by Sarah Ash
‘Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’ Her smile had become coy.
‘Congratulate you?’ Orial’s brain had been filled with music; now the shock of encountering Alizaeth had made her mind go blank.
‘I’m to be married!’ Alizaeth said with a squeal of self-satisfaction. ‘In four days’ time. There’s to be a banquet at the Rooms. I’d have asked you to be one of my maidens, but Alyn – that’s his name, he’s training to be an advocate – has so many sisters and female cousins…’
Orial nodded, smiling, starting to edge away. She must escape before Alizaeth started to tell her the wedding plans.
‘I’d love to talk, but I’m late for an appointment. Some other time –’
‘Don’t you want to hear about my gown?’
‘Oh yes, yes…’ Orial backed down the mews, trying to sound enthusiastic.
‘Orchid white silk, with an overlayer of gauze net –’
‘You’ll look ravishing,’ Orial cried, turning on her heel and running.
‘I’ll tell Mama to send you an invitation,’ Alizaeth called after her.
As Orial darted away, she experienced a sudden moment of self-revelation. A few weeks ago, she would have felt hurt to learn that Alizaeth had not bothered to invite her to be her wedding-maiden. But since Cramoisy and Khassian had arrived, she had not once thought of Alizaeth or her schooldays. She had been transported into a world more magical, more dangerous, than anything she could have imagined. There was more to life than an orchid silk gown and a wedding banquet at the Assembly Rooms.
‘You’re late,’ Khassian said accusingly.
‘I was – unavoidably detained.’ Orial untied her cape and flung it over the couch.
‘I’ve been looking over what you wrote down yesterday.’ He seemed restless, irritable. ‘There are errors of notation.’
She checked the retort that had sprung to her lips for she could sense he was in pain. An echo of the dull ache in his damaged hands resonated in her own fingers.
‘I’ll correct them,’ she said quickly.
He nodded tersely.
‘Is – anything else amiss?’
‘Nothing.’ He turned away from her.
She picked up her pen and had just opened the inkwell to check that it was full when she heard him speak again.
‘How dare he accuse me of such a thing? How dare he presume to know me, know my most intimate thoughts and intentions!’
‘I’m sorry?’ She was uncertain whether he was muttering to himself or to her.
‘Elesstar’s aria. Where is it?’
She shuffled through the sheets and brought it out to show him.
‘Read it again. Tell me if you think it is blasphemous.’
She gazed quizzically up at him, wondering what had provoked this outburst. He seemed distressed, his face contorted with suppressed anger. It would be best to humour him. She lifted the sheets and began to scan them rapidly; in her mind the raw passion of Elesstar’s grief was reawakened, clothed in the sombre colours of Khassian’s twisted harmonies. The music was strong, impassioned, sincere – and, to her untrained ears, difficult.
‘Well?’ he demanded impatiently. ‘Has it corrupted you?’
‘Corrupted, Illustre?’ She did not understand what he meant.
‘You observe that I have twisted the holy texts, I have distorted their meaning.’
‘How can a piece of music such as this corrupt?’
‘And yet, for writing this, they call me a blasphemer.’
‘It is a little unconventional,’ Orial ventured.
‘And so it should be! Did they want pretty, simpering little tunes? Inoffensive harmonies to blunt the ear? The whole point was to make the story relevant in a cynical, jaded age. To make Mhir and Elesstar live again.’
Orial stared down at the sheets. She could hear the aria clearly in her head – but was her handwriting really so smudged? She held the paper nearer, closing one eye and then the other. Close to, it looked less indistinct. The music sang on in her head even though she could no longer focus upon the notes. She took off her spectacles and pinched her eyelids closed. Jagged pinpricks of light shot across the darkness in rhythmic patterns that mirrored the music.
What is wrong with my eyes?
‘Are you all right, demselle?’
She opened her eyes again and forced a smile.
‘I have a slight headache. May I take a glass of water before we begin?’
He gestured towards the crystal carafe which stood on a table beneath one of the gilt-swagged mirrors and went back to his habitual position by the window.
‘No. It can’t be…’ Orial heard him murmur to himself. Suddenly he called excitedly, ‘Cramoisy! Cramoisy!’
The Diva appeared in the doorway, yawning.
‘Well, and what is it that you must wake me from my afternoon nap?’
‘Look – down there in the Crescent –’
‘Miu Diu!’ cried Cramoisy, rushing into the hall. ‘They’ve escaped.’
Khassian went to go after the Diva and then paused in the doorway.
‘Those corrections, demselle.’
Perplexed, Orial sat down again at the escritoire and took up her pen. But the babble of voices in the hall was too noisy to allow for concentration.
‘Were you seen? Did anyone pay attention to you?’
‘Commanderie agents? In Sulien?’
‘Even here. Come into the salon, come in. Cramoisy – what can we offer our guests? Tea? Wine?’
Orial laid down her pen as Khassian brought three strangers, shabbily dressed, into the salon.
‘This is my amanuensis – Demselle Magelonne. Orial – meet three of the most gifted musicians it has been my privilege to work with. Azare – my repetiteur, a genius on the keyboard. Philamon – the deepest, most velvety bass voice in all Allegonde. And Astrel – the principal of the Opera orchestra.’
Orial dipped a curtsey. She could see the ravages of hunger etched into the visitors’ hollow cheeks, weeks of neglect in their straggling beards and uncombed hair.
‘But how did you evade the Commanderie?’ cried Khassian.
‘By spending weeks hidden in a damp cellar below the Conservatoire. They did not think to search in so obvious a place.’
‘And papers? They could have arrested you at the border.’
‘Clever forgeries. Astrel adapted that old music press in the cellar…’
Orial quietly began to tidy away the pens and pencils. Her presence, she sensed, was superfluous. Already the fugitives were pouring out the tale of their escape and Khassian’s attention was focussed solely on them.
The pendule clock on the mantlepiece struck the hour. Heavens, it was five! She had lost track of the time and she was late for tea – Papa would be waiting for her to join him. She would have to run all the way.
Jerame Magelonne checked his fob watch again. Late for tea. Where was she? This sudden interest in helping the Antiquarian at the Cabinet of Curiosities seemed excessive. And her behaviour of late had been erratic. She often seemed preoccupied, lost in thought, even distraite.
Surely it could not be the beginnings of the Accidie…
No! He instantly banished the thought, refusing to acknowledge it could be a possibility. He had done his utmost to protect her from the baneful influence of music. And yet he had heard her singing tunes of her own making. It must not happen again. He had been unable to save Iridial from the curse of her inheritance, but he would give his last drop of blood to save his daughter.
He looked anxiously out into the courtyard. Eleven minutes past five. Didn’t she know he would worry if she was late? Their afternoon tea ritual was something he cherished, looked forward to. When she was still at the Academie, she would come rushing in, cheeks flushed with excitement, to tell him the day’s news. Charming things, schoolgirls’ prattle, a distraction from the cares and worries of the Sanatorium.
Tea’s getting cold, Doctor,’ called Cook through the open doorw
ay.
‘Er-hm. You haven’t seen Orial, have you?’ he asked.
‘She not back yet? Ah,’ said Cook knowingly.
‘Cook,’ said Jerame, hurrying after her, ‘is everything all right with her?’
‘So you’ve noticed at last!’ she said with a cackle. Then she tapped the side of her nose. ‘And about time too, I say. Head down in a book all the time – she’ll be left on the shelf.’
‘On the shelf?’ Jerame realised what Cook was implying. Orial was courting? No. Impossible. And yet it might explain the distant look in her eyes, the sudden starts, the vague manner…
He caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror; watchful, mistrustful eyes, lips compressed in disapproval. Was that how she saw him? The repressive, over-protective father?
He went into the morning room and, sitting down, mechanically lifted the pot to pour tea, a task Orial usually performed. He lifted the bowl to his lips, unthinking; the heat of the pale liquid stung his tongue. Surprised, he set the bowl down. He had not been thinking about what he was doing. He had been thinking of Orial. He swallowed hard. The mouthful of tea scalded his throat.
He had not realised till now how much he had been dreading this moment. It was the natural cycle of things, after all. You cared for children, watched them grow… but when the time came to let them go, did it have to be so hard?
Harder for him to let go than for others. For in Orial, the echo of Iridial still lived and breathed. It was not so much in her physical appearance… although of late even that had begun to change… but in her gestures, the expressions which glided across her face, clouds across sunlight…
He reached blindly for the tea again, gulped down the hot liquid, ignoring the burn. She was still not back and it was a quarter past the hour. What did one say in these situations? You are confined to your room? You must never leave the Sanatorium unchaperoned again? He was not sure how adept he would be at playing the stern papa. He had no wish to turn her against him… and yet, damn it all, she was late and he was worried!
If only Iridial – He checked the thought. No point in wishing. At moments like this, a mother’s subtle advice would be so much more appropriate. She would remember what it was like to be a girl of eighteen, to be young, admired…
And her secret admirer. Who was he? Some bespectacled student of Jolaine Tradescar’s, perhaps, or some Academie boy…
What hurt him most was that she had not confided in him. Perhaps – he stood up and began to pace the room – she was ashamed of what she had done. Dear Goddess! She was sensible. Surely she would not have –
‘Hallo, Papa, I’m so sorry I’m late!’ She came into the room, casting her cape down over a chair. Her face seemed flushed, a becoming, rosy tinge warming her usual delicate pallor.
‘It’s nearly five-thirty,’ he said stiffly.
‘I’m starving. What has Cook prepared today?’ She lifted the silver lid. ‘Toasted teacakes! And they’re still warm. Won’t you have one, Papa?’ She turned to him, holding out the teacake on a plate; a peace-offering.
He shook his head.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘More tea, then?’ she said a little plaintively. She must have sensed his anger.
‘I was worried, Orial!’
‘I was… delayed. That’s all.’
Why wouldn’t she tell him the truth? As she sipped her tea, cupping in her fingers the delicate bowl with its pattern of green and black cranes, her eyes were averted, fixed on some distant point beyond the steam rising from the bowl.
‘Orial – is there anything you want to tell me?’
She started.
‘I don’t think you’re being wholly truthful with me. I think you’re hiding something, keeping something back. Now – I know all young girls are flattered by the advances of young men, I know it’s spring, but –’
‘Oh, Papa.’ She went to him and put her arms around his neck, hugging him. She smelt clean and fresh, the pale fragrance of wild hyacinths. ‘You mustn’t worry about me. I won’t abandon you. No matter what happens.’
All his intentions were fast ebbing away, already he could see what an unreasonable tyrant he must seem to her… And yet at the same time, as she gently disengaged her arms, he felt the needling sense of unease return. Since Iridial’s death Orial had rarely lied to him… Though there had been the stray sable kitten, kept concealed in a basket in the laundry until it leapt playfully out at Sister Crespine, its tiny claws unsheathed… And the time she had been kept back after school for some schoolgirlish prank involving water, string and a loathed termagant of a needlework mistress… Trifles, really.
She had been such a biddable child, always eager to please. Which only made the present episode harder to understand.
He must keep a closer watch over her.
CHAPTER 9
Fiammis is floating just below the surface of the lake, her long yellow hair streaming about her pale body like ribbons of waterweed. Naked as a watersprite, her slender limbs shimmer with the fluorescent taint of floating algae.
Anguished, Acir goes wading into the green waters, catches hold of the limp body and drags it out on to the shore.
‘Fia! Fia!’ He can hear himself frantically calling Fiammis’s name, her pet-name, the name he has not dared to use since childhood when they were constant companions.
Fiammis does not stir.
Acir leans over her, presses his mouth to Fiammis’s and, encompassing the wet body with his own, begins to blow breath into the limp body.
The weed-stained lids open. Fiammis is staring directly into his eyes. Fiammis’s arms, her waterweed hair, wind about him, binding their wet bodies together. Her mouth, no longer slack and cold, presses upon Acir’s, her tongue…
They are rolling, rolling back into the water, floating down into the green depths, drowning slowly in this unending kiss…
Acir gasps for breath, each convulsive shudder wracking his body more profoundly than the last.
‘Fia, oh Fia, Fia…’
Acir Korentan awoke, calling the name of his dream-lover. And then, with a groan of self-disgust, he felt a stickiness staining the sheet in which he had twisted himself.
How could I? How could I?
And he thought he had finally exorcised the ghost of her memory!
He lit a crimson candle before the rose reliquary and prostrated himself naked on the bare boards of his lodgings. He was shaking.
‘Forgive me,’ he said silently again and again. ‘A lapse. A moment of foolish human frailty.’
The scourge still lay at the bottom of his travelling bag. He hardly felt the sting of its knotted cords as he struck himself in penance again and again. He was trying to score the image from his mind. The false dream-image. The dark succubus that had betrayed him into sins of incontinence and self-pollution.
The scourge dropped to the floor. He looked down at himself in the first light of dawn and winced. Angry weals had brought a brighter stain to the sign of the Rosecoeur. The rose wept real tears of blood.
Dawn cast pale shadows on to the grey and red slate tiles of the sloping roofs outside his window.
It was not as if he was still in love with Fiammis. He had purged himself of that hopeless love long ago in the deserts of Enhirrë, he had let the fierce sun burn her from his heart. His love for Mhir, selfless and all-encompassing, had filled the void she had left. It was just seeing her so unexpectedly –
How alone he felt in this foreign city. He sorely missed the spiritual counsel of his fellow Guerriors. Even if he had been in the barren deserts of Enhirrë, he could have sought advice from his confrères. Here he could not even find solace in prayer at the shrine of Mhir the Peacemaker.
And then he remembered the Temple. Elesstar the Beloved was venerated here in Sulien. It seemed the only place to go to shrive himself.
He winced as he pulled on his shirt, gritting his teeth, The pain scored his mind clean, it centred him.
A little while later, he
went stiffly down the stairs and set off in the direction of the Temple.
It was not long past dawn and few people were about; a street sweeper pushed his cart across the Temple courtyard, sending the clustering Temple doves up into the air in a fluttering cloud of grey and white.
Drifts of steam blew across the Temple steps from the lustral baths.
Acir was used to the grey, echoing vaults of the Commanderie Abbaye, the austerity of unadorned pillars lit by the reflected fires shining through great rose windows. The Thorny Path began in stark stone gashed by a glory of blood-red light.
Elesstar. The name was Her name. But as he entered the Temple of the Source, he sensed he entered the presence of an older deity.
Acir gazed around, searching for a shrine, a plaque even, dedicated to Iel the All-Seeing. There was none. Till this moment he had not realised to what extent the influence of the Goddess of the Source still prevailed. In spite of the invaders’ imposition of the worship of Iel, the Sulien people had managed to keep their allegiance to their Goddess alive through the cult of the handmaiden, Elesstar.
Elesstar’s shrine was decorated with exquisite mosaics: water flowed in patterns of green and silver glass. And in the watery shadows stood Elesstar herself, a river-spirit arising from the darkness, one hand outstretched in blessing.
As Acir gazed he found himself drowning in the dream-memory again; watery reflections shimmered on the walls, like ripples on flowing riverwater…
Elesstar was leaning forward from the water-shadows, offering her hand to him, her glimmering eyes fixed directly on his –
No!
He stepped back, moving too suddenly, and felt a raw, red pain grate through his wounds. It brought him back to himself.
He must be light-headed, weak from fasting.
The elderly Priest who oversaw the lustral baths showed Acir where to disrobe. The crumbling stones lining the bath were stained green with age and mineral deposits. Steam gusted in little clouds from the cloudy waters. Acir hesitated on the edge, steeling himself – and then eased himself in, a step at a time. Warm water swirled around him. He gasped as the open weals stung… and then slowly let himself relax. Healing waters. He had come here to make penance – and the waters of the Goddess were soothing him, salving the self-inflicted injuries.