by Sarah Ash
‘It’s too late to –’
There was a sudden flash as lightning split the sky and thunder drowned the rest of Acir’s words.
Orial flinched.
‘It’s only a storm,’ Khassian said.
She appeared not to hear him. Perhaps she was rigid with fear. He had always relished a powerful thunderstorm, the feeling of release that came when the rain had washed the humid air clean again. The thought of imminent freedom only increased his exhilaration.
And then he felt the fiacre begin to slow.
‘What’s up?’ he called to Acir through the drumming rain.
‘They’re checking the carriage in front of us. Give me your papers. I’ll get you through.’
Khassian held out his hand to Orial for the papers.
Can we trust him?
‘We must trust him,’ she said aloud, as if she had heard his question. ‘There’s no one else.’
Rain streamed down on Acir’s head, drenching him, as he dismounted at the customs post.
‘Captain!’ One of the Guerriors manning the post hurried out into the rain and saluted him. ‘What brings you this way on such a filthy afternoon?’
‘I’m escorting these travellers back to Tourmalise.’ Rain bounced off the leather folder covering the papers. ‘I promised the girl’s father I would protect her on the journey home.’
‘All seems to be in order, Captain.’ The Guerrior handed back the papers. ‘I wish you better weather for your –’
There was a sudden clatter of hooves on the bridge behind them.
Acir and the Guerrior looked back. No other carriages had come across the bridge – but a troop of horsemen were riding at the gallop towards them.
‘Stop that fiacre!’ a voice cried through the drumming rain. Lightning split the sky apart as thunder rolled across the city.
Acir’s mare shied, terrified by the noise and the oncoming horses – and bolted back across the bridge.
Acir swore.
The Guerrior, confused, seemed not to know what to do.
‘Go on, man!’ Acir shouted up to the driver. ‘Get going!’
‘Escaped Sanctuaree!’
Guerriors surrounded the fiacre and tore open the door, pulling Orial and Khassian out into the rain.
‘What are you doing!’ cried Acir, running forward. ‘By what right do you attack innocent travellers?’
‘Captain Korentan?’ One of the pursuing Guerriors had recognised him; he let go of Khassian to salute. ‘We have reason to believe that this is an impostor.’
A fleet phaeton was coming swiftly towards them. Its sole passenger held up a flimsy parasol, hardly any protection against the driving rain.
A parasol.
There was no time to think, hardly even time enough to react.
Acir threw himself in front of Khassian and Orial, flinging them against the side of the fiacre.
He felt the dart pierce his shoulder, a clean, pure pain, the sting of poisoned steel.
There was a stifled cry from the phaeton.
No time.
No time now.
Stumbling up, he pushed Orial and Khassian into the fiacre, clambering in after them.
‘Drive!’ he shouted to the driver. ‘For Mhir’s sake, drive!’
Lightning and thunder cracked immediately overhead. A tree on the near bank split apart in a plume of smoke and sputtering lightning fire.
The fiacre started with a jerk that flung them all to the floor.
‘Keep down,’ urged Acir.
The frightened horses charged on, scattering Guerriors to either side.
‘They’ve bolted –’ Orial whispered from the floor where they lay, all three tangled together.
Acir reached out with his other hand, clawing for a handhold on the leather seat to pull himself up. He could hear the driver shouting to the horses, he could feel the fiacre lurch each time he tugged on the reins.
Acir pulled open the window flap – and a cold rush of rain struck him in the face.
Behind them, their pursuers stood as though paralysed, watching. Some of the Guerriors who had been knocked over were scrambling to their feet. But even as the fiacre careered wildly from one side of the road to the other, they made no move to come after them.
Foremost amongst them he saw a woman, her gold hair windblown, darkened by the rain. She stood unmoving in the downpour beneath the dark trees. Behind her, the Dniera glistened silver with raindrops.
‘Fia,’ he whispered, ‘farewell…’
A sharp shaft of pain stabbed through his shoulder.
He pressed his hand to the place and felt a sticky warmth beneath his cold fingers.
Blood.
With every movement he made, her assassin’s dart would work further in, spreading its insidious poison into his bloodstream.
How long had the Sulien apothecary said before the effects of the venom began to work?
For a moment his mind went numb and blank. Then he forced himself to turn around to Orial and Khassian.
Long enough to see them safely across the border. That was all he asked.
They had huddled together in the corner, Orial clinging to Khassian. Her muslin dress was soaked, rain streaked her face. Rainbow eyes stared at him, wide with fright.
‘They’re slowing down,’ he said, trying to sound reassuring. It was an effort to find the words; his lips and tongue seemed locked. ‘Can’t you feel it? And the storm’s blowing away.’
Still she stared at him.
‘Your shoulder,’ she said. ‘You’re wounded.’
‘A graze,’ he said. ‘Nothing more.’
‘How far to the border?’ Khassian asked.
‘An hour, maybe more in this weather. The horses will be tired. It’s a steep climb.’
‘And if they’ve sent word ahead to warn the guards? A single rider travels more swiftly than a coach.’
‘I’m with you.’ Acir clambered clumsily on to the seat and sank back against the worn leather. ‘I’ll make sure – you get through – safely.’
The forest road is slowly, steadily growing darker as twilight falls. Dark cloudveils descend and a dense mist, soft as smoke, rolls through the black trees, blotting out the light.
Acir stumbles on into the night, not knowing which way to go, only that he must keep on, must keep on –
The thick mists swirl about his legs, numbing all feeling. He sinks to his knees, drowning in the chill, dark fog.
A flame sears the darkness.
Gazing upwards, he sees a sword tipped with fire cutting a path through the drowning fogs.
On his knees, he crawls towards the path.
A shadow figure moves before him through the darkness, fiery blade like a torch upheld to illumine the way.
Feathers of flame and smoke flicker in wings of fire.
The angel goes on before him and Acir follows his burning footprints into the night…
Someone was shaking Acir, insistently calling his name.
He regained consciousness with a start to find Khassian’s eyes staring into his, dark with concern.
‘S-sorry.’
‘Acir, what’s wrong?’
‘Just – tired. Dropped off a moment.’
The ache in his shoulder had become a slow-burning fire, spreading down his arm and into his breast.
‘That graze. Let Orial bind it for you. She’s a doctor’s daughter, after all.’
‘No.’ He shifted his position. He could not risk her touching the wound, for fear of contamination from the venom. Thunder still grumbled in the distance. ‘How – much further now?’
‘We’re almost across the plain.’
‘Ah.’ Halfway to the border. Farther away from their pursuers – but not far enough. How long could he stay conscious this time? And when the next bout of blackness overcame him, would it be the ultimate darkness, the tumbling descent into oblivion?
Orial sat silently watching him. When he looked into her eyes, he saw the glimme
r of rainwater and healing springs, mingled.
He blinked, trying to clear the rainhaze from his eyes.
Must be feverish.
Outside he glimpsed the shadows of trees. The terrain had changed. The pace of the horses slowed as the coachdriver eased them around the steep bend at the foot of the mountain road.
‘Horses are all but spent, sieurs!’ he called down. ‘There’s a coaching inn a mile or so off the road…’
‘Keep – going,’ Acir said with an effort, as much to himself as to the driver.
The light seemed to be fading from the sky. Was it already evening? Or was his sight slowly failing?
‘Must – keep – going.’
Orial had fallen into a doze, her fingers twisted in the folds of her dirty gown.
And though Acir Korentan was silent, Khassian thought he detected a rattling catch in his breathing. In the growing gloom of twilight, the Guerrior’s face had turned deathly pale, drawn as if with pain. The dark patch of blood crusting his grey tunic looked black in the murky light.
Just a graze.
Suppose it was not just a graze and Acir was slowly bleeding to death within? Khassian had little knowledge of wounds but he had heard of such wounds, seemingly innocuous, proving fatal. But Acir was a soldier, well-versed in wounds, surely he would know what to do?
Khassian leaned forward, trying to discern if he were asleep. He touched Acir’s knee. His eyelids slowly opened. Dark bruising shadowed his eyes whose keen blue light was now glazed and dim.
‘Acir,’ Khassian said softly.
‘I’m – glad to hear you – call me by my – soul-name.’ Acir was staring fixedly into the darkness above his head; he seemed to find it hard to focus. ‘Wish – had been more – time – together –’
‘But you’re coming to Sulien with us! You can’t go back now. They’ll brand you a –’ He stopped, unwilling to say the word.
‘Traitor.’ Acir seemed to be smiling in the darkness.
The word shamed Khassian. ‘I wasn’t worth it.’
‘You – had to be – free. You – have a – great gift.’ Acir’s hand moved out – fumblingly – reaching towards Khassian’s face. ‘Use it. Use it – to set the city – free –’
Khassian felt the caress of finger-tips that were clammily, icily, cold against his cheek. He caught hold of Acir’s hand and pressed it between his own maimed hands, trying to warm it.
‘What’s wrong?’
But Acir’s eyes had closed again. Khassian tried to feel for a pulse – but his clawed fingers were too stiff, too clumsy, to achieve such a delicate task.
What should he do? They were so far now from help.
He glanced across at Orial, curled asleep like a slender white cat in the corner. Should he wake her? He didn’t want to alarm her – she had withstood too many shocks already.
Suppose word had been sent ahead to the border, suppose the Guerriors of the Commanderie had been alerted to their imminent arrival?
She had risked her life to come to his rescue. He could not bear that any more harm should come to her.
The horses laboured on upwards, the fiacre wheels grinding slower and slower over the stony mountain track.
It was so dark now, Acir could hardly see. Yet where Orial had huddled up into the corner he could distinguish a faint moonlike radiance.
Aura.
Numinous aura.
He fought to keep his leadheavy lids open. Darkness clotted his sight. A cold and terrible numbness was spreading up through his whole body. A weight seemed to press upon his ribs, stifling his breathing. Only her radiance still glimmered. He centred his concentration on her.
Lotos candles glimmer on the dark waters.
Must make it to the border.
‘Hola!’
A voice hailed them from the darkness outside.
The driver reined the horses to a halt.
‘Lanterns.’ Khassian peered out of the window. ‘The border. We’ve reached the border.’
Acir tried to nod his head. It felt heavier than lead cannon shot.
‘Help – me – out –’
Khassian opened the door for him. Acir tried to move towards it; his legs gave way beneath him. Khassian climbed down, offering his shoulder as a support.
‘N-no.’ His speech slurred. ‘Stay – in the – coach.’
The lantern-light swam like light ripples reflected in water. He staggered towards the dark figures looming out of the night. It was like trying to move through black waters, each step an almost insurmountable effort.
‘Captain – Acir Korentan,’ he said. He tried to straighten his jacket, to force his hand into some semblance of a salute. ‘My friends – are travelling back to – Sulien. I – am with them – to ensure – safe passage –’
He thrust the papers towards the border guard who seemed to have a blank where a face should be.
The pain had been almost unendurable but this fast-spreading numbness was worse. Mists were slowly rising; cold, dark mists. He felt himself swaying.
Words came to him through the mist, faint, indistinct words. He struggled to keep his fading mind on the sense of what was being said. It was important. But… why…?
‘All seems in order. You can cross into Tourmalise.’
Acir shakily raised his hand to return the guard’s salute.
‘C-cross over,’ he called up to the coachdriver.
‘Come on, Acir!’ cried Khassian, reaching out to him.
Acir sank to his knees.
‘Go – on – without – me.’ He began to crawl towards the border. ‘Go – on. Go.’
He was sinking slowly back down into the black waters, drowning, drowning…
‘Go,’ he whispered, falling forward.
Sliding slowly into the heart of the Rose, from black petal to black petal, soft velvet kiss of oblivion…
At the Rose’s burning core a figure opens its arms to embrace, to enfold.
The Lotos Priestess opens the gateway to the incandescent heart of the mystery…
Black melds into white. The Rose is One with the Lotos.
The mud-spattered coach lurched across the border into Tourmalise.
‘I can’t leave him here alone!’ cried Khassian. ‘I can’t –’
Orial let out a hoarse cry. She started up – hands raised, palms outward. Her eyes slid upwards until only the whites showed.
‘Sweet Mhir, not you too,’ Khassian whispered.
Words issued from her mouth. Incomprehensible words. Gibberish, maybe – but there was a coherence to them that implied a language with which he was not familiar.
‘Orial,’ he crooned, holding her rigid body in his arms. Tears were streaming down his cheeks unchecked. ‘Orial.’
The Tourmalise border guards approached the traveller warily. Was he drunk? One of them knelt down beside him and gently turned him over.
Even in the lantern-light, they could see that he was not drunk. His lips were blue-tinged, his eyes glazed, unfocussed.
The blue lips moved a fraction. The border guard leanted near, to catch what the Captain was trying to say.
The last whispered syllable died in a hoarse rattle – and the Captain’s head slipped sideways.
It was then that the phaeton arrived out of the darkness.
‘Papers!’ demanded the guard.
A woman came running over – and stopped, seeing the body, hands clasped over her mouth, as if to stifle a cry.
‘Acir,’ she said. She dropped to her knees. ‘Acir!’
‘You know this man?’ asked the guard.
She extended one hand and tremblingly drew her fingers down over the lids, closing the sightless blue eyes.
She knelt there, head bowed. Her shoulders began to shake with suppressed sobs but she made no sound. The guards looked on, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot.
When she raised her head, she seemed to have taken control of herself.
‘Did he – did he say anything before he
died?’ she asked in a toneless voice.
They nodded.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said… “Elesstar”.’
CHAPTER 25
Dawn was breaking over Sulien as the battered fiacre came slowly down the green mountain road into the valley of the Avenne.
Khassian opened his eyes to the clear light. Orial’s head lay against his shoulder. They must both have fallen asleep, lulled by the dragging pace of the spent horses. The arm he had wrapped around her had gone numb – excruciatingly numb, threatening pins and needles – and yet he was loath to wake her.
There was a kind of trust in the way her body had moulded itself to his in sleep, born not just of exhaustion but of familiarity.
How could she trust him? He had blighted her life.
She saw him as a revolutionary hero, worthy of her self-sacrifice.
And now he knew he was no hero. He could not challenge the might of the Commanderie alone. The only man capable of such an act of heroism lay dead in the dust beside a lonely mountain road.
They had reached the bridge across the Avenne; the horses’ hooves clip-clopped slowly across. No hurry now.
The river breeze stirred wisps of fine hair against his face, soft as golden silk; Orial sighed in her sleep and he felt the gentle rhythm of her breathing alter. She was drifting upwards through sleep to consciousness. He felt a pang of anxiety, remembering how the fit had gripped her last night. Once the frail thread of sanity unravelled, how possible was it to spin the separate strands back together?
‘Where to?’ called the driver.
‘Dr Magelone’s Sanatorium,’ Khassian called back. ‘D’you know it?’
‘Pump Street? I know it well.’
The coach drew to a standstill at the entrance to Pump Street and the driver clambered down to open the door.
‘Can’t go any further. The street’s all dug up.’
Orial stirred. Her eyes opened, misted with sleep. She looked up into Khassian’s face and shrank away, as though terrified.
Did she even know him?
‘Down you get, demselle.’ The driver offered his hand to help her down into the street. Khassian followed slowly, stiffly, stretching his aching back.
Cramoisy’s crimson wig lay abandoned on the floor of the coach.