Great, red flowers of light exploded in the dark skies above Cadra, momentarily illuminating the faces of the onlookers with flushes of crimson. Citizens of all ages and class stood atop the highest levels of the city, and they watched the fire show that hailed the beginning of the feast day celebrations. Gialdin Day had arrived, and the place had come alive with the colours of costumes, wreaths, flags and ribbons. Earlier there had been a grand procession of the army, led by King Acher and his son. The train had seemed to run forever, winding up and around the sloping streets of Cadra, and it had brought with it a regular thud, thud, thud that rang through the stones.
Artemi had felt the rhythm from her father’s house on the other side of the city, and over the noise, she had tried to tell him of her
discovery, but had failed miserably. He had seemed so delighted at seeing her that she could not bear to break his heart with it.
And so they had left the house and had watched the parade in apparent contentment: all men in black and green atop glossy horses. She had spotted Morghiad at the front, dressed a black satin coat with red embroidery that traced down the sleeves. His black warhorse was an intimidating thing, full of muscle and power and might. Artemi had been careful to keep out of sight of him and the king, of course, but now she gazed up at the fireworks and inhaled the smoky mist that was fast descending from their antecedents.
“You know, you were conceived the night they took Gialdin,” her father said wistfully. He was a wise-looking man of just
less than six foot, with close-cropped hair not dissimilar to his daughter’s. His clothes betrayed his poverty, but his posture was that of a proud man.
“That is not something I wished to know. Thank you, father.” Artemi twisted her mouth.
He chuckled quietly, but once the smiles were gone, he regarded his daughter thoughtfully and then said, “Artemi, your mind has been elsewhere all day. Whatever is troubling you?”
“Nothing.” She continued to stare at the eruptions in the sky.
He persisted, “Is it a man? I’ll not have some wretch mess with my girl. Tell me who it is and I’ll straighten them out for you.”
Artemi met his eyes, laughing. “There’s no man -”
“It’s not a woman, is it?” His eyes widened.
“Father, no! I just have a lot of new things to learn in that castle. That’s all.”
“Oh. Your mother used to have that look on her face when I’d done something to upset her. I suppose you’re growing up. A man will take you from me eventually. Just make sure you give me some grandchildren to keep me entertained.” He started fiddling with one of his coat buttons.
Artemi suppressed a grimace. She needed to change the subject quickly. “I’ll always be here for you. No idiot boy is going to take me from you. Now, I have to get to the castle. I’m expected to help with the first service.”
Her father looked a little sad. She utterly disliked leaving him to return to that old house alone, so she made sure to give him a hug that was both fierce and warm. “I’ll come and see you again soon.”
“See that you do. Beware of that lecherous old king.”
Artemi grinned and nodded. She pushed her way through the crowds to a gently sloping road and followed it to the level below. The lamps burned with their warm glow of orange as she walked toward the black of the castle, whose malevolent walls loomed through gaps in the green of the buildings and streets. These sub-roads were unusually quiet with everyone assembled above. She pulled her old, brown cloak in close around her; the chill of the autumn had already set into the stones of the
As she drew closer to the castle, the houses became grander and the incline of the roads lessened. Artemi ambled down a long, winding street, and ran her hand along the rail until she reached the very bottom. A huge mouth filled with iron teeth bulged from the castle wall and a broad drawbridge protruded like a tongue. She traversed the wooden bridge slowly and raised one of her sleeves. Marked on her arm beneath, in dark green ink, was an image of a sword upon feathers, the symbol of Cadra. Once the guard at the entrance had seen it, he motioned for her to pass.
The gateway led to a huge courtyard, big enough for most of Cadra’s army to fit in. It was only here that you could appreciate the size of the castle proper that surrounded it.
Everything was on such a vast and improbable scale, though some brave fool of a climber had managed to hang gold streamers between the high windows.
More wreaths were strung from the poles that were set into the courtyard’s cobbles, and Artemi marvelled at the decorations only for a moment before she walked to one of the numerous exits. One of the other doorways might have brought her to her destination more rapidly, but she had never used them before, and would probably just become lost in any case.
The cool darkness of the tunnels enveloped her as she redrew her cloak. Artemi followed twists, slopes and worn step after gritty step to reach the kitchens. They sat beneath the Malachite Hall, lit only by the rows of fires that were used to cook for the inhabitants of the castle. The noise that came from there was incredible.
Hundreds of voices yelled between hisses of steam and thumps of knives, while cooks sweated heavily over roiling pots and heaved large, skinned carcasses of animals onto braziers. Great, vaulted arches supported the ceiling and runner pipes swung between them, pouring water wherever it was needed. Helpers ran busily about the place, looking flustered and red whilst carrying trays of drinks or meat. Artemi ventured into the fray, and sought out a woman with white hair. Sindra, as she was known, was in charge of directing the linen girls to wait upon the hall above.
Sindra was a handsome woman with high cheekbones and the bearing of the most
graceful of statues. Her hair was so pale and her skin tanned that it looked as if she had lain all day in the sun. Artemi approached her quietly. From the wildness in Sindra’s eyes, the woman appeared to be somewhat overwhelmed by her duties. “Ah, you’ve come to help us serve. Good! Drop your cloak over there and get your hands dirty. Well, not too dirty, we don’t want to put the nobles off their food!” Sindra turned to another, young-looking female servant and started waving her hands frantically, pointing in all manner of directions. Artemi unlaced her cloak and walked towards the burgeoning clothing racks as Sindra had indicated. She folded her mantle up neatly, and stowed it next to the others invain hope that she might find it again. The powerful smell of stewed beef prodded at her nose when she headed back to the others.
Sindra said, “Your job this evening is to keep taking trays from here, up to the hall. Do not serve the food directly to the guests. You must place the tray neatly on the tables and leave, taking any empties back here with you. Used trays go on this shelfhere.” Sindra pointed to a pile of pewter. “There are a lot of tables up there so mind they’re kept tidy. Olivin will direct you as to which food should go where.”
Artemi nodded and went to collect the nearest tray. It was heavy, not to mention searing hot upon her fingers. She gritted her teeth and shifted her hands as close to the edges as was possible.
The steps that led to the back of the Malachite Hall were unnecessarily steep and
busy with people jogging up and down them. Artemi struggled to keep the tray level as a particularly broad male servant nudged her into the wall and ran past.
At last, light began to pour into the stairway above, and a great swell of string music wrapped around her as she stepped into the glow of the paraffin lamps. The sound was just as vigorous and strong as any athlete in the Spring Games.
A solo player drew the bow across his instrument with such speed and force that the strings seemed close to rupture. Artemi felt her skin tingle at the fullness of the sound, but her attention was reluctantly torn away and to the task she had been charged with. A line of tables extended from the stairwell to the other side of the hall, which was so far away that it
dissolved into a mist of people and steaming animal carcasses.
The food appeared to be organised in ter
ms of meats, pastries, fruit and sweets. She raised the tray above her head and made her way carefully to the appropriate section of the table, her feet touching the ground in time with the music. A portly, brown-haired man, Olivin, was marching proudly up and down the table rows, directing waiters to distribute smaller trays of food to the revellers. He eyed Artemi as she placed her tray somewhat timidly onto the surface. “Girl, I want you to wipe down the top of these four tables. You’ll have to work around the trays as they’re removed and set. Quickly, now!”
Artemi curtseyed, and soon spied a collection of cleaning equipment against the
back wall. She took a cloth and dipped it in the soapy water of a halfbarrel. The table surface was well-worn, and food appeared to have worked its way deep into the grain, but Artemi gave it a hard scrub in the time she had available. She was strong enough to have a noticeable effect, but not quite fast enough to complete the work to her usual standard.
The music quietened suddenly. All the guests in the hall had ceased their chatter, and the servants slowed their bustling around the trays.
Artemi had an excellent view from her position behind the table. She could see a man sat upon a dais, and that he held a stringed instrument almost as large as his body. He began to draw deep, rich sounds from it that echoed around the vast hall. The great stone
doors at the opposite end swept open and gave issue to a colourful procession. The bearded man at the head wore a silver crown and deep blue, velvet robes. His beautiful benay-gosa pooled around him in an assortment of red dresses, most of which were scandalously cut, and behind them was Morghiad.
Morghiad was accompanied only by four of his guards, though he had evidently decided it was necessary to change for the evening. He wore a green coat this time, emblazoned with the sword and plumes of Cadra in white embroidery. His polished brown boots reached over his knees before giving way to some rather tightly fitted, black leather trousers. His face bore its usual dearth of emotion.
The crowd maintained its silence,
except for the rustle of fabric as some fell to their knees or bowed, and the musician brought his piece to a gentle close as King Acher took the hand of a blonde benay-gosa. He drew himself away from the group, and the string players at the other end of the hall shuffled about and re-tuned their instruments, preparing for the next theme. Then, a dark-haired lady stepped out from the crowd. She strode directly to the kahr, whispered something in his ear and bowed deeply. She was by far the most beautiful woman Artemi had ever seen. Thick, chestnut curls of hair framed her face and flowed down the centre of her back. Her features were dark, punctuated by full, red lips while her gown of gold silk had been made specifically to highlight her impossible waist. The kahr maintained his stony posture
for a moment and then nodded, his face displaying neither pleasure nor disdain. He took her hand and led her to stand opposite his father. The king boomed, “My son will dance with the Lady di Certa!” He motioned to the band to begin, and soft notes rose from their instruments, which obliged both men to draw their partners close.
Artemi’s eyes remained entirely on Morghiad and Lady di Certa as they stepped about the floor. For all the man looked like a pile of immovable rocks, he could move gracefully as a river. The music flowed between slow waves and fast torrents. With each quickening of pace the pair would come close, and Morghiad would pull the woman’s waist against his hips. When the strings slowed again, she would stalk around him like a tiger circling
its prey, and would arch her back while she leaned from his hand. The lady matched his steps well, though she did not quite have the same discipline as he. Though their dance was modest, it still managed to exude equally as much passion as any of Galabril’s antics. Artemi privately wished that she could dance as they did, though the idea seemed utterly ridiculous.
When the music came to a close, both couples bowed and the crowd around began a rapturous applause. Lady di Certa appeared to be breathing quite heavily following her exertion. Morghiad, as usual, was utterly unreadable.
The band struck up again and most people in the hall resumed their chatter. A few of the bolder nobles began to dance
themselves, which only served to obscure Artemi’s view of the royals. She looked back down at the table. Her cloth had made a small pool of water where she had held it aloft for so long. She wiped it up, hoping that no one else had noticed, and another servant immediately slapped a tray down which very nearly crushed Artemi’s hands in the process. It was time to move onto the next table, and that appeared to be even grubbier than the first. She got stuck into its surface with renewed vigour.
“Follocking apples! Why would I want a bloody apple?” came from the nearby crowd. A waiter carrying a tray of fruit stood aghast. Before him, an orange-haired guard swayed and gesticulated.
“Where’s the booze, man?” He leaned toward the servant. “Too much fruit gives me
the fear! I demand to have some wine. There must be some here...” The guard staggered over to a table covered in glasses of tanno wine. He knocked a few over as he reached for his desired vessel. Artemi swallowed, realising his coat bore the four green slashes of a lieutenant. Was this behaviour really acceptable for an officer of Calidell? The lieutenant downed his glass with gusto and then eyed the servants lining the tables. His eyes came to rest on Artemi.
A slow sneer worked its way across his ruddy face. He stumbled to her and wavered upon unsteady feet. “Well, hello there. Did it burn when you rose from the fires of Achellon?” He belched horrifically. And then winked.
Artemi withdrew towards the wall,
unsure of how she should respond.
He continued to slur, “My name is Beetan. You’re the sweetest thing I’ve seen all week. Not that I’m allowed to have you.”
Artemi stiffened – surely he couldn’t know?
The orange-haired man went on, “The captain says we’re not allowed casual women anymore. Not that there’s anything casual about you. Arf!”
Artemi smiled weakly and curtseyed. He did not know. “Thank you, Lord Beetan. You are too kind, but I’m afraid I must continue with my... less-than-casual duties here.”
The man swayed for a bit and then leaned towards her, hands hitting the table in front of him. “Oh you do, do you?”
Just then, another black-coated guard caught his arm. “I think we’ve had enough, don’t you? Let’s leave the poor girl alone, eh?” It was Lord Forllan. Artemi could hardly believe that she felt relief at the sight of him.
Beetan screwed his face up, took a final, appreciative leer at Artemi and then wandered off into the cloud of guests. The blond lieutenant gave a small bow and gripped the hilt of the sword at his waist. “Good to see you again, Artemi. I hope my friend has not offended you. He can be a little... coarse, but he is well-meaning once you get to know him.” The lord displayed one of his winning smiles. It made Artemi’s stomach feel light, but Olivin grabbed her arm at that moment.
She pulled it away instinctively, sharply even, and his mood did not improve with her
reaction. “Stop idling, girl, and get back to work. You’ve been standing here like a bowl of melon soup for nigh on five minutes! Don’t think I haven’t noticed!”
Lord Forllan coughed softly. “Actually, I was just engaging the young lady in conversation. I see these tables are wellattended. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed her from you for a short while?”
Olivin’s round face reddened considerably. “Of course not, my lord. Forgive me for not observing you there.” He bowed profusely and backed away from Artemi as if she were a heavily armed foe, and promptly resumed his frantic orders.
“Will you step out from behind there for a moment? I should like to speak with you, if I may.” Lord Forllan’s eyes seemed to burn
into her.
Artemi was anxious. She knew that he was not kanaala, but she also knew that whatever conversation they were about to have could not end well. He was terribly pretty, though. Devastatingly
so.
“I’ll meet you at the end, there.” She gestured to the last table.
Lord Forllan inclined his head and began to walk, level with her, to the other side of the room. There were numerous obstacles to navigate on both sides: he encountered large clumps of somewhat inebriated guests, while she had to dodge wild servants and blazing hot trays. At last, they met at the far wall.
“You moved round those people with much grace, my lady. I am most impressed with your agility.” He bent his left elbow so that it
stuck out sideways from his trunk, though his hand remained behind his back. “Will you take my arm, Artemi?”
Did he want her to cut it off? “I’m not sure I follow...”
His brow furrowed a little, then he nodded to a couple standing a few yards from them.
“Oh,” she said with some embarrassment. Artemi placed her right hand in the crook of his arm, and they began to walk along the back of the hall.
He examined her as they meandered through the gaps in the crowd. “You have never been in the Malachite Hall before?”
She realised she must have been gawping wide-eyed at the surroundings. It was incredible, so vast and so... weighty. Artemi
The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle Page 9
