Killing Violets, Tanith Lee [the two towers ebook .TXT] 📗

Anna came to him, predatory, in the aura of sunfall and some ancient holy madness.

“What – what are you doing?”

“It’s nothing. Keep quite still.”

She had stroked the lipstick, carnelian red, upon the carnelian birthmark, and so drew the colour sidelong. She had bridged his nose, and ended in a curlicue, a scarlet feather, under his left eye. As God had done, she painted him. The colour of the butterfly, the hot-house leaf, the serpent, the Bird of Paradise. She drew a second tendril upward, over his chin, the second feather. And down from the mark that branded his forehead, she brought the third feather, to the hollow of his left cheek.

And now, now Árpád was merely a god, of fire and blood. Marked for the warrior jewel, but only painted, as if before the battle of life.

“Open your eyes.” She was standing in fear and joy before what she had done, the completion of the act, translated by her human hand so as to be understood.

And his eyes did open, so blue, so wide, and she was in the presence of a divine and terrible being.

“What have you done?” he said, not angrily, bemused, feeling the power she had unleashed, the room thrumming full of it, and he its centre.

“Look in the glass.”

He blinked, and then got up and went to the mirror.

She could not see his face, he stood only straight and completely immobile.

Anna was frightened. Afraid he would now deny this, smear it away. Which would be sacrilege.

He stood on and on. And she did not dare to go closer, to see what he saw.

And then he said, flatly, “It looks as if it’s only paint. All of it. Just paint for the carnival.” And then he said, “Do I look like that?” And she knew he also had seen himself at last, and for the very first time.

Preguna at night – oh, did she only imagine it? – was supernatural. Gilded by lamps, with gold leaf on the buildings, and the moon so bright.

It was like – afterwards she sought for analogies – those places said to exist beyond death, another country more beautiful, and completely amiable, representing the landscapes and cities of the world, yet perfect. Heavenly. Where you might experience the raptures that had been denied to you on earth.

The air smelled sweet, of flowers and perfumes, and tindery from the fireworks that in bursts were let off in the parks.

There were crowds, but all moving so easily and fluidly, as if scheduled by master choreographers. There was no roughness. The sudden inadvertent touches were like those of happy children, and yet shy and gentle as deer.

Where did they go? It had become mixed in her mind. Tram rides, and rides on wagons drawn by horses garlanded in flowers and ribbons, walking the long streets, and dancing in the cathedral square, where orchestra succeeded orchestra. And there were Mediaeval peasant dances, partners parting, running away, swirling back again, and kisses exchanged. And there were waltzes, rather bumpy on the uneven ground, and preposterous flouncing tangos.

Árpád knew them all. She did not ask him how. Somehow she deduced that he had learned them in secret from books, practicing with a shadow in his arms, in that room now theirs.

At first, he had kept on turning his head at its angle, once or twice even feeling after his hat, as if it might have blown off. But then he would catch sight of himself so often, in the reflective surfaces of windows, brass plaques set on walls, and other faces; all the mirrors of the night.

They had not gone as far as the first lighted café, when seven or eight young girls, vaporous in gauzes, and in little eye-masks like Anna’s own, skeined past, and, brazen with carnival, pointed at Árpád, laughing and exclaiming, and one even called to him in another language of the far south, saying how handsome he was.

Árpád and Anna both grasped this language sufficiently to understand her words.

He had been turning his head aslant for the first, and now his head snapped up. Later, as he relapsed and revived, faltered, altered, he was finally straightened out like a man cured of paralysis. Not only the way he held his neck and face had changed. His slim hard body was upright now. He moved with power. So that by the time they danced, his whole persona was his true self.

Soon they were also slightly drunk. There was so much to drink, wine and spirits, and liqueurs, the offered bottles of strangers in the heavenly city, where all were one, and there could be no harm, the drinking parties by the cafés, where anyone might pause.

Anna rang with happiness like a bell, or a champagne glass. Light flowed right through her. Her eyes were crystals. She stepped in winged slippers. And he was gold.

His marvellous thick soft fair hair, with its white blondness on the right side, was now like spectacular plumage. And the colours of his face, his blazon.

He was proud after all, and incredibly strong. He lifted her in the air as they danced, laughing up at her face, which now, briefly, was higher than his own.

Girls everywhere fluttered when they saw him. In the square, right through the crowd of dancers, came one splendid woman, with the impossible loveliness of a film actress, a face formed of white porcelain, obscured only where the mask around her eyes made her an owl with outstretched wings. And she handed Árpád a rose.

She was tall. Her dress was black satin, and on her wrist was a bracelet of emeralds. Ignoring Anna, this chimaera looked deeply into his eyes. She murmured, “I would die for you.” And drawing herself up, kissed his lips. This done, she swept away.

Anna was not discomposed. In her bubble of silver glass, she needed to fear no other sorceress. Besides, Árpád turned back to her at once. “If she wants to kiss so boldly, she shouldn’t