She froze mid-step. For standing in a gallery high above was the Council of Seven Elders. She nudged Harlyn and Orson, nodding to the balcony.
Harlyn followed her line of sight and let out a low whistle. ‘Do you know who’s who?’
Roh gazed up at the straight-backed figures. Like all cyrens, she knew the names of the seven members: the two Haertels (a couple), Mercer, Ward, Colter, Rasaat, Sigra. But this was the first time she had seen them in person.
Orson pointed. ‘The light brown-haired duo, there, that’s Taro and Bloodwyn Haertel.’
Harlyn scoffed. ‘How do you know?’
‘When I was a nestling, they visited the Lower Sector. They oversee the population of Talon’s Reach. I think they’re seen as the unofficial leaders of the council.’
‘And the rest?’ Roh asked.
‘That’s Arcus Mercer,’ Jesmond piped up. Roh had to stop herself from cursing the youngster. She really did manage to sneak up on them. Roh followed Jesmond’s pointed finger to the tallest of the elders, whose hair was shaved close to the skull. ‘He came to our lessons a few moons back. He’s the education master. And that elder there …’ Jesmond added, shifting her focus to another male cyren whose arms were crossed over his chest. He looked severe, with sharp features, a zigzag line shaved through his hair and his talons unsheathed.
‘That’s Erdites Colter. He oversees the Law of the Lair, and the Jaktaren.’
Roh’s stomach dropped. ‘The Jaktaren? Are they here?’ She pivoted, searching the crowds for any sign of the legendary guild.
Harlyn nudged her in the ribs with her elbow and thrust her chin upwards. In the gallery beside the Council of Seven Elders was a small group standing stoically side by side. All five of them had the same thin zigzagged line shaved – or was it scarred? – into the right side of their head, just like their elder. Roh let out a breath. She could only really make out the two at the front – a male and a female cyren, who watched the crowd below, still as death. The Jaktaren was a guild of highborn cyrens who had mastered their deathsongs early in life, who had been trained to scour the vast realms above, hunting human musicians to bring back to Saddoriel.
Roh realised she was still staring at the handsome pair. The female was short for a cyren and wore a sling at her jewel-belted hip, while the male’s mouth was set in a straight line, his jaw square and aggressive, with chestnut brown hair to his collarbone. Roh started. There was something familiar about him …
‘That’s Finn Haertel,’ Jesmond said with a wink. ‘According to my sources, he’s one of the best Jaktaren in the last century. He’s brought fifteen musicians back to Saddoriel in this past moonspan alone.’
Roh frowned at the youngster. ‘Your sources?’ she laughed. ‘Who do you think you are, Jes? Some sort of secret informer?’
Harlyn snorted beside her. ‘Jesmond thinks she’s got a future in gambling, haven’t you heard, Roh? She constantly combs the lair for the best tips.’
‘And what in the name of Dresmis and Thera do the Jaktaren have to do with lowborns gambling away their hard-earned bronze keys?’ Roh said.
Jesmond sighed dramatically, not yet having taken her eyes off the highborn male. ‘Thought you three were savvier than that. Everything’s got to do with everything,’ she said with a shrug.
Orson leaned in with a finger pressed to her lips. ‘Shhh … You’re drawing too much attention. It’s going to start soon.’
Roh and Harlyn conceded, throwing their hands up in mock surrender and exchanging quietly amused glances. Orson was always overly cautious, so much so that she hadn’t realised the whole of Saddoriel was too caught up in their own chatter to pay any attention to the trivial conversations of a couple of lowborns. All the same, Roh returned her gaze to the galleries above, scanning the faces of the elders in awe. They and their ancestors had been in the council for as long as Delja had reigned, perhaps even longer. She couldn’t imagine having that sense of history, or power.
Nervous energy rushed through Roh’s veins as she craned her neck towards the throne and spotted Queen Delja the Triumphant upon it. The rocky column on which the throne was carved gave an unexpected groan, and to Roh’s amazement, the structure began to lower. As the queen drew closer, Roh gasped at the horned viper that was curled around Delja’s arm, the direct descendant of a sea drake.
‘I heard she has three,’ Jesmond said matter-of-factly.
‘Rubbish,’ Harlyn scorned.
Roh couldn’t take her eyes off it. She had had no idea there was one in Talon’s Reach, let alone three.
The column came to a stop, not completely at ground level, but somewhere in between the lower and middle galleries. Roh had never been this close to the queen before. Her gaze snagged on the crown of coral atop the beautiful cyren’s head of dark, waist-length hair. Embedded at the front three apexes were glinting jewels: the birthstones of Saddoriel. Even from a distance, Roh could appreciate their breathtaking beauty; so unique, so rich in colour and magic. The Gauntlet Ruby, the Mercy’s Topaz and the Willow’s Sapphire.
The music around them ceased and a powerful surge of air swept through the space, strong enough to flutter the long tresses and robes around Roh. Above her, the queen had unfolded a giant pair of wings at her back. Dark membrane blocked out the light and she hovered, with an effortless beat of those wings, above them all. The very wings that marked her as chosen by the goddesses.
‘Welcome to Saddoriel.’ Somehow, a subtle melody laced between the queen’s first three words and Roh couldn’t tear her attention from her; she was hooked.
‘The Council of Seven Elders and I welcome one and all here today.’ Queen Delja’s opening address projected to the far reaches of the stone galleries and the ground below. There was no other sound but for the crisp notes of her voice ringing outwards. The crowd was full of simmering anticipation; Roh could feel it, palpable between the cyrens around her.
‘You all know why we are here,’ the queen continued. ‘Every five decades, we hold the tournament. For the longest time, it was known as The Dawning, but for the past six centuries, it has been mine, and so it remains in this moment: the Queen’s Tournament. Today, you are given the opportunity to challenge my reign.’
The queen smiled.
‘For those of you too young to know, the tournament consists of three trials, which will be completed within three moonspan or less. The cyren standing at the end, if there is one, will be crowned victor. And thus, the new king or queen of our kind. Should there be no such victor, I shall continue to rule, as I have done these past six hundred years.’
With her mouth slightly open, Roh studied the queen. She was too young to fathom that length of time, if one ever could. Cyrens had always been blessed by the goddesses with long life – usually around two hundred years – but six? It dawned on her then that to enter the Queen’s Tournament was to face cunning honed by six centuries’ worth of experience … Cunning that had seen twelve tournaments and their competitors come and go, to no avail … A wave of goosebumps rushed across Roh’s arms.
‘Orientation for chosen competitors will be held at the twelfth hour tomorrow and the opening gala will be hosted tomorrow evening. The tournament officially begins in three days’ time, at the commencement of the first trial.’ Delja’s melodic voice was like silk, soft but unyieldingly strong. Roh had only heard historic tales of the queen’s deathsong. Of how she was only eight when she sang its first note. Of how it had been wielded against human warships in the seas above. It was rumoured to be the deadliest and most powerful in all of history.
‘Sectors will decide their competitors by the ninth hour tomorrow.’
Roh closed her eyes against the rush of wind that pushed through the cavern. When she opened them again, the queen was gone.
In the crowded entrance, Harlyn and Orson stood before her now, their eyes bright and eager. Roh forced herself to smile back at her friends, her family. They had been through everything together for as long as she could re
member. They were the two cyrens Roh admired most, the two she depended on for everything, and now, they were the two cyrens she would do anything to beat for her place in the tournament.
Chapter Three
Roh hardly noticed as the bone cleaners were ushered back towards the pulley system. This time, she barely felt her stomach churn as they started their descent with a jolting drop. Thoughts of the tournament consumed her. She had always known that only one of their trio would compete; only one. The friends had spoken about it for years, content to let fate decide between them when the day came. But now that day was upon them, it wasn’t until the queen had actually said the words that Roh realised just how desperately she needed that one to be her.
As the crate descended through the lair and the Lower Sector swallowed them once more, the music that had been so vibrant and filling, faded. It grew further and further away, becoming just the faintest of notes until they hit the ground. Suddenly, Roh could hardly breathe, as though she had left a part of herself under the archway of bones above. Thankfully, the crate gates opened and the crowd dispersed in a wave. Saying nothing, Roh pushed on after the others, following them back to their sleeping quarters. While the queen’s address had left her silent, it had spawned a hushed, incessant chatter between Harlyn and Orson.
‘We could play slates for it?’ Orson said as they crossed the common area, making for their chamber.
‘Slates? Not a chance,’ Harlyn replied. ‘You only suggest that because you leave us in debt every round.’
‘Well, what’s your brilliant suggestion, then?’
‘We could get the rest of the bone cleaners to vote.’
It was Orson’s turn to laugh, though she did so with a lot more respect than Harlyn had. ‘A vote? A vote of popularity, you mean. Which you would win, no doubt.’
‘You don’t know that —’
Roh followed the banter back and forth between her two friends – it was light-hearted for the moment – but her mouth stayed clamped shut. How would they determine their champion? In all these years, they had never decided a method. It gave too much time for preparation, for scheming, as was in their blood. Now, however, Roh desperately wished she knew what was coming, and how to make it work in her favour. Could she wait another five decades before she had the chance to enter again? Panic blurred her vision momentarily and she raised a hand to her eyes, brushing the gold circlet. It has to be me, she told herself. She pictured colourful blooms being thrown at her feet and the birthstones of Saddoriel glinting at her as she studied the coral crown in her hands —
A flare of flame brought her out of her thoughts with a jump. Like most cyrens, she was wary of open fire, but the small, circular room needed a source of light and warmth, which came from the fire pit at its centre. Orson was standing by the charred bricks, stoking the flames to life with a poker. She had volunteered for the job when they had first been allocated these quarters and took great pride in keeping the fire going in the cold depths of Saddoriel. Six beds fanned out around the fire pit like hands to a clock face, a trunk at the end of each for the lodgers’ possessions. It was a cosy space; the only room in Talon’s Reach Roh knew to describe as such. Their quarters shared a connected bathing chamber with the water runners – the cyrens who transported fresh water around the lair. Right now, though, their room was empty but for the trio. Their fellow bone cleaners, Jesmond, Krea and Manelda, had not yet returned from the announcement, or were likely giving their little group the space to digest the news. It was no secret that Ames’ favourite workers wanted to enter.
Roh sat on the end of her bed, tracing shapes in her sketchbook while she watched her friends. Orson busied herself feeding the fire with kindling, while Harlyn, her white-blonde hair loose at her collarbone, sat cross-legged on her own bed, her lute in her lap, her fingers still on its frets as she gazed, transfixed, at the flames licking at the kindling. Roh longed for her to play, then, knowing it would fill them all with some semblance of comfort, perhaps even hope, that this would somehow work out.
‘What are we going to do?’ Harlyn said finally, looking up from her instrument.
‘We could draw straws,’ Orson offered. ‘Or get Ames to decide.’
‘Straws and Ames? Those are our only options?’ Harlyn jeered. ‘I can hardly wait.’
Roh shook her head. ‘That’s not helping.’ What she didn’t say was that nothing would help them. She was going to be ruthless, no matter what.
‘Well, first of all, we need it to be fair,’ Harlyn said, chewing her bottom lip.
Orson waved her hands at the pair of them, forever the peacekeeper. ‘This must have happened before.’
‘What?’ Harlyn asked, her expression softening as she saw the anguish on poor Orson’s face.
‘Friends having to decide between themselves. If it has, what happened? How did they choose?’
Harlyn sighed. ‘You’re forgetting that it’s not just us, Orson. The other bone cleaners might want to enter.’
But Orson pushed on. ‘We need to choose between ourselves, and then worry about the rest. Surely we can look to the past for guidance? What are some of the scenarios from before?’
‘How would we know?’ Roh asked. ‘We’ve been around even less time than you.’
‘Well,’ Harlyn said slowly, her gaze falling to the jagged white scar that ran from Roh’s left nostril through her lips and down her chin. ‘There is one person who might know.’
‘I’m going to assume you’re talking about Ames,’ Roh warned, knowing exactly what Harlyn was getting at.
‘No, that’s not who I meant.’
Uncontained fury surged through Roh and she stood abruptly, rounding on Harlyn. ‘Why do you do it? Why do you insist on bringing her up?’
‘She’s your mother.’
Roh’s talons flashed. ‘Leave it alone, Har.’ The words were vicious.
Harlyn’s eyes didn’t leave her scar. ‘She could tell you. She’s one of the oldest living cyrens in the lair —’
‘But she’s not in the lair, is she? You don’t know anything about her, Harlyn.’
‘Neither do you —’
‘I know enough —’
Harlyn snorted. ‘No one really knows what happened in that chamber.’
‘She annihilated the entire Council of Elders. She used her deathsong against our own kind,’ Roh seethed. ‘What more do you need to know? She’s not like your mother, who used to carry your bag to lessons for you. Or like Orson’s, who still visits with meals from the markets every few days. Think about it, Harlyn. She is Cerys the Elder Slayer, not Cerys, Holy Mother of Talon’s Reach.’
Orson threw her hands up. ‘Roh, Harlyn,’ she implored. ‘Please. This won’t help anything. If Roh doesn’t want to see Cerys, she shouldn’t. And Roh, Har didn’t mean any harm. We’re in this together, always have been … Let’s not turn on each other, alright?’
The heat was already leaving Roh’s blood at the sight of her distressed friend. She turned to Harlyn in surrender. ‘You know I can’t just demand to see her,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s once a month. That’s the Law of the Lair.’
Roh tried to keep the lie from her eyes. While it was the Law of the Lair, she didn’t always abide by it. Roh nursed a certain fascination with her mother, a curiosity which couldn’t be dampened, not even by cold disappointment or fear. But it was not something she shared openly, not even with Harlyn and Orson. The line of gold across her forehead and the legend of her mother’s crimes coerced her into silence.
‘She doesn’t speak to me,’ Roh pleaded with her friend. ‘She’s … she’s not right, I’ve told you.’ Although they didn’t know everything, they knew seeing Cerys was never easy.
Harlyn placed her lute carefully on her bed before crossing to Roh. With a glance at Orson, she reached out, squeezing Roh’s shoulder. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have pushed.’
Roh nodded, running her talon down the scar on her face; its ragged ridge was as familiar as a
ny part of her. She had been visiting her mother in the prison as a small nestling when, unprovoked, Cerys had lashed out with her talons, slicing into Roh’s face in a manic rage. Roh remembered the white-hot pain and the warm blood gushing down her cheek, but the memory ceased there. She must have passed out.
The trio ran out of time alone. Krea and Manelda entered the sleeping quarters flushed and in a flurry of chatter.
Manelda shrugged. ‘All I’m saying is that he’s —’
‘He wouldn’t look at you if you ran face-first into him.’ Krea laughed.
‘Who are you talking about?’ Roh asked, relieved that there was some distraction from the intensity of the trio’s conversation and enjoying the brilliant red blush spreading across Manelda’s cheeks.
‘The Jaktaren,’ Krea replied gleefully. ‘Manelda here thinks he’s —’
‘Finn Haertel?’ Harlyn smirked.
‘Oh, shush,’ Manelda snapped, rummaging for her nightclothes. ‘I said he cut a decent figure, and now Krea thinks I’m in love with him.’
Roh exchanged an amused glance with Harlyn, who was already bright-eyed, perked up and ready to stir the pot further, always finding joy in the subtle torment of others.
‘Where’s Jesmond?’ Orson interrupted, forever checking up on the younger fledgling.
Krea shrugged. ‘Making a menace of herself in the hall. Some of the older cyrens are placing bets on who will enter. She’s taken on the role of master of coin.’
Harlyn huffed a laugh. ‘She hasn’t.’
‘Has. We tried to bring her back here, but … Well, you know what she’s like.’
Orson was already making for the door.
A Lair of Bones Page 3
