Moths to a Flame

by Sarah Ash

  Those words. He had heard her say them before. That night of snow and shadows he had pledged his allegiance to Melmeth. But that had only been a dream – hadn’t it? Dull stirring of fear, even as she pressed her body against his, even as her slender fingers slid beneath the waist of his loincloth, questing downwards, sending shivers of arousal through his whole body.

  ‘No,’ he said faintly. He wanted her. And yet he didn’t want her. There was something at once alluring and repellant about the way she was offering herself to him.

  ‘You say no,’ she said. Her fingers gave a mischievous little tug and the folds of the loincloth slipped to the floor. He was naked – naked and helplessly aroused. ‘But look at you. Your body says yes.’ He could see her ivory teeth when she smiled, small and sharp like those of a predatory animal.

  ‘Clodolë—’

  ‘Why so shy? You’re no virgin, surely!’

  And then she was kissing him and the dizzy spicescent flooded his senses. They were falling back onto the bed, caught up in the silken draperies, his hands were moving over her body and yes, her soft breasts were white, the whitebloom of apple blossom as he freed them from her tight-clinging dress, and yes, her pink nipples tasted blossomsweet to the tongue and yes, oh yes below that white, soft belly, tangled goldenhairs, thighs parting, inviting, drawing, sucking him into her throbbing darkcentre.

  In the Grove white petals are falling about his head, he is smothering in their sweet snowfall jasmine blossom, datura blossom, suffocating surfeit of sweetness—

  ‘No!’ Don’t let me suffocate, breathe, must breathe—

  ‘Yes,’ Clodolë had bound her long hair about him, entangling him in its wild golden tendrils as she writhed her body against his, ‘yes, Lai, yes yes yes—’

  Whirl of whitewings, clustering above him, ahh, all over him with their softfurred bodies

  He could not control himself. He came, whole body pulsing with the release, slumping back shuddering against her. Sated. Spent.

  Like the feast … Gorged on over-rich, over-spiced delicacies, he rolled over onto his back amidst the tangled sheets, staring up at the dizzying swirl of gilded stars whilst she traced patterns on his chest with one long diamond-studded fingernail.

  ‘You are very alike. You and your sister.’

  ‘What?’ He struggled to sit up.

  ‘Did you think to use me tonight, Lai? Did you?’ The sharp-honed nail dug into his tender flesh until he yelped. ‘To get to your beloved Laili?’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘I should punish you for that, Lai Dhar. But – you please me.’ She withdrew her nail from his chest and slowly licked the drop of bright blood from its tip. ‘There is a resistance in you which I find quite irresistible. If you continue to please me … then I will plead your case with Melmeth.’

  Lai looked up into her tawny eyes. She was smiling at him. How could he trust her? Twice she had played him false tonight.

  ‘You know where she is kept? You have seen her?’

  ‘Oh, Lai.’ She pushed him back onto the silken sheets. ‘You’re going to have to be nice to me, oh so very nice, if you want to learn such secrets.’

  CHAPTER 9

  The sun’s light kissed the gilded rooftops of the city of Perysse, shimmered on the rippling Yssil waters, warmed the earth. Deep in the corruption of the quay middens, something deep-buried sensed the warmth, awoke and stirred to life …

  Tarkenhorns brass-blaring noon watch.

  Lai groaned, raising his face from the mattress, hastily burying it again to muffle the sound. Bright daylight streaked the shutters. He reached blindly out for the jug of clear well-water he had left on the floor last night, lifting it, spilling it, swilling the water around his drink-fouled mouth, pouring it down his throat.

  Clodolë. Voracious, insatiable Clodolë. He lay back, remembering. The Arkhys of Ar-Khendye, flaunting her white body, shameless as a whore; already he hated her for the hold she had over him. Yet a glow of lust flickered through his body as he remembered what they had done together last night. Playing with fire. Memizhon fire. He was playing with the fire that could destroy him.

  The bath house was empty as he had hoped; at this hour most were at noonmeal or on duty. He wanted no questions – just solitude. Time to think.

  Tearing off his clothes, he dived straight into the cold bath, immersing himself in the freezing water, trying to rid his body of her cloying perfume. Not until he was shivering with cold did he haul himself out and towel his body vigorously until his skin glowed.

  Clodolë. Even now her scent seemed to cling to his skin, his hair—

  ‘Oh there you are, Lai. I’ve been scouring Myn-Dhiel for you. No one knew where you were. Although I could guess …’

  That nudging, knowing smile in Ymarys’s silky voice; Lai felt the blood burning his cheeks at the unspoken insinuation.

  ‘Don’t say a word, Ymarys. Promise me. Please promise me.’

  ‘Your secret is safe with me. But a word of caution …’

  ‘Caution?’

  ‘You made an enemy last night. A dangerous enemy.’

  ‘You mean Rho Jhan?’

  ‘You should have run him through whilst you had the chance,’ Ymarys said, silver eyes glinting maliciously through the steam drifting off the hot bath. ‘Do you think he’ll let this slur on his honour pass unavenged?’

  Lai slipped his arms into his blue jacket.

  ‘Tsk!’ Ymarys’s fingers briefly touched the worn linen, then withdrew in disgust. ‘This will never do.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘My dear Lai, you are the Arkhan’s Razhirrakh now. You must dress like a champion!’

  ‘But surely you are still—’

  ‘Unless you have other plans?’

  ‘What do you mean, Ymarys?’

  ‘It is customary for the victor of the rites to serve the Arkhan as Razhirrakh.’

  ‘But that is your position. I never intended—’

  ‘What precisely did you intend?’ Ymarys said softly.

  ‘To leave Perysse. To go home.’ Lai leaned his head against a marble pillar, gazing into the mists of steam, seeing the verdant shadow of a distant island far beyond.

  ‘And what is to stop you?’ Ymarys’s voice was so quiet now. Lai barely heard it.

  ‘One – who is still enslaved.’

  Ymarys glanced around and then slipped his arm through Lai’s.

  ‘My dear young friend. You are in need of distraction. And a good tailor. Come – let me show you the delights of Perysse.’

  ‘So … how does it feel to be free?’ Ymarys asked slyly as they walked unchallenged through the gates of the Tarkhas Memizhon.

  Lai took in a deep breath; the light spring air was tartly sweet with wafts of medlar blossom from a terraced garden nearby. It tasted like new wine, fresh and sharp in the mouth.

  ‘Heady. I can’t describe it.’

  At first Lai was overwhelmed by the noise, the turmoil of the city. He saw nothing but the magnificence of the public buildings, the marbled fountains, the tree-shaded squares.

  After a while he began to notice the street-children. Hiding behind stalls, in cobwebbed alleyways, they stared out at him, their eyes dark and wary.

  The day was passing. Ymarys made Lai sample clove sweetmeats from one stall, sizzling caraway pastries from another.

  Little hands reached up to him, begging, clawing, broken fingernails dark-encrusted with dirt.

  ‘Food, zhan. We’re hungry. Please.’

  ‘Take no notice.’ Ymarys walked on, brushing the clinging fingers from his clothes.

  ‘But they’re only children—’

  ‘If you feed one, a hundred more will pop up to take its place. Yes, there’s people starving in Perysse. What did you expect?’

  Lai looked at the pastry in his hand; he looked at the hollow-eyed face staring hungrily up at him.

  ‘Here,’ he said in a whisper. The child snatched the food and went scampering away.
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  A few paces on, Lai glanced behind him and saw a little trail of ragged children following in his wake.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Ymarys said wearily.

  Lai detached a handful of coins from his money-ring and flung them spinning into the air.

  ‘Must you be so profligate with your winnings? You’ll have nothing left for your new clothes.’

  ‘I don’t need new clothes.’

  ‘Nonsense! We’re only a few steps from the silk bazaar …’

  The silk bazaar was held every day near the river; here the traders from the cantons, from the red deserts of Enhirre, even from distant Djihan-Djihar, came to barter with the silk merchants of Perysse for their wares. It was the fast-beating heart of Ar-Khendye’s trade; fortunes changed hands for the exquisite Ar-Khendye silk was prized above all other fabrics. The dyers and weavers had passed down the jealously guarded secrets of their trade from generation to generation, perfecting their techniques until no other country could match their invention or their artistry.

  Ymarys stopped at the entrance to the covered bazaar beneath the brilliantly coloured swathes of silk that formed a billowing canopy above their heads, ivory marbelled with cornelian, jacinth and jet.

  ‘Zhan Ymarys. Illustre. Welcome.’ A merchant greeted Ymarys, beckoning him into his alcove. ‘See what treasures I have on show this week … this pale citrine is a perfect match for—’

  Ymarys waved one hand languidly.

  ‘Not for me. For my young friend here. Let’s see what exorbitantly over-priced stuffs you have to show us.’

  The merchant insisted on holding swathe after swathe of silk up against Lai.

  ‘The sapphire. It matches your eyes, zhan. Definitely the sapphire.’

  Lai shook his head impatiently. The silks were too gaudy, too bright. In his heart he felt nothing but emptiness. He was free … and she was not.

  He pointed towards a bale of sombre grey, so dark it was almost black.

  ‘That,’ he said.

  ‘Anyone would think you were in mourning!’ Ymarys said disapprovingly.

  ‘That’s the one I want.’

  Mourning. For Lai the adept. Lai the man of peace. Now he would wear the colour of winter, no-colour.

  ‘Maybe your esteemed friend would consider slashed sleeves, knots, ribbons in a contrasting shade, zhan Ymarys? Lavender, silver or scarlet …?’

  The merchant was ready to haggle over the price; but after two token disagreements, Lai agreed his third offer.

  The merchant’s slaveboy poured spiced qaffë for Ymarys and Lai whilst the merchant cut and wrapped the silk.

  ‘Perhaps this shade would suit you better, zhan. Lily-white for a lily-livered slave.’

  Lai choked on the qaffë and turned to see Rho Jhan mockingly holding out a length of ivory silk.

  ‘Though from what I hear, my lady Arkhys prefers to see you divested of all clothing.’

  Lai’s hand shot instinctively to his razhir hilt.

  ‘Say that again.’

  Lai felt Ymarys’s hand on his arm, checking him.

  ‘Easy, Lai.’

  ‘Come on, boy, that contest was only half-finished.’ Rho Jhan tweaked the golden sash about Lai’s waist. ‘Victor of the arena? You won on a technicality. That little scratch – that was nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ The red rage of the arena suddenly blazed in Lai’s brain; the razhir hissed from its sheath. ‘You call it nothing?’

  The merchant’s slaveboy let out a shrill scream of excitement at the sight of the drawn blade. ‘Fight! A fight!’

  ‘A year’s too long to wait till next Mithiel’s Day.’ Rho Jhan was smiling at him as he drew his razhir, that insolent, contemptuous smile. ‘Let’s finish it here.’

  ‘Sheath your swords!’ Ymarys flung himself between them, suddenly lithe, charged, all languor dissipated.

  Lai glanced around, aware that the bustle of the bazaar had hushed and everyone was staring at him.

  ‘Lai!’ Ymarys hissed.

  Ymarys was still his maistre; Lai slowly lowered his blade.

  ‘Fighting in a public place?’ Ymarys glared at Rho Jhan. ‘You know the penalty.’

  Rho Jhan still held his razhir at Ymarys’s breast; Ymarys stared coolly back at him.

  ‘Yes. Run me through here – unarmed – in front of witnesses. There’s no second reprieve from the donjon.’

  Rho Jhan gave a little shrug and with a flourish, sheathed his razhir. But the while he kept his eyes fixed on Lai’s over Ymarys’s shoulder.

  ‘Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But I’ll be looking out for you, Aelahim. So be on your guard. I’ll be there when you least expect me. You can depend on that.’ He turned on his heel and walked out.

  Seeing the entertainment was at an end, the merchants and customers turned back to their business and the haggling began again. Lai sank down on a bale of material.

  ‘What’s happened to me?’ He looked at his hands; they were sweaty and trembling. ‘I would have spitted him. Without a thought. What have I become?’

  ‘A razhirrakh.’

  ‘But I thought now that it was all over—’

  ‘You can never lose that instinct now. You can’t shrug it off.’

  ‘Once a killer, always a killer,’ Lai whispered. He let his head sink into his hands, trying to block out the babble of the bazaar. He had become the very thing he abhorred.

  Dark eyes stared wildly into his above the slashing blades, seeing nothing there but oblivion …

  How could he ever hope to be received back into the Grove? He had blood on his hands.

  As if from far, very far away he heard Ymarys’s voice.

  ‘This dragging tristesse. It always follows Mithiel’s Day. First the elation – your blood burns, your head dins with the shouts of the crowd. Then comes the fall. The despair. There’s no cure only diversion.’

  Lai pushed past Ymarys and went running out of the bazaar, hurtling headlong down the cobbled lanes, not caring where he went, just running, running until he could run no more and collapsed, gulping for breath, in a dark cul-de-sac deep in the worm-eaten core of the street marshes.

  He stumbled aimlessly on until he heard the lapping ripple of the river Yssil, smelt the unmistakable odour of the dye works.

  Drawn against his will, he found himself outside the works, staring through the bars of the high perimeter fence.

  The smell from the dye vats almost choked him; foul, leaving an acrid burn at the back of the throat. Clouds of smoke boiled over the top of the nearest vat; the rags of the slaves toiling to stir the noisome brew were plastered to their bodies with the steam.

  Lai watched, his eyes stinging, though whether with the fumes from the vats or with tears of rage, he neither knew nor cared.

  This was the blood that fuelled the fast-beating heart of Perysse; the human misery on which the city had grown rich and renowned. Those gorgeous bazaar silks might as well have been dyed in the blood of the dye works slaves.

  ‘Water, zhan, for the love of Mithiel—’ A slave, voice cracked with the heat, stumbled to his knees, hands outstretched to Lai. Lai could see the festering sores the shackles had rubbed on his emaciated legs; he could remember only too well the grinding pain of the shackles he had borne in the donjon before—

  Water. Helplessly, he looked around, seeing no sign of a water butt or fountain.

  ‘Get back to work!’ An overseer appeared, whip in hand. The slave cringed away, a cowed dog, retreating on hands and knees.

  ‘That man is thirsty!’ Lai cried.

  The overseer came sauntering up to the grille.

  ‘So, what’s it to you?’

  Lai drew out his money ring and pulled off a handful of eniths.

  ‘Give him water.’

  ‘Very generous,’ said the overseer, taking the coins and pocketing them. He then turned and went sauntering away, ignoring the slave.

  ‘Hey!’ Lai cried, rattling the bars. ‘Give that man a drink!�
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  ‘What business is it of yours? These slaves are convicted criminals. Little better than animals. They’ll get fed and watered. When I say.’

  He raised the whip and brought it stinging down over the slave’s back; Lai heard the man gasp with the pain. ‘That’s for stepping out of line.’ The overseer looked back at Lai. ‘I don’t like interfering do-gooders. Be off – or he’ll get another dose.’

  Lai stared back, speechless. Then he struck the bars with his hands and turned, stalking away, his brain singing with anger. Corrupt, cruel city – the sooner he and Laili were away from it, the better.

  The twilit quay was empty; somewhere in a warehouse behind him rats piped a thin, high nocturne. And … in the distance a burst of rowdy music: drunken voices raised, droning over a wheezing hurdy-gurdy and jangling fiddle.

  Laili.

  No one turned a head as he entered the wineshop. No one recognised him. The taproom was crowded: tattooed sailors off the silk barges; whores tantalisingly clad in rainbow gauzes of scarlet, violet and viridian … The wine was cheap, sharp and strong, tart as unripe berries on the tongue. It was a penance to drink it.

  Laili walked the twilit confines of Sarilla’s courtyard garden, up and down, up and down, a caged bird, constantly prowling the limits of its enclosure.

  She had rehearsed and re-rehearsed her speech to Melmeth; now she murmured it through once more under her breath.

  ‘My lord. You must forgive me – but I cannot keep silent any longer. You believe yourself to be a devout man. And yet you allow these atrocities to continue—’ Atrocities. She bit her lip. The word was strong. Yet there was nothing else to describe what she had witnessed in the arena.

  Did she dare to confront him? Her position was still so precarious. Lai was free, she had seen him receive his token of freedom. But an all-powerful Arkhan, if angered, might revoke that gift. Melmeth was so unpredictable, sometimes a vulnerable, weary man whom she loved – and at other times so cold and unapproachable, she wondered if she truly knew him at all.

  ‘You look so sad.’

  She started. He was watching her from the archway. And she had not even heard him approach. He came towards her across the courtyard, his robes brushing against the sweet herbs, enfolding her in his arms. She let him embrace her, steeling herself.