by Sarah Ash
‘Oh, no. I am here. Touch me.’ She bent over him, her hair brushing his chest, her breath warm and boskh-sweet.
His hand rose shakily, seeking hers, imploring.
‘Do you have just a little of the dust?’ To his shame he heard himself begging.
‘That depends.’
‘Depends on what?’
She paused.
‘Would you like to see our son?’
‘Our son?’ He fought the dizziness to pull himself up. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘We have a son, Melmeth.’ Her voice seemed radiant, golden in the gloom. ‘His name is Dion.’
‘Impossible! We haven’t slept together in over a year. And I’m not acknowledging some ill-gotten lovechild of yours as heir to the House of Memizhon—’
Her finger jabbed him in the chest. ‘Who are you to rant about ill-gotten lovechildren, my lord Melmeth?’
Suddenly he knew.
‘Where is Laili?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘What have you done with her?’
‘One thing at a time.’
‘And the child? My son?’ He rose clumsily from the bed; his legs seemed to be made of straw. ‘Where is he?’ He made a grab for her; his arms clutched empty air.
‘I had not realised till now.’ Her voice came to him from the far corner of the cell, quietly disdainful. ‘You really are blind. Blind – and helpless.’
‘He is not your son. He is Laili’s. If you’ve harmed her—’
‘I want the child. He is, by rights, mine – you can’t deny it.’
Want. Mine. Clodolë had the power to crush all he held dear. The anxiety gnawing at his heart intensified.
‘Where is Laili?’ he repeated.
‘Alive. For as long as it suits my purposes.’
The wanton cruelty in her voice enraged him.
‘And you can help to keep her alive if you co-operate with me.’
‘And if I choose not to—’
‘Rho-Jhan has her in his keeping. She would not die quickly.’
‘Laili, Laili …’ He stood, useless, defeated, disgusted at his own helplessness.
‘Here, my lord.’ Clodolë came close to him – and suddenly he could smell a delicious perfume. ‘Console yourself with this. A little of the dust would ease your mind and body …’
So long since he had tasted the dust … a terrible hunger invaded his body. He must not give way to it. Not if he was to save Laili.
‘Take it away.’
‘What harm can it do you now? Mmm …’ He could hear her sampling the dust, he could almost taste it himself, his mouth had begun to water. ‘It’s so refreshing …’
The scent wafted around him like perfumed smoke; her voice had melted to a murmur of soft, subtle persuasion. He turned away, feeling his hands trembling uncontrollably; he clenched them until the nails bit into his palms. He had a son now, he must be strong.
‘No? Then I’ll leave some for you. Help yourself whenever you wish.’
He blinked, suddenly seeing a milky aureole in the darkness.
‘Clodolë – what is happening to you?’
‘To me?’ A new, vulnerable note in her voice. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There is a kind of glimmering about you. An aura.’
‘A – a trick of your diseased eyes. There is nothing the matter with me.’
A shadow fell across Laili’s bed. A lantern flame, bright as a glowing coal, lit the stern face gazing down at her.
‘Who are you?’ Laili whispered, drawing the thin blanket up to her chin. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk with you.’ The stranger set the lantern down on the table.
‘I don’t know who you are.’
‘I am Ophar, servant of Mithiel.’ It was difficult to tell his age; his face had the worn, weathered quality of carven stone. She sensed no warmth or compassion in the man – only an immutable sense of duty, achieved by long years of prayer and self-denial.
‘Is this some kind of interrogation?’
‘Tell me about the Goddess of Ael Lahi.’
Laili, dishevelled, still half-asleep, had begun to piece the clues together. Wasn’t it Ophar who had insisted that she convert to the Way of the Flame before she could become Melmeth’s consort?
‘What do you want to know?’
‘I want to know what kind of deity would send a plague of such devastating power as this plague of moonmoths that is ravaging my city.’
Laili gave a little shake of her head.
‘You believe the Goddess sent the moonmoths?’
‘Arkendym slavers defiled Her Sacred Grove.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And now She revenges Herself on us for their crimes.’
‘No! That is not Her way! She is above such human emotions as revenge. She does not hunger for blood sacrifice.’
‘And how do you know this?’ Ophar’s voice was low, subtly soft.
‘I served Her in the Grove. I was taught Her ways, Her wisdom. She is the rhythm of the tides. She is the pattern that underlies our lives.’
‘You talk of pattern.’ He snorted. ‘But how can you pattern your lives on such vague principles? Where is the discipline of ritual and prayer, of self-denial and abstention?’
From the crib at the foot of the bed came a grumbling cry. Dion was waking for his next feed.
How could she explain the ways of the Grove? The celebration – the calm – the sense of purpose? His life had been dedicated to a lonely path, a path that had demanded the ultimate self-sacrifice, the submerging of all personal needs in the service of a savage and merciless god. He had come to question her at her most vulnerable and at the darkest hour of night; she was alone, imprisoned. He was waiting to trip her up, to trap her in her own words. She would not give him that satisfaction.
‘To enter the Grove is to give up the life outside the Grove,’ she said, choosing her words with care. ‘I gave up everything – but in return I gained so much more—’
‘This has been most instructive.’ He cut her short. ‘So you believe your Goddess is incapable of acts of vengeance?’
The grumbling from the crib grew louder. Soon, Laili knew, it would become a roar of hunger.
‘I believe the Goddess shapes our lives in other ways,’ she said, ‘ways we do not always understand.’ She could see Dion’s fists and feet kicking furiously free from their wrappings. Ways you could never understand, you dessicated old man, she wanted to say. Can’t you see my baby’s hungry? Can’t you leave us together for what little time we have left?
She seized Dion and held him to her.
‘My baby needs feeding,’ she said, staring challengingly at Ophar, daring him to gainsay her.
But he said nothing and, covering his head with his hood, rapped on the door three times to be let out.
When he had gone and the keys had turned in the lock behind him, she still held Dion tight, rocking him, hushing him.
‘We have to get away from here, baby. We have to find your father. But how?’
Lai tugged the battered straw hat over his hair and, face well concealed, followed Ymarys’s bier to the Place of the Pyre. There, he watched as the hierophants poured pungent pyre oils over the body.
‘The Flame warmed you to life, to the Flame now return …’
It seemed a bleak and joyless ceremony, with little consolation in it.
At moonrise Lai and Azhrel went down to the banks of the Yssil to scatter the ashes on the fast-flowing waters.
‘It was not how he wished to die,’ Lai said. ‘He wanted a glorious death, blade in hand … He used to jest about it …’
‘But you were with him at the end. He called your name in his delirium. You must have been … close.’
Lai caught the slight hesitation in Azhrel’s voice though, wrapped up as he was in his own misery, he did not read any great significance into it.
‘He taught me all he knew about bladesmanship. All his tricks, all his secrets. Without his training I woul
d have died in the arena. Yes. I suppose we grew to be close.’ He swallowed down the rising tears; he could not afford to weep now, he needed to be strong. ‘I would have given anything to spare him such a death.’
‘I’ve just come from the bedside of another victim,’ Azhrel said. His eyes were blank, empty of emotion. ‘A flute-girl, not fifteen summers old. And I can do nothing for her.’
‘The Goddess’s sacred creatures turned against us.’ Lai shuddered, seeing again Ymarys’s pain-drawn face.
‘Against us? But maybe this is how they have always been. Maybe your elder adepts knew this all along.’
‘No. It’s impossible.’ But even as Lai said the words, he began to think that Azhrel might be right.
‘Suppose the adepts had found a way to control these voracious creatures? Suppose that was what they would have taught you – had you not been snatched away by the slavers?’
‘“The secret of the Goddess’s wisdom lies in understanding the pattern, the rhythm, the dance …”’ Lai whispered. He gazed out across the rain-swollen waters. Suddenly he turned to Azhrel. ‘But the pattern has been broken. I don’t see the Goddess’s purpose in this. I see only human greed and corruption. And someone has to stop it.’
The moon’s light broke low over the oil-dark waters of the river. Pale as moon sylphs, they came floating from the dilapidated tenements on the quay, to dart and dance over the waters.
‘But how?’ In the moonlight Lai saw the dark smudges of exhaustion shadowing Azhrel’s eyes. ‘They are everywhere. Fumigation has failed. Every house burns moth herbs and incense – but still they find their victims and still they breed—’
‘Fire.’ Lai gripped Azhrel by the arms. ‘But not just any fire. Firedust.’
‘But firedust burns so fast—’
‘And so brightly. Brighter than any bonfire. It would be irresistible.’
‘Maybe …’Azhrel sounded unconvinced.
‘Could you make a display that burned bright enough to draw the moonmoths from all over the city?’
‘I don’t know if I have the skill – or even enough firedust.’
‘There must be firedust in the Memizhon armoury.’
‘Haven’t you heard? The plague has even struck to the heart of the Tarkhas Memizhon. The Zhudiciar’s closed the barracks until they can be fully fumigated. No one’s allowed out – or in. He’s moved the tarkhastars into Myn-Dhiel – a sensible precaution, in the light of the arena riot.’
‘But you could try—’
‘Of course I’ll try – I’ll try anything!’ Azhrel snapped back. Then he seemed to make an effort to control himself. ‘Forgive me. I’m a little short-tempered. Lack of sleep, that’s all. There are a few barrels of firedust in the powder room in the tunnels below the armoury. A leftover from Sardion’s day. If the dust’s not deteriorated I might be able to put it to good use.’
Crick in his neck; Lai groaned as he tried to move his head. One hand rose to rub the spasmed muscles.
Muted daylight lit the untidy piles of papers littering Azhrel’s desk; the blinds were still drawn. Shadows of branches flickered across the yellowed linen, stained with age and sun.
Lai slowly raised himself to his feet. His mouth was dry and foul, his eyes sticky with sleep. He must have fallen asleep in the old leathern chair in Azhrel’s study. How long had he slept? No one had disturbed him. He had some vague recollection that …
He opened the door and looked down the passageway.
‘Arlan?’ he called.
The wood-panelled passageway was silent, the dusty patina of the old timber mellowed by the sunshine.
Lai opened the garden door and went to the well. The water he drew from the mossy depths was clear and bitter, it tasted of stone rich in metal ores, the ancient bedrock on which Perysse was built.
When he had finished drinking, he dipped his hands into the bucket and splashed the cold, astringent water onto his face, his head, his neck.
He shook water droplets from his dripping hair; they glittered like crystal rain in the autumnal sunlight.
Inside, Mirali was busy kneading dough on the floured kitchen table.
‘Qaffë’s brewing on the hob,’ she said without looking up from her work.
Lai poured the dark liquid into a bowl and stirred in a generous spoonful of spiced honey before wandering back into Azhrel’s study.
He flicked through the pages of Azhrel’s open journal: the jottings of a physician had become a record of the progress of the plague. One passage in particular caught Lai’s eye; he set the bowl of qaffë down and began to read:
Ophar, in his infinite wisdom, has pronounced these Changed Ones to be abominations of Ar-Zhoth. People fear what they do not understand. But suppose we have misunderstood the nature of these creatures? Suppose they hold the answer to the curing of the plague?
‘I trust you slept well.’
Azhrel stood in the doorway watching him.
‘Who are the “Changed Ones”?’ Lai pointed to the entry he had been reading.
Azhrel let out a halting sigh.
‘It seems … that the repeated ingestion of boskh affects some individuals more drastically than others. Most – like Ymarys – are used as hosts by the moths. But in others the boskh precipitates a form of metamorphosis into a state of being quite … inconceivable. Not human. Yet not inhuman. Something … else.’
In the darkest shadows of the Grove the Goddess Changes the Chosen One to her will, bestowing gifts of Healing …
‘You’ve witnessed this metamorphosis?’ Lai gazed intently at Azhrel.
‘Yes. Oh, yes.’ Azhrel shuddered. His dark eyes had become shadowed, haunted. ‘What happened?’
‘The hierophants torched her,’ Azhrel said bleakly. ‘If only you had seen her, heard her sing … Ah, that silver sound. It haunts me still, Lai. Does my hypothesis sound too eccentric to you? We know that boskh heals. Suppose those who are Changed by boskh are healers, healers by touch, by the touch of sound upon the body?’
‘Suppose …’ Lai murmured.
‘And, in our fear and ignorance, we have destroyed our only hope of survival?’
‘But there must be others—’
‘Not one of the Changed has escaped the flames. What hope is there for us while the fanatics control the city?’
‘Fanatics?’
‘Ophar brought Clodolë back to the city in triumph. Oh, she believes she is sole ruler now – but in everything she does I smell the dubious sanctity of the Way of the Flame. Look at this’ He drew a poster from his robes and placed it on the desk in front of Lai:
The Arkhys is happy to announce her recent delivery of a healthy son and heir to the royal House of Memizhon. Before proceeding to the Shrine of the Flame to give thanks for this auspicious birth, the customary donation of birthgifts will be made from Myn-Dhiel when she will show the Arkhyn to the people …’
‘Clodolë – delivered of a son?’ Lai went through the proclamation again, unable to believe what he had read. ‘But – she is barren. You said so yourself. How could she have—’
‘Your sister’s son? The one who was taken by Rho Jhan?’
‘Dion,’ Lai said in a whisper. ‘Could it be Dion? And if it’s so,’ he looked up at Azhrel in an agony of anxiety, ‘what’s become of Laili?’
CHAPTER 23
The Arkhyn’s robes were of ivory satin, the tiny cuffs and hem intricately embroidered in gold and scarlet thread. Laili looked at them – and looked at Dion. Such a shame to wake him. He would hate to be undressed – and hate even more being confined in these antique, uncomfortable garments. She knew her reluctance to do as Clodolë had bidden her stemmed from a much deeper fear. Once he was dressed in the official clothes of the heir to the House of Memizhon, he was no longer her child – but Clodolë’s.
‘Well?’ Clodolë said. ‘Is he ready?’
‘He’s asleep.’ Laili let her hand rest protectively over the rim of the crib.
‘I told you to have h
im ready!’ Clodolë said, fretfully waving her silken fan. ‘There are crowds gathering outside. They’ve come to see him. Can’t you hear the noise? Dress him now. Or do I have to do it myself?’
I’d like to see you try, Laili thought. She leaned over and stroked Dion’s cheek.
‘Wake up, little one.’
He let out a grunt as she burrowed her hands beneath him and lifted him out onto the bed. He was too drowsy at first to notice but as she untied and peeled off his robes, he gave a convulsive shiver of displeasure.
As Laili worked, she glanced up at the open doorway. If she were to seize him and run—
Hawk-grey eyes met hers. Rho jhan stood outside in the shadows. Of course, Clodolë would not have come alone, unguarded.
‘I’m waiting,’ said Clodolë, tapping her fan against her fingertips. She seemed unduly agitated.
Laili tried to coax and squeeze Dion’s chubby little arms through the ornate cuffs. Dion was not pleased with this new indignity. His face puckered up as her fingers fumbled with the ribbon ties.
‘You should take a clean cloth to protect your gown,’ she said, staring directly at the Arkhys as she lifted Dion off the bed.
‘And why?’
‘He has a tendency to bring up a little of his feed.’ It was a small and bitter triumph to see the unmistakable expression of disgust on Clodolë’s face.
They stood a moment, the baby held between them, Laili unable to let go, Clodolë suddenly tentative, almost reluctant. In the silence, Laili became aware of a far-off clamour of voices.
‘The crowd’s growing restive,’ Rho Jhan said from the doorway.
Clodolë snatched the baby out of Laili’s arms and swept out of the room.
Laili rushed after her, only to find the door slammed in her face. Rho Jhan had locked it before she could drag it open again. In rage she beat her fists against the gnarled wood until they were bruised and sore.
‘Dion!’ she cried. ‘Dion!’
Nothing in her training in the Grove had prepared her for this. She had learned the disciplines of endurance and self-denial. But this separation roused a deep animal instinct within her; they had taken her child from her. She could find no inner calm until she had him back with her again.
