by Markus Heitz
The only cîanai Sisaroth knew about were from the old legends. The same legends that told the history of Dsôn Faïmon and spoke of the research schools in the radial arm Wèlèron, where it was said that magic arts had been practised. It was incredibly rare to develop the gift of magic beyond the normal älfar ability to spread fear and darkness.
‘Don’t thank me. Thank the tower,’ Marandëi said. ‘Phondrasôn has been treating you badly, it seems. Come upstairs with me. You need food and drink first of all and then I’ll examine your injuries.’ She led the way. ‘There are quite a few steps. Will you be able to manage?’
‘Of course, Cîanai.’ Sisaroth was relieved. The pain and the hunger will soon be over. Thanks be to the infamous ones.
‘Cîanai.’ Marandëi chuckled. ‘That’s a high honour for an älf when all she did was open the door of your cage.’
‘What did you mean when you said it was the tower that summoned me?’
‘Exactly that.’ As the metal-reinforced tip of her tall stick tapped on the stairs, the lantern suspended from it swung to and fro. ‘The tower could just as easily have turned you to ashes. The tower always decides what it wants to do with those that come here.’
Sisaroth did not understand. ‘I thought you . . .’
Marandëi felt her way along the wall as she climbed the stairs. ‘This is my home. My prison. My everything. You shall share it with me. I am sure we will get along famously. We have all the time in the world, after all.’
Sisaroth stood rooted to the spot. ‘You don’t mean . . .’
She turned round, her white eyes full of surprise. ‘You don’t think you’re leaving, do you? There is no escape. The walls resist everything. I’ve tried it all. Nothing works. I am forced to wait here and occasionally there will be a visitor and I can watch him die.’ She came down one step, leaning forward to put her face close to his. ‘I don’t live in this tower because I want to, Sisaroth. I am stuck here.’
It can’t be true. He snorted with laughter. ‘You’re a cîanai and you can’t get out of a prison? I don’t believe it.’
‘There you are, that’s the impetuosity of youth talking. You have absolutely no idea, have you?’ She whacked the stone with her stick in anger. ‘I have attempted everything. But here’s a suggestion, my young hothead. If you find the way to free us both from this misery, I’ll follow you, and for five divisions of unendingness I promise to fulfil your every wish, as long as what you command is within my power.’ The harsh expression on Marandëi’s face softened. ‘But first let us see to your wounds. You will need all your strength. And before I forget: the tower is resentful and never forgets if someone attempts to harm it. It has punished me every time I tried to get away.’ She turned and continued up the stairs.
Sisaroth’s thoughts were swirling round his head. ‘Do you know who built it?’
‘Some älf or other, I expect. The runes show it was built a very long time ago. The language used is a type of script no longer practised in Dsôn Faïmon. And whoever it was must have been off his head to think up all these traps.’ Marandëi reached a door that opened as she approached. She reassured herself that Sisaroth was directly behind her. ‘We are surrounded by a magic force field that feeds the tower. You saw those supports that are anchored in the mountain?’ He nodded. ‘They function as energy channels. The building has a permanent source of energy. It will never run out.’
‘Unless the force field dries up.’
Marandëi laughed. ‘How many divisions of unendingness do you think I’ve been waiting for that to happen? Don’t hold your breath.’
Sisaroth remembered the damaged runes on one of the columns and told her what he had seen. ‘Maybe that is why the tower does not want to release us? Or maybe it can’t let us go?’
She looked interested. ‘Maybe you are right. Let’s discuss it. But first let’s get you sorted.’ She stood back to let him pass. ‘Welcome to your new home, Sisaroth.’
Ishím Voróo (Outer Lands), Dsôn Sòmran, Dsôn, in the northern foothills of the Grey Mountains, 5427th division of unendingness (6241st solar cycle), spring.
‘But I do not wish to speak to you!’ Wènelon tried to close the door.
Ranôria was not foolish enough to put her foot in the opening. Instead she leaned her shoulder against the door’s carved wooden surface. ‘Only a little of your time. Then I will leave you in peace,’ she said firmly, not wanting to sound as if she were begging a favour. She was standing in the small street outside Wènelon’s house. He was one of the älfar who had been present on the murder evening and one of the seven witnesses whose evidence had condemned her children. She would be speaking with him.
A fresh wind had brought more rain, mixed now with snow, despite the approach of spring. Ranôria’s face was cold, but she welcomed it.
‘Aïsolon interrogated me for ages. I don’t owe you any explanations.’
Is that the truth or can I hear an anxious tone in his voice? Is he afraid? ‘Of course you don’t.’ She spoke more gently this time. His vehement refusal to speak to her made her suspicious. ‘I’m just trying to understand how my two children could have turned into bestial murderers. That is all.’
There was increased pressure from the other side and the door was pushed shut.
You coward! Ranôria took two steps back and looked up at the house façade. The buildings here were closely packed together. Dsôn had so little space at its disposal. She could see silhouettes moving behind the windows. She was being observed from behind the curtains.
I got absolutely nowhere with him. There were still six more names to try. She waved goodbye and called out her thanks. She wanted people to think they had had a successful conversation.
The fact he was afraid of her strengthened her conviction that the witnesses had something to hide. They had passed the governor’s interrogation and did not want to risk giving anything away.
I swear I’ll find out what happened and who is behind it. Ranôria strolled off, head down against the driving sleet. She was still dressed up from her earlier meeting with Aïsolon, and after getting off the lift had hastily applied grey cosmetics as a sign of mourning. It had the added benefit of making her look more threatening.
She had to step quickly out of the path of a heavily loaded cart.
She paid it no attention but when it stopped, she looked round. The wagon had come to a halt in front of Wènelon’s house and the goods were being delivered via the door that had stayed resolutely shut to her.
Ranôria walked back to the house to discover what was in the crates.
The carter, more than happy to chat, told her the delivery was of exclusive wines and cut-glass carafes from the luxury craft workshop in Helîstra. And that this was the second consignment. A third was due later on.
Wènelon can’t afford things like that, surely. The information she was given backed up her conspiracy theory. Wènelon’s house was situated in the fourth ring. The people here were of the simple sort. His partner worked hard at her craft and she certainly did not earn enough to pay for a single cask of this wine.
Ranôria hurried off to the fifth ring. This time she would not take no for an answer.
The next name on the list was Acòrhia, an älf celebrated for her skill in story-telling. When she talked to young people she brought the beauty of old Dsôn to life; her descriptions of the battles against the Dorón Ashont were masterly and her tales emphasised the brave and generous conduct of the survivors who came to Dsôn Sòmran. Acòrhia had the gift of inspiring her audience with her vivid stories, and she could dispel the greyness in their hearts and minds. For a story-weaver she was extraordinarily young; she could hardly have seen the vanished Dsôn Faïmon empire with her own eyes.
Of course, she is expert at spinning a yarn. With her talents it will have been easy for her to persuade Aïsolon of her version of events. Ranôria was going to be more difficult to convince.
After a short walk and a long climb, she reached the fifth ring, where the h
ouses were smarter and not so huddled together.
In this part of the city, residents could afford the luxury of a tiny garden. Climbing plants and creepers adorned buildings and roofs with black, white and red leaves.
Acòrhia’s house seemed to be in competition with the whole neighbourhood judging by her luxuriant foliage display. The colours were vibrant and varied: a deep blood-red, an intense golden yellow and a subtle shade of grey.
She had placed delicate bone carvings and statues artfully throughout the plot; leaves draped themselves over a little night-mare to form its mane; a creeper encircled the body of a miniature óarco like a throttling snake.
Ranôria approved of the decorative aspect homes had been given in this neighbourhood. I should come down here more often. She used a doorknocker in the shape of two hands holding a silver skull.
The door was soon opened.
For two heartbeats Ranôria thought she recognised her own daughter’s face – so similar except for that bright red hair. I wonder if Aïsolon could be the story-teller’s father, too? she mused, without any feelings of jealousy. It was perfectly natural for älfar to change partners several times over the course of their lives.
Ranôria greeted her politely and started to introduce herself but Acòrhia broke in. ‘I know who you are. Do come in.’ She was dressed in a red gown with a short black tunic on top embroidered with pearls. ‘It is an honour to welcome you to my home.’ She stood aside for Ranôria to walk past into a hallway that smelt of ink and parchment. Ranôria gave a friendly smile of acknowledgment. I shan’t let you charm me with your courtesy. ‘How kind of you.’
After closing the front door Acòrhia took Ranôria into her library, where a large, dead tree dominated the centre of the room. Planks set on the upper branches gave access to the weighty tomes on the higher shelves. Other books stood in niches in the tree trunk and a swing-seat was suspended from one of the horizontal branches. On one side of the room there was a big desk with quill pens, glass writing sticks and little pots of coloured inks.
Ranôria admired how, instead of leaves, the tree was hung with pieces of paper covered in writing. They had been fastened to the twigs by wires and twisted into the shape of leaves, buds or open flowers. A pleasant almond and honey perfume from the ink Acòrhia used pervaded the room. A slight waft of air from the window set the paper foliage in delicate, rustling motion. One of the pages came loose and fluttered to the floor.
‘It’s fantastic!’ Ranôria exclaimed.
‘Why, thank you! I use old versions of stories, first drafts that I don’t need any more. I give them their final place of honour here on my tree,’ Acòrhia explained. ‘I prefer not to fix them tightly. That way chance decides which ones are swept up and burned.’ She pulled out a chair for her visitor at the fireside.
Ranôria moved to the chair and hung up her cloak. ‘What a lovely idea,’ she said enthusiastically. She took in the rest of the surroundings: the library extended up through all four floors of the house.
‘I think of this collection as my own personal word-quarry, if you like.’ Acòrhia sat down opposite with a smile. ‘In the books and scrolls here there are many old Dsôn treasures which were donated by survivors; and then I have all my records and writings here as well, of course.’
‘Made-up stories?’
‘Some of them. I ask people to tell me legends and folk tales and true stories and I write them down. Some of it I adapt into new forms. It’s a rich source of material for me.’ She leaned back in her chair, her red hair tossed over her shoulders. ‘But that’s not why you’ve come. You want to hear about the murder.’
‘People are talking?’ I’ve only just been at Wènelon’s house; it looks like word is getting round surprisingly fast. I assume they are afraid of what I might find out.
Acòrhia nodded. ‘I’ve never had children myself but I can certainly understand why you’d want to know more. If this happened to a member of my own family I’m sure I would do everything in my power to get them back from Phondrasôn – that is, if the accusations were false.’ She looked unhappy. ‘May I make you some tea before I begin?’
‘Don’t you have any slaves?’
‘Slaves are expensive and require discipline, plus they get to know all your secrets,’ Acòrhia replied. ‘I live on my own and it’s far too much bother to supervise them. I’d rather do the work myself.’ She smiled. ‘This is only the fifth ring, Ranôria. I’m not so high up as you are.’
‘I understand. No tea, though, thank you.’ She sat upright in her chair. ‘Since you already know why I’m here, please tell me exactly what happened that night. I want all the details!’ I’m good at spotting a lie. Even from a gifted story-spinner.
‘You won’t like what you hear.’ Acòrhia began the tale. She did not recount the events as if she were giving a witness statement, but rather as if she were telling an exciting story. She was word perfect and had everything covered, leaving nothing open to question.
She even described in detail what the dagger looked like, how quickly Firûsha and her brother had been breathing, how fast they had spoken, and what gestures they had made. Her version of events was so rich in detail that Ranôria was able to picture it all. Nothing was missing. It all made horrible sense. ‘And then we called the guards,’ she finished. ‘You know the rest.’
‘Yes,’ said Ranôria absently, trying to suppress the violent images in her mind. She did not trust them. Her heart refused to believe it but her reason whispered that this was exactly how it must all have happened. ‘You were quite right. I don’t like what I heard.’ She studied the young story-teller’s face.
‘That’s the drawback of the truth.’ Acòrhia was sympathetic. ‘It has the power to hurt us. Your children were given a harsh punishment, but it was one they both deserved. I still regret that it had to be like that. If Sémaina had not poured scorn on you and mocked you without any provocation, she would be alive today and your young ones would be with you.’ She laid a hand on her breast. ‘I was at your last concert. You have the gift of sending music directly into the soul of those who hear your songs. My words can never really compare with that.’
‘Each of us nurtures the talent he or she is given,’ Ranôria replied automatically. She had not found any indication of a lie, and could not detect any sign of fear in the younger woman’s expression. Can it really be the truth? Is that really what happened that night at Tênnegor’s house?
The thought was like a stab to her heart, as if her body wanted to punish her for doubting her own offspring.
I mustn’t believe it! Firûsha could never have done that. Never! She wanted to stay longer and cross-examine her hostess. ‘You know what, I think I will have that cup of tea after all.’ Shivering, she reached her hands out to the warmth of the fire. ‘It’s far too cold for the time of year, isn’t it?’
‘I’ll be glad to make you some. A friend gave me some revitalising herbs. She goes collecting over in the quarry and she swears those are the purest specimens.’ Acòrhia stood up. ‘Do feel free to look around,’ she threw over her shoulder as she left the library.
I certainly shall. Ranôria got up and wandered about on the ground floor looking at the book titles, then she climbed the stairs that spiralled round the tree trunk and reached the uppermost branches that were level with the fourth floor.
Now she was a good fifteen paces up and there was so much paper foliage that she could not see down to the desk. A wintry light seeped in through the glass dome, but rain and snow were still falling on it.
Ranôria had been counting on the story-teller making a mistake in her recitation, but she had been optimally prepared, it seemed.
The only criticism one could make was the fact her story was almost word for word identical to the notes that Aïsolon had made in his report.
Acòrhia could have thought the whole thing up and then made sure the others all knew exactly what to say. Of course there was no proof at all. She reversed her approach to
the problem – and came up with a theory. I’m going to test it out straight away.
‘Ranôria?’ Acòrhia had returned with the tea.
‘Coming,’ she called, hurrying down the steps and over to the fireplace where the story-weaver was waiting for her.
The hot, fragrant infusion was served steaming in a glass bowl. Crystal beakers stood next to it on the side table. The smell reminded Ranôria a little of damp earth, roots and fungi. ‘I hope it tastes better than it smells?’
‘Yes. People often forget to place a fragment of slate in the pot.’
‘Slate? You mean that stone that easily splits into layers?’
‘Watch!’ Acòrhia took a tiny bag out of the pocket of her robe and put a small spoonful of its contents into each beaker. While the tea was being poured, the brown liquid changed colour to an attractive golden beige. All the floating residue had dissolved. ‘It’s useful to know that the stone has this effect. Otherwise the first sip of tea would be difficult to swallow and it might make you gag.’
Ranôria tried the brew and was surprised to find it similar to red berries in taste. ‘Fruity and sweet, almost like juice! I would never have expected that.’
Acòrhia lifted her own cup. ‘Will you be visiting the other witnesses or do you believe me?’ she asked as she stirred her drink.
‘I’ve been asking myself from dawn to dusk what can have possessed Sisaroth to lose his temper like that,’ Ranôria answered, pretending to be at a complete loss. ‘Everyone assumes he did it to avenge an insult, some slur Sémaina made against me.’
Acòrhia frowned and played with a tendril of her long red hair. ‘What other motivation could he have had? He was defending his mother’s honour, although the lengths he went to were out of all proportion . . .’
‘What if someone had been egging him on?’
‘I see. You think someone might have wanted him to overstep the mark and get into serious trouble? Someone who wanted to get Firûsha and Sisaroth out of the way?’ She tapped the slate-stone spoon against her lips as she considered this possibility. ‘A plot against your son is an interesting thought. Also terrible, of course. It could be useful to find out who had crossed swords with Sisaroth lately.’
