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Authors: Sarah A. Hoyt
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Lalita fell to her knees and bowed her head. At the other end of the hall, vaguely visible in the filtered-light gloom, stood a tall, shining gold throne, covered in strange carvings. When Lalita entered the room and knelt, it was covered in monkeys, running this way and that.
But now a deep voice rumbled from the throne. “Lalita?”
She lifted her head to look up. On the throne sat a man who didn’t appear old so much as timeless. He looked at her with piercing, dark brown eyes. Even if she couldn’t see his face very clearly from this far away, she could see the eyes, or feel them, like a caress upon her face. And at the same time, a slow and steady examination.
“Sire,” she said, speaking in little more than a whisper, and yet knowing that he would hear her as clearly as if she’d shouted.
A long-fingered, mobile hand stretched forward and gestured for her. She got up and walked the length of the hall, to fall to her knees again, closer to the throne, her hair down her back, the silken bit of the sari she’d thrown over her head slipping to reveal her young and awed face, gazing up at her king.
He smiled kindly at her—a human and gentle expression. “What brings you here, Lalita?”
“I . . . came back from England. We were summoned four months ago and we just arrived,” she said, struggling with her words as though they were an unaccustomed foe. “Two weeks ago.”
“We know,” the king said, his voice vibrating with what, in a lesser being, would be amusement. “And what brings you here?”
“I was, as you know, sent to England with my mistress, Sofie Warington, whom we believed to be the only descendant in her generation of the family that inherited Charlemagne’s spent ruby.”
“Yes. Our memory is not that bad,” the king said, and now the amusement was quite obvious even in his regal voice.
“If you remember . . . the mission you gave my parents, and them to me, was to find if her family was indeed in possession of the ruby—which I found they were, though they don’t know what it is. Only that it’s very valuable and magically powerful. However, they don’t know how magically powerful. They only know enough to hold on to it tightly. But not why they do so.”
“All this we know,” the king said, now bewildered as well as amused.
“Yes, but . . . why would anyone need my mistress as well as the ruby?”
The king didn’t speak for a long time. She heard him take in breath, a suddenly loud sound in the silent hall. “I don’t understand,” he said.
Lalita shook her head. “I don’t understand, either,” she said. “And yet, it must be so, because my mistress has been kidnapped and because . . . because the tiger wanted her as well as—”
“Kidnapped?” the king asked, his voice booming oddly in surprise. “She was kidnapped? By whom?”
“By a dragon. That’s why I came. Before this, I’ve suspected . . . When we were in London, Sofie would dream, and she would walk in her sleep and I would find her far away. I thought she might be a shifter, only I found that what was making her walk at night was a compulsion, laid upon her. And I think the compulsion, though it’s hard to tell, was to seek out a certain group of people. From the magic, I would think the tigers. Then we came back home and I found . . .” In short, incisive sentences, she told of Sofie’s betrothal to the raj who was king of the Kingdom of the Tigers. She told how she’d warned Sofie of this—she hadn’t had time to come here for instruction, nor had she wished to exceed her orders or risk being followed here.
“But now you risked it?” the king said.
“Now I had no choice. My mistress ran to the balcony, you see, and the railing gave, and she fell . . . onto the back of a dragon. Once, the dragon looked as if he’d return, but then he flew away.” She bowed again. “I don’t know where Sofie is, and though I am, to her, only a servant, we’ve been friends—almost
Lalita fell to her knees and bowed her head. At the other end of the hall, vaguely visible in the filtered-light gloom, stood a tall, shining gold throne, covered in strange carvings. When Lalita entered the room and knelt, it was covered in monkeys, running this way and that.
But now a deep voice rumbled from the throne. “Lalita?”
She lifted her head to look up. On the throne sat a man who didn’t appear old so much as timeless. He looked at her with piercing, dark brown eyes. Even if she couldn’t see his face very clearly from this far away, she could see the eyes, or feel them, like a caress upon her face. And at the same time, a slow and steady examination.
“Sire,” she said, speaking in little more than a whisper, and yet knowing that he would hear her as clearly as if she’d shouted.
A long-fingered, mobile hand stretched forward and gestured for her. She got up and walked the length of the hall, to fall to her knees again, closer to the throne, her hair down her back, the silken bit of the sari she’d thrown over her head slipping to reveal her young and awed face, gazing up at her king.
He smiled kindly at her—a human and gentle expression. “What brings you here, Lalita?”
“I . . . came back from England. We were summoned four months ago and we just arrived,” she said, struggling with her words as though they were an unaccustomed foe. “Two weeks ago.”
“We know,” the king said, his voice vibrating with what, in a lesser being, would be amusement. “And what brings you here?”
“I was, as you know, sent to England with my mistress, Sofie Warington, whom we believed to be the only descendant in her generation of the family that inherited Charlemagne’s spent ruby.”
“Yes. Our memory is not that bad,” the king said, and now the amusement was quite obvious even in his regal voice.
“If you remember . . . the mission you gave my parents, and them to me, was to find if her family was indeed in possession of the ruby—which I found they were, though they don’t know what it is. Only that it’s very valuable and magically powerful. However, they don’t know how magically powerful. They only know enough to hold on to it tightly. But not why they do so.”
“All this we know,” the king said, now bewildered as well as amused.
“Yes, but . . . why would anyone need my mistress as well as the ruby?”
The king didn’t speak for a long time. She heard him take in breath, a suddenly loud sound in the silent hall. “I don’t understand,” he said.
Lalita shook her head. “I don’t understand, either,” she said. “And yet, it must be so, because my mistress has been kidnapped and because . . . because the tiger wanted her as well as—”
“Kidnapped?” the king asked, his voice booming oddly in surprise. “She was kidnapped? By whom?”
“By a dragon. That’s why I came. Before this, I’ve suspected . . . When we were in London, Sofie would dream, and she would walk in her sleep and I would find her far away. I thought she might be a shifter, only I found that what was making her walk at night was a compulsion, laid upon her. And I think the compulsion, though it’s hard to tell, was to seek out a certain group of people. From the magic, I would think the tigers. Then we came back home and I found . . .” In short, incisive sentences, she told of Sofie’s betrothal to the raj who was king of the Kingdom of the Tigers. She told how she’d warned Sofie of this—she hadn’t had time to come here for instruction, nor had she wished to exceed her orders or risk being followed here.
“But now you risked it?” the king said.
“Now I had no choice. My mistress ran to the balcony, you see, and the railing gave, and she fell . . . onto the back of a dragon. Once, the dragon looked as if he’d return, but then he flew away.” She bowed again. “I don’t know where Sofie is, and though I am, to her, only a servant, we’ve been friends—almost
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