They must be nearing the southern edge now, she calculated, shivering at the thought that one day her body might be disposed of here, the ash washed away over the Magna Cataracta to who-knew-where. But even as she wondered if that was their destination, her feet hit cool water, the shock making her inhale and clutch Geve’s hand. They were crossing the river, which meant their destination was away from the waterfall, to the south-western limits of the city. Geve steadied her, guiding her across to the other side, the splash of their feet ringing in her ears. They were heading for the forgotten caves. She had never been this far south. Here the air smelled stale, and sound echoed without people and belongings to soak it up. Most of these caves had been deserted since the White Sickness. The palace insisted the disease had long since died out, but even the poorest in the city refused to cross the banks, in spite of the overcrowding in many areas.
The avenues changed to streets, the streets to lanes, and then they were in alleyways so narrow she could stretch out her hands and brush her fingers against the stone walls on either side. Were there still bodies here? Rumours abounded that the Select had left the sick here to die and just chained off the area. She sniffed cautiously. The air smelled clean with no sign of the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh. Perhaps it had been too long, and the flesh had turned to dust, and only bones remained. No wonder the group met here – who would ever think to look for them in the forgotten caves?
She shivered, although whether from having wet feet, from the thought of the dead lying abandoned, or from the knowledge that nobody knew she was there, she wasn’t sure.
Finally, the men in front of her slowed, and her fingers brushed against a woven door that had been pulled back to let her through. Her shoes scrunched on matting. Whispers and the occasional scuff of feet told her there were other people in the room. Judging by the acoustics, the room was small, but she couldn’t make out anything more than that.
Someone led her to a chair and pushed her gently into it, and she sat. She was thankful the journey was over, but her heart continued to pound at the thought of the interrogation she was now going to have to endure.
“Sarra?” It was a voice she recognised. Geve, her friend from the Primus Caverns, the man she had approached in the first place.
She cleared her throat. “Yes?”
“Are you all right? Are you comfortable?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I am sorry that I cannot yet remove the hood, but you understand that secrecy is imperative here.”
“I do. I am hot and my nose itches, but I am not distressed by it – please do not worry.”
There was a light ripple of laughter. Her chest rose and fell with her rapid breaths, but she forced herself to keep calm. The next few minutes would possibly be the most important of her life. Comfort was the last thing on her mind.
“Tell us why you are here,” Geve said. His low voice was gentle and encouraging. He liked her, she reminded herself – he was on her side.
“I wish to know about the Veris,” she said.
“Who are the Veris?” he asked.
“A secret society.”
“What sort of secret society?”
“You worship the Arbor. You believe in the Surface – a world above the Embers.”
There, she had said it. The words were out – there was no going back now. She was either leaving this cave a member of the society or wrapped up in a death blanket.
The room had grown silent, and she had visions of the men and women exchanging worried glances.
“How do you know about the Veris?” a woman asked.
She nibbled her bottom lip. She had thought long and hard about how to answer this question and had decided truth was the best option, although it would not make it easier for them to trust her. “Rauf told me.”
Hushed whispers travelled around the room. She waited, letting them process that information.
Eventually, Geve spoke again. “What did Rauf tell you?”
“He heard talk at the palace. The Select know about you.”
More hushed whispers. “What do they know?” the woman asked.
“Rauf told me they had heard of a secret group of people who studied the forbidden histories and who believed another world exists on the Surface. He seemed to think it was just a rumour.”
“He told you of the Arbor?” Geve asked.
“No.” Sarra hesitated. “I… I saw that.”
“Saw?” said a man.
“I… see things sometimes. Flashes, like dreams.” She took a deep breath. Time to play her trump card. “Of a land, the ground covered in grass. A blue sky and a bright sun. And a tree – a huge tree, arching above me, its leaves fluttering in a warm breeze.”
Silence fell. Sarra swallowed. Voices whispered and fell quiet again.
“Search her,” a woman commanded.
She waited to feel hands on her clothing, although what they were searching for, she had no idea. But instead someone moved to her side and crouched next to her. “I am going to take your hand,” murmured a male voice she didn’t recognise. He clasped his hands around hers.
Puzzled, she waited. His hands grew warm, then fiery hot. The heat flooded her veins and sped around her body, and within seconds she broke out in a sweat, burning as if she had a violent temperature. She gasped, but just as she was about to exclaim that she couldn’t bear the heat any longer, he stood and released her.
“She is clean,” he said. His hands touched her head, and then he lifted off her hood.
Sarra blinked, dazzled for a moment by the bright flame of a single candle that Geve held nearby. Gradually, her vision cleared. The room was small, maybe ten feet square, and there were seven people in it, including herself and Geve with his dark, curly hair, all watching her intently.
The man who had held her hand spoke. “Greetings, Sarra. My name is Turstan.” He was slim and dark-skinned with intense eyes but a friendly smile.
She returned it as she said, “You can control fire. You are a member of the Select.”
He nodded and lifted the sunstone hanging around his neck on a leather thong from his tunic. It absorbed the light from the candle, glowing a deep orange. Rauf had been a Select too, so she had been aware of the way the palace guardians used the sunstones to channel fire to light the darkness of the caves they lived in.
“And you are a bard,” Turstan said.
And this was the bit she had dreaded most. She lifted her chin and shook her head. “No.”
He blinked. “I thought you had the dreams?”
“I have not always had them,” she said. “Only recently.”
They look confused, suddenly wary, even Geve. She had not told him everything, and in his eyes she saw his distrust, his fear that he had brought a traitor into the group. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
She rested a hand on her abdomen. “I am pregnant.”
Their faces registered shock and pity. Now they understood why she wanted to escape. And by making such an admission, they would also know she was placing her complete trust in them.
Turstan frowned. “You think the child is why you have the ability to see the Surface?”
“Yes. I think the baby is a bard.” She splayed her hands on her stomach. It had just started to swell, although her clothes hid it for now. But it would not be long before the pregnancy became obvious. “He… speaks to me. He shows me scenes of another life on the Surface, of a land rich with growth, where everyone is free.”
They nodded, unsurprised. All of the people here, she knew, would have had similar dreams. That was what had brought them all together, except perhaps for Turstan, whose position as a Select would have earned him his place in the society. Could he be trusted? She was surprised he had been allowed in the group. How could they be sure he wasn’t reporting everything back to Comminor, the hated Chief Select?
Turstan dropped to his haunches in front of her again. She studied his fine clothing, the silver clasps studded with tiny
gems in his braided hair. His sleeveless tunic fit snugly across his broad shoulders and, like Rauf, his arms and thighs were impressively muscled. His bright eyes and strong teeth reflected his better diet, and he smelled of herbs, which meant he had bathed that morning in the clean, fresh waters near the palace.
She shifted in the chair, conscious – as she had used to be with Rauf in the early days – of her shapeless tunic, her unwashed body, her tangled hair. She never wore the silver clasp he had given her; too afraid someone would steal it. And here was this man, reminding her of everything she had once had, and then lost.
Why did Turstan want to escape so badly? He could have whatever woman he wanted, and if one of them got pregnant, he would likely be granted the right for the child to be born. Resentment surged through her, and she let it show in her eyes.
Turstan nodded. “I know,” he murmured. “And I understand. I am sure you are wondering why I am here – why I want to leave so badly.”
She nodded curtly.
“Two years ago, I fell in love with a girl from Secundus. She was a bard, although I did not know it at the time. She used to tell me stories, late at night when the palace was dark and we were curled in our bed, stories about a green land, about the sun and the way it made the plants grow. About rain that fell from the sky, and wind that blew across the fields. About a tree – a tree so wonderful it made everything else pale in comparison.”
Turstan’s eyes were far away, seeing not the dim light of the cave and the people around him, but the pictures this girl had painted in his mind of a better life.
“For a long time I thought these were just stories, but as time went by and she began to trust me more, I realised she was not making these tales up in her mind – she was describing another world, where people live on the Surface, in the sun and wind and rain. Where they are not confined to caves and told whether they can and cannot have children, but where they are free to love and marry and have babies with whomever they chose.”
He turned his dark eyes back to Sarra, and she swallowed as she saw tears in them. She had suspected the truth from the visions the baby had shown her, but it moved her to have another confirm what she had wondered in her mind.
“And I want that freedom,” Turstan said fiercely. “I may have privileges here in the Embers but it is not the same as being free.”
“I understand,” she whispered. It was what they all wanted. To be free. To live their lives the way they chose.
It was time to reveal her final secret. “There is something else,” she said. She glanced at Geve. This bit he did know about, and he nodded now, encouraging her to speak.
“The baby,” she said. “He has also shown me the way out.”
CHAPTER TWO
I
Julen pushed open one of the hall doors and walked inside. A blast of hot air from the fire in the hearth washed over him, and he stood there for a moment, drinking in the warmth, feeling comforted and welcomed after a morning out on Isenbard’s Wall. In spite of it being the height of The Shining, the wind was always brisk across the high hills this end of the Wall so near the sea.
He cast his eye around and saw his mother and siblings eating by the fire, much of the rest of the household dotted around them, the steward directing some of the servants to carry fresh fruit to the tables, maids carrying pitchers of ale from person to person.
Everything seemed normal and in place, from the huge tapestries depicting various battle scenes from his family’s past, to the light laughter that rippled around the room as people chatted and relayed the events of their day, to the smell of the fresh rushes on the floor, scattered with lavender and mint, and the aroma of roasted meat that drifted up from the kitchens.
And yet, once again, a frisson of warning ran up his spine.
He put his hand out automatically and Rua’s head appeared underneath it, as he had known it would. She stood close to him, cautious and quiet as they both surveyed the room. Could she feel it too? Or was she just picking up on his apprehension?
As before, he couldn’t place the problem, so he mentally pushed it away, walked forward and crossed the hall to his family. “Good afternoon,” he said, bending forward to kiss his mother on the cheek.
“You are late,” she said, running her gaze down him. “And please tell me you are not joining us looking like that.”
He glanced down and surveyed his mud-splattered breeches and boots, scratched at the stubble on his face and tugged at his untidy beard. Then he shrugged, climbed onto the bench and sat. “I would not want to deny you a second of my company while I bothered to change,” he said as he reached for a loaf of bread and winked at his mother.
Procella’s glare faded to a wry smile, and she rolled her eyes and carried on eating. He laughed and cut a thick slice of the bread, winking at his brother, who grinned back. Like the dog sitting beside him, his mother was mostly bark and no bite, although he had seen both of them in battle and knew both to have a savage side that revealed itself when the occasion demanded it. Procella’s hair might now be grey, and occasionally in the mornings she moved stiffly until she had worn off the old battles’ aches and pains she had gained through the years, but only last week he had accompanied her on a foray into the forest south of Vichton where a group of bandits had been preying on travellers on the road south to Lotberg. She had joined him in hunting them down with her characteristic skill on horseback, and when they caught them, she had dispatched them swiftly, casting aside their vain attempts to defend themselves with undisguised contempt before ending their lives.
Julen had remained astride his horse and had watched her take on three of them in one go, thankful of a situation where she could exorcise her frustration and fury instead of taking it out on him. He loved his mother, but without his father there to lock horns with her and keep her grounded, she rattled around the old castle like a bee in a pot, driven to restless vexation through a lack of activity and physical release.
She was not made for peace, he thought as he took a thick slice of pork and another of beef, layering them with a third slice of cheese on the bread before taking a bite. Procella was a woman built for war, and sometimes he wondered whether she was jealous that he worked for the Peacekeeper.
“So what is the news on the road?” she asked. “Tell us something exciting. It is so very dull around here sometimes.”
He glanced at Horada, wondering whether his sister would feel insulted that her mother had described her company as dull, but her gaze was fixed on the candle in the centre of the table, which flickered in the breeze of the open doors, and she did not appear to have heard Procella’s words. His eyes followed hers. The candle flame danced, jumping and writhing like a tortured soul in a bright yellow cage. He blinked, seeing bright light before his eyes for a moment as he turned his gaze away.
“I have heard something interesting, as it happens.” He started to cut himself another slice of bread. “There is talk across the whole of Anguis from Crossnaire to Quillington of an unusual frequency of fires springing up.”
“That must be due to the weather.” Orsin was busy cutting himself a piece of apple pie. His genial face was relaxed, his beard neatly trimmed, his light brown hair slightly damp, showing he had bathed only an hour before. Orsin liked to bathe, saying women preferred him that way, which was probably true. “It has been incredibly hot lately. The undergrowth must be dry as a five-day bone, and the bracken and dead leaves would make perfect kindling.”
“True.” Julen concentrated on building another few layers of meat and cheese, and threw a fatty bit of pork to Rua where she lay patiently on the rushes by his feet. “But it is not just in the forest that this has been happening. People have reported it all over the place. In homes, in stables, in market places, in the fields.” He wondered whether to mention the rest of his news, then thought about his initial unease on entering the room and decided not to.
He glanced up and paused in the act of placing the last slice of cheese on the to
p. “What?”
Orsin followed his gaze. Horada’s attention had finally been drawn away from the candle, and she and her mother stared at each other for a long moment before both dropped their eyes.
Procella cleared her throat and sliced an apple in half. “How is the Veriditas?”
He met Orsin’s gaze and raised an eyebrow. His brother shrugged. Julen wasn’t surprised. Orsin had been away for many years, serving first as a page then as a squire at a neighbouring lord’s castle, and he had only returned to Vichton after their father’s death. Although built like Chonrad with his height and broad shoulders, Orsin had their mother’s lack of sensitivity, and this, combined with his long absence, meant he wouldn’t have known an atmosphere if it had stood in front of him waving.
Julen took a bite out of his meat and cheese. “Good. The Nodes are attended to regularly.”
“And the Arbor?”
“Is good. Tall and strong. The flow of energies is working, Mother, do not fear. What is bothering you?”
“Horada and I… We both had the same dream last night.”
He looked up sharply. “The same?”
“Well, similar. We both dreamed the Arbor was on fire.”
Cold sliced through him. Suddenly he couldn’t swallow the meat and cheese in his mouth. Conscious of his mother’s eyes on him, he forced himself to chew several times and took a large mouthful of ale to help the food go down.
He cleared his throat. “How strange.”
“I think it means something.” It was the first time Horada had spoken. She had gone back to staring at the flame, her brow furrowed.
Julen poured her another glass of ale. “What do you think it means?”
“I think the Arbor wants me to go there.” She glanced up at her mother, then away again.
Julen looked at Procella, whose mouth had set into a thin, hard line. “We have had this discussion,” Procella said.
ARC: Sunstone Page 3
