He was so different to any man she’d loved before, so far from what she thought she wanted, that she didn’t recognise what was happening until it was too late to avert the heartbreak that had to follow. They were together, yet they could never be together, not as lovers should be. The risk was far too great.
It was well known that Sards were forbidden to bed anyone other than a Sard. But only they knew the real reason why.
‘Get on with you, then!’
The voice stirred her from her thoughts. The gate guard was done with Edgen and the first cart was moving through. A soldier slapped the side of Orica’s cart and they jerked into motion, rattling under the arch into a crowded courtyard where a dozen other carts were being unloaded.
No sooner had they stopped than they were spotted by an angry man in fine velvets and a bearskin cloak, who came hurrying over.
‘Edgen! By the Primus, where have you been?’
The Master of Revels was a red-faced, bespectacled man with a white moustache and mutton-chop whiskers, wearing a rabbit-fur hat to cover his bald pate. He’d evidently had a long day, and what patience he possessed had been used up some time ago.
‘My deepest apologies,’ Edgen said. ‘We set off early but we shed a wheel on the way and—’
‘Get your people ready! I want you tuning up in the West Gallery in ten minutes! Do you—’ He stopped as he noticed Orica’s bright green eyes. ‘Is that a Sard?’
Edgen paled. ‘Madilla fell ill and this is her replacement. I had no other choice. I assure you, she is an exquisite musician—’
‘Toven’s blood! I don’t care how she plays! She’s—’ The master closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples, where the veins were beginning to throb. ‘No matter. It’s too late to switch you around. For your sake, you’d better hope the prince doesn’t take exception to having a Sard in his presence.’
‘The prince?’ Edgen squeaked.
‘I promised him the best Ossian musicians to play the finest songs of the land he is soon to rule. That would be you. At least, I thought it was.’
‘She is from Ossia,’ Edgen said weakly, but the master’s glare warned him to go no further.
‘Don’t disappoint me,’ the master said venomously and clicked his fingers at a servant who was hovering nearby. ‘Take them to the West Gallery!’ he said, and then he was off, shouting at someone else.
‘You heard him!’ said Edgen, hurrying to the rear of the cart. ‘Ten minutes!’ He gave Orica a barbed look, as if it was her fault he’d been snapped at.
Orica said nothing, just as she’d said nothing to the Master of Revels. Once, she’d played in the highest courts of Harrow, for the king himself, and been treated as an honoured guest. There were few Sards in Harrow and they were not numerous enough to be despised, unlike here where she was talked down to, sneered at or discussed as if she wasn’t there. Yet she’d swallow their insults, as she always had. She’d keep her mouth shut and her head down, and she’d fight for her land. Because whatever they said, she was Ossian, and this was her home.
‘Prince Ottico!’ Olin was saying excitedly as he gathered up his drum. ‘We’re playing for the prince!’
No, thought Orica as she stepped down from the cart with the lute under her arm. We’re playing for my friends’ lives.
86
The great hall of Hammerholt echoed with hundreds of voices speaking in a dozen languages. Harod and Mara, having been shown in moments before, stood at the edge of the sea of faces and looked out over the remarkable gathering before them.
Crowded together beneath the towering stone arches were representatives of many countries, from Embria and beyond, even as far as Caragua in the uttermost west. Here were black-skinned Xulans, elegant as water; red Helicans from the arid south, painted and pierced; desert-dwelling Boskans like beetles inside their rigid hoods; Carthanians, richly clad and raucous; tall Trinish from the mountain forests; Lunish, arguing as ever; Shangi, calm as always; drab grey Galts; Ossian nobles; haughty Harrish; sober Krodans; and more, and more besides, from all across the lands. They’d come to witness a historic union, the joining of the two most powerful forces on the continent, and to jockey for position in the new future ahead.
‘There are some here that shall know me,’ said Harod, showing none of the unease Mara knew he felt. ‘They will know of my disgrace.’
Mara looked at him. He was dressed in a green velvet jacket, dark purple hose and soft doeskin boots they’d picked up on Chandlery Lane. A short cloak covered one shoulder, pinned there with a silver brooch in the shape of a draccen sejant: the emblem of Harrow. She’d hardly seen him out of his armour until yesterday and the clothes of his homeland suited him well.
‘Knowing, they will not speak to thee,’ she said. She spoke in Harrish, as did he. ‘And they will not dare to question thy presence. So let them gossip among themselves. They can do us no harm.’ She held up her arm for him to take. ‘Let us find our quarry.’
He took her arm and they made their way into the crowd, where they were offered wine. Harod refused, but Mara accepted a glass. It was a Carthanian white, dry and woody and delicate. She savoured it while she listened to the sixteen-piece orchestra playing at the far end of the hall, smoothing the tempest of conversation with the sweet harmony of strings. The Carthanians might make the best wine – only Amberlyne was comparable – but the Krodans made the best music. Nothing equalled the mathematical grace of the Krodan maestros.
Shrill, breathless laughter caught her ear as two fair-haired Trinish children darted through the crowd, a brother and sister chasing one another, drawing scowls and indulgent chuckles. They passed Mara, and were gone.
The joy of their game brought a smile to Mara’s lips for a moment, but it faded fast as blissful imaginings gave way to cold reality. The children she longed for were someone else’s, as was the man she might have had them with. That had been her choice. She’d seen children as the end of life, not the beginning. She’d believed that to be a wife and mother would be to submit to the Krodan way, to forfeit her power and independence. After that, there was only the slow decline into domesticity, giving up the extraordinary for the mundane.
Would that have really been her fate? She didn’t know. But she’d been younger then, fiercer, more certain of things. So she’d refused Danric his dearest wish, and it had broken them, and he found another. To the end of her days, she’d never be sure if she’d had a lucky escape or made a colossal mistake; but in moments like this, she knew which one it felt like.
A terrible thought struck her. She saw a flash in her mind, a roar like thunder, fire billowing through the doorways. Children screaming; wounded, burned, dead. Little girls, just like those she’d once taught. She’d known there might be children in Hammerholt when Garric had outlined his plan, but it had been easy to dismiss it then, when she couldn’t see their faces. Easy to say they were a necessary sacrifice when she hadn’t heard them laugh.
Danric had never liked the way she could wall off her heart with logic, separate herself from her feelings with facts. But it was a skill that only went so far. She could never wall herself off from him.
Peace, she told herself. Garric’s plan will not come to pass now. Nobody will die.
It hadn’t seemed necessary to tell Aren and the others about Garric’s plan to destroy Hammerholt with barrels of elarite oil. Let them keep believing he was trying to steal the Ember Blade. Aren had impressed her with his mind and his character, but he was still idealistic, not ready to see Garric as he truly was. If they managed to rescue him, Garric might well lead them again, and it would only harm the cause if they knew the truth.
She didn’t know where the barrels were now, whether they’d been delivered or not, but it hardly mattered. They had a new plan, which Mara and Aren had cooked up between them. It was best to let sleeping dogs lie.
‘The Iron Hand,’ Harod muttered, directing her attention to two black-uniformed men standing together at the edge of the ro
om. One was short and balding, with spectacles and a somewhat froggy look about him. The other was stern, blond and handsome in a Krodan sort of way.
‘They are on their guard,’ Mara said. ‘They suspect something, perhaps.’
‘Garric cannot have talked or we would have been arrested at the gate.’
‘Likely thou art right. Certain, the security has been no stricter than we expected. Perhaps the Krodans imagine the danger is over now that Garric is in irons.’ She watched as the men scanned the room. ‘I do not think those two share that view.’
Mara kept an eye on them until they left, the taller one limping as he went. Their presence made her tense. It was a reminder that torture and death awaited them if they failed.
‘There he is,’ said Harod. ‘The Master of Keys.’
He wasn’t hard to recognise from his description. The Master of Keys was imposing in size, broad-shouldered and big-bellied. His face was soft and jowly, and a roll of flesh sat between his chin and his collarbone. His jacket was stitched with the crossed keys of his office, and he wore a golden medallion on a heavy chain around his neck.
‘We should introduce ourselves,’ said Mara.
Before they could do so, the orchestra stopped and a bell rang for attention. Conversation petered out as all eyes turned to the servant with the bell.
‘Honoured guests!’ he called. ‘It is my pleasure to inform you that performances of traditional Ossian folk music are about to begin in the West Gallery, the Blue Room and Stoker’s Hall. Please consult your programmes and make your way to your assigned rooms; otherwise you are welcome to stay and enjoy yourselves here. Thank you for your attention.’
There was a general murmuring as the guests found the printed papers they’d been given upon arrival, each one a schedule dictating where they were supposed to be and when, personalised according to their importance.
‘Leave it to the Krodans to throw a party and then organise the guests to within an inch of their lives,’ Mara muttered. Even for her, an orderly woman by nature, this was taking things a little far.
‘It is not dissimilar to how we do it in Harrow,’ said Harod, puzzled at the scorn in her tone. ‘How else is one to control so many people without inviting chaos?’
‘This land could use a little chaos,’ said Mara. ‘Come.’ She headed off across the hall.
‘The Blue Room is that way,’ said Harod, looking up from his schedule and pointing in the opposite direction.
‘We’re not going to the Blue Room.’
Harod had to hurry to catch her up. The crowd was beginning to thin out as the guests drifted to their designated rooms. Mara kept her eye on the Master of Keys. He was the target; schedules be damned.
They were carried after him on a tide of excited chatter and exotic perfumes, down stone corridors where servants waited to guide them onwards. Soon they came to a long chamber set with dozens of portraits on one wall. Tapestries hung on the other, showing parables from the Acts of Tomas and Toven in the Krodans’ distinctive geometric style.
Seats had been laid out in rows for the guests. The Master of Keys had already taken his place when they entered and the seats around him were filled, preventing them from getting close. They were shown to seats several rows behind him by an usher, and they had to be content with that.
‘Yonder is Prince Ottico,’ said Harod as they made their way along the row.
Mara, not so tall as Harod, took a moment to find him. He was sitting at the front, his head turned to the side as he joked with a neighbour about something. She recognised him from his portraits, though the artists had flattered him, making him look more regal than was true. In life, he was dough-faced, with long sideburns and a wispy moustache on his upper lip. He had the milky look of one who’d been spoiled and indulged so long that they knew no other way.
He will soon rule this land, Mara thought. But he will not have the Ember Blade when he does.
A bell began to toll in the heights as they seated themselves. Mara didn’t need to wait for it to finish to know the count. Last bell o’ day. Outside, the sun was slipping behind the mountains, and in the deeps below Hammerholt, the water was climbing the cave walls, black and freezing.
‘After the performance has begun, if thou canst do so without drawing attention, excuse thyself,’ said Mara quietly in Harrish. ‘Feign that thou art ill, if necessary, and find the door. I shall attend to the Master of Keys.’
Harod nodded and they settled in their seats. For the first time, they looked at the stage and the musicians assembled there. Harod stiffened. Mara had no need to ask why.
There, hidden at the back, was Orica.
87
Quietly, relentlessly, the water stole higher. Vika watched it with flat eyes over the side of the boat. Beneath the broken glimmers thrown back from Cade’s lantern, it was utterly black. An abyss rising inch by inch to claim them.
Is this how will end? she thought to herself. With all consumed by darkness?
She thought of Agalie, so warm and wise. In Vika’s mind, she was sitting owlishly by a campfire, her hands clasped round a steaming wooden mug, a knowing half-smile on her face. You will find us a champion, she’d said. And perhaps Vika had. Or perhaps she’d misread the signs and they’d all die here. Perhaps the only voice she’d ever heard was her own, and the gods she’d met merely the conjurings of a damaged mind.
Ruck lifted her head and whined, sensing her mistress’s doubts.
The boat had almost reached the stone ledge where the others waited in grim silence. Even Cade’s good cheer had faltered in the pressing dark as the chill set in. Now they watched the door, and each other, the passing of time measured by soft drips from the ceiling.
‘The water will be around your ankles soon,’ said Vika. ‘Come back to the boat.’
‘Should it be rising this fast?’ Cade asked. ‘What if Mara got her calculations wrong?’
Aren stirred. ‘I don’t think she ever gets her calculations wrong.’
‘She was working off a two-hundred-year-old map and a bunch of moon charts,’ Cade argued. ‘Even she would have a hard time being accurate with that.’
‘Door will open,’ said Grub. ‘Bowlhead or Tonsils open it. Grub is very confident.’ But Vika heard fear in his voice, fear of a death he wasn’t yet ready for.
‘We have time yet,’ Vika agreed, though she’d lost all sense of what time it was.
One by one, they climbed back into the boat. Ruck reluctantly got up and moved to the stern, grumbling low in her throat. When they were all in, Vika passed round a phial.
‘Drink this,’ she told them. ‘A sip each.’
Grub sniffed it. ‘Booze?’ he asked hopefully.
‘No. But it will warm your bones deeper and for longer than any liquor can.’
‘Painted Lady hasn’t tried witch-tear rum from Skara Thun,’ said Grub. ‘Drink that, then roll in fire to cool down.’
‘Sounds good to me right now,’ said Cade.
When they’d all taken a sip, she did, too, and let Ruck lap a little from her cupped hand. Heat spread through her, making her fingers tingle and bringing a flush to her face.
‘That ain’t bad,’ said Cade. ‘Nine, I feel like I should take my coat off.’
‘You may need it yet,’ said Vika, thinking of the killing cold of the lake water.
She untied the rope that tethered the boat to the mooring pole and cast it free. It would only drag them under when the water rose higher. Slowly they drifted away from the ledge, out into the cavern. She looked up at the ceiling, not far above them now.
Joha, hold back your waters, she prayed. Our people will come for us. Give them time.
88
Orica played. It was all she’d ever wanted to do, since she first laid hands on her mother’s lute in the warm summer shadows of the communal caravan. Music, like blood, was life to her.
Every significant moment in her past was linked to a song. Her earliest memory was her mother humming a lul
laby while Orica sat in her lap, drowsy in the warmth of a fire. She remembered the tumbling drums of Llach Na Thuun playing nearby as she and her first love lost themselves in a twist of blankets beneath an ash tree. The delicate arpeggios of a Trinish lament healed her heart after the same boy rejected her, for nobody told tales of heroic sorrow like the bards of Trine. Then there was the song that was played when her mother remarried; and the one that so impressed her master he said he had no more to teach her; and the song that made Harod fall in love with her.
Music surrounded her, shaped her, underpinned her world. When she played, she tuned herself to the key of Creation.
Yet as the troupe ran through Edgen’s selection of Ossian folk songs, Orica couldn’t feel the music. Her mind was elsewhere, with her companions in the cave, and worry gnawed at her. Her fingers knew their places on the fretboard, but she played mechanically, without passion.
Few in the audience noticed. An average performance from Orica was still head and shoulders above what most bards could manage. But Edgen scowled at her, because she’d been better in her audition. He scowled more deeply when Orica began the next song at a brisk clip, faster than it ought to be played, forcing the rest of the troupe to follow her tempo.
Orica didn’t care. The quicker they finished, the quicker she could leave.
She glanced at Prince Ottico as they launched into their final tune, a jaunty number about women and wine. The songs had been picked for their inoffensiveness. There was nothing about the Aspects, for these were the Primus’s lands now; and nothing of Jessa Wolf’s-Heart, Ossia’s most beloved rebel. It had been a wise decision on Edgen’s part, for the prince appeared to be enjoying himself immensely. His foot tapped to the beat of Olin’s idra and he had a broad smile on his face. If he had an issue with a Sard being onstage, it didn’t show.
Everything was still going well as the troupe drew the last song to a close and the crowd began to applaud. The grin on Edgen’s face was one of profound relief as he bowed to the prince, who was applauding loudest of all.
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