Free Delia of Vallia by Alan Burt Akers Page A

Vallian dagger was of plain rope, untwisted, raw. Her hair, brown as a thrush’s wing, held her face in a composition at once peaceful, dominating, gentle and harsh, all in that puzzle of vaol-paol that is a woman’s face. In that eternal vaol-paol, the Great Circle of Universal Existence, was to be found more than mere philosophy.
    “I grieve to have caused you concern.” Delia’s gaze lingered on the half-curtained bed in its alcove corner. “I apologize for my daughter Dayra. I assume that is why I am here.”
    At the mistress’s expression, Delia added, annoyed at the tinge of alarm in her voice: “It is not little Velia?”
    “No. Velia is a rose beyond price. Nor — this time — is it your Princess Dayra, who calls herself Ros the Claw.”
    Delia felt the breath in her. If this was bad news, she must find the strength to bear it. She said nothing. She waited as the Disciplines taught.
    “You have seen my bed. I use it, in here, rather than waste my meager strength retiring to my chamber in the evening and dragging myself here in the morning.”
    “Mistress—”
    “Wait, my daughter, wait. Once I was as you now are. But that was long ago. It is time I sought peace with Opaz. Time I handed over to stronger—”
    “Mistress!”
    “Do not grieve, Delia, who was Delia Valhan, and is now Delia Prescot, Empress of Vallia.”
    “You know that means—”
    “It means a very great deal. But I am going, no one and nothing can halt me, and you, Delia, are my chosen successor. You are to be the mistress of the Sisters of the Rose.”

Chapter six
    “Take this gift away from me.”
    “No.”
    “You have been selected by me, Delia, to be the mistress. Your election will follow.”
    “No.” There was no hesitation, no doubt, in her. This was not for her. “No, mistress. I am aware of what this means. You know I am aware. But I cannot.”
    The mistress placed a plain square of yellow linen to her mouth. Her coughs were tiny scrabblings, as of nestlings.
    “How can you refuse?”
    “I do not know how. I know only that I must.”
    One narrow hand, doubled over, ridged and veined blue, crept onto the desk top. That hand trembled.
    “Delia—”
    “I cannot — I feel pain, and shame, and dishonor — all foolish feelings, I know. But take this gift away from me.”
    The mistress said: “Once I had a husband. He was all the world to me. But he died. Once I had children. One is still alive — somewhere. All you will need of husband and children you will find here, in Lancival.”
    “That I can believe, yet cannot—”
    “Once I was called Elomi the Shining. I was born in Valka. Did you know that?”
    “I knew.”
    “Valka is so beautiful it can break the heart. Yet Lancival is—”
    “I cannot be the mistress, mistress. Do not ask it of me.”
    “And if I—?”
    “You would not command. It is not in—”
    “But if I did?”
    “You will not.”
    The mistress sat back in the wide-armed overstuffed chair. She appeared to shrink. “No,” she said in that forlorn whisper. “No. I would not.”
    For a moment, silence enfolded the two. The mistress looked across at a side table where stood a crystal parclear set, the glasses sparkling. Instantly, Delia rose, crossed to the table and poured a glass of parclear, the sherbet drink fizzing in crystal abandon. The mistress sipped, and then drank. Her neck looked fragile as she swallowed.
    Delia made no move to pour parclear for herself until the mistress nodded.
    A moment later, the fizz stinging her mouth, Delia was ready to battle on against an unwanted fate.
    Like any general swinging his troops across a battlefield to search out a fresh opening for an advance, the mistress took up a fresh subject.
    “Your husband is well?”
    “When I last saw him. We had just won a great battle—”
    “A disgusting business of Incendiary Vosks. We heard. The SoR must do all we can against these Shanks that raid us and seek to enslave us.”
    “That is one of the