Delia of Vallia by Alan Burt Akers Page A

rather, ex-spy, in Delka-Ob, Yzobel knew nothing. Not only did she not know her name, she did not know of her existence.
    The capital of the province of Vindelka, Delka-Ob, contained a strong group of the Sisters of the Rose. The pro-marshal was clearly worried about future defections.
    “The illness of the mistress could not have come at a worse time.”
    Familiar words — every time was the worst time in Delia’s experience — but they remained uncomfortably true in this situation. Knowledge that the mistress was stricken, rumors of strife over the election — yes, these ugly events could easily sway women who had personal grievances. And who, in this sinful world, did not have those?
    “The mistress,” said Delia, and she tried to speak with purposeful positiveness, struggling against the dreadful uncertainty, “she is going to be perfectly well again—”
    “Of course. But for how long? I do not usually speak frankly, my dear. But I really do think that you—”
    “Thalmi, as you bear me some affection—”
    “Delia! Really!”
    The singing reached those marvelous high notes in the Canticles of the Rose City, and for a space there was nothing any mortal with a melodious spirit could do but sink back into an inner reality and listen. Soaring and lofting, sung with all the purity of girls’ voices unbridled by limping fashion, the song told of great days and great deeds. Also, it spoke to those who would hear of famous men and noble women, and, equally, of famous women and noble men. Thalmi sipped her wine and waited until the long cadences sank and died. Silence hung drab and yet pulsing with inner echoes under the rafters of the Lesser Hall.
    “The Canticles of the Rose City,” said the pro-marshal. “Of course, they mean something extra special to you, Delia.”
    “And to us all, surely? They speak of the rose, do they not?”
    As though instructing a raw novice, the pro-marshal said, “The Canticles of the Rose City are a myth-cycle at least three thousand years old. They concern, chiefly, the doings of a half-legendary, half-historical man-god.” She spoke, Delia saw, with meaning. “That person’s name was Drak. A name, I believe, not unfamiliar to you—”
    “There is no need for this, Thalmi. I know what you imply. My family. Yes, well... My son Drak will be the emperor. That is arranged. And then, my dear, I shall be free to follow my own inclinations. I welcome the day.”
    “If I did not know you better, I would call this ingratitude and you an ingrate.”
    “If I am, then I am.”
    “Who else do you see — do you
feel
— to be right?”
    “That is not for me to say.”
    “Everyone else will have their say — and you will, too.”
    “Probably.” And Delia laughed.
    “But, sister, you are in error.” Thalmi waggled her forefinger — the forefinger of her right hand. The left hand clutched a goblet brimming with a first quality Gremivoh. “Just because you shuffle off the position of empress — no doubt your son Drak will marry Queen Lush in due time—”
    “I think not.” Delia spoke sharply, very stiff.
    “No? Well, no matter. The point is, whether you are empress or not has no bearing on your duty with the SoR. And, you know that well!”
    “That is what I have believed for a long time. Part of me still believes. But I have changed. When I was a girl the idea of being the empress escaped me, for everyone talked of the emperor my father, and of the emperor my grandfather. My mother — we used to call her Lela, out of love — was never, in my eyes at least, an empress. And I truly do not think she ever thought of herself as one. She married my father out of mutual love and was content to be with him. He did not really recover from her death.”
    Delia would not go on to say that she had felt the joy so strange to herself that her father had, at the last, found a new affection from Queen Lushfymi of Lome. It was because of Queen Lush’s genuine love for the emperor