‘You brought it up,’ Odi muttered.
‘Mentioned it.’ Roh didn’t know why she had. To educate a human on the history of the lair? To defend the Saddorien cyrens’ predisposition towards bone architecture? Who was she to do so, anyway? She was a cleaner of bones, and when told, a designer of those very structures. No, he had earned no such explanations, not from her. Frustrated, she made for the bathing chamber, eager for a few moments of peace without the human eyeing her every move.
‘Roh?’ His voice was tentative, as though sensing her growing impatience.
‘What?’
‘When are you going to tell me why I’m here?’
With the clawfoot bathtub in sight, Roh paused in the doorway and blinked at him. ‘What?’ she repeated.
‘They didn’t tell us anything … Those others … Well, nothing we understood, anyway.’
‘Dresmis and Thera, help me,’ Roh muttered. She should have realised. The elders had been speaking Saddorien the entire time, and the humans would know nothing of their language. For a moment, she imagined what it would have felt like, trapped in a cage of bones cloaked in darkness, hearing whispers of words she didn’t understand, the deep instinct within screaming of danger, of death … She slammed the lid down on those thoughts. Her role was not to imagine the experiences of strange humans. Her role was to compete, to win this damn tournament. Perhaps it was wiser to keep the truth from Odi, just for a while? He was already frightened of her. What would he be like in the trials? It was possible his fear would send him into a panic, and that wouldn’t be good for her strategy, once she had one. Making up her mind, Roh hung her clothes in the bathing chamber.
‘We need to get ready,’ she said. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ she added, shutting the door hard behind her. With a heavy sigh, she sagged against it, fighting the urge to sink to the gold-plated tiles spanning the floor. She looked harder, realising that the tiles had been designed to resemble scales. Crouching, she ran her fingertips across the cool, smooth surface. She remembered seeing the mosaic tiles depicting legendary creatures during her lesson in the Passage of Kings as a nestling. For a moment, she felt nostalgic for those simpler times, learning and scheming beside Orson and Harlyn, plotting their futures while Arcelia Bellfast spoke of centuries past. But the future was here, and she was living it, right now.
Getting to her feet, she made quick work of removing her boots, tunic and pants. She used the tepid water in the basin to wash herself, vowing that she would make good use of the luxurious tub later. The bathing facilities in the Lower Sector didn’t offer large tubs like this. Lowborns bathed in barrels when they could, but more often than not, merely had to tip water over themselves after they’d scrubbed the dirt away with coarse sponges.
When she was clean, she tugged the dress over her head and adjusted what seemed like yards of fabric. The softness of the silk was foreign against her skin, and she turned once, twice, just to feel the folds of it flutter delicately into place. Feeling self-conscious, she clipped the belt into place, mimicking the style she’d seen on the highborns at the tournament announcement. She went to the full-length looking glass on the far wall of the chamber and studied herself. Her reflection resembled something akin to the fashion of the Upper Sector: comfortable, flowing and luxurious. The gown trailed across the tiled floor – was it meant to do that? There was something not right about the picture, though … Roh corrected her slouching posture and looked again. Better, but still not quite there. As if in answer, the gold across her forehead glinted.
‘Well, there’s no escaping that,’ she muttered. She assessed the rest of her face, thankful that cosmetics were not widely used, even in the Upper Sector of Saddoriel. They had been taught from a young age that cyrens possessed natural beauty, and that their best features – their lilac eyes and the subtle glimmer of scales at their temples – ought not to be trifled with. Roh stared at her moss-green eyes, wondering when their colour would start to change. Orson’s had changed in her twenty-third year, and more recently, Harlyn’s would gleam lilac in the light, before changing back to her usual sea-blue. Roh willed hers to change too, but the green remained.
She turned to the sandals resting on the vanity before looking down at the length of her skirts. She thought of the human on the other side of the door, waiting to pepper her with questions, and considered the dozens of nobles who would no doubt be staring down at her all evening. Nodding to herself, she tugged her own boots back on. Small comforts … No one would see them, anyway.
A porter led Roh and her human through the residences of the Upper Sector and down a number of brightly lit, twisting paths, where music followed them. Roh breathed in the series of unhurried notes that spoke to one another, a thriving conversation in melody, a subtle arrangement of elegant chords that sent a rush of goosebumps across her arms. Determined not to lose herself in the music, she rushed after the porter, whose name she still didn’t know. Her skirts swished about her ankles and she bunched the fabric up in her fists, worried that she might trip. To her annoyance, the human, Odi, kept glancing in her direction.
She clenched her jaw and looked away. Gods, must I really put up with him for the whole tournament? His presence was already testing her patience and the trials hadn’t even begun yet. She eyed the protective shell token bouncing against his chest as they moved.
‘Tuck that in,’ she hissed, throwing a pointed look at the talisman.
Odi glanced down and fumbled with the necklace, finally shoving it down the front of his shirt so only the leather thong peeked out behind his collar.
‘If that’s the only thing defending you against the lure of the lair, keep it safe.’ Her words came out harshly, her tone reminding her of Ames whenever he reprimanded her. She shook off the thought; she had to be harsh if the human was to survive here.
They came to a halt outside the Queen’s Conservatory. The porter knocked twice and the doors swung inwards.
Roh didn’t know what a conservatory was, but she hadn’t expected this. An enormous rectangular room greeted them, all of its walls made entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out into the surrounding private gardens. Even at a glance, Roh could see there were hundreds, if not thousands of species of trees and flowers. There was so much colour. She gazed longingly at the deep-blue blooms of the towering Aching Fiirs, a single flower atop a shoulder-height stem. She recognised miniature willow trees, their branches bowing beneath the weight of their blue-green leaves, and a species of water roses, fresh droplets forming across their petals. She had only ever seen such things in books before, and that had been a long time ago.
The conservatory was brightly lit with chandeliers made of crystal and bone. Either side of the room were long, decorated tables displaying decadent food and drink. The rich scents were enough to make Roh’s mouth water, and she realised she hadn’t eaten since that half-bowl of slop early that morning. Here, there was no slop in sight. Trays of exotically spiced pies, tiers of petite sweet cakes and goblets filled with the queen’s own smoked wines circulated the room in the steady hands of the Upper Sector servants.
Wandering slowly into the conservatory, Roh was so lost in the opulence and wealth that she nearly forgot about the human at her side. He was fidgeting, his fingers twitching erratically at his sides. To her dismay, she realised he’d kept his fingerless gloves on.
‘Why do you wear those things?’ she whispered in the common tongue.
Odi glanced down at his hands. ‘I need them.’
She scowled. ‘What sort of a reason is that?’ Between his gloves and her circlet, there was no chance of blending in here. She had been thrown into a raging whirlpool, and she wasn’t sure she remembered how to breathe under water. If they stopped walking, it would draw more attention to them, so Roh forced one booted foot in front of the other and began a slow turn around the room. She saw that the other competitors had begun to arrive. Tutor Bellfast was by the refreshments table, assessing the room with the same critical gaz
e Roh knew she used to survey her students. Her human, a middle-aged woman, was standing shoulder to shoulder with her.
At least Odi doesn’t stand that close, Roh mused, eyeing her human, who trailed behind like a shadow.
She continued her study of the room, spotting Finn Haertel, who looked right at home standing in the centre of a group of nobles. His human, a muscular, bearded man, stood a few paces back, beady eyes alert as he watched the nobles. They all wore elaborate, wide-sleeved robes over their loose-fitting clothes. They were speaking animatedly, in Old Saddorien, Roh realised as she drew closer. The words that rolled off their tongues were long and drawn out, their sentences rich with rhythm. Although Roh could guess a phrase or two, the dialect as a whole was unfamiliar to her. The ancient language was reserved for the highborns of the Upper Sector, while the Mid and Lower Sectors were all educated in New Saddorien, as well as a number of foreign tongues from the realms above. The other Jaktaren, Yrsa Ward, approached Finn, placing a gentle hand on his arm and leaning in close to whisper something. Roh watched curiously.
I suppose they do make a handsome couple, she mused.
Odi’s shoulder brushed hers as he followed her gaze. ‘I didn’t know there were males of your kind.’
‘What?’
‘In … in all the stories, the lisloiks singing at sea are women.’
‘Lisloiks? We do not call ourselves lisloiks,’ Roh said, cringing at the human term for her kind. ‘We are Saddorien cyrens. You would do well to leave that ugly common-tongue word behind.’
‘Saddorien cyrens …’ Odi seemed to mull the word over. ‘And what about the tales?’
‘Of us being a women-only race?’ she sneered, gesturing around the room. ‘Does it look that way to you?’
‘No, but …’
‘Our armies are female only,’ she told him, gathering her skirts and making for the closest table. ‘Only female cyrens can partake in the death chorus. That’s why your fishermen tell such stories.’
As soon as Roh moved, she felt eyes on her. Her stomach churned as she realised the subject of the attention – the black boots peeking from beneath her gown. She dropped her skirts, but the damage was done. With a deep breath, she straightened her posture and lifted her chin. So be it. She was out of place here no matter what.
‘I’ve seen drawings of … cyrens,’ Odi ventured, following her to the table. ‘You don’t look like what I expected.’
Roh resisted the overpowering urge to shoo him away. She was going to have to get used to him, to endure the additional shadow, and no doubt, the endless questions, for the duration of the tournament.
‘Humans see what we want them to see,’ she said. She pointed to where she knew the shell token rested against his chest beneath his shirt. ‘Right now, that is what allows you to see us for what we are, and what the lair is.’
Roh reached for a pie, before realising that everyone else was using small plates. Spotting a stack of these, she got one for herself, and on second thought, got one for Odi, too. She handed it to him wordlessly. He needed more meat on his bones if he was going to be of any use to her. She couldn’t have him starving to death before the first trial.
All thoughts emptied from Roh’s head as she bit into the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. A savoury pie, spiced with peppers she’d never dreamed of.
Thera’s heart, I could eat twenty of these … The complexity of flavour was a far cry from the soggy gruel of the Lower Sector, that was for sure. Still chewing, she began to make another lap around the conservatory. It was near capacity now, Roh’s fellow competitors lost amidst the crowd of highborns. Queen Delja was nowhere in sight, but there was a handful of council elders present, and a lot of nobility. A glimmer of silver was gone as fast as it appeared: silver marks exchanged between soft, clean hands. She’d only ever seen a silver mark once before, in a lesson on sums and currency. Now, seeing a handful of such wealth exchanged so casually made her jaw clench. She had all but thirteen bronze keys to her name, tucked away in a sock, hidden in a spare pair of boots back in her quarters.
She caught a noble pointing subtly to Finn Haertel. Of course, a wager. It seemed that placing bets was not above the highborns. Jesmond would be pleased to hear it.
A server offered Roh a selection of wine. She took a glass, marvelling at what looked like liquid rose gold within, tiny bubbles rising to the surface. They danced across her tongue with sweet bursts of flavour as she took her first sip. This was nothing like the stuff Harlyn made from potato skins.
Across the room, Neith, the water runner, was indulging in the petite sweet cakes. She caught Roh’s gaze and waved. Flushing, Roh gave a small wave back, torn between finding comfort in the familiar and knowing that the tournament would only have one winner, if at all. Neith had no such concerns, it seemed. She crossed the room, her withered human in tow.
‘Roh!’ she said brightly upon approach. ‘Isn’t this amazing?’ She gestured around at the food and drink. ‘Imagine if the others could see us now. Wouldn’t Harlyn and Orson be jealous?’
Roh’s face burned hot as she felt the unwanted attention of the nobles. The water runner was making a spectacle of them, but to tell her so would only exacerbate the situation. Roh gave a tight smile. ‘The wine is excellent,’ she said, her voice low.
‘I haven’t tried it yet,’ Neith gushed, though thankfully she matched Roh’s volume. ‘Can you believe the residences?’
‘They’re beautiful,’ Roh allowed, as she tried to subtly extract herself from the situation. However, as she took a step away, she collided with a sharp shoulder.
‘Watch where you’re going, isruhe,’ Finn spat under his breath, hot in her ear.
Roh heard the vile word clearly. The one reserved exclusively for the likes of her: the lowborn offspring of criminals, wearers of circlets. Fury surged through her as it seared like a brand. Isruhe. It had only been directed at her once before, but she knew its meaning well enough: vermin of the deep.
Roh only just managed to suck in an outburst of rage and hold back her talons. She couldn’t react, not here in the Queen’s Conservatory, not amongst the highborn nobles of Saddoriel. She backed away, and to her frustration, smacked right into Odi.
‘Stay out of my way,’ she hissed. The last thing she wanted was to look like a bumbling fool. Reining in her temper, she clutched her wineglass and wandered to the outskirts of the conservatory, the vibrant colours beyond the glass soothing her as she walked. Around her, there were dozens of conversations in Old Saddorien she didn’t understand, but perhaps that was for the best, especially if Finn Haertel was the example to heed.
A familiar, subtle scent suddenly filled Roh’s nostrils, somehow sweet and bitter all at once. She whirled around as Odi put a goblet of wine to his lips.
‘Don’t!’ Her sharp command had frozen Odi’s hand midway to his mouth. ‘Don’t drink that,’ she said more calmly. ‘It’s poisoned.’
The blood drained from Odi’s face as he peered into the crimson liquid. ‘What? How … how do you know?’
Roh sniffed casually in the goblet’s direction. ‘It smells of coral larkspur.’
‘Of what?’
‘A poisonous coral flower we harvest from the seabed. At the very least it causes all sorts of irritation, rashes and internal complaints. At its worst, it can cause paralysis, even death. Don’t drink it,’ she instructed. The harvest had only occurred twice in Roh’s lifetime, but the smell of the coral was something she would never forget. ‘But keep ahold of it,’ she added. ‘We might be able to use it later.’
Looking shocked, Odi sniffed the edge of the goblet. ‘Use it how?’
‘I’ll think of something. Now, can you try to not get yourself killed before this tournament begins?’
Odi didn’t look particularly pleased at that remark, despite the fact that Roh had just saved his life. She led him to an unoccupied space by one of the tables at the back of the conservatory, trying to force her heartbeat to a normal pa
ce. Her time in the tournament had almost been brought to an abrupt end, before the trials had even got underway. She hadn’t been paying attention and Odi had nearly died because of it. She scanned the room, spotting Finn Haertel smirking by the refreshment table.
That bastard. He’d laced Odi’s wine, or had his human do it for him as he’d insulted her. She met his lilac gaze. You’re going to pay for that, she promised silently.
Roh looked back to Odi just in time to see the human turn a sickly shade of green. ‘What is it?’ Her eyes went to his goblet instantly – had he forgotten? But the poisoned wine within was untouched. ‘What is it?’ she demanded, scanning the room, trying to locate the source of his transfixed attention.
There. Taro and Bloodwyn Haertel had entered the conservatory. They may as well have been royalty themselves, the way the room quietened to whispers and the music softened. The nobility bowed their heads as the Elder Council couple swept into the room.
‘Do you know them?’ Roh asked Odi.
His eyes slid to hers. ‘They are the ones who found me.’
‘Found you?’
‘Wandering the tunnels.’
‘Oh.’ Roh had assumed he’d been captured in his own realm. She wanted to ask if they had hurt him, how they had brought him here, but the questions seemed too personal somehow.
Odi brushed a strand of dark hair from his eyes and seemed to sense her curiosity. ‘I was in the woods near my village foraging for truffles and came across the entrance to some sort of cave. That’s when I heard my stepbrothers – I heard them so clearly. I just walked in.’
‘The lure of the lair …’ Roh nodded distantly. ‘The lair can enchant a cyren song to sound familiar to prey.’
A Lair of Bones Page 8
