ARC: Sunstone

by Freya Robertson

He had known since he was nine that this would be his destiny, and he had tried to prepare himself for it all these years. He had gone over it many times in his head, trying to imagine how he would walk up to the tree, how he would lift his head, act noble and unafraid, so that for years afterwards, people would talk about his courage.

  But deep inside he harboured a fear that when the time came, panic would overwhelm him, and he would bring shame to his family. It had happened before, when he had accompanied the King and some visiting nobles on a hunt. It was his first, and he had been excited to show his new sword skill. He had dreamed of it the night before, imagining how he would be the one to thrust the killing blow. The King would smear the stag’s blood across his cheeks and he would bear it like a battle wound, returning triumphant to the cheers of the people.

  The reality had been quite different. It had taken hours to hunt down the stag, and by then he had been tired and sore from the saddle, his hands covered in blisters from sawing at the reins and his thighs aching. One of the other nobles had landed the stag, and Tahir had been invited to finish it off. He had approached with his sword, heart thudding, shocked to see the noble creature thrashing on the ground, its eyes wide with fear. He had not been able to bring himself to kill it.

  Embarrassed by his weak son, his father had dragged him close to the beast, placed his hand over his son’s on the pommel and forced the blade into the stag’s heart. Tahir had cried, and then when the blood was smeared across his face, warm and smelling strongly of iron, he had vomited and had to be taken to the stream to have it washed off.

  He had not returned a hero.

  His father despised him. Catena despised him too – he was sure of it. She thought his manner arrogant and spoiled when in fact he hid his desperation behind a façade of superiority, afraid that otherwise everyone would see what a coward he was inside.

  His eyes burned with unshed tears, and so he closed them, shutting out the night sky.

  Tiredness swept over him. He was starting a long journey tomorrow. He had to get some sleep or he would fall off his horse. He could only imagine what the impatient Catena and the amused Demitto would say to that.

  Sleep gradually drifted over him like a warm blanket.

  Tahir dreamed. That, in itself, was fairly unusual. His friends – or, rather, the kitchen and serving boys he sometimes listened to – often talked about their dreams, coming up with all sorts of bizarre stories, but Tahir rarely remembered any of his. Occasionally he would wake with a vague memory of water or fire or screams in the night, but the images soon faded, and he quickly forgot what had made his heart race.

  This time, it was different. Once, when Tahir was much younger, a merchant had come to Harlton selling strange devices like leather tubes fitted with mirrors and crystals that enabled a man to see clearly into the distance. The merchant had allowed him to look through one of the devices and Tahir had been unsettled by the view of the forest to the north that suddenly appeared in front of him.

  It was kind of like that now. His vision was unclear, blurred, and then all of a sudden the view came into focus.

  He stood in a forest. The green canopy of leaves whispered over his head, and his feet sank into bracken and the soft mulch of undergrowth. The tall, straight trunks of trees surrounded him like bodyguards. Nearby, a stream tumbled over rocks.

  A man stood next to him, and Tahir looked up, puzzled. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark grey cloak with the hood pulled over his head, his body crossed with leather straps and his wrists covered in leather bracers. His appearance was intimidating, but nevertheless Tahir felt no fear, only curiosity.

  The man reached out a hand towards him. Like a child, Tahir took it.

  Before them, the trees shimmered, and to his shock he realised a woman had been standing there, holding onto a horse. Leaves had been covering her, shielding her from view, but as he watched, the branches lifted and revealed her small, slender form. She wore breeches and a rustic tunic, and looked for all the world like a peasant woman, but Tahir spotted her breeding instantly in the way her hair was braided and the defiant lift of her chin.

  Still, in spite of her obvious spirit, as she led the horse out of the water she pressed a hand to her mouth and leaned against the mare, fear written all over her features. Tahir studied her, intrigued. Who was she? And why was she so scared?

  Even as the thoughts entered his head the picture faded and then came into focus again. This time he stood in darkness. It took a moment for his vision to adjust.

  He stood in a dark alleyway – a tunnel in fact – as the rock curved up over his head. A lantern hung from a wall further along, and there he could see two figures standing. A man, tall, his hair reflecting the light like a beaten silver mirror. He wore fine clothes, polished boots and a bright golden sash across his body. In front of him stood a woman, very thin and pale, her hair a light gold, dressed in a rough tunic, old scuffed shoes on her feet.

  As Tahir watched, the man reached out a hand and cupped the woman’s cheek, his fingers sliding down beneath her chin to lift her gaze to his. Like the woman in the forest, this one also had fear written all over her face. But the man with the silver hair only brushed his thumb across her lips, gentle as a feather. The woman’s lips parted and she inhaled. Tahir’s cheeks grew warm as he watched this private, intimate moment. And then the scene faded again.

  He stood on grass, in front of a huge tree. He did not have to be told it was the Arbor. He could not see the city Demitto had told him about, nor the wooden shutters around the tree – it was as if it was so large and so bright it blocked out everything else.

  The man standing beside him, still holding his hand, turned him so they faced each other. His face was hidden in shadow, but Tahir sensed something he had not seen from anyone in a long time save, perhaps, Catena on a good day – affection.

  “Be strong,” the man murmured.

  Tahir swallowed and nodded. “I will try.”

  The man’s voice held a hint of humour. “’Tis a good place to start.” And to Tahir’s shock, the man leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

  Tahir’s eyes opened. He lay in his own bed, his heart pounding. He sat up, pushed aside the covers and walked over to the narrow window to look out at the stars.

  His eyes filled with tears. Who was the man, and why had he kissed him? For a moment – a very brief moment – Tahir had felt a love he had never known as a child. Why had that come into his dreams? If they were dreams. Tahir wasn’t so sure.

  And who were the other figures the man had shown him? Were they connected somehow?

  Perhaps he could ask Demitto on the way to Heartwood, he thought as he returned to bed, his feet cold from the flagstones. It would not surprise him at all if the mysterious emissary had all the answers.

  III

  Sarra caught her breath. For a moment, she thought she saw a figure standing behind Comminor, a young man with the same golden eyes the Chief Select himself bore. She glanced at the young man, distracted, and Comminor dropped his hand and looked over his shoulder.

  “What are you staring at?” he asked.

  She blinked, but the corridor was empty. “I thought I saw…” She frowned for a moment, puzzled, and then her gaze came back to his. The sweep of fear returned.

  “Would you come with me back to the palace?” His deep voice sent a shudder through her. “I would like to talk to you.”

  She swallowed, not missing the way his eyes dropped to the muscles in her throat. “Are you asking me or telling me?” she asked softly.

  Comminor tipped his head at her, obviously amused. “Well, I am not used to being refused. Equally I am not in the habit of demanding that beautiful young women come home with me. So let us say that I am asking.”

  She stared, startled at his description of her as beautiful and now thoroughly confused as to his motives.

  He smiled and held out a hand. “Please. I just want to talk.”

  She stared at his ha
nd for a moment. He left it there, seemingly confident of his power, certain she would not refuse him.

  What could she do? To refuse the Chief Select would be to draw suspicion upon herself. So she gave a little nod and slipped her hand into his.

  They walked back through the Primus District, which was now practically empty, the majority of the population joining in with the White Eye celebrations. As they skirted the Great Lake, Sarra glanced up at the Caelum and saw the White Eye in its completeness, a round silvery pink circle halfway through its mysterious passage across the black disc.

  She glanced at Comminor. He had looked up briefly, but otherwise his gaze remained fixed ahead of him as he walked purposefully back to the palace. She felt confused by the way he had touched her, so gentle, when he was said to be such a cruel man. Perhaps the rumours were wrong and he wasn’t the monster everyone made him out to be.

  Still, she knew she was wise to be scared. But his hand on hers was gentle, and when he spoke, he kept his voice low and comforting, as if talking to one of the many dogs that roamed the palace grounds.

  They followed the eastern edge of the lake, avoiding the dancing that had begun on the quay, and headed for the Tertius District. Occasionally people stopped to look at Comminor and dip their head deferentially, but generally in the semi-darkness and the gaiety of the celebrations, they passed unnoticed.

  He stopped at the gates to the Tertius District and the guard identified him, bowed and let them pass. She knew he would be aware that she had been there before with Rauf, but still he slowed as they walked through the large entrance cave to the palace. His face showed pride at the gardens he had cultivated since his ascension. The river ran along the west side and the ground here was moist and suitable for planting. Bushes trimmed into geometric shapes lined the pathway, and flowers grew in circular beds, one of the few places in the Embers they flourished. Numerous lanterns filled the whole place with light during the day, and now the few that remained lit cast the gardens in a warm glow.

  Comminor bent and picked a single red flower, and he handed it to Sarra. She took it, seeing its waxy petals peeling back to reveal an orange centre, then lifted it to her nose and gave a cautious sniff.

  “It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” she said softly.

  “As are you.”

  She caught her breath. His golden eyes shone, unnerving her. She had heard of people born very occasionally with these unusual irises, but had never seen anyone with eyes like this before. The lack of visible pupils made his expression difficult to read, but his words and the way he had touched her lips with his fingers told her he liked her, and that was why he had brought her here.

  Heart pounding, she followed him into the palace, along the brightly painted corridors, up the long staircase and then back through the state rooms to what she realised must be his private suite. He pulled back a shimmering cloth curtain and gestured for her to precede him, and she walked in, only to stop with a gasp of amazement.

  Carved into a second level of rooms above the large state rooms below, the ante-chamber had walls polished to a smooth surface, which were inlaid with silver and glittering gems. Rauf had told her that the palace furniture had been designed by the best carpenter in the city, the ornate table and chairs carved from the rare woody plant that grew near the Magna Cataracta, and she ran a finger over the nearest one in wonder, stunned by the way the wood glowed a deep brown and shone from regular polishing.

  But the feature that drew her eye was the wall facing the doorway. It had a long window that ran the length of the room, and as she walked closer, she could see it overlooked the Great Lake. She shivered. He must stand there and watch his people travelling through his city, she thought, like a shadow in the darkness, like the ever-present figure of Death.

  Now they had a great view of the celebrations, however, and they stood together quietly for a moment, watching the dancers and listening to the singing as the White Eye continued its journey across the Caelum. She glanced up at him. His expression did not seem malicious or greedy as he overlooked his realm – if anything, she would have said he looked affectionate.

  Eventually, he turned. “Would you like some whiskey?” He indicated one of the small jugs on the nearby table.

  She glanced at the jug, wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

  He smiled. “You did not develop a taste for it when Rauf gave it to you?”

  She shook her head again. “It is very strong.”

  “It is. Maybe, then, you would like to try some wine?”

  Her brow furrowed. “What is that? Rauf never mentioned it.”

  “Most of the Select do not know about it.” He lifted the other jug and poured a small amount into a cup. “It takes a vast quantity of berries to make a single jug, so it has to be drunk sparingly. It is sweetened with honeyweed.”

  Her eyes widened at the mention of the rare herb, and Comminor smiled.

  “Yes,” he said, “I know. You have to try it.” He held the cup out to her.

  She took it from him and sniffed it cautiously. The smell appealed to her more than the whiskey, but still she hesitated. Had he drugged it?

  As if he had read her mind, he took it from her and, holding her gaze, swallowed a mouthful before passing it back. “It is not drugged,” he acknowledged.

  Her cheeks warmed. She accepted the cup again, lowered her eyes and sipped the wine, holding it in her mouth and tasting it fully before swallowing.

  “It is nice,” she murmured.

  He poured himself a cup. “I am glad you like it.”

  They stood at the window and sipped their drinks, watching the dancing. People were weaving white ribbons around a central pole on the quay as they sang. The atmosphere was jovial and infectious, and the melodies spiralled up to the Caelum like smoke.

  “They seem happy,” she said, unable to stop herself commenting on the exuberance of the dancers.

  He sighed. “The mood will eventually turn ugly. The ale will begin to have an effect, the White Eye will vanish and the joy will morph into depression and grief that the daily drudgery will continue as it has always done.” He stared morosely at the celebrations. “The arrival of the White Eye means nothing and changes nothing, and when that realisation gradually sinks in, the Select will have to take charge.”

  She shivered at his words, and at the thought of the cruelty that would ensue.

  Casting one last eye over the crowd, Comminor turned his attention back to her. “I suppose you must be wondering why I have brought you here.”

  She turned and looked up at him, trying to keep her expression blank. She was pretty certain he knew how much she feared him, but she did not want to make it obvious.

  “Yes,” was all she said.

  He reached out and cupped her face the same way he had outside her room and brushed his thumb across her skin.

  “Do you really have no idea?” he murmured.

  She could only stare up at him, lips parted, confusion and panic filling her.

  “I watched Rauf bring you into the palace the very first time.” He lifted his hand to stroke her hair. “I could not believe I had not seen you before. I stood here, mesmerised, as you walked through the gardens. I could not take my eyes off you.” He smiled at her obvious bewilderment. “You seem surprised.”

  Her confusion turned to wariness. He was playing with her – he must be. “I do not understand,” she whispered.

  He slipped his hand to cup the back of her head, holding her in place. “I want you, Sarra. I would not have taken you from one of my Select, even though I had the power to do so. Rauf was a good man and I know he loved you. But now you are free, I would like to claim you for my own.” And he lowered his lips to hers.

  His mouth was soft and cool. She forced herself to remain there and not to pull away as he kissed her with a gentleness she had not expected.

  Was he really asking her to be his mate?

  He could have just taken her, of course – he h
ad the right, and the power. Oddly, though, she had not heard of him abusing women in such a way. As far as she knew, he had taken no mate since his wife, Ellota, had died from sickness a few years before. No doubt the Select brought him women from the whorehouses from time to time, but still, that was very different from having a mate.

  He lifted his head, his golden eyes gleaming. “You did not slap me,” he said with some amusement. “I shall take that as a good sign.”

  She was too confused to smile. “Are you really asking me to be your mate?”

  He continued to stroke her cheek. “I miss the company and the friendship, Sarra. Truth to tell, I am lonely. My life is filled with the harsh reality of life here in the Embers, and I hunger for the closeness of a woman in my bed and in my heart to relieve the cruelty and savagery that has become a part of my days.”

  She breathed quickly, her chest rising and falling beneath the tunic that she was now conscious was old and dirty next to his bright, clean clothes. She could not believe his words. This was a ruse – maybe he had heard of the baby, or of the Veris, and he was trying to trick her into telling him about it.

  “I want to cleanse you in the palace pools, dress you in finely woven garments, highlight your cheeks with silver and gold stars and take you to my bed,” he murmured. “Will you let me?”

  “Why now?” she whispered. “Why wait until tonight?”

  “I wanted to give you time to get over Rauf,” he said.

  Her back stiffened at that. “It has been but four months,” she said. “It will take a lot longer than that for me to ‘get over’ him.”

  Anger flared briefly on his face. Not many people had the courage to stand up to him, she thought. Was she brave, or foolish?

  He considered her, his golden eyes hard as the metal. “I will not wait forever,” he snapped.

  She shook her head, her own anger rising to match his. “I find it difficult to believe you are being truthful with me. You could have any woman you want. There would be rich women falling over their feet to be with you. Why me – a poor rag of a woman who has nothing to offer you? If it is just my body you seek, why do you not just take it?”