She cleared her throat. ‘The King wishes to know how much grain is taken from Tev for the drizen?’
‘Well, now, just let me check, these records are very complex, it can be difficult at times…’ Toad-man shuffled through the papers before him, a flush rising from his neck into his cheeks like the gradual ripening of a fruit in the summer.
‘The answer?’ Aderon said.
‘I believe it would be twenty-three kenning? Perhaps as much as twenty-four…’
But that does not leave enough for the Tevi should darkness fall.
Orla repeated the King’s words.
‘But according to the Brethren, the God Assayn will prevent…’
The King spluttered in outrage, and Estredik let his words die away unfinished.
No. Last Kal there were so few kennings remaining that the Tevi were forced to dig hard tubers from the ground and soak them to leach out the poisons before beating them and soaking them again and then turning them into the hardest and least nutritious bread you can imagine. Twenty-three kennings gone will see people starving.
Orla spoke as the King thought.
No more grain from Tev, you must notify the Brethren. If they wish to serve their damned God on our islands, they may bring their own bread to eat while they do it. I will not have my people hungry on their account.
Toad-man lowered his head, face now beetroot-red, and muttered some sounds of agreement.
‘We shall continue this discussion next week,’ Aderon said. ‘Bring all the records for each of the islands. The King shall wish to examine them in detail.’
‘Of course, my Lord,’ Toad-man bowed to the King, and lowered himself onto one knee making the customary gesture requesting release of audience.
Tell the fat idiot to get out of my rooms.
‘You may go,’ Orla said.
‘I shall escort him,’ Roland said, and opened the door.
Toad-man left looking pained and ill and Roland followed him out.
‘He is terrified,’ Aderon said once the door was closed once more, a hint of humour lifting his voice.
As he should be. The terms of the Treaty were agreed to bind all parties, to ensure that our relationship would be based on fairness, would be one that could be sustained without too great a cost. And this is what has been done in my absence?
‘This and much besides, I fear,’ Aderon said. ‘I have the reply from the He’kam, my Lord,’ Aderon drew a sealed manuscript from within his cloak.
You have not opened it?
‘It is addressed to you,’ Aderon said.
Read it.
Orla sat quietly as Aderon broke the seal, releasing the sweetly ringing tone that was contained within. The Uruhenshi, for all their forbidding of beauty, created exquisite tonal seals.
Orla glanced at the document as Aderon spread it on the table before them.
‘They agree to the meeting,’ he said quickly.
And?
‘That is all. It is… brief.’
Terse, the King corrected. Impolite even.
‘That is their way. They believe directness is a virtue, and that excessive expressions of politeness are an affront to their God.’
The King made a sound which might have been a laugh.
Orla glanced at the manuscript. It was indeed brief, a simple few lines, and then a listing of names of the Uruhenshi delegation that would attend with the High Commander.
She froze. For a moment she didn’t trust her vision.
In the middle of the list was a name: Piroxi.
She saw him towering over Merryn, tying her wrists painfully tight behind her. She felt herself being kicked by one of his men as she lay on the ground, helpless and injured. She saw him regarding her like she was an insect crawled out of some dank hole, something to be tortured without thought before being disposed of without care. She saw him ordering the execution of that man right before her eyes.
He was the one. He was the one who was responsible for her sister’s death.
A white-hot rage filled her. She hardly heard the King asking about the timing for the meeting, requesting that one of the Lesser Halls be readied for their arrival.
Piroxi was coming. He was coming here, to Kir-Enkerelan. He would arrive in less than a week.
Chapter thirty-nine
When she returned to her chambers she found a message waiting for her from Galed’s daughter, Lyria. She invited Orla to join herself and Galed for dinner that evening in their quarters. Orla winced. She was honoured by the invitation but she could not accept it. Her stomach churned and her mind was consumed with dark and bitter memories. She could not eat, even less make polite conversation. She needed to think, to plan. There was work to do.
She sent a politely-worded apology with one of the guards, and settled herself by the window to think.
✤
It came to her in the middle of the night. Roland’s words, when he had stood beside her as the Council deliberated over her guilt with regard to the matter of the snake:
There are dozens of substances that could be extracted just from the medicinal gardens alone that, if treated correctly, could kill…
It was like a message, intended for her hearing.
Poison. She would be there, at the side of the King. She would have access to whatever was served as food and drink. It should be easy enough: create a distraction, drop in the poison. Of course, she might come under immediate suspicion once Piroxi fell ill, but she didn’t care. She didn’t need to survive. She just had to make him pay for what he’d done to Merryn, to her.
Now her main concern was whether she’d have enough time to ready what she needed.
Joseph had taught her about the uses of various plants and how to extract and concentrate the active substances within their bark or leaves or flowers. The gardens were not out of bounds to her, not with Farlin so happy to accompany her on her daily strolls at any rate. The silver-bearded guardsman seemed to have taken a liking to her that went beyond just their shared heritage of birth on Ekenshi. But still, she had to be careful. If he noticed her collecting too much of one particular plant he could become suspicious.
✤
The next day they walked, as had become their custom, just before the midday meal when the sun was not yet at its full height. Orla asked Farlin about his family and his memories of childhood in Erek, a small fishing village on the western coast of Ekenshi, a place she’d never been to. Once he began speaking he did not seem in any hurry to stop. He told her of his parents, hard-working fishers who bore the scars of too many years of wind and salt water and sharp hooks. He told of his five sisters – he was the only son – who by turns tormented and coddled him. He told of days spent scrambling barefoot on the rocks that were exposed when the tide went out, searching the pools for crabs and shellfish and weed for eating, as well as for whatever beautiful or remarkable things could be found there, and there was always something beautiful or remarkable.
As he spoke Orla nodded, asked the occasional question, gave every indication that her fullest attention was occupied by his reminiscences as she guided them slowly, and she hoped indiscernibly, towards the medicinal gardens. She scanned the rows of plants carefully as they strolled. Many of the plants she recognised from Joseph’s patient schooling:
White-thistle, heather-brush, mishi-kin, red-wort…
She sounded the names in her mind like old friends come to visit.
She spotted a low, dark-leaved bush with small white flowers and a scattering of purple berries. Satrien. The berries could be brewed into a tea that was a powerful sedative. A concentrated dosage might render a person unconscious. Too much would stop their breathing.
It was a possibility, she thought, though she was not sure how effective it would be. Joseph had instructed her carefully how to make a safe dosage of the stuff, so she wasn’t certain what would happen if she deliberately tried to make it unsafe.
‘That’s a pretty flower,’ she said lightly, hoping Farli
n would still be too taken with his own story to pay her much attention. ‘Do you think they’d mind if I took some for my bedside?’
‘Let me get some for you, my lady,’ the old guard said kindly, and took the small knife from his belt and bent and cut a few branches.
There were flowers and berries both, not more than a handful, but it would do for a start, Orla thought.
‘Thank you,’ Orla said.
Farlin smiled. ‘It is my pleasure. Not right that one so young and full of life as yourself should be locked away all day. When I was your age my parents had trouble keeping me indoors any longer than was required to eat my supper. I would have slept under the stars if they’d gave me half a chance.’
‘It is my honour to serve the King,’ Orla said. ‘If I’m doing that I should need nothing else.’
‘But still, good to be able to serve with a light heart, isn’t it? There’s nothing like sunshine and fresh air for lessening the weight of things. Ah, but I suppose we should be getting back.’
✤
She was worried she would not be ready in time, but she could think of no better plan. It would take the full seven days, and that was if she was lucky, to prepare the concentrate. She found a spot to hang the branches to dry beside her window, which she left slightly ajar so the air could circulate. She needed to allow the branches room to breathe, while trying to make them inconspicuous. She didn’t want any questions. She also didn’t want one of the servants thinking it was just some dead plant and throwing it away. She could get more if she had to, certainly, but the time was the thing that could not be replaced.
It brought Joseph back to her as she strung the branches up the way he’d showed her, looping a fine thread around the stems, pulling the leaves off so it was just the spindly twigs and the small hard berries and the soft white flowers. The flowers did not act as powerfully as the berries but they had a calming quality when brewed in a tea, so she thought they were worth keeping as well.
While she continued to go about her daily activities she felt as though she was not quite present; a part of her was up, walking, speaking, eating, but more of her was coiled, waiting, desperately. Waiting to act.
As she sat beside the King she found herself gazing out through the window behind him at the tall ryshuria tree that shaded the room, its heart-shaped leaves creating a gentle dapple of golden light and shade. Was she ready to die, she wondered? What had her life amounted to? Years of scrabbling to survive, trying to protect the ones she loved and failing. Years in hiding, pretending not to be who she was. Now life as a prisoner, her skill dedicated to the service of others, her mouth a voice-piece for information she didn’t understand, decisions that she’d never have any say in.
‘Did the King have any further questions?’ She startled as Aderon laid a hand on her forearm. ‘Orla?’ She had been daydreaming.
She flushed.
‘Your Majesty?’ she asked, and attuned herself once more to his thoughts.
She sensed he was both angry at her lack of concentration – for he was not a man who would stand such a failure – and concerned for her. The concern he would, she guessed, in normal times have kept hidden.
Nothing further. Are you well, child?
She nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I’m quite well.’
Then make sure you bring your brain with you next time you attend me. I spend enough time staring at these bloody walls when you are not here; I do not wish to do it while you are.
‘I’m sorry, my Lord,’ she said again. She felt Aderon’s gaze burning into the back of her neck.
Chapter forty
‘Well?’ he said, as they walked the long corridor together.
‘What?’ she said.
Aderon sighed. ‘Something is clouding you today, my lady. If there is a problem… if there is anything I can assist you with…’
‘I’m sorry, it’s nothing. I think I’m just tired. I’ve been having so much trouble sleeping lately.’
It was true. Since she’d seen Piroxi’s name inscribed in those hard, blocky characters it was as though she hadn’t been able to get him from her mind. Her anger and hatred and longing to inflict pain on the one who took her sister’s life grew stronger, so strong that she could barely sleep, talk, eat.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Aderon said. ‘The King needs you well rested. It is important that you are able to concentrate, to capture fully his thoughts and intentions. This is no small thing, my lady.’
‘I know,’ Orla said, bowing her head.
Then she had an idea.
‘There may be a way you can help me,’ she said slowly. ‘When I was younger, my master taught me how to make a calmative potion. It’s not a sleeping potion, just a brew that helps to settle the mind, to make it receptive to sleep. I have the ingredients I need, I just don’t have the means to prepare them.’
Aderon regarded her. She sensed him weighing the request in his mind, considering the risks. He did not doubt that her need was genuine.
‘I will speak to Feona,’ he offered finally. ‘She may be able to assist.’
Orla’s heart pounded. She recalled the woman who had performed her binding ritual. Her knowledge of herbs had been extensive, and despite her appearance her mind was sharp and discerning. If Feona became involved, she might know or guess that what Orla was preparing was much too powerful to be a simple sleeping potion.
‘Please don’t worry,’ she said quickly. ‘I wouldn’t want to bother her. She has so many important tasks…’
‘You are important, in the scheme of things, Orla. If you need help preparing something to assist your sleep, there is none better than her to help you.’
She could remove the berries, just show Feona the flowers, and see if she can convince the woman to allow her to take the equipment she needed back to her room. It still might work. And if she wasn’t going to be able to prepare the concentrate, she needed to know soon because she would need a new plan anyway.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘I do it for the King, not for you,’ he said, but as a statement of fact and without any unkindness.
Orla nodded.
✤
Feona’s quarters were not in the Palace itself, but in a small ramshackle hut on the outer limits of the grounds of Kir-Enkerelan. Aderon instructed a guard, a man Orla hadn’t seen before, to take her there, and return her directly.
When Feona opened the door, the smell that hit Orla was pungent and sharp and brought back a visceral memory of her binding ceremony. She’d been in a kind of dream-like state when it had been performed, so she struggled to remember any of what had been done or said, but with the smell came a clear recollection of whispered words, of Feona leaning over her, making marks on her forehead, throat and chest, of the way those marks first warmed and then burned as the binding took hold. Orla rubbed her head now at the memory of it.
‘Come in, child,’ Feona said, and opened the door wide to her. Orla stepped inside. The room was not the precise, well-ordered space she had imagined it would be, but a dim and pungent chaos of piled dried leaves and hanging bulbs, stacks of unwashed glass vessels, unlabelled jars of various coloured liquids sitting on the floor. Joseph would have a fit if he saw this, Orla thought. In making distillations, he’d always taught her that precision and cleanliness were everything.
‘I did not expect to see you again,’ the woman said, and smiled.
‘Aderon suggested I visit you. I’m having trouble sleeping. I brought some satrien flowers. I was hoping to distil them.’
‘If Aderon requests it, it shall be done. But first we should have some tea, don’t you think? It is a rare occasion that I receive a visitor, though it may surprise you to hear.’ The woman gave a laugh that was deep and full.
Orla smiled. After the strictures and formalities of the Palace there was something freeing about seeing Feona. Her hair was a wild tangle of grey and her skin was wrinkled and blotched with age. She wore a dress of deep purple with heavy work
boots. And she stomped about the room as though she were trying to prevent somebody below her from ever getting any sleep.
Orla slid onto the stool that Feona indicated for her, and waited while the woman cleared debris away from the table, making space for a pot and two sturdy mugs.
‘Just standard tea, not to worry. I know it looks like I could be brewing anything up, but I can assure you I’m a traditionalist when it comes to the pot.’
‘Thank you,’ Orla said, as Feona slid a mug across to her.
She took a breath. For a moment, it was as though this room she was in had dissolved and she was back beside Joseph on an icy winter’s morning. It was the same brew he always drank: black and sweet and smoky.
‘So, I see they haven’t killed you yet,’ Feona said darkly.
Orla looked up, startled, but she sensed no ill-intent. ‘Not for lack of trying,’ she responded. ‘But I have no intentions of dying in the next week at least.’
Feona sipped at her drink loudly.
Orla thought of the coming week, of the arrival of Piroxi and what would follow it, and a rush of energy moved through her.
‘So, tell me about the binding,’ she said. ‘If you’re allowed to, that is. How does it work? What does it mean?’
‘Ah, now, the binding is old magic. The oldest really. When the very first ships travelled through the Turmoil to reach the Archipelago, deep spells were cast to hold the knots tight, to keep the hulls intact, to strengthen the bonds between those who travelled to stop them from gutting each other before they reached sight of land. This was before the discovery of the Ashkar trees of course, and the Ashkarai. To travel through the Turmoil using vessels constructed of any old timber would have been insanity, suicide, without the bindings to hold them.’
Orla took another deep swallow of her tea.
‘It has become more abstract, over time, as so often happens. But the principles remain. To hold one thing to another, with greater force than would occur in nature. In your case, to hold you, Orla, to your purpose, which is to truly serve as Reader to your King.’
The Dying Flame Page 19