‘In other words: we can’t be trusted.’
Aren frowned. He didn’t like it when Cade talked like that. It was dangerously close to sedition, which made him nervous. If you didn’t report sedition, you were part of it.
‘Come on,’ he said, walking off up the lane. Cade sheathed his knife, slapped his thighs, slid off the boundary stone and followed.
The town square was filling up for the evening. Families gathered round tables in a smiling jumble of hugs and hails, kisses and back-slaps. Lanterns were being lit against the coming dusk, and a cool breeze carried away the heat of the day. Ropes of bunting and sheaves of shadowbane had been hung overhead, and children wearing spooky masks dodged and chased each other across the cobbles while old men watched from benches, smoking pipes and drinking beer from leather jacks.
There was celebration in the air, and with good reason. The fishermen had spotted hull whales breaching off Gabber’s Bank. The ghost tide was on its way, and the festival began tonight.
‘There’s a mummers’ troupe coming to town!’ Cade exclaimed. He was studying the crier’s board, where the town notices were posted.
‘Hmm?’ Aren was only half-listening, scanning the crowd in the faint hope of seeing Sora. As usual, it was only Ossians who thronged the tables. His countrymen liked to dine in numbers, and raucously. Respectable Krodan families ate at home, where it was possible to hear one another.
‘Mummers!’ Cade said again. He squinted in concentration, mouthing the words as he read them. ‘They’re doing Podd and the Pot of Plenty!’
Aren gave him a look. ‘It’s hardly Breken and Kalihorn, is it?’
‘Dunno. What’s “Breakfast and Kaliwhat”?’
‘Rinther’s masterwork about two feuding brothers?’ Aren said, but all he got was a blank look. ‘Rinther? Kroda’s greatest playwright?’ When Cade still didn’t know what he was talking about, Aren gave up. ‘He’s famous,’ he said.
‘Ain’t that famous, apparently,’ Cade said. He caught sight of someone over Aren’s shoulder. ‘There’s Mya and Astra.’
They crossed the square. Mya was loafing against a low stone wall, watching the festivities with lazy-lidded eyes, a shock of frizzy brown curls framing her calm face. Astra sat on the wall, long, straight hair tucked behind one ear, scratching at a wafer of paperwood with a stick of charcoal.
‘Aren and Cade, Vaspis be my witness,’ said Mya as they approached. She liked to invoke the Malcontent whenever she could; he, of all the Nine Aspects, was her god of choice. Aren thought she was just doing it for the shock value. ‘Darra was sure you’d be devoured by now. Still after that she-warg?’
‘We’re in more danger from heatstroke than from any she-warg,’ Cade said.
‘Well, let us know if you find it. Astra’s keen to get a sketch.’
Astra looked up at the mention of her name, only now noticing the boys. Cade had a habit of falling in and out of infatuations, and Astra was his latest. Aren could always tell because he smiled wider than normal at them, which was unfortunate as it made him look simple.
‘What are you drawing?’ he asked.
She tipped the wafer of wood to show him. There was a large dragonfly pinned to one side, next to its likeness in charcoal.
‘That’s really good,’ said Cade and grinned wider, progressing from simple to witless. Astra went back to her work, barely acknowledging the compliment.
‘Going to see the ghost tide tonight?’ Mya asked Aren.
He grinned. ‘The Torments themselves couldn’t stop me.’
‘Really? I heard your da was funny about letting you out after dark.’
‘Where’d you hear that?’ Aren said, as if the whole idea was preposterous, rather than embarrassingly true.
She shrugged. ‘Heard it around.’
‘Well, it’s a lie. I’ll be there. You can count on it,’ he told her confidently. And he meant to be, assuming he could get past the servants. But he had a plan in mind for that.
Mya looked over at Cade. ‘You going, too?’
‘Oh, I don’t reckon I will,’ said Cade, affecting nonchalance. ‘Need to be up early to help in the workshop.’ He glanced at Aren and away, and Aren felt a stab of guilt. Cade wanted to go with him tonight, and without Aren he’d likely just mope at home. But there were some things even a best friend couldn’t be part of.
They said their goodbyes and headed away from the square. Aren didn’t take the most direct route, preferring to detour past the towering temple which rose above the roofs of Shoal Point a few streets away. If he was lucky, the priests would still be at evensong and he’d catch the end.
‘I need to be back for supper soon,’ Cade protested, guessing where they were going.
‘We won’t be long. Just passing by.’
‘You never “just pass by”.’
They emerged into a small cobbled plaza in front of the temple. Aren slowed to a halt and let his gaze travel up the façade. No matter how many times he saw it, his sense of awe never waned. The stern, imposing lines, bold geometric forms and strict symmetry spoke of strength, order and discipline. It came from another world than the narrow, winding sandstone alleys which surrounded it, buildings piled up higgledy-piggledy with their plaster cracked by salt and sun, joined by uneven steps and crowded passageways. An old temple to the Nine had stood there once, but it had been torn down and replaced when Aren was young.
Like all Krodan temples, it had two entrances, representing the two routes to the Primus’s light. Above each, standing in an alcove, was a statue. One was a young man in robes, his face serene, an open book in one hand. The other was armoured, staring boldly out across the plaza, hands folded on the pommel of a sword resting point-down between his feet. Scholarly Tomas and brave Toven, the Word and the Sword, earthly champions of the Primus.
‘I’m noticing a marked lack of “just passing by” and a sight more “stopping and gawping”,’ Cade grouched.
Aren ignored him. As he’d hoped, the priests were still singing. Their voices drifted hauntingly across the plaza, echoing and reverberant, a net of harmonies mystifying in their complexity. High voices soared above the tide of sound like gulls on the wind, then the basses rolled in, and the hymn swelled till it filled the sky. It was music of dazzling craft, and Aren found himself caught in its spell.
Ossia had no music like it. Only a few great works had survived the fall of the Second Empire, and they were dated now and rarely played. His people favoured folksong to formal music, tunes for the inn and the campfire, sometimes bawdy and sometimes elegiac, but always intimate and inclusive. Aren couldn’t deny they had a certain primitive power, that they tunnelled into his heart when he’d had a few drinks and conjured a yearning for times he’d never lived through, but they were childish compared to Krodan symphonies.
‘Oh, Nine, they’re at their bloody yowling again,’ said Cade, rolling his eyes.
Aren suppressed a scowl of irritation. Cade worshipped the Nine and liked music he could clap and stamp along to. Aren influenced him in most things, but despite his best efforts, Cade had never shown the slightest sign of changing his mind about that.
‘Young Aren! You’re a little early for convocation. Five days early, in fact.’
It was Predicant Ervin, hailing him from one of the doorways at the top of the temple steps. He was an elderly priest, popular in the town for his light heart and easy manner. He wore beige and red robes – beige for parchment and red for blood – stitched with Krodan rays across the shoulder and chest. On a chain around his neck hung the sign of the Sanctorum, the blade and the open book, wrought in gold.
‘I just wanted to hear the evensong,’ Aren called back. ‘Are you not joining in?’
‘Alas, the Primus saw fit to give me the voice of a bullfrog with a mouth full of wasps. I fend off the Nemesis in other ways.’ He brandished a twig broom. ‘By sweeping the steps, for example. Noble work, if you can get it.’
‘We all do our part,’ Aren said with
a grin. He noticed Cade edging anxiously towards the plaza’s exit. ‘But we should go. Even the Primus won’t save Cade if he’s not back for supper.’
‘I’ll see you both on Festenday!’ said Predicant Ervin, raising a bony hand in farewell.
‘Still don’t see why I have to go to convocation,’ Cade grumbled as they hurried away. ‘I don’t even believe in that stuff. Nor do half the Ossians in Shoal Point.’
‘Maybe they’re hoping that one day you will.’
Cade snorted.
They left the plaza and walked along the flagstones of Fishmongers’ Way. The shops were shuttered today and there was no market, but the beer-hall rang with Krodan voices singing the anthems of their homeland. Dim, distorted figures raised their tankards behind panes of bullseye glass. A wooden sign hung over the doorway, depicting two fighting falcons: the emblem of the Anvaal Brewery, advertising thick, dark beer from the heart of the Empire. Two soldiers stood guard outside, clad in Krodan black and white, their grim faces made statuesque by their distinctive angular helmets.
At the end of Fishmongers’ Way, a knot of lanes and tiny plazas ran along the edge of the western cliffs, descending steadily towards the docks, beaches and coves beyond. Here were the hole-in-the-wall bakeries that sold morning rolls and pastries, single-room bars hidden upstairs behind rusty gates, crushed-together houses with sagging eaves where cats groomed themselves on tiny sills. To their left, gaps between the houses revealed a peaceful blue sea, the sun balled and red on the horizon.
Aren grinned. The sun couldn’t fall fast enough today. When night came, the adventure would begin.
‘Aren!’
His smile faded as he looked back up the alley. Standing at the corner were two young men. One was corn-blond, handsome and athletically built: the Krodan dream of vigour and poise. The other was less well favoured, with a long, pointed nose, pitted skin and ruddy hair. Harald and Juke, Sora’s elder brothers.
‘Still loafing about with the carpenter’s boy, I see,’ Harald said. ‘I’m glad you’re keeping company that befits your station. It’s a habit you’d do well to nurture.’
Aren thought of a dozen insulting replies and said none of them. ‘What do you want, Harald?’
The two Krodans sauntered up the alley. They were dressed in fine waistcoats and embroidered trousers, and narrow swords hung at their hips. By their attitude, they meant trouble.
‘Do you remember what I said last time we spoke?’ said Harald. ‘I think you do. I feel we were very clear, even allowing for the remarkable dull-wittedness of you people.’
Aren felt angry heat rise up from his chest. It was an effort to remain polite. ‘You told me to stay away from Sora,’ he said.
‘You did understand!’ Harald said. ‘And that wasn’t your first warning, either. In fact, you’ve had several. Our father even visited yours to make his feelings clear.’
Aren said nothing, but he held Harald’s gaze steadily, which was as much defiance as he dared.
Juke turned a disdainful eye on Cade, as if noticing him for the first time. ‘Run along, eel-sucker. This doesn’t concern you.’
Cade glanced at Aren, then back at Juke. He didn’t move, though his feet shuffled as if he dearly wanted to.
‘Are you deaf?’ Juke asked.
‘I can stand where I like,’ Cade mumbled.
‘Say your piece, Harald,’ Aren said, bringing their attention back to him. Juke gave Cade a dangerous glare, but was content with that for now.
‘What can I say that will make you listen?’ Harald said helplessly. ‘Has it escaped your notice that you’re Ossian, while she is Krodan and cousin to a count? She may not have the sense to look after her own reputation, but it is our responsibility to see that she remains marriageable. And if you … ruin her, Aren, then I will be honour-bound to kill you, and neither of us wants that.’ He cocked his head and sighed. ‘I can only assume you find it all a little too complicated to grasp, so let me boil it down for you.’ He leaned in close and dropped his voice to a menacing whisper. ‘You will never have her,’ he said, and shoved Aren in the chest so forcefully that he tripped over backwards and landed hard on the rough ground, skinning his elbows, his wrapped sword jarring against his spine.
Juke brayed with laughter as Aren scrambled back to his feet, teeth gritted and face flushed. He desperately wanted to plant a fist in Harald’s supercilious mouth. They were both bigger and stronger than him, and they’d beat him hard, but it would be worth it to split that lip.
A lifetime of ingrained restraint stopped him. He was Ossian, and they were Krodan. If anyone reported it, the punishment would be severe.
‘You’d love to strike me, wouldn’t you?’ Harald said with a smile. ‘Look at you, clenching your fists. You people solve everything with violence. Luckily for you, we are more civilised.’ He drew a folded letter from his breast pocket, its wax seal broken. ‘We found this in her room. She never was very good at hiding things.’
Aren’s stomach dropped as he recognised the letter. ‘Give me that!’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ said Harald dismissively. ‘However, we will give it to our father if we ever suspect you’ve met with Sora again. He has the governor’s ear, as you know. I wonder what will happen to your father when the governor learns he failed to restrain you?’
‘That’s mine!’ Aren could barely force the words through a throat thick with humiliation and rage. ‘It’s private!’
‘Not any more. Not when it concerns my family.’ He handed the paper to Juke, who unfolded it. ‘Perhaps your friend would like to hear some?’
‘“Sora, my love, my only love”,’ Juke began, trilling in parody of a tortured romantic.
Just one punch. Just one. But his body wouldn’t respond. He could walk into a cave to face a she-warg, but he couldn’t hit a Krodan. Everything in his life had trained him against it.
‘Stop it!’ he demanded, and was appalled by how pathetic he sounded. Cade looked like he wished he could be anywhere else.
‘“To be apart from you is agony”,’ Juke continued, holding the back of his hand to his forehead and wilting. ‘“I must—”’ He stopped and snorted. ‘You missed the accent over “agony”. If you have to write in Krodan, learn to do it properly.’ He resumed. ‘“I must see you, my darling! It burns my—”’
‘Enough!’ Aren shrieked.
Juke looked to Harald, asking with his gaze if he should go on. Harald stared at Aren coolly.
‘I think we’ve made our point.’
Aren nodded, biting his lower lip. Juke folded up the letter and handed it back to Harald, who slipped it into his breast pocket and patted it. Aren stood slump-shouldered, looking anywhere but at his tormentors.
‘Find yourself a nice Ossian girl,’ said Harald, with unexpected gentleness. ‘I know you love her, but it will pass. My sister’s not for you.’ He clapped Juke on the shoulder and they turned to go. ‘No more warnings, Aren!’ he called as they left.
Once they were out of sight, he became conscious of Cade eyeing him awkwardly. ‘You alright?’ Cade asked.
Aren bit back a sharp reply. He wanted to take out his feelings on someone and Cade was an easy target; but it wouldn’t be the right thing to do.
‘I think I’ll just head home,’ he said. Without further words of parting, he walked away. Bravery loved company, but Aren had long ago learned that shame was best borne alone.
5
‘There’s my boy, and not a moment too soon! Set the table, supper’s ready!’
Cade did as his ma told him, laying out bowls, spoons and leather drinking jacks. Between the table and the stove there was little room to move in the kitchen, but they slid around each other with practised ease. The dusk leaked in through sheaves of green herbs hanging over the window, and the air was damp with steam and rich with the smell of rabbit stew. Walls of bare, uneven brick and cracked mortar were hidden by cluttered shelves, racks of spices and pans on hooks. It was hot and close an
d dim, and it was Cade’s favourite room in the house.
To be in Velda’s kitchen while she was cooking was to be a leaf caught in a storm, sent flurrying here and there, never able to settle till the tempest was over. His da avoided the room for that reason, but Cade liked to help. He enjoyed cooking, and he made an eager apprentice. While they braised and mashed and chopped, she told him stories, and sometimes had him tell some of his own. After a long day in the workshop with his da, it was always a relief to do something he was good at.
Velda bustled past him and ladled out the stew, hollering his da’s name as she did so. She was a tough, round woman, tanned and salted by coastal life, who sold oysters on the docks. Her eyes were creased and kindly, her greying hair bound up in a kerchief, and despite her increasing years she was as bright and busy as a field mouse.
‘Sit! Sit!’ she urged him, and placed a round loaf of warm black bread on the table, wrapped in a chequered cloth. He took his spot on the bench as Barl came in from the back, a broad-chested man with a broken nose and a thick, tangled beard.
‘Son!’ He slapped a heavy hand down on Cade’s shoulder. ‘Where did you get to today?’
‘I was hunting that she-warg with Aren again.’
‘Mmm-hmm,’ he murmured absently. His gaze skipped over Cade to his wife. He put an arm around her waist, kissed her quickly on the cheek and sat down. ‘Rabbit stew!’ he said with great satisfaction, betraying the real focus of his attention.
Velda gave Cade a smile as she poured weak ale from a jug. She’d heard him, and approved. She believed boys should have adventures while they could.
‘Thanks be to Hallen, Aspect of Plenty, for this bounty,’ Velda said, once she was seated. ‘The Nine protect this house.’
They set to the meal, tearing up the bread and spooning stew into their mouths. Cade sought out tender chunks of rabbit among the potatoes and vegetables, and sopped up the thick, peppery stew with his bread, softening the hard crust before he crunched it down. He found a wonderful stillness in the midst of a hearty meal. He felt centred, entirely in the moment, his mind clear of thought. For that brief time, there was no need to speak, and no one expected a thing of him.
The Ember Blade Page 3