by Sarah Ash
‘Paintings,’ Orial said, raising her lantern to illuminate the frescos. ‘Wall-paintings.’
Khassian moved closer to examine the paintings. The light from Orial’s lantern revealed the painted ripples of water, beds of reeds, ochre-spotted fish finning through them… and long-limbed, graceful people on the banks, many playing instruments: five-stringed citharas, aulos and timbrels.
‘Who are they?’ he asked.
‘They called themselves Lifhendil,’ Orial said, gazing up at the painted figures. ‘The city-builders. The musicians.’
‘I thought I glimpsed other paintings on our way here.’
‘The whole Undercity is painted. No one is certain why. Necropolis, temple… or gate to the other world.’
‘They give me the shivers,’ Cramoisy pulled his jacket closer about his shoulders. “Those eyes.’
‘Musicians, you said?’ Khassian turned questioningly to Orial. She nodded.
‘Renowned for their music. Dame Tradescar is trying to decipher their script.’
Khassian knelt down to examine the mural more closely.
‘Is this it?’ He pointed to the formal border of painted reeds that fringed the frieze.
‘Why – yes!’ Kneeling down beside him, Orial saw a pattern of hieroglyphs cunningly concealed to look like tiny insects amongst the reeds: spotted ladybirds, cranetails and three-tailed damsel-nymphs. ‘What keen eyesight you have, Illustre. I don’t believe anyone has ever noticed these before. I must tell Jolaine.’
‘It’s too chilly down here. Damp. Bad for the vocal chords,’ Cramoisy complained.
‘A lost race of musicians,’ Khassian murmured. ‘What better place to rehearse?’
‘But what am I to do?’ demanded Cramoisy. ‘You know how powerful my voice is, Amaru. Suppose I were to set off a rockfall? We could all be buried alive!’
Khassian had been walking around the hall, looking at the paintings. Now he stopped, smiling. Orial was astonished at the difference the smile made to his face; the hard eyes warmed, the stubborn set of the mouth creased into an endearingly boyish expression, sunshine on a barren landscape.
‘I like this place. I feel an affinity with these people. They were musicians too. They would understand.’
‘Shouldn’t we obtain permission from someone?’ Cramoisy was still determined to make objections.
‘From whom? The Lifhendil are long dead.’
‘How should I know! The Mayor?’ Cramoisy blustered.
‘Ah. Well, as you keep telling us that you are on such good terms with His Worship the Mayor, maybe you should speak with him? Does this chamber have a name, Orial?’
He had called her by her first name, not the usual formality of ‘demselle’. If it had not been so dark, he would have seen a sudden flush of colour warm her pale cheeks.
‘I call it the Hall of Whispering Reeds,’ she said softly.
‘The Hall of Whispering Reeds,’ he repeated her words. ‘I like that.’
Orial felt her face burning with pleasure.
What’s the matter with me? Blushing when he speaks to me. Wanting to be near him yet whenever he moves closer, wanting to move away…
She found herself wondering what links bound Khassian and Cramoisy together. She had assumed that they were lovers; there was a bantering quality to their exchanges that spoke of an easy intimacy established long ago. Yet they seemed oddly matched: Cramoisy, whose every gesture was exaggerated, whose every utterance was a little performance, and Khassian, whose whole bearing spoke of sensitivity and self-restraint.
Now she kept darting little glances at them whenever they spoke together, looking for clues – yet hoping against hope not to find them.
Acir Korentan was a haunted man.
As he walked the twilit streets of Sulien, he kept thinking he caught sight of Fiammis’s reflection in the bow windows of the boutiques. He glimpsed her in the swirl of taffeta petticoats, the provocative tilt of a ribboned straw hat, the frills on a pretty parasol.
Each time he felt his heart miss a beat – and then, as he realised it was not – could not be – her, a ridiculous sensation of disappointment dulled his spirit. Even the sweet scents of the warm evening air stirred his senses as he remembered the lingering fragrance of her milky skin.
It was dusk and most of the shopkeepers were boarding up their shop windows for the night. One alone at the end of the row was still open, lanterns burning within and without. Acir was about to pass by when his heart stuttered again.
She was inside.
He swiftly drew back into the doorway of the neighbouring boutique.
This time it was no trick of the imagination. It was Fiammis. But what was she about? The little shop was dark and fusty, not the fashionable kind of boutique she preferred to patronise.
Acir looked up at the sign overhead: a pestle and mortar proclaimed the shop to be an apothecary’s. Was she ill? Maybe she was not deceiving him after all; maybe she had come to Sulien for her health.
He heard voices and shrank back into the doorway as the shop bell tinkled and Fiammis appeared. He saw her glance up and down the street, then push a little package into her reticule. A moment later, she was away, nonchalantly walking alone into the dusk.
Should he pursue her? Should he offer to escort her through the darkening streets?
No, no. Acir stopped himself. Whatever was he thinking of? She could defend herself easily against whatever dangers she might encounter in Sulien at night.
The apothecary came out into the street to close his shop, a stooped little man who seemed hardly strong enough to pull the heavy shutters across.
Acir stepped out of the shadows.
‘Good heavens, sieur, you made me jump!’ The apothecary blinked at him in the lamplight. ‘Can I help you? I was just shutting up for the night –’
‘The customer you served… The one who just left your shop.’
‘The lady?’ The apothecary regarded him with his straggle-bearded head cocked to one side like a wary bird.
‘What did she purchase?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t reveal the details of another customer’s purchases –’
Acir drew two golden courons from his pocket.
‘On the other hand, if you care to come into the shop, I could refer to the receipt book to refresh my memory.’
The shop was dingily lit by a single lamp. The shelves were lined with wooden boxes and ceramic jars, the painted names of the drugs within flaking away: Arnica; Calomel; Nux Vomica; Quassia. Bottles of luridly coloured water glowed in the lamplight. The counter-top was covered in a fine layer of powder… though whether it was from pounded herbs or dust, it was difficult to tell. Certainly the air had the dry taste of dust.
But what drew Acir’s attention was a glass tank, filled with cloudy water, in which he could vaguely discern creatures, snaking through the water with restless, thready movement, to and fro, to and fro. They reminded him of –
But no. Surely that was impossible. Who would want to keep the carnivorous reservoir water-snakes in an aquarium? What possible purpose could they serve?
‘That’s what the lady bought.’ The apothecary pointed to the tank. ‘Sulien water-snake venom. My most expensive remedy.’
‘She bought venom?’
‘She had a prescription. It was all perfectly legal, I assure you.’
‘And what is this venom prescribed for?’
The apothecary seemed reluctant to explain.
‘Certain physicians here regard the treatment as their secret. If word were to get out…’
Acir brought out another two gold courons and laid them on the dusty counter.
‘Administered in minuscule doses, it is the most efficient pain-killer. When laudanum and the poppy drugs cease to be effective, water-snake venom can bring relief.’
‘But what ails the lady?’
‘Megrims. Very severe megrims. The physicians only prescribe the venom in the worst cases – because of the risk.’
‘What
risk?’ Acir heard the edge to his voice.
‘A bite from one of these creatures can fell a full-grown man in a matter of minutes. The venom is injected through the front fangs. It numbs the prey almost instantly. So it’s tricky trying to milk the slippery little devils. See?’ He put the scoop into the tank and instantly the water became a wild froth as the water-snakes seemed to go into a frenzy, attacking with their teeth and their tails.
Acir drew back but his clothes were already spattered with water.
‘And is there no antidote?’
‘None. If they were to bite me, my head would soon start to spin, my sight would blur, my breathing would slow – I’d be dead within hours. So I keep ‘em well-fed.’
Fiammis a sufferer from blinding headaches? He could never once recall her complaining of the megrim. What did she want with such a lethal poison?
A chilling suspicion began to form in his mind. The dusty little shop seemed suddenly airless; he had to get out.
‘I could furnish you with more details if you so wish…’ the apothecary called after him.
Orial went running up the steps to the Cabinet of Curiosities, eager to tell Jolaine Tradescar of Khassian’s discovery. But when she reached the door she saw that a sign had been placed in the window, proclaiming:
‘Museum closed until further notice for renovations’.
‘Jolaine! Jolaine!’ Orial tried the door handle: it was locked.
‘What’s amiss? Is the building on fire?’
Orial heard Jolaine’s voice, sharp with irritation, from deep inside the Museum as her shuffling footsteps came nearer.
‘I’m very busy. I haven’t the time –’
Heavy chains rattled against the door panel as the Antiquarian shot the last bolt and opened the door, peering suspiciously with light-starved eyes into the sunshine. For one moment, Orial was irresistibly reminded of a mouldiwarp poking its snout out of its burrow.
‘Oh – it’s you. You can come in. I thought it was some interfering Guildhall clerk come poking his nose into my affairs.’ Jolaine closed the door firmly behind her and locked it again. ‘They want me to open the Museum to visitors by next month! I’ve told them it’s impossible.’
Dustsheets lay over the cabinets; obviously nothing had been made ready for the summer season. The Antiquarian had been neglecting her duties.
‘And they had the effrontery to suggest I should make some display of the new artefacts!’ Muttering in an aggrieved tone, Jolaine set off towards her office. ‘As if I had the time –’ Orial tapped her on the shoulder.
‘We’ve found some new inscriptions. In the Hall of Whispering Reeds.’
‘New inscriptions, eh?’ She had caught Jolaine’s attention now. ‘I’d better take a look. Come into the office – I need to get my notebook and pencils.’
Orial followed her into the dusty office and waited whilst she gathered her notebooks into an artist’s bag with pockets for pencils, humming jauntily to herself.
‘What’s this, Jolaine?’ Orial picked up a volume she had left open and looked at the title on the worn leather spine. ‘Faerie Tales and Legends? Has the strain of translation become too great, Dame Antiquarian, that you’ve turned to reading children’s stories?’
‘There’s a lot more sense in children’s stories than most adults would care to admit.’
Orial had already begun to read:
THE FAERIE BRIDE
No one knew where she came from but all in the village acknowledged her to be a rare beauty. The young shepherd had been slaking his thirst at the waterfall, when he had heard a girl singing. Creeping closer, he had seen her sitting beside the water, combing her golden hair and singing so bewitchingly that it made his heart yearn with longing. From that hour he vowed not to eat or sleep until he had made her his bride.
At length she took pity on him and gave him her hand – but on one condition: once every year at midsummer she must leave him for a few days to return to her own folk far beyond the mountains. He must let her go – and he must give her his solemn promise not to follow, for if he tried to come after her, she would be lost to him forever. And so he gave her his promise and they lived in perfect happiness for a while… until she began to pine, growing pale and silent.
‘What ails you, dear heart?’ her husband asked her.
‘The time has come when I must leave you,’ she replied. ‘But never fear, I will return – so long as you keep your promise.’
‘Then give me something as a keepsake, a token that you will keep faith with me.’
So she cut off a lock of her golden hair and gave it to him as a keepsake.
Days passed and the bride did not return. The young shepherd began to grow suspicious. On Midsummer Eve he went back to the waterfall where he had first met her and he heard the strains of a strange, sad music drifting from a distant glade. Curious, he followed the sounds of the music and came upon a company of the Faer Folk beside the waters, dancing and making such music as he had never heard before. And foremost amongst them he recognised his bride.
Forgetting his promise, he called her name aloud – and in that instant, she gave a terrible cry and threw herself into the waterfall. A mist swirled about them – and when it cleared, he was alone on the bare hillside.
Nothing would console him. For years he roamed the hills searching in vain for his faerie bride, clutching the lock of golden hair she had left as a keepsake. And some say she came to him on his deathbed, as young and as beautiful as when he had first seen her… for in their halls of Faerie, the passing of mortal time is but the blinking of an eye…
‘That story always used to make me cry when I was little,’ Orial said, setting the book slowly down, ‘though I was never sure why. Was it because the shepherd died for love? Or because I wanted to find the Faer Folk for myself and everyone kept telling me it was just a silly story and, besides, faeries don’t exist?’
‘I’m sure I never told you that.’
‘Oh, not you, Jolaine, never you.’
‘It was always my theory, as you remember, that these faerie tales contained a grain of truth. A folk memory, maybe, of events long since forgotten, unrecorded in the written annals of Sulien,’
‘But a memory of what?’
‘The Lifhendil.’
‘Now you’re going to tell me I’ve faerie blood in my veins. Should I expect to sprout little wings and fly?’ Orial said teasingly, making her hands flutter upwards like a butterfly.
‘Lifhendil blood.’ Jolaine was not to be distracted from the line of thought she was pursuing. ‘Suliens called it “faerie” to explain away a phenomenon they would not, could not, understand. By reducing it to a children’s fantasy, they defused the myth of its potency. There’s nothing too threatening about rainbow-winged sprites, is there?’
‘Threatening? The Lifhendil were a peaceful race. The Allegondans slaughtered them.’
‘The Allegondans did not understand the Lifhendil. Their religious rites must have seemed utterly incomprehensible. Confronted by such alien beliefs, they reacted in the time-honoured way.’
‘The religious rites?’
‘At first I thought the rites must be some form of ancestor-worship. And then, more and more of the inscriptions led me to believe they were… something else. What have the Lifhendil bequeathed us? Our funeral customs – and the Accidie. A terrible legacy. And yet they were a serene, gifted people – all the wall-paintings and writings confirm that. Something went wrong, Orial.’
‘No, I’m wrong,’ she said slowly, with growing understanding. ‘I’m a freak. Can’t you imagine how it happened? Allegondans captured and raped the few surviving Lifhendil women. The Allegondans and Lifhendil were never meant to intermarry. I am the result of some ancient atrocity.’
‘But no freak, my dear.’ Jolaine took her hands; the Antiquarian’s fingers felt as gnarled and knotted as willow twigs but Orial was grateful for the comfort of her firm grip. ‘The wrong that was done to your Lifhendil ancestor
s was that their culture was obliterated. Until now.’
‘What have you discovered?’ Orial whispered, not taking her eyes from Jolaine’s.
‘To the Lifhendil, this life was but one stage in their development. The first stage.’
‘The first stage?’
‘The reservoirs were designed as – as –’ Jolaine Tradescar searched for words. ‘Places of transition. Birthing pools. Are you with me? Not burial places – but somewhere where the mortal shell could be shrugged off, where a new, transfigured being would emerge. Like the dragonflies.’
‘But that would mean my mother –’ Orial had begun to tremble. ‘She went mad. She – she was buried in the dark waters, the reservoir. Oh, Jolaine –’
‘If it’s upsetting you –’
‘Go on.’
‘The madness was regarded as a sign from the Goddess. A sign that the one divinely afflicted was ready to be translated to a higher state. To join the winged ones.’
‘The faeries?’
‘Faeries, angels, that’s our modern, inadequate translation… the Lifhendil had no words like these.’ Hoisting the canvas artist’s bag on to her shoulder, Jolaine locked the door to her office and ushered Orial down the Museum between the shrouded cabinets.
‘But surely it’s just a metaphor, Jolaine. The body dies and the spirit takes wing towards the light.’
‘Not for the Lifhendil,’ Jolaine said firmly.
Orial saw that there was no gleam of eccentric fervour in Jolaine’s eyes. She was in earnest.
‘You really believe it.’
“There’s too much evidence to the contrary.’ Jolaine shot back the bolts and opened the door; cloudy daylight spilled into the Museum.
‘B-but – where are they now? The winged ones?’
‘Now?’ Jolaine’s eyes lifted beyond hers, towards the distant hills. ‘On the lonely mountainside, behind the waterfall? Over the hills and faraway…’
‘Dame Tradescar!’
Two men were coming swiftly towards them, climbing the steps two-at-a-time.
‘Hell and damnation!’ Jolaine swore under her breath and attempted to retreat into the Museum. But her canvas bag-strap caught on the door handle and before she could slam the door shut, the brawnier of the two men wedged his foot and shoulder in between.