Songspinners

by Sarah Ash

  ‘In that dreadful prison?’

  ‘Captain Korentan. And I think we can trust him. Yes, I know.’ Orial saw the Diva’s mouth open to protest. ‘He promised me he would try to secure a meeting for you. But meetings are not normally allowed. The Sanctuary is very securely guarded.’

  ‘Wait!’ Cramoisy rose. He had adopted a dramatic pose with one hand on his breast, his eyes raised to the heavens. ‘Samira – Or Virtue Assailed.’

  ‘Samira?’ Orial echoed, wondering what role Cramoisy had slipped into now.

  ‘In Act Four, Alkar the hero is languishing in a prison cell. Samira, the heroine – my part, you understand – decides to sacrifice herself for him.’ Cramoisy wandered the room, already lost in memories of past triumphs. ‘So she goes to bid Alkar a last farewell – and to aid his escape, exchanges clothes with him. But when the tyrant Valdaron discovers he has been duped by his rival, he kills Samira in revenge, even though he loves her.’

  Orial, lost in the intricacies of the retold plot, lifted her feet out of the water and began to dry them; there were angry blisters on her heels and toes.

  ‘Well?’ Cramoisy finished, eyes shining. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘My plan to smuggle Amar out of the Sanctuary!’

  ‘Wait.’ Orial took the shell-shaped powder box and dusted her feet. ‘You’re proposing that you change clothes with the Illustre Khassian? But that means that you’ll be imprisoned in his place. And when the Commanderie discovers the deception –’

  ‘You and Amar will be across the border and safe in Sulien.’

  ‘At the cost of your freedom – maybe even your life!’

  ‘What else is there left for me now that I have lost my voice? What future is there for a diva who can’t sing?’

  ‘There must be another way.’ A faint melody had begun to whisper in Orial’s brain.

  ‘Other than starting the revolution and leading a mob to storm the Sanctuary, I’m sure I can’t think what it might be,’ Cramoisy said, with a wounded sniff. ‘If they turn unpleasant, I shall remind them of my intentions to convert. Publicly. I haven’t any of Amar’s scruples. It’s my last chance to take centre-stage. Performing’s in my blood, carissa, without an audience, I wither and die.’

  Orial replaced the lid on the box of perfumed powder. The persistent melody was beginning to annoy her.

  ‘Whatever we decide, we’ll need to hire a carriage. It’s a very long walk to the Sanctuary.’

  ‘A carriage to take us all the way back to Sulien? I’ve spent all my money on the lodgings.’

  Orial lifted the hem of her dress and began to unpick the stitching.

  ‘Whatever are you doing, child?’

  Slowly Orial eased out the string of precious pearls.

  ‘Ahhh.’ Cramoisy took them from her and held them to the light, then against his cheek. ‘I adore pearls. So flattering to the complexion…’

  ‘Will they fetch a good price? Enough to hire a private carriage?’

  ‘Were these your mother’s?’ Cramoisy was gazing pensively at the pearls, threading them through his fingers.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can’t do this. Your dead mother’s jewellery. Your dowry.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Orial took the Diva’s hand in hers, closing it around the pearls. ‘She would have understood.’

  ‘I’ll not sell them. I’ll see what the pawnbroker will offer me.’

  Orial began to sing the melody under her breath.

  ‘What’s that?’ Cramoisy said sharply.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She put one hand to her head, trying to dam the flow of the music. ‘Do you recognise it?’

  ‘Sing it again.’

  As Orial sang, she saw Cramoisy turn pale, clutching the pearls against his throat.

  ‘And you don’t know the name of the song?’

  Orial shook her head.

  ‘Samira’s aria. Act Two. “Like a bird let me fly away”. It was Iridial’s favourite aria. They named her the Sulien Nightingale when she first sang it in Sulien.’

  ‘My mother’s favourite aria?’ Orial swayed, dizzied and confused by Cramoisy’s reaction. ‘But how could I have –’

  He caught hold of her and steadied her.

  ‘I didn’t mean to alarm you so, carissa.’

  The notes of the song glittered in Orial’s head, falling rain lit by the sun.

  ‘You must have overtaxed your strength, walking so far in this heat. I think you should rest.’

  Orial nodded, letting herself lean against Cramoisy.

  ‘Lie down on the couch and I’ll draw the blinds. That’s right…’

  ‘How could I have remembered a song I’ve never heard before?’ Orial murmured as Cramoisy lifted her feet up on to the couch.

  ‘You must have heard it when you were a baby. You were thinking of your mother when you took out the pearls. It triggered a memory from your past, that was all. Now rest.’

  Orial lay back and closed her eyes.

  Cramoisy must be right. A distant childhood memory…

  And yet it did not feel like a memory. It felt fresh and distinct, almost as if she had ‘heard’ the notes telepathically… as if her mother had been singing to her from beyond the grave.

  At night the sounds of the Sanctuary gradually stilled until the empty courtyards echoed only to the monotonous tread of the sentries on nightwatch.

  Khassian lay staring at a shred of cobweb that dangled across the moonlit window-slit, counting the regular beat of the patrolling footsteps.

  It was the endless, empty hour before dawn.

  The darkness pressed down on him, a smothering weight. He did not know how much longer he could endure being confined in this solitary cell. He had heard of prisoners going mad…

  A distant voice penetrated the darkness, a faint voice, ragged but true, singing from the depths of the Sanctuary

  Khassian raised himself on one elbow, listening.

  ‘“Freedom,”’ he murmured.

  This was no Commanderie battle psalm. He could not catch the words – but he did not need to. He knew the rise and fall of the melody better than the singer – he had composed it. He had wrestled with the notes, moulding and shaping them until he had fashioned an arching melody that aspired, that soared, to the distant stars.

  He must be going mad.

  Yet even as he listened, other voices joined the first, a few at a time, then more and more.

  He sprang up on his bed, gazing out of the window-slit. His throat ached but he felt the music welling up inside him. He had to join the unseen singers, he had to add his voice to theirs.

  ‘“Freedom.”’ Khassian sang.

  Torchlights flared in the courtyard below. The steady tread of the patrol broke up in confusion as more Guerriors came running out. A voice barked out orders – but still the singing swelled, voices issuing from all corners of the Sanctuary.

  Khassian could hear the running steps coming nearer, he could hear the clank of keys. He took in a breath and sang louder; his voice split on the upper notes but he did not care.

  The door crashed open and two Guerriors rushed in.

  ‘Silence him!’ shouted a voice from the corridor outside.

  ‘“Sweeter than a lover’s kiss, sweeter than –”’

  They seized hold of him and flung him on to the floor. Even as he saw the booted foot lunging towards him, he tried to keep singing.

  The foot caught him in the throat, cracking his chin upwards.

  He tried to keep singing but only a rasping groan issued from his mouth. Another kick caught him in the diaphragm – and the last air wheezed out of him. Fire shot along his ribs as he tried to draw in a gasp of air.

  ‘“Free—”’ he managed before another kick silenced him.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  Khassian cowered into the corner, arms flung up over his head, anticipating more blows.

  ‘Move away from the priso
ner. Do as I say!’

  A rush of blood fouled Khassian’s mouth. When he tried to open his eyes, the cell blurred and he could not even tell how many Guerriors had come crowding in.

  ‘But he was singing. He was inciting the others –’

  ‘Stand to attention when you address your superiors!’

  An officer, Khassian thought blearily. He coughed and retched up a mouthful of blood.

  ‘If there’s any punishment to be detailed to the Sanctuarees, I will give the orders. Now get out.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation then Khassian’s assailants turned smartly, clicking their heels, and left.

  A shadow loomed over Khassian. Someone gripped hold of him.

  ‘No, no,’ he whimpered. ‘No more –’

  ‘Easy, easy. I’m not going to hurt you.’

  The voice, now that it had shed the harsh tones of command, was hushed, oddly gentle. Someone began to dab the blood from his split lip. Through the pain-haze, Khassian identified a blur of dark hair, grey as steel…

  ‘Korentan,’ he murmured. Blood and saliva came dribbling out down his chin. The first kick to the face must have driven his teeth into his tongue. ‘What –’

  ‘Don’t talk,’ Acir ordered. He propped Khassian up against the bed; Khassian slid drunkenly sideways. Firm hands caught him, propped him up again.

  Acir Korentan’s fingers moved over his face, expertly testing, feeling.

  ‘Where does it hurt? No – don’t speak. Just point.’

  ‘Ahh.’ Khassian drew in his breath as the searching fingers found another bruise. ‘You’re – ‘sbad as your – damn – thugs.’

  ‘Commanderie thugs,’ Korentan corrected, raising Khassian’s soiled tunic. ‘Take in a breath. And another.’

  ‘Whas – th’diff’rence?’ Khassian shut his eyes, wincing. ‘You’re all – ahh – th’same.’

  Korentan pulled back the tunic, all his movements brisk, efficient. He seemed not to have heard the rancour in Khassian’s mumbled words.

  ‘Cracked ribs. They need binding.’

  ‘Don’t – want – your help.’ Khassian ground the words out between gritted teeth. ‘Don’t – want – your compassion – Guerrior.’

  Korentan sat back on his heels. For the first time Khassian saw a look of puzzlement cloud the intense blue of his eyes.

  ‘Understand?’ Khassian hissed. ‘Don’t – interfere. Leave me – alone.’

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Korentan stood up.

  ‘I’ll get the surgeon.’

  Khassian lay slowly back, letting the dark enfold him. His bruises throbbed but he welcomed the pain. Pain had reawakened his anger. And he needed that anger – he had begun to slip into a mire of hopelessness and self-pity.

  Now he knew for sure. There were others out there who felt the same as he did. He was not alone.

  Acir found nel Macy tucking into his breakfast in the dining hall; the Governor had piled his plate with spiced sausage, coddled eggs, salt pork and fried mushrooms. Acir was hungry but found his appetite fast fading as he watched the Captain busily forking in mouthfuls of food.

  ‘Governor,’ he said, saluting.

  ‘Sit down.’ Nel Macy pointed with his fork to the place beside his.

  ‘The behaviour of your men last night was very remiss. Several of the Sanctuarees were brutally beaten.’

  ‘My men acted swiftly and efficiently,’ nel Macy said, his mouth half-full of sausage. ‘The disturbance was stopped almost before it began.’

  ‘Does singing constitute a disturbance?’

  ‘And what were they singing?’ Nel Macy speared another slice of sausage. ‘Seditious songs. Banned songs. We can’t have that, Captain Korentan. For all I know, that song could have been the signal for a mass break-out.’

  ‘There are other ways to calm a disturbance. The surgeon’s bound up three cases of cracked ribs, one broken collar bone and two smashed wrists. I want those Guerriors disciplined.’

  ‘Are you implying that I can’t control my own men?’

  ‘Six men are out of action, that’s six men fewer to work at the Fortress. What will the Grand Maistre say to that?’

  Nel Macy’s face darkened. When he spoke, the hairs in his sandy moustache bristled. ‘Girim nel Ghislain entrusted the running of this Sanctuary to me, Captain Korentan. If you have any complaints, take them to him.’

  Silence had fallen in the dining hall; Acir became aware that Guerriors and servitors alike were staring towards the officers’ table.

  ‘As I understand it, Captain, you are here in an advisory capacity. Never forget who is Governor of this Sanctuary.’ The fork jabbed at Acir, emphasising each word. ‘You do your job and leave me to do mine.’

  Acir stayed gazing at nel Macy a moment longer. Then he turned on his heel and left him to his breakfast.

  Slowly he climbed the rampart stair until he stood on the battlements, gazing out over the heath towards the city. The morning air was damp, touched with a brumy reek of mist and chimney smoke. The rose-stone shell of the half-built Fortress of Faith dominated the wasteland, encased in its cage of scaffolding and ladders.

  Acir gripped the rampart rail.

  Had he given away too much? Had nel Macy marked him out as a trouble-maker? There was no way he could have stayed silent – but now he knew himself to be alienated from his fellow Guerriors at the Sanctuary. And if he was to be of any help to Khassian and the other Sanctuarees, there must be no suspicion that his sympathies lay with them.

  He had never felt so alone in his life before.

  CHAPTER 23

  The letter bore the official rose-seal of the Order of the Rosecoeur. But when Acir broke the seal, he found only the laconic instructions:

  Attend on me at the Winter Palace tonight. Wistaria Apartments, West Wing, first floor.

  Girim usually signed his correspondence – and there was no signature. But the seal was authentic.

  Once he would have felt a genuine pleasure at being summoned to Girim’s presence. Now all he felt was a dull sense of dread. What new atrocity had the Grand Maistre planned in the name of the Commanderie? Another torchlight procession to welcome more new converts to the Faith? Would he be forced to watch another unfortunate prostrate himself on Mhir’s tomb and stammer out the words of contrition – words spoken in fear, not in true faith and humility?

  But he had been summoned so he must go.

  The night was close, sultry, and little shivers of wind stirred the trees in the Palace Gardens; Acir thought he could hear the distant rumble of thunder far out on the Dniera plain.

  The West Wing was not directly connected to the royal apartments and although candles burned in the crystal chandeliers, the corridors were deserted. No one challenged Acir as he climbed the elegant winding stair, his solitary footfall echoing hollowly in the marble stairwell. Shutters rattled in the fitful wind.

  He wandered the upper floor until he came to a painted door decorated with a border of wistaria; he opened it and found himself not in a private office as he had expected but a candlelit bedroom hung with wistaria-painted silks: soft green, grey and mauve.

  ‘Good evening, Captain Korentan.’

  A woman was sitting before a mirror, combing her hair with long, slow strokes; its marigold brightness glinted in the candlelight.

  ‘Fiammis?’ he said, confused.

  ‘And you thought it was Girim who had summoned you here.’

  Fiammis was smiling at her reflection, a strange smile, as if she was amused by something of which he was not yet aware.

  ‘Have you forgotten so soon? You owe me a favour, Acir.’

  ‘I owe you nothing.’

  ‘Amaru Khassian?’

  ‘Khassian? Who is even now in prison?’

  ‘Ah, but the favour was in exchange for his life.’ She set down her comb with a sudden movement that made him jump. ‘Not his liberty.’

  Her smile appalled him; it was as if she were playing some bizarre ga
me with him in which only she knew the rules.

  ‘What favour then?’ he said tensely.

  ‘Nel Macy believes you are on official Commanderie business. You are not due back on duty till dawn.’ She rose and moved across to him. ‘Who will ever know? Who would even care?’

  Only now did he realise what she was proposing. He felt a slow flame rising through his body until his face burned. How stupid she must think him. To be so unworldly, so unimaginative, not to have understood.

  She had moved closer still, one hand sliding along his collar, lifting his hair to stroke the nape of his neck.

  He caught her wrist and held her at arm’s length.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said harshly. ‘Don’t do this, Fia.’

  To his astonishment she began to cry. ‘I had hoped you would understand.’

  ‘What is there to understand?

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to say it aloud. I see it in your eyes. Killer. Cold, calculating killer. But I was driven to it, Acir, I had to do it – or sell myself to live.’

  Still he did not believe her.

  ‘You married the Conte. You were rich.’

  ‘The Conte? Old and impotent.’ The words came out between sobs – ugly, wrenching sobs that were not, he now saw, in the least feigned. ‘When he died, his family moved in to evict me, the vultures, before he was even cold. No heir – so no estate, no money. The title I could keep.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  Thunder rumbled closer, a long, ominous drum-roll. The storm was blowing towards Bel’Esstar.

  ‘How could you have known? You were half a world away, fighting to preserve some ancient shrine.’ She looked up at him, the perfection of her creamy skin blotched, blue eyes red with weeping. ‘I was alone. And friendless. There were men who thought they could take advantage of me.’ Her voice hardened. ‘I proved them wrong. That was how I came to the attention of the Prince’s secret service. It was pointed out to me that I could use my talents “for the good of the state”. They would train me, give me authority. But if I ever chose to leave… then I would be fully answerable for all my crimes. A neat little piece of blackmail, yes?’

  Acir listened in numbed silence.