by Sarah Ash
‘The Way is choked with thorns, yet bleeding, torn, I must go onwards into the darkness. I must bear the torch of Your word to set the hearts of the people aflame.’
He scarcely needed the meagre light to see the words; he knew them by heart. When alone and shivering in the Enhirran desert night, he had repeated them again and again to comfort himself.
Oh, to relive those glorious days of the desert campaign when he had followed Girim’s banner and fought to drive the infidel Enhirrans from the Poet-Prophet Mhir’s birthplace! The Princes of Allegonde had neglected to garrison their distant desert citadel – and the holy place where the Prophet was born had fallen to the Enhirrans. The young Guerriors of the Commanderie fought a bloody and bitter campaign to relieve the citadel… and to the glory of Iei’s name, had eventually driven the infidels out. Tears still stung Acir’s eyes when he remembered singing lei’s praises with his confrères in the birthplace shrine; exhausted yet exultant from battle, they had raised their voices in a paean of praise.
He was a soldier, first and foremost. He had no skills as a negotiator. His eyes kept straying to Girim’s latest letter.
‘Stop this rebellion before it starts. If he will not come to us of his own volition, then you must take action of a different kind.’
Kill Amaru Khassian.
He took up his pen and began to write.
‘Give me longer, just a little longer. These are delicate matters and take time –’
Begging words. Demeaning for a Guerrior to have to beg.
He slashed the words out and crushed the spoiled paper in his first.
He had no truck with assassination. He had always fought his adversaries face to face, blade to blade. He would not skulk in dark alleys, stalking his victim like a thief.
Why was Girim in such a hurry? Two or three escaped musicians did not constitute a revolution. So far as Acir could tell, the castrato was only interested in furthering his own career, frittering away his meagre funds on wigs and cosmetics.
Never before had he had cause to question the Grand Maistre’s orders. Now it weighed heavily upon his conscience: disobedience to the one he had sworn on his life to obey in all matters, both temporal and spiritual.
‘Show me what I must do,’ he said aloud. ‘Send me a sign.’
A red haze of tiredness swam before his eyes; slowly his head slid forward until it was pillowed upon the open book and he slept.
Red haze. Heat haze.
He trudged on across the endless red sands. His throat was parched dry. Overhead the sun had burnished the cloudless sky to the patina of beaten copper.
Must keep going. Mustn’t stop.
Sun-scorch in his eyes, sun-scorch searing his back.
A swirl of darkness on the distant horizon. Sandstorm.
Copper sky darkening fast, dust-daemons, whirling and twirling towards him. Sands singing, strange, high whine of the wind.
Must reach the citadel. Girim’s message must get through.
He wrapped a scarf tightly about his face, head down to the oncoming storm.
Struck suddenly by the force of the dry wind – the storm spun him around – grit stung his skin, a fine rain of lacerating dust particles filled his eyes. Blinded, he dropped to his knees as the whirlwind of sand came eddying up about him.
Scarlet sand in his nose, his mouth, a dry, choking tide of it.
‘Help me, Blessed Mhir, don’t let your servant die –’
And then he heard a rushing – as if the convulsive beat of great wings was cleaving the swirling sand.
He was no longer alone. A presence hovered above him, dark as smoke.
Hands reached down to him, lifted him. He was rising slowly through the seething sandcloud, rising into the grey air.
Wingbeats throbbed in his ears, powerful wingbeats echoing the throbbing pulse of his own blood.
And then water, cool as spring rain, laved his sand-burned eyes, his cracked lips. Water flowed into his parched mouth.
Life-giving water. Now he had the strength to go on, to complete his mission.
‘The message –’
‘Look,’ commanded a voice, a voice which trembled through him with the terrible majesty of thunder.
Far below, as the swirling dustclouds parted, Acir saw a figure sprawled in the sand, face-down. In the distance a white mirage shimmered: the gleaming walls of the citadel and the safe haven of the Commanderie.
Cloaked in storm-grey feathers tipped with flame they swooped down out of the sandclouds. And as they hovered closer, Acir’s heart smote him. He recognised the prone figure.
Amaru Khassian. Alone and helpless in the red expanse of empty desert.
‘Choose, Guerrior. Save him – or deliver your message.’
Agonised, Acir started down at Khassian. The shifting sands were already beginning to cover his body… No one could survive that storm for long. And yet if he stopped to save the musician, his message would not get through and the citadel would be destroyed.
‘The choice is yours, Acir.’
Acir paused as he approached Mistress Permay’s house in the Crescent.
Amaru Khassian stood at the window, staring out across the lawns to the misty hills beyond. His intended victim. The rebel he had been ordered to save – or kill.
Acir saw not the cynical, manipulative artist Girim had described but only a vulnerable young man, face pale and drawn with pain, brown eyes riven with a lost, hopeless expression.
His tousled hair was untied, unkempt, straying into his eyes; from time to time he irritably shook it back. His whole appearance was neglected, as if he no longer cared what image he presented to the world.
Mistress Permay showed Acir into the morning room where Khassian still stood staring out of the window.
‘You have a visitor, Illustre,’ she announced, bobbing a curtsey.
As Khassian glanced round, Acir saw the air of vulnerability vanish and his face set into a hostile scowl.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said sullenly.
‘I come as the Grand Maistre’s official emissary.’
‘I told you – I have nothing to say to you.’
‘At least listen to the Commanderie’s proposition, Illustre,’ Acir said earnestly.
‘I’m surprised you propose anything to a madman. A lunatic.’
‘I – I don’t quite follow –’
‘But all Allegonde knows, Captain. It was in the Diurnal – and as everyone knows, if the news is reported in the Diurnal, it must be true. The shock of the fire has made me lose my wits. I am at present confined in the Sulien Asylum for the Insane.’
‘I knew nothing about this,’ Acir said, puzzled.
‘Neither did the Asylum Director.’ The brown eyes mocked him. ‘So. What is this proposition?’
‘Come back to Bel’Esstar. Resume your rightful place at court.’
‘That could be a little difficult.’ Khassian raised his hands, shaking back the lace cuffs to display them fully. ‘My touch is not so good as it was and I might play quite a few wrong notes. The Prince is known to be upset by clumsy playing.’
Acir swallowed; he had seen wounds as ugly as these many times before, he had helped cauterise amputated stumps in tent hospitals on the battlefield… and yet these burned, twisted claws seemed all the more obscene for the knowledge of what they were once capable of.
‘Others will be your hands for you. You can still teach at the Conservatoire, rehearse your music with the –’
‘You’re not used to this kind of thing, are you?’
Acir shook his head, half-understanding.
‘Bandying words. Don’t you resent being asked to do this?’
‘I am an officer of the Commanderie.’ Acir found he had unconsciously thrust back his shoulders as if on parade. ‘I do what I am commanded to do by my superiors.’
‘And your superior gets your to do his dirty work for him. Doesn’t it stick in your throat?’ Malice still flickered in the brown eyes. Fo
x-fire. ‘They didn’t equip you for this in the desert, did they? The subtleties of political negotiation?’
‘No,’ Acir said. He would not allow himself to be provoked.
‘Pray tell me, Captain Korentan,’ Khassian shook the lace back to cover his hands; maybe he could not bear to look at them long himself, ‘what are the Grand Maistre’s conditions?’
‘An affirmation of faith. To be made before the people of Bel’Esstar.’
‘You mean a public confession of guilt? A public denunciation of my friends and fellow artists? Because that’s what it would mean. You’re asking me to stand up and announce that I’ve been living a lie, that all my works are meaningless. Worse than meaningless – degenerate.’
Acir stared steadily back at him.
‘But your example would inspire others to return to the faith.’
‘If I had wanted to convert infidels, I would have become one of the Commanderie long ago.’ Khassian leaned forward, his eyes cold now, brown pebbles glittering beneath a clear ice-melt stream. ‘Go back to your Grand Maistre nel Ghislain. Tell him I will never bow my knee to him.’
CHAPTER 5
The Museum of Sulien Antiquities, known locally as the Cabinet of Curiosities, was housed in a dilapidated building hidden away behind the imposing domed façade of the Guildhall.
As a child Orial was fascinated by the Cabinet of Curiosities. Her affection for the eccentric collection of antique objects – and its equally eccentric curator, Dame Jolaine Tradescar, the City Antiquarian – had not diminished over the years. With her ancient, moth-eaten periwig and her hobbling gait, she had seemed a hundred years old when Orial first met her. Yet they had discovered an immediate affinity, fuelled by a mutual interest in the city’s past. Who else would have troubled to answer a child’s questions about dragonflies or taken the time and trouble to research the origins of a shard of pottery she had unearthed in the Undercity? In recognition of their special understanding, Dame Jolaine had agreed, at Jerame Magelonne’s request, to become Orial’s soul-guardian, to foster her spiritual development, and – in the case of his death before her twenty-first year – to care for her and her affairs.
Orial knew now that if she was to find an answer to her question, she was going to have to confide in someone. And Jolaine Tradescar, her soul-guardian, seemed the only one she dared trust in all Sulien.
As she had hoped, the Museum was deserted at this early hour. She moved between the dusty glass cases, unable to restrain herself from stopping to gaze at one of her favourite displays. They glittered beneath the glass, their delicate wings an iridescent mosaic of tiny fragments of enamel and coloured glass.
Dragonflies.
The insect appeared on countless carvings and artefacts excavated from the remains of the Old City. Even then the dragonfly had evidently possessed some deep significance for the city-builders – though when it had become incorporated into the religious beliefs of the people of Sulien, no one seemed sure.
‘Such exquisite craftsmanship,’ said a voice behind her, a voice creaking rustily from lack of use.
‘Jolaine!’
‘You’ve always been fascinated by my dragonflies, haven’t you?’ She came limping down the aisle between the cases towards Orial, leaning heavily on her stick. ‘When you were little, you had to stand on tiptoe to peer in. I can see you still, such a solemn, wan little mouse. Look at you now – quite the young demselle.’
Orial felt herself blushing.
‘And look at you,’ she said, countering the teasing. ‘Your knee’s troubling you again, isn’t it? You must come into the Sanatorium and –’
‘Ach!’ Dame Tradescar waved one hand dismissively. ‘Just a twinge from the morning’s damp. I’ll be fine by lunchtime. By tea you’ll see me down at the Assembly Rooms cutting as fine a caper in the cotillion as any of the young demselles.’
Orial began to laugh in spite of herself.
‘That’s better, hm?’ said her soul-guardian. ‘You were looking quite dejected. Now, tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’
Orial slipped her hand through Jolaine’s arm and together they went towards her study.
‘There. Sit yourself down. Have I shown you this little beauty, hm? Found by a labourer digging a new drainage trench for the Nymphs’ Bath, buried in the clay silt. It’s been the devil to clean – but look at it now.’
As Jolaine bent over her, Orial could not help but notice that her fantastical wig seemed more motheaten than before and her hands trembled slightly as they unwrapped the treasure from its cloth covering.
A bronze brooch appeared, penannular; tiny lunar hares coursed around crescent moons in an intricately interwoven knot, picked out in scarlet enamel. Scarlet and bronze. The colours glowed as if they had been fired the day before… not hundreds upon hundreds of years.
‘Oh!’ Orial carefully turned it over, holding it to the light. ‘It’s – beautiful.’
‘Quite a fascinating little horde. If I hadn’t dug further down in the trench these artefacts would have been lost forever.’ Jolaine pointed to a glass trough filled with a mud-clouded liquid.
‘More treasures?’ Orial wrapped the brooch up in its cloth.
‘Maybe,’ said Jolaine, an enigmatic glint in her eyes. ‘Only when the silt of centuries has soaked away will I be able to tell. Of course they may be worthless…’
‘But you don’t believe that for one moment!’ Why else would you be taking such trouble to clean and restore them?’
‘Oh! That’s just the peculiar obsession of an old woman. I’m a magpie, Orial. I collect anything that catches my eye. But how can I help you, my dear?’ Jolaine eased herself into a chair opposite Orial’s.
‘You’ve read many old texts and manuscripts, Jolaine. I – I wanted to know if you’d ever come across an illness called – Accidie.’
‘The… Accidie?’
‘You have heard of it!’ said Orial, sitting eagerly forward.
‘I’ve unearthed many strange facts about this city and its inhabitants over the years. A place with as ancient and mysterious a past as Sulien engenders many fanciful theories amongst historians and scholars. Most are unproven. You must remember that if you are determined to pursue this enquiry any further.’
Jolaine rose rather unsteadily to her feet and tottered off towards a dark-shadowed book-stack; Orial heard her muttering to herself from the gloom.
Orial twisted her fingers together nervously, feeling them wet with perspiration. She began to wonder whether she had overturned a stone only to find a myriad scorpions nesting beneath.
‘Aha!’ Jolaine emerged triumphantly from behind the stack, carrying a cobwebbed ledger. As she placed it on the desk, Orial saw a spider hurriedly descending from her wig on a single silken thread, then scuttling away across the papers. Smothering the urge to giggle behind her hand, she brushed away the dusty webs from the cover and spelt out, Sulien – Legends.
‘There’s all kinds of fantastical foolishness in here. Moonshine. But maybe a thread of truth runs through it,’ Jolaine said, untying the faded ribbon and pulling out a sheaf of manuscripts. ‘Take a look at this old monograph: “A Discourse on the Auncient Citie of Sulien and its Healing Springs”.’
Orial squinted at the indistinct handwriting, pushing her spectacles higher on her nose to try to decipher it more clearly:
Legend relates that the citie was founded by invaders from far across the seas. The strangers called themselves ‘Lifhendil’, which approximately translates into our modern tongue as Songspinners. The legend tells that their gift for music was so great, they could charm the birds from the trees with their singing.
I have heard it saide hereabouts that once in a generation or so, a child is born with Songspinner gifts. Apparently these unique individuals can be identified by their eyes which display multi-coloured irises of great beauty.
I attempted to seek one such out, curiouse to see for myself, and was tolde there was a poore girl, greatly aff
licted, in the Asylum. I made haste to see her, onlye to arrive to the sad news that, in her confusion and despair, she had thrown herselfe from the uppermost room the day before and had dashed out her brains on the cobbles below.
‘Oh,’ Orial whispered. She wanted to stop reading, to put the manuscript from her, but she could not.
The gift is not a perfect gift. It carryes the curse of madness with it. Lyke the rare and graceful dragonflyes which haunt the water-meadows here, the Songspinners live a short intense life, gladdening all with their unique talents before their genius is brutally extinguished in a cruel and devastating loss of reason known as the Accidie.
‘Madness,’ Orial looked up, unseeing, from the manuscript. ‘My mother went mad.’
The Temple of the Source stood in the very heart of the city. Here the people of Sulien gathered to pray at the source of the hot springs, to make votive offerings to Esstarel, Goddess of the Gap, and to celebrate the rites of passage. The original significance of many of the rituals had become lost in time… as had the true name of the Goddess. When, centuries ago, Allegondan invaders ransacked the city and massacred the Lifhendil, they had imposed their language, their customs, their religion. But they could not eradicate the potent influence of the Lifhendil tutelary goddess. Eventually the Allegondans identified her with Elesstar the Blessed, handmaiden of their god, Iel, and she endured in a strange fusion of the two beliefs. The Temple was rededicated to Iel but the older presence prevailed.
Orial went into the colonnades and entered the Temple. She paused a moment to dip her finger-tips in one of the founts of the living spring and mark her forehead with the warm mineral water, a gesture of respect she dimly remembered her mother making… and one she still practised if only to keep alive the memory of Iridial.
She moved swiftly through the dim, echoing spaces of the Temple, unable to rid herself of the impression she had first gained as a tiny child, clutching her mother’s hand, that she was floating below water. Verdigris light filtered in, limpidly cool, from the high, green-glass windows, casting shifting shadows on the pillars, sunlight filtering into the depths of deep waters… Maybe this was what the Lifhendil had intended the worshipper to feel, Orial thought, the loose, bodiless sensation of drifting in water, freeing the mind to meditate on higher matters… Even the bronze prayer-bells, their carvings blurred by the touch of countless devout worshippers, had turned green with age and their muted vibrations dinned in the Temple depths like the bells of a drowned city, deep beneath the waves.