ARC: Sunstone

by Freya Robertson

  She looked up at the ceiling, only then realising it had been inlaid with tiny silver stars that glittered in the low light from the dimmed lantern. How strange. That and the tapestry on the wall led her to believe the person who had decorated the room was a bard. Did Comminor have any inkling of what the art represented? Was that why he was interested in the Veris?

  Too many questions, and not enough answers. She lifted a hand and traced from star to star, imagining she was drawing the constellations that Kytte had described from one of her dreams. Would she ever get to see them in person? Would she ever lie on the grass out in the fresh air and look up at the real sky?

  Aware of a growing warmth on her skin, she lifted her head and looked down at where Comminor’s hand rested, palm flat on her ribs. She had forgotten he wore a sunstone pendant and was thus able to conjure fire. The tell-tale red aura surrounded his hand, sparking in response to some dream he was having. It had happened to Rauf from time to time, and it touched some inner part of her to think he was connected to Rauf in this way.

  She lowered her raised hand onto his hair. Lightly, she stroked the silvery strands.

  She had thought she would hate him, but now she could not conjure up that emotion. Could a man really love with such tenderness one moment and then be so harsh the next? Surely his reputation must be a façade, created to keep order?

  She closed her eyes, biting her lip. This was so hard. The baby had shown her a way out of the Embers, a way to the Surface, but she could not be sure how much of it was truth and how much a figment of her imagination. The journey would be long and hard, fraught with who knew what dangers. It would be so much easier to stay here, in this bed, with Comminor lying beside her, breathing softly. To be cared for. To be loved.

  And what of Nele and the others, she thought. What of Geve? Thinking of her old friend brought a pain to her chest. She did not love Comminor, but she did love Geve. It may not have been the sort of love he wanted, but she had a deep and abiding affection for him. He had been there to look after her when her parents died, and she could not throw away his love for her because she wanted an easy life.

  Beside her, Comminor shifted and mumbled something in his sleep. She stroked his hair again and wondered if Turstan had told Geve that she had been called to the palace. If he had indeed relayed the event to the Veris, they would be panicking, afraid of what the outcome would be. They would be afraid that she would turn them in for the lifestyle they had all envied for so long.

  She may long for a comfortable life, but she would never sacrifice the Veris for it. And hopefully Geve knew that.

  Then she thought about the beautiful words Comminor had murmured in her ear as he made love to her, the promises he had made. You’re tempted, she thought fiercely. Only because of the baby, the little voice in her head said defensively. But her heart knew the truth.

  Comminor mumbled. Sarra was thinking about Geve, and at first she didn’t register his words. But then he spoke again, and her hand stopped stroking his hair, her body going rigid at his words.

  “Birds,” he murmured. “Fly like the birds.”

  Her heart thumping hard, she held her breath. Where had he heard that phrase? It was nothing anyone in the Embers would have said naturally as there were no birds in the caves and even the memory of them had faded from the minds of everyone, save for those bards for whom the ability to remember and carry the history in their minds and hearts remained strong. Had he found out about the birds from the same person who had decorated his chamber?

  “Through the clouds,” he murmured.

  “Ssh,” she soothed, her hand shaking slightly.

  “They do not know,” he whispered.

  She stroked his hair. “What do they not know?” she whispered back.

  “The moon in the sky,” he muttered. “The White Eye. The Light Moon in the sky.” He twitched. “The Arbor!” His hand warmed against her skin. And suddenly, she understood.

  Comminor was a bard.

  The Chief Select himself knew a whole land existed above the Embers. He must have designed the artwork in his chamber himself, Sarra realised. He had commissioned the patterns without relating what they meant, describing them in abstract terms so the embroiderers and the gem makers had no idea of what they represented. He had surrounded himself with his dreams made real. And, like all bards, at night he dreamed about the Surface.

  Was that why Rauf said Comminor had known about the Veris? Did the Chief Select want to talk to people like him who knew about the world above? Did he long to see the Surface too?

  Or was he afraid that if people knew of the world beyond their world, they would try to escape? Was he merely afraid of losing the power and station he had acquired?

  Sarra’s head spun. Suddenly his seduction of her took on much more meaning. Had someone told him that she carried a bard? Turstan maybe? Maybe all along he had thought to take her, then destroy the baby?

  What would happen when he awoke?

  CHAPTER NINE

  I

  Orsin opened his eyes slowly.

  The first thing he became aware of was the dull pounding on the right side of his head, and the fact that he couldn’t seem to move his arms. He felt groggy, and it took a few minutes for him to remember what had happened, as if he were standing there watching a scribe writing down the events on a piece of parchment.

  The memory formed gradually. The Wulfians had sprung an attack once Hunfrith had taken his mother outside. He had not expected it, had not been prepared for it. Although he had been aware that they had separated each member of the party, the lords present had been amiable enough, plying him with food and wine, and Orsin had actually begun to enjoy himself. The Wulfian wench who had poured his wine had pressed her breasts against his arm – a promise for later – and after the dull ride and the unpleasant confrontation with his mother, he had looked forward to an enjoyable evening.

  But one of the lords had suddenly stood and let out a bellow, and before Orsin had even had a chance to draw his sword, the warrior sitting next to him had delivered a blow to the side of his head that knocked him out cold.

  His hands were tied behind his back, he realised, and he lay on the ground on his side among the rushes. They appeared to have dumped him in front of the fire, and the log that lay burning in the hearth spat tiny sparks at him every now and then.

  Voices were lowered in conversation at the tables behind him. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he remained still but moved his head slightly to look around him.

  No sign of the knights who had travelled with them from Vichton. Were they dead? Somehow he didn’t think they were sitting up there with the Wulfians, drinking wine.

  And what of his mother? Had Hunfrith taken her outside to kill her? At the thought of Procella dead, Orsin’s throat tightened and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. She had embarrassed him, she was harsh and strict and sometimes he even hated her, but he did not wish her dead. Maybe she was just lying somewhere like he was, bound and captured. He prayed to the Arbor that was the case.

  Someone banged a tankard on the table and the voices rose. He stilled and strained his ears, hoping to gain an insight into his predicament. They spoke in Wulfian, but his mother had taught him that language at an early age, and he could understand them well enough.

  “Enough!” said a voice Orsin recognised as Hunfrith. “The time for talk is over. Too long we have waited for our chance to take back the Wall. But Chonrad is dead. The Heartwood Council is distracted by the nonsense talk of elementals once again. For the first time in twenty years, the lands on the north side of the Wall are being held by lords sympathetic to our cause. The time is ripe!”

  “And what of Procella?” said another lord. “If she puts out a call, the whole of Laxony will rise up against us.”

  Hope reared in Orsin’s chest. She wasn’t dead!

  “Procella is gone,” Hunfrith snarled. “She can do nothing to stop us.”

  “You should have killed
her,” a man snapped.

  “She is weak and alone,” Hunfrith said, “and long gone by now. Do not piss your pants over her. She is but a woman. Let her do her worst.”

  So his mother had escaped. Orsin felt stunned. She had fought off the mighty Wulfian lord, and left him there! Her eldest son. How could she have done such a thing? Anger flared within him. Clearly she thought so little of him she did not even think him worth saving. She had spoken as if she had the power of twenty warriors, as if she could have charged into the hall and defeated them all with her own hand. But instead she had slunk away into the night to lick her wounds.

  “What of the boy?” another said.

  Orsin froze, sensing them glance over at him.

  Several men laughed. “He sleeps like a baby,” said one. “I only tapped him on the temple.”

  “Chonrad’s heir,” said another. “I wager he turns in his grave with disappointment.” They laughed again and went on to talk about plans to attack the lands south of the Wall.

  Resentment knotted Orsin’s stomach and tears of humiliation stung his eyes. Would his father be disappointed in him? How in Arbor’s name was he supposed to live up to Chonrad? His father had saved the world. Everything Orsin did would be sure to fall short of that goal. True, Chonrad had never made him feel inferior personally and he had always felt his father loved him, but every time a visitor came to Vichton and the topic of the Darkwater invasion was raised, the visitors’ eyes would shine with admiration as they looked on the saviour of the Arbor, and Orsin would sit mutely, jealous of his father’s fame.

  He knew his parents had been impressed by the way the Peacemaker had enlisted Julen. His brother had always outshone him – he was smarter, wittier, and he often looked at Orsin like he was a simpleton. At the time of Julen’s announcement, he had wished he had a special role, something to make them proud of him. But what could he have done? They were a country at peace – if you didn’t listen to the Wulfians – and there were little to no chances for a man to prove himself. He knew his mother was impatient with the way he enjoyed his ales and his women, but the truth was – what else was there to do? Should he start a rebellion just to prove he could lead an army?

  He pulled angrily at the rope cutting into his wrists. The Wulfians thought to truss him like a chicken, and then what? Ransom him back? Kill him when it amused them? Well, he was done being everyone’s plaything. He was not a boy – he was a grown man of twenty-three, and maybe he didn’t have extensive battle experience, but he was not a child, and he was not a fool.

  Before him, the fire flared. His eyes widened as he looked into its depths. As always, the beauty of the flame mesmerised him. Red and orange. A halo of gold. He could not shake the feeling that fire was a living thing. It had too much life and energy – it ate and it grew and it danced.

  He blinked. There was a shape in the flames.

  He was imagining it. He must be. Like making pictures in the clouds.

  But the more he stared, the clearer the shape became. A creature – a bird. Huge, with wide wings and golden eyes.

  He thought about what Julen had told them in Vichton – that the Incendi were fire elementals bent on destroying everyone who could help defend the Arbor. Is that what this was? A fire elemental come to take his life?

  He waited for panic and fear to rise in his chest – but it didn’t happen. Instead, all he felt was excitement.

  “Do it,” he whispered. The thought of the fire licking over him, consuming him, made his muscles clench in pleasure.

  But the firebird didn’t move.

  I am not here to kill you.

  Orsin frowned. The words had sounded in his head, but they had been as clear as a sharply tapped bell.

  The flames around the firebird moved, leapt, but the eyes remained fixed on him.

  “What do you want?” Orsin whispered.

  You.

  He licked his lips. “I do not understand.”

  You are my link, Orsin of Barle. You have always been my link. You think yourself inconsequential, but to me you are the most important person in the whole of Anguis.

  He stared. “What do you mean?”

  You love fire. Always have. I have watched you since you were a child. You have never shown fear of it. And you have the ability to control it.

  “I…” Now he was speechless. Control it? What did they mean?

  Fire does not burn you, the voice said. It lives in your blood.

  His heart pounded. He thought of the way the flames had poured over his hand in Vichton, how his brother had been alarmed that he had been burned, but he had remained untouched. And of course, the incident in his childhood, when he had nearly burned down the stables but emerged unscathed.

  It lives in your blood? What did that mean?

  Join me, whispered the firebird. I am the King of the Incendi. You know the sensual power of fire. Come, welcome me inside you.

  He couldn’t look away from the gold-and-blue eyes. The King?

  You have always been mine, the voice said. And you always will be. I know your true worth. I salute you. You will be my first – my link with the world. Come, join with me.

  Heat flooded his veins. Maybe this was why he had always felt like an outsider, as if he didn’t belong. This was what he had been waiting for his whole life. Meaning. A purpose.

  He thought briefly of his mother, of Julen and Horada, but deep down he knew they would not miss him. He didn’t belong with them. He belonged in a different world entirely.

  The firebird danced. He watched, fascinated, as a finger of flame crept out of the grate and along the floor towards him. His chest rose and fell quickly with each heave of his breath. The flame reached his foot and, to his shock, slid into his boot and licked his toes. White-hot, it seared, and yet the pain was exquisite, like no pleasure he had ever experienced before.

  The flame caressed his toes, then slid between them to enter his feet. His muscles went rigid with agony and he arched his back and opened his mouth in a soundless cry as the heat entered his veins and burned around his body. The firebird swept over him, around him, inside him. Pain and pleasure made him convulse and twist.

  Flames brushed up his legs and spread across his torso. Turned the rope around his wrists to ash. Danced on his chest and licked his face. Covered him in fire.

  In some part of his consciousness, he heard the yell from the men sitting at the table, felt the thunder of their feet as they rushed over to him. Water sluiced over his body, but the firebird ignored it and laughed as it danced.

  Orsin pushed himself to his feet, stood and looked at his hands. Flames flared from his fingers, ran down his body.

  You are mine, said the King of the Incendi in triumph.

  Orsin tipped back his head. Fire raced through him, bursting forth from his mouth in a roar of flame that swept across the hall, lighting the rushes and burning the curtains. Men yelled and ran, but Orsin reached out his fiery hands, grasped them and watched with fascination as their skin blackened and peeled, and the smell of cooked flesh filled the air.

  He had never felt so alive, so sure of himself, so powerful and so free. He swept his arm across the room and watched sparks fly through the air to set light to cloth, wood, hair. Tables groaned and broke, metal melted and ran like ale. Men screamed, shrivelled, died.

  Yessssss, breathed the voice in his head, encouraging him, spurring him on.

  He reached fiery arms up to the rafters, brought them crashing down. Broke the beams like biscuits, scattered stones and crushed tiles like snail shells beneath his boot. And still the fire did not stop.

  It burned higher, hotter, faster. It rushed down his throat and into his lungs, filtered into his blood and raced around his limbs. He was fire, born to it, part of it.

  For the first time in his life, he belonged.

  The Wulfian castle crumbled around him, and Orsin walked free and into the night, lighting up the trees as he passed.

  Hiding in the darkness, Procella
watched. And for maybe the first time in her life, she was scared.

  II

  “Fire!” said Tahir, and sat bolt upright.

  The woman beside him immediately roused and stroked his arm, murmured, “Ssh, ssh, everything is all right, young prince.” Beside him, Atavus rose and nuzzled against him, sensing his distress.

  His heart hammering, he looked around, trying to get his bearings. The dream had been vivid, and it took a moment for him to realise he wasn’t in a burning room; that his clothes weren’t on fire.

  “Another one?” Catena asked.

  He nodded, comforted by her touch and her presence. When they had lived in Harlton, he had always thought she didn’t like him much. She had seemed permanently impatient and annoyed with him, and because of that he supposed he had played up, acted the pompous royal prince to prove that he didn’t need her approval or friendship. Now, though, she was concerned and gentle, more like a mother to him than his own mother had ever been.

  “Have a drink,” Catena said, passing him a water bottle.

  He sipped it, looking around him. They lay on blankets, surrounded by green plants and flowers big as his hand. She had taken him deep into the bush, conscious of Demitto’s wariness of the lush jungle and using her skills to travel through it, hoping to dissuade the emissary from following them. Around them, the long, narrow leaves of ferns unfurled in the early morning light, while palms arched, tiny birds flitting from broad leaf to leaf as they announced the dawn.

  He was soaked with sweat, he realised, and peeled his tunic away from his body with distaste. “Do I have a fever?”

  She pressed the back of her fingers against his forehead, but shook her head. “It is the weather. It grows warmer by the day. It is difficult to believe it is only The Stirring. What is it going to be like when it is The Shining?”

  “Do you think that is due to the Incendi?”