Moths to a Flame

by Sarah Ash

  A flute, carved from polished ebon wood, lay on a cedar chest. Lai’s eyes kept straying towards it. His fingers itched to touch it, to stroke the smooth wood. They began to press a pattern of notes on the palms of his hands.

  ‘Fine, isn’t it?’

  Ymarys had noticed.

  ‘Take it. Try it.’

  Lai shook his head. Lai the flute-player was dead. He had died in the donjon the instant the tattooist’s needle seared into his skin.

  ‘You don’t play?’

  ‘I used to.’

  Ymarys picked the flute up and handed it to him.

  ‘Damned if I could ever get the hang of it. This belonged to my mother. You look as if you know what to do with it.’

  Lai found himself lifting the flute to his lips, moistening his lips, drawing a breath. His fingers moved … and a whisper of notes brushed the still air. It was instinctive. He could not help himself.

  Notes drift upwards into the dark leaves of the Grove, drowsy as wreathing incense smoke …

  ‘Ahh,’ said Ymarys softly. ‘So I was right.’

  Lai set the flute down; his hands were shaking.

  ‘I can’t.’ The whispering notes had awakened feelings, memories he had tried to forget.

  Ymarys poured the clear infusion into the enamelled cups and handed one to Lai.

  Tell me about yourself.’

  Why should Ymarys want to know now what he had ignored for so many months?

  ‘Nothing to tell.’ He replaced the flute on its velvet cloth.

  ‘Where did you learn to play so exquisitely?’

  ‘On Ael Lahi. In the Sacred Grove.’

  ‘The Sacred Grove,’ echoed Ymarys, savouring the words on his tongue. ‘And what were you doing there?’

  ‘What was I doing there?’ Lai slowly sipped the hot tisane. ‘It all seems like a dream … so remote now …’

  ‘Don’t you find it’s so much more congenial to talk here … in comfort … away from prying eyes …?’

  As Lai inhaled the fragrance of the rising steam, a memory suddenly gripped him, painfully vivid, of the green scent of the island drenched in warm summer rains …

  ‘Do you understand me, Lai?’

  Lai started, involuntarily spilling the tisane onto his knee, rapidly pinching it out.

  ‘My dear Lai, you are an innocent in a court where intrigue is commonplace and no one can be trusted.’

  ‘Even you?’

  ‘I could so easily have drugged your tea,’ Ymarys said, smiling as he raised the enamel bowl to his lips.

  Lai looked warily at the smudge of green lees staining the base of the bowl.

  Ymarys leaned across and lightly brushed his cheek with his fingertips.

  ‘Be on your guard.’

  The words were spoken casually but as Lai looked up into Ymarys’s malachite-painted eyes, he caught a glimmer of grim warning.

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘You fight Rho Jhan. Her favourite. This isn’t just a contest between Tarkhas clan champions. This is the rift that is cracking the House of Memizhon apart. The enmity, the bitter enmity between Arkhan and Arkhys. Believe me, Lai, she is capable of anything – anything – to ensure that her champion wins.’

  All these long months Lai had sweated in the armoury, preparing for this day. Mithiel’s Day. Now it had come.

  The hours passed slowly, so interminably slowly …

  Lai flung open the shutters and gazed up at the high, blank walls of Myn-Dhiel. Somewhere behind those windowless walls Laili was still confined, somewhere within the labyrinthine passages of the ancient citadel.

  And yet by wakenight, we both could be free—

  Tonight he would face the Zhudiciar’s champion, Rho Jhan – and the reality of his own fragile mortality. One error tonight, just one – and he would die.

  There came a discreet scratching at his door, so faint he wondered for a moment if he had imagined it.

  He tried the door-handle – and found it unlocked.

  The landing was empty. But a breath of perfume, faint as the evanescent odour of a crushed petal, lingered in the air. And a little package, wrapped in the finest paper, had been placed outside his door.

  He lifted it, sniffing it suspiciously. The faint perfume seemed to emanate from its delicate paper. A note was attached:

  Dearest Lai,

  They tell me you fight today to secure my freedom. Wear this favour for me, beloved brother. May it bring you good fortune in the arena.

  Your loving sister, Laili.

  Lai began to unwrap the paper, its frail leaves as transparent as dried rose petals. Inside lay a ribbon of azure silk: Memizhon blue. Attached to the ribbon was a glittering blue jewelstone, carved in the shape of a flame. Lai was about to lift it out when he heard footsteps hurrying along the corridor.

  ‘Lai!’ Ymarys’s voice outside.

  Lai hastily scrunched the note into a ball behind his back.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘A – a gift. A favour to wear in the arena. It was left outside my door.’

  ‘From Myn-Dhiel? Let me see.’ Ymarys took the petal-paper from Lai and sniffed it suspiciously.

  ‘What’s wrong? It’s only a ribbon—’

  ‘Did you touch it? Did you pick it up?’

  ‘You’re talking in riddles. What harm could there be in a length of blue ribbon?’

  ‘No harm in the ribbon. But the jewelled pin,’ Ymarys laid the ribbon down with infinite care. ‘Come over to the light. Look at the tip.’

  Now that they were close to the window, Lai could see that the point of the pin was darker than the silver shaft, as though it had been dipped in some glutinous unguent.

  ‘Poison. Subtle and slow. You would not have felt the first effects until you entered the arena. By then, who would have been able to detect it?’

  ‘Poison …’ So the note was a forgery. As for the sweet-spiced perfume … ‘But who would want—’

  Ymarys’s lips twisted in a sour caricature of a smile.

  ‘Oh, come now, Lai. Who do you think?’

  CHAPTER 7

  All night gangs had roamed the streets of the city, chanting in praise of the Reds or the Blues, Zhudiciar or Memizhon. Fortunes could be made – and lost – on the skills of the bladesmen. Queues had formed outside the arena long before dawn. Scuffles broke out amongst groups of rival enthusiasts and the Tarkhas Zhudiciar had to be called to keep order. Today the markets were shut, the busy quays were silent; everyone was on their way to the arena to see the brandslaves fight to the death for a chance of freedom.

  Street-sellers of khassafri were brewing the potent nutmeg punch over charcoal braziers. Marchpanes dyed cochineal red or violet blue were outselling the more traditional treats of halva and spiced nuts. Favours were selling well too, silk ribbons, scarves and flowers in scarlet or azure.

  The palanquins of the wealthy began to arrive at a separate entrance; the women, exotically masked with sequinned feathers, could be glimpsed as they flitted into the arena, some with pet marmosets tricked out in red or blue riding on their mistresses’ arms. The men followed at a more sedate pace, sniffing at lemon pomanders, attended by dwarfs and dark-skinned bodyslaves.

  Amidst the rowdy throng stalked the silent hierophants of the Undying Flame in their sombre robes. They alone remembered that this was a day of sacrifice, a day sacred to their god.

  Deep in the labyrinth beneath the arena, the bladesmen made their final preparations for the rite to come. A trail of chanting hierophants passed along the tunnel, thurifers swinging, leaving a cloud of bitter incense smoke in their wake.

  ‘Hmm. You’ll do,’ Ymarys said as he secured the blue-silk loincloth about Lai’s waist. ‘We’ll have to keep the women from clawing each other’s eyes out over you.’

  Lai gazed down at his oiled body; his tawny skin glittered as if he had been powdered with gold-dust. He felt naked without the padded practice corslets – vulnerable.

  Dark-cowled figures
loomed out of the shadows as they left the tiring room. A torch flared into light, dazzle-bright.

  ‘Be one with the Flame,’ reverent voices murmured as Lai passed between the priests of Mithiel towards Sarafin’s Gate.

  The chants, the incense fumes, the ritual costumes … if it had not been for the grim presence of the hierophants, Lai could almost have imagined he was preparing for a ceremony within the Sacred Grove …

  Blue-clad brandslaves came filing past Lai. One turned and gave him a long, resentful stare. Those sour, accusing eyes; suddenly he recognised Wadhir. Growling at their heels came Orthandor’s hounds, straining on a double leash.

  ‘On the double there, lads!’ roared Orthandor, hauling the hounds to heel. The flail cracked, sizzling the air.

  Row upon row of tiered stone seats rose up to the black night sky from the white sand of the arena. The babble of voices from the crowd was like the roar of stormbreakers crashing on the shore.

  ‘So many people!’ Lai whispered as they emerged from the subterranean tunnel and stood waiting in the fanged shadow of Sarafin’s Gate.

  ‘All Perysse must be here,’ said Ymarys. He tossed back his smooth hair which glinted with the dull sheen of antique silver in the dark.

  One by one the brandslaves were handed their curved blades by the armourer at the gate and pushed through into the arena, their way back barred by the tarkhastars.

  The last of the brandslaves lingered longer than the others.

  ‘Memizhon pigs.’ Suddenly he spat in the armourer’s face and swung around, blade glinting in his hand.

  ‘Look out!’ Ymarys cried.

  The tarkhastar at the gate was caught off-guard; he staggered and fell as the brandslave’s bladestroke sliced across his belly.

  The brandslave went stumbling away down the tunnel.

  ‘Go!’ Orthandor unleashed the hounds.

  The priests of Mithiel scattered as the slavering animals tore after their quarry. Orthandor seized a torch and strode off after them.

  From the tunnel came the noise of snarling – and then silence.

  Orthandor returned, with the hounds struggling on the leash, their bloodied jaws muzzled.

  ‘Throat torn out,’ he said laconically. ‘Damn fool.’

  The tarkenhorns brayed out across the arena. The crowd suddenly stilled, the ominous stillness before a storm …

  ‘We’re one bladesman short. We start at a disadvantage.’ Orthandor turned to Lai. ‘You’ll have to replace him.’

  ‘Me?’ Lai appealed to Ymarys but the Razhirrakh looked on him coldly, distantly, almost as if he were a stranger.

  ‘You’re still a brandslave. You have no choice.’

  ‘Remember, Lai,’ Ymarys whispered in his ear. ‘Kill – or be killed.’

  Lai shivered. The razhir suddenly felt a lead weight in his hand, so heavy he could hardly lift it.

  ‘Get in there, Lai – and don’t let me down.’ Orthandor took Lai by the shoulders and pushed him out into the arena.

  The sand grains grated cold against the soles of Lai’s bare feet.

  ‘We’re honoured.’

  Wadhir was regarding him. His lips curled back from his teeth in a leering grin.

  ‘Hey, lads, remember the pretty boy?’

  Lai tightened his grip on his razhir. Concentrate. Don’t listen to him.

  ‘Let’s see what fancy tricks you’ve learned, pretty boy. Let’s see this famous technique of yours.’

  A gate on the opposite side of the arena opened and a number of brandslaves wearing crimson breechcloths appeared.

  The crowd burst into raucous chanting.

  ‘Reds! Come on Reds!’

  ‘Blues! Blues! Blues!’

  There was no time to prepare; the Reds came charging across the sand towards the Blues.

  ‘Goddess,’ Lai murmured, ‘forgive me.’

  All the grace and cunning he had learned from Ymarys seemed irrelevant. The Zhudiciar brandslave who confronted him wielded his blade like a scythe; such heavy strokes could shatter his delicate razhir.

  The crowd’s chanting grew more hypnotic. Lai’s heart pounded with every shout, every blade-clash.

  Kill or be killed.

  One Memizhon slave was down already, rolling in the sand, his face working, contorted in the death agony.

  ‘One to the Reds!’ bellowed Orthandor. ‘What are you made of, Blues?’

  Another savage cheer bruised Lai’s ear. The crowd were hungry for blood.

  ‘Two to the Reds!’

  Wadhir’s foot shot out suddenly, tripping Lai. He fell heavily; from somewhere in the swirling darkness, he could hear Wadhir laughing. In the same moment, his opponent stabbed downwards – but Lai rolled aside and thrust, a subtle, fluid move only perfected after long hours’ practice. Down the man went, the weight of his falling body wrenching the razhir from Lai’s hand. As Lai came to tug it out, the man convulsed, blood spurting and Lai flinched away to avoid the scarlet spray. The body twitched once more, then lay still. And in the stillness, Lai realised that he could no longer hear Wadhir’s jeering laughter.

  ‘Behind you!’

  Ymarys’s shout made Lai wheel round, blade raised. He just parried the blow. Dark eyes gleamed in the darkness behind the curved blade. Young eyes; bright with fear and exhilaration.

  The white sand was dark with pools of slow-seeping crimson; a hot, sweet stench of blood tainted the air.

  Lai alone fought on. He heard the roistering shouts of the crowd, urging him to win. His opponent seemed tired now; Lai could hear him grunt with the effort of each swinging bladestroke. He knew only too well what such slow, wild strokes would lead to. So easy to slip under his guard and—

  ‘Blues! Blues! Blues!’

  Lai still stood upright although now he was swaying with weariness; at his feet his opponent lay writhing in the sand, clutching at a gaping slash in his belly, entrails spilling out from between his blood-sticky fingers.

  Lai drew in a breath between clenched teeth – and swung the blade again. The dark eyes glazed, rolled upwards, the clutching fingers went limp.

  It was over.

  ‘You’ve done it!’ cried Orthandor, caught up in the crowd’s frenzy.

  Lai hardly heard him. He could scent death on the night wind. They were dragging the dead and wounded from the arena. As the tarkhastars pulled a body out by the ankles, hair trailing through the bloodied sand, he recognised Wadhir; the lips still curled back from the teeth, the leering grin frozen into a chilling rictus.

  Even as the evidence of carnage was hastily removed, the winners were being paraded around the arena before going one by one to receive their metal token of pardon from the Arkhan. All except Lai. Who must fight again. Fresh sand was scattered and raked to cover the soaking bloodstains.

  High in one of the Mhaell enclosures, a young girl covered her masked face with her fan and turned her head away.

  ‘You’re not going to faint, are you?’

  ‘I’ve seen quite enough.’

  ‘But now it’s time for the contest of the champions!’

  Her companion thrust a box of cinnamon sweetmeats towards her but she waved it away.

  ‘How can he sit there, watching so avidly?’

  ‘I remember Ymarys’s first contest as if it were yesterday.’ Her companion selected a sweetmeat and popped it into her mouth. ‘You should have seen him – he was outrageous! Such a crowd-teaser.’

  Orthandor threw a coarse towel around Lai’s shoulders and sat him down within the shadow of the Sarafin Gate. A cup was thrust between Lai’s lips; he gulped the liquid down, grimacing at the taste: water soured with wine. The armourer passed him a rag to clean his blade. Lai wiped the blood from the steel, not thinking, his mind a blank.

  The sudden dazzle of ice-white light that illumined the arena made him fling up his hands to cover his eyes.

  For one mazed moment, he believed that She had intervened as flowers of light exploded into the dark night sky, moon flowe
rs, muraq flowers, garlands of golden leaves that wept pale fire into the sand.

  Firedust. The silverlight was illusion: magically, ephemerally beautiful … but merely illusion, created by Arlan Azhrel in his underground laboratory.

  ‘Look at you!’ Ymarys clicked his tongue in disgust. ‘You’re not ready – and the contest of the champions will begin in a moment.’

  Ymarys unbraided Lai’s copper-stranded hair and began to comb it until it crackled with electricity.

  ‘Don’t relax your concentration for a second. Rho Jhan’s subtle as a snake. Remember – you’re not the only one playing for high stakes tonight.’

  He bound Lai’s forehead with a thin band studded with sapphires.

  Pungent chymical smoke drifted like fog across the arena, verdigris-green, indigo blue. Lai was grateful now for Ymarys’s preparation in the armoury.

  An eruption of fire-crackers ripped the black air apart with ear-bruising retorts.

  ‘Now,’ said Ymarys in his ear.

  Lai walked out into the billowing torch smoke.

  A cheer, loud as a rolling clap of thunder, arose from the tiered seats to greet him. Lai faltered.

  ‘Keep walking,’ Ymarys said behind him.

  The thunder rolled on and on around the arena as, barefoot, he crossed the gritty white sand to stand below the Arkhan’s azure-decked dais.

  Unable to resist glancing upwards, Lai noticed the Arkhys Clodolë beside her consort, hair rich as ambered honey in the torchlight, fixing him – only him – with her gold-flecked eyes. And he saw the tip of her pink tongue lick along the soft line of her lips; slowly, deliberately, lasciviously …

  The horns brayed again from the opposite side of the arena and another great shout went up.

  Lai could sense the growing impatience of the crowd; it would be so easy to break concentration with so many distractions: raucous shouts, cat-calls, whistles …

  He turned to see Rho Jhan approaching through the swirls of rising smoke. The torchlight glittered in the fire opals and rubies adorning his crimson headband.