by Sarah Ash
The crowd fell silent as the two men stalked around the arena awhile with measured tread, each warily eyeing each other.
Lai took note of Rho Jhan’s air of self-assurance, the calculating glint in his hawk-grey eyes. His ears and nostrils had been pierced with thin golden rings, Enhirran-fashion; his straight black hair had been shaved from the sides of his skull, the aggressively spiked top-knot had been dyed crimson and the rest fell in stiff black braids to his blue-tattooed shoulders. An ivory ribbon, oddly incongruous, fluttered from his crimson headband; Clodolë’s favour …?
What is he up to, this Enhirran, biding his time – or waiting for me to make the first mistake?
Lai glimpsed a twitch of shadow out of the corner of his eye.
He whipped about, his razhir wheeling, whirling, to defend himself. Metal bit deep into thrusting metal, firesparks fizzed into the air and with all his strength, Lai forced Rho Jhan’s blade aside.
Instantly Rho Jhan came back at Lai, driving him almost to his knees with his vicious blade-strokes, battering him down, down, down—
Lai lost his footing and thudded headlong onto the arena floor.
Rho Jhan’s blade plunged deep into the sand a nail’s breadth from Lai’s face even as he rolled away, scrambling to his feet, spitting out a mouthful of dust and grit.
Dust in my eye – ahh, curse it – watering – I can’t see, can’t see—
The blade plunged again, almost spitting him. Lai’s eyes wept gritwater as he slid clear.
No time to think. No time to react. No time even to—
Rho Jhan was ready for him and the glint of his white teeth, bared in a grin, taunted Lai as he backed away through the gusting sulphur smoke.
He’s going to win. He’s going to break my guard. And he knows it.
Lai stepped back, stumbled and fell to one knee.
He would die here on the white sand, twitch out the last of his life in the knowledge that Laili would never be free, that she would end her days a slave in Myn-Dhiel, trapped in the golden cage—
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘NO!’
He beat off the incoming thrust, curling his knees tight to his chest as he tumbled away across the sand, making the older man run to keep up with him.
Rho Jhan’s breath was coming faster now. Lai drew him on, ever on, keeping him moving, sensing that he was beginning to tire.
‘Rho Jhan!’ Lai bellowed across the arena.
Lai lunged. Rho Jhan parried but Lai could see his lips were drawn back in an exhausted snarl.
The frenzied shouting of the crowd had cohered into a regular rhythmic chant as they urged their champions to victory. Stamping feet dinned into Lai’s ears; voices calling a name – his name – throbbed like a fever pulse in his head.
‘Dhar! Dhar! Dhar! Dhar!’
He must not lose the duel now; even though the sweat was dripping into his eyes, half-blinding him, he struck again and again at Rho Jhan in wild battle-frenzy, whipping the crowd into such an ecstasy of excitement that at the moment he beat through Rho Jhan’s guard, cutting open a jagged slash above his right breast, the whole arena seemed to erupt into hysterical cheering.
‘Y’ll-th’ai!‘ Lai cried, his razhir tip at Rho Jhan’s throat. ‘Y’ll-th’ai!‘
For a moment Lai wondered if Rho Jhan would speak the traditional words of surrender or spit in his face.
But the words came, slowly, pronounced with lingering disgust, as if they had a foul taste.
‘Y’ll-m’ai, Aelahim. I yield.’
Lai let the razhir tip drop. He hardly heard the crowd’s exultation as he bent his head, exhaustedly wiping the saltsweat from his eyes with his forearm.
Melmeth rose to his feet, hand poised to cast the deathstones. But Clodolë was beside him, speaking urgent words, touching his arm, his face. Melmeth frowned. Then he raised one hand for silence.
‘There has been blood spilt enough tonight. The Arkhys begs clemency for her champion. And I grant it. Rho Jhan – your life is spared.’
The chanting had begun again and it was still Lai’s name they were chanting, raising a rowdy paean in the honour of Memizhon and Lai Dhar of Ael Lahi.
‘You are their champion now,’ Ymarys said. ‘Go and receive your prize from the Arkhan – God knows, you’ve earned it.’
Head ringing from the chanting, Lai began to walk towards the Arkhan’s dais; at one moment he hesitated, looking back towards Ymarys, exhaustion glistening in his tear-blurred eyes.
‘Go on,’ Ymarys said.
The women of Perysse came scrambling, shrieking, shrilling like starlings to lean over the barriers, fighting to touch Lai’s hair, his body, his clothes.
‘We love you, Lai Dhar!’
‘Kiss me!’
‘Touch me! Touch me!’
Lai slowly climbed the dais steps until he stood before the Arkhan.
‘Listen to the crowd!’ Melmeth said. He was evidently delighted. Clodolë said nothing, chewing at a fingernail. ‘Perysse has a new idol tonight. The winner’s sash, Khaldar.’
The boy came forwards bearing the golden sash over his smooth, dark-skinned arms. As he presented it to the Arkhan, Melmeth let his hand drift over the glossy head, a gesture at once casual yet proprietary. Lai, who had knelt at the Arkhan’s feet, looked up to see Clodolë’s amber-tawny eyes staring provocatively into his.
Hastily he bowed his head and the Arkhan draped the winner’s gold-embroidered sash about his body. Melmeth then raised him to his feet and presented him to the crowd.
‘I declare the new champion of the rites to be Lai Dhar.’ Khaldar brought Melmeth an enamelled dye-pot and, dipping in an ebony stick, the Arkhan made the ritual mark of freedom on Lai’s forehead, a spot of indelible scarlet in the heart of the blue slave brand. ‘Lai Dhar– you leave this dais a free man!’
‘Well done, lad, well done!’ Orthandor slapped him on the back as the cheering began again. ‘Wave to them, acknowledge them! Tonight they adore you! Tomorrow they’ll be too hungover to remember who won.’
But Lai had turned back to the Arkhan, his eyes searching the dais and tiered seats behind.
‘Where is she?’
‘She?’ Melmeth’s face clouded over.
‘I thought she would be here. You – you said—’
Clodolë was watching them both intently.
‘Later,’ Melmeth said brusquely.
‘But–I thought—’
‘You win this year, Lord Arkhan!’ Jhafir bowed to the Arkhan, one hand on his heart. ‘Such handsome horses. It breaks my heart to part with them. But a wager’s a wager.’ He and Melmeth began to walk towards the archway together. Lai, snubbed, stood helplessly watching them. ‘I’ll have my grooms bring them to Myn-Dhiel at dawn …’
Later. When was later?
Clodolë rose and followed the Arkhan. But at the edge of the dais, she glanced back at Lai and beckoned languidly.
‘Come, zhan Razhirrakh.’
‘Me?’
‘You are expected at Myn-Dhiel. Didn’t Ymarys warn you? The champion of the rites is always guest of honour at the Arkhan’s feast.’
‘Shouldn’t I bathe first? And change?’
‘Certainly not. My dhamzels like the champion to attend reeking of combat,’ she said with a lubricious little smile. ‘It sharpens their appetites.’
CHAPTER 8
Laili stood alone at her open window, listening to the distant babble of voices drifting up from the hall below. The feast of Mithiel. To which, it seemed, the whole palace – except Laili – had been invited. It was not seemly, Sarilla told her, for a concubine to appear at an official function. Court protocol did not permit it.
The new moon rode high in the sky, a silvered chariot.
Laili touched her forehead, her breast in reverence, whispering the words of salutation.
‘Welcome, Goddess, I greet you …’
Suddenly she ran back into the room and seized the rosewood flute Melmeth had given her.
Th
ey were all feasting, no one would hear her.
She took a breath, then raised the flute to her lips.
Her first hesitant notes were dry as windblown cinders.
Ashes drift like snow across the charred stumps of the burned Grove.
And then, unbidden, the melody of the invocation returned to her. The silver thread spun outwards, filaments of sound, tendrilling down over the citadel, enwebbing the night city in a translucent cocoon.
Flutter of snow-wings … the dry ashes stir to life …
Laili opened her eyes wide.
Moonmoths?
The music faltered as her fingers ceased to move. She gazed up at the moon’s pale face.
Sobs, painful and choking, tore at her throat.
Never to see the moonmoths again, never to hear their song, never again—
The trance was broken, the soundweb torn to tatters.
The flute dropped to the floor.
The palace of Myn-Dhiel was alight with sweet-burning lucernae to celebrate the victory; fragrant smoke drifted through the corridors and pearlescent flames flickered in the high-vaulted hall where the feast was to take place.
A succession of laden platters passed before Lai’s dazzled eyes, piled with enough food to feed his village in Ael Lahi for a year: stuffed carp and pike; spit-roast wild duck and pheasant; mountains of spiced rice liberally sprinkled with pine kernels and apricots; tender steamed dumplings with plum sauce …
Toasts were drunk to the Arkhan, to the House of Memizhon and then to Lai, the Razhirrakh. Lai hardly heard the cheers, the compliments, the praises. His eyes misted with tears as he stood at Melmeth’s side; he could hardly believe that he was free. Free to go home. He longed for the ceremony to end so that he could be reunited with Laili. He scanned the crowded hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of her fire-bright hair … but there was no sign of her amongst the painted exquisites and perfumed dhamzels.
‘Zhan,’ he began when Melmeth turned to him. ‘You have been most generous to me. But there is still one thing else—’
Melmeth’s russet brows contracted in a slight frown.
‘I trust, Lai, that you are not going to raise matters more suited to an official audience than a feast.’
‘But we had a bargain, zhan. I have kept my part.’
‘Of course we have a bargain! Are you suggesting the Arkhan does not keep his word? You are a free man. You are pardoned of your crime.’
‘N–no, zhan, I merely—’
‘Good.’ Melmeth smiled at Lai, a smile utterly without warmth. ‘You must be patient a little longer.’ He pressed a money ring heavy with golden eniths into Lai’s hand.
Orthandor cried out, ‘Look how generously the Arkhan rewards his new champion! A fortune in gold!’
Everyone in the hall, from servitors to Mhaell lords, turned to look at Lai, applauding. The coveted moment of privacy was gone; Lai bowed his head, seemingly to acknowledge the applause, but also to conceal the working fury in his face. He began to suspect a trick. He had been gulled. Laili was not to be set free.
A servitor silently refilled his goblet with wine; Lai swallowed it down as if it had been water, staring resentfully over the rim at the perfumed exquisites of Myn-Dhiel. And one face suddenly caught his attention; a Mhaell lady, plying her way through the throng like a barque in full sail, making straight for Ymarys.
The Torella Sarilla.
As he watched, he saw her kiss Ymarys on both cheeks. So they knew each other! If he could just reach her, he could confront her, demand, ‘Where is my sister? Why won’t you let her go free?’
But as he moved away from the Arkhan’s table, a hand touched his shoulder, a hand with soft fingertips that sent a tingling shiver through his flesh.
He turned to see the Arkhys Clodolë at his side.
‘Where are you going, Lai? Not leaving already? You are the guest of honour tonight.’
‘You’re very kind—’ He tried to back away but she took hold of him by the arm.
‘Now don’t be so self-effacing. The women in this hall are eyeing us jealously; they are all longing for a chance to speak to you.’
It would have been more than discourteous to try to escape; Lai cast one last lingering look over his shoulder towards Ymarys.
‘Perhaps I shall keep you to myself. Mmm, yes,’ and she ran a hand along his arm, gently pulling him to sit next to her, ‘I think I shall for a little. I want to know more about you, Lai Dhar.’
‘There’s little to tell.’ Lai’s skin still prickled at her touch, hot then cold, fever-chills.
She laughed. ‘Oh, but there is. You’re an Aelahim. I find that fascinating.’
He was out of his depths. One moment she was scheming against him with poisoned favours so that her lover, Rho Jhan, could win the rites. The next, she was telling him he was fascinating, the words forming so seductively on her moist, mulberried lips.
‘You and I could find much to say to each other, Lai.’
Lai glanced unhappily towards Melmeth. Why did the Arkhan tolerate his consort’s flagrant infidelities? But Melmeth was talking to Orthandor, his arm around Khaldar’s waist, hand straying idly downwards to rest on the boy’s smooth-skinned thigh.
‘You have not kissed my hand, zhan Razhirrakh.’ Clodolë, brown eyes narrowed, had missed nothing.
‘I – I did not dare—’
The slender fingers brushed across his cheek, his lips.
‘Dare,’ she whispered. Her breath was spice-sweet, more intoxicating than wine …
Perhaps if he came to know her better, he could gain information from her, information about Laili. She seemed willing enough at this very moment.
He took her hand and pressed his lips to her fingers, and then her palm, her wrist …
‘My warrior!’ Sarilla came up to Ymarys in a cloud of scented silks and kissed him with exaggerated affectation on both cheeks. ‘My poor wounded hero.’ She stroked the crescent scar.
‘Sarilla, please.’ Ymarys gently but firmly removed her hands from his face, kissing the tips of her fingers.
‘But isn’t this what you wanted? A new Razhirrakh to take your place? There’s nothing binding you to the House of Memizhon now, you’re free.’
‘Free!’ Ymarys let out a disdainful laugh. ‘Free to do precisely what, Torella?’
She hesitated.
‘Surely you can’t have forgotten our little … understanding.’
‘We have an understanding?’
‘But you promised.’ Her exclamation was so piercing that several guests nearby turned around to stare. Instantly she raised her fan and continued in a whisper. ‘We can retire to my demesne in Mynezhil. It’s true that the kastel is in need of some considerable refurbishment … but with your winnings—’
‘Retire! At your stage of life, Torella, retirement may be all there is left to contemplate. But I—’
‘Cruel! That was needlessly cruel!’ she whispered. She seized a goblet of wine from the table and took several shuddering gulps. Ymarys noticed that her hand shook.
‘Torella—’ His fingers closed around hers, trying to prise the goblet from her hand.
‘To mock my age. After all we have shared, all I have lavished upon you—There was a time you were not too proud to be seen with this raddled old harridan.’
‘I never said you were—’
‘What need of words? Your eyes say it all.’ She drained the goblet down and beckoned a servitor over to refill it.
‘Enough, Sarilla.’ Ymarys took the goblet from her hand and waved the servitor away. ‘I think you’ve had enough.’
‘Yes, I’ve had enough. Enough of men’s empty promises! Enough of being Melmeth’s bawd. Enough of Myn-Dhiel—’ She broke off.
‘Well now, will you look at that?’
Ymarys turned in time to see Lai slip out of the hall after Clodolë.
‘Did you see?’
‘I saw well enough,’ he said crisply.
‘Ohh! So that’s the w
ay the wind blows, is it?’
‘Sarilla, that’s absurd.’
‘I should have guessed. He’s pretty enough, I grant you. But what did you expect?’
Ymarys winced.
‘I don’t mind. You know I don’t mind.’ Her tone had become plaintive, tears brimming over, staining her rouged cheeks. ‘I’ve never minded, have I? Those gorgeous dark-eyed boys … We’ve always understood each other so well, Ymarys. That’s why we need each other.’
‘Where are we?’ Lai whispered.
‘Hush.’ Clodolë had brought him along one of the hidden passages within Myn-Dhiel, a claustrophobic, winding tunnel, sticky with spiderwebs.
Beyond lay a dimly lit bedchamber; its viridian ceiling was spangled with gilded stars.
‘We will not be disturbed here,’ she said, pulling him into the room by the hand.
‘B–but the Arkhan—’
‘Relax, Lai. Sit down.’ She pressed him gently down onto the couch. Her fingers kneaded his neck, his shoulders. ‘All knotted up! You’re so tense!’
Lai glanced uneasily about him, still fearing some trap, some deceit.
‘Wine?’
He shook his head.
‘What is troubling you?’ She stroked his shoulder. ‘Do you think I devour young tarkhastars for firstmeal?’
Devour. He wished she had used some other word.
‘Then what about Rho Jhan?’
The tawny eyes narrowed again, cat-slits in the dusky light.
‘I have no interest in losers, Lai.’ That spice-scent again, wafting from her ambergold hair, so sweet, so tantalisingly evocative of … of …
She was unpinning her hair from its jewelled fillet, letting it tumble from the confining pins about her shoulders, rivulet after rivulet of molten gold. His hand lifted against his will, reaching out, wanting to touch—
‘Don’t deny you find me tempting,’ she said, laughing quietly, almost under her breath. ‘Come now, Lai, surely you will not refuse me? How many men can say they have pleasured the Arkhys of Ar-Khendye?’
Dumbly he shook his head. Her spicescent was irresistible, each breath that he took of it seemed only to sharpen his desire for her, to dull all earlier misgivings.
‘You’re bound to the House of Memizhon? Well then, you are bound to me as much as to my consort …’ She wound her arms around his neck.
