From Spiderwork
Copyright 2010 L.K. Rigel
There are parallel love stories in Spiderwork, that of Jake and Char, and Durga and Khai. This is the scene where Durga meets her hero — though she doesn’t realize it at the time.
= = = = =
The moment Durga entered Magda’s corridor, a difference in the air settled over her like a shift in reality. The Matriarch’s doorkeepers lacked their usual arrogance. The guards weren’t distracted. They were almost spellbound.
As if Asherah were near.
Then Durga heard it too. Music. A guitar … and an exquisite male baritone.
As I walked out over London Bridge
One misty morning early
I overheard a fair pretty maid
Lamenting for her Geordie.
As entrancing as the fairy charms from her childhood tales. The old world ballad flung Durga back to the time before everything changed.
Go bridle me my milk white steed
Go bridle me my pony
I will ride to London court
To plead for the life of Geordie.
The singer’s voice floated in the air. Durga was a little girl again, transported back in time from this world of endless duty to the land of story. For the first time in years, she thought of the old matriarch—her matriarch. She would have loved this.
It wasn’t fair. How strange that the world could go on without Durga’s iron-willed guardian. How was it possible to exist and then to not exist? The only person who ever loved her as Durga, not as The Chosen One. She hadn’t realized how lonely she had become.
Two pretty babies have I borne
The third lies in my body
I’d freely part with them, every one
If you’d spare the life of Geordie.
That particular verse cut too close. Especially in light of her talk with Faina. Poor Faina. The spell was gone, like a web swept away. Durga entered Magda’s chamber fully in the present.
“Emissary.” The music broke off as everyone stood.
The musician! What an odd character. He was prettier than any member of the delegation he served. The three men and one woman from Versailles were dressed in plain brown homespun and were ornament-free.
An insult to Corcovado, if Durga thought it through. She shared a look with Magda, who seemed to agree.
The musician was tall and dark-skinned, without blemish. He was fit in the old way, lean but not at all thin. His black hair was braided close to his skull, decorated with bits of carved wood and sparkling rhinestones. He wore gold earrings and a gold necklace, rings, and hammered gold armbands on his biceps. The gold appeared to be real.
His downcast eyes were fixed on his guitar as he fussed with one of the tuning pegs. He seemed quite put out to have his song cut short merely to greet Durga, Emissary of Sanguibahd. His bad manners matched those of his masters, who had demanded an audience with no notice.
Those masters gaped at Durga’s hair and left shoulder as if she were an attraction in a traveling circus. Good. This was why she kept the shoulder bare, to display the black widow spider tattoo, the mark left when the goddess made her a chalice.
All chalices received a totem, as Asherah called the tattoo. The goddess herself had placed Durga’s spider in a painless lightning-quick flash. Faina had to have her lotus blossom put on the old-fashioned way, as Chita did her palm frond.
The spider was impressive, but the hair was the more important sign. Blood red with white blazes at the temples. It set her apart as the chosen one, a direct human line to the divine. Her hair was long and thick, and she wore it tricked up on top of her head, not only to bare her shoulder but also to feel the breezes on her neck.
She used these symbols of her fate to keep adversaries off balance and all people at a distance. Let Versailles be a little awestruck.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting. How fortunate that you brought your entertainment with you.”
They must be taking the musician to perform at the coronation as a gift. She was pleased. She’d like to hear that voice again. A different song, though.
“There has been an outrage,” the delegation leader said. “Versailles demands satisfaction.” They were still standing. There had been no introductions. The impertinent man had actually yelled at Durga’s back.
Years of icy distance-keeping went into her answer. “If there has been an outrage, then Versailles surely will have satisfaction.” She was the chosen one. Over the years a few unfortunates had tried to cross her, and to a bad end. Asherah loved an excuse to smite a petty creature, as she called human beings.
The man took in her hair again and stared at the spider as if it might crawl off her shoulder and scamper over to him. She was glad to see him tremble.
“I didn’t realize the French lost their manners as well as the Louvre in the cataclysm.”
As she enjoyed her joke, she caught the musician watching her with wide brown eyes full of unbridled admiration. A liberty far beyond his station.
The leader’s face had paled, but he stood his ground. “Emissary, forgive my intense emotion, but this is a serious matter. The heir provided by Sanguibahd is a pretender. A bagger. He doesn’t look like our scion.”
“What are you saying?” Was she really hearing this?
The woman put her hand on the man’s arm. She took a more reasonable tone. “We are saying that someone made a switch. Perhaps our heir died or was given to someone else.”
“Great Asherah, that’s a hard accusation.” Durga sat down and motioned for everyone else to do the same. Her mind swirled with the implications.
“Emissary,” the woman continued. “We don’t demand satisfaction.” She shot her counterpart a look of warning. “We don’t demand anything. We ask for justice.”
The musician was still watching, evaluating Durga’s response. She found herself caring about his opinion, and she didn’t like it. “We’ll convene a Team of Inquiry immediately.” The standard response to a complaint.
“Composed entirely of Corcovadans, I assume?” The musician might be talented and pretty, but he went too far.
“Singer, you forget your place.”
His smile broadened. Infuriating! The gods had restored the Great Chain of Being, and this singer had clearly forgotten his place on the chain. He didn’t even try to hide his admiration for her.
She’d seen that kind of admiration before.
Men came to Corcovado brimming with humility and desperate with hope for the natural born heirs needed to secure their dynasty. Without fail, hope stepped back, replaced by lust.
The chalices had flawless teeth, skin, and hair. They trained in martial arts and had the best food and purest water. They weren’t skeletal like so many starving in the world. With fertility came rounded hips and full breasts. Soft femininity radiated through their toned musculature and sense of entitlement.
They were exquisite objects of desire, as the goddess had intended.
But no man had ever looked at Durga with that desire until now. She gripped the arms of her chair and tried to remember what she’d been talking about.
“I propose a compromise.” The Matriarch spread her hands in conciliation. Oh, right. Team of Inquiry. Jake’s mother had become Matriarch after the old Matriarch died. Magda was an experienced politician before the cataclysm, the Emperor’s favorite concubine.
In fact, when Jake had resisted the kingship, Durga suspected that Magda had something to do with Garrick coming in with an offer.
“We’ll include a neutral member on the team. The scion of Luxor, perhaps. Luxor is celebrated for its rulers’ integrity.”
Thank Asherah for Magda. She knew how politicians’ minds worked. The delegation broke out in smiles. No one else noticed the hint of mischief in the Matriarch’s voice.
“I agree,” Durga said. “We’ll name the scion of Luxor to the Team.” She’d never met him, but she trusted Magda.
Durga took in another cleansing breath. How many times had she done that today? She hadn’t lost this much self-control since the first matriarch died.
But this was about more than a gorgeous man’s inappropriate attentions. All day today, Durga had been feeling sorry for herself, wallowing in her incompetence. She should never have put Faina in a position to be hurt. And Chita’s situation was her responsibility too. She should have kept Geraldo away from all the girls.
She rose, indicating that this meeting was over. “I assume we’ll meet again at the coronation.”
“Of course, Emissary.” The musician slung the guitar bag over his shoulder. He was the tallest person in the room and the most beautiful, completely overshadowing the rest of the delegation. “Every city with means will attend. They’ll want to show respect for the Great Chain.”
To punctuate his audacity, he kissed the Matriarch’s hand—and she allowed it.
–oOo–
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