Luminous

1 - Thine Death Dwells Deep

Two pregnant ladies waddled onto a carriage, and the resulting atmosphere was as tense as a trial, a deathbed and a birth combined. For one was the Dragon Ambassador, freshly-minted, and the other was Lady Amplevale, freshly convicted.

Meya fidgeted under the scrutiny of Kyrel's soulless, unblinking blue eyes. Her bump had now protruded further than even her pillows, prompting Coris to cram her bench with as many silken cushions and blankets as he could afford. Kyrel's pregnancy was twice her size. She, however, wasn't allowed any buffer from the terrain, save for the muscular arms of Cleygar the burly Greeneye guard and Lord Christopher of Meriton, who sat flanking her. Black manacles bound her wrists, ice-cold against the apricot silk over her belly. If Coris had arranged it so Meya would reach through to his aunt with her boundless compassion, he wasn't softening the meat for her in the least. Frozen it nice and hard, more like.

Enduring Kyrel, however, was piddling compared to her poor daughter. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed Serella Amplevale was only five, and bursting with questions.

"Lady Meya, what's Mama wearing?"

"Oh, er—bracelets, milady."

"Bracelets? But—they're not pretty! And—why are they stuck together?"

"Well, that's because—because—because the lady's taken to sleepwalking lately. Them bracelets and anklets, they keep her from wandering off."

"Oh." Wee lass was quiet for a few turns of the wheels. "Lady Meya, can Mama have one of your pillows?"

"Silence, Serella," hissed Kyrel through gritted teeth.

"Can you sing us a lullaby? Mama's baby will sleep and Mama won't be so grumpy."

"Serella—" Kyrel's voice swelled dangerously.

"Lady Meya, can I have a pillow?"

"SEREL—"

"SERELLA CAN HAVE ME LAP AND YOU CAN SHUT YER GOB 'FORE I WELD THE FORKS OF YER TONGUE TOGETHER, YOU SPITEFUL HAG!" Meya raged. Still glowering daggers at Kyrel, with one hand she shoved a Hadrian Red cushion under her bump, and with the other she tipped Serella sideways onto it.

Silence fell but for Serella sniffling, and Meya kicking herself in shame. She caressed the girl's shivering stream of golden hair, so much like her mother's, and Serella reciprocated with the question Meya most dreaded,

"Lady Meya, will Dada be alright?"

Meya took as long as she dared to fill her lungs. She strained her neck and peered out the window. The climbing road had leveled. They emerged on the table of a plateau overlooking a vast cropland swishing with golden wheat. Stone towers topped with gleaming steel ballistas lined the cliff edge, their fluttering orange flags bright against the deep vert of the forest below, and the gray of Neverend Heights beyond. She could no longer see much higher than the shin of the mountain.

"I dunno, milady." She retreated inside with a sigh, meeting those round blue eyes wide with fear. "You know he's very old, right?"

"He's not very old, he's only sixty! Serulda says Lord Crosset is seventy and Marquess Fratengarde is eighty and they're the very old ones!" Serella argued with passion.

"Marquess Fratengarde was eighty. He's dead, milady," Meya corrected quietly.

"Really? Why?" Serella flipped over and sat up. Meya shrugged.

"Dunno. Ate too much, I'd say."

"Dada doesn't eat too much. Dada won't die."

"Well, he ate the wrong thing." Meya narrowed her eyes at Kyrel, who stared out the door, trembling hands curling into fists. "Just like Coris."