The Long List Anthology Volume 7, page 13
Astounding Long List
Pharyn Heir Lorelei Steddart sits at the conference table where she will negotiate her marriage. In front of her is a leather folder filled with notes, assumptions, expectations. There are no photos. No dossiers. She should be afraid for her future, but it’s hard to focus; even her nerves can’t pierce through the dull wrap of grief that has swaddled tight around her for the past six months.
She’s dressed in a custom-made, luxuriously soft woolen dress, narrow at the waist and falling in a gentle circle around her knees. There’s a glittering brooch at her right hip in the shape of her house’s crest. Everything, from her stately kitten heels to the silk scarf folded on her lap, is new. It is expensive beyond her wildest experience.
It is all the unbroken white of mourning.
Her uncle sits down next to her, either satisfied with his defensive prowling about the glass-walled room they wait in, or finally giving in to boredom. They are a matched set, except he looks natural inside a high government building, wearing his bespoke suit. He would have been here six months ago, while she was still working in a factory office. Six months ago, his eldest daughter, Gwyndofir, would have sat in this board room, with some say in the impending match.
But Gwyndofir’s bones were burned to ash five weeks ago. The white of her uncle’s suit makes the shadows beneath his eyes all the darker.
She tries to sneak a look at her phone, though it’s new and nobody from her old life knows the number. Her uncle catches her. “Chin up,” he says.
She puts the phone away, blanching.
Her uncle’s voice softens. “They will be here soon. They know how it would look to keep us waiting. We are not here to beg.”
The words make her skin crawl all the same, and she has to bear down on herself to keep from standing, from fleeing the room. She wants to be in her old apartment. She wants to be by her mother’s grave. She wants to be out past the city walls, where maybe she could lose herself.
She does not want to be here, waiting to be bargained off in exchange for the possibility of rescue.
A bustling mob of suits turns the corner towards them. Aides, lawyers, advisors, all flocking around the Prince of Volun. She rises to her feet just a few milliseconds after her uncle does, but she knows she will be rebuked for the delay later. She has never learned all the proper forms of address, the various subtleties of the highest echelons of polite society. She never needed to, before this.
Rifting take her, she was living in a studio apartment six months ago. She didn’t even have a trust fund, let alone…
All this.
All this, because her family is dying. Is dead.
She watches the mob approach, and fights to slow her breathing, trying to feel something beyond stabbing grief and wretched anger. Even panic would be welcome, would seem appropriate.
And then the crowd in the hallway parts. The backs of Lorelei’s knees bump against her seat as she instinctively tries to retreat. Down the center of the divided mob walks a woman, nearly six feet in height, her dark hair shot through with grey, her eyes framed by an elaborate mask that stretches from her cheeks and brows to her temples and jaw. Beneath those woven metal strips Lorelei can make out rippled, glowing scars, pulsing a deep indigo. It’s as if the limiters the woman wears are keeping her skull together, not just managing the immensely powerful magic within.
She walks with studied confidence, pinstriped suit moving with her, never pulling awkwardly. She wears a decorative cape, held in place at her right shoulder with an elaborate pin that proclaims her rank.
She doesn’t need to wear it. Everybody knows her face. Everybody knows her cold, removed stare.
“War Alchemist Corisande,” Lorelei whispers. She has seen her on the news a thousand times.
Her uncle inhales sharply. Unexpected to him, too.
The prince’s aide opens the door. Most of the mob peels off and goes their separate directions, orders issued, and the prince enters. He is accompanied only by what looks like two lawyers—and the war alchemist. One of the highest-ranking generals in Volun’s army, who has no role in marital matchmaking.
“Well, Lord Steddart,” the prince says, extending a hand across the table. “It is good to see you on a happy day this time around.”
Instead of at a funeral, he means.
“It is indeed,” her uncle replies, his confusion already hidden. He bends down to kiss the prince’s ring. His lips do not touch the stone, and his hand doesn’t touch the prince’s. Posturing, or acknowledgment of potential contagion? She doesn’t know.
He straightens. “May I introduce Lorelei, my half-sister’s daughter.”
Six months ago, that half would have been important. It had meant she was the last in line for inheritance. Now it means nothing at all; whatever is striking down her family, it doesn’t care about parentage or marriages. It only cares about the blood.
The numb spiral of her thoughts revolts in a sudden burst of grief, but Lorelei forces herself to keep moving, imitating her uncle’s gesture.
“She does have your father’s countenance,” the prince says as he regards her. “And what is your mind about this marriage, Miss Steddart?”
“That I’m very lucky to have such a matchmaker,” she says.
Her voice cracks.
The rehearsed line amuses the prince, who laughs and pulls out his chair. He sits, and so do the lawyers, and her uncle, and Lorelei. Only the general remains standing.
Her uncle greets her with a polite, “And you, War Alchemist? Will you be assisting in finding the match?”
The older woman’s mouth tenses. But it is the prince who speaks.
“War Alchemist Corisande is here to be the match.”
Lorelei’s shy glance transfigures into a terrified, disbelieving stare. Corisande gazes back, coolly.
“Miss Steddart,” the prince says, “I am pleased to introduce you to your wife. Nephele?”
The woman inclines her head. “Miss Steddart,” she says. Her voice is steady, devoid of any emotion.
Lorelei can’t speak, not even when her uncle taps her shoe with his below the table.
“We are honored,” he says for her. “Though I have to admit to some… curiosity.”
Some confusion. As heir to the house of Pharyn, Lorelei should be matched with a similar scion, or at least a wealthy businessperson. Nephele Corisande brings no land, no lineage to the match; nothing but her own reputation.
A reputation as an ice-cold soldier, elegant in her brutality on the battlefield.
Lorelei can’t look away from her, not even when Corisande’s jaw tightens in annoyance, not even when the other woman turns her attention to the far wall, looking ahead blankly as she falls into parade rest.
“I understand,” the prince says, “that initial tests have shown no connecting factor between all the deaths in your line. Is that correct?”
Her uncle is uneasy. “Yes, your highness. It isn’t an illness or genetic trait, not even foul play as far as the authorities can tell—we’re still at a loss.”
Her mother has been dead three weeks now, and still has no diagnosis, even after a thorough autopsy. All the doctors can say is that her heart stopped. Lorelei twists the scarf between her fingers at the memory.
“It’s probably magical in origin,” Corisande says.
Her voice cuts through the fog.
“I assure you,” her uncle says, “we’re all properly warded.”
“Then shall we blame divine judgment?” Corisande asks, voice level, no trace of cruelty in her mockery. “Wards can only go so far, and even the best only defend against whatever they were designed to defend against. I am here to investigate.”
“Do we have to be married for that?”
Everybody turns to Lorelei then, but she barely notices. She is fixated on Corisande. The anger at her situation leaps up in her gullet again, followed by desperation, and then, worst of all, hope. Hope that this is worth it. Hope that Corisande can help.
“Strictly speaking, no,” the prince says. “However, the marriage would solve a host of other issues. What the general lacks in a family estate, she more than makes up for in status and wealth. She—”
“Nobody else would agree to it, would they?” Lorelei asks. And just like that, the hope fades again.
Her uncle grabs her wrist below the table, trying to get her to stop.
She doesn’t want to stop. She wants to scream. She wants to tear the whole room apart. She wants…
So much. And only this: that the nightmare be over, that it could have never begun at all.
The prince’s lips quirk in a wry, surprised smile. “You’re very perceptive.”
“Your Highness, I apologize for my niece’s bluntness. I assure you—”
“Spare me.” The prince leans across the table toward her, splaying one ringed hand on the wood. “You’re correct, Miss Steddart. While we could postpone your marriage during the investigation and try again once you are hopefully cleared of all threat, your uncle made very clear to me that the issue of an heir was to be the top priority in the match.”
Her cheeks heat.
“And the war alchemist…” Her throat goes dry.
“Agrees to legitimize any children you bear, by whatever means.” The prince sits back, spreading his hands in offering. “You may conduct yourself in whatever way the House of Pharyn approves of; there will be no contractual obligations in the arrangement except that you do not divorce, and that you assist War Alchemist Corisande in her investigations.”
“This is very unorthodox,” her uncle begins, and she thinks he’s about to disagree, thinks he’s about to argue that the search should be widened. Except, instead, he says, “However, we appreciate your dedication to finding a solution to our peculiar needs. We accept.”
• • • •
The engagement ceremony happens only two days after Nephele Corisande first meets the Steddart woman. It is a lavish affair, impersonal, and not for either of them. That’s probably for the best, because Nephele has had Lorelei answering questions and undergoing tests every waking moment between then and now, with breaks only for sleep and so that Lorelei’s uncle can take her to yet more dress fittings and to visit a fertility clinic for— future plans.
The rest of this arrangement, outside her investigation, feels more than a little sordid, but Nephele keeps to her duty and that helps her sleep at night. It is clear that Lorelei hates her, hates her uncle, hates the world. But she hates death most of all, and so she has cooperated. So far.
As they stand up together in the middle of the cavernous gallery, alone on top of a raised dais, surrounded by a murmuring audience of the wealthy and powerful, Nephele occupies herself with theoretics. She has ruled out the mundane, like the doctors who have gone before her; it is not a plague that has killed the House of Pharyn, and it is not poison, and it is not an assassin’s malice. There is only the connection of the family, which means that Lorelei, too, is at risk.
For a moment, Nephele considers simply waiting to see what happens to her fiancé in the coming weeks and months, but though she is cold, she is not cruel, and her remit is to stop the problem, not just identify it.
“What are you thinking about?” Lorelei’s voice surprises Nephele. She thought this would be a silent affair; all that matters is that they are seen together, by everybody who crowds the balconies, talking and laughing, drinking, gossiping. Engagement ceremonies are for display, not for companionship.
Though perhaps, if they were a normal couple, it would have helped them bond. Shared embarrassment with the world, or pride at being together so visibly, or… something.
“About how pointless this is,” she says. It’s a better, more polite answer than explaining that she’s thinking about Lorelei’s imminent death. That can go unspoken.
Except Lorelei is still hurt. Nephele feels her flinch.
This is not her problem.
“Pointless,” Lorelei says. “Yes, I suppose it is. All of this. How much longer do we have to stand here?”
Nephele checks her watch as surreptitiously as she can. “Forty more minutes until they expect us to circulate and talk to our guests.”
Lorelei responds only by taking slow, even breaths, just like she does while she waits for Nephele to finish running her tests. She’s settling in.
Nephele thinks about commenting on some absurd detail of their situation, if only to help pass the time, but decides against it. They have stood side by side, otherwise silent, not even touching, this whole time.
It’s easier this way. For both of them.
It isn’t that Lorelei is not beautiful (she is, though it’s hard to tell, really, through so much sadness). It isn’t that she hasn’t enjoyed, on occasion, Lorelei’s commentary (though it’s been rare, given the circumstances). It isn’t even that Nephele never planned on marrying. It is that this whole endeavor is so alien to her existence that she doesn’t know what to do. What to say. What to think.
So she doesn’t speak, and she thinks about death instead.
In that, at least, they are alike.
• • • •
Five days later, Nephele is no closer to solving the mystery, but that much nearer to the altar.
It is night, but the city-state of Volun is still awake. Nephele sits in the back of her town car, skimming over new reports on her tablet. She has begun longitudinal tests of Lorelei Steddart, taking various measurements at the same time each day, every day, hoping to find some change. Some stasis. Some clue.
But there is too much interference. Too many emotions, too much change, and Lorelei’s vitals swing up and down and around, all within the normal range for severe stress so that even the most promising signs mean nothing else. Is her latent reactivity to thanatotic spellwork rising cyclically because of some inherent trait of hers, or some induced trait, or just because she’s grieving? Are the strength of all wards placed on her fluctuating because every test is measuring something subtly different, or because Lorelei has not been sleeping regularly?
And how much is being thrown off by the medications she’s been started on, to prime her to bear a child she clearly does not want?
All her test results mean nothing, and Nephele has a headache. Her brain feels swollen, muddy, and she can see in the car windows that the glow beneath her skin has taken on a sickly tone. She needs to rest.
She is halfway between her borrowed lab and her apartment when her phone buzzes. She glances at it, expecting some note from the prince, or any one of a hundred mages and soldiers who need things from her on a seemingly daily basis, but it’s not any of them.
It’s Lorelei.
Lorelei has never texted her before, and suddenly she is afraid. Afraid that she has already failed, that she was not fast enough, that this girl is dying, and she—
-Do you think I’ll still be alive for my wedding? Serves her right, if she has to marry a pile of bones.-
The fear falls away, leaving only awkwardness, embarrassment, frustration.
The girl clearly hadn’t meant to send that to her. The appropriate thing to do—the easiest thing to do—is to delete the text and never acknowledge it again. Gallows humor, bitterness, anger… it’s all reasonable, all to be expected. And yet Nephele can’t bring herself to delete the text.
It feels more honest than any of their structured, exhausting interactions have.
Lorelei is typing another message. Nephele has to put a stop to this, has to let Lorelei know she isn’t whatever confidante she’s trying to seek solace in. But before she can tap out the words, the next message springs to life.
-I don’t want to die.-
Nephele’s heart tightens in her chest.
There is no next message. Not because Nephele shuts off the phone, but because, for whatever reason, Lorelei isn’t expecting a response from whoever she thinks she’s talking to. The older woman is left staring at it, suddenly far too aware that Lorelei is not just a frustrating puzzle, not just an obligation, but a person. A very scared person.
A very lonely person.
This is not Nephele’s problem. But she still pulls up the app that shows her exactly where Lorelei is, and instead of being safely at home, she’s downtown. The neighborhood she’s in isn’t dangerous, but it is a long way from her apartment, and Nephele can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.
She opens the intercom to her driver’s section. She gives him the address. She sits back as the car turns towards the west side of town.
There is an argument to be made that Lorelei should not be out in public at all. It isn’t so much that she is contagious, or vulnerable, but that there might be collateral damage involved in whatever terrible end comes her way. But Nephele decided the day her investigation began that she would not demand that of Miss Steddart. After all, the knowledge alone that she might be a danger to others would be deeply distressing, and isolation would mean nobody would be able to call for aid if Lorelei grew ill too quickly to call herself.
This is the trade-off: a desperate, vulnerable woman, alone, halfway across town.
By the time they’ve parked, Nephele has herself straightened out. She will check in on Miss Steddart, from afar if possible. If all is fine, Nephele will leave well enough alone. If something is wrong, Nephele will intervene as necessary, which will most likely mean just calling Lord Steddart to foist the whole thing onto his plate. Lorelei hates them both, but is more used to her uncle interfering.
It will be easier.
Lorelei’s tracker places her inside a small bar. It is relatively new, with industrial-inspired light fixtures and a hammered copper bar taking up a large portion of the square footage. The array of bottles lined up on a mirrored shelf, like glittering books in a library, is staggering. She looks for Lorelei in the booths, at the tables, and finds her at neither.
No, she’s sitting at the bar itself, a tulip-shaped glass clutched between her fingers, containing the dregs of something liquid and golden. Even disastrously drunk, as Nephele now strongly fears she is, Lorelei has at least kept some dignity for herself. She isn’t slumped against the bar, and she manages a small smile for the bartender when he pauses to check in on her. From the fluid, easy way he turns to unload a batch of freshly-washed glasses, he isn’t on the verge of kicking her out.
