by Sarah Ash
‘Edicts, then,’ he heard himself saying. ‘See to it, Jhafir.’
Without moonlight Melmeth might have lost his way in the dark groves of the gardens, but the moon hung over the night-tranced city, a pale globe, mothwhite in the starry sky.
At the top of the hill, Melmeth paused. Perysse lay far below him, a maze of winding alleys, tottering chimneys and ramshackle roofs. He was so high, he felt he could run to the edge and take wing, soaring like a hawk above the dreaming city.
Laili. If only you were still here. If only we could face this together, if only …
He made his way to Sulirrian’s gazebo. Here he would not be disturbed.
With shaking fingers he removed the nacred pill-box from his sleeve. Azhrel had warned him of the risks. But what else could he do? He was so sure that the answer lay within this pearl-inlaid box.
It had to be done.
‘In the dust-trance,’ Laili had said, ‘the Goddess speaks to the Elders.’
He prised open the lid and saw the grains of precious boskh shimmering in the moonlight.
‘Goddess of the Grove. Speak to me.’ If Ophar heard him commit this sacrilege … ‘Tell me what I must do. Guide me.’
Sparkling granules fizzed acid-sweet on his tongue. The air burned dazzling white, searing his skull; he gasped aloud.
Power went coursing through his veins; he shuddered, then stood tall, feeling the healing fire scorching his fingertips. Looking at his hands he saw – he was sure he saw – a whiteglow radiating from his fingers.
‘Sweet Goddess,’ he whispered, dropping to his knees. ‘Is this your doing?’ He waited for her answer. But the night was silent … and in the silence he heard only the rushing pulse of his own blood.
He tipped the last grains of boskh into his mouth. Ahh … that pure, white burn … A serene, dreaming calm lapped over him, lulled him like a pale drifttide … It was true, it must be so. She had given this gift to him, this gift of healing. She had shown him his purpose in life, his true path. At last his life had meaning. Relevance.
‘Yes,’ he said, quietly exultant. ‘I will do it. I will heal them all, the sick, the plague-ridden. Let them come to me. To Melmeth the Healer.’
No one seemed to be about in the Torella’s apartments – no one challenged Azhrel as he slipped in and began to climb the attic stair. Where had they all gone?
Miu lay without moving, beneath fine drifts of long hair, so fair it seemed almost white. He was sure – certain sure – that the last time he had seen her, her hair had still been plain mouse-brown. He reached for her wrist – and saw that her eyes were open.
‘Miu – can you hear me?’ he asked.
There was not even a tremor of response. Her pulse, her breathing, everything had slowed – she slept the deep sleep of the narcoleptic, of the comatose.
He sat down beside her and took out his notebook, scribbling in his observations with a stump of pencil, noting the day, the time.
What exactly am I witnessing here? When she wakes – if she wakes – what will emerge from this soft-spun chrysalis of hair? And has this bizarre transformation been precipitated by ingestion of the dust?
Fhedryn draped the heavy ceremonial robes over Melmeth’s shoulders and secured them with chains of antique gold. Bodyslaves combed his hair about his shoulders and sprinkled it with cool rose-scented water. He let them minister to him, scarcely noticing what they did.
‘Ophar is here, my lord Arkhan, and—’ Fhedryn began to announce but the High Priest swept past him, sending the bodyslaves scurrying out of the chamber.
‘What is this I hear, my lord? A healing?’
‘You said I should not neglect my people.’ Melmeth smiled at Ophar.
‘But you have never conducted a healing in your life! Is it wise that you should start now – and at such a volatile time?’
‘I can think of no better time,’ Melmeth said serenely.
‘But you have not fasted, you have not been ritually cleansed in the hot springs, you have not spent the night-shrine vigil customary in these matters.’
‘These are not necessary, Ophar.’
‘Are you feverish, my lord?’ Ophar drew nearer and stared up into his face. ‘Your eyes … seem to glitter. Let me postpone this ceremony until you are more … yourself.’
‘It must be now!’ Melmeth said with sudden fury.
‘Now? Why is now such an auspicious moment?’
Silvervoice …
Melmeth put one hand to his brow; for a moment the room seemed to sway giddily about him.
‘The power still burns in my blood. I can feel it, tingling at the tips of my fingers. You said that you could see the glitter in my eyes.’
‘And if the healing should fail?’ Ophar said gratingly.
The silvery boskh-voice sang on in Melmeth’s ears, lulling away all worries, all doubts.
‘I will not fail,’ he said dreamily.
They must have forgotten her. From the thick dust still drifting across the stairs and the floor of the garret, it was obvious to Azhrel that he was the only person who had been here. All for the best, maybe …
‘Miu,’ he said softly.
This time he was certain he saw her stir. He drew closer, his heart pounding with sudden excitement. If she reacted to the sound of his voice, she must be close to waking. And when she awoke, he would be the first to witness, the first to record this extraordinary metamorphosis.
Moonlight powdered the dusty threads of her transparent shroud. She seemed so weirdly beautiful, lying there swathed in the white filaments of her hair. From the skinny body of a drab little kitchen slave, a new creature was emerging, white, virginal – Changed.
* * * * *
The arena was full. But no raucous shouts bruised the mild summer night; no rowdy apprentices of rival clans hurled cheerful abuse at each other. Instead a silent, subdued crowd had filed in to fill the tiered seats. Some had carried their sick on improvised stretchers or in palanquins. The Zhudiciar had insisted that medicinal herbs be burnt to cleanse the air from the taint of infection; blue drifts of aromatic smoke wafted across the sand.
The moon rose high in the sky. Melmeth watched from the dais as his tarkhastars carefully carried Khaldar to a shaded plinth.
‘You’re certain you wish to continue with this?’ Jhafir murmured.
‘Yes,’ said Melmeth. ‘Oh yes.’ He clicked open the stone of his ruby ring and tipped the last of the boskh into his palm. Ahh … the silversweet scent of it, clear as moonwater …
Swiftly he tipped it onto his tongue and closed his eyes, shuddering as the drug melted into starcrystals of sensation in his mouth. Flares of whitelight burst against his closed lids.
‘My lord,’ came Jhafir’s voice as if from far away, ‘they are ready for you.’
‘Lord Melmeth … help us, Lord Melmeth, help us …’
They were calling his name. They needed him. And he would go to them and he would heal them.
Melmeth felt himself moving forwards across the sand, cloaked in a pale aura of moonshine. He passed by the sick where they lay at the rim of the arena, gliding his hand across their pallid brows, touching their trembling fingers as they tugged avidly at his sleeves, his hem. And it seemed as if Her phosphorescent light glimmered on his fingertips, passing through him into their fevered bodies. Such a transcendent sense of peace enwreathed him, such a pale, drifting calm … he was the vessel of the Goddess, he was Her representative, through him Her healing light radiated.
Everywhere he noticed the same, strange tracery on the plague victims’ skins that Khaldar bore, the same raised, discoloured lines and ridges …
Beside him, Jhafir drew his scarf up over his mouth and nostrils, muttering irritably about danger of infection.
But it didn’t matter. He was safe. The boskh sparkled in his bloodstream, protecting him. Couldn’t they see how it glowed on the tips of his fingers? Didn’t they know he was Her Chosen One?
He reached the central plinth wh
ere Khaldar lay and, placing his hands gently on the boy’s forehead, gazed up into the heavens, full into the bright face of the full moon.
So bright the Goddess’s face that he could not look at Her; Her silver stare burned through his clutched hands, silverfire penetrating his clenched lids, searing away his sight—
Melmeth gave a cry, throwing up his arms to protect his eyes. He dropped to his knees in the sand.
‘Is this part of the performance?’ Jhafir asked wryly. And then when the Arkhan did not get up, he started forwards to help him.
‘Dark,’ Melmeth whispered. ‘All dark.’
‘My lord?’
‘Jhafir—’ Melmeth’s hands scrabbled at his arm, clutching at him as he tried to struggle to his feet. ‘Jhafir – I can’t see—’
Jhafir swore under his breath.
‘Azhrel! Call for Dr Azhrel!’
A murmur of concern began amongst the nearest bystanders.
‘My lord, please take my arm,’ Jhafir said softly. ‘Please try to act as if nothing were wrong.’
‘What’s the matter with his eyes?’ demanded a woman.
Jhafir attempted to lead Melmeth away but after a faltering step or two, Melmeth sagged to his knees again.
‘Please, zhan,’ Jhafir begged, between gritted teeth. Two of the Tarkhas Memizhon came running up to help him. They dragged Melmeth to his feet, supporting him between them.
‘He’s blind!’ someone screamed. ‘Look at his eyes!’
‘Blind,’ Melmeth repeated in a mazed voice. ‘Blind.’
The word went rippling around the hitherto silent crowd. Some began to heckle; cries of ‘Fake!’ rang out above the rising din.
‘Get him out of here!’ said Jhafir, backing towards Sarafin’s Gate. ‘Into the tunnels. Rho Jhan!’
Rho Jhan came hurrying across the sand, crimson-clad tarkhastars following close on his heels.
‘Calm them down, for Mithiel’s sake!’ Jhafir said. ‘Or we’ll have a full-scale riot on our hands! And where’s Dr Azhrel when he’s needed?’
‘Follow me,’ Ophar said briskly to the tarkhastars supporting the Arkhan.
‘People of Perysse!’ Jhafir raised his arms to the crowd. ‘Your Arkhan has been overcome by the emotion of the situation—’
A loud jeer of derision drowned his words and a bottle crashed into the sand a handspan from where he was standing, staining his crimson robes with splatters of liquid. Other missiles followed, a hail of stones and medicine bottles.
‘Go with the Arkhan!’ Rho Jhan hurried the Zhudiciar towards Sarafin’s Gate, shielding him with his drawn blade.
The tarkhastars heaved shut the fang-toothed gate; the clang of iron resonated like thunder behind them. At a wave of Rho Jhan’s hand more tarkhastars came running in, wielding pikes and halberds. A bottle hurled into the arena hit one tarkhastar; he staggered and went down with a bloodied head.
The shouting could still be heard within the musty damp of the Memizhon tunnels. Ophar and Jhafir stopped for breath; Melmeth slid slowly downwards until his forehead rested against his buckled knees.
‘Rho Jhan and his men will contain them,’ Jhafir said, distractedly dabbing at the stains on his robes. He did not sound over-confident.
‘And if they decide to go howling up the hill to Myn-Dhiel?’
Jhafir bent down beside Melmeth.
‘My lord, you’ve heard what Ophar says. You must give the word to defend the citadel. Call out the Tarkhas Memizhon.’
Melmeth let out a whimper.
‘A show of strength will soon cool these hot tempers.’
Melmeth reluctantly nodded his head.
‘Go on ahead.’ Jhafir signalled with one hand to the tarkhastars; they sped away into the darkness of the tunnel.
‘And now you, my lord. Can you walk?’
‘I – c – can’t see, Ophar.’
‘Rest a while longer. But you cannot stay here, my lord.’
Jhafir drew Ophar away from the Arkhan and whispered in his ear.
‘Is he acting rationally – or under the influence of that pernicious drug? Next thing he’ll be trying to fly from the top of the Tower of Perpetuity.’
‘We must hide him somewhere safe until the situation in the city is less volatile. Not Myn-Dhiel – that’s the first place they’ll go to look for him.’
‘And where else do you suggest? With a riot raging in the streets?’
‘We can reach the mausoleum by these tunnels. I know the way. Who would think to look for him there?’
‘The mausoleum? The charnel house?’ Jhafir said coldly.
‘Your concern is to subdue the riot. My concern is the Arkhan’s safety – both physical and spiritual.’ Ophar’s eyes glittered, polished jet in the gloom. ‘Leave him with me.’
Ophar stood on the battlements of the citadel, Rho Jhan at his side. Small fires still smouldered in the city, twists of thick smoke blackening the clear sky like windblown streamers. Beneath them, the tarkhastars of both clans were clearing away bodies, flinging them onto carts.
‘Everything is under control,’ Rho Jhan said, saluting the High Priest.
‘We rely on you and your men to keep everything under control,’ Ophar said smoothly.
‘The Zhudiciar has ordered the imposition of a strict curfew. All exemptions must carry a signed permit.’
‘Good, good. Things must not be allowed to get out of hand again.’
‘The Haute Zhudiciar asked me to deliver this document to you. He asks you to do with it whatever you will.’
Ophar opened the parchment and scanned it.
I, Melmeth, renounce all the dissolute and corrupt practices of my forefathers. I authorise Jhafir, Haute Zhudiciar, to free all brandslaves and end the inhuman practice of gelding malefactors. Slaveowners to be compensated for their losses from the royal coffers. The slave-market on the quay is to be closed down and all traffic in human flesh is to cease.
‘Mad,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Utterly mad.’
A charcoal brazier smouldered close by; he thrust the parchment into the glowing embers and watched it slowly curl up and char to ashes.
‘And the Arkhan?’ Rho Jhan asked.
‘Is resting. I and my priests will be caring for him until his health is restored. But I want you to bear a message for me. A message of vital importance. The Haute Zhudiciar will release you from your duties.’
‘And where am I to take this message?’
‘To the summer palace at Shandaira. To the Lady Clodolë.’
Clodolë paused on the upper terrace of the summer palace, her hands resting on the stone balustrade, to gaze out over twilit water gardens. Night-flowering waterlilies, pale ninufars, opened their scented petals to the stars. White peacocks wandered like ghosts amongst the dark foliage, their sharp cries echoing forlornly through the empty groves. Beyond the distant hills lay the steep gorge of Shandaïra … and beyond that the river plain crowned by the steep hills and escarpments where the Arkhans of the House of Memizhon had built their citadel.
Shandaira had been built centuries ago as a pleasure palace, a retreat from the dusty summer’s heat of the plains. Shaded by groves of oranges, bays and cypresses, lulled by the sound of running waters, the empty terraces of Shandaira had once echoed to the brilliant laughter of courtiers. Now Clodolë, a ghost of the Arkhys of Ar-Khendye, haunted the terraces by night, shunning the heat of the day, remembering other starlit nights when she had been the centre of an attentive circle of admirers …
All day she lay listlessly in her gauze-draped bed, neither reading nor sleeping, drinking little, eating less, taking a few grains of her dwindling supply of boskh to dull the needling ache behind her eyes. At sunset she rose, dressed and went out to tread the empty garden paths alone whilst her little entourage watched from the palace, whispering and worrying.
But that misty evening a sound disturbed the soft burblings of the frogs and krikris in the reeds.
Horses’ hoofs. A distant co
mmotion of voices within the palace – then footsteps clattering over marble steps. She looked around.
‘My lady Arkhys!’ A man was hurrying towards her, a man covered with the dust and dirt of travel. She recognised him.
‘Rho? Rho, is it really you?’
Bowing his shaven head, Rho Jhan handed her a paper weighted with the seal of the Haute Zhudiciar. She began to open it – then looked at him, her eyes wide and dark with sudden apprehension.
‘Rho – what is this?’
‘Open it!’
She tore the paper open and, in the dying light, read what Jhafir had written.
A little huddle of her retainers had gathered anxiously on the steps, watching for her reaction.
She clutched the paper to her breast. Her eyes closed a moment. Then, in a strong, triumphant voice, she cried out, ‘At last!’
‘My lady?’ Lerillys ventured down the steps towards her.
‘Pack at once! We are returning to Myn-Dhiel.’
CHAPTER 18
Petalfall from the white-bloomed oleanders, soft as snow, on her uptilted face, everywhere falling petals …
And through the softswirl of white, Laili sees a figure coming slowly, stumblingly towards her, glint ofredgold hair in the sweet snowfall.
‘Melmeth?’
‘Laili! Where are you? I – I can’t see you—’
His arms are outstretched, blindly feeling his way through the white petalfall. She and Lai played this game as children.
‘Here. I’m here.’ Laughing, she reaches out to him through the windswirled blossom.
Petals brush against her face, vibrate against her cheek. She brushes them away but they settle again.
Not petals. Mothwings. Fluttering mothwings, drifting to settle on his face like a mask of pale feathers.
‘My eyes, Laili—’
He tears at the crawling moths with his hands.
‘My eyes!’
This is no game.
She plucks at the powdery, clinging creatures, trying to pick them from his face, pulling off dusty wings, furred antennae—
Beneath the living mothwing mask, the jade of his half-eaten eyes is filmed with dust.
