Ambergate

by Patricia Elliott

  Nate had shown me the words of the nuptial service, so they seemed almost familiar when I heard the Facilitator speak them in his deep, gentle voice.

  “My Lord Protector, Members of the Ministration, we are here today to witness a marriage, as the Birds of the heavens witnessed the first marriage of all, between the Robin and the Wren, who sit on either side of the Almighty…”

  As his introduction went on, the Bird Keeper came in and placed the Cages on the table: the Robin in one and the Wren in the other. My eyes went to those poor little captive birds, half-dead lumps of feathers huddled on the floors of their cages, dazzled by candlelight into a state of shock. Even sacred birds, it seemed, suffered from fear. For indication of a good marriage it is said they burst into song after the vows, but a human singer is always provided should they not do so.

  The words of that old song “Who Killed Cock Robin?” began to run around my head in the most macabre way. “I,” said the sparrow, “with my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin.”

  The musicians had stopped playing. Caleb, the Cock Robin, would be the first to take his vows.

  Leah’s eyes were contemptuous; she didn’t look at Caleb. She didn’t see the malice in his sidelong glance at her. In the darkness I bent and took the dagger from my boot and held it behind my back.

  Then, unexpectedly, as the Facilitator was about to pronounce the vows for Caleb to repeat, the Lord Protector moved from his seat and strode forward toward the chancel. He left a surprised murmur from the Ministration seated behind him. My heart almost stopped beating. He is coming for me! He knows what I’m holding! The Facilitator stepped hastily to one side, startled from his gravity; the clerics eyed each other in shock. But even as I cowered back, the Protector stepped up to the lectern.

  The great Eagle’s head lowered as he looked briefly, dismissively, at the Divine Book, then regarded his captive audience through the eye slits. There wasn’t a sound throughout the Cathedral.

  He took off the head. A cleric hurried forward to take it, but the Lord Protector waved him away, and gripped the head in one hand. He seemed equally imposing without it. His voice ground through the vast spaces of the ancient building, hitting the stone and coming back.

  “Friends,” he began, “we’re gathered here for the weddin’ of my son to my niece—a family occasion, you might call it. Yet you all know of the rumors concernin’ Leah’s late mother, and, indeed, of the mystery surroundin’ Leah’s time here in the Capital the past three years. When she was found half-drowned, she was clutching the very swanskin that hangs above us.” He paused, so that a hundred feathered heads could look up and regard the swanskin above the altar.

  “We remember the legend of the avia, and some of you may be concerned that the Ministration itself will be sullied by such a marriage, despite the new law allowin’ it. As those of you who remained in the Capital for our recent Councils will know, Leah has declared in writin’ that she is one of that mythical race. She is, indeed, avian.”

  He paused as a muffled gasp of horror went up from some of the pews. Leah’s face was expressionless, her eyes downcast. In the Chapel of the Lark, Erland stirred restlessly, but I could not see his face. The back of the Protector’s bald head turned swiftly from side to side: he was scanning the nave. I studied the bulge of flesh at the top of his neck as his voice grew harsher.

  “Perhaps it is worth repeatin’ my own personal views on this matter to you now, my friends, so that in future they will be your views as well.

  “I believe we have misjudged and misinterpreted the avia through the ages. We have always thought them cursed by their double life—seen it as a punishment for challengin’ the power of God Himself and wishin’ to emulate Him.

  “Yet, what if through this double life the Almighty intended to bestow on them power and grace beyond the reach of ordinary man? My friends, I, your Protector, whose prime consideration is your well-bein’ and that of my country, have come to understand only recently that all my life I’ve misinterpreted the legend of the avia. It is they that have the power, my friends, they who will grant us all salvation. If you marry earthly power with heavenly gifts, then you can achieve no stronger union for the rulin’ of a country. This is what the marriage between my niece, Leah, and my son, Caleb, will achieve.

  “It was when I made a remarkable discovery below us in the crypt of the Cathedral that my views changed. As you know, the crypt had been blocked for many years. No one suspected it was there. Not only does it contain the legendary and priceless treasure of the Capital, the Amber Gate”—he paused, as a murmur of astonishment ran around the congregation—“but also an ancient painted ceiling, whose prophecy will be clear to you, as it was to me when I first saw it. Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends, after this service you will be led down to view these marvels’—he paused again for emphasis—“then you will understand.”

  He moved away from the lectern and bowed to the Facilitator. “Now get on with the nuptials, man,” he muttered. Then he went down the altar steps, the Eagle head under his arm.

  I thought it must have been a good speech, for throughout the Cathedral there was an enthralled and utter silence. The members of the Ministration did not speak or cheer or clap. They were eerily calm and unmoving. But as the Protector returned to the nave, they rose row upon row in their claret robes, and the bird heads lowered in submission. No one would dare question the Lord Protector’s will.

  Leah and Caleb knelt on the silk prayer mats, their heads bowed. Nate nodded to me and we went down to stand on either side, so that we could perform our motet as soon as the couple had taken their vows.

  The girl singer must stand by the man who is to be married. The Cock Robin. I looked at Caleb’s black head, gleaming in the candlelight. Above us the swanskin moved softly, and for a moment Leah looked up and her eyes were desperate. I clutched the dagger tighter; my hand was slippery with sweat. Now! I thought, do it now, while he mutters his vows after the Facilitator and his back is bowed. Yet I was standing in full view of the entire Ministration and the Protector himself, the candles shining behind me. I would surely be stopped before the deed was done!

  Unless I was quick.

  I glanced behind me at the Eagle. I fancied I saw sadness in His damaged eyes.

  The gilded cage was brought before Caleb as he knelt, and the Facilitator took his hand in his and placed it on the top. The robin inside did not stir. “And I, Caleb Grouted, do swear…”

  “… By the love I bear the Eagle and the first among His Heavenly Company, the Robin…,” said the Facilitator, with a touch of reproof.

  Caleb repeated the words in a mutter: “… to keep the words I have uttered pure unto my death-day.”

  And then it was Leah’s turn, and still I had not acted. The Facilitator waited, but she did not speak. “I, Leah Tunstall, do take thee, Caleb Grouted…” He gave her the first line.

  Her mouth opened; everyone in the Cathedral waited for her to speak. In the shadowy chapel, I saw the pale gleam of the Messenger’s silk coat.

  Leah’s gaze caught mine.

  Behind my back I slipped the dagger from its sheath.

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  But now that the moment had come, I could not do it.

  I blinked—perhaps I gave a tiny sound—for Leah looked at me again, her mouth still open to speak. But then my hand unclenched of its own doing.

  With a dreadful clatter, I dropped the dagger on the stone.

  But no one heard it. At that moment there was a commotion by the main door, and two soldiers burst in, dragging a man between them who swore and bellowed like a maddened animal.

  The bird heads of the Ministration craned around at the noise. The Facilitator stood frozen at the second interruption to his service. Whispering arose in the choir stalls and among the musicians. Quickly, I looked around for the dagger. It had slid beneath the nearest musician’s chair.

  The soldiers restrained the struggling man by the door, and an officer hurried forward to speak to M
ather. I caught sight of the prisoner’s furious face, the hacked gold hair, bright protruding eyes. It was Titus Molde, his hat knocked off and without the sack he’d been carrying.

  “Sir, this man has been found loitering outside,” said the officer to Mather, his voice ringing in the silence.

  “You know who he is?” said Mather. His voice carried back to the altar steps. “One of the rebel leaders. You’ve done well. Take him away.”

  Molde yelled something that was cut off abruptly as the soldiers half-carried him out. A blast of heat hit us as the doors opened and closed.

  In the front pew the Lord Protector was unruffled.

  “Molde captured, eh? An excellent augury coming today, Mather.”

  It was then I knew I was reprieved. My understanding of things turned a somersault in my poor mazed mind. Molde—a rebel leader? I could scarce grasp it after so long believing him to be a soldier. I was free of his impossible bargain at last. How long had I known I would never be able to kill another human being? Perhaps from the very first. Murder was surely the greatest wrong of all.

  But if I was reprieved, Leah was not.

  “On with the ceremony, then, Master Facilitator,” called the Protector, and he settled himself more comfortably. “Let’s hear my niece’s vows.”

  The officer said something to Mather in an undertone; they had a hasty conversation while the Facilitator waited for silence.

  “What now? Why the delay?” growled the Lord Protector irritably. He’d not replaced the Eagle head, and I could see him glare about him.

  Mather bent to whisper. The Protector shook his head. “No! Let ‘em deal with it!” He shoutec across to the Facilitator. “Hurry up, man!”

  The officer hurried back down the aisle. The soldiers guarding the West doors murmured like a restless wind and the murmur was taken up by the others in the shadows behind the arches. As Mather slipped away to deal with them, the Protector ignored the whispering; he jerked his head impatiently at the Facilitator.

  The Facilitator repeated the first of the marriage vows to Leah, his voice shaking a little. “I, Leah Tunstall, do take thee, Caleb Grouted…”

  Leah bowed her head. Caleb shot her a glance of pure venom. Then Leah spoke at last, her voice reedy and thin, like the wail of a drowning soul. “I, Leah Tunstall, do take thee…”

  She never finished. With a high sound like the ripping of silk, the swanskin began to split. Along the length of the golden pole the tear grew. Every person in the Cathedral saw it. They stared, motionless, as feathers flew loose and, caught in the down-drafts from the roof, eddied and swirled in all directions.

  The swanskin was rent from end to end. It dropped heavily through the air.

  I started back as it swept past my head, almost touching my hair, narrowly missing the candle flames. A gasp went up. Someone screamed in the choir stalls.

  A figure was struggling on the stone floor at the bottom of the altar steps, writhing beneath the skin, fighting through the feathers. One hand clawed at the floor, clawed at Leah, who drew back, ashen-faced; the other hand brushed frantically at mouth and nose.

  Caleb was trapped. The Protector and the Ministration could not see him, for the musicians’ stands hid him from their view, but the Facilitator, the clerics, all those in the chancel, stared down in horror. No one wanted to touch a skin that had belonged to a member of the avia.

  I shook Nate’s hand away; I moved quickly, with no thought. In one movement I threw the swanskin off Caleb, and was astonished. There was no weight to it at all.

  He lay, sobbing for breath. He was scarce a man at all at that moment. I wasn’t sure why I’d freed him.

  Leah clutched the ruined swanskin to her breast. She looked around wildly. “Erland?”

  “Hush!” I whispered. But I could no longer see him in the Chapel of the Lark.

  “Are you recovered, Sir?” called the Facilitator to Caleb, who was sitting up and swearing most vilely to himself—oaths that I alone could hear.

  “No, I am not!” he shouted back. “That thing”—pointing to the swanskin—“nearly killed me! What fools hung it? I shall have their guts!”

  “Should we get back into our positions?” said Nate nervously to the Facilitator. The Protector was standing up, would be coming to rally his son, to bully the Facilitator into continuing the service. With a resigned expression, the Facilitator watched Porter Grouted—Lord Protector and Controller of the Church—step from his pew and march forward.

  The muttering from the soldiers that had been silenced by the rending of the swanskin arose again, louder, more urgent. An officer ran up the nave toward the Lord Protector as he began to weave determinedly through the musicians’ stands toward the chancel. A yell went up from the entrance: meaningless, filled with fear.

  The Ministration stirred as they heard it, the bird heads turned toward each other. The Lord Protector stopped where he was, his face like thunder. He turned, sending vellum sheets of music flying. The officer said something, the Protector thrust him off.

  But the members of the Ministration were rising, taking off their bird heads. Some were pushing others to get out of the pews, had even left the heads behind. I caught a glimpse of a woman’s white face, streaked where sweat had run down through the powder. Mather was trying to get through them, to reach the Protector. I could see Chance running hither and thither to Mather with messages for him, orders for the officers.

  “What on earth is happening?” said Nate, dazed.

  And then I understood. We all did up by the altar. The smell had reached us by then: no longer the fragrance of the incense burners, but now the faint but unmistakable smell of smoke drifted through the chill air of the Cathedral.

  The Facilitator tried to keep his composure. “I advise you not to move until we know what exactly is happening,” he said quietly to the Chief Cleric.

  Nate gripped my arm. “There must be a fire somewhere!” he whispered.

  “Where?” I said, bewildered, for how could a stone building catch fire?

  “The scaffolding outside, I think.” He put out his hand to Leah, who still held the swanskin to her. “Miss Leah, your safety must take first priority…”

  “Oh, fiddlesticks! My life’s not worth saving.”

  Caleb scrambled to his feet. “Well, mine is. My life’s more valuable than hers, you numbskull. I’m the son of the Lord Protector. Where’s Papa? Are they putting the fire out?”

  “I’m sure it’s being dealt with, Master Caleb,” said the Facilitator.

  Through the agitation of the musicians there were glimpses of the Protector surrounded by bodyguards and anxious members of the Ministration. The noise came to us from a long way away, as if across a rough sea. Some of the musicians’ stands swayed and toppled as the musicians rose to their feet in panic; sheets of music floated to the floor. Someone slipped, causing further commotion. The choristers were rising, leaving the stalls in a flood, jostling down the side aisles.

  “What should we do, Nate?” I said.

  The calm of the Facilitator was disappearing. “My dear brothers in God, colleagues…” he protested as the other officiating clergy broke from their line behind the altar table and began to cluster in small agitated groups. In their cages the birds began to flutter wildly. The Bird Keeper fussed around them, crooning in a high voice.

  “We should put out the candles as a precaution,” said the Facilitator.

  “Let me do it, Master,” said a young cleric. He fetched the long candle-snuffer from somewhere behind the altar table.

  The Facilitator picked up a candle, stepped up to the lectern, and raised his voice strongly.

  “Fellow men and women, let us fall on our knees and pray forgiveness for our sins, lest our lives be cut short without the Last Words. Let us pray for courage in this moment of adversity. Let us remember the example of the tiny Wren, who flew through thunder and molten rocks to reach the Eagle’s side and take her place in the peaceful heavens above the sky. Let us k
neel at this moment and beg for her fearlessness.”

  I could see some were kneeling, but most had not heard or were too panicked to pay attention. Leah remained on her feet, her face inscrutable. Nate and I sank to our knees—Nate, I think, to please the Facilitator, but I tried to pray and held my amber. I was not sure it would save me this time; I’d asked so much of it.

  “This is punishment, Master,” shouted an elderly musician. He clutched his long samphrit to his chest as if it too were an amulet. “We have committed sacrilege.”

  A woman in Ministration robes close to the Protector moaned, “We hung up the pelt of an avian, violating His holy place. We gathered to witness a marriage between our Protector’s son and a member of the avia.”

  People turned to glare at Leah; their hatred and fear were tangible. She went paler still, but she did not flinch nor drop the shreds of swanskin. Close to me, two clerics muttered together. “The Protector spoke heresy.”

  “This is retribution sent by the Eagle Himself!” shouted another musician, waving his sheet music.

  The Lord Protector held up a hand. It was enough to stop the voices, at least near the chancel. His voice carried easily, a guttural boom with no trace of panic.

  “My friends. I gather this is the work of the rebel, Titus Molde, who was arrested earlier. A sack of kindling has been found. He must have managed to fire the scaffolding outside the main entrance before he was arrested. However, there is another way out of the Cathedral, through the north door. If you allow the soldiers to guide you, you will find yourself escorted safe outside.”

  There was a sudden blast of heat as one of the west doors began to char on the inside. Flickers of flame ran up the sides. A horrible shriek pierced through the Cathedral: someone had been standing too close.

  Even on the altar steps I felt the heat touch us like the searching of a blind finger. Then the last of the candles on the altar steps was snuffed out, and for a moment I could see nothing.