Songspinners

by Sarah Ash

  ‘Riot! Riot!’ screamed the foreman, retreating before the hail of stones from above.

  Guerriors went running to seize their arquebuses, positioning themselves behind stone-wagons. Metal bolts showered into the Fortress, glancing off the soft rose-red stones, pitting them with holes.

  ‘Go to nel Macy. Get reinforcements,’ the foreman ordered the rider. ‘Hurry!’

  Captain nel Macy had called the Enhirran detachment into the Sanctuary courtyard. Tobyn glanced uneasily around at his confrères; there had been no sign – or word – of Acir Korentan for several days. He suspected something had gone badly amiss.

  ‘And it is my duty, my most regrettable duty,’ said nel Macy, glaring at them, ‘to inform you of the death of your former commander, Acir Korentan.’

  Tobyn felt the tears start to his eyes. Acir Korentan dead? He looked around him and saw the same dumbfounded expressions on his confrères’ faces.

  ‘In regrettable – most regrettable – circumstances –’

  The distant hectic clang of a warning bell interrupted nel Macy’s words. He faltered a moment, frowning, and then resumed.

  ‘Circumstances which have brought shame upon the honour of your detachment.’

  ‘Shame?’ repeated Tobyn, dashing the tears from his eyes with his knuckles. Several of his confrères began to murmur angrily together.

  The din of the warning bell grew louder.

  ‘Captain Korentan was slain whilst aiding a dangerous revolutionary to escape. The Grand Maistre wants me to impress upon you –’

  Fists thundered on the armoured doors of the Sanctuary. A Guerrior came running in, his face streaked with blood.

  ‘Riot!’ he cried. ‘Riot – at the Fortress. Girim – Girim is dead! We need reinforcements.’

  ‘Lock the Sanctuarees in their cells!’ ordered nel Macy. ‘Noonwatch, fetch your arquebuses. At the double!’

  No one moved.

  ‘At once!’ barked nel Macy.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ Tobyn leapt up on to the steps beside him.

  ‘Get down, man, and do as you’re ordered!’ said nel Macy.

  ‘We’re Captain Korentan’s men.’ Tobyn folded his arms across his chest. ‘And we take our orders from him.’

  ‘Th-this is insubordination,’ spluttered nel Macy. ‘There’ll be a riot here. A stampede. They’ll massacre us all!’

  The wide curve of the Crescent opened up before Khassian as he turned the corner… and faltered a moment. The last time he had come this way it had been night and the Constabulary had been waiting to arrest him: prelude to a nightmare, a nightmare from which he had not yet fully awoken. He saw the sunlight warming the rose-stone pillars and pediments, he saw the cedars on the broad lawns, the evidence of his eyes told him that he was in Sulien. But a part of him still cowered in the dark cells of the Sanctuary, listening in fear for the tread of the guards.

  Would he ever be wholly free again?

  He walked determinedly up to Mistress Permay’s house.

  The mistress of the house opened the door to him – and, seeing who it was, took a step backward.

  ‘Oh! It’s you.’ Her expression was that of the housewife who goes for a pan of fresh milk only to find it has turned sour. ‘You owe me two months’ rent. I could have let that apartment ten times over! Off you go without a word, leaving all your belongings strewn about –’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Khassian stepped forward. ‘My music, Mistress Permay. What have you done with my music?’

  ‘I don’t recall any music.’

  ‘A fir-green portfolio containing many sheets. It was left on the escritoire.’

  ‘What? That pile of old papers left in the salon? I gave ‘em to the kitchens when I cleared out. Waste not, want not. They’re cheaper than buying spills to light the –’

  ‘The kitchens!’ Khassian pushed past her, making for the servants’ stair beyond the elegant hall.

  ‘Where d’you think you’re going, young man?’ Mistress Permay’s voice rose to an outraged shriek.

  Khassian hurried down the poky stair, past the pantry and into the kitchen. A scullery maid looked up in surprise from the colander of peas she was shelling; the floor at her feet was covered in empty pods.

  A black cooking range was set in the chimney alcove behind her. A massive pile of papers stood beside it – mostly, it seemed, yellowing copies of the Sulien Chronicle.

  Khassian began clumsily to sort through the pile, discarding Chronicles to left and to right.

  ‘Whatever are you doing?’ Mistress Permay was quivering with anger: even the frilled mob cap set atop her wig seemed to have taken on a life of its own. ‘Stop at once, young man, or I shall send for the constable!’

  The scullery maid was giggling behind her hand.

  ‘Aha!’ Khassian had spotted the green portfolio. He pulled it from the pile: pages of manuscript spilled out, all covered in Orial’s wayward hand. He shuffled them back into the portfolio and, clasping the precious manuscript to his breast, stood up to confront Mistress Permay.

  ‘I warn you –’ she began.

  ‘If I find one page – just one page – has been burned,’ he said, trembling, ‘I shall sue.’ He turned on his heel and left the kitchen. As he climbed the stairs, he heard the scullery maid explode into laughter – soon cut short by a loud slap.

  Khassian went directly with his manuscript to the qaffë house where Valentan and Azare were employed.

  Yet when he arrived, no strains of music drifted out into Guildhall Square. Were they still abed, recovering from last night’s celebrations? He scanned the busy qaffë house, peering through the blue tobacco smoke for his friends.

  ‘Over here, Amar!’ called Valentan from the corner table.

  ‘Welcome, Illustre.’ The proprietor came out, bowing and smiling, ushering Khassian to their table. ‘It’s an honour to serve you. What will you have?’

  Khassian looked questioningly at the musicians.

  ‘It’s on the house,’ Valentan said, smiling.

  ‘Qaffë then, I thank you…’

  ‘Such music,’ the proprietor said, kissing his fingers as he hurried away. ‘Such heavenly music’

  Khassian sat down between the two musicians and placed the precious opera manuscript on the table.

  Outside in the square a shrill voice began to shout.

  ‘Rescued from the flames. Mistress Permay was planning to use it to light the kitchen range –’

  The shouting became louder. Customers in the qaffë house crowded into the window to see what was amiss.

  ‘What in hell’s name is going on out there?’ Khassian got up from his chair.

  ‘S-s-soldiers!’

  A boy, wheezing and panting for breath, his face scarlet with the exertion, collapsed on the Guildhall steps.

  ‘Did you hear?’ Khassian said to Valentan and Azare. He went to the door; the other two followed, Valentan picking up the manuscript.

  The boy was gesticulating wildly, jabbing his finger towards the foothills.

  The Mayor appeared on the steps.

  ‘S-sieur Mayor –’

  ‘Now, lad, get your breath. What do you mean, soldiers?’

  ‘Allegondan soldiers. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Coming d-down the mountain road.’

  “The Rose,’ said Khassian. ‘Of course. They’ve come to take the Rose.’

  ‘Send for the garrison!’ shouted the Mayor in a panic.

  “They’re twenty leagues’ ride away,’ called someone.

  ‘Then call out the Militia! The Constabulary! Get the women and children into the Undercity!’

  People ran to and fro in confusion. Constables appeared clutching ancient weapons.

  ‘I have to stop them,’ Khassian said.

  ‘Stop the Commanderie?’ Azare said with a bitter laugh. ‘You might as well try to stop a thunderstorm.’

  When word reached the Temple Court that Allegondan soldiers had been seen approaching the city, Orial went directl
y to the Priestess.

  ‘They have come for the Rose.’

  ‘It is not theirs to take,’ the Priestess said. ‘And we shall tell them so.’

  Orial set out with the Temple cortège; as they approached the river, she heard someone calling her name.

  She paused, then looked around.

  Amaru Khassian was running towards her, weaving through the growing crowd of onlookers. She whispered to the Priestess… and then moved aside from the cortège to wait for him.

  A dust-cloud shimmered on the brow of the hill; the soldiers were approaching.

  ‘He was one of the Commanderie,’ said Orial, ‘so they have come to claim their own…’

  ‘As far as the Commanderie is concerned, he was a rebel, a traitor,’ said Khassian.

  ‘I would not have them desecrate his grave,’ she whispered.

  ‘You know they are capable of perpetrating all manner of atrocities in the name of the faith.’

  Orial stared up into Khassian’s eyes and saw that he was afraid.

  ‘Let me speak to them.’ She was afraid too. But she would not let the Guerriors of the Commanderie intimidate her. Acir’s last gift of life had restored the springs to the city. His rightful resting place was in Sulien.

  A hastily mustered band of the Sulien Constabulary assembled on the bridge under the command of the Commissaire, brandishing muskets.

  Khassian held one hand to his brow to shield his eyes against the hazy sunshine of late-afternoon. What he saw stirred up sick, chill feelings of fear, only half-buried since his escape from the Sanctuary.

  Guerriors.

  A mounted cohort of the Commanderie was coming towards the bridge. In their midst was a gilded carriage, drawn by a team of greys.

  ‘Ilsevir,’ breathed Khassian.

  ‘What did you say, Illustre?’ The Mayor came pushing through the crowd to Khassian’s side. ‘The Prince of Allegonde himself? Why didn’t he send word ahead to us? We could have prepared a welcome ceremony.’

  A liveried servitor jumped down from behind the carriage and held open the door; Ilsevir stepped out and gazed at the assembled crowds.

  The Mayor came forward, bowing.

  ‘Altesse, if we had known you were to honour us with your presence, we would have –’

  ‘This is no state visit,’ Ilsevir said, ‘but a simple, personal journey of faith. A pilgrimage.’

  ‘To Sulien?’ said the Mayor, confused.

  ‘We have heard the news of the miracle. Where is the Rose?’ His voice was charged with excitement.

  Khassian steeled himself; he came out of the crowd and bowed to Ilsevir.

  ‘Altesse.’

  ‘Amaru?’ Ilsevir had obviously not expected to encounter him in Sulien; his face clouded momentarily.

  ‘You wish to see the Rose?’ Khassian extended one hand in the direction of the cemetery. ‘Follow me, Altesse.’

  The attendants started forward but Khassian shook his head.

  ‘The Prince alone.’

  Ilsevir hesitated – but then signalled to his attendants to wait.

  The Foreigners’ Cemetery drowsed in the morning sun as Khassian led the Prince past the neglected graves. Sun-silvered grasses grew knee-high. They waded through them, lulled by the drone of insects; bees and cicadas, a summer sound.

  Orial rose from the grass where she had been sitting, waiting.

  ‘Is this what you have come to see, Altesse?’

  The single green spray grew out of the raw earth of Acir’s grave. No fresh buds had appeared.

  ‘Is this some Sulien hoax?’ Ilsevir asked coldly. ‘I see no Rose!’

  ‘Why should we seek to deceive you?’ Khassian felt his face flame, angered by the Prince’s reaction. ‘Look at my hands, Altesse. See the scars left by the thorns where I picked the Rose. And this girl who stands before you… is the girl restored to life by the Blood of the Rose.’

  Ilsevir looked from Khassian to Orial and back again; he seemed confused, unable to comprehend what Khassian was saying.

  ‘You… received the Blood of the Rose?’

  ‘I did, Altesse.’

  ‘But – but who lies buried here?’

  ‘A simple soldier of the Commanderie.’ Khassian swallowed. ‘His name was Acir Korentan.’

  ‘I don’t remember the name.’ Ilsevir clapped his hands. Two Guerriors appeared at the gate to the cemetery; they carried spades.

  ‘What are you doing!’ Khassian cried. ‘You’re not going to dig it up –’

  ‘It belongs in Bel’Esstar. In the shrine.’

  ‘You must not uproot it,’ Orial said. Her voice was calm and clear. ‘It belongs here.’

  One of the Guerriors jabbed his spade deep into the earth

  ‘No!’ cried Khassian, starting forwards.

  The Guerrior recoiled, yelping. His hand was torn and bleeding from the hooked thorns.

  ‘For Mhir’s sake! Give me the spade!’ The Prince seized the spade and moved towards the grave.

  Khassian instinctively drew closer to Orial and both placed themselves in front of the Rose. Ilsevir hesitated. And as they stared at each other the sound of galloping hooves disturbed the bee-droned stillness of the cemetery.

  A messenger, caked in dust, came running into the cemetery and fell to his knees before the Prince.

  ‘You must return, Altesse!’ he gasped. ‘Girim nel Ghislain is dead. The Sanctuary has fallen to the Sanctuarees. The city is in uproar. They’re calling for your abdication.’

  ‘Dead?’ Ilsevir staggered. The spade dropped to the ground. ‘Girim is dead?’ He put out a hand shakily towards Khassian.

  ‘Amar – help me.’ He had gone very pale. ‘What shall I do?’

  Khassian faltered and then took Ilsevir’s outstretched hand in his own, maimed hands, supporting him.

  ‘What shall I do without him?’

  ‘Sit down, Altesse,’ Khassian said quietly.

  ‘My own city,’ Ilsevir whispered. ‘Turned against me.’

  ‘Not against you, Altesse.’ Khassian knelt beside him. ‘But against censorship. Against repression.’

  Ilsevir turned to him, mouth twisted, working with anguish. ‘I – I believe I may have made a terrible mistake –’

  Khassian gazed at him.

  ‘Is it too late, Amar?

  ‘No!’ Khassian said, impassioned. ‘Free the Sanctuarees, Altesse. Send word ahead to the Sanctuary now – before the slaughter gets out of hand.’

  ‘Come back with me, Amar. They’ll listen to you. Come back – and help me restore order.’

  Back to Bel’Esstar – and to the Prince’s favour. Khassian could sense Orial watching him intently, waiting to hear his response.

  ‘But I’m still a wanted man. I barely escaped Allegonde with my life.’

  ‘I’ve wronged you.’ Ilsevir gently touched his hands. Khassian could sense the Prince make a supreme effort of will to overcome his squeamishness and to force himself to look at, to touch, the burned skin. ‘Forgive me, Amar. I treated you cruelly. Maybe I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But for the city’s sake, and for the sake of your fellow musicians, come back.’

  Khassian glanced up and met Orial’s gaze; the rainbow eyes glittered overbright, sun through rain. She nodded her head.

  ‘Bel’Esstar is your home,’ she whispered. ‘You must go back.’

  Beneath her words, Khassian heard Acir’s dying voice whispering to him on that night of storm and thunder.

  ‘You have a great gift… use it to set the city free.’

  He turned back to Ilsevir. ‘I will come with you.’

  CHAPTER 30

  The life of the Temple Court gradually drew Orial in and although she still lived with her father in the Sanatorium, she spent more and more of her time with the Priestess, learning the secrets of the rituals of the Under Temple. But in rare moments of idleness, she found her eyes straying to the heat-haze that veiled the distant mountains from sight and wondering if Khassian had forgo
tten her.

  The Sulien Chronicle reported extraordinary events in distant Bel’Esstar following the assassination of Girim nel Ghislain, culminating in the freeing of all dissidents and rebels incarcerated in the prison known as the Sanctuary. Apparently the Enhirran detachment of the Commanderie had rebelled against their Commander and sided with the rebels. Then, in an unprecedented gesture, Prince Ilsevir had decreed that the Commanderie of the Rosecoeur should renounce its weapons; henceforth its members were to choose between military service in the Prince’s army or a life of prayer. Priests were no longer permitted to bear arms in the service of Mhir. But there was scant mention of Amaru Khassian and the Chronicle soon returned to its usual listings of Sulien’s eminent visitors and scandalous gossip.

  Soon afterwards the first of the Allegondan pilgrims began to arrive; confrères from the disbanded Enhirran detachment came to pay their last respects at the grave of their captain. Several, led by one young Guerrior called Tobyn, requested of the Temple Court that they might create a garden shrine in the cemetery where pilgrims might rest. The Temple Court was pleased to grant them permission… and Orial sometimes left her duties at the Temple to help them clear away the tangled weeds and plant sweet-scented herbs and plants in the borders.

  Sulien in late-summer always reminded Orial of a full-blown peony: drooping and blowsily past its best. A stir of breeze at dusk was always welcome after the sleepy humidity of the long day’s heat.

  On one such evening, she was standing at her open window, listlessly fanning herself, wishing for a breeze.

  A phaeton drew up outside the Sanatorium; Orial leaned out of the window dangerously far to try to see who the new arrivals were.

  ‘What do you mean, who are we?’ The arch tones rose vibrantly on the warm air. ‘Don’t you recognise the toast of Bel’Esstar, my good man? Announce Cramoisy Jordelayne to Demselle Magelonne and be quick about it.’

  ‘Cramoisy!’ shrieked Orial. Forgetting all decorum, she came running downstairs and threw herself into the Diva’s arms.

  ‘Orial!’ The Diva smothered her in a perfume-drenched embrace and then held her at arm’s length to look at her. ‘More radiant then ever.’

  ‘And you – you –’ Orial struggled for words to describe the Diva’s new costume. ‘You look gorgeous.’