Demitto stopped turning the blade. Tahir blinked. His eyes met the emissary’s and a shiver passed through him from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.
III
Geve watched as Turstan passed his hand across another candle. He had seen him do it a dozen times, but his heart still beat fast every time he witnessed it. Turstan closed his eyes and held the sunstone pendant in his left hand, and then the room grew tense with energy. The very air seemed to crackle with it, and the tips of Turstan’s hair glowed bright red. Geve’s scalp tingled and his teeth ached. His skin itched as if a thousand tiny marsh bugs crawled over him. And then the torch leaped into life. Turstan opened his eyes and dropped his hand, and Geve’s uncomfortable feelings subsided.
Next to him, Sarra blew out a breath, eyes wide. No doubt she had seen Rauf do that before, but it seemed that no matter how many times a person watched the process, it never failed to impress. The first time Geve had seen Turstan do it, he had sworn out loud, causing everyone to burst into laughter.
Nele, who Geve tended to think of as the leader of the Veris even though they had all agreed nobody was in charge, shook out a large mat, and they all sat on it close together in a circle. Nele was older, with untidy brown hair greying at his temples and wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. His was an apothecary, and spent his days developing balms and tinctures to sell at the market.
Turstan stood the second candle in a holder and Geve fitted his in another, and they both placed the holders in the centre, casting the faces of the surrounding seven people in a warm glow.
Sarra was waiting calmly as everyone made themselves comfortable, the men cross-legged, the women sitting on their heels. Geve admired her poise. She had borne the difficult walk to the forgotten caves with only the occasional private grumble to him, and she had answered their initial questions without resorting to melodrama, knowing her words would hold enough drama without the need for added inflection.
He had known her since childhood. They had grown up together in the same sector, and he had seen her often around the Primus District, firstly following in the footsteps of her father as she learned how to catch salamanders, skin them, and turn the skin into usable leather, and then later, on her own, carrying on the trade after her father died.
Once, Geve had watched from the shadows as she came up against one of her competitors, who were also hunting salamanders along the same stretch of riverbank. Her rival had challenged her and Geve had tensed, ready to leap to her aid. But Sarra had defended her territory admirably, emerging the victor in the combat; the other girl had returned home to tend the knife wound on her forearm, leaving Sarra to collect the small pile of lizards she had left behind.
She was tougher than she looked, he thought. With hair the colour of bright firelight and white skin, she was slender enough to appear frail, but her frame belied a resilient and determined personality. Although not rich enough to eat the diet which gave the fruitful curves that their society deemed attractive in a woman, and unable to buy the gold and silver paints the palace women adorned themselves with, her natural beauty had caught the eye of one of the Select. Soon she had become known as Rauf’s woman and would probably have ended up marrying him, if he hadn’t been killed during the Secundus Rebellion around four months ago.
And now she was alone, and as soon as the Select found out she was with child and single, the pregnancy would be terminated and she would be left to fend for herself.
When she first told him about the baby, Geve had thought long and hard about whether to ask her to marry him. She didn’t love him, of course, but he could have lived with that. He felt that he had enough love for the both of them. It had nearly killed him when he first saw her with Rauf, as he had been plucking up the courage to ask her to walk out with him, and at that moment he knew he had left it too late and she would never look at him the same way she did as the man from the Select: with fire in her eyes. And then his heart had broken again when Rauf died and Sarra had fallen apart, from missing the man she loved as well as from the knowledge that she had lost a chance to have a family.
Once again Geve had been plucking up the courage to take her into his arms, wipe her beautiful face free of tears and declare his love for her, when she announced she had been having the dreams.
That had changed things completely. A bard since he was born, haunted by dreams of a different world, Geve had worked with Nele on the docks for many years before one day forgetting himself and making a passing reference to the Arbor, which Nele had picked up on immediately, being a bard himself. The two of them had formed the Veris, and over the last five years, through careful observation and extremely cautious conversations, they had recruited four more to their group, including, miraculously, a member of the Select who was sympathetic to the cause.
Finding out that Sarra was a bard too – which was what Geve had assumed before she admitted to the group that she had only had the dreams since becoming pregnant – had been a dream come true, as well as the end to his reveries of them having a romantic relationship. He had known immediately that he had to bring her to the group and that it had solidified their chances of attempting an escape from the Embers, especially now she had just announced that the baby had shown her a way out. But it also meant the end of life as they had known it for so long. His fantasies of marriage, of being granted their own house and living contentedly for the rest of their days, were finally over.
One of the women, Amabil, older than the rest of them, slender, dark-skinned and dark-haired, had brought a box of small cakes, and they passed these around until everyone had taken one. Sarra glanced at him, seeing how he didn’t eat it but let it rest in his palm, and she followed his lead as Nele closed his eyes and started to speak.
“Holy Arbor,” he said, “you call to us, you speak to us, you live within us, you are us. We thank you for this gift of food, and we eat it in memory of your love. Bless the Veris.”
“Bless the Veris,” murmured everyone, and Sarra added her words before solemnly taking a bite out of her cake, along with everyone else.
Geve passed around a leather bag of water, making sure Sarra had a sip. She was painfully thin. The way she sat, her tunic stretched tight across her body, he could see her ribs, the hollow of her stomach beneath them, and then the small swelling of her stomach at the bottom. Hopefully the baby wasn’t suffering too much.
Nele finished his cake, swallowed it down with a mouthful of water and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Waiting until everyone else had finished, he turned to Sarra and smiled. “We welcome you to the Veris, sister.”
“Thank you,” she said, dipping her head. “I am glad to be here.”
Cross-legged, he clasped his hands in front of him and thought for a few moments before he continued speaking. In the candlelight his hair shone a reddish-brown, curling long around his neck and ears. “We are all bards,” he began. “We have all had the dreams since childhood. Images flash through our minds of green grass, warm sunlight, birds flying in a blue sky, and a tree – so big we cannot imagine it to be real – arching over our heads and protecting the land. The tree’s roots travel through the earth, stretching to all four corners, transmitting its love, its energy. We all have the same dream. And we believe this is how it is, on the Surface.”
Sarra’s wide green eyes glittered in the light. “So you believe it is all real? That we are not just dreaming or making it up in our heads?”
Nele nodded. “We believe that the Arbor is speaking to us and showing us another world. Another life. With people like us, living in freedom amongst the green grass, knowing the love of the Arbor. We don’t know how or why we ended up here, below the earth, and before now the idea of a way out seemed fantastic, just a dream. But maybe, Sarra, you will be able to lead us there.”
They all fell quiet. Sarra looked bemused, and Geve thought he could understand why. Even though he had had the dreams since childhood, he had never really been able to make sense of them. It
was only when he had spoken to Nele, and Nele had told him to spend a whole day watching the Caelum, that Geve had really begun to comprehend where they were. Early in the morning, he had found a quiet spot in the docks, lay back, fixed his eyes on the circular disk in the high ceiling above the Great Lake, and stayed there for most of the day and a good portion of the night as well.
He had watched the Caelum change colour from grey to light blue to bright blue, an occasional wisp of white crossing it like a fish through water. In the afternoon, it had turned grey again, and he fancied at one point that he could see a fine mist descend the shaft of light that filtered down onto the lake. Later it had darkened to a grey-blue, then later still to blue-black, and the first stars had begun to glitter like tiny gem chips sewn onto a black tunic.
That was the Surface, Nele had said, on which people stood. And the caverns they themselves lived in were beneath the Surface. Their whole world was under the ground.
Geve’s head had spun, and when he stood he had almost fallen over with dizziness. His brain had struggled to make sense of the information. There was a whole world above his head? The Caelum wasn’t a magical circular disk stuck on the ceiling, but a hole out into the other world? He couldn’t believe he was actually seeing the sky he had dreamed about. And yet somehow it made sense. And that meant the Arbor was up there, existing somewhere, planting its roots in the rich earth above their heads, reaching up to the warm sun.
Nele gave Sarra a few moments to try and process the news. Then he said, “Have you thought about passing on what you know to Comminor?” He was testing her, Geve knew, but still the thought of the Chief Select finding out about their group turned his blood to ice.
Sarra’s eyes widened at the idea of talking to the leader of the Select. “No!”
“Do you not think everyone in the Embers should benefit from this knowledge, from knowing there is a way out of here?”
She shook her head vehemently. “He would not believe me. He would think I was trying to stir up discontent, and I would be imprisoned. The Select would not even consider the notion of finding a way out of here. They have power over others and they want for nothing. Why would they want to escape?” She glanced apologetically at Turstan as if she’d suddenly remembered he was also a Select, but he just nodded along with the others. Nele had needed to ask her, but of course they all agreed.
“Can you tell us what the baby showed you?” Nele asked. “Where is the way out?”
Geve’s mouth went dry. His heart pounded so loud he could hear it like drums in his head.
Sarra moistened her lips, her gaze passing across each member of the group. Then she said, “I cannot say, because if the Select catch you, they will be able to torture you. If you do not know, you will have nothing to tell.”
Nobody said anything, but they all visibly deflated. Geve’s shoulders sagged. She was right, of course. It was dangerous for them to have that information. But still, he would have liked to know.
“But how can we be sure you are not lying, just to join our group?” The young woman who spoke, Kytte, did so without accusation. Her black hair was piled into a knot on the top of her head, and tendrils escaped to curl by the side of her pale face.
“You will have to trust me,” Sarra said. She gave a little smile. “I am sorry.”
Kytte returned the smile. “I understand.”
Geve turned to the last woman in the group who had not yet spoken. “This is Betune. She carries with her the hope of the Veris.”
Betune had long brown hair braided and tied with a well-worn piece of red cloth. She took the leather thong around her neck and lifted it over her head, drawing from inside her clothing a small leather bag. She loosened the tie at the top, then tipped the item inside onto her palm.
Sarra stared at the tiny object. “What is it?”
“It is an acorn,” Geve said. “From the Arbor itself.”
Sarra’s eyes widened. “From the Arbor?” She held out her palm as Betune offered it to her, and brought the tiny item up close to her face.
“Yes,” Nele said. “Betune’s ancestors – who were also bards – passed it down to her. You see, they believed we were once on the Surface and, through some misfortune, were driven underground.” He picked the acorn up and rolled it between his fingers. “This is our one remaining link to the Surface, and to the Arbor. And we want to return it there. That is our goal, and that it what we have been planning all these years.”
“I want to help,” Sarra said, and a tear ran down her cheek. “I want to see the sky and feel the grass beneath my feet. I will lead you there, if you will let me.”
“We will let you,” Nele said solemnly. Geve stifled an almost hysterical laugh. As if they had any other option. They had been trying to find a route out of the caverns for years.
He leaned over and brushed Sarra’s cheek dry. He knew the others were watching, but at that moment he didn’t care. “Do not cry,” he whispered. “Your baby will be born on the Surface, and will grow up in the light and the warmth. We will get you there.”
Or die trying, he thought as she leaned her cheek into his palm. What would Comminor and the Select do if they found out that not only was Sarra pregnant, but that she was also now part of the Veris and helping them plan their escape?
CHAPTER THREE
I
The fire seemed hungry, Orsin thought. It chomped greedily on the kindling in the hearth, filling the hall with snaps and crackles as it leapt to life. The flames flowed over the large log in the centre like an orange cloak billowing in the wind. He watched as the log gradually caught light, the bark splintering and turning black, the odd leaf still attached to the twig on the top curling and then turning to ash.
How odd that it seemed alive. Fire had enchanted him for as long as he could remember, and he could vividly recall the beating he had received from the steward who found him playing with a tinderbox in the barn. The straw had caught alight and the barn had nearly burned down, but luckily he had escaped untouched, only to have his backside whipped. Now he understood why he had been beaten, but at the time he had seethed with resentment, angry that the steward had not appreciated his fascination for the flame – that he had felt compelled to light it, enticed by the way he could bring a living thing to life and cultivate it, make it grow.
His fascination had continued through his early teens and twice he had been punished for a fire that had got out of hand. Over the past few years, other things had occupied his mind, his brain and body tiring in physical training at which he excelled, and in women, of whom he had also become something of an expert.
Lately, however, some of his fascination had returned. He had never spoken of it to anyone, aware that his absorption was unusual and that others did not feel the same way. He could not understand how they were not captivated by it. He watched the flame lick over the log, sensual in its caress, like a passionate lover, consuming and obsessive. A hunger grew within him, and he shifted in his chair. He would visit the tavern later after finishing the evening meal. Find a woman there to cool his blood.
“Orsin!”
His head snapped up. His mother was glaring at him, and Julen’s lips were twisted in a wry smile. “What?” he said defensively.
“I do swear you are selectively deaf,” said his mother. “And just as stupid, sometimes. Have you not heard a word I have said?”
He propped his feet on the chair next to him. “I heard you. I just did not care.”
Horada, sitting at the end of the table a little away from them, bit her lip to stifle a smile. Procella continued to glare at him. Orsin finished off his ale, used to his mother’s wrath. She had always been stern, but since his father had died she had become even more short-tempered. He put down his tankard and softened a little as Julen raised his eyebrows at him. His brother had told him of her worry about Horada. And he did love and admire his mother, in spite of her sometimes shrewish nature.
“You said you both had another dream last nigh
t,” he relayed. “About Heartwood.”
“Yes.” Procella’s face etched with worry as she glanced at her daughter. “She asked me again this morning to take her there. I refused of course. Now she is ignoring me.”
Horada, who could quite obviously hear every word being said, continued to pick at the strawberries on her plate, not looking up.
Orsin shrugged and turned his gaze back to his mother. “Perhaps you should let her go. Find out what the Arbor wants with her.”
Procella banged her goblet on the table and leaned forward. “And let the same thing happen to her that happened to my husband? My family has given enough to the tree. It will not have my daughter as well.”
Horada’s hand stilled for a moment, tightening into a fist. But she kept her eyes downcast, and went on to pour herself another goblet of wine.
Orsin helped himself to one of the pastries on the plate. “She is seventeen,” he reminded his mother. “Some would say she is old enough to make up her own mind.”
To his surprise, instead of arguing the point further, Procella leaned back and looked suddenly upset. “You too? I thought you of all people, would have backed me up in this.”
Orsin glanced at his brother. “You have said Horada should go?”
Julen hesitated, his hand automatically stroking Rua’s silky ears where she had rested her head on his knee. Orsin studied the way the firelight played across his brother’s fine features, painting his high cheekbones and the flat planes of his face with golden light. How different they all were, he thought – as if they did not have the same parents. His brother was slim and dark, and although he was the most skilled man with a dagger that Orsin had ever met and a master at blending with the natural scenery, he bore none of the brute strength that Orsin himself had inherited. Julen was also sharp as a meat knife: intuitive and perceptive in ways that Orsin could not comprehend.
ARC: Sunstone Page 5