Free Moving Water by Sylvia Kelso

thunderclap that I did not merely dislike them, was not merely afraid my charge would disapprove of something Assharran, but was feeling actively defensive. Of him.
    â€œIt’s been nothing but surprises,” I grumbled under my breath, “since I ran into you.”
    â€œSurprises can be healthy,” he replied blandly. He scanned the gallery. “Handsome.” His eye gave me his opinion of the fops. “None of the Council here yet, I see.”
    â€œCouncil?” I was off-balanced again. “What council? We’re not at war.”
    â€œAdvisers.” He grew surprised too. “Doesn’t she have advisers? Nobles—elders—province delegates—people’s representatives?”
    â€œNo.” I felt shame, as over Gevos’ corpse, for some elusive defect that had never seemed so before. “The Lady . . . sees what’s happening. Everybody just . . . does as she says.”
    I sensed he was as deeply shocked as at Bhassan, but less surprised. “Ah,” he said. Then a steward reached us, murmuring, “The Lady is by the fountain, sir.”
    The guest suite had become a picture gallery, dove-gray walls and cream ceilings with primitive daubs from Axaira glaring out at us. At the last stair’s foot he broke stride, sniffing. “Rivannons! I’ve not seen them since. . . .” The chance-met joy faded. “Up there?” he said, non-committal, and we began to climb.
    Los Morryan’s clear music filled that balcony of light and air. The escort clumped sheep-like at the stair head. From the nearer side of the fountain, disposed sidelong on the onyx seat in a flame-scarlet silken dress with huge frothing skirts, the Lady Moriana said in her soft, inherently mocking voice, “What have you brought me, Alkir?”
    I think I stepped aside. Or something moved me. My eyes vouched that neither of them stirred. My inner senses claimed everything was moving, up in a tightening spiral as if the Morhyrne itself were coiling to explode. The sun was too bright, its rays shivered, overcharged. The Lady Moriana’s eyes had grown enormous, black lakes shot with motes of brilliant gold that flew with dizzying velocity, a comet shower in space. Flashing through them ran a quicksilver sparkle of green, hot white green, dragonflies that taunt as they elude your clutch, and unlike the meteors they had their life and origin in unquenchable merriment.
    I blinked. A man and a girl confronted each other, one seated, one standing, one the epitome of luxurious, lethal sovereignty, the other a landless vagabond whose mind was dominion enough. But something was still happening. I had a sense of thrust and riposte too swift for thought to pace, of duelists engaged with weapons so subtle my very mind found them invisible.
    Then it was over. He put up his hand, shaking back his turban. That faint smile said he had not come off worst.
    He said, “He brought you this.”
    No one has ever seen the Lady Moriana in a rage. And lived to tell of it, that is. I could only deduce from the arch of her fingers, the tiny hint of color in her cheek. But her voice was an indubitable purr.
    â€œYou are somewhat prodigal with my guards, Alkir.”
    He put up his brows. “Unworthy.” The hidden laughter had slid into his voice.
    Infinitesimally, her eyes widened. His mouth corners pucked. He said, “You brought the audience.”
    One nail drew a tiny click from the parapet. He nodded. The swarms of golden meteors stilled.
    â€œYou disapprove,” she said.
    â€œIt is very beautiful.”
    â€œAnd rotten to the core.”
    â€œOnly in the head.”
    â€œBut then, you were only a king.”
    â€œI knew my place.”
    â€œNot well enough, it seems.”
    â€œSeeming’s in how you see.”
    Her head tilted just a fraction. Her eyes held a fleeting, triumphant smile, a chess player noting a future vantage point. “As in . . .