A Lair of Bones

by Helen Scheuerer

  Roh pictured Cerys in her cell, frail and manic, her long, unruly hair matted and damp with sweat. Would Cerys even be informed that her daughter was now a competitor in the Queen’s Tournament? Would she understand what that meant? And if she did, would she care?

  My sketchbook and charcoal, Roh realised, snatching the items from her trunk. Perhaps not sentimental in the strictest sense, but they mattered to her. And she had exercises to practise. Tournament or no tournament, she was still in the midst of training her architectural eye, and she wasn’t about to fall behind on the principles of design. She tucked her sketchbook under her arm and pocketed the stick of charcoal.

  As Roh turned to leave, she caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass on the wall. Did they look alike? She and her mother? The thought was fleeting, and as it always did, her gaze went to the circlet of gold at her forehead. Without thinking, her fingers brushed against its smooth surface, remembering the stares she’d experienced at the queen’s announcement. The way they’d made her skin crawl and her cheeks flush. She knew there was little chance another circlet-wearer would compete in the tournament. There was no denying that she would stand out in the Upper Sector. But this time, she would refuse the brand of shame their glares demanded. She lifted her chin and dropped her hand. She was a competitor in the Queen’s Tournament now.

  With her rucksack packed, Roh sat on the end of her bed, unsure of what to do. It was the first time in her life that she’d been excused from her duties in the workshop. She spotted Harlyn’s lute, left atop her trunk. Notes of a melody Harlyn had played a few mornings ago sprang into Roh’s mind and she clung to them like a lifeline; the recollection of the rise and fall of the song soothed her as she waited. Studying the lute, Roh thought of her own secret project. She recalled the tweaks she’d made to the design only a few nights before and wondered if she’d ever get to work on it again.

  She shook her head. That doesn’t matter now, she told herself. If you win, you can have the damn thing built.

  ‘I’ve been waiting,’ Ames said from the door, jolting her from her reverie. Her mentor stood straight-backed, adjusting his high collar. He looked even older than usual today, his weathered face somehow more lined than the day before. His expression was unreadable, and Roh was desperate to read it. Had her actions, or his actions, for that matter, changed things between them? Or was he being his usual, stern self? He had disapproved of her entry in the tournament from the start, but now … What did he think of her now? After what she had done? What he had helped her do?

  Roh shouldered her rucksack and went after him. His robes billowed as he strode through the residences, down to the lower level, towards the same pulley system they had used only the day before. Roh’s stomach flipped. Orson wasn’t here to hold her hand this time.

  ‘What happens now?’ Roh managed as they stepped into the crate and it lurched upwards.

  ‘Orientation. You will meet the other competitors and learn the rules.’ The tournament rules. The new laws by which she would live.

  ‘What about my work?’ she asked, gripping the rail hard.

  ‘You are excused from your duties, but your work must still be completed. Orson and Harlyn will take on your workload while you compete.’

  Roh’s eyes flew open. It felt like she’d been punched in the gut. ‘I … didn’t know …’

  Ames’ brows rose. ‘Would that knowledge have changed anything?’ he asked.

  ‘I …’ Roh stammered.

  ‘What’s done is done.’

  He was right. She’d made her choice; every action had a consequence. Playing that sea-drake hand, it seemed, would have many.

  ‘Am I the first?’ she heard herself ask.

  ‘First what?’

  ‘The first … circlet-wearer to enter the tournament?’

  Ames fiddled with his collar. ‘Yes. Others like you tend to keep to the shadows.’

  ‘But … they won’t know who I am, will they?’ Roh braced herself. They won’t know whose daughter I am, was what she meant. She needed to know what she was about to walk into.

  ‘It’s a bit late to be having second thoughts,’ Ames retorted. Upon seeing her horrified expression, he sighed. ‘No, the competitors and the public won’t know,’ he told her. ‘Here, you are merely a representative of the bone cleaner subsector.’

  As they ascended the levels of Saddoriel, music took hold of Roh entirely and she forgot where she was. Ancient magic flickered in her veins, in her chest, and she closed her eyes against the force of it. It skittered across her skin and —

  There was a loud screech as the pulley system came to a stop. Ames pushed the gates open and gestured for her to follow. ‘This way,’ he snapped, stepping into a brisk walk. ‘You’re not here to sight-see.’

  They had passed under the formidable archway of bones and crossed the entrance when Roh stopped short, her attention wrenched away from Ames and his reprimands. Before them stood the entrance to the Great Hall of Saddoriel. It was a magnificent feat of architecture, even just from the outside. The entrance was shaped like a giant keyhole, with great, thick iron doors, panelled with an array of gleaming white bones. On either side of the doors were marble statues that towered above at least three storeys of the stone galleries. Roh had to crane her neck to see them. The daughters of the water goddess, Lamaka: Dresmis and Thera, the ancestors of the queen; their wings flared outwards, framing the entrance to the hall. Roh felt dazed as she took in the astonishing structure for the very first time. This was the true Saddoriel. This was the definition of cyren magic.

  She was so transfixed that she almost didn’t hear Ames as he said, ‘This is where I leave you.’ But his words pierced her sense of wonderment and the bubble of music that had followed her since she’d stepped foot in the Upper Sector. She didn’t want to acknowledge them. She didn’t know whether it was because of the secret they now shared, or because he was her last tether to normality, and home … When she finally got up the courage to turn away from the face of the Great Hall to bid her mentor farewell, he was already gone.

  Her skin prickled in his absence. Roh tried to rub the goosebumps from her arms as she turned back to the hall and stared at the great statues once more. She shoved her hands in her pockets, unable to shake the chill. She didn’t feel how she’d expected to feel, Roh realised. She had imagined this moment so many times, had yearned for the momentous change that was bound to accompany such a milestone. And yet, nothing came to her. Nothing changed. She was as she had always been, felt as she had always felt. Ordinary. Average. And there was not a single hint of her deathsong within.

  Roh adjusted the strap of her rucksack, willing herself to move —

  Someone collided with her shoulder. The drastic light change within the hall had her blinking rapidly before she could focus on the stocky figure beside her. The first thing Roh saw was the sharp zigzag line shaved into the side of the cyren’s head. She stifled a gasp.

  ‘I’d watch where you’re going in here,’ the Jaktaren said, her lilac gaze cool, framed by unusually pale lashes.

  Roh swallowed. It was the cyren she’d spotted in the galleries at the queen’s announcement, a sling and a pouch of stones still belted at her waist. ‘I …’ Roh fumbled for words, not quite able to believe she was standing face to face with a member of Saddoriel’s most revered guild.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ the Jaktaren ground out, her brow knitted in a scowl worthy of Harlyn.

  ‘Sorry,’ Roh muttered, moving aside.

  Without another word, the Jaktaren swept past her.

  Roh stared after her in awe. When she had first learned of the guild as a nestling, she’d envisioned joining one day, shaving a zigzag through her own hair and searching the vast realms above for music worthy of Saddoriel. That was before she’d found out that the Jaktaren were all highborn.

  The others aren’t going to believe this, she thought, as she too stepped inside.

  Like much of Saddoriel, the Great H
all was cylindrical, but that was where the similarities ended. It was not a hall in a traditional sense, not in the way Roh had imagined it to be: with big square rooms and a stage. Below the unguarded stone bridge she was standing on was a bottomless drop. Her gaze followed the path that led from the entrance doors to a vast platform in the centre. As she looked, Roh suddenly felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. One wrong step and she would plummet to her death, down into a deadly gorge in the dark depths of the lair. Below and above her were rail-less arching bridges that crossed to the galleries. Further above, great domes released beams of enchanted sunlight into the hall, and Roh’s gaze followed the shafts of golden light upwards. It was so realistic; she could just about feel the warmth of the sun kissing her skin. She relished it, promising herself that one day, she would see the real sun and bask in its rays in the realms above.

  Roh turned slowly on the balls of her feet, wary of the edge of the bridge. There was so much to see here. Upon the curved ceilings of the domes were great murals: paintings created with enchanted seagrass to make the art glimmer and its subjects’ eyes seem to follow its viewer. The murals told stories of cyren history, of their beginnings as winged gods with powerful songs. They showed the creation of the Tome of Kyeos – the all-knowing book enchanted by the first water warlock, and the rule of their first king, Taaldin the Great. As a nestling, Roh had heard tales about the famous book: the all-seeing tome that wrote itself and documented every detail of cyren history. She had dreamed of taking it in her hands and finding her mother’s name within its pages, finally learning what she had always longed to know.

  The scenes of epic, bloody history brought Roh back to her humble reality, as did the immensity of the hall itself. Here, in this great cavern, she was small, insignificant against all that had already come to pass. And yet, she hoped to somehow matter.

  The quiet shuffle of slippered feet reminded Roh she was not alone. Dark shadows swept across the bridges as patterned silk robes fluttered along with hushed whispers. There were eleven other cyrens. Most of them were of full maturity, their lilac eyes bright with cunning as they scrutinised her. Their gazes sought her eyes – moss-green – before landing on her circlet. In her daze of admiration, Roh had wandered out to the centre of the bridge, while the other competitors had kept to the edges of the entrance. It left her exposed, vulnerable. For a moment, she saw herself through their eyes: a fledgling cyren from the Lower Sector with no allies or obvious strengths – definitely a target.

  She forced herself to join the company at the doors. The female Jaktaren and competitors, marked as nobles by their jewelled belts, shifted away from her. Roh steeled herself against the slight. There would be more of that before the day was done. And at the end of the tournament, they would be sorry.

  ‘Rohesia?’ said a timid voice.

  Roh turned to find Neith, a scrawny water-runner fledgling, peering hopefully at her. Roh recognised her as one of the cyrens who shared their common bathing chamber in the Lower Sector.

  Roh’s chest became tight. ‘Neith? I didn’t know you were competing?’

  The delicate water runner came to stand beside her. ‘It wasn’t my idea,’ she replied, nervously surveying the competitors around them.

  ‘What?’ Roh took a step closer to Neith, who had hugged her arms tightly around herself. Roh stopped short of putting her own arm around the fledgling’s shoulder, conflicted by the realisation that Neith’s visible fear comforted her in some dark, selfish way.

  ‘None of the water runners wanted to enter. Understandably,’ Neith sniffed. ‘You know what happens at these things, don’t you?’

  Roh nodded stiffly. ‘As much as I can know … So, you were forced to enter?’ The notion that a subsector had failed to find a willing competitor while the bone cleaners had fought over their place was ludicrous. It could have been Orson or Harlyn standing beside Roh now …

  Before Neith could answer, a high-pitched squeaking echoed through the hall.

  ‘What’s that?’ the water runner asked, her talon trembling as she pointed.

  Roh followed her gaze to see several porters wheeling a large structure covered in a dark sheet from the far side of the hall across the narrow bridge. They were panicked, shouting to each other as they dragged their cargo across, watching it sway precariously near the edges. When they reached the platform in the middle and placed blocks of wood behind the wheels, there was an audible sigh of relief. Whatever it was, it was half the size of the workshop in the Lower Sector.

  ‘Is it some sort of weapon?’ Roh muttered, mainly to herself. But as the words left her mouth, she found herself confronted with a hard lilac stare from afar. There was no mistaking the chestnut hair and glimmering scales at the temples of Finn Haertel, the arms of his crossbow peeking from behind his back. Another arms-bearing Jaktaren.

  Roh looked away, pretending she’d accidentally met his gaze while casually scanning the faces of the other competitors. They were all here now, she realised with a start. Saddoriel’s most cunning, most ambitious cyrens … Well, except for Neith.

  Anticipation was clear on each and every face in small tells: pursed lips, protracted talons, shifting slippered feet and furrowed brows … Roh found small comfort in those details; none of them, it seemed, knew what was to come, or what awaited them beneath the folds of that thick, dark fabric.

  The music changed. What had been a quiet melody delicately toying with the ancient magic of the hall became sharper. A tighter, louder verse began, drawing everyone’s attention to the far side of the hall once more. There, an elaborate pair of double doors swung open soundlessly, and from the shadows, the great Council of Seven Elders appeared. They stepped into the hall, each of their postures perfect, their robes of the deepest, darkest blue, cinched at the waist with silver cording. What little exposed skin showed was adorned with silver cuffs and rings, while a small serpent coiled around one of the shorter elder’s arms. The music that filled the hall narrowed in on them, as though it were drawn to the magic, the knowledge and power the elders possessed. Roh recognised Taro and Bloodwyn Haertel at the apex of the group. Taro shared the same square jaw as his son, while Bloodwyn’s hard gaze was even more terrifying. The fair-haired duo led their fellow elders across the narrow bridge, robes billowing, to the platform at the heart of the hall.

  There was no sign of the queen. Roh craned her neck, searching the galleries above for their legendary ruler, hoping to catch another glimpse of those great wings and the coral crown. Where is she? Surely she wouldn’t miss the official start to her own tournament?

  One of the elders stepped forward, palms upturned towards the competitors. Roh couldn’t recall his name.

  ‘Come, competitors,’ he said, his voice cutting through the building melody around them.

  The nobles were the first to move, clearly familiar with the cyrens standing before them. Roh and Neith followed them across the bridge in silence and came to the platform warily.

  ‘I am Erdites Colter.’ The elder’s voice was gravelly, and as he looked down to his pockets, retrieving a scroll, Roh saw that a zigzag pattern had been shaved into his hair on the right side of his head. ‘I oversee the Law of the Lair,’ he continued, surveying them with violet eyes and unravelling the parchment. And the Jaktaren, Roh recalled Jesmond telling them. His eyes were … strange. Roh had never seen a mature cyren with eyes any colour other than lilac.

  Elder Colter cleared his throat. ‘You are the competitors the subsectors of Saddoriel have selected as their representation. I welcome you to the official orientation of the Queen’s Tournament. The rules are brief but exact: first, the tournament consists of three individual trials. However, it is not solely confined to these trials. It will take place within three moonspan – ninety days or less, for those inept with numbers.’

  Roh swore Elder Colter’s gaze paused on her and Neith as he spoke. She cursed him silently. She may have been a bone cleaner, but she knew damn well how to count.

  ‘Eac
h competitor will be given rooms in the Upper Sector. These will be the only space where the common Laws of the Lair protect you. You will learn of the trials as they occur. The first trial is the day after tomorrow and will be held in the outer forests of Talon’s Reach.’

  Roh had heard of these enchanted water forests that acted as the lungs of the lair; they pushed air throughout Saddoriel and greater Talon’s Reach. And she was going to see them.

  Elder Colter was still speaking. ‘You are required to sign an entry contract. When I call you, please come forward and sign next to your name.’

  Roh’s mouth went dry. In the past, she had never minded speaking before a group, or standing at the front of the workshop, but this … She gazed upon the Council of Seven Elders, their severe expressions unreadable, their sheer presence utterly intimidating. This was different.

  Elder Colter cleared his throat again. ‘Finn Haertel.’

  Finn strode forward, impeccably clean and straight-backed. He bowed swiftly to the council and then went to the small table Roh had failed to notice behind Elder Colter. Though the supposed contract was thick with pages, Finn made no move to even scan its contents. He swiped an extended talon across his wrist without so much as a flinch and signed the parchment in his own blood.

  Roh stared. What an … Her thoughts trailed off as she watched him rejoin the group and readjust his sleeve to cover the small cut.

  ‘Yrsa Ward,’ Elder Colter called.

  Another offspring of the council elders. Roh’s skin prickled as the Jaktaren she’d run into earlier stepped forward with a bow. She was one of the few cyrens who wore her hair short. Her dark locks, cropped straight at her shoulders, swayed as she followed Finn’s example, signing her name in blood.