by Sarah Ash
Did Fiammis know she was being followed? There seemed little purpose to her meandering walk; she stopped to look at the carp, she stopped to sniff a geranium leaf…
It was damply warm beneath the heavy foliage; the dappling sun drew out earthy odours of rotting bark and leafmould.
A little further ahead, the path divided: a curving bridge of lichened stone led upwards into a dark-arched tunnel of knotted rhododendrons; beneath the bridge the lake path wound on towards a summer pavilion heavy with wistaria.
Fiammis took the path that led up on to the narrow bridge. Acir hung back, unable to follow without being discovered.
The Botanical Gardens drowsed in the humid afternoon.
Fiammis’s languid walk became swift, purposeful. Acir cast a quick glance around, wondering what had provoked this change.
And then he saw Khassian coming along the lake path below.
Fiammis leaned out over the bridge parapet, her frilled parasol balanced on her forearm, almost as if she were lining up the sights of an arquebus.
Suddenly Acir realised what she was about. Suddenly he understood.
He threw himself forward, gripped the parasol in both hands and wrenched it from her.
She tried to grab it back.
Beneath them, oblivious to the danger, Khassian strolled on towards the pavilion.
Acir twisted the parasol out of her grip and, with shaking hands, tried to disable the concealed mechanism.
‘Be careful!’ Her shriek came almost too late. His fingers tripped a hidden catch – and something shot from the point of the parasol, rebounding off the parapet on the other side of the bridge with a metallic twang.
Astonished, he looked up and saw that she had flung herself to the ground.
‘Give it here!’ she cried, snatching the parasol back.
Acir hurried over to search for the projectile amidst the weeds and grit. He could see the graze where it had scarred the stone. He prodded about with a twig, sifting through the gravel and dandelion leaves until he caught the faint glint of metal. Parting the leaves, he extricated the tiny dart and gingerly examined it.
‘A clever device,’ he said.
‘A moustiq.’ Fiammis was brushing the dirt from her clothes as she came towards him, hand outstretched to take it. ‘Ingenious little device, isn’t it? It goes in as smoothly as a gnat’s sting.’
It was exquisitely crafted – if something so lethal could be described as exquisite. The impact against the stone had hardly dented its streamlined precision.
‘Oh, and don’t touch the tip. I took the precaution of dipping it in water-snake venom.’
Acir handed it back to her without a word. His palms were sweating. Fiammis – frail, beautiful Fiammis – was a cold and calculating assassin.
‘Girim sent you to kill him.’
She carefully took the dart and, slipping a cachou box from her reticule, opened the enamel lid and placed it inside. Each movement was calculated and precise.
‘Girim sent me to bring affairs to a conclusion. One way or the other.’
‘But murder –’
‘Who would have been able to tell it was not an insect sting? Such things are not unknown. Poisoning of the blood following the sting of an insect – oedema of the body tissues, difficulty with breathing. There would have been no proof,’ She seemed consumed with cold fury, snapping at him in short, stabbing phrases. ‘And look what you’ve done to my parasol! It cost me a fortune to have it adapted. Now it’s ruined.’
‘Fiammis, what’s happened to you?’
‘I learned to survive. That’s what happened to me.’
A waft of the foetid water-lily scent rose on the breeze, cloyingly sweet.
‘Survival meant killing for a living?’
‘Oh – and the men you’ve killed in the name of the Commanderie, that’s different?’
He had no answer to that. She, the stealthy killer, the shadow assassin, had no right to employ that argument against him – and yet he knew his silence acknowledged that the accusation was just.
‘You should be in Bel’Esstar. You have no business to be here. You deliberately disobeyed Commanderie orders – you, the model Guerrior. What hold has this Khassian over you?’
‘Destroy him and you destroy all hope of reconciliation in Bel’Esstar.’
‘On the contrary. One bite from the moustiq and the rebels lose their hero. The rebellion collapses like a burst balloon. I won’t miss next time.’
Her callousness shocked him. What had become of the young girl, golden-haired Fia, whom he had loved so passionately? Who had corrupted her, who had trained her to kill? Before he knew what he was doing, he had gripped her by the shoulders, forcing her to look into his face.
‘Spare Khassian. Let him live. There has to be another way.’
Her eyes opened wide, curious, questioning.
‘I have my orders. Why should I disobey them?’
Still that infuriating air of nonchalance, taunting him, teasing him.
‘For my sake, Fia.’
‘I propose a compromise.’ She slipped out of his grasp as lightly as a dancer. ‘I will find… another way, as you put it. He will live. But in return, you will grant me a favour when next we meet.’
‘What manner of favour?’
‘Whatever I ask.’
He was caught in her snare.
‘If it is in my power to grant that favour –’
‘Oh, it is, Acir.’ She lifted her hand and let her finger-tip brush across his lips. ‘It is.’
Amused watchers in the Gardens below had seen the fine gentlewoman and the man on the bridge tussling over the pretty parasol.
Their raised voices had been too faint to distinguish the words. Seasoned observers of the Sulien social scene could easily guess the theme. They pleased themselves with constructing little scenarios: she had bought another outrageously expensive outfit; he had caught her flirting with a rival and had decided to assert himself; the parasol was a present from her lover and proof positive that he had been cuckolded… It was generally decided that the latter interpretation was the most likely: she was an uncommonly handsome woman – whereas he, soberly dressed, stern-faced, was obviously too boorish a companion for such a rare creature.
In the wistaria-wreathed pavilion, Amaru Khassian sat alone, wondering if he had misread the time – or the day – on Azare’s note. Or perhaps there was another pavilion in the Botanical Gardens.
Either way, he had wasted an afternoon when he could have been composing.
Fiammis threw the broken parasol down upon her bed.
He had touched her. He had caught hold of her – she could feel his touch still, as if his fingers had burned her skin.
She closed her eyes a moment, reliving the sensation.
Against her closed lids she saw a marigold meadow under a blue sky, she heard the echo of distant teasing laughter. A dark-browed boy caught her in his arms – and she pushed him away, mocking.
Then he had vowed himself forever hers and she had rejected him. Now she burned to possess him, to melt that stern resolve.
But now he knows me for what I truly am. An assassin.
She opened her eyes. On the bed lay the twisted frame of the parasol, irrefutable evidence of her trade.
She picked it up and examined the mechanism. The delicate concealed spring-action mechanism was wrecked beyond hope of repair.
She was becoming careless.
Never let your feelings interfere with your work.
It was as well that she had taken the precaution of having a second parasol adapted in Bel’Esstar. A skilled agent anticipates every eventuality.
She checked her reflection in the mirror.
A tiny blemish marked her red-rouged mouth where she had bitten her lip in vexation. A fleck of a darker red – blood – marred the delicate shade the perfumier had made up to her instructions.
She seized her rouge pot and brush and began to repair the damage, dabbing with tiny,
precise strokes until the imperfection was concealed.
He loved her still, she was sure of that. She had seen it in his eyes, a darkness shadowing their clear blue. But he would not betray his calling. He would rather abjure her, rather endure a lifetime of self-denial, than break his vows. His honour meant more to him than she did.
But now she had snared him. Snared him with a promise on his honour. He must grant her that one favour she most desired.
And as for Khassian… she would now put her second scheme into operation.
A skilled agent anticipates every eventuality.
CHAPTER 14
Bel’Esstar. City of a Million Lights. The glittering star illuminating all Allegonde.
Acir Korentan crossed the wide, windswept boulevards, passing elegant town houses, mansions in grey stone. Each boulevard radiated outwards, rays of a star, from the Winter Palace, seat of the Princes of Allegonde.
A city of light: pale stone and glass. And yet a city steeped in blood. Here the Poet-Prophet Mhir, Mhir the well-beloved, had died a martyr’s death defending the faith against a despotic and cruel Shultan.
Acir shivered. At this time of year a dry, cold wind blew from the mountains, delaying the arrival of the summer’s heat. It stung the eyes, left a taste of dust on the lips and tongue.
The grand buildings did not impress him, nor did the glimpses of crystal chandeliers and gilded splendour. The grey stone façades seemed austere, forbidding, after the warm, rose-tinged sandstone terraces of Sulien.
Bel’Esstar had lost its soul. It was a city of mirrors and reflections – but all it reflected was a chill heart.
Acir shaded his eyes against the midday sun, gazing up at the scaffolding towers and pulleys, the fast-growing walls of the Fortress of Faith.
Already the little shrine where the Poet-Prophet Mhir was buried was dwarfed by the foundation trenches being dug around it, the marker posts, the scaffolding. Acir looked at it sadly, remembering how only a few weeks ago he had stood in its candlelit silence and had felt a sense of peace such as he had not experienced since the day he was called; a warmth, golden as amber, intense as candleflame. Now that stillness was broken by the sound of shovels and pickaxes, the tapping of chisels on blocks of stone, the rough shouts of the overseers.
He hoped that its tranquillity had not been destroyed forever.
‘The realisation of a dream, Acir.’
He turned around and saw Girim nel Ghislain, Grand Maistre of the Commanderie and Leader of the Order of the Rosecoeur, watching him intently.
Acir crossed the churned turf and, sinking to his knees, pressed the Grand Maistre’s hands to his lips, kissing the rose-stone ring.
‘Have you seen the plans?’
The Grand Maistre unrolled some architect’s drawings. An imposing edifice was revealed, its massive walls more a fortified citadel than a place of worship.
‘Mhir’s tomb enshrined, preserved forever, a jewel in a precious casket. The finest sculptors and masons working with painters, mosaicists, glaziers, to create a building without parallel in all Allegonde.’
‘It’s – it’s vast. I had no idea –’
‘You are looking at the future of the Commanderie. This will be our headquarters. The heart of the Rose. Close your eyes and imagine the day of dedication. The rose-strewn aisles thronged with the faithful, countless more crowding outside…’
For a moment Acir’s head was filled with Girim’s vision of echoing chapels reverberant with the murmured prayers of pilgrims, swimming with a misty light, cloud and distant sunlight, vaulted arches high as heaven…
‘A great lantern tower will be constructed over the tomb.’ Girim stopped at the entrance, his gesture encompassing a structure of immense proportions. ‘An architect’s psalm of praise realised in stone and glass. Carven vines tendrilling up the columns… thorns of stone…’
‘But the funds.’ The vision vanished. ‘How can the Commanderie possibly afford to pay for this?’
‘Prince Ilsevir has decreed that the assets confiscated from convicted dissenters be added to our building funds. And those convicted are providing us with our workforce.’
Acir looked at him, puzzled. ‘Convicts?’
‘Our brothers have already established a second Sanctuary in the mountains to quarry stone. See those men over there –’
A band of workers were struggling to unload massive blocks of rose-red stone from a wagon, watched over by several of the Commanderie.
‘Sulien stone?’ The stone that had weathered to a warm rose in the rain-washed light of Sulien, looked harsh and red under the unforgiving glare of the Bel’Esstar sun.
‘The mountains are not owned solely by Tourmalise. If we wish to quarry stone, it is our right to do so.’
Acir had been watching the Sanctuarees labouring as Girim spoke. ‘Why are they shackled like slaves?’ he asked.
‘Don’t forget they are convicted criminals,’ Girim said sharply. ‘What would you have us do, Acir? Leave them chained up, forgotten in some foul-smelling oubliette?’
‘But to build the holy Stronghold with forced labour –’
‘Not so long ago these dissenters would have been hung, burned, crucified for spreading their heresies,’ The light in Girim’s pale eyes pierced Acir like a spear. ‘But we are giving them the chance to work to redeem themselves.’
In the Enhirran desert Girim had never lost faith; when they were all parched for want of water, half-starved, weak with dysentery, he had urged them on. Girim’s vision had sustained them even when their own courage had faltered.
So why did he doubt him now?
‘But this is not the reason I called you back.’
Girim laid his hand on Acir’s arm and led him towards the shrine.
The workers had covered the little building with heavy oiled cloths to protect it. Girim pushed aside the cloths and held open the door to the tomb. Acir followed him.
A bitter breath of frankincense fumes stung his eyes; a thousand petals of flame burned in the niches, rose candles of crimson wax.
This was where the Blessed Mhir lay buried. Mhir who had dared to defy the dissolute Shultan of Bel’Esstar, and in defending the rights of the faithful, had died a martyr’s death. A stone slab, worn away by the kisses and caresses of the faithful, covered the holy place where the first miracle had taken place. Here the Rose had sprung from the buried Prophet’s breast, the perfect crimson Rose that wept drops of blood, heart’s blood. Here the miraculous roseblood had restored Beloved Elesstar to life – and she had led the people of Bel’Esstar to overthrow the Shultan. The story had never failed to move Acir; the selfless sacrifice of the Poet-Prophet whose love for Elesstar and his people had endured beyond death.
Girim prostrated himself, his forehead brushing the worn stone; Acir knelt beside him and remained several minutes lost in silent prayer.
‘Where is Amaru Khassian?’
Girim’s voice startled Acir out of his reverie.
‘He should be here, at Mhir’s tomb, making a public affirmation of faith. And where is he? Still in Sulien.’
‘You know me, Girim. I’m a soldier. I have no skill with words.’
‘My dear friend, you still don’t see how dangerous Amaru Khassian is.’
‘Dangerous?’ Acir shook his head. ‘Intelligent, yes. Proud. But he is no threat to the Commanderie –’
‘The Contesse Fiammis is right! He’s blinded you with his charm.’
‘Fiammis…’ Acir echoed.
‘The Contesse is a devour supporter of the cause. If she had succeeded, the situation would now be resolved. The blasphemer would be dead.’
‘And a new martyr created.’
‘Why did you ignore my instructions? You had my written authority to do whatever the situation merited.’
Girim’s eyes glittered in the darkness; Acir stared at him, not certain what he was witnessing. A dull, cold horror had begun to seep into his soul. He had been a long while in Enhirrë and maybe t
he change in Girim nel Ghislain had not been apparent when he was first summoned home to undertake this mission.
‘Have you been blind to what’s happening in Sulien? Dissenters are drawn to Amaru Khassian, like wasps to a honeycomb. He’s been plotting his retaliation right under your nose. It could mean the end of all our plans, all our dreams, Acir. He must be stopped.’
‘I – I need time to think.’
“The time for thinking is past. This cell of revolutionaries must be broken up. Crushed. Eradicated.’
‘They’re only musicians –’
Girim moved closer still.
‘Am I your superior officer?’ he whispered.
‘Yes,’ Acir said wretchedly.
“Then do not question my orders again. Your vow, Acir.’ Girim thrust out his hand. ‘Obedience. In all things.’
Torn, Acir hesitated – and then slowly sank to his knees to kiss the ring.
‘Come to my apartments in the Palace tonight. I have new instructions for you.’
As Acir emerged from Mhir’s shrine into the daylight, he caught a distant snatch of song that made him stop and gaze upwards.
A single voice at first, from high up in the scaffolding, faint, ragged, as the singer gasped in breath as he worked… and then another joined in, and another, until the melody swelled and soared. The singing was rough, rhythmical – and fervent. And the song – he recognised it, he knew he had heard it before.
‘Silence those men!’ ordered Girim. He could hardly be heard above the singing.
Guerriors went swarming up the ladders to the high platform.
The singing faltered – and died, to be replaced by muffled cries and grunts of pain.
Acir turned to Girim, shocked at the brutality of the punishment.
‘What’s the harm in singing?’ he asked. ‘Didn’t we sing in Enhirrë when we were restoring the birthplace shrine?’
‘But we sang the Psalms of Mhir. This is no work-song but an act of blatant defiance. Don’t you recognise it?’ Girim was regarding him with keen attention.
‘It was too faint to catch the sense of the words.’
‘“Freedom freedom…” by Amaru Khassian. Now do you see what damage your failure to complete your mission has done?’