by Sarah Ash
‘You will get up before dawnwatch, you will go to bed at sundip. They’ll tell you I’m a hard taskmaster. Hard, yes – I’ve no time for shirkers. But fair; let no one say Orthandor is biased in his treatment of his men. And don’t try to escape. With that mark on your forehead, you won’t get far. There’ll be no second chance. All who run from the Tarkhas Memizhon are sent straight back to the donjon … if my dogs don’t get them first.’
The tiles of the domed bath house were shinily moist with steam; Lai lay back, closing his eyes as the mineral waters, hot from underground springs, bubbled about his body, suffusing the damp air with their pungent aromatic odours. Green pine resin … Blue terebinth … He could almost feel the layers of grime peeling away. Before they had let him near the waters he had been forced to undergo a humiliating dousing in some foul-smelling unguent; it had given him a perverse kind of pleasure to see the lice dropping off him to the damp floor.
Time’s up!’
Lai climbed out and began to rub himself down with one of the rough towels provided until his skin tingled. Orthandor reappeared with clean clothes: a coarse linen shirt, linen breeches and plain jacket the blue of lapis lazuli. Memizhon blue.
‘And shave off that stubble. You’re a disgrace to the Tarkhas.’
Lai took up the razor stone and slapped on the shaving-paste. Orthandor had left a small round bronze mirror; Lai pulled his face into the requisite grimaces to reach the most inaccessible copper bristles. When he had finished he took up the mirror and with a trembling hand pushed back his hair to inspect the indigo slavebrand. As he had feared, there was no trace left of the silvered moonmark; the tattooing needle had destroyed all sign of the Goddess’s gift. Only his green-blue, deep-set, dreamer’s eyes looked gravely back at him, unchanged, blue as the waters of the bay on Ael Lahi. Laili’s eyes—
‘You’ve had time enough to admire yourself.’ Orthandor took back the bronze mirror and slipped it into his sleeve. ‘Come.’
Lai followed him across the wind-blown courtyard and entered a low-roofed hall.
This is where you sleep.’ Orthandor gestured to the nearest pallet in the long, bare chamber. The windows were barred. ‘You take your meals in the adjacent hall. You’ll be well-clothed, well-fed and all at the Arkhan’s expense. Never forget that.’
Lai sank down on the pallet and buried his face in his hands.
‘What did they get you for?’
Lai looked up. A group of brandslaves ringed his pallet, all staring at him in the flickering lanthorn light. And he had thought he was alone.
‘Well?’ The spokesman was a sour-eyed man, slouching against the wall, arms folded.
‘I was in a fight.’
The sour-eyed man let out a snort of derision.
‘We’ve all been in fights.’
‘Does it matter?’ Lai said levelly. ‘I got caught.’
The man leaned forwards and grabbed hold of Lai by the collar, pulling Lai’s face close to his until Lai could see the red broken veins spidering his nose, the hairs bristling from his nostrils.
‘Listen well and listen good. I don’t like you. I don’t like your accent, I don’t like the colour of your hair and I don’t like your insolence. You’ll be nice to me, pretty boy. Be nice to Wadhir. Or you’ll find yourself wishing you’d stayed in the donjon. Understand?’
Lai nodded. He could hardly breathe for the tight hold Wadhir was keeping on his collar, twisting it tighter each time for emphasis.
‘Lights out!’ Orthandor’s voice echoed to the rafters of the sleeping-hall.
Wadhir slowly released his hold about Lai’s throat as the others drifted back to their pallets. His eyes, sour as vinegar, still burned into Lai’s.
‘Don’t forget. I’m watching you. Even when you’re asleep.’
The single lanthorn was taken away and Lai heard the doors of the sleeping-hall slam to, the heavy bolts outside grinding shut, the key creaking in the lock.
In the darkness, he lay awake, listening to the distant baying of the watch-hounds as they prowled the compound.
A thin silverlight penetrated the bars of the hall, striping the sleeping forms.
Days without number since he had last seen Her sacred light.
Lai’s lips silently framed the words of salutation … but other words soon overrode them, a plea, a desperate supplication.
I know I must atone. But how? These men are trained fighters. Killers. My only way out of here is to become as they are. Brutalised.
The faint silverlight wavered …
Is there no other way?
A cloud crossed the face of the moon … The light faded and went out.
Don’t abandon me, Goddess! Don’t leave me without any hope!
The hall was drowned in black. And in the blackness all Lai could hear was the howling of Orthandor’s hounds as they pawed and snuffled at the locked doors.
CHAPTER 3
Voices in the ante-chamber, Laili started; it was late, too late for visitors, surely … She had dozed off on the couch of her mistress’s dressing-room and now she was suddenly awake, recognising the soft, cultured tones she had heard in the garden that afternoon.
‘Who is she, Sarilla? I must know.’
‘So she intrigues you?’ Coquettish delight in Sarilla’s cooing voice. ‘I thought she might.’
‘Don’t torment me! Tell me her name.’
‘Her name is … Laili.’
‘Such an evocative name. Laili. Distant shores …’
Laili sat up, clutching her gossamer shawl about her shoulders. She had begun to shiver.
‘Far distant shores. She’s from Ael Lahi.’
‘Ael Lahi? Beyond the Spice Islands? I thought they were all painted savages there …’
‘See for yourself, lord.’
The door opened; Sarilla’s long nails beckoned.
Laili pulled her shawl more tightly about her.
‘Come, child. You have a visitor.’
Laili came blinking into the Torella’s living chamber. A man was seated by the fireside, the dying flames casting flickers of blue and red across his robes of heavy brocade. A Mhaell lord. She bowed, touching her forehead in obeisance, as Sarilla had taught her, aware that her mistress’s sharp eyes were watching for the slightest mistake in etiquette.
‘Sing for me, Laili. I want to hear you sing.’
‘I – I do not know the art-songs that the courtesans perform, lord. And I have no instrument—’
He waved one hand, silencing her.
‘I have heard enough florid court music to last a lifetime. It has no heart, no soul, it is all ornamentation and meaningless embellishment. Sing me a song I have never heard. Sing to me one of the songs of Ael Lahi.’
Laili nodded. Then, hesitantly at first, she sang him one of the first songs her mother had taught her, the lament of the girl waiting in vain on the shore for her man to come home from the sea, the sighing refrain, ‘Ai, lilua, luali …’
And when she had finished, the silence hung in the candlelit room like a veil between them. She was afraid that his silence implied he had found her singing displeasing … But after a while she saw him draw his hand across his eyes … wiping away tears.
‘You are different from the others, Laili,’ he said, gazing at her so piercingly, so intently that she felt as if he were looking into her very soul. She did not know what to say, how to reply; she was trembling at the sound of his voice at once soft and low, yet burningly incandescent. His hand moved out to touch her hair, threading the strands between his fingers.
‘Red … as a flame.’
She had expected force. She had expected violation. She had not expected this … gentleness.
The brandslaves were roused every day before dawn with the jangling of a coarse-tongued metal bell. Firstmeal consisted of hunks of coarse bread washed down with hot malted ale. Then, no matter how cold the weather, they were made to strip down to loincloths and spend all morning practising the thirteen falls in J
hered-nai. After a short midday meal, it was practice of basic footwork and bladestrokes with wooden foils. When that session ended, Orthandor made them run the circuit of the barracks three times before allowing them into the bath house to soak away the day’s grime and sweat.
Each night Lai fell into dreamless sleep the instant his head touched the pallet – but no sooner had he sunk into oblivion than Orthandor was standing in the doorway, bellowing that it was time to wake up, time to move, get out of bed …
‘Red hair … Blue eyes … Honey skin …’
The Torella drew out robe after robe in dazzling silks, holding each one up to Laili’s skin.
‘This dark azure with the spangles – “dragonmoon” – looks delicious with your hair. Or the shot silk …’
‘No.’ Laili pointed to the white silk gown, plain as an adept’s robe. That one.’
‘Of course. How fitting. White for my little virgin.’
Laili looked at the Torella coldly. She did not like to hear her pronounce it in that way; her lascivious tone somehow implied that she was some choice morsel to be prepared for the Arkhan’s consumption.
‘So much to teach you, my innocence. And so little time.’
The Torella’s opulent perfume was beginning to make Laili feel queasy; purple musk-orchids mingled with sharp patchouli.
‘What is there to learn?’ she said angrily. ‘I am not entirely ignorant.’
The Torella pinched her cheek in a seemingly affectionate gesture – but the painted nail left a sharp scratch.
‘First you must learn when it is prudent to keep your thoughts to yourself. And second – you must learn how to please. He will not be enchanted if his little virgin merely lies meekly back on the sheets and closes her eyes tight, grits her teeth, waiting for it all to be over! He will expect some effort at participation.’
‘I’m still hungry.’ Wadhir let out a belch; Lai stared studiously down at his bowl of soup, trying to take no notice. ‘Well, Aelahim. Didn’t you hear me? I said I’m still hungry.’
Lai slowly looked up.
‘So?’
‘I thought I made myself plain the other night. Short memory, huh?’ He reached for Lai’s bowl of lentil soup. ‘I said I was still hungry.’
‘Wait!’ Lai grabbed at the bowl; soup slopped onto the scrubbed trestle.
‘What a waste of good food,’ said Wadhir. ‘You’d better not let that go to waste, pretty boy.’
‘You said you were hungry—’ flared Lai.
The next instant, he found his face slammed down into the congealing pool, Wadhir’s hands pressing on his head and neck.
‘Lick it up, Aelahim filth. Go on!’ hissed Wadhir.
Lai gasped for air, his bruised nose squashed into the glutinous liquid, hands flailing ineffectually.
‘I told you to be nice to me. Or else,’ Wadhir snarled in his ear. With one last tug at his hair, he threw him aside; Lai went tumbling onto the floor, blood dripping from his damaged nose. The other slaves watched in silence. No one moved to help him. Yet no one laughed. Wadhir noisily drained the last of Lai’s soup and wiped the bowl with Lai’s hunk of barley bread.
Lai pulled himself to his feet, one hand pressed to his nose; he could taste the warm blood leaking down the back of his throat. Anger almost blinded him; he wanted to pick up the soup-bowl and smash it over Wadhir’s head. But he could hear Orthandor’s firm tread outside: to retaliate now would be enough to condemn himself to the dye works and Wadhir knew it.
Lai turned on his heel and walked slowly, with as much dignity as he could muster, out of the hall. In the bath house he washed away the clots of blood with splashes of the icy water.
That night, long after the others had fallen asleep, filling the hall with the ebb and flow of their breathing, Lai lay awake, staring into the darkness, starting at every snore.
Run away, a voice whispered at the back of his mind. Run away before Wadhir traps you alone in some dark corner. You’ll never get on the right side of Wadhir.
Lai turned restlessly onto his side. His eyes ached with sleeplessness.
But what was the point in running away? He was marked for life, the Memizhon tattoo still raw on his forehead. Wherever he ran, people would know him for a fugitive, a runaway slave. And if he ran he would lose his only chance of finding Laili …
Lai pulled the coarse blanket up over him, huddling down, seeking warmth. It was already colder than the coldest winter night on Ael Lahi; he was unaccustomed to these autumn frosts and chill winds.
Ael Lahi. Such a surge of homesickness washed over him that he felt himself drowning, hopelessly submerged.
Two russet-haired children wandering the warm white strands barefoot, searching the rock pools …
‘Listen.’ Laili cups a speckled cowrie shell over his ear. ‘Aela says that if you can hear the sighing of tides on far distant shores, it means you’re going on a journey.’
Distant shores. Chilling premonition. How could they have known that their childish wishing game would come so violently true?
At first the Torella spent hours painting Laili’s face and nails. Laili found it easy enough to copy her; playing the apt and dutiful pupil seemed to keep her instructress content. After the art of cosmetics came the arts of perfumery and incense-making.
The exquisites of the court like to hold contests to see who can devise the most fragrant incense.’
Soon Laili’s little room became as sweet as the Goddess’s shrine with the mingled scents of sweet pine, sandalwood, tulip and aloes.
And now the Torella began to ply her with books.
This is a rare and precious manuscript from his library, it was commissioned by one of his ancestors.’
Laili could not decipher the ancient writing but she had no need, the drawings were explicit enough.
‘Study it carefully. I will bring another text tomorrow.’
The Torella read to Laili from the text the next day without a single blush or faltering of the voice; most of the instructions were couched in obscure metaphor so that anyone listening casually would have heard only of jade branches and fragrant terraces. Laili sat, hands in her lap, seeming to pay attention but letting her mind loose, trying to recall the Grove at dusk, the rising of the springtide moon, the music of the moonmoths …
A sharp rap on her arm brought her back to the narrow tower room; she stared at the Torella, confused, her eyes suddenly blurred with tears.
‘You haven’t heard a word! I don’t know why I’m wasting my time with you. He’s coming tonight. Yes, you heard me then, didn’t you! Tonight, sweeting.’
Flash of emotion, so vivid Laili could almost taste its acidity on her tongue. Jealousy. Resentment. The last flare of an old love that had almost died to embers … a love that she had not chosen to end herself. Laili looked at her closely and saw the fine lines of age at the corners of eyes and mouth, hairline cracks in fine porcelain.
The Torella unbound Laili’s hair and began to comb it until it crackled with blue fire. Laili endured her ministrations in silence though all the while she was mutely praying to the Goddess of the Sacred Grove.
What do you want of me? Should I throw myself from the tower window rather than submit to him? I have sworn to protect the sanctity of life – even my own. You know I have not chosen this path … but they are forcing me to break my vow.
But the Goddess gave no answer.
The Torella was twisting fresh-picked winter asfodyl in Laili’s hair, its poignant pale perfume moist as dark glades at twilight.
‘I wish you joy,’ she said, smiling with her perfect coralled mouth, although her eyes did not smile. ‘And I leave you with some advice you would do well to bear in mind. Myn-Dhiel is a snare of whispered intrigues. You are safe here in your tower room. But do not play your part too well. I have prepared other concubines … others prettier than you … and where are they now? Beware the charming gift that comes unannounced, unmarked. Beware the embroidered gloves, the enticing sweetmeats,
the jewelled fillet. The apothecaries of Perysse are skilled in devising new perfumes – they are also skilled in making poisons.’
He came very late, so late that the perfumed oils had almost burned out in the silver lamp. Laili was so terrified that she could scarcely enunciate the words of welcome she had been taught to say. But her training in the Grove had taught her to contain her fear, to hide it in courtesies. She offered him spiced wine, little cinnamon cakes; he waved them aside.
‘Come, sit by me,’ he said. ‘I want you to tell me about Ael Lahi.’
It was not what she had expected. And he was not as she had expected, either, with his quiet voice, his expressive hands, his calm, easy manner. She began to talk. And as she talked she felt her hostility towards him slowly easing, evaporating like the scented fumes into the air. He seemed more disposed to talk than to use her for the purposes for which she had been prepared.
He raised one hand and gently touched the moonmark on her forehead.
‘I have never seen this sign before. What does it mean?’
She swallowed hard.
‘I am an adept of the Sacred Grove.’
‘I know nothing of this Sacred Grove. Was that where you learned to sing?’
‘To sing … and to play the flute.’
‘The flute? I am not overfond of the flute. It can be shrill on the ears.’
‘Maybe your Arkendym flutes are different from ours. We blow across the mouth-hole … like so.’ She mimed, placing her lips to her hand. ‘It makes a softer, sweeter tone. But I am so out of practice, I fear I would make a shrill sound now.’
‘If your fluting is as accomplished as your singing, I should like to hear you play. Tell me more of your Grove.’
‘It is a holy place. A place of mysteries.’
A frown shadowed his smooth brow.
‘I hope you are not going to try to convert me?’
‘Oh no. I have not the skill – or the power – to do that. The Goddess calls whom She pleases—’
‘So what sets an adept of your Sacred Grove apart from ordinary mortals?’
This was the moment. Even though she detected a hint of mockery in his question, this was her chance to slip Lai into the conversation.
