by Sarah Ash
Legs cramped and weak from confinement in the hold of the galley, the captives stumbled, grasping at each other to stay aright. Knocked off-balance, Laili lost her footing. Lai put out an arm to support her – only to cower away under the sharp sting of a slaver’s flail.
‘Keep moving!’
The slave-market was held every day except holy days in the Square of the Ylliri Fountain, gift to the people of Perysse from the Arkhans of Ar-Khendye. Lai gazed with desperate longing towards the fountain, its milky marble bowl stained green by the gushing water; his dry tongue licked his cracked lips.
‘Me too,’ whispered Laili. Her fingers curled around his. ‘Very thirsty. If only—’
‘Silence!’ A slaver wheeled around, flail raised.
‘Don’t touch her!’ Lai hissed.
A gong drum began to batter out an incessant, strident tattoo. The raised flail slowly dropped. People were gathering, milling at the foot of the steps for a closer view of the day’s merchandise. Ragged lazars, begging for alms, were kicked and whipped away as the gong drum beat louder. Laili’s fingers clutched Lai’s more tightly.
‘I think it’s beginning.’
‘I said silence!’ The slaver tore the stained white robe from Laili’s shoulders.
The shame of it. Stripped, chained like herd beasts. So many eyes staring at them, at their nakedness. Nowhere to hide. So many lascivious, lustful thoughts burning the air, heady as incense fumes.
Lai tried to place himself in front of Laili to shield her – but the slaver tugged roughly at his chain and he fell to his knees.
Voices were raised, numbers shouted. Bartering, Lai thought, barely understanding the unfamiliar accent. The language was the common tongue they shared … but the Perysse inflections were quite alien, rendering them almost incomprehensible to a foreign ear.
They make a pretty pair, those two …’
A silk-draped palanquin was set down at the steps; a woman drew aside the curtains and pointed languidly with her feathered fan. The slave trader was instantly at her side, bowing and offering her his hand.
‘Esteemed Torella, I welcome you. Would you honour me by inspecting my merchandise?’
The Torella beckoned with one taloned fingernail.
Lai reluctantly edged down the steps, Laili clutching more tightly at his hand. The ringed hand beckoned him closer still until it touched his head.
‘Such hair, such an exquisite colour … fire flickering on strands of coppered silk.’
The fingers stroked his cheek, tilting his face upwards.
Beautiful boy …
Images, soft as drifting feathers, floated past. Lewd images, stirrings of lust … Lai tried to conceal a shudder of loathing. Not that, no please, not that—
‘They’re blemished.’ The soft-fleshed finger-tip pressed the moonmark on Lai’s brow.
‘No, Torella, that mark is a guarantee of their true worth, I assure you.’
The Torella’s plucked and painted eyebrows quirked inquisitively upwards.
‘Please ask them yourself.’
‘What does this signify?’ Her breath was sweet, over-sweet with violet-perfumed cachous, as her finger pressed against the sacred moonmark. Lai shook his head.
‘Speak!’ The trader-tugged at the chain.
‘Perhaps the handsome young savage does not understand?’ The Torella smiled into Lai’s face.
‘It means,’ Lai said haltingly, ‘that we are servants of the Goddess. We have vowed our lives to Her service.’
‘I know nothing of this Goddess.’
The slave merchant whispered in the Torella’s ear and Lai saw a slow smile spread across the powdered, painted face.
‘And no one’s interfered with them on the voyage?’
‘Oh no, Torella, my men know better than to spoil the goods.’
Lai strained to decipher the stream of words, knowing that they held the key to their fate.
‘Untouched … and with red hair. He has a predilection for red hair …’
‘The Torella will take them?’ The trader was rubbing his hands in anticipation of a good sale.
‘Tell me your price.’
‘A thousand gold eniths apiece.’
‘Ridiculous.’ The Torella raised her fan and turned away.
‘Wait. Wait. One and a half thousand for the pair.’
‘Extortionate!’
‘The Pleasure House of Black Khassia is very interested in them. Virgins are much in demand—’
‘They can have them.’
The palanquin curtain dropped, veiling the Torella from sight.
‘Twelve hundred, Torella. A special price for you, my most esteemed customer—’
The silk curtain twitched. Lai saw the Torella’s eyes, dark as jet beads, glittering with satisfaction.
‘Have them brought to my rooms at Myn-Dhiel.’
Lai heard the clink of coins; a purse was tossed from the palanquin and the trader caught it in both hands.
‘Those two. To the Torella Sarilla at the palace.’
The slavers pushed in between Lai and Laili and knelt to unchain them. The locks were rusted; one placed his scimitar on the step as he strained to turn the key. Laili’s eyes met Lai’s above the bowed heads of their captors.
Our last chance.
I’ll make a break for it. They’ll go after me – you slip away in the confusion.
She nodded, a slight movement, almost imperceptible. She had understood.
Lai drew in a breath, held it – then as the shackles dropped from his ankles, kicked the slaver in the groin, grabbed the scimitar and took off down the steps.
‘Runaway!’ The shout went up from the fountain steps; a warning bell began to clamour. Lai dived in amongst the crowd for cover, scrabbling his way through the onlookers who ducked hastily away from the shining blade, darting left, then right, like a fast-fleeing deer.
Now, Laili. Hurry!
Crimson jackets appeared in the crowd. Soldiers.
A girl screamed, sharp as a knife drawn across glass. Lai froze.
‘Looking for this, were you?’
They were hauling someone between them. Lai caught a glimpse of the tumbled hair, flame-red as his own.
‘Don’t spoil the goods,’ the trader said nervously. ‘She’s for Myn-Dhiel.’
‘Myn-Dhiel! Why should the Arkhan get all the choicest titbits?’ An arrogant voice rang out, well-used to command; obviously an officer. ‘You won’t mind giving us a sample, will you, sweeting?’
Lai heard Laili whimper some incoherent denial. There was something in the defeated sob that suddenly sent him mad, wild-crazed. And when he saw the officer twist her averted face towards him, forcing his mouth down onto hers—
‘Let her go.’ Lai’s hand tightened about the scimitar hilt. Glint of steel in the cloud-veiled sunlight. ‘I said – let her go!’
‘Another runaway. Drop your weapon, slave!’
The officer’s blade came stabbing in under his guard. Sheer instinct made Lai parry, striking it wide. Sheer instinct made him carry the blow through, slashing upwards—
The tip caught the officer at the base of the neck; Lai felt the shock as the honed metal sliced through the crimson jacket, jarred through flesh against bone.
The officer stared at Lai. His blade dropped to the cobbles with a clang. A crimson snake seemed to uncoil around his throat, his hands rose to tear it away. Slowly, he began to pitch forwards. A hideous half-human gargling, gasping sound issued from his gaping mouth.
‘Lai – run!’ screamed Laili as the slavers bundled her into the palanquin.
Lai just stood there. The man’s glazed face stared up at him, drained of all colour. Yet still the coils of the crimson snake unravelled from his gashed throat onto the cobbles.
‘I – I didn’t mean to—’ he whispered.
It had been his first vow to the Goddess.
I will harm no living creature. I will not kill.
He hardly felt the other s
oldiers prise the sword from his shaking hand, hardly noticed the jeers of the ragged crowd that had gathered about them. Hardly noticed that Laili’s palanquin had disappeared from sight.
‘Bind his hands!’ ordered one of the soldiers.
Lai wanted to run. But his knees trembled so much he could not move. They forced his hands behind his back, the rope bit into his skin as they pulled it tight about his wrists, tugged him across the cobbles.
‘Wh–where are you taking me?’
‘Hold your tongue, slave!’ One hit him across the mouth. He tasted blood, hot and salt on his swelling lip. ‘You’ve killed an officer of the Tarkhas Zhudiciar. The punishment is death.’
Deep in the foetid hold of the slave barque, one of the slavers stumbled over a tumbled bundle of old rags. Cursing, he kicked at it – and then recoiled as, in the lantern light, the festering bundle opened … releasing an overwhelming stench of putrefaction.
Not every slave imprisoned in the airless hold survived the journey to Perysse. And by the smell of this one, he had been dead some while. Yet beneath the mouldering sacking, the slaver thought he saw a sudden convulsive stir of movement.
‘Maistre – Maistre—’
‘What’s this racket?’
By the light of the Maistre’s lanthorn, the slaver pointed out the corpse.
‘Something’s – alive in there.’
‘Maggots,’ said the Maistre impassively. With the tip of his staff he flicked aside the rags …
‘What in all Ar-Khendye—’ One hand clamped over nose and mouth, he held the lanthorn closer over the emaciated body.
‘Dead leaves?’
‘Mithiel knows!’ The Maistre backed away.
Out of the folds of cloth came fluttering something with ragged wings. The slaver flapped his hands in front of his face, batting the sluggish creatures away.
‘Afraid of a few moths?’ jeered the Maistre, recovering himself. ‘Get this carrion off my ship. And swab the hold down till it smells sweet as a spice barque. We don’t want the Zhudiciar’s men poking around in here, asking questions.’
The midden heap where the slavers slung the rotting sacks was already noisy with blowflies. They piled rubbish on top until the slave’s corpse sank slowly down out of sight. Then they set off for the nearest tavern on the quay. After a glass or two of spiced khassafri, the incident was forgotten, blurred by a stupor of drink and dreamweed …
CHAPTER 2
The woman with hair of red-gold, spinning, spinning until her hair is like delicate fluttering wings, wings of a moth floating through dark woods, drifting on a night breeze towards a pale flame, hundreds upon hundreds of translucent wings drifting like snow, drawn towards the flame in the grove, the Sacred Grove where the flame of Memizhon burns palely, flickering paler, paler as the fanning of the smothering mothwings threatens to extinguish its dying light … And the floating hair of red-gold still spinning, spinning amidst the myriad mothwings, the glimmer of a naked white body changing in the festering flame, the woman’s face, deathly white yet deathly fair—
Melmeth’s hands reached out – only to clutch the empty air.
The dream again. The elusive dream-dancer, the flame-haired mystic, spinning in her shaman-trance …
‘Who are you?’ he whispered into the darkness. A sleep-laden sigh; the recumbent form beside him shifted, then lapsed back into slumber. He had forgotten the tattooed Enhirran slave, skilled in the erotic arts, Sarilla’s latest discovery. He had even forgotten her name. She had been diverting enough for an hour or two’s pleasure … but no more than diverting. Painfully eager to please, she had dutifully performed her rehearsed role and now she slept soundly … and he was awake.
On the outer rim of the city a gaunt black tower loured above the Temple of Mithiel, its slit windows barred with spiked iron, a star-gazer’s glass belvedere at its dizzy top. This was the Tower of Perpetuity where Ophar, Augur and High Priest of Mithiel, charted the movement of the constellations and their influence upon the ruling House of Memizhon.
As last of the bloodline descended from the godking Mithiel, Melmeth had been reared to revere and worship his deified ancestor. He had been instructed from childhood in the secret rites of the temple. His earliest memories were of his father Sardion, robed in gold and flame, extending his hand to him. Convinced that this gilded warrior was the god come to consume him in fire, he had burst into terrified sobs and buried his head in his mother’s skirts. He could still hear his father’s scornful words issuing from behind the golden godmask.
‘Take this crybaby away and don’t bring him into my presence again until he knows how to behave like a man.’
Now it was he who put on the golden godmask and officiated at the rites. But he had not lost his dread of the temple … or the underlying suspicion that in praying to Mithiel, he was only praying to the memory of his tyrannical father. He had read and re-read the holy texts, hoping to centre his uncertain faith on the ancient prayers and psalms. But lately, even these had failed to comfort him. There was an emptiness inside his soul, an aching void. He longed to find a new meaning to his existence, a new peace to balm his doubts …
Melmeth had no need to cross the city to consult the priests of Mithiel; a warren of tunnels built by his ancestors allowed the Arkhan to pass beneath the city, unnoticed by the common people. Escape routes, constructed in more violent times, the labyrinthine underways facilitated secret journeys … and clandestine encounters.
Two dark-robed hierophants greeted the Arkhan with silent obeisances and led him up the winding obsidian stair, passing doorway after doorway as they climbed. Each dim room Melmeth glimpsed was filled with stacks of ancient black-bound, chained volumes. The air was dry and musty as if no window had ever been opened to let in the sun.
The hierophants stopped before an archway with the name ‘Myn-Dhiel’ emblazoned in gold across the lintel: the scarlet device of the flame curled like fire-tongues around the deep-cut letters.
‘Welcome, Lord Arkhan. I have been expecting you.’ Ophar came towards Melmeth out of the shadows, a gaunt old man with brows and beard as grey as dust. As a child Melmeth had been terrified of him; now that he was Arkhan, he still felt a tremor of unease in the High Priest’s austere presence.
‘The meteor,’ Melmeth said. ‘What does it mean?’
Ophar beckoned. Melmeth followed him into a chamber whose walls and ceiling were painted black as night; stars and constellations, pricked out in gold and silver, glowed dully in the gloom.
‘Sit, Lord Arkhan.’
The table between them was round, a disc of polished metal, dimly reflecting the painted sky above. Melmeth stared into it, seeing his own face drowned in stars.
‘What do you see?’ breathed Ophar’s voice in the gloom.
Melmeth squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again. The stars flickered … Danced … Now they seemed to form a pulsating diadem across his brow.
‘A crown … A crown of stars …’
Ophar drew a cloth across the disc, dark velvet fringed with scarlet.
‘The meteor comes as a warning.’
Melmeth started, jolted out of the trance.
‘A warning? Of what?’
‘You neglect your duties. You neglect your consort, the Arkhys Clodolë. Your court is renowned throughout the Seven Cantons for its excesses. You surround yourself with fawning exquisites who flatter you … And all the time your kingdom is crumbling into disorder …’
Melmeth stared at the old man’s accusing eyes, taken aback by the vehemence of his words.
‘But … The mirror …’
‘Your vision betrays you. A crown of stars! Your people need a real king, not a dreamer with his head in the clouds.’
‘I came to you for advice – not abuse.’
‘My lord has become so glutted with gilded compliments that he is incapable of digesting the truth.’
‘I could have you thrown from the top of this tower for insolence!’
‘Yo
u could, lord. You are Arkhan.’ Ophar stared back at Melmeth, challenging him. ‘Your father would have done as much.’
‘I am not my father!’ Melmeth cried. ‘Why should I be? The warrior’s way is not the only way. Why must I always be compared with him?’
‘You are unhappy, lord,’ Ophar said softly.
Melmeth rose and went pacing over to the rail to gaze down over the mist-gauzed city.
‘Not unhappy. But searching. Searching for—’
A dancer with hair of red-gold … A dream-dancer … A dream … Nothing but a dream …
‘Sarilla! What is this? A new purchase?’
A white-haired gallant strode across the garden courtyard to help Torella Sarilla alight from her palanquin. Laili saw them exchange exaggerated kisses, first one cheek then the other; dazedly she wondered if this could be the Torella’s consort …
‘Such a performance at the market, Ymarys, you would not believe it! I bought a pair, a perfectly exquisite pair – and just as I was leaving, the boy went berserk. A firebrand! He attacked a tarkhastar of the watch – seized a blade – I thought I was at the arena. It was so exciting!’
‘So where is this slave bladesman?’
‘On his way to the donjon.’
‘A firebrand, hm? Intriguing. And the other?’
‘Examine her for yourself.’
‘Oho. Red hair.’
‘Tell me what you think.’
Ymarys reached into the palanquin to draw Laili out into the open. Laili tried to turn her head away but Ymarys tipped her chin gently upwards until she was obliged to look directly into his eyes. And saw that he was not an old man as she had assumed, that the sleek pale hair was blonde-white and the eyes looking curiously into her own were eerily light, silver-grey, like sun breaking low over storm-waves.
‘Hm.’ Ymarys walked around Laili, critically eyeing her up and down. ‘Maybe … Bathed and properly clothed … With that unusual hair, she might …’ He began to drift away. ‘My angel, your taste is impeccable as always.’ He blew a little kiss from the tips of his fingers to the Torella and vanished, leaving only a waft of bergamot from his perfumed hair.
‘You’ve passed your first test,’ the Torella said. ‘That gallant was Ymarys, the Arkhan’s champion.’
