‘The main ones to beat are Finn Haertel and Yrsa Ward. They’re Jaktaren.’ The armpits of her shirt became damp as a flicker of recognition passed over Cerys’ face. If Roh had blinked she would have missed it. A bead of sweat trickled down her ribs.
‘You know those names, don’t you? Haertel and Ward …’ Roh trailed off. Cerys’ eyes widened as her gaze settled on Odi, her mouth parting as though she were remembering something.
‘Marlow?’ she croaked, pressing her face against the bars.
Roh stared. ‘Marlow?’
‘Marlow, you’ve come,’ Cerys rasped, a thin arm reaching out.
‘Who in all the realms is Marlow?’ Scowling, Roh looked from Cerys to the human, who’d frozen in terror.
‘Your uncle,’ said a quiet but melodic voice from behind her.
Roh whirled around, finding herself face to face with the queen – Delja the Triumphant.
Wild panic sucked the air from Roh’s lungs as she threw herself into a messy bow. Words refused to form on her lips, her tongue swollen in her mouth. What should she say? What could justify her presence here? Her visits had always seemed so insignificant, a tiny indiscretion in a sea of ordinariness. Now, in the presence of the queen, the magnitude of Roh’s actions came crashing down on her like a tidal wave. Would she be disqualified from the tournament? Banished from Saddoriel?
‘Your Majesty, I …’ she stammered, nearly swaying on her feet, still bent at the waist, her eyes locked on the ground.
‘I have known of your secret visits for some time, Rohesia,’ the queen said, her voice soft.
‘I beg your forgiveness, Your Majesty.’
Silence wrapped around Roh like a heavy cloak, smothering her as her mind spiralled with every possible consequence and punishment for breaking the Law of the Lair. Imprisonment, perhaps, alongside her dear mother?
A smooth finger lifted her chin. ‘Your curiosity is natural; however, I fear it will only bring you pain.’
Ames had always said as much to her, in far more colourful terms. But the queen spoke of fear and pain as though she knew all too well the weight of wearing them. The pressure of the finger under Roh’s chin increased slightly, and with the queen’s wordless permission, Roh straightened from her bow, finding Queen Delja’s lilac eyes filled with sympathy as she turned her gaze to Cerys. Cerys had moved, as silent as death, and now was sitting in the centre of her cell, legs crossed, continuing the task of slicing through her hair. She stared through the ruler of Saddoriel like there was nothing but blank space before her, as there always was. The queen blinked several times, lines appearing at the corners of her mouth as she seemed to struggle with herself. She looked out of place down here, unnecessarily smoothing down her flowy silk pants that were dark at the hem. The coral of her crown seemed too bright in contrast to the grimy bones of the cell.
‘Your Majesty,’ Roh managed. ‘You know my uncle?’ She had no idea if questions were allowed, particularly this one, but …
‘I knew him, yes,’ the queen said. ‘He perished in the Scouring of Lochloria, a long time ago.’
Once more, words failed Roh. She had never imagined family beyond her mother and the father she knew nothing of, and yet … She had an uncle. A dead one, at least.
‘I come down here sometimes,’ Queen Delja murmured, watching the prisoner. ‘To see her.’
The quietly spoken words hit Roh in the chest with full force. A thousand questions burst into her head all at once. Cerys had had another visitor all this time? Why would the queen want to see Cerys? How long had she been visiting? How long had she known about Roh’s visits? And how did she know about Marlow?
But a surreal wave calmed the whirlpool within, and strangely, Roh’s thoughts returned to a specific moment: when she had packed her rucksack the morning before. She recalled the coarse fabric of her spare clothes as she had shoved them inside the pack. She remembered weighing up the grey sock stuffed with the coin she’d saved over the years and deciding to keep it hidden. She recalled the nagging sensation at the back of her mind as she had searched the sleeping quarters for some sentimental token that did not exist, the realisation dawning on her that she had not one personal item, not one thing belonging to her mother. No embellished pin or stone carving, no ribbon or old dress, not even something as small and mundane as a hairbrush. There was no evidence that Cerys had ever existed outside of the prison walls. She was a living ghost, as was Roh by extension. Until now …
‘You knew her, Your Majesty? Before?’ She silently cursed her trembling voice.
The queen didn’t take her eyes off Cerys, as though she couldn’t quite believe the prisoner was actually there. ‘Yes, I knew her. Long before.’
Roh struggled with herself. Here she was, a tournament competitor, standing with the Queen of Cyrens, the most powerful ruler to have ever reigned, and all she wanted to do was ask about her mother. It seemed Queen Delja sensed it.
‘You want to know what she was like …’ she murmured, her voice trailing off with the memories that dragged her back into the past.
Roh caught herself holding her breath, hands clenched at her sides. Would the queen actually tell her? Was she finally going to learn something about the cyren who’d made her?
The queen continued to peer into the cell. ‘She was fearless, back then. A force unto herself. In the end, it was her undoing.’ Queen Delja faced Roh and reached out, running a single finger across the circlet of gold across Roh’s forehead, her voice laced with regret. ‘She gave me no choice when I put her in here. The Law of the Lair was broken in ways it had never been before, shattered. Where she is now, where you ended up … I promise, I had no choice.’
All at once, the queen’s promise opened up a passageway to the past where a beam of light beckoned to Roh at the end, a perfect circle that was growing smaller and smaller as the darkness encroached. Roh wanted to run towards it, but the compass within told her she wouldn’t make it in time. Instead, she swallowed. ‘Of course, Your Majesty.’
Roh’s self-restraint prickled in the air around them, and the queen rubbed at the goosebumps on her arms. ‘And yet,’ she said. ‘After everything … I still find myself wandering these lonely tunnels to see her. Perhaps one day you will understand.’
‘One day?’
‘Should you succeed in the tournament,’ Delja said, a note of surprise lacing her words. ‘The Tome of Kyeos tells all.’
The Tome of Kyeos … It seemed bad luck to even mention the sacred text, the self-writing book that held all of Saddoriel’s secrets, if rumours were to be believed.
Roh couldn’t contain the eagerness in her voice. ‘So it’s true? You have the tome, Your Majesty?’
‘No one ever truly possesses the Tome of Kyeos,’ the queen explained. ‘But yes, I have seen it, read it. It is mine to access for the duration of my rule. One might argue I have read more of it than any king before me.’
Roh could tell by the shift in the queen’s stance that she had not meant to discuss such matters with a competitor, and Roh had learned on numerous occasions with Ames that questioning subjects such as these was a delicate art, one that she herself had not yet mastered with any sort of subtlety. Roh wasn’t about to take such a risk with the queen.
Clearly seeking a new topic, the queen’s gaze casually flicked to Odi, who still stood in the shadows of the water warlocks. ‘Your human is doing well enough.’
‘Well enough, Your Majesty?’ Roh had felt the boy fidgeting nearby the whole time, his nervous energy grating on her during the entire royal exchange.
A small smile tugged the corner of Queen Delja’s mouth. ‘His knees aren’t knocking together too loudly with terror.’
Roh felt herself grin. ‘That’s true.’
‘I should leave you to your visit, Rohesia. Just remember what I said it might bring you.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ Roh said, bowing low.
The queen made to walk away, her hem trailing through the wet grit, but she pause
d. ‘Rohesia?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty?’
‘Why did you enter my tournament?’
The question was an impossible ambush. To have entered the Queen’s Tournament was to challenge the queen’s rule itself, a public seeking of Delja’s status and power. But was that why Roh had entered? Was that what had kept her up every night, dreaming of the event?
Roh considered her words carefully. ‘Because … I want … I want more, Your Majesty,’ she said at last.
‘More?’
‘Yes.’
Queen Delja nodded slowly, lifting the fabric of her trousers as she faced the path towards the exit. ‘You are not the first to want. Nor will you be the last.’ She started down the passage once more, and though spoken quietly, her final words echoed: ‘Ambition can be a poison.’
The queen’s footsteps echoed long after she had disappeared into the darkness. Roh stood listening, wringing her hands and reeling at what she had learned, what the queen had deigned to share with her. That Queen Delja and Roh’s mother had known each other before everything. And that the ‘everything’ was still unknown …
Chapter Eight
The gentle music dancing through the air did not match the sight that greeted Roh and Odi in the outskirts of Talon’s Reach the next morning. The melody was unobtrusive and non-threatening with its soft notes and steady rhythm, whereas before them stood a great forest, dense with dark and twisted trees. Its edge was a precise line, as though someone had measured and drawn it before planting the saplings. Dispersed at random intervals alongside the trees within were towers of rigid, pale coral, standing like skeletal guards, watching over the forest. Roh squinted beyond the threshold, spotting head-height lengths of enchanted seaweed wavering upwards in a phantom breeze, answering the rhythm of the fiddles around them.
She knew what this place was … One of the many lungs of Saddoriel. A forest that had been enchanted by the water warlocks to provide the passageways and the lair with clean air to breathe. According to her lessons, there were dozens and dozens scattered all over Talon’s Reach.
With the bulky pack at their feet, Roh and Odi, along with the other competitors, stood in the marshalling area: a roped-off section that acted as a buffer between the edge of the forest and the bustling stands that stretched five storeys upwards. Not knowing where to look, Roh had been trying to ignore the crowd, but their murmurs cast a loud, uniform hum across everything, their voices fighting against the music. Throughout the throngs of bodies were fashions Roh had never seen before: tightly laced sleeves and bodices, and boots that wrapped around calves to above the knee. Her ears pricked at the snippets of conversation in cyren tongues that were neither New nor Old Saddorien.
‘They have come from the other territories as well,’ Arcelia said, peeling away from the other competitors and approaching Roh, her human shadowing her closely. ‘I can hear accents and dialects from Lochloria, Akoris, and I think, Csilla.’
‘Have you been to those places?’ Roh asked, whose own knowledge of other cyren territories was terribly limited. All she knew was that although they were a great distance from Talon’s Reach, their clans still bowed to Queen Delja.
‘Some,’ Arcelia allowed. ‘I have visited Lochloria and Akoris for scholarly work on Dresmis and Thera. Csilla, no, too far away for a humble educator. Only the Jaktaren roam the realms above so freely.’
Roh dared a glance across at Yrsa Ward and Finn Haertel, and Arcelia followed her gaze across the marshalling area.
‘I used to envy their travels and adventures,’ the education master told her quietly. ‘But I’m sure they have many dark tales to tell regarding what happens in the realms above. A Saddorien cyren belongs in Saddoriel.’
That was indeed what they were taught as nestlings, that the greatest honour was to live alongside fellow cyrens in the greatest lair of all history. But did that mean that Roh belonged in the Lower Sector cleaning bones for centuries to come? Adventures in the realms above, no matter how dark, sounded far more appealing.
Not sure how to respond, Roh turned back to the crowd and searched for familiar faces. She focused on the upper tiers, knowing that if Harlyn and Orson had managed to get away from the workshop, that was where they’d be. She took in the rows and rows, desperately scanning for Harlyn’s unusual hair colour – she was always the easiest to spot in a crowd. When she couldn’t see her, a weight sank in her chest. Though she knew that Har and Orson could do nothing to help her from the stands, just knowing they were there would have been an extra piece of armour Roh could have worn into the hunt. But there was no sign of them. However, a flicker of movement caught Roh’s eye. It was hard to make out details from this distance, but … Yes, it was Jesmond, working her way along the aisles, her ledger pressed firmly to her chest as she navigated the spectators, taking bets.
A small smile broke across Roh’s lips. Does Ames know you’re here? she wondered. No doubt you’ve skipped your lessons to take advantage of the loose currency exchanged here. She watched the youngster confidently barter with cyrens five times her age. At least some things don’t change. It was a small moment of comfort in the absence of her friends.
Jesmond froze amongst her clients and a sharp intake of breath from the crowd made Roh whirl around, following pointed fingers and transfixed gazes to something hovering above the canopy …
A floating hourglass had appeared. It was massive, poised at an angle over the top of the forest, its sand contained in the lower half, not yet in play. It glowed orange, like a beacon in the distance, its presence feeding the starved anticipation of the crowd, sucking at the air around them.
The ground quaked, enough to rattle Roh’s teeth. On instinct, her hand shot out, grabbing Odi’s arm. But as fast as the tremor had begun, it stopped.
‘What was that?’ Odi asked.
Roh released his arm, spit thick in her throat. ‘I have no idea,’ she told him honestly, looking to Arcelia for answers. But the education master had moved across the way to talk with Estin Ruhne. Roh reined in her admiration for the architect. Perhaps one day she would have the opportunity to speak with her, but for now, she needed to figure out what that tremor had been. Neith, the water runner, looked perturbed. She glanced around nervously, standing close to her elderly human, whose weathered face was drawn in resignation as he patted her on the shoulder. Even as the ground shook again, the others didn’t look nearly as concerned, Roh noted, watching the ease with which Yrsa Ward tested the band of the sling she carried. The Jaktaren had no pack to be seen, but the young human girl at her side carried a bulging satchel of stones. Miriald Montalle was the only other carrying supplies, a sack of sorts, knotted at the top. Roh squinted. She could have sworn the material had just moved. But the lair rumbled once more and she awkwardly fought to keep her footing.
‘Desperate to know what that was, aren’t you, little bone cleaner?’ a sneer sounded. Roh flinched as Zokez Rasaat sidled up next to her.
Fists clenched, she willed Odi to remain silent and still at her side. There was no way she would give this worm the satisfaction. As if he knows what caused the tremors, anyway …
Zokez eyed her bulging pack and barked a laugh. ‘Finn, she thinks she’s going on a picnic.’
A few feet away, the Jaktaren’s cool, lilac gaze slowly slid from his highborn friend to Roh’s pack. He said nothing.
But Zokez wasn’t done. ‘Not very talkative, are you, little bone cleaner?’
‘I heard a story that might make her talk,’ Finn Haertel said, flicking his talons as his eyes met Roh’s. He took a step towards her, crossbow held carelessly in his arms, a quiver of bolts strapped across his muscular chest.
Roh felt Odi shift uneasily beside her and she had to stop herself from delivering a sharp cuff to the back of his head. Didn’t he know that to show weakness to cyrens was practically a death sentence? Roh stood her ground, but at the sight of Finn’s triumphant smile, she felt trapped in a cage of her own making.
‘I hea
rd a tale,’ he repeated, ‘about a little cyren who doesn’t know a note of her deathsong.’ His words sent a rush of ice across her skin and her feet felt rooted to the spot. Bile rose in her throat. How do they know? Who told them? How can this —
Zokez nodded eagerly, hand on the pommel of the sword at his belt. ‘Not a single note.’
Finn turned back to her. ‘Mortifying, isn’t it? To be one of our kind but unable to do the very thing that makes us what we are.’
Roh’s face burned with humiliation. She was sure the other competitors could hear every word.
‘And can you imagine,’ Finn pressed. ‘To not only be a cyren without a song, but to be a cyren without a song in the Queen’s Tournament?’
‘Perhaps you should give her a head start, Finn? She’s no match for a regular cyren, but a Jaktaren … She should just go back to her bones.’
There was no denying it; everyone’s eyes were on Roh. Now, they all knew: she was just a bone cleaner without a song.
Damage inflicted, Finn and Zokez strode back to where the other highborns had gathered to make final preparations, leaving Roh breathless where she stood. Everyone knew. Everyone. What had she been thinking? Entering the Queen’s Tournament when she hadn’t even discovered a note of her song. How could she think to win against cyrens who had known theirs for decades, or even centuries? Did she truly think that even if she won, the cyrens of Saddoriel would accept a songless queen? Her breaths became short and shallow, and her hand flew to her chest as she struggled, still feeling the burning surveillance of the other competitors, and now, the crowd.
‘Is it true?’ Odi murmured.
‘What?’ Roh gasped.
‘What he said? You have no cyren magic?’
It was only as Odi asked that Roh realised Finn had deliberately spoken in the common tongue, so that her human and the others could witness and understand her public degradation. Hand still clutching her chest, she refused to answer Odi.
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