‘So no more disgusting potions,’ she interrupted. He smiled.
‘No more disgusting potions. If I had a way to introduce small amounts of an element directly into your blood … but no matter. I think the most promising avenue for investigation will be to create something you can wear. Even just holding certain raw materials, you became quicker and stronger. Not by much, but enough to make me think that if I can find the right combination …’
‘Good.’ Ayla was overtaken by an enormous yawn. She wiped her eyes and grinned at him. ‘Do you want something to eat? I’m starving.’
Once the food arrived, she proceeded to prove that by eating three-quarters of what was there – and being fully aware of their overlord’s requirements, the kitchen staff hadn’t skimped on the meal. Miles watched her with unabashed curiosity.
‘Hardly surprising, I suppose,’ he remarked. ‘Alchemical reactions require energy. Tell me, are you and Captain Caraway planning to marry?’
It was such an abrupt change to such a personal subject that she choked on a mouthful of bread. Once she’d finally swallowed it down, wiped her eyes and got her breath back, she shook her head reprovingly at him. ‘You can’t ask questions like that, Miles.’
‘I am sorry. It is just that Art always says –’ He broke off, blushing. ‘Never mind.’
Ayla narrowed her eyes at him. ‘What does Art always say?’
‘He says he does not understand why Tomas does not ask you,’ Miles mumbled, looking down at the piece of fruit in his hands. ‘He thinks Tomas is afraid that –’
Suddenly not wanting to hear any of this indirectly, Ayla held up a hand to stop him. ‘It’s not up to Tomas. As overlord of Darkhaven, I’m the one who would do the asking. And I’d appreciate it if we didn’t mention this subject again.’
‘Sorry. I – sorry.’ He looked so mournful, and so uncomfortable, that Ayla softened towards him. She turned the conversation back to alchemy by telling him about the various unsuccessful attempts she’d made at freezing water, and the rest of the meal passed without incident.
Yet once Miles had gone, she found herself thinking about his question again. To tell the truth, it was one that had been on her mind a great deal. As she’d said, it was up to her to do the asking. She wanted to do it. And yet she couldn’t find the words.
Tomas, I want you to stay here for good.
Tomas, remember when you told me that with my father gone, I could marry whoever I wanted?
Tomas, I love you. I love you …
But she still recalled, very vividly, how painful it had been the last time. She’d offered him herself as well as, indirectly, her hand in marriage – her future children – everything she had. And he’d turned it down. Of course, it had taken her less than a day to realise that reaction had been built on a misunderstanding. But even then, the sting of rejection and the choking down of wounded pride had been hard to overcome. She didn’t think she could bear that again.
You’re a coward, Ayla Nightshade, she told herself. And unnecessarily so. You know he’s devoted to you.
For some reason, she found herself remembering their very first night together. It had been a mess, not at all the glorious pinnacle of passion she’d imagined. Not that she’d had anything to go on besides imagination. She’d been awkward, unsure of herself, and miserable with the loss of her family besides. Somehow she’d expected Tomas to take all of that away, but of course that wasn’t fair. It was in her head, not his. And so they’d fumbled their way through it, and afterwards she’d burst into tears.
It made her wince even to think about it, now.
Yet the one thing she’d carried with her from that night was how deeply Tomas admired her – not just as a person, but as a woman. His hands on her body had been gentle, but never hesitant; he’d touched her as if it were an act of worship, a giving of thanks to one of the great powers. And that hadn’t changed once it was over, as she’d half expected it to. Even through her tears, she’d been aware of him holding her as tenderly as ever. It was the memory of his touch, the kindness of it, that had given her enough confidence to try again.
And again.
Until, suddenly and startlingly, it had all made sense – and it had kept making sense between the two of them ever since.
Faced with memories like that, how could she doubt the depth of his feelings for her?
And yet she was afraid. Probably, she admitted to herself, because she knew she’d only have one chance. If he turned down her proposal, she’d never have the courage to offer it again. And so rather than risk that decisive rejection, she held herself back from even trying.
Part of the problem was how deeply he was entwined in every aspect of her life: Captain of the Helm, Marlon’s surrogate father, the only man she wanted to share her bed. Which was silly, of course, because those were also some of the reasons she loved him. But he’d been afraid, three years ago, that she was turning to him out of gratitude and loneliness rather than genuine feeling. She could just imagine how he might make that mistake on a far grander scale, now, and assume she’d been swayed mainly or entirely by how useful he was to her.
Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself sternly. Just talk to him about it. You talk to him about everything else.
Yet once he was home and they were finally alone, she found herself approaching the topic in the most roundabout way possible.
‘Tomas, if I die …’
‘You won’t die.’ The response was swift. She squeezed his hand in tacit acknowledgement of his determination, but went on stubbornly.
‘Just listen … if I die, you’ll need to hold Darkhaven until Marlon comes of age. You are his father, to all intents and purposes, and –’
‘Of course,’ Tomas said softly. ‘I’ll look after him, you know that. Though without a Changer to defend us, I can’t guarantee to hold Darkhaven against the might of Sol Kardis. Better, perhaps, to flee the country and conceal Marlon –’
Temporarily diverted from her purpose, Ayla shook her head. ‘He has to stay in the tower. The Kardise may take the rest of Mirrorvale. They may even take the rest of Arkannen. But as long as there is still a Nightshade in Darkhaven, it will all come right in the end.’
‘How?’
‘The family and Darkhaven. My father always said that if one falls, so does the other; but after some of the discussions I’ve had with Miles, I believe it’s more. I believe it’s also the case that one can’t fall without the other.’ Reading the doubt in his eyes, she added, ‘It would be something to hope for, at least.’
‘Twelve years is a long time to cling to a hope that slender, love.’ He brought his other hand over to cover their clasped fingers, looking steadily into her face. ‘But I’ll swear to it, if that’s what you want. It’s not as if I’d do anything different, if it came to it. You and Marlon have my dedication, forever and always. You know that.’
And just like that, they were back to the point. Ayla could feel the words on her lips: And you have mine. I love you, Tomas. Marry me. But even as she opened her mouth to say them, he spoke again.
‘Ayla … are you sure it’s wise, to be discussing such things with Miles?’
Not this again. ‘I can hardly avoid it. We talk a great deal.’
‘About the vulnerabilities of your entire bloodline?’
‘The whole point of working with Miles is to find a way to shield my vulnerability,’ Ayla reminded him. ‘We can hardly do that if we don’t talk about it.’
‘Well, I don’t like it,’ he said stubbornly.
Frustrated by their return to the same old argument instead of the very different conversation she’d intended, she snatched her hands away from him. ‘Tomas, will you please just stop –’
A loud cracking sound made them both jump and look round. At first neither of them could identify the source, until Ayla discovered a new crack running across the top of the table beside her. Wordlessly she beckoned Tomas over, and they both stood gazing down at it.
> ‘Did you do that?’ he asked softly. ‘After what Miles said …’
‘I don’t know.’ She ran her hand over the wood, feeling the jagged line that split the surface. Had she sensed something new happening, in that instant of frustration? Had the power that Miles had promised finally manifested itself? She wanted to believe it, but she suspected it was just wishful thinking.
‘Try it again,’ Tomas said.
How? she wanted to ask. Even if I did it, there was nothing deliberate about it. But his expression was one of expectant pride, lifting the flicker of hope she felt herself to a small but steady flame. She took a deep breath, centring herself, then tried to extend her thoughts towards the wood. Break. Break now. But nothing happened. Why would it? She didn’t know how to make her will become reality. She kept trying until eventually, she had to shake her head in defeat.
‘I can’t do it. I don’t know how I did it before, if I even did.’ Her nails dug into her palms. ‘Ugh! If my father had just told me –’
This time the crack was deep enough that the tabletop bowed. They stared at each other.
‘All right,’ Tomas said finally, breaking the stunned silence. ‘So you can only do it when you’re angry.’
She nodded, still trying to process it all. ‘Looks that way.’
He gave her an affectionate smile. ‘Lucky you have me around to keep you in a constant state of irritation, then.’
‘Oh, Tomas.’ She rested her cheek against his arm. ‘Why can’t anything ever be straightforward?’
‘Where would be the fun in that?’ He kissed her. ‘You’re a step closer. Think of it that way. Keep trying, and ask Miles about it next time you see him.’
‘So I’m allowed to talk to Miles about this, then?’ She’d intended it teasingly, but the question came out with an edge to it. Tomas sighed.
‘You’re the overlord of Darkhaven. You’re allowed to do whatever you want.’ He looked down at her, attempting another smile, but it was weary. ‘Just try not to get yourself killed.’
FOURTEEN
Penn might not have liked the inhabitants, but he couldn’t deny the lure of Arkannen itself. Albeit reluctantly, he was beginning to understand why his cousin had loved it so much.
He wandered through the sixth ring in a state of almost perpetual astonishment. He wasn’t meant to be in the sixth ring, of course – he wasn’t a citizen. The people of Arkannen were allowed to visit the temples a certain number of times each year, to celebrate whichever occasions or elements they’d chosen to honour, or to seek advice from those temples that were open to such things, but outsiders were barred. Even if Darkhaven hadn’t been on high alert, that would have been the case. Citizens had certain privileges that others did not, one being permission to leave the lower rings. And though trainee warriors were an exception to that rule, they were admitted to the fifth ring only under strict conditions. They certainly weren’t allowed beyond it, unless Captain Caraway or Weaponmaster Bryan or one of a handful of other key figures accompanied them.
Penn had considered these points very briefly, and decided that since he had no intention of staying in Arkannen – or even, necessarily, of surviving beyond the end of training – he wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to see everything he could. Some of the Helm were using the duelling floors, even this early in the morning; he’d simply walked past, grabbed one of their striped coats and sauntered through the Gate of Ice. The watch hadn’t paid him any attention, which didn’t say much for their security. No doubt it was different up at the tower, where every Helmsman’s face would be recognised … or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Penn could walk straight in and do whatever he wanted.
Still, he wasn’t ready for that yet, so he’d taken off the borrowed coat as soon as he was far enough away from the gate, turned it so the lining was uppermost, and draped it over his arm. Then he’d ignored the shorter route to the Gate of Death and gone the other way instead.
It was the first spare time he’d had in a fortnight. The morning after their silly fight in the mess hall, Weaponmaster Bryan had given him and Zander a single, sweeping glance, then ordered them to polish all the weapons in the armoury. I want to see my face in every blade. And if you ever do anything like this again, lads, you’ll be out. I don’t like it when people ignore my rules. It had been a relief not to be barred from the fifth ring, but cleaning all that metal had been a long and tedious task. It had taken almost every bell of daylight that wasn’t spent on training or practice. The only benefit had been that Penn had become sufficiently acquainted with Zander’s mannerisms, while they sweated over polishing cloths together, that he was just about able to tolerate them.
‘Fun job,’ Zander said, straightening up and wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. ‘This is all your fault, Penn.’
‘My fault?’ Penn said indignantly. ‘You punched me first, remember?’
‘You accused me of being an assassin.’
‘You accused me first!’
Zander stared at him, before – suddenly and surprisingly – a grin spread over his face. ‘Guess we’re as bad as each other, then.’
Penn thought about it, then touched his fingertips to Zander’s to seal the bargain. ‘I can live with that.’
And Penn’s evenings had been equally busy, full of Saydi and reluctant socialising. She’d told him – giggling, but with an edge to it that suggested she really meant it – that he needed to behave like a fully functioning member of society, not a petulant child. As a result, he’d squandered more time than he cared to think on chatter and drink with a bunch of people who’d hate him if they knew what he was thinking. He’d tried to express that to Saydi, but she’d only shaken her head. If we all knew what everyone else was thinking, civilisation would collapse in a heartbeat. As far as I can see, life is based on people lying to each other. It was one of the things he found himself liking about her: hidden amongst the inconsequential chatter were a few precious coins of wisdom. Yet despite that, he felt as if his entire life had become too full. He needed a place to breathe.
Up here in the sixth ring, he’d finally found it.
For one thing, there were fewer people. It wasn’t a celebration day, so the citizens of Arkannen had no reason to be present in any great number. Those he did pass were mainly priestesses, gowned and veiled, going about their business with barely a glance at him. They knew they had nothing to fear from any stranger; no man or woman of Mirrorvale would harm a sixth-ring priestess. And somehow Penn found that calming. He’d grown up with weaponry, and he was more than competent to use it, but he hadn’t realised until he left the fifth ring how exhausting it was to be around it all the time. During training he was always on his guard, whereas here he could relax. It was as though the weight of expectation the fifth ring placed on his shoulders simply melted away, leaving him free to enjoy his surroundings.
And there was no denying that his surroundings were very enjoyable. Each temple he passed was more fantastic than the last, yet none of them gave the impression of being ostentatious for the sake of it. In fact, every single one seemed to have been designed perfectly to encapsulate the qualities of the power it revered. The Cathedral of Trees, for instance, was a vast structure made entirely of living trees: their woven branches formed the roof and walls, their trunks the supports and internal pillars, giving the impression of both a worship hall and a sacred forest. Penn didn’t have to walk into it to feel the sense of peace it exuded. And the dazzling bronze structure of the Sun Shrine was topped with a circular dish that somehow trapped and reflected light, making it too bright to look at directly, even on an overcast autumn morning like this.
When he reached the Spire of Air, he stopped. The spire itself – a tall, thin shard of glass that looked sharp enough to cut the sky in half – was impressive enough on its own. He could make out the walkway that spiralled partway up the outside of the spire to a platform bordered only by a single rail: the closest thing this particular temple had to an altar. Yet the spi
re rose out of an equally stunning building, made entirely of glass and carved into a series of shapes that reminded him of birds taking flight. The entire temple gave the impression that it was trying to float up into the sky where it belonged. Penn hadn’t made much of his private dedication to Air since his unfortunate encounter with the itinerant priest in the first ring, but suddenly he found himself thinking – for the first time in weeks – that his situation wasn’t so very overwhelming after all. Funny, how being in the presence of something much bigger and more enduring than himself could bring him solace.
‘Not one of my favourites,’ a voice said behind him. ‘It’s a vicious-looking thing, don’t you think?’
Penn turned. Captain Caraway was standing a short distance away, looking up at the spire just as Penn himself had been.
‘It always strikes me as the perfect place for a heroic last stand,’ the captain went on. ‘I can just imagine some desperate man barricading himself at the top of that walkway and fighting off all comers. It has that … combative look about it.’ He glanced at Penn, a wry twist to his mouth. ‘The Water Garden is much more soothing. Have you visited?’
Torn by confusion and incoherent hatred, Penn shook his head. ‘I’m not supposed to be here at all.’ Then he winced. Why did I say that? Like a child confessing to a crime – But Caraway only shrugged.
‘You don’t appear to be doing any harm.’
‘Not yet,’ Penn muttered.
‘It’s like that, is it?’ Caraway looked amused. How did he manage to make Penn feel so … so young? It wasn’t as if he were all that much older than Penn, really. Just more experienced – better trained –
‘You don’t like me much, do you?’ Caraway asked, and Penn realised he was scowling. Hastily he smoothed his expression. You’re far too transparent, Saydi had told him when he’d first confided the truth to her. You’ll never get anywhere if you let your feelings show on your face. And, of course, she was right. Caraway would never select him for Helm training if he couldn’t find a way to suppress his hostility, and that would ruin all his plans. He had to be chosen. Had to.
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