by Sarah Ash
‘Even the orchestral parts –’
‘You mustn’t upset yourself, caru. You must think beautiful thoughts to aid your recovery. Then, when you’re better, we’ll find a way to restore what’s been lost.’
‘All gone…’ Khassian whispered.
Orial checked the schedules for the week ahead, scanning to see when she had been assigned to look after the composer Amaru Khassian.
Not once.
It was as if her father had deliberately left her out, restricting her work to the treatment baths and massage room – even the laundry. What did he fear? That if she were to tend Khassian she would be infected with his music, that it might seep on to her skin as she changed the dressings on his wounds? Or did he suspect Cramoisy – who spent a large part of every day at Khassian’s bedside – of wanting to talk about Iridial with her?
‘Why?’ she whispered.
Her mother’s death cast a long, chill shadow over her life. But she had learned long ago, with the stoicism of childhood, not to ask questions.
‘You must not distress your papa. You must not worry him…’
The unanswered questions still haunted her. As if her mother’s death had not been hard enough to bear, the silence surrounding it had made it worse. To this day, no one would talk about it. And, for want of the truth, Orial had begun to spin strange and morbid fantasies to fill the void. Sometimes she even convinced herself that Iridial had not died at all but had fallen in love with a stranger and run away with him.
And then she remembered the dismal funeral procession to the Undercity, the still, stiff form shrouded in white silk, the lapping of the deathdark waters, the slow, sad chanting of the mourners. She remembered casting white petals on to the waters. Papa on his knees at the edge of the reservoir, a sudden scuffle, people fighting to hold him, his voice raised, crying her name to the dark echoing vaults, as if calling could bring her back –
‘Iridial! Iridial! Iridial!’
Fragments.
Fragments that did not make sense.
I will not be treated like a little child. I’m old enough to know for myself I’m old enough to talk to whomsoever I please.
She took up the schedule and set off purposefully down the corridor towards her father’s office. Hand raised to knock, she paused, hearing voices within.
She did not mean to eavesdrop. But she heard her name.
‘I wish to apologise if I have seemed somewhat abrupt, Diva. It’s just that I have the child’s best interests at heart.’
‘Child?’ A smile coloured Cramoisy’s voice. ‘She’s eighteen, Doctor. A young woman.’
‘Orial knows nothing. And I want it to stay that way.’
‘Don’t you feel she has a right to know?’
‘She is very precious to me, Diva. And I will do everything in my power to prevent any possible… recurrence. Do you understand me?’
Recurrence? Of what?
There was a silence. Orial drew away from the door, fearing she would be caught. But then she heard Cramoisy say, ‘I’m not sure I do understand you, Doctor.’
‘As soon as the Illustre Khassian is well enough to be moved, I want you to remove him from my Sanatorium. I would be grateful if you would make the necessary arrangements.’
The stillness of the Undercity wrapped about Orial like a dark shawl. At last she could be alone with her questions. But when she entered Iridial’s shrine, she saw a sheath of ivory lilies strewn on the memorial plinth. Their rich scent perfumed the dank air, Orial could almost taste their perfume on her tongue. It was too early for lilies to be flowering in the fields; these expensive blooms were as rare as those adorning the Illustre’s room in the Sanatorium. Cramoisy. He must have returned to the Undercity to pay his own tribute to the memory of his teacher.
Orial wandered around the shrine, unable to settle. Her secret place had been discovered, her privacy disturbed. After a while she reached behind the shrine plinth and lifted out the cithara from its hiding place, carefully unwrapping it.
The strings needed tuning… but once Orial’s fingers set to work the music flowed and the problems of the past few days receded. Receded for a little while… for soon the thought insinuated its way into her mind that this strumming of her self-composed melodies was terribly amateur. There was so much she hungered to learn. The coming of Cramoisy Jordelayne and Amaru Khassian – real musicians – only served to remind her of her own limited training.
The cithara slipped into her lap, the strings’ gilded reverberations slowly shimmered to silence.
‘What should I do?’ she said to the darkness. Her father’s prohibition seemed so blindly, needlessly cruel. Had he any idea how much her secret pastime meant to her?
As Orial emerged from the Undercity by the upper gate into the late-afternoon light, she took a swift glance from side to side to check no one had seen her. The sun was dipping towards the west beyond the enfolding hills; clear light lit the winding streets, terraces and crescents below her, gilding the soft sandstone, warming it to a rosy pink. She shivered a little as she stood at the iron railings, breath caught in a moment out of time. She loved the ancient city. Its fashions might seem quaint to outsiders, its customs outmoded, even bizarre… but she would not have exchanged it to live anywhere else – not even opulent Bel’Esstar.
… two travellers… foreigners…?’
The distant voices penetrated her reverie. She looked around, wondering who was asking about foreigners. Few people were about; the more sprightly promenaders on the upper walks had already vanished, eager, no doubt, to attend the tea dance in the Assembly Rooms.
Further along the steep railings she saw that a tall man, plainly clad in a dark travelling cloak, had stopped the lamplighter who was lighting the upper links.
She came a little closer, planning to snatch a glimpse of the man’s face as she passed by.
‘Travellers come here every day. Strangers such as yourself, sieur,’ the lamplighter was saying.
‘One has red hair. Dyed to an unusual shade. Bright crimson.’
Crimson! Orial willed herself to keep walking. Mustn’t draw attention to myself.
The lamplighter was shaking his head.
‘Can’t say as I remember, sieur.’
Who was he, this stranger? Orial risked a quick sideways glance and caught a brief impression of a stern face framed by long steel-grey hair. No other identifying features, no rings, no badge of office; dark clothes that betrayed nothing of the wearer’s nationality or occupation.
Who is he? Suppose he stops me and asks me? I always blush when I lie. I would betray them –
In sudden confusion, she gathered up her skirts and began to run.
‘And how are you feeling today, Illustre?’
Khassian could sense a distinct lack of warmth in the doctor’s enquiry.
‘You don’t like me, do you, Dr Magelonne?’
‘I’m a physician. I treat all my patients alike.’ Dr Magelonne busied himself with snipping open the loose gauze dressings. ‘Whether I find them sympathetic or not is irrelevant.’
Khassian winced as the last of the dressings was eased away. He had been enduring this unpleasant process now every two hours. He had endured it only because the stark reality of his situation was that, if he wished to save his hands, there was no alternative.
‘Hm. This looks a little better than it did. A little cleaner.’
Khassian risked a glance, only to look away. The oozing mess of raw flesh and scar tissue in no way resembled anything that could be described as ‘better’ in his vocabulary.
‘Tell me, Doctor. What – what is the prognosis?’
‘When it comes to burns, I am not in the business of prognostication, Illustre. All I can offer you here is a programme of exercise for the joints and muscles if all has knitted back together satisfactorily. We provide the very best treatment here: hot mineral mud to ease muscles in spasm, exercise in and out of the warm spa waters. But I can in no way guarantee what t
he outcome may be.’
‘I see,’ Khassian said. In reality he did not see at all; his mind was a red, raging inferno. Somewhere beyond the terror of flames, he still screamed aloud, ‘My hands, my hands!’ as beams crashed down into the auditorium and clouds of smoke billowed up to choke him.
‘And now I would like to ask you a question.’
Khassian gazed at the strange, claw-like appendages attached to his wrists where his hands used to be, slender hands, musician’s hands, long-fingered and graceful…
‘A question?’ He tried to wrench his concentration back to their conversation.
‘Did you know someone has been asking for you?’ Dr Magelonne was washing his hands in a bowl, shaking the water off, meticulously drying each finger on a linen towel.
‘Asking… for me? What manner of someone?’
‘I’ll be frank with you, Illustre. I have my other patients’ wellbeing to consider as well as yours. If there is any likelihood of trouble –’
‘Trouble? I don’t quite follow…’
Dr Magelonne sat down in the button-backed chair at Khassian’s bedside. Yet he did not relax, his whole body seemed tense.
‘Look at it from my perspective, Illustre. Two fugitives arrive at my Sanatorium, on the run from a repressive regime in the country beyond our borders. They ask me to heal them, shelter them. Don’t you think they owe me some kind of explanation if my generosity is likely to endanger my other patients?’
Khassian sighed and lay back on the pillows.
‘Do you have papers, permissions, identification? How did you get past the border guards?’
‘No papers… there was no time, Doctor. If friends had not smuggled us out, we would now be imprisoned, maybe even dead.’
‘You will tell me, of course, that you committed no crime? That you are innocent of all charges?’
‘My crime,’ Khassian said, feeling a stir of anger, ‘was to compose a work which dared to question the practices of the Commanderie. For this they labelled me a heretic. Have I burned down one of their shrines? Have I publicly defiled the holy texts? Have I tried to assassinate the Grand Maistre? Do you know what is really going on in Bel’Esstar, Doctor?’
Dr Magelonne shook his head. His eyes were still guarded, suspicious.
‘Those who dare to speak out against the Commanderie are rounded up and taken away to be “converted”. As a penance these converts are made to work from dawn to dusk on the building of a Fortress of Faith, the Stronghold. Girim nel Ghislain insists Mhir told him “in a vision” that this Stronghold would keep Bel’Esstar safe from the invading Enhirrans.’
Dr Magelonne’s face showed no change of expression. ‘And are the Enhirrans likely to invade?’
‘Ever since the Commanderie took it upon themselves to “liberate” the birthplace of the Poet-prophet Mhir from the Enhirrans, Girim has been predicting a holy war.’
One eyebrow rose slightly. ‘This is all… quite extraordinary.’
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘The journals have mentioned something of this Girim nel Ghislain and his growing influence in Allegonde. But war with Enhirrë…’ Dr Magelonne shook his head.
‘He is a dangerous man. He has completely bewitched Prince Ilsevir.’
‘Ah, the Prince. Isn’t he your patron, Illustre?’
Prince Ilsevir. Khassian tried to hide the brief shadow of pain that flickered across his face. Ilsevir who had betrayed him. Ilsevir who had bestowed upon him the title of ‘Illustre’ and raised him to a position of privilege at court. Ilsevir who had been so much more than patron…
‘Was my patron,’ he said stiffly. ‘Until his conversion. He insisted that I too should make a public affirmation of my belief. That I should publicly acknowledge that my opera was dissolute and recant my heresy. I could not do it.’
There was a silence in the room, a long, awkward silence. Dr Magelonne seemed to be considering what Khassian had said, shuttling a roll of bandage to and fro between his fingers. Eventually he cleared his throat and said, ‘Whilst I can sympathise with your predicament, Illustre, frankly I am still uneasy about your continuing to stay here. If these soldiers of the Commanderie –’
‘Guerriors, they call themselves.’
‘If these Guerriors are as fanatical as you make them out to be –
‘You want me to leave,’ Khassian said quietly.
‘I have my staff, my patients and my daughter to consider. It would be more appropriate for you to take lodgings in the city where I can visit you. I know of some very reasonably priced establishments… and I can put you in touch with a government official if you wish to make application for citizenship of Tourmalise.’
‘And… my hands?’
‘You want me to be utterly truthful with you, Illustre?’
Khassian swallowed. The doctor’s tone had become even more detached than before.
‘Tell me the truth.’
‘I doubt you will ever regain the use of your hands. The nerves, the tendons, have been damaged beyond hope of repair. The playing of a musical instrument would be completely beyond you. I suspect you will even find it impossible to grip a pen or a conductor’s baton.’
A chill mist seemed to envelop Khassian, numbing all his senses. Somewhere, far away beyond the frosthaze, he heard Dr Magelonne still speaking.
Beyond hope of repair…
Dr Magelonne, attended by two nurses, went from the hot mineral bath to the massage room, stopping only to wipe away the moisture which steamed up his spectacle lenses. He murmured a few words of encouragement to an elderly gout-sufferer, tested the mobility of an arthritic knee-joint, admonished a new patient for not restricting himself rigidly to the prescribed diet.
‘A glass of mineral water on rising, another at midday and yet another at four. No alcohol – and definitely no spirits!’
But all the while, the stricken face of the young musician kept haunting him. It was as if he had read him a death sentence. Maybe he had been a little too harsh… but then, he believed it was better to tell the truth, no matter how painful. It might have been easier to come to terms with Iridial’s condition if the experts could have given him any kind of realistic prognosis…
‘Dr Magelonne.’ The porter came padding down the corridor towards him. ‘You have a visitor.’
‘Now?’ Dr Magelonne consulted his fob watch. Almost noon. He opened his diary, scanning the neatly written entries for the day. ‘I’m not expecting anyone.’
‘Said it was important. I’ve put him in the waiting room.’
Dr Magelonne opened the waiting-room door. A man was standing gazing out of the window, watching the rain trickle down the panes.
‘I’m Jerame Magelonne. How can I help you?’ he said formally.
The man turned around. He was tall, over a head taller than Magelonne. In the rain-washed light, his grey hair seemed touched with silver – yet his face was a young man’s, burned dark by long exposure to a sunlight far fiercer than that which occasionally melted the rainmists of Sulien. Most astonishing was the blue of his eyes, a steely, penetrating blue, keen as a lance.
‘My name’s Korentan. Acir Korentan.’ The stranger touched his right palm to his heart, an Allegondan greeting, Magelonne noted. ‘I’m sorry to drag you away from your work, Dr Magelonne. I wondered if you could spare me five minutes or so…’
‘Are you here on your own behalf,’ Magelonne said, ‘or someone else’s?’
‘Is there anywhere more private that we could talk?’
Magelonne opened the door to his office and ushered the stranger inside. Seated behind his desk he felt more in command of the situation.
‘I won’t waste your time, Doctor. I’m looking for a man called Amaru Khassian.’
‘For what purpose?’ Magelonne said carefully.
The steel-blue eyes did not waver.
‘I wish to talk to him.’
Dr Magelonne assessed the stranger. His clothes were sombre; charcoal jacket, gre
y shirt, no adornments, all plainly cut to the point of austerity. A military cut. He wore them like a uniform. His whole bearing seemed to say ‘soldier’. Or Guerrior of the Commanderie, thought Dr Magelonne, remembering what Khassian had told him.
‘The Illustre Khassian is my patient. But he has been very ill. I cannot permit any visitors yet.’
A shadow clouded the peerless blue gaze. Annoyance at being thwarted… or a hint of concern? Magelonne could not be sure. He stared back at Acir Korentan, silently challenging him to gainsay him.
‘I shall wait, then, until he is well enough to receive visitors. May I call again tomorrow?’
The lovage soup was cooling in its tureen, a skin beginning to form on the creamy green surface. Papa must have forgotten it was lunchtime. Again. Orial went hurrying along the corridor to her father’s office – and stopped as she saw a man coming out of the study. The stranger. The stranger who had been asking questions about Cramoisy and Khassian.
She shrank into a doorway but he strode right past her, not even noticing she was there.
She watched him open the door into the courtyard, watched through the willow leaf-patterned glass as his shadow dwindled, disappearing beneath the archway. Only then did she realise she had been holding her breath.
Dr Magelonne was still sitting at his desk, eyes fixed on some distant point.
‘Who was that?’ Orial said.
‘What?’ He gave a little start. ‘Oh… no one you need worry about.’
‘I’m not a child, Papa,’ she said sternly. ‘He’s from Allegonde, isn’t he?’
Dr Magelonne nodded. He took out his handkerchief and began to polish the lenses of his spectacles, an activity he usually performed when he was troubled by something.
‘Has he come to arrest the Illustre? You won’t let him, will you? You’ll protect him – and Cramoisy.’
‘Listen, Orial.’ Dr Magelonne stood up and drew her close to him. ‘I don’t want you to involve yourself in this matter. A good healer needs to cultivate a sense of detachment, hm?’