A Lair of Bones

by Helen Scheuerer

‘Perfect,’ she sighed.

  Someone sidled up in between them. ‘Need a hand?’

  Harlyn let out an impatient tsk. ‘What are you doing here, Jesmond?’

  At fourteen years of age, Jesmond was the youngest fledgling in their ranks, who made it her mission to interrupt the trio any chance she got.

  She flashed Harlyn a grin. ‘Helping you three.’

  ‘You’re not a bone cleaner yet, Jes,’ Orson said gently.

  ‘Ahhh, yes,’ Roh retorted. ‘Something to aim high for.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be learning about long-forgotten cyren wars and deathsongs?’ Harlyn added less kindly, flicking a bone splinter at the youngster.

  Jesmond didn’t so much as flinch, but merely batted the fragment away and waited expectantly to be included. Roh loved watching the verbal sparring matches Jesmond started; she had a way of getting under all of their skins. When she wasn’t driving them mad, they couldn’t help laughing at her antics. She was akin to the younger sister none of them had, persistent and always having heard things she shouldn’t have.

  ‘Jesmond, get back to the lesson rooms.’ Ames’ voice cleaved through the chatter. Jes slipped away without another word and Ames’ gaze fell to Roh, Harlyn and Orson. ‘You three,’ he said sharply. ‘Less talk, more work.’

  Roh had lost count of how many times Ames had scolded them over the years. The rest of the workshop knew that if their mentor was in a foul mood, it was more than likely that the ‘trio of terrors’ was behind it. That was what Ames had called them as youngsters. Despite the fact that he had always said it with a sharp voice and stern expression, Roh, Harlyn and Orson knew there was some semblance of fondness buried beneath, and thus they always dared to push Ames that little bit further than the rest of their cohort.

  ‘Rohesia.’ Ames had moved closer to Roh. ‘Have you looked at the design for the new nobles’ quarters yet?’

  She shook her head, still studying the skeletal piece in her hand. ‘I haven’t had time —’

  ‘Do it now.’

  ‘But Ames —’ She couldn’t help the longing glance in the direction of her secret project.

  He made a point of ignoring this. ‘Now. They want it built yesterday.’ His cutting expression told her there would be no negotiating. He dropped a rolled piece of parchment on top of the bones in front of her. ‘Stop hunching,’ he added, tugging his collar; a tic he had to cover the strange mark on his neck.

  Roh stretched her arms behind her with a groan.

  Harlyn rejoined them at the workbench. ‘Why in the realm should you be looking at designs? You’re just a bone cleaner like the rest of us.’

  Orson looked worriedly between Harlyn and Roh. ‘What she means is: they shouldn’t be taking advantage of you.’

  Harlyn rolled her eyes in frustration. ‘Obviously that’s what I was saying.’ Harlyn had a harsh way with words, but she meant well, usually.

  Roh knew her friends were right. Looking at designs was not part of her job. But she didn’t care. Reviewing plans for the lair, analysing the architectural integrity of Saddoriel and the outer borders of Talon’s Reach, was far more stimulating than picking rotten skin off bones could ever be. And she was good at it. She had an instinct for assessing the landscape, Ames always said. When she wasn’t working on her own design, she practised drawing exercises in her sketchbook, perfecting the basic principles of architecture. Amidst the monotony of the workshop, pre-empting a fault in a floor plan or poking holes in the scale of someone’s carefully built model gave her a thrill. So when Ames sought her help, Roh jumped at the chance, despite the fact that she never received credit for her input. The main problem was how little time she had. She was never excused from her duties in the workshop, so she often found herself trying to catch up well into the early hours of the morning.

  Roh now turned to the curling piece of parchment Ames had given her. The design for the nobles’ quarters. She scowled, studying the crisp lines and measurements. It wasn’t architecture for a new wing at all. Far from it. She stared, disbelief clenching her insides. It was a cage. Roh didn’t want to guess at what, or whom it was for. She took a breath and examined it critically. She could already see the flaw in the design – the levers where the cage would open and close weren’t positioned correctly. The system of pulleys would snap at the incorrect weight distribution. She took out a stick of charcoal and began to make her adjustments.

  She had just found her rhythm, blocking out the endless distractions of the workshop, when Ames cleared his throat pointedly. He stood at the front of the room, long fingers pressed together, waiting coolly for all movement and chatter to cease.

  ‘You will need to have all bones cleaned and sorted by the eighteenth hour today,’ he said. His high collar seemed sharper, making him look even more severe than usual.

  He was answered with an outburst of loud protests.

  ‘Master Ames, there’s no way we can possibly —’

  ‘That’s not fair. There’s just not enough time —’

  ‘Why? We can’t be expected to work like that —’

  The scrape of something sharp on a workbench set Roh’s teeth on edge. Harlyn had dragged her long, black talons across the surface, her face dark with fury. ‘He can’t be serious,’ she hissed.

  ‘Calm down, Har,’ Orson whispered, placing a soft hand on Harlyn’s arm. ‘I’m sure there’s a reason.’

  Roh took in the sight of her friends, both tense in their own different ways. Harlyn, on the verge of a violent explosion, Orson poised to intervene at a second’s notice.

  Roh straightened on her stool and sought her mentor’s attention. ‘Ames,’ she called, her voice louder than the unified cry of objections. ‘It’s not possible. We can’t complete —’

  But Ames’ icy lilac glare silenced her. ‘Her Majesty has called a territory-wide assembly in the Upper Sector this evening,’ he said, his words cold.

  Roh blinked, not daring to glance at Harlyn and Orson. ‘What?’

  Ames’ voice cleaved through the workshop and seemed to forge it anew. ‘It appears the Queen’s Tournament is upon us once more.’

  Suddenly, Roh couldn’t swallow. It was as though the back of her throat was swelling with every burning question that sprang to her mind. At last, she turned to her friends, their expressions just as shocked and then eager as her own …

  The Queen’s Tournament. It’s finally here.

  Chapter Two

  The bone Roh was holding clattered to the ground and the entire workshop burst into excited chatter while the trio of friends stared at each other in disbelief. They had been waiting for the Queen’s Tournament their entire lives. The mere mention of its name flipped Roh’s stomach. Held only every five decades, this would be the first in her brief lifetime of seventeen years. On more than one occasion, she had wished herself older to have witnessed the tournaments before, so she knew what to expect and how many years, months, days until the next. But no amount of wishing would change things; being a bone cleaner of Saddoriel had taught her that much at least.

  The tournament was everything. It gave cyrens from all over the realms the opportunity to compete for the coral crown. It offered a chance for glory, a chance to see Saddoriel and escape the confines of monotony. Since they were youngsters, the trio had lived off the stories of past tournaments. Over the years, they had taken every chance to interrogate Ames about the ones he had seen. They’d questioned him about the previous competitors, the dirty tactics, the cunning trials and the bloodlust of the crowd. The three friends had inhaled every morsel of detail, noting down everything that might help them one day … If Ames was in a good mood, he would humour them, describing the set-up of the arena: a series of deadly circuits one tournament, a race through the human realms above the next, and one of the most recent … A cage battle. The tournament encapsulated the nature and history of their kind: brutal, bloody and cunning. Roh had always been fascinated with the idea of the tournaments, but as she and the others
grew from nestlings to fledglings, they became obsessed. Soon they began to whisper plans of their own. Imagine … If one of us were to be crowned queen …

  But Ames finished his tales the same way every time: with a sigh and the words, ‘It’s called the Queen’s Tournament for a reason.’

  This always made Roh, Orson and Harlyn roll their eyes. They knew Queen Delja was the most powerful cyren to have ruled Talon’s Reach in thousands of years. She wasn’t called Delja the Triumphant for nothing. For six centuries she had reigned over Talon’s Reach and the cyren territories beyond. Their winged queen was a descendant of the great water goddesses, and because of her heritage had been blessed with an unusually long life, even for a cyren. But that didn’t mean she would reign forever. The trio was determined to prove that to the rest of Saddoriel. For nearly a decade, they had repeated that promise to one another. Together, they would show their kind that lowborns could do more than clean bones. Together, they would make their mark on Saddoriel, because at long last, the tournament was here. And Roh, Orson and Harlyn were all old enough to enter.

  As per the tournament rules, there was only one place open to their subsector. Long ago, they had agreed to play each other for it, vowing that the two who lost would be happy for the victor. It was as simple and as hard as that.

  Roh looked down at the bloody mess in front of them. A collection of bones, human and other, with strips of flesh and whatever else still attached. Centuries ago, the cyrens of the world had done whatever they pleased; luring their prey into dark passages, tempting victims from ships into the churning currents … Wherever they roamed, they took what they wanted: music, magic, power. Now, it was different. Now, cyrens stayed within the cyren territories, depending on melodies to preserve their might. And Roh and her friends had no idea where the bones came from. Any queries fell on deaf ears. Lowborns weren’t to concern themselves with questions.

  Roh returned her focus to the blueprint before her. The sooner she completed her work, the sooner the trio could discuss the Queen’s Tournament and what, exactly, they intended to do about it.

  Somehow, their cohort managed to complete the day’s work in time, and that evening the dining hall was buzzing. Everyone was to go to the Upper Sector after supper, and that alone was cause enough for excitement. Like many of their peers, Roh and her friends had never seen past the lower levels of their sector. Only the more senior cyrens were allowed into the Mid and Upper Sectors for trade, and of course, to maintain the bone architecture above. The trio sat huddled at the end of the table, away from the rest, taking in the energy of the room.

  ‘It’s happening … It’s finally happening,’ Orson said, voice hushed. ‘Part of me can’t believe it.’

  Harlyn slung her arm around their friend’s shoulder. ‘Well, believe it. Not long now until one of us is an official competitor.’

  Roh could hardly stomach her dinner, so bad were the nerves writhing inside her. Their lives were about to change forever. There would be no going back; once a competitor entered, that was it. Many died during the trials, which was often preferable to the shame of failing. Roh only knew of four living cyrens who had survived a Queen’s Tournament and remained in Saddoriel; they did so only by the grace of the Council of Elders, apparently having shown enough valiance to sate the pride of their queen. The tournament was perilous at best, deadly at worst, and Roh had never wanted anything more in her life.

  ‘It’s called the Queen’s Tournament for a reason.’ Ames’ words echoed in her mind.

  Yes, she thought. And there will be a new queen soon enough. Only on occasion had Roh dared to dream of what might be should they succeed, should she succeed. She imagined her friends and peers cheering her on as she faced challenge after challenge. Banners with her name scrawled across them in big letters, cyrens who had painted lines of gold across their foreheads so they could be just like her. She pictured a great feast, proud faces and words of congratulations as the coral crown was at last bestowed upon her. Her life as a bone cleaner would be no more. What then? Would she and the others live as highborns in the Upper Sector? Experiencing music every single day?

  Roh shook the daydreams from her head. ‘When are we going to decide?’ she asked Harlyn and Orson, pushing away her bowl.

  ‘First thing tomorrow? Gives us the night to think about whether we want to back out …’ Harlyn grinned as she said the last words.

  Roh forced herself to return the grin, knowing full well that none of them would pass up the chance to compete.

  ‘What game are we going to play?’ Orson said.

  Harlyn shrugged. ‘We always said we’d choose at the last minute.’

  ‘We did?’

  ‘Yes,’ Roh replied, knowing full well the terms of what they had discussed over the years, knowing that the others did too. ‘So none of us have time to prepare or plan anything prior.’

  A bell rang and Ames appeared in the doorway of the dining hall alongside the other mentors of the Lower Sector.

  Roh was already standing. ‘It’s time …’

  The trio stayed close as the hall burst into activity. Benches scraped back, bowls and cutlery were deposited at the kitchen window and the crowd of lowborns bottlenecked at the exit. Roh linked arms with her friends and joined the rest of the jostling group, spotting Ames in the lead as they made their way towards the elaborate pulley system that would transport them to the entrance of Saddoriel. Roh’s throat went dry. She had no idea what to expect from the Upper Sector or its inhabitants. They were going in blind.

  Packed into a metal box, they lurched upwards and Roh clutched the railing, her stomach squirming. With their entire workshop group squeezed into the tiny space, it was instantly stuffy and made Roh nauseous. She hated the sensation. Ignoring the animated chatter around her, she focused her attention outwards, peering through the bodies as the various levels began to pass. Talon’s Reach was an immense, cavernous territory, with its city, Saddoriel, at its heart. A cylindrical fortress, holding three sectors, twelve subsectors and countless levels, tunnelling deep, dark leagues under the seabed.

  The pulley system jolted violently as they continued upwards and Roh gasped. Orson squeezed her arm; she too was suffering. When they passed the Mid Sector, Roh’s ears felt strange, as though something had popped within them. As the pulley system took them higher still, the light changed. Roh knew from what Ames had told them that the Upper Sector of Saddoriel was enchanted to reflect the natural light of the sun and moon in the sky above the seas, while the Lower Sector made do with torches and jars of glowing valo beetles. Roh craned her neck to see the levels as they passed.

  There was a collective intake of breath as suddenly, it sounded. Music. The mournful notes of a fiddle carved through the lair. Clear and brilliant, the sound skittered across Roh’s skin and sank into her chest, where it belonged. She felt the contentment only music could bring, a kind of peace within herself that was so often just a mirage.

  The screech of chains cut through the melody as they came to a halt.

  ‘This way,’ Ames called. They stepped out into a cavernous passage, with sparse light flickering, catching the glint of salt crystals in the walls.

  Following her peers, Roh was mesmerised as a different sort of light beamed down, revealing the official entrance to Saddoriel … An archway of bones. Its ivory tones gleamed bright. Immaculately sculpted and preserved, the sheer volume of them … The way they were expertly placed … It was both horrifying and beautiful. As they passed under the towering structure, the music that filled the air around them became even clearer.

  Imagine hearing this all the time, Roh marvelled, pressing her hand to her chest in wonder. Around her, her fellow fledglings wore the same awed expressions.

  This … this is what the Upper Sector is like …

  Beyond the archway of bones was the inside of a great cylinder, with numerous stone galleries peering down at them, stretching over a hundred feet above. Rocky bridges joined the upper levels, an
d in the centre of it all was a thick, jagged column, a throne looming high. Roh admired the structure, wishing she’d brought her sketchbook and stick of charcoal to capture the architecture, to break down the form and function of the design. There was nothing like this down in the Lower Sector. It was like an everted tower, brimming with magic and complexities she longed to study and understand. Ames had taught her the tenets of architecture, and his words echoed in her mind now:

  ‘Space, concept, function and structure. Once you understand these principles of design, Rohesia, you can build anything, and take anything apart …’

  Roh didn’t know where to look. Thousands of cyrens from all over Talon’s Reach were crammed into the entrance of the lair. The populations of the Upper, Mid and Lower Sectors were, for once, all in the one place.

  Was that a …? Roh stared after a lowborn she’d never seen before, ducking into the crowd. Sometimes it was hard to believe she wasn’t the only circlet-wearer in Saddoriel. But she was sure she’d seen a flash of gold, and for that she was grateful, knowing the existence of others granted her a sliver of anonymity. She might be the offspring of a criminal, but no one knew which criminal – except for Harlyn and Orson, of course. However, there was no denying what she was.

  Roh’s skin crawled as the nearby highborns noticed her, their eyes catching on the gold circlet around her head, noses wrinkling in disgust. Heat flooded her face and she wanted to shrink back from the slippered feet, flowing robes and jewelled belts. Some sported silver jewellery along their exposed arms, others displayed their nobility with small serpents coiling around their necks. These snakes were the distant relation to the legendary sea serpents and drakes who accompanied the goddesses Dresmis and Thera everywhere. To have one was to be in the inner circle of the Council of Seven Elders – or to be the queen herself.

  Beside Roh, Orson was fidgeting in her discomfort, whereas Harlyn had plastered an aggressive, narrow-eyed stare upon her face. They too were being gawked at, though not with quite as much loathing. Roh had to clamp her hands to her sides to stop herself from trying to cover the ring of gold that marked her as different. Instead, she took in the extraordinary surroundings. She gaped at the vertical gardens of rare flowers that inched up the walls of the galleries above. Inside, bone framed almost everything. The work of so many cyrens who had come before her and her friends.