Moths to a Flame

by Sarah Ash

  ‘I – I cannot easily explain. I – we – were Chosen. We endured the initiation and we were admitted to the mysteries—’

  ‘We?’

  Laili took a deep breath.

  ‘I have a brother. He was arrested trying to protect me. Please – lord Arkhan – please spare his life. I will do anything – anything you want – but please—’

  His eyes no longer looked so kindly on her.

  ‘I do not concern myself with such matters. The servants of the Haute Zhudiciar deal with criminals.’

  ‘I did not mean to presume—’ Terror gripped her; she had been too presumptuous – and now she had offended him. In her desperation to save Lai, she had thrown away her only chance.

  ‘What is his name?’

  ‘Lai. Lai Dhar.’

  ‘And what would you give me in exchange for his life?’

  ‘I – I have nothing. Except …’ She could not meet his eyes. ‘Except myself.’

  ‘In spite of your vows?’ His voice had hardened. ‘Or do you trust that your Goddess will punish me if I take the virginity of her handmaiden?’

  ‘You are mocking me, lord.’

  ‘You think I’m a barbarian tyrant who takes pleasure in forcing young girls?’

  ‘N–no—’

  ‘Are you much alike, you and Lai?’

  ‘Very much, lord.’ Her voice sank to a whisper; was he playing with her, raising her hopes, only to dash them? How could she convince him? ‘Twins are revered on Ael Lahi; there is a legend …’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The Goddess bore mortal twins. The first man, the first woman. When they grew old and the time came for them to die, She changed them into moonmoths … and they flew up into the night sky and became twin stars.’

  ‘Can you see these stars in Perysse?’

  Laili went to the arched window and he followed, snuffing out the smirching flame in the silver lamp. As Laili gazed up into the inky skies, she sensed the warmth of his body as he drew closer to her, close … yet not touching.

  ‘The skies look so different here …’

  His hand rose to point; the fingers brushed against her cheek.

  ‘There. Are those your twins?’

  She nodded. ‘Ainai and Ainaili. But they shine more brightly over Ael Lahi.’

  He laughed suddenly and tousled her hair as he might have done with a child.

  ‘Here we know them by another name. The Warriors.’

  Night after night the Arkhan returned. And night after night he demanded nothing of Laili but her company. Sometimes he would touch her hair … and sometimes he would graze her hand, her arm with his fingers, a fleeting caress, nothing more.

  He must have known what he was doing, slowly wearing down her resistance. For she came to crave that touch, she came to long for his fingers to curl about her arm, to pull her close to him … She longed to taste the forbidden fruit that she had forsworn in the Grove before the Goddess’s shrine.

  That night, Sarilla’s tower was rimed with the first hard frost of the year.

  The Arkhan came late … but as Laili rose to greet him, she saw that his eyes gleamed as though he had some secret to impart.

  ‘I have found him.’

  ‘Who, lord?’ Laili asked, her heart pounding.

  ‘Your Lai. Your twin.’

  ‘And is he safe? Is he well?’

  ‘He is in my keeping.’ Enigmatic words; the lazy green eyes smiled tantalisingly at her.

  ‘But still a prisoner?’

  ‘No. He has been given the chance to earn his freedom.’

  ‘May I see him? Please?’

  ‘Not yet. Maybe in a little while …’

  ‘Thank you, thank you, lord.’ Laili dropped to her knees and, lifting the hem of Melmeth’s ivory robes, pressed them to her lips. She did not want him to see the tears that suddenly burned her eyes. And then she felt his hands on her shoulders, raising her to her feet. She shivered although the fire of pine-cones burned fiercely in the grate.

  ‘Are you cold, child?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Come here, then. I will keep you warm.’

  For the first time she let him put his arms around her, for the first time she rested against his breast and felt the strong beat of his heart beneath his ribs.

  ‘There, that’s better, isn’t it?’ His fingers stroked her hair … idly, it seemed. ‘You’re smiling … yet your eyes are always so sad, Laili. What troubles you?’

  ‘I … I miss Ael Lahi, lord. It is so cold here. I miss the warmth of the sun.’

  ‘If it would make you happy, I would bring back the sun. But I am only Arkhan, dear Laili … and there are some things even the Arkhan of the Seven Cantons cannot accomplish.’

  He placed one hand beneath her chin, tipping her face up to his, bending to kiss her. For one moment, terror gripped her, she felt she was suffocating beneath the pressure of his lips – and then the pleasure of his kiss trickled through her body, warm as molten honey, and she did not want him to stop.

  From the pine-cone fire it was but a few steps to the silk-hung bed.

  It was not as she had imagined. There was no tearing, rending pain … for he was as skilful as she was inexperienced. Yet at the moment when the need for release overcame him, he shuddered and cried out in her arms and she felt an extraordinary feeling of power … mingled with an inexplicable tenderness. The Arkhan of the Seven Cantons was a man like any other, a man with needs, weaknesses, frailties …

  And he needed her.

  Laili awoke at dawn to find herself alone in the silk-hung bed. But on the pillow beside her lay a long, slender parcel wrapped in a tissue as soft as gossamer. Within she found a rosewood flute, intricately carved and inlaid with ivory.

  On dry days, the brandslaves trained in the sheer-sided pit Lai had first seen when he entered the compound. The only access was from a damp and rank-smelling tunnel but, high above, a spiked perimeter grille round the rim permitted spectators to observe – and comment on – the exertions of the slaves. Sometimes Lai heard jeering laughter and, glancing up, saw tarkhastars lounging over the grille. Once or twice he had caught a glimpse of floating silks and a faint waft of perfume; shielding his eyes against the pale sun, he had seen women, richly dressed, avidly watching the sweat-streaked bodies as they strained and wrestled in the dirt.

  Today, the sun was a thin disc of pale gold, sheened in clouds; Lai shivered as he stripped down to the leathern kilt and padded cuirass worn for blade practice. As he emerged from the dank tunnel, shielding his eyes against the sun’s pale sheen, he thought he glimpsed a single figure high above, observing the slaves at their practice.

  ‘You’re late, Aelahim!’ Orthandor cracked his flail impatiently.

  Lai finished fastening the straps on the vambraces worn to strengthen the wrists and forearms, pulling the last one tight with his teeth. They afforded little protection against the bruising impact of the wooden blade: Orthandor believed his slaves should learn how to dodge and parry the hard way and Lai’s honeyed skin was already mottled with livid bruises.

  ‘Go find a partner!’ Orthandor tossed Lai one of the heavy blades.

  The cool air rang to the clatter of wooden blade-staves as Orthandor strode amongst the slaves, bellowing his instructions, seemingly oblivious of the whirling blades.

  Lai stared down at the wooden blade in his grip. It was a game now, an elaborate ritual dance of parry and thrust. But one day the wooden blade would be replaced with fine-honed steel. And the ritual would end in blood sacrifice—

  Wadhir swung a shattering blow against his blade. Taken off-guard, Lai flinched.

  ‘Scared?’ jeered Wadhir. He followed through with another heavy thrust. Lai jumped back out of the way.

  ‘Keep the rhythm, Wadhir!’ Orthandor growled. ‘How can you develop a technique if you wave that blade about like a windsail in a gale? Watch Dhar. He has control. Self-discipline.’

  ‘Control? Self-discipline?’ e
choed Wadhir between strokes. He stuck out his foot suddenly and Lai went sprawling in the dirt.

  ‘Clumsy footwork!’ Orthandor’s flail cracked about Lai’s ears as, winded, Lai stumbled to his feet only to fall again as Wadhir slyly tripped him up just behind Orthandor’s back. Lai’s blade went rolling away and as he made a grab for it, Wadhir neatly scuffed dirt in his face. Lai tried to rear up, only to find Wadhir’s foot on his neck, pushing him down—

  ‘Fight! Fight!’ The brandslaves began to chant. Yodelling jeers and catcalls egged Wadhir on.

  Anger rose in Lai’s throat, almost choking him. Blindly he reached for Wadhir’s ankle and tugged hard. Wadhir, caught off-balance, crashed down with a yell. Next moment, he was pummelling Lai with blows—

  ‘Break it up!’ Lai heard Orthandor’s flail whistle down across Wadhir’s shoulders.

  The chanting died to silence.

  ‘You have broken the first rule of the Tarkhas Memizhon – no brawling.’

  Orthandor stood glowering at them. A thin trail of blood trickled down Wadhir’s shoulder; the Tarrakh’s flail had drawn blood.

  Lai scrambled to his feet, brushing the clinging dirt from his body.

  ‘As punishment you will both clean out the bath house – latrines and all. I want every tile spotless. Not one speck of dirt on the floor or the walls. Get in there – and start swabbing!’

  As Lai followed Orthandor into the tunnel, he thought he saw the Tarrakh glance upwards and exchange a brief nod with the silent watcher. Dazzled by the pale sun, Lai caught a glimpse of white hair … as the watcher turned and walked away.

  The bath house floors were awash with dirty footprints; the night watch had just come off duty at Myn-Dhiel and had tramped down along paths muddy with fallen leaves.

  Lai got down on hands and knees to wipe the cubicle floors clean, wringing out the muddy water into a bucket.

  ‘Woman’s work,’ came Wadhir’s sour voice. Lai looked up to see him lounging complacently in the doorway. ‘Must be why you’re so good at it, pretty boy.’

  Lai took no notice and turned away to finish the last corner.

  ‘You’ve done a nice job there,’ Wadhir said. His foot kicked out casually, overturning the bucket and sending dirty water swilling all over the clean floor. ‘Oh. How careless of me. Now you’ll have to do the job again.’

  Lai stared at the running rivulets of dirty water. His first instinct was to shove the bucket over Wadhir’s head. Clenching his fists, he slowly stood up and walked over to the doorway where he had left his mop. Wadhir, smiling, placed himself deliberately in front of it.

  ‘Looking for something?’

  ‘My mop,’ Lai said sullenly.

  ‘He’s looking for his mop.’ Wadhir mimicked Lai’s Aelahim accent with cruel accuracy.

  ‘Then I’ll find another.’ Lai went to pass Wadhir but Wadhir pushed him back against the wall.

  He was trapped. And alone. It was quiet, so quiet, save for the hiss of the steam on the bubbling spring-water beyond the archway.

  ‘What will Maistre Orthandor say when he sees this?’ Wadhir began to slop the contents of his bucket around the cubicle; ripe horse manure, fresh from the stables.

  ‘Stop!’ cried Lai.

  Wadhir slammed him back against the tiled wall. Before Lai could push free, Wadhir had him pinned to the wall, the mop handle against his throat, pressing it into his windpipe.

  ‘Do I have to rub your face in this horseshit to make you understand?’ Wadhir hissed. ‘No one crosses me and gets away with it. No one does that to Wadhir. Now get down on your knees and say you’re sorry.’

  ‘No!’ whispered Lai. The mop handle pressed harder into his windpipe, forcing his head back until he felt his eyes begin to bulge from his skull.

  ‘On your knees!’

  The steam-sheened tiles swam before Lai’s eyes, dwindling to a red-jagged blur …

  Survival was all – he must break Wadhir’s throttlehold – or die.

  One knee smashed upwards in Wadhir’s groin; one hand, index finger and thumb flexed, jabbed with painful accuracy into Wadhir’s sour green eyes.

  The mop dropped to the slippery, shit-smeared floor as Wadhir doubled up.

  ‘Damn you!’ screamed Wadhir, blundering about, hands clutched to his streaming eyes.

  Lai was onto him, knocking him asprawl. The two brandslaves went rolling over and over across the bath house floor, Lai clinging grimly on.

  ‘Enough, Dhar.’ Orthandor’s great voice roared across the hiss of the waters. ‘That’s enough!’

  Lai felt the weight of a strong hand clamp onto his shoulder, tugging him up and off his tormentor. Two azure-clad tarkhastars had hold of Wadhir, restraining him.

  ‘This place stinks of horseshit.’ Orthandor sniffed the air, gazing around him at the fouled cubicle. ‘Dhar – you will make this cubicle so clean I could eat my evenmeal off the tiles. And as for you, Wadhir – as you’re so fond of manure, you can muck out the Tarkhas stables tonight. And every night for the next seven. If there’s the slightest hint of trouble – from either one of you – you’ll be stripped and lashed in front of the whole of the Tarkhas Memizhon.’

  As Lai limped away to fetch clean water, he noticed a figure uncurl itself from the shadows, caught the glint of sleek white hair and silver-grey eyes.

  And he saw a look pass between the stranger and the Tarrakh, an indecipherable look. He did not know what it meant. But he knew it concerned him.

  Lai sat in the hall trying to choke down firstmeal, dunking morsels of bread in warm malt ale to soften them.

  The anger had drained out of him overnight, leaving nothing but the bitter realisation that he had proved himself to be no different from the rest. The other brandslaves were avoiding him – whether out of respect or fear, he was not certain. Now he knew; he was as violent, as brutal as they – no, he was more violent, for they had not made a life’s vow to the Goddess to follow the ways of peace, they knew no better. When put to the test, he had fought as viciously as a crazed beast.

  ‘Dhar!’ a sonorous voice called across the din of the hall.

  ‘Maistre?’ Lai stood to attention. Wadhir looked up and Lai saw a slow smile spread across his face.

  ‘Outside! On the double!’

  Abandoning his meal, Lai followed Orthandor across the compound towards the Tarkhas Gate.

  This must be it. The moment they told him he was to be sent to the dye works.

  But Orthandor stopped outside a long, barrel-roofed hall beside the parade ground.

  ‘This is the armoury,’ Orthandor said brusquely. ‘Go in; Maistre Ymarys is waiting for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘To start your training. And he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. So, run!’

  CHAPTER 4

  A gallant, peacock-fine in watered azure silk, stood at the far end of the long armoury chamber. He appeared to be admiring his reflection in a small pocket-mirror. His long hair, silver-sheened in the mote-speckled sunlight, had been braided with strands of gold and blue glass beads.

  Lai hesitated.

  ‘I – I was looking for Maistre Ymarys—’

  ‘My name is Ymarys,’ the gallant said carelessly, slipping the mirror into his sleeve. ‘I am the Arkhan’s blademaster. The Razhirrakh.’

  ‘Y–you?’ Lai stared in disbelief into the blademaster’s face, seeing the kohl-rimmed eyes, the black-crescent beauty-spot, the rouged lips of a court exquisite.

  ‘And you are Lai Dhar.’ Ymarys walked around Lai, looking him up and down. ‘My new pupil.’

  With a languid flourish, Ymarys picked up a curve-bladed razhir where it stood propped against the wall and presented it to Lai, hilt first.

  ‘Let me see what you can do.’

  Lai slowly curled his fingers around the silk-bound hilt. It was still warm from the Razhirrakh’s hand.

  ‘No, no, you must balance the weight of the blade more evenly or your wrist will lose flexibility.’

&nbs
p; Ymarys slipped one hand beneath Lai’s wrist to support it as the other hand altered the position of Lai’s fingers, each one in turn.

  ‘Now try again. And remove your jacket. It’s hot work—’

  Lai stripped off his jacket and was rolling up his shirt sleeves when he sensed Ymarys move. He parried instinctively, feeling the shock of steel against tempered steel violently jar his arm from wrist to shoulder. He looked up astonished into the Razhirrakh’s painted face.

  ‘Good,’ said Ymarys, stepping back. ‘Your reactions are abnormally acute. But – as you said – you know nothing. You must perfect the basic blade-strokes and positions before you can progress.’

  There was something in the dismissive tone of his voice that stung Lai’s pride.

  ‘I can learn. Fast.’

  ‘Very well. You will continue basic training with Orthandor for seven days.’

  He sheathed his razhir and turned away; Lai hesitated a moment and then, realising that the lesson was at an end, began to back towards the door.

  ‘Here. After firstmeal. Eight days hence.’

  ‘After firstmeal.’

  Lai awoke before dawn from a dark dream-labyrinth, his mind and stomach churning with the old bitter, black anger.

  Why me, Goddess? Why?

  He had been in training with the Arkhan’s blademaster for weeks now; the hardest weeks of his life. Ymarys might look and behave like a court exquisite but beneath the silk Lai had discovered a core of steel. The sleek indolence of a pampered silvercat masked the ferocity of a vicious killer. The Razhirrakh demanded nothing less than perfection from his pupil.

  Now murky riverfogs clogged the dawn with dampness, filtering all brightness from the cold air. The last golden days of leaf-fall were past. Lai’s body ached for the balmy warmth of Ael Lahi, his soul ached to be free.

  As Lai entered the armoury, Ymarys acknowledged him with the usual languid nod of the head and resumed his limbering exercises; lean, supple body of a well-trained athlete, ripple of shoulder muscles beneath the loose linen …

  Lai peeled off his jacket and threw it down.