, inverted and blurred. But it was nothing more than a trick of flickering candles and darkness and when she paused and looked again, she saw nothing more than a dim and ordinary reflection.

  “Not yet,” Maya murmured at her side.

  Aubriel looked at her quizzically.

  “The Sisters are slow to reveal themselves,” Maya added, as though it expined anything.

  Aubriel looked to her handmaiden, and back to the mirror, and felt a sudden gulf between them, as though teetering at the edge of a chasm she’d never known existed. Swallowing against her fear, Aubriel nodded and with Maya at her side began the long, torturous walk to her Lord’s chambers.

  Author's Notes:

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