The Darkest Bloom

by P. M. Freestone

  When none come, I nod to the sword. “May as well make use of that thing.” I retrieve an empty vial from my satchel and hold it out through the bars of the grate. “A thumb is probably best. Just a small cut.”

  Ash winces as he bends to retrieve the weapon. He holds it up to watch it gleam dully in the flickering light. “Are you sure?”

  “I believe it, Ash.” I marvel at the truth in my words. “I believe you’re the key.”

  He clenches his jaw and nicks his thumb on the blade. Blood drips into the vial. When it’s safely stowed in my satchel, I hold out my hand to the bars again.

  “That’s it?”

  “One more thing.” I fix him in a level gaze. “I’ll have that sword.”

  “What for?”

  What for? So you don’t stick yourself with it in a mess of self-loathing, I want to say. But glibness isn’t going to help either of us. “So that when Nisai wakes up he’ll believe my story,” I tell him.

  He weighs my words for a long moment. Then he sheathes the blade and passes it, hilt first, through the bars. “Be careful who sees this.”

  I loop the sheath’s straps into my satchel’s, settling the sword on my back in a vague imitation of Ash’s harness. Then I wrap my hands around his where they still grip the bars, my fingertips reaching the softer skin of his inner wrist. His pulse is steady and strong. As it should be. As I want it to be.

  My throat tightens as he meets my eyes. There was always something dark at the edge of his gaze, but now it’s haunted.

  I lift a hand to his stubbled cheek. “Ash, I—”

  “Come here,” he says, voice husky. “Please.”

  I edge forward.

  He loops an arm around my waist and easily pulls me to the bars. His uninjured eye roams my face, as if he’s trying to remember every detail, while his hand trails a tingling path up my spine, higher and higher until he’s cupping my neck in his calloused palm.

  On the road, I’d sometimes imagined what this would be like. Back then, I thought of heat and hunger and escape. Now, Ash’s lips meet mine with aching softness.

  Longing wells up inside me. For what was. What we might be if we only had the time, the chance.

  The air around us is tainted by the lingering horror of the throne room and the bile of the sewers. But I keep searching until I find him underneath it all. Warm sandalwood. Cedar, green and earthy. A hint of galbanum-like muskiness I’ve come to identify as purely Ash.

  I inhale deeply, drawing those three precious scents down into my chest, to where memory will keep them safe until my last breath.

  With a stifled cry, I tear myself away and stumble back the way I came.

  It’s more early morning than late night when Barden and I make it out of the sewers and steal through the near-empty streets to take refuge in what must be the seediest guest house inside the imperial walls. Dawn is yet to kiss the sky, so the moon is stunningly bright, shining through what would be a window if it had glass or shutters.

  When Barden bolts the door behind us, I report what I witnessed. Most of it, anyway.

  “They’ve moved the Prince to the temple,” I sum up, not taking my eyes from the silver orb creeping closer to the stars of the winged lion.

  “I’m not surprised. It’s the only way he’ll be welcomed in heaven, to join the ranks of god-kings.”

  “I doubt Nisai would care about that.”

  “But the people do. And the Council will be keen for an immediate transition. The sooner it’s done, the sooner the succession can take place. They won’t want his death to leave room for political instability, to question their next choice. That’ll open the door for a full conclave and—”

  “No,” I say.

  “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  “I mean we’re not going to let that happen. I’m not going to let that happen. I haven’t weathered the storms of the past four moons just to tuck tail and run. Even if I could escape Ekasya, I’ll be watching over my shoulder for the rest of my life, just waiting for one of the Commander’s Rangers to appear.”

  “You have a plan, then?”

  I give him my sweetest smile. “Go see if the innkeep’s still awake, would you?”

  Barden stands over me, brandishing the razor blade he’d sweet-talked out of the innkeep.

  Clumps of hair litter the floor. It takes more time than I would have expected, and I flinch when he nicks the skin just behind my ear.

  When it’s done, he rubs rosemary oil over my bare head. The scent sends a pang of almost-grief through me, churning up memories of Father. Then my scalp begins to sting like wildfire.

  I hiss in a breath.

  “Shhh, it’ll feel better in a minute. Just wait.”

  He’s right.

  I run my hand over my scalp, awed by its smoothness. “Part of me wishes I’d done that turns ago.”

  “You look…” He clears his throat. “It brings out your eyes.”

  It’s an effort not to roll them at that.

  “Right. Are you sure—”

  I nod. “I need to do this alone. You’ll only rouse suspicion.” I reach out and squeeze his arm. “And thanks, Bar. I mean it.”

  He pulls me into a brief but fierce hug. “Stars keep you.”

  “And you.”

  He pokes me between the shoulder blades. “And keep your back straight. Priestesses don’t slouch.”

  “Slouching is the last thing I intend to do.”

  “Oh?”

  I gesture to where I’d leaned Ash’s sword against the wall. “Help me with this, would you?”

  The stepped pyramid of the Ekasyan temple is far higher than its Aphorain counterpart, just like everything in the capital is bigger or grander or more finely decorated.

  The Aphorain temple proudly bears the scars of centuries of groundshakes, its sandstone floors worn smooth by thousands of feet. But this place is all angles and a high-sheen polish that captures my reflection like the building itself is watching me. The chill I feel looking up at it is almost enough to make the Aphorain temple seem welcoming.

  Almost.

  As I climb the ramp above the city, I keep my chin up and resist the urge to watch my feet. The thought of dislodging Ash’s sword from where Barden helped me strap it across my back, concealed under the Chronicler’s robe, is enough to keep me ramrod straight.

  At the first platform, I slip off my sandals and cross the lawn of holy thyme. The scent of crushed leaves drifts up to me. At least that’s the same as the Aphorain temple. Fingers crossed the inner layout is also similar.

  I enter the dimly lit corridor under a portico flanked by carved likenesses of mythical firebirds, women with wings and claws. First door on the right should be the administrator’s offices. And indeed they are. Here’s to small victories.

  I pause in the doorway, waiting to be noticed by the firebird sitting at a desk piled with scrolls and a pair of tiny scales. When she doesn’t look up, I cough politely.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m from Lostras,” I say, mustering my best Losian accent, all twangy vowels like my nose is blocked. “I’m reporting for second-level training.”

  She raises her eyebrows, the wrinkles on her forehead bunching. “We weren’t expecting anyone today.”

  I curl the fingers of each hand and hook them together, trying my best to look pious. “It’s true. I’m early. But, you see, I’ve been dreaming of here almost all my life. When I passed my initiate exams, I couldn’t find a single reason I shouldn’t hasten into service.”

  The priestess narrows her eyes.

  Humble. Be humble.

  “Please, I won’t trouble you at all. I’ll sweep cells, scrub dishes, change the floor rushes. Whatever could help.”

  Something in her demeanour softens. “There aren’t any rooms in the initiate quarters. Most won’t be moving on until ordinations next moon. Hence why we weren’t expecting you. But if you’d be willing to take a cell in the—”

  “All I want is
to serve,” I gush. “And to do so under this roof? It’s all my prayers come true, it is.”

  I wonder if I’m trying to add scent to a perfume, but she seems to accept it, gesturing me to follow her down the hall. I try to mimic her silent footsteps so the only sound is our skirts sweeping along the stone. I count two left turns on our route, a right, another left, before we arrive at a wooden door that seems built for a child.

  She pulls a ring of keys from her skirts. “There is a fountain that way, if you wish to wash. The water bubbles warm from inside the mountain. Breakfast is an hour before dawn, in the fifth sector. You’ll find your way by ear. We’re a talkative bunch in the mornings.”

  I fight off a grimace. Talk? Before breakfast? This is penance. “Please, what should I do in the meantime?”

  The priestess looks askance. “Why, prepare yourself. One does not enter service lightly.”

  I thank her in the simpering tone I’d affected since my arrival and shut the door behind me. The cell is tiny. With a sigh, I shrug out of the straps securing Ash’s sword to my back and flop down on to the pallet.

  Instinct tells me to go now. Find the Prince before the moon rises. But sense tells me to bide my time and wait until most of the temple has found their beds.

  There is no window as such, but there are slits in the stone. When daylight no longer streams through them, I rise and check the vials strapped to one thigh. I feel naked without my satchel, but there was no way I would have made it past the temple estate guards as a devout initiate if I’d tried to bring it with me.

  The door to my cell opens with a Rot-awful creak. Gingerly, I edge it wide enough to slip through.

  The only thing between the top of the temple and the stars is prayer smoke. Frankincense dominates, but there’s an undercurrent of myrrh. Clearly those in charge are convinced the Prince has already begun his journey skyward.

  When I lay eyes on him, I realize that’s in part true. He’s stretched out on his back on a bier, covered to the chin in heavy silks. Even in the low light of the temple braziers, I can see he’s worse than yesterday. The web of black veins thicker and starker, in places knotting together.

  Guilt seizes my throat.

  He’s worse because I got it wrong.

  Because Ash tried to tell me the truth and I was too confident in my scepticism. Too arrogant.

  Above me, the larger moon is entering the house of the winged lion. There’s no time for burning bitter yolketh.

  I press myself against a wall as two firebirds talk in hushed voices.

  “You must honour the watch,” the first says, her tone an order. “If we miss the moment, he’ll wander the five hells for ever.”

  The junior priestess bows, her senior counterpart already walking away. Leaving the Prince so poorly attended? Even the firebirds must truly believe he’s lost.

  I wait for her footsteps to recede and then count five counts of five before stepping into the light of the braziers.

  “You shouldn’t be up here, initiate.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m new. And I’m afraid I’m a little lost. I’m meant to see to the Abbess’s ablutions.”

  She narrows her eyes. “It’s quite late for that.”

  I scramble for an explanation. “She was in a meeting. With a member of the Council of Five.”

  “Oh, I see. You’ll need to go back the way you—”

  The moment she turns towards the stairwell, I step up behind her and press a cloth soaked in liquid torpi over her face. She struggles and I fight down panic that I might not be able to hold on long enough. But once she’s inhaled enough of the sedative, she slumps against me like a sack of barley. Sorry about the headache.

  I manage to lower her gently to the floor, though not without an oof escaping my lips.

  The sound of a blade being drawn rings out behind me.

  “Turn. Slowly.”

  I do as I’m commanded. In the gloom, the figure before me stands as tall as Ash, especially when you factor in the battle braids, and her shoulders are nearly as wide.

  Kip. Even if everyone else has given up, Nisai’s interim Shield remains.

  Her eyes pin me, making it clear I’m prey and she’s predator. “You,” she says, half accusation, half disbelief.

  “Please, there’s not much time,” I beg, holding up my hands.

  “Don’t. Move.”

  I do as I’m told.

  Behind her, another woman appears from the shadows. We’re of a height, but the regal tilt to her chin makes her seem taller. Her perfume drifts towards me, so intricate and complex that for a breath I can’t think of anything else.

  Kip moves her bulk between the three of us. “Talk.”

  The woman wears a string of amethyst and rubies across her forehead, and imperial purple robes embroidered with winged lions. This must be Aphorai’s representative on the Council of Five.

  Nisai’s mother.

  Shari.

  I direct my answer to her. “I didn’t poison your son. I got it wrong in the throne room and I cannot tell you how sorry I am for that. But now I know how to help him.”

  Kip grunts. “You might have fooled my predecessor, but you don’t fool me.”

  “Ash? I didn’t fool him. He knows I’m here now. He wanted me to come. Even from the dungeons, he’s still desperate to save the Prince.”

  Her flat stare is unwavering. “I was in the throne room. Saw the blood. The Shield’s dead, along with a score of palace guard.”

  “He’s not.” I gesture to my back. “Let me show you.”

  She gives a grudging nod, and I shrug out of the sword straps, carefully guiding the sheathed blade from under my robe. I slide it across the stone floor.

  Recognition dawns on Kip’s features.

  “Now, may I?” I reach for the letter again, this time with no resistance.

  Kip takes it from me, unfolds it, shakes it out, runs a finger around the seal, and finally gives it a sniff. Only then does she hand it to Shari.

  I can barely breath as she reads, hoping it was the right move, that Esarik spoke true and it’s the confession I need to clear my name. When she’s done, she raises her eyes to meet mine. I’ve never before felt so much as if my mind was being read like a scroll.

  I jut my chin towards the bier. “He’s dying. The Physicians have given up. They would have fought against bringing him here otherwise – seems they have the ear of the, ah, Regent. There’s nobody else who can help him. I promise you I mean no harm. Look,” I retrieve the vials of antidote, unstopper the first and let a drip fall on to my tongue. “See? It’s not poison. Please. Let me try.”

  “Let her through.”

  Kip straightens, still staring at me down the blade of her sword. “Sorry, Councillor?”

  “I said, let her see to my son.”

  Experimentally, I inch a foot towards the bier.

  Kip doesn’t move.

  I take a step, hands out.

  She gives a flick of her sword in a “go on” gesture.

  I don’t ask twice.

  Nisai’s body is emaciated, the contours of his bones obvious under the silk covers. How could he have wasted away further in such little time?

  I kneel on the cushioned step running around the bier and gesture to the oil burner at Nisai’s shoulder – presumably Shari’s personal prayer kit. The Councillor nods permission and I begin heating each of the essences in turn.

  Steam curls around the Prince’s face.

  I try to interpret no reaction as a good result – given what happened last time. But worry still permeates my every thought like a stench that can’t be washed clean. Kip leans against the wall, her flat stare unwavering on the bier.

  I peer at Nisai. Did his eyelids flutter?

  My fingers go to his wrist. His pulse is stronger. Undoubtedly.

  “I think it’s working,” I say carefully.

  Kip huffs and steps closer.

  “His heart, it’s beating stronger,” I tell her, earnest.
“And look, between the black veins, his colour’s improving.”

  Her eyes go wide. “Azered’s stinkin’ breath, I never thought…”

  Then the nearest candles flicker. Several snuff out.

  The black veins stretched across Nisai’s skin begin to move, slowly at first, but then as if they’re alive and squirming for a way out. I recoil, every part of me wanting to shrink away from the wrongness of what I’m seeing.

  Dark vapour begins to seep from the Prince, as if it’s growing from his very pores. I sniff the air. It’s not smoke. The shadow, growing blacker and swirling thicker into the air above the bier, smells of carcasses rotting under a blazing sun. Then it starts to take on form – twining in the shape of flower-covered vines one moment, massing together in a silhouette of some hideous, fang-jawed creature the next.

  “What is that?” Kip holds her sword at the ready. “What have you done?”

  I swallow. “I don’t know.”

  Sephine’s last words whisper in my mind.

  The darkness will bloom again.

  And at that moment I realize. She wasn’t talking about the dahkai plantation going up in flames. She was talking about this. She was warning me.

  Doskai.

  The Lost God.

  His essence is still here.

  And unlike Ash, Nisai isn’t a shadow warrior. The poison isn’t already part of him. He’s still in danger.

  The shadow roils and darkens, as if it’s getting stronger. When it’s ready, will it turn on the Prince? Finish the job it started? Or will it come for me?

  I glance at Shari, who looks like she’ll lunge to her son’s side any moment. Off to the side of the room, the young priestess groans as she comes to.

  “Keep them back,” I tell Kip, surprised at the authority in my voice.

  There’s still some liquid left in the vials of cure ingredients. Could direct contact have a stronger effect? Sprinkling it over my fingers, I fling precious drips towards the shadow.

  It hisses and steams like water drops on a scalding pan. Then it contracts into something solid that seems to clamp down on Nisai.