Songspinners

by Sarah Ash

  There was no Opera House. The Prince’s preferred music nowadays, Cramoisy had said with a sniff, was the Psalms of Mhir or the battle-hymns of the Commanderie.

  A small, persistent voice kept whispering that she was on a fool’s errand. Who would pay attention to an insignificant doctor’s daughter? She was wasting her time.

  Too late to turn back now. She must finish what she had begun.

  She kept her gaze fixed on the shadow of the city as it slowly grew – until it filled the horizon.

  ‘Mind your head, Captain Korentan,’ called the Guerrior.

  Acir ducked just in time to avoid grazing his forehead on the low arch. His feet slopped through muddy water that seemed perpetually to drip off the glistening walls. The old prison stank of mould; it would take more than a coat of whitewash to make it habitable. Demolition was the most appropriate solution, he thought wryly. Ironic that so many men and women should be imprisoned here in squalor – and forced to labour all their waking hours to build a house for a god.

  ‘This wing has still to be fully restored.’ said the Guerrior over his shoulder. He stopped and, selecting a key from the ring he wore at his belt, unlocked the door at the far end of the low-arched passageway.

  The Sanctuaree was gaunt and hollow-cheeked. Shabby work overalls, powdered with stone dust, hung loosely on his emaciated frame. Acir noticed that he flinched whenever the Guerriors touched him. Only in his sunken eyes a dark spark of defiance still glimmered.

  ‘Sanctuaree number 137, Captain,’ announced the one of the Guerriors.

  ‘That will be all, confrères,’ he said. ‘You may go.’

  The Guerriors glanced at each other.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ Acir looked up at them.

  ‘Our orders are to stay, in case the prisoner –’

  ‘Then your orders are changed. You will stay outside until I call you.’

  Acir waited until the door was closed and he was alone with number 137.

  ‘You have a name?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ the Sanctuaree said.

  Acir opened the folder containing the record of the man’s imprisonment.

  The stark facts in front of him told him that Gualtier Tomasin had been a claveciniste and repetiteur at the Opera. He was also the composer of several ‘degenerate works of music, written in an uncompromising style wholly unsuited to the needs of the new regime in Bel’Esstar’.

  ‘I see that you have been brought here regularly for spiritual counselling since your arrival.’

  A tremor animated the man’s lips, the twisted parody of a smile.

  ‘So what is it to be this week? Another letter from my wife? Our son is sick, she has no more money for medicine, no money for food. If only I would overcome my pride and do as the Commanderie wish…’

  ‘There are no letters,’ Acir said, searching the folder.

  ‘Oh, so that’s the tactic now? Leave me wondering why, what’s become of them? You won’t break me that way, confrère. I’ve listened to your Commanderie fabrications for too long.’

  Acir did not respond. Shame had tied his tongue. Nothing he said would change Gualtier Tomasin’s view of the Commanderie – but what Gualtier Tomasin had said revealed a great deal about the Guerriors in the Sanctuary.

  He closed the folder.

  ‘You call yourselves men of god. What kind of a god has priests who starve and torture their charges? Who imprison a man for stringing together a few notes of music in the wrong style? Your god couldn’t give a fig about my music.’ Tomasin’s thin face was twisted with anger. ‘Surely gods have better things to do than concern themselves with such petty issues? Surely –’

  The door was flung open and the Guerriors ran in, seizing hold of the musician, pinning his arms behind his back.

  ‘No, no!’ shouted Tomasin. He went on shouting as they wrestled him to the floor.

  Acir rose to his feet, furious.

  ‘Who summoned you?’

  ‘Sanctuaree’s out of control. Governor’s orders – to intervene.’

  One flung open the small door beyond Acir’s table.

  ‘Not the inner chamber! Not the inner chamber!’ screamed Tomasin hoarsely.

  They bundled him into the lightless room and slammed the door shut. Tomasin beat on the door with his fists, still screaming.

  ‘Governor’s orders!’ repeated Acir coldly above his screams. ‘What about my orders?’

  ‘This one’s a trouble-maker. He stirs the others up.’

  ‘Because he has been maltreated. Locked and left in the dark. Beaten. Now take him out of there before he has a fit.’

  The Guerriors looked at each other.

  ‘The Governor won’t like it.’

  ‘The Governor can bring his complaint to me. Get him out of there.’

  They unlocked the door and Tomasin fell out on to his knees. He looked up at Acir and his bloodshot eyes narrowed.

  ‘You won’t break me this way. They’ve tried that trick too. You’ll never break me.’

  The Fortress of Faith towered above Acir Korentan.

  A group of Sanctuarees were hauling a block of stone up to the second tier, using a pulley; Acir could hear the creak and groan of wood and rope, strained to the utmost by the weight of the massive block, the grunts of the men as they heaved on the rope.

  Gazing upwards, he saw the stone rise slowly, jerkily above his head – too jerkily.

  Instinct saved him – he flung himself to the ground and rolled away as the stone came crashing back down, thudding into the earth at the exact spot where he had been standing.

  Guerriors rushed towards him.

  ‘Captain, are you all right?’

  Stumbling to his feet, Acir brushed the earth from his uniform.

  ‘Unharmed,’ he said shakily.

  The whole site had stilled; even the incessant din of chisels and mallets fell silent. Everyone stared up at the Sanctuarees high above on the platform.

  ‘The rope,’ cried one of the Guerriors, picking up the still-dangling end. ‘It’s been cut.’

  ‘Show me.’ Acir took the rope from the Guerrior. The rope had not frayed with wear – the strands were evenly severed. A deliberate act of sabotage. They had meant to kill him. To crush him with the block which now lay before him, half-buried by the impact in the earth.

  ‘Bring those men down!’ The Guerriors made for the ladders and began to climb towards the huddle of Sanctuarees on the platform.

  ‘Wait!’ Acir detected a flicker of movement, the brief glint of light on an upraised blade.

  High above, one of the Sanctuarees teetered on the edge of the platform – and suddenly came toppling down to land sprawled on the trampled grass at Acir’s feet. The sharpened chisel he had clutched speared into the earth a foot away.

  Acir knelt and tried to raise the dying man in his arms. Blood glistened on the Sanctuaree’s face.

  ‘Careful, Captain!’ shouted the Guerrior.

  ‘Gualtier Tomasin,’ whispered Acir, recognising him. ‘Why? Why this way?’

  The Sanctuaree’s eyes opened. His mouth strove to form words.

  ‘My blood be on… your conscience, Guerrior…’ The musician choked and a gush of crimson flooded from his mouth. The broken body convulsed as the eyes slid skywards.

  Acir laid him down and closed the sightless eyes.

  ‘Go in peace,’ he said softly.

  Looking up, he saw the Guerriors had brought down number 137’s companions from the platform; he saw the fear and hostility in their eyes.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Captain. We’ll get confessions from all three. Attempted murder.’

  ‘No.’ Acir stood up. ‘There is no need. 137 confessed.’

  ‘But these were his accomplices –’

  ‘The incident is over. I’ll be writing a report. There’ll be no further charges.’ Mechanically he began to straighten his jacket – and his hands came away sticky with 137’s blood.

  ‘“And I believe it was
his intention to kill me – or die in the attempt. The attack on my person was unpremeditated, clumsy and spontaneous. Further investigation is therefore unnecessary.” ‘

  Acir finished reading his report aloud to the Grand Maistre and stood waiting for his response.

  After several moments’ silence, Girim looked up.

  ‘I’m afraid I must disagree with you. I smell dissent. I want those men interrogated.’

  Acir was still shaken after the morning’s events. He had spent all afternoon trying to find details of the whereabouts of the dead Sanctuaree’s family. No one seemed to know – or maybe to want to tell him. If his sources were correct, Gualtier Tomasin’s wife had fled the capital to her parents’ farm on the plain of Dniera. A messenger had been sent bearing the terse report of 137’s death. Acir had wanted to go himself but had been denied permission.

  The whole business disgusted him.

  ‘I can’t see that interrogation – torture – will be of any use. Under extreme duress men will say anything.’

  Girim rose from his desk and came over to him.

  ‘I know you are saying this for the very best of reasons, Acir. But these unbelievers are subtle. Can’t you see what they are doing to you? Take a firm line with them. Force is the only thing they understand.’

  ‘But why can we not co-exist with those who wish to follow their own beliefs? Why must we use force?’

  ‘These liberal ideas are the flowers lining the way to the pit of despair. Exotically beautiful, alluring – but to breathe their scent is to breathe a deadly poison. Why else did Mhir call the path of righteousness the “Path of Thorns”? It was never an easy path.’

  For years Acir had followed Mhir’s banner, followed the Thorny Path, strong in the belief that it led to the realisation of a dream: Girim’s dream, the dream he had shared.

  ‘Look, Acir.’ Girim drew back the heavy curtains. ‘Look at the city.’

  In the blue twilight, lights glimmered in windows, street lights illuminated squares and boulevards. An inky lake filled with a myriad reflected star-shards.

  City of a Million Lights.

  ‘We have carried Mhir’s banner back to his city. We have set up his standard so that all may know this is his Holy city. Now we must ensure all is in readiness for His coming.’

  Acir stared out unseeing at the starry lights of Bel’Esstar.

  They had brought the banner back – but now it was tattered, battle-torn, soaked in the blood of innocents.

  The Commanderie had lost its way. Led by Girim nel Ghislain, the Guerriors had taken the wrong road, they had followed the path of vanity and self-delusion. They were marching to damnation, dragging down the people they had sought to save, dragging them into the mire.

  Couldn’t Girim see what he had done?

  The city lights suddenly dimmed and blurred. Acir blinked – and felt wetness on his cheeks.

  ‘I see tears in your eyes, Acir. You know what I say to be true.’

  Yes, he thought. I was dazzled by your rhetoric. But my tears have washed away the dazzle and I see you as you truly are. A man drunk with his own powers, inflated with his own self-importance.

  I worshipped you. Girim. You were my ideal. The man I most looked up to, the man with a dream. I would have followed you into the dark.

  He saw his path only too clearly now. He was the standard bearer, he had to take up the tattered remnants of Mhir’s banner and lave away the stains that besmirched it. He must carry it through the last of the light – no matter what the cost.

  CHAPTER 20

  Khassian’s face itched with several days’ dark growth of beard. His stomach rumbled.

  God, he was starving. Why was his empty stomach the only thing he could think of?

  At first he had disdained to eat the Sanctuary food. Then by the end of the second day he was so ravenous he had got down on hands and knees on the flagstones and gulped the millet porridge from the bowl like a dog.

  Now he had become quite skilful at raising the bowl to his mouth, using his stiffened hands as a crude scoop. The process was inelegant – but who was to see if porridge dribbled out of one side of his mouth, if he slopped soup down his shirt?

  Two meagre meals a day. Were they trying to starve him into submission?

  He kicked at the door of his cell until his stubbed toes protested.

  ‘Get me a lawyer. You have no right to hold me here against my will. I want to see a lawyer.’

  No response, as usual. He waited a while and then shouted out again.

  “The Prince is my patron! I demand to send a message to the Prince!’

  He had nearly shouted himself hoarse when the door was suddenly unlocked and a bearded Guerrior appeared, his broad bulk filling the doorway.

  ‘This is a place of silence and meditation. You are disturbing the concentration of the other Sanctuarees.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ Khassian snarled. ‘I demand my rights as a citizen of Bel’Esstar. I demand –’

  The Guerrior struck him across the head. Khassian fell to the floor, dizzy, ears ringing from the blow.

  ‘H-how dare you!’

  ‘You will keep silence,’ said the Guerrior, slamming the door.

  Khassian put one hand up to his stinging ear and brought it away, moist with blood.

  The Diva had been gone five hours.

  Orial went to the window of the villa and gazed out again over the street. No sign or sound of a carriage. The River Faubourg drowsed under a heavy sky.

  They had been installed for several days in the Diva’s riverside residence, the Villa of Yellow Vines, days which had been filled with writing letters and petitions on Khassian’s behalf. This morning the Commanderie carriage had arrived without warning to escort the Diva to the Winter Palace. The invitation – to attend upon the Prince at his levee – was most pressing. The Guerriors would not even wait for the Diva to change into a costume more fitting for the occasion.

  Since then, there had been no word and Orial had fretted away the hours alone. The housekeeper had brought her some lunch; she had tried to eat but felt so sick with apprehension that she only managed to swallow a spoonful or two of the delicious iced tea-cream dessert.

  The Diva must have been arrested. That was the only explanation for so long an absence. All her plans had been aborted before there was time to put them into action.

  There came a distant rattle of hoofs over gravel. Orial sped to the open window, leaning far out over the vine-covered sill. A carriage drew up at the gates; a man climbed out.

  ‘Diva!’ cried Orial.

  She ran down the stairs and flung open the door to greet him, hugging him tight.

  ‘Such effusion!’ said Cramoisy. ‘Anyone would think you had not seen me in years.’

  ‘What happened? Why were you gone so long? Did you see the Prince?’

  Cramoisy sank into a fauteuil and kicked off his shoes.

  ‘My ankles are quite swollen with standing so long. Court levees are a terrible trial on the legs, carissa,’ His voice was hoarse with strain.

  ‘But did you see Prince Ilsevir?’

  ‘His Royal Highness was gracious enough to grant me an audience. We agreed that I will make my confession before the court in the royal chapel. He wanted me to sing an aria or two from Talfieri’s new oratorio The Path of Thorns,’ Cramoisy made a little moue of disgust. ‘I was almost glad to tell him that my voice is ruined for I cannot abide the man’s music. And do you know, Orial, what Ilsevir then said to me?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘“We shall pray together for your voice to be restored. Perhaps the Blessed Mhir will restore your voice as He restored me to health.” ‘Cramoisy pulled a grimace. ‘I preferred Ilsevir as he was before – this sanctimoniousness makes me queasy.’

  ‘But what of Khassian?’

  ‘Ilsevir would not talk of him. I know he heard what I said. We may yet achieve something…’ There was a slight tic at the corner of Cramoisy’s left eye; the strain of t
he encounter had not left him unscathed. ‘And you’ll never guess who I saw as the carriage was driving through the Winter Gardens?’

  Orial shook her head.

  ‘Captain Korentan! Striding along with a face as dark as thunder.’

  ‘Captain Korentan?’ Orial said consideringly. ‘Maybe he would help us. Maybe I should go in search of him…’

  ‘Heavens, no, carissa! A young girl out alone in Bel’Esstar? You must remember you are not in Sulien now. Men can go where women cannot. You must leave the negotiating to me.’

  Time seemed to have lost its meaning. The sun set and the solitary cell grew dark. The sun rose again.

  Khassian hunched in a corner.

  He would not recant.

  If only they would let him send a message to Prince Ilsevir. If the Prince knew they were holding him here like an animal in a cage, he would surely order Girim to release him? Even if Ilsevir no longer cherished him as his favourite, he still respected him as a musician.

  Khassian let his eyes drift slowly shut, remembering…

  There had always been a special understanding between the Prince and his young protégé. It had begun when Amaru and Fania had been brought to perform before the court and Ilsevir had smiled at the ‘charming moppets’ and given them each a bag of sugared almonds and a gold medal. A year or so later, the young chorister from the royal chapel had been singled out to sing and play for the Prince… and not long after Fania’s death, Khassian had found himself the royal favourite, showered with money and favours, his training paid for by the Prince himself.

  At first, Khassian had felt desperately out of his depth. He was aware of his own beauty, yet not certain how to react to the Prince’s admiration. And then, as he grew more self-assured, he had begun to enjoy the attention, to manipulate it ruthlessly to his own advantage.

  He had taken all that Ilsevir had to offer in gifts, honours – and commissions.

  And in return, he’d granted the Prince… the occasional favour.

  Khassian let his head drop back until it rested against the white-washed wall of the cell. White of lime-washed walls… Ilsevir had always favoured the pale, bleached colours of winter. Through half-closed lids Khassian glimpsed again Ilsevir’s bedchamber with its stucco walls: a winter landscape of white, grey and gold, Ilsevir, lingering in the ivory-draped bed, calling for him to come back to his side… whilst Khassian, all physical passion forgotten, sat at the desk scribbling away feverishly, his head filled with a glory of sound…