Songspinners

by Sarah Ash

  Incense smoke twirled slowly up into the gloom, spicing the air with dark and costly fumes. If he closed his eyes, Acir could think himself back in Enhirrë, standing guard at the birthplace shrine on a hot, airless night, breathing the dry and pungent scents of the desert: nard poppy, curcumine and cardamom…

  But as his eyes closed, the cherished memories of the desert vanished and fire-streaked visions scored across his sight: the Winter Palace in flames, rebels fighting Guerriors hand-to-hand in the street, cobbles slippery with the blood of innocents –

  Acir’s hand crept to the hilt of his sword.

  Rid Bel’Esstar of the tyrant.

  The Grand Maistre suddenly senses his stealthy footfall approaching – and turns. The smile of recognition freezes on his face as he sees the assassin’s steel. His hands flail wildly as he tries to fend off the frenzied blows, until he slumps forward, his blood defiling the tomb.

  Acir pressed his hands to his eyes.

  He could not do it. He could not kill Girim, even this changed Girim, this brutal distortion of the man he had once loved.

  But neither could he stand by and let the atrocities continue.

  He placed his report at the entrance to the shrine and went silently away.

  Dragonflies dance over the riverwaters. They dart like arrows across the sun-warmed shallows.

  Earth, air, fire and water.

  Orial kneels on the bank. They flock to her, circling her head, a winged coronet.

  They weave, in and out, each one threading a songline like a jewelled streamer until the air sparkles with sound.

  Orial raises her hands, enchanted by the spinning singers.

  The spinning circle widens. A whirlpool yawns, the cold, dark vortex opening to swallow her, to drag her down into oblivion –

  Orial’s eyes opened. She was lying in bed in the Villa of Yellow Vines, clutching at the coverlet, staring straight ahead of her.

  The dragonflies were gone. But the melody threads had clung to her memory, sticky as spider-silk.

  Somewhere in the street far below her window she could hear the clank of the water churns as the waterman delivered the Villa’s supply. Sparrows were squabbling in the gutter. Ordinary sounds of an ordinary day. Yet all the sounds were distant, as though heard from the end of a far tunnel.

  Orial staggered out of bed and opened the window. The slow clip-clop of the waterman’s horse echoed around the empty street, the grind of the cart wheels over the cobbles.

  Louder still, much louder, was the still-spinning song of her dream, the song of the winged ones. She banged the window shut. The glass shuddered in the pane – she felt its vibrations – yet the bang was a remote sound, hardly registering above the insistent web of dream-music.

  She made her way back towards the bed. Each footfall resounded hollowly as though she was walking through a vast, echoing cavern. Each step was an effort as – disorientated – she seemed to have forgotten how to move in this heavy human body.

  She had felt like this once before. But when was it? She had a vague memory of Papa forcing vile-tasting medicine down her throat, of this light-headedness, faces swimming above hers…

  ‘Accidie,’ she murmured aloud.

  There was a sharp tap at the door.

  ‘Orial, Korentan’s sent us a message!’ Cramoisy’s voice fluttered with excitement. ‘Listen to this! “A visit has been arranged for this afternoon.” A visit! This is it! Start packing!’

  Accidie.

  Orial pressed her finger-tips to her throbbing temples.

  Why? Why today, of all days, when she needed her faculties to be at their most acute? She had known the period of remission might be short – but she had never imagined it would recur so soon.

  ‘Give me a little more time,’ she pleaded silently. ‘Just a little.’

  ‘Captain Korentan?’

  The youthful voice made Acir stop and turn around. The young Guerrior at the gate saluted him; beneath the guard-helm his face was brown, burned by the sun.

  ‘Tobyn!’ he said. And then, overwhelmed with gladness at the sight of a familiar face, he put his hands on the young man’s shoulders and embraced him. ‘But I thought you were still in Enhirrë?’

  ‘The detachment sailed into Bel’Esstar a couple of days ago. They transferred most of us here. It’s good to see you again, Captain.’

  ‘How’s the shoulder?’

  ‘Fine, Captain.’ Tobyn flashed him a broad grin. ‘Though it wouldn’t have been so fine with me if you hadn’t beaten those Enhirran Sbarreurs off in the raid. I’ll never forget what you did.’

  Acir acknowledged the compliment with a smile. ‘And the others?’

  Tobyn leaned forward, lowering his voice.

  ‘A mite perplexed, Captain. We didn’t come back to be prison warders. Not to our own countrymen. What’s been going on?’

  Acir felt a brief flutter of hope in his heart. At least the members of his Enhirran detachment were still uncorrupted.

  Perhaps he was not entirely alone after all.

  The closed fiacre drew up at the gate to the Sanctuary as the Guerriors on guard waved the coachman to a stop.

  ‘What’s happening?’ whispered Cramoisy to Orial.

  ‘Out. All Sanctuary visitors get out here.’

  Orial and Cramoisy climbed down; as they were showing their passes, more Guerriors clambered into the fiacre, prodding the leather seats and checking the roof for concealed weapons.

  ‘Mind where you’re poking those pikes!’ called the coachman, aggrieved. ‘That’s expensive leather. If anything’s ripped, I’ll take the bill direct to your Grand Maistre.’

  “This isn’t going to be so easy,’ Cramoisy said in Orial’s ear. Beneath the crimson perruque his brow was glistening with sweat.

  ‘Think of them as a difficult audience.’ Orial murmured back. ‘Play them for all you’re worth. You know you can do it. You’re the Diva.’

  Cramoisy nodded.

  ‘Conduct the visitors to the gatehouse!’ called the Guerrior who had taken their passes.

  Orial darted little glances around the courtyard, hoping in vain she might catch sight of Captain Korentan. And when they were ushered into a bare, barred room and the door was instantly locked, she found herself staring apprehensively at Cramoisy, wondering if she had been deceived.

  He went to the door and rattled the handle.

  ‘There! I told you! A Commanderie trap. Pfui! What an unpleasant stink there is to this place. Next to the latrines, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Hush.’ Orial raised one finger, listening. ‘Someone’s coming. Sit down. Keep your face in shadow.’

  As she heard the key grind in the lock, Orial hurried over to Cramoisy’s side. He clasped hold of her hands.

  The door opened. A man, shambling and ragged, was pushed inside.

  ‘You have a quarter of an hour.’

  The door shut and the key turned again.

  The man blinked in the light. He seemed unsteady on his feet. Orial went towards him.

  ‘Orial Magelonne?’ he said uncertainly. ‘Orial?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, tears starting to her eyes. ‘Yes, it’s me.’ He looked so gaunt, so frail; the meagre light obviously hurt his eyes. ‘And look who is also here to see you.’

  ‘I don’t think much of your new tailor,’ Cramoisy said, venturing forwards. ‘If I were you, miu caru, I’d take your custom elsewhere.’

  ‘Oh, Cram,’ said Khassian, extending one arm to hug him.

  ‘God, you could do with a bath!’ said Cramoisy in tones of high disgust.

  But his voice wavered and Orial saw tears glistening in his eyes too. They stood rocking gently together, the three of them, locked in a triangular embrace.

  ‘What day is it?’ Khassian asked after a while. ‘What time?’

  Cramoisy straightened up. ‘Time you were out of here.’

  ‘They’ll never agree to that.’

  ‘Get those rags off.’ After so many day
s languishing in self-pity, the Diva seemed suddenly charged with vitality.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Khassian looked baffled.

  ‘You heard me. Now don’t tell me you’re going to make a fuss!’ Cramoisy lifted the heavy perruque off his head and placed it on Khassian, tucking in escaping curls of dark hair. ‘There. Not a bad fit. It hides the ear-tag rather neatly, don’t you think?’

  ‘Cram, what is all this? What’ve you done to your own hair? You’ve dyed it brown?’

  ‘Autumn Bronze, please – not brown. Orial, watch the door. Don’t turn around until I tell you.’ Cramoisy had begun to unbutton his embroidered top-coat, to untie the lacy jabot. ‘Strip off, Amar. She’s not going to peep. Are you, Orial?’

  ‘Exchange clothes? With you?’

  ‘You’re going on a journey. To Sulien. Here – let me.’

  ‘Just exactly what do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Samira, Act Four. Remember?’

  ‘Cram, this isn’t an opera. This is real.’

  ‘I know.’ Cramoisy glared at him. ‘So stop wasting time and put on my clothes.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘What? Do you mean you’re going to stop me giving the greatest performance of my career?’

  ‘I won’t. I won’t let you do it. They’ll kill you.’

  ‘And how long will you last if you stay here?’

  ‘I can’t go and leave the other Sanctuarees behind.’

  ‘What nonsense! How can you help the others whilst you’re in here? Outside you can organise an escape far more effectively.’

  Orial sensed Khassian hesitate.

  ‘Now for Mhir’s sake, give me that apology for a garment and stop delaying.’

  ‘You’ll have to help me.’

  Orial heard the capitulation in his voice. But she also heard footsteps in the corridor outside.

  ‘Someone’s coming!’ she cried, starting up. Only a few minutes had elapsed. Had they been betrayed?

  The door opened – and Acir Korentan came in, closing the door instantly behind him. Orial saw that his face was taut, his eyes troubled.

  ‘Oh, Captain,’ cried Cramoisy in tones of extravagant relief, ‘what a scare you gave us.’

  ‘There’s no time,’ he said. ‘You must go now.’

  ‘He’ll do, won’t he, Captain?’ Cramoisy said, stepping back to assess Khassian’s transformation. ‘Though I have to say he’s nowhere near as devastating as me.’

  ‘Cram—’ began Khassian.

  ‘Go!’ Cramoisy gave him a push towards the door.

  ‘Take care,’ Orial whispered, pressing Cramoisy’s hand in her own.

  ‘My greatest performance,’ he said.

  Without the elaborate wig, fashionable clothes and exaggerated maquillage, the Diva seemed to have dwindled to a shade of his ebullient self.

  Captain Korentan ushered Orial and Khassian out into the passageway and locked Cramoisy in the interview chamber.

  At the entrance to the passageway, two Guerriors stood on guard.

  ‘Take 654 back to his cell,’ Captain Korentan called over his shoulder.

  Khassian stumbled; Captain Korentan put out one arm to steady him. The large wig tipped awry; Orial reached up to adjust it, glancing nervously all about her to see who was watching. Wherever she looked there seemed to be grey Commanderie uniforms.

  ‘Don’t upset yourself, Diva,’ she soothed. ‘Keep your head down,’ she whispered as she helped Khassian up into the coach.

  ‘Open the gates!’ called Captain Korentan.

  The fiacre began to move slowly, oh, so slowly, towards the gates. Orial risked a glance at Khassian who had huddled into the corner. Passing the guards at the gate was the last hurdle to be overcome. And in daylight, the exchange would be more obvious.

  ‘Your papers.’ Captain Korentan handed the papers through the window. ‘May I wish you safe journey back to Sulien.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain.’ Her fingers brushed his and she was overwhelmed with a sudden premonition, clouds gathering in a lightning-gashed sky.

  And then they were rattling through the gates and out on to the potholed heath road. Orial sat unmoving, clutching the papers to her, staring straight ahead.

  A litle starburst of light burst on the edge of her vision. And then another. And another.

  She shut her eyes; the pinpricks of light continued to form – and burst – against the darkness. She felt suddenly sick and ill. Maybe a storm was approaching…

  The fiacre lurched suddenly, swinging to one side. Orial was almost thrown to the floor.

  The driver reined the horses to a stop; Orial heard him leap up, swearing.

  Opening the window, she was choked by a cloud of dust rising from the wheels of a swift phaeton, galloping past them towards the Sanctuary.

  ‘Are you all right, demselle, Diva?’

  ‘Yes,’ gasped Orial through the dust. Khassian nodded his head.

  ‘Cursed speedster! Almost had us in the ditch!’

  ‘Open up! Commanderie business!’

  Acir recognised Fiammis’s voice. Just to hear it evoked memories, painful memories dark with anger… and desire.

  He beckoned Tobyn over to him.

  ‘Stall her. Give me a few minutes.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Captain?’ The young man stared at him in dismay.

  ‘Everything, Tobyn. Everything.’

  He pushed the Guerrior out to greet her.

  ‘A young Sulien woman came visiting here today. Where is she?’ Fiammis’s voice was sharp and keen; she was predator still, delighting in the pursuit of her prey. ‘Is she still here? I need to speak with her.’

  ‘I – I’ll have to check. I’ve only just come on duty.’

  Fiammis was on Orial’s trail. It would not be long before the deception was discovered – and the alarm bell rang out across the heath.

  He must warn them. Protect them. Above all, they must not fall into Commanderie hands again.

  There was another way out of the Sanctuary, a side door leading from the stables – for the use of officers only. Nel Macy’s roan mare was standing ready saddled and bridled in the stalls; Acir made a swift adjustment to the stirrups and led her out through the side door. Once on the heath, he climbed up into the saddle and set off in pursuit of the fiacre.

  As he rode, he heard the bell began to clang.

  He should have known he could not outwit Fiammis.

  CHAPTER 24

  The roan mare soon caught up with the fiacre as it bumped across the heath road.

  Acir reined the mare to a trot, bringing her alongside the carriage window, matching her pace to the vehicle’s slow progress.

  The window flap opened and a head sporting an outrageously red wig appeared. Acir almost laughed aloud; the danger of the situation and the incongruity of this ludicrous perruque gave him a sudden wild surge of elation.

  ‘What in hell’s name are you doing?’ demanded Khassian. Beneath the wig, his eyes burned.

  ‘Escorting you.’

  ‘Won’t that draw attention to us?’

  ‘There have been rumours of brigands on the heath.’

  ‘So they’re after us already?’ Khassian was obviously not to be fobbed off with so lame an excuse.

  ‘Maybe.’ Acir pulled the mare’s head to one side and scanned the heath. Clouds were scudding up fast, dark, boiling clouds, threatening a storm. Sunlight glittered on the towers and cupolas of Bel’Esstar, unnaturally bright.

  If he was leading the pursuit, what would he do?

  Simple. He would cut them off at the river.

  The only way to cross the wide Dniera in a carriage was by the New Bridge. The old bridges still bristled with ramshackle houses, too narrow for a modern carriage to pass across unimpeded.

  A turbulence of dust darkened the heath behind them. Horses. Skirting to the west – but also heading towards the river.

  Could he get them to the bridge before their pursuers?

  Ori
al gripped the leather strap tightly as the fiacre wheels juddered over another pothole.

  Little stars of sound kept bursting in her mind, like exploding rockets on the Day of the Dead. The slightest noise, the slightest jolt, was a torment to her aching head.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Khassian was staring at her from beneath Cramoisy’s wig. She so wanted to lean across and touch him to make sure he was really there. ‘You look as if you’re going to faint.’

  ‘I never faint,’ Orial snapped back. ‘I have a slight headache. That’s all.’

  This was no megrim or fainting fit. It was the chaos of the Accidie. Her mind was beginning to disintegrate as splinters of sound flew from the star-explosions.

  She had chosen to undertake this rescue mission; she had to see it through. If it was her last conscious act before the Accidie robbed her of her reason, then at least she would have done something of merit in her brief life. She might not have been given time to compose the music she had dreamed of… but she would have saved Amaru Khassian to continue the fight against the tyranny of the Commanderie.

  Let me just get him safely back to Sulien.

  They joined other fiacres and phaetons clattering over the wide gravel avenue that led through the tree-lined Winter Gardens towards the river. Thunder growled in the distance as the sky grew darker and a few rain-spots spattered on to the plane leaves. Acir could smell the coming storm on the earthy wind; so could the mare who jittered her head nervously from side to side. But still the storm did not break and the sense of tension increased in the darkening air.

  At least the new wide-arched bridge with its bronze basilisk lamps was in sight now. And traffic still seemed to be passing across.

  As the fiacre slowed at the approach to the bridge, Acir rose in the saddle to try to scan the river. It was impossible to see clearly in the thunder-gloom if anyone was patrolling the opposite bank.

  ‘The river,’ Khassian said under his breath. ‘We’re crossing the river.’

  Glancing out he could see the wide grey waters of the Dniera alive with thunderspots. For the first time he began to dare to believe that escape was possible.

  ‘Go back,’ he called out to Acir through the rain. ‘You’ve done more than enough to help us.’