Dream Dancer by Janet Morris

spoke all his lines as carefully and precisely as might have Parma himself, with the proper nuances of emotion, as if the sweat popping out on his brow was the sweat of fear and not fury. “Sir, if you could find a daughter of yours willing to make another match, Marada to whomsoever you might choose among your offspring, I can assure you we would gladly welcome your choice.”
    “Ah, you would, would you? Well, I will think about it. Right now, I am thirsty from too much idle talk. Run and get me a drink, boy. And none of that hydroponic swill, but your father’s man-trodden grape, of which I have heard so much.”
    Like a bodyservant, Chaeron dropped his eyes and scurried from the room, looking back only once at the Labayans among the Kerrions, where none but Kerrions had any right to be. This, and the final touch, hand wiping brow in the manner of a youth beset beyond his capacity, he made sure Selim Labaya saw. Then, whirling quickly lest his joy pierce the facade, he sprinted down the hall to catch his father before Marada was brought to audience.
     
    To Shebat, Lorelie was the truth within its wrap of fables: the enchanted towers overlooking sapphire mountains were finer even than legend had portended or mind’s eye created; she was enraptured, transported, enthralled. The absence of a welcoming committee did not trouble her, though she had seen Marada’s frown. The long walk over cerulean, velvety paths did not tire her, though her companion’s steps seemed to drag more slowly over each topped rise.
    At the cobalt, hundred-staired dais that led from any side up to the majestic crenelated tower that presided over all lesser towers, she ceased her breathless chatter long enough to wonder at the hoods drawn close over Marada’s sepia eyes. The first soft shiver of apprehension crawled up her hand from where he had enclosed it in his, to prod her heart.
    Brazen doors, thrice her height, opened effortlessly of their own accord. Marada’s encouraging smile ghast her as no words could have. The bold enchanter would not be so affrighted for little cause.
    Shebat held back timorously, until his appeal moved her forward, across the threshold all shadowy and cold, into Lorelie’s treasure vault.
    The doors hissed softly shut, approving.
    Long halls of opalescent flags, ashlar walls muraled and richly hung, open doors framing unimaginable tableaux of magical goings-on, made her stumble and gape.
    When a door at the end of all doors hummed open to reveal a tiny elevator, she clutched harder at Marada’s hand and he put an arm about her shoulders.
    “Nothing,” he said in a tone that told her he did not believe what he said, “can happen to you, now. You are a Kerrion in the embrace of all Kerrions, here. Whatever comes to pass will cause you no grief. Rather, you will find a place among us.”
    “It sounds otherwise,” she said in clumsy Consulese, conscious of her slight stature here where everything was twice normal size.
    “We trust each other,” he reminded her, as the elevator door opened to reveal an encircling gallery full of folk in muted festivity. Pinwheel flights of lapis stairs like swirling water led up to it and down from it; and just below, where they stood, spawned an inner rotunda of doors, mirrors and windows that made her sense of perspective spin, likewise.
    Men and women in knots laughed and murmured; others promenaded the stairs in measured stride; some hung over the gallery rail; some wore jet and carnelian; some cream and argent; laced through the uniforms were all the cyanic tones of Lorelie and stipples of damascene-hued ladies in long gowns. Somewhere a computer sang bravely in a melancholy, muted mode.
    Before the elevator doors had more than closed, a youthful yet raffish figure, in Lorelien blues with a sorrel mane of curls swept back like a lion’s, appeared from between two of the swirling staircases and hailed Marada by name.
    A deep sigh escaped the enchanter, and he stepped a