by Sarah Ash
‘No wonder you lost track of the time.’
‘Of course there are discrepancies. But the texts have symbols which recur – and thus I find myself able to begin to decipher them at last.’
‘So what do they say?’
Jolaine Tradescar came to stand beside her.
‘A strange people, the Lifhendil. With stranger beliefs. I can only surmise that much of this is religious – symbolic – but without full understanding of their myths and legends, I have to admit that most of it is utterly perplexing.’
‘Stop tantalising me, Jolaine, and show me what you’ve translated!’
‘Maybe you can make more sense of it than I can.’
Orial picked up the translation.
‘They [fall into the] long sleep – they lie many moons in the dark waters – sun warms [the waters] – they fly to the light –’
‘It’s as you thought. The stelae must be memorial tablets. This describes funeral rites – an early version of what we do today.’
‘Just as I thought too – at first.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sleep. Rest.’ Jolaine Tradescar’s eyes glimmered. ‘We speak in metaphors. So much less distressing to talk of the “eternal rest” than death. “Rest in peace.” But maybe here it actually means sleep. A dormant state,’ She thumbed through the notebook and handed it back. ‘Read this one.’
‘Once I walked on the earth. Now – praise Ea-stil – I am transformed. I fly with the winged ones. I – – – through the time of the dark waters.’
Orial looked up to see that Jolaine was watching her intently, waiting expectantly for her reaction.
‘Winged ones?’ She found she was whispering as if they were sharing a secret of great import, and she feared they might be overheard.
‘Look at the engravings. These are not dragonflies, they’re winged people.’
‘Angels, maybe?’ Jolaine’s excitement was infectious.
‘We must go back into the Undercity and look carefully at your Lotos Princess. That’s what you named her, didn’t you? I seem to recall that there are two winged creatures hovering behind her. I have managed to unravel a little of her inscription. I know it will intrigue you.’
Orial looked at Jolaine questioningly as she took the book again and read:
‘Spinner [of the] invisible songthreads/that knit us together/that [make us] One with Ea’stil.’
‘Spinner?’ she asked. ‘Songspinner?’
‘Songspinner. As in the monograph I showed you. It’s not too fanciful, is it? The real title of the Lotos Princess was – Songspinner.’
CHAPTER 8
Khassian sat brooding over the first pages which Orial had transcribed for him.
What a strange creature she was, his little amanuensis – by turns eager to please, then wilful; shy, then acutely forthright. Not for the first time he found himself thinking that she was only a little younger than Fania would have been now, if she had lived – and not for the first time, found the thought so painful that he shut his mind to it. Fania, his beloved sister, dead of the smallpox at the tender age of twelve. Fania, his father’s treasure. Fania, so gifted, so pretty… Was that why he was so awkward with Orial, so abrupt? Because she remained him of Fania and the disintegration of his family? She did not deserve this brusqueness.
But then there was her gift. It disturbed him. How could she hear the music in his head? And if she could hear what was in his head, how could she simultaneously block out all the music emanating from other people’s minds, the repetitions, the scraps of tunes?
Yet here, on paper, painstakingly achieved, lay the first bars of the last act of the opera in short score, instruments sketched in… It had taken an hour to notate these thirty-one bars. She was slow, struggling still to sort out theoretical complexities which she had never had to contend with before. He found it hard to keep patient when he could not seize the pen from her fingers and show her how it should be done. Sometimes he could have bellowed aloud with frustration.
How long would it take before this blotted, untidy score could be handed to the copyists and work could begin on staging it?
He was so engrossed in thought that he did not hear the knock at the door. It was only as it opened and the visitor came in that he glanced up and saw Acir Korentan.
The sheets of music lay spread out on the table in front of him. He could not pick up a cloth to throw over them – or shuffle them hastily out of sight. He stood up and placed himself in front of them, hoping Acir would not notice.
‘I’m disturbing you,’ his visitor said.
‘Yes. You are.’
‘I came to return the clothes that Sieur Jordelayne lent me. My landlady has washed and pressed them.’ Acir seemed all stiff courtesy once more. ‘But it appears that he is out.’ He placed the neat bundle of clothes on the couch.
‘Out arranging a recital at the Guildhall, I believe,’ Khassian said casually.
Acir nodded. He turned towards the door – and then turned back.
‘Illustre,’ he said, and there was a sudden urgency in his voice, quite unlike the earlier formal tone, ‘I must talk to you. Have you any idea of the danger you are in?’
‘Danger? Oh, you mean the danger to my immortal soul.’
‘I mean personal danger.’ He took a step nearer. ‘Have you ever encountered the Contesse Fiammis?’
‘The name is familiar.’ Khassian was thrown off-course; the conversation had not taken a direction he had anticipated at all. ‘I may have been introduced to her at court…’
‘She is here. In Sulien.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘So you are unaware of her connections with the Commanderie?’
Khassian slowly nodded his head, uncertain what new tactic Acir was employing to sway him.
‘She is dangerous, Illustre.’
‘You’re trying to threaten me!’ he said, laughing.
‘Threaten? Oh, no. Whatever differences there may be between us, I would not stoop to threaten – or to shadow my adversary like some Enhirran assassin. That is not the honourable way. That is not the way of the Guerrior.’
There was an earnestness in that steel-blue regard that profoundly unsettled Khassian. Acir Korentan was no fanatic, seared by dark fires raging within. No, the young man displayed a quite disarming frankness that – and Khassian had grudgingly to admit this to himself – had they not found themselves on opposing sides – he could well have found sympathetic.
‘And the way of the Guerrior is to fight to defend the faith? It would have been so much easier for you if we could have settled this dispute, sword in hand, like men of honour.’ Khassian could not prevent a smile from twitching at the corners of his mouth. And to his surprise he caught the ghost of a smile flickering across the Captain’s stern face.
‘You would have made a more than worthy opponent, Illustre,’ he said, clicking his heels in a formal bow.
And, lacking real blades, Khassian thought, smiling too, I can still duel with words, Captain Korentan.
‘So I am still “invited” to return to Bel’Esstar with you?’
‘A reconciliation, that’s all the Grand Maistre is seeking.’
Reconciliation. The word grated on Khassian’s ear like an ill-tuned string.
‘Humiliation would be more apt. Isn’t that closer to the truth, Captain? Girim nel Ghislain would like nothing better than to see me prostrate myself at his feet in the holy name of the Poet-Prophet Mhir.’
‘You misinterpret the doctrines of the Commanderie. Is it so hard to accept the teachings of Mhir? Are you so proud that you cannot accept a higher authority than your own?’
‘I’m not talking of pride. I’m talking of spiritual honesty. Would it not be more contemptible if I dissembled? If I cynically professed a faith in which I did not believe – just to save my skin?’
Acir Korentan did not reply. But Khassian could see from the shadow that had darkened the piercing blue of those eyes tha
t he was winning. Triumphant in that knowledge, he began to press his advantage.
‘And miracles. Where does the Commanderie stand with regard to miracles?’
Acir Korentan was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his tone was pensive, as if he was still pondering Khassian’s question.
‘There has been no recorded miracle since the blood of the Rose restored the Beloved Elesstar to life. But a belief in miracles is an essential part of the doctrine.’
‘And you would agree that only a miracle would restore my hands?’
Khassian saw to his bitter satisfaction Acir Korentan’s expression betray first confusion – then anger; he had caught him off-guard.
‘I tell you, Captain Korentan, that I would only consider public conversion to your faith if a miracle cure was guaranteed.’
The Captain shook his head slowly, sadly.
‘Then there is no hope for you.’
‘The Prince was miraculously cured of his wasting illness! Is that any different?’
‘When the Prince knelt before the Grand Maistre in the shrine and asked forgiveness of his past sins, he was truly repentant. And from his belief came the remission of suffering, the gradual healing that restored his health.’
‘So it wasn’t a miracle!’ Khassian said, bitterly triumphant.
‘Why do you make mock of our faith?’ Acir Korentan asked.
‘Why did your Commanderie attack me and my opera?’
‘You spoke earlier of cynicism. The Commanderie judged your opera an act of extreme cynicism, the work of a sick and amoral soul, deliberately designed to mislead and corrupt.’
‘Oh, and you saw my opera, I suppose?’ Khassian said, his voice crackling with sarcasm. ‘You read the score? You heard the music?’
‘You abused the one thing I hold most sacred. You twisted the holy texts to – entertain. I cannot condone that.’
‘So that’s what you believe?’ Khassian moved closer. That my intentions were to corrupt?’
‘Illustre? Is everything all right?’ Mistress Permay rattled the door handle. Both men tensed, glancing towards the door. A second later, the mob-capped head of the mistress of the house appeared.
‘I heard voices. Shouting. Old Lady Bartel in the apartments above has complained. I run a respectable establishment and I will not have my other guests upset.’
‘Please give my abject apologies to Lady Bartel,’ Khassian said with exaggerated courtesy. ‘We were rehearsing a scene from my opera and must have allowed ourselves to be quite carried away by the – emotion of the situation.’ He could not resist a malicious glance at the Captain as he delivered this coup de grâce.
‘I was just about to leave.’ Acir Korentan, all icy tact, gave a brusque nod of the head and retreated.
Khassian stood at the window and watched him stride hurriedly away along the curve of the Crescent. Korentan’s tensed shoulders, his brisk pace, all betrayed his frustration.
‘I win this bout,’ Khassian said quietly. But he frowned as he said it.
Acir Korentan turned abruptly aside from the Crescent and plunged into the grove of great trees that bordered the Wilderness Garden beyond.
The arrogance of the man! The overweening arrogance!
He had gone to warn Khassian of the very real danger he was in – and Khassian had laughed in his face. He had baited him, he had mocked his beliefs! And yet…
Acir came to a standstill.
And yet he sensed there was an essential integrity of spirit beneath the cynical veneer. And in one respect, he had to admit, Khassian was right. He had never read the opera libretto. Girim nel Ghislain had described it to him, had recited aloud one or two of the passages of holy scripture which Khassian had, the Grand Maistre alleged, portrayed in his score in a blasphemous manner.
He stood amidst ancient cedars in a dark, mossy glade. A marble dryad glimmered on the far side, pale in the gloom; spirit of the grove, haunting the Wilderness. The air was damp, tinged with the green smell of moss and creeping lichens.
The chronicle of Mhir’s death and transfiguration had been set down by an unknown disciple… though many, including Acir, believed that Elesstar the Beloved had written a substantial part of it. The ancient text was spare yet each incident was graven into Acir’s memory as vividly as if he had been a witness to the events.
He sat on a marble bench, stained with damp, and pulled his breviary from his jacket.
When she heard the words of the Prophet Mhir, Elesstar felt her heart burn with longing. She looked on his face and saw the true radiance of Iel. She arose and put aside the fine raiment and costly jewels that the Shultan Arizhar had given her.
She found Mhir at work with his disciples around him, labouring to rebuild the fallen Temple of Mhir, the Temple which Arizhar the Cruel had razed to the ground in his impiety.
And there in that holy place Mhir and the slavewoman Elesstar were united before Iel…
Amaru Khassian had chosen to interpret these words as literally as any sensation-seeking crowd-pleaser would have done. Girim had told Acir that the opera required Mhir and Elesstar to be seen to come together – physically – on the stage. Acir found the thought of the castrato – and another man – play-acting physical consummation utterly repellent. It reduced Mhir’s transcendent love – Acir’s inspiration and his life’s pattern – to a mere shudder of lust, contrived to titillate the jaded palates of the opera audience.
At the heart of the scripture was Elesstar: Elesstar the slave, the Shultan’s concubine, whose love for Mhir redeemed her of her past sins. Elesstar’s redemption was the essential metaphor illuminating the Thorny Path.
Khassian had spoken disparagingly, cynically, of miracles. But then he had reduced the miracle of Elesstar’s resurrection to an acted charade, a mere theatrical device: a puff of smoke, a clap of a thunder board, a crash of the cymbals. He had robbed it of its mystery – and its meaning. Small wonder he could not begin to imagine the true power of the metaphor.
‘If the sinner Elesstar could be saved – transfigured – by the Blood of the Rose,’ Girim had cried to the assembled Commanderie, ‘then have faith that you too can be saved!’
The damp seemed to be seeping into Acir’s bones, oozing from dank cedar boughs. The darkness of the deserted glade only enhanced his morose mood; his task seemed impossible. Amaru Khassian was damaged in spirit as well as in body – yet too proud to ask for his help.
Maybe Fiammis was right. Maybe he should have let the composer drown. Maybe he should not have striven so hard to warm the limp body back to life with his own breath. Khassian had seemed so set on self-destruction. Maybe he should admit defeat, return to Bel’Esstar and let Fiammis finish the job for him –
‘No!’ Acir cried aloud. He sprang to his feet and began to pace the glade, feet squelching in the wet moss.
He did not like to acknowledge the fact but ever since he had breathed the life back into the half-drowned Khassian, he had felt in some intangible way… connected to the man.
Steam clouded the tiled walls of the Sanatorium pool, misting Orial’s lenses. Annoyed, she took off her spectacles and, for the third time that morning, wiped them on her apron. Blinking, she gazed around at the ceramic tiles: the familiar blue and green motifs of whorled shells and water-lilies were still blurred. She examined the spectacle lenses again – but they were clean, clear of the smudging moisture.
Is my sight deteriorating? Do I need stronger lenses? Maybe I should consult Papa.
But then he might ask her what she had been doing to strain her eyes, he might wonder what kind of close work would cause such a deterioration. Close work such as the intricate notation of music –
No, best not to mention it to Papa.
All morning, Orial fretted over her tasks in the Sanatorium, impatient to be away to the Crescent and to Amaru Khassian. But when she had finished, her hands were shrivelled and wrinkled with constant immersion in the hot spring water and with slapping on noisome mineral-mud.
> As Orial was drying her damp fingers, Sister Crespine came bustling past and slipped something into her apron pocket.
‘What’s this?’ Orial brought out a little black jar.
‘Calendula balm. Marigolds. Keeps the hands nice and soft,’ Sister Crespine said and, to Orial’s surprise, gave her a wink. ‘Don’t you worry, dear, your secret’s safe with me.’
‘Thank you.’ Puzzled, Orial sniffed the white ointment; it gave off a scent of spring meadows, sweet as new-mown grass. What did Sister Crespine know? How much had her frequent absences been noticed – and remarked upon? Sister Crespine must believe she was keeping a tryst with a secret admirer.
Orial sighed and began to smooth a dab of the soft balm between her fingers. Amaru Khassian her admirer? The thought sent a strange shiver of warmth through her body. But theirs was no conventional friendship; she was the admirer, he the admired. On his side, the arrangement was one of obligation; she knew he would never have troubled to pay her the slightest attention if he had not needed her help.
But what links us?
She had read of an invisible thread of understanding discovered to link certain susceptible individuals. Was it possible that such a link existed between her and Amaru Khassian? Were they like two strings tuned to the same pitch; when one was plucked, the other vibrated too in sympathy?
Orial had devised a number of backstreet routes to reach the Crescent, each one designed to avoid recognition by any of her father’s medical colleagues. She cut through alleyways and hurried along mews, past dairies, laundries and stables where horses whinnied and stamped in their stalls.
She was hurrying along Paragon Mews when she almost ran headlong into a young woman in scarlet riding habit coming out of one of the stables.
‘Orial!’ cried the young woman, reaching out to kiss her on both cheeks. ‘It’s been simply ages. You’re looking a little peaky, my dear.’
‘Alizaeth?’ Orial said, stepping back. She and Alizaeth had been at the Academie for Young Ladies together. She had been dazzled by Alizaeth at school; with her glossy black curls and easy chatter, she had commanded the attention of a circle of admirers. But Orial had grown to realise they had little in common; Alizaeth’s interests lay in balls and gowns.