Moths to a Flame

by Sarah Ash

  ‘But these are patients of mine.’

  The tarkhastar ignored him. Azhrel strode up to the gates and, catching hold of the overseer, spun him around to face him.

  ‘I demand to know what is going on!’

  ‘Haven’t you heard, doctor? It’s for the rites. The Arkhys has ordered it. Seems there aren’t enough left alive in the donjon to train for the arena.’

  Azhrel could see the brandslaves, shivering in the raw morning’s damp, making their halting, painful way towards Myn-Dhiel. Most were bare-footed; the shackles they wore slowed their pace to an awkward, limping shuffle. His heart sank as he recognised Mirghar – and Eryl – in the line.

  ‘To honour the god? You mean they’re going to fight? The women too?’

  ‘That’s what we were told.’

  ‘But they can barely walk!’

  ‘Since they closed the ports, there’s been no call for silk. The looms are idle and funds have run low. I’ve too many mouths to feed here. A few less’ll suit me fine.’

  ‘What by Mithiel’s balls d’you expect me to do with this pathetic crew?’

  Before he had even reached the slave compound, Azhrel heard Orthandor’s bellow of indignation.

  ‘Look at them! They’re half-dead already!’

  ‘Arkhys’s orders. Any complaints – and you take them to her.’

  ‘Arlan.’ Orthandor caught sight of Azhrel. ‘What are we coming to? The world’s turned upside-down. First the Arkhan bans the duel rites. Then the Arkhys reinstates them.’ Orthandor threw his hands high in a gesture of utter incomprehension. ‘I’m ashamed to be associated with this. And where the devil’s the Razhirrakh when we need him? Have you seen him?’

  Azhrel hesitated.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘What d’you mean, dead?’

  ‘Dead of the plague.’

  ‘But he was here only a few days ago, he borrowed one of my jackets, damn him. Now I’ll never get it back.’

  In spite of Orthandor’s blustering, Azhrel could see that he was genuinely shaken. He decided to risk everything on a hunch.

  ‘Would you like to see Melmeth restored to power?’

  ‘Anything would be better than this shambles.’

  ‘Before he died, Ymarys hinted that Melmeth was imprisoned in the mausoleum.’

  ‘Then let’s round up the Tarkhas Memizhon and break him out!’

  ‘The mausoleum’s crawling with the Tarkhas Zhudiciar. I’ll wager they have orders to kill Melmeth at the first sign of a rescue – and then blame it on the rescuers.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Orthandor stroked his bearded chin. ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘Wait till Sh’amain. Lai and I are planning a little “diversion”.’

  ‘Oho! I like the sound of this.’ Orthandor rubbed his hands enthusiastically.

  ‘And I’ll need access to the arena.’

  ‘You can have whatever you want, Arlan! Just tell me what to do – and I’ll stand by you. You have my word of honour as Tarrakh on it.’

  All day Lai had shadowed the High Priest, keeping just out of sight as he followed him from temple to the shrine and back again.

  At dusk Lai’s vigilance was rewarded; he noticed Ophar making his way purposefully towards the shrine where two of the brotherhood respectfully placed a flame-embroidered cope about his shoulders and presented him with a cruse of crimson oil. Ophar then took the stair downwards past the doors to the shine. Downwards, Lai guessed, into the tunnels. Lai waited until the two attendant hierophants had gone and slipped after the High Priest.

  As Lai’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he caught the phosphorescent glimmer of the thylz trail stones. Even in the darkest, deepest tunnels, they would show the way: crossed razhirs for the arena, rippling water lines for the Adriel Gate, a skull for the mausoleum …

  Did Ophar sense he was being followed? Once he stopped stock still, as though listening – and Lai froze to the side of the tunnel.

  Lai brushed clinging dirt from the trail stones with his fingertips. This was the way Ymarys had said he must go to find Melmeth, the way of the dead. But here there were no guards; this must be the priests’ secret route known only to the chosen few.

  The tunnel ended in a stone portal; Lai followed the High Priest up into the mausoleum – and stopped on the threshold. The inner chamber was full of figures – life-size figures dressed in ancient and tattered finery. He had the horrible intuition that the figures were not merely effigies – but that beneath the yellowing wax flesh were the grinning skulls and bones of the Memizhon dead.

  ‘My lady. How fares the Arkhan today?’

  Lai shrank back behind one of the leering effigies.

  ‘No better, no worse …’

  Clodolë’s voice. She was coming this way.

  ‘Why have you been avoiding me, lady?’

  Lai detected a vivid note of emotion in the High Priest’s question; his words would have better suited a rejected lover than a spiritual adviser.

  ‘I – I haven’t been avoiding you.’ She walked on; she came so close now to Lai that he felt the breeze from her floating veils. ‘There has been so much to do …’

  ‘Please.’ Ophar put one hand out to stop her. ‘If anything is troubling you, you know you can always confide in me.’

  ‘Nothing is troubling me, Ophar.’ She brushed past him and vanished into the tunnels.

  Lai watched the High Priest sigh and make obeisance to the flame which guttered in its niche as he returned to his duty. Ophar muttered ritual words in the old tongue as he replenished the oil. At last he completed his task and after making three solemn ritual bows, retreated.

  Lai waited a while longer, fearing that he might return. But the mausoleum was silent.

  At the far end of the chamber was a door; peering through the grille, Lai could just make out a figure lying on a bed, a man whose hair glinted red-gold in the gloom.

  At first he wondered if this gaunt, haggard man could really be Melmeth – and then he caught the glint of the dark ruby on his finger; the ring of the flame.

  ‘My lord Melmeth,’ he called softly.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Melmeth’s eyes blinked open.

  ‘Lai Dhar, zhan.’

  ‘No … This must be a dream. Just another boskh-dream.’

  A hand came groping out towards him through the grille, caught hold of him by the shoulder and pulled him closer, fingers moving over Lai’s face. ‘Lai. It really is you.’

  Then to Lai’s distress he began to cry.

  ‘You haven’t deserted me. Only you – a foreign slave—’

  ‘We have to get out of here, zhan. Can you walk?’

  ‘I d–don’t know.’

  ‘If not for your sake, then for Laili’s.’

  ‘Laili?’ Melmeth’s drooping head jerked up. ‘Is she with you?’

  ‘Laili is under arrest. The priests of Mithiel have accused her of witchcraft.’

  ‘But Clodolë said—’

  ‘You have to save her, zhan. No one else can.’

  ‘How can I save her? Look what your Goddess did to punish me. I’m blind, Lai.’

  ‘The Goddess? No.’ Lai kept glancing behind him, listening for any stir of movement in the tunnels.

  ‘I deserved punishment. I was presumptuous. I – I believed She had chosen me. I believed She had given me healing powers – and She struck me blind.’

  ‘Listen to me.’ Lai caught hold of the Arkhan’s hand and pressed it firmly between his own. ‘Whatever caused your blindness – it was not the Goddness.’

  ‘B–but I saw Her. Clothed in brilliant light. She was too bright for mortal eyes to look upon. Yet I presumed. And She – She seared away my sight.’

  ‘Whatever you saw,’ Lai said, ‘was not the Goddess of Ael Lahi.’

  ‘You speak with such certainty.’

  ‘Later we will talk about this, zhan. But now, right now, we have to get out of here before we are discovered.’

  Lai dug
into the pouch Azhrel had given him and brought out the little charge of firedust. It was now so dark he could hardly see the lock as he packed the dust into the keyhole around the fuse.

  ‘Keep your head well down, zhan.’

  Lai fumbled with the tinderstones; blue sparks fizzed and died on the cold flagstones. His fingers were so slippery with sweat now he could hardly hold the stones steady. Suppose the blast blew inwards and injured Melmeth? Suppose they were discovered before the fuse ignited?

  At last he struck a flame and held it to the fuse until a tongue of fire caught light and went streaking upwards. Lai dived for the floor as sparks sheared off the sizzling metal – and the steaming lock suddenly burst with a crack.

  A thin, acrid smoke filled the air as the door swung slowly inwards.

  Lai hurried across the chamber to where Melmeth lay cowering, his hands over his head.

  ‘The door’s open, zhan. Now’s our moment.’

  Lai slipped his arm under Melmeth’s shoulders and heaved him to his feet. Melmeth staggered like a drunken man.

  ‘It’s no good. My legs – wasted—’

  ‘Try, zhan. Please try.’

  ‘Intruder!’

  Tarkhastars came running into the inner chamber, Rho Jhan at their head.

  ‘Go,’ Melmeth murmured. ‘Save yourself, Lai.’

  The tarkhastars seized hold of Melmeth; Lai was flung to the floor.

  ‘My lord Arkhan! Are you all right?’ cried Rho Jhan.

  Lai tried to struggle up but Rho Jhan’s booted foot caught him in the face. Blood spurting from his nose, he collapsed again.

  ‘Let go of me!’ cried Melmeth. ‘How dare you lay hands on your Arkhan!’

  ‘It’s for your own protection, zhan. This man is a dangerous fanatic. Take the Arkhan to a place of safety whilst I deal with the intruder. Quickly!’

  Rough hands seized Lai by the collar and hauled him up; Rho Jhan’s face jutted into his.

  ‘Why, this is no renegade hierophant. It’s the Aelahim.’

  ‘What’s happening, Rho?’

  Clodolë’s voice.

  ‘It’s as well I came when I did, Arkhys! We were just in time to restrain the assassin before he killed the Arkhan.’ Rho Jhan flung Lai down again and planted his foot on his throat.

  ‘Not – assassin—’ Lai whispered, choking.

  ‘I’ll despatch him now.’ Steel rasped close to his ear.

  ‘No!’

  Through the bloodhaze clouding his eyes, Lai saw a white hand reach out to stay Rho Jhan’s blade.

  ‘He knows too much, Arkhys.’

  ‘I want to interrogate him. Myself.’

  ‘You’re making a mistake,’ Rho Jhan said.

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘Reasons!’

  ‘He has information. Kill him now – and you’ll never find out who his accomplices are in this plot. I want him taken to the donjon.’

  There was a pause – then the sound of breath expelled in a snort of exasperation.

  ‘Take him to the donjon.’

  CHAPTER 25

  The mills from which the bakers of Perysse bought their flour had not been replenished from the autumn’s harvest. The farmers who usually shipped their flour to the granaries on the Yssil by barge had taken their grain harvests to sell elsewhere. Many bakery ovens remained cold now; the moonmoths had infested every community within the city from the eminent silk guilds down to the humblest bakers and brewers.

  Queues grew outside bakeries; queues that soon formed themselves into arguing knots of discontent. They had welcomed Clodolë back to Perysse in the belief that, reunited, the Arkhan and Arkhys would work together to alleviate the city’s suffering. But there seemed no end to the tribulations they were forced to endure. Was there some truth in the hierophants’ warnings? Were they bearing the brunt of the excesses of the House of Memizhon?

  Mutterings grew to cries of dissent. People joined together, spilling out onto the streets in one great crowd, surging up the hill towards the citadel.

  A distant roar penetrated the audience chamber at Myn-Dhiel. The Haute Zhudiciar glanced uncomfortably at Rho Jhan.

  ‘Mel–meth! Mel–meth! Mel–meth!’

  Clodolë slammed the shutters and stood, her back up against the gilded panels, as though to block out the shouting of the crowd.

  ‘Are they never satisfied?’

  ‘They’re hungry,’ Rho Jhan said bluntly.

  There seems to be a general belief,’ the Haute Zhudiciar added, choosing his words with care, ‘that until you and Melmeth are reconciled, Arkhys, there will be no end to the plague.’

  ‘Oh, please!’ Clodolë let out a cry of irritation. ‘If your men had enforced the edicts more rigorously, there would be no plague at all by now.’

  These moonmoths are impossible to exterminate. What are my men supposed to do? The city streets stink of burning mothherbs … and still the damned creatures multiply.’

  ‘Mel–meth! Mel–meth! Mel–meth!’

  ‘I’ll send out the guard,’ Rho Jhan said.

  ‘Wait.’ Clodolë put out one hand to stop him. ‘We must humour them. Let them shout themselves hoarse. Then distribute fresh bread from the palace bakery. A gift from the Arkhys, rewarding her people for their fortitude. There will be more – and wine – at Sh’amain.’

  Rho Jhan clicked his heels together in salute and left the chamber.

  ‘They are dangerously close to insurrection,’ Jhafir said. ‘Will they be satisfied with a few loaves of bread? The hierophants have stirred them up, they want their blood-sacrifice.’

  ‘And they shall have it.’ She smiled at him and he noticed that beneath her veil, the red stain on her lips was dark and glossy as fresh-spilt blood. ‘At Sh’amain.’

  Rho Jhan brushed a smear of dust off the rich crimson cloth of his tarrakh’s tunic as he waited to be admitted to the Arkhys’s presence. He was pleased enough with his promotion to the command of the Tarkhas Zhudiciar, but this private audience made him wonder whether higher honours were imminent.

  A dhamzel appeared in the doorway and beckoned him to follow her. So he was to attend her in her bedchamber – a privilege he had not been accorded in a long while.

  Dark-spangled gauzes hid the windows, swathed the bed; the room was dim, a perpetual twilight. He blinked as his eyes strained to become accustomed to the shadowy light.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Arkhys,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’ He glimpsed a pale figure behind the cloudy gauzes hung about the bed. Was she naked behind the drifting veils? The thought was curiously stimulating.

  ‘Rho …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Am I still … desirable?’

  ‘You are the Arkhys. You are the most desirable woman in all Ar-Khendye.’

  ‘You mean that my power is desirable.’

  He fidgeted with the hilt of his razhir. Where was this leading?

  ‘I’ve served you well, Arkhys.’

  ‘Nobody could have served me more faithfully than you, Rho.’

  ‘And would you agree that such faithful service deserves a reward?’

  ‘Of course you deserve a reward.’

  ‘And you deserve a consort.’

  ‘What are you hinting at?’ She moved closer until only a single gauze floated between them.

  ‘Melmeth’s blind, half-crazed with drugs. Addicts tend to be prone to accidents. An overdose … found choked on his own vomit …?’

  ‘But I still need him. He is useful to me. Besides, I might not want to take another consort.’

  The gauze twitched. In the darkness her skin seemed to give off a faint luminescence.

  ‘Or you might change your mind …’ And she suddenly pressed her mouth to his, sliding her tongue deep into his mouth and it was no human tongue any more, it was long and narrow and probing, an insect sucking nectar from a flower—

  ‘Nnnnno!’ He squirmed free, holding her at arm’s length, staring at her with revulsion.
‘You’re – you’re Changing.’

  She suddenly began to weep, crouching down on the bed, her long, pale hair falling like a veil over her nakedness.

  ‘How long can you go on hiding it from the palace? From the people? When they see you – they’ll try to destroy you.’

  ‘I’m still Arkhys—’

  ‘In their eyes you’re a freak. A monstrosity that must be destroyed to put it out of its misery.’

  ‘And in your eyes too, Rho. Oh, don’t try to pretend otherwise—’

  Distant shouting, like the ominous buzzing of an angry swarm, dried her words to silence.

  ‘Firemobs,’ she whispered.

  He watched her drift towards the window and gaze out over the darkened city. A burst of flame lit the night sky and died away.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, whirling around, her dark eyes wild, challenging. ‘Do your duty as a citizen. Call the hierophants here. Give me over to them.’

  He stared at her, the feel of that alien tongue still tainting his mouth. He wondered if she knew what he was thinking, how much his eyes betrayed.

  ‘Go. Leave me.’

  He hesitated a moment – then bowed abruptly and turned for the door.

  That brief, cruel flowering of fire …’ he heard her say, ‘and then the dark.’

  A trickle of damp, dark and viscous, stained the cell wall, oozing out as if the lifeblood of the rough stone were slowly haemorrhaging away.

  Lai sat glazedly staring at the slow-spreading stain. His face was stiff with caked blood and his mouth fouled with the rank salt taste of it. He wanted to wipe the blood away but they had chained his hands so tightly behind his back that he could hardly move. Breathing was difficult enough through his battered nose; the cartilage felt pulpily sore and swollen. Broken, probably …

  Not that it mattered now. What mattered was that he had failed. And failure meant death – his first, then Laili’s. Bitter knowledge, more bitter than the taste of dried blood in his mouth. That there was no hope any more.

  He heard the metallic scrape of the cell key turning in the lock. Had they come for him already? He had wanted a time, just a little time to prepare himself, to steel himself for the Torquistar and his machines of torment.

  He slowly raised his eyes and saw Clodolë.