A Lair of Bones

by Helen Scheuerer

  He wasn’t there.

  She whirled around, scanning the group and the tunnel wildly. Her throat closed up. There was no sign of him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Panic seized Roh’s chest as she ran, leaving the prison and her fellow competitors far behind.

  How could I have been so stupid? He had tried to escape once before. Why wouldn’t he try again? She had to find him, before something happened. If it hasn’t already … How far back had she lost him? How could she have been so senseless? Why hadn’t she noticed he was no longer stuck to her side? She swore loudly as her boots pummelled the wet grit on the ground, retracing their earlier steps in a frenzy and following the tug of her inner compass. It won’t fail me this time, she thought desperately. It can’t.

  She ascended the levels of Saddoriel at a sprint, sweat beading at her brow, her shirt damp. ‘Odi! Odi?’ she shouted as she ran, her voice straining. Would he answer once he realised how foolish he’d been in trying to escape the lair? If she didn’t find him … If he was … She couldn’t let herself think of it, not now. Instead, the image of Finn’s smug face formed in her mind, along with the memory of him clapping his human on the back after shoving Odi. She spurred herself into an even faster sprint, her thighs and calves burning with the exertion.

  ‘That. Fucking. Bastard,’ she ground out. The common-tongue profanity was foreign on her lips, but its viciousness matched her rage. What had Finn done to Odi? What had she let him do? This was her fault, Odi was her responsibility. Once again, she had slipped up, underestimating the cunning of the competition. And it might have cost her the tournament, and Odi … It might have cost him so much more.

  There was no sign of him. None. Mid-tunnel, she came to a stop, her rasping breathing the only sound she could hear. ‘Odi!’ she yelled, terror threatening to take complete hold of her. This couldn’t be happening. Any semblance of hope was waning fast as she forced herself to run another yard down the dark passage, limbs heavy. What if she couldn’t find him in time? What if she never found him? What if he had somehow succumbed to the lure of the lair and wandered its winding passages for the rest of his days? The thoughts caused a thick lump to form in her throat and she slowed once again. Hunching over, she rested her hands on her knees, sweat running freely from her hairline across the scales at her temples and dripping to the ground. The ground …

  In her utter turmoil, she hadn’t realised it had changed from wet grit to something soft. She narrowed her eyes and unsheathed her talons. Thick moss grew across the terrain here and the music around her quietened, as though what she was about to stumble upon was too sacred for sound, even the music of the lair. She raced down the mossy path, her heart in her throat as it opened up into an enormous grotto. From the ceiling of the cave, thousands of stalactites hung like daggers over a vast icy-blue pool. The surface of the water reflected its surroundings like a pane of polished glass. Weeping willows grew from the banks, their hanging leaves veiling much of the pool, and jagged rocks framed the water’s edge.

  Every cyren in Saddoriel knew of this place: the Pool of Weeping.

  It was where the single most important ritual of cyrenkind took place: the First Cry. Even a lowly isruhe like Roh would have been brought here after birth, by Ames perhaps – but that didn’t matter now.

  ‘Odi?’ she whispered, knowing that nothing good would come of her shouting in this sacred place. Her eyes followed a path of emerald-green moss that led from the border of the grotto out to the centre of the pool and stretched beyond the veil of willow trees. It was wide enough for only a single person to walk its length.

  Something glinted in the corner of her eye. She lunged towards it, scooping up the item in her taloned hands: a shell. Odi’s shell token.

  ‘Odi!’ His name came out as a desperate hiss. He has to be here somewhere. Clutching the protective token to her chest, she scanned the rippling ice-blue water and the fluttering leaves of the willow trees. There he was, swaying at the water’s very edge on the far side, mesmerised by the infinite ripples.

  Forcing herself to take slow and steady breaths, Roh approached Odi cautiously, mindful of startling him. When she reached his side, she grasped his forearm slowly but firmly.

  ‘Odi,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve got you.’

  His amber eyes were glazed over and his body careened from side to side, as though he didn’t even realise she was there. The lure of the lair had him.

  Quickly remembering what she held, Roh fumbled with the leather strap of the shell token in her trembling hand. It had been sliced clean through, she realised. Needing both hands, she placed herself between Odi and the water’s edge, and knotted the two ends of the leather with numb fingers.

  Dresmis, Thera, let this work, Roh prayed, looping the necklace around Odi’s neck. The shell, slightly chipped, she noticed, dropped down to rest against his sternum.

  Roh bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, her arms still resting on Odi’s shoulders, poised to catch him should he fall. With her heart in her throat, hardly daring to hope, she searched his face …

  As though a veil had been lifted, Odi’s clear eyes slowly met hers. ‘Roh?’

  Her knees buckled and her whole body sagged as she staggered, only to be caught by Odi’s steady arms before she could sink to the wet bank of the pool.

  ‘Gods,’ she muttered, head in her hands. If Roh ever cried, this would be the moment for it. But mixed in with her relief was the overwhelming grip of responsibility. It was her job to keep Odi alive. She had been so caught up in the prison, in Cerys, in the taunts and the whispers that she’d nearly blown her chance in the tournament, and had nearly cost Odi his life.

  ‘For a moment, I thought you had meant to escape,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I didn’t, not that time. But I’ve thought about it,’ Odi replied. ‘I think about it, still.’

  ‘Even though you know you’d die?’

  Odi flinched. ‘Even then.’

  Roh swallowed the hard lump in her throat, shock barrelling through her at Odi’s admission. He would risk death rather than stay where he was?

  ‘Roh?’

  A second shockwave cascaded over her. Wasn’t that exactly what she was doing in partaking in the tournament? She too risked death to challenge her place in the lair. Perhaps … perhaps she and this human were more alike than she cared to —

  ‘Roh!’ The urgency in Odi’s voice wrenched her from the spiral of thoughts.

  ‘What —’

  The wail of an infant pierced the quiet and Odi pointed.

  Icy fear and a pulsing premonition of danger gripped Roh. They shouldn’t be here. She scrambled, dragging Odi by his sleeve and hauling them behind the thick exposed roots of a nearby willow tree, to peer through the gaps. A hooded, robed figure appeared, carrying a crying bundle in their arms, walking the length of the path that led to the centre of the pool beyond the willow fronds. The water rippled and the figure reached the end of the path, crouching, the infant still squalling. Roh’s skin crawled as she witnessed the First Cry. The figure held the infant out over the pool, letting the tears fall in fat droplets to the water. At the offering, it was as though the whole lair shivered.

  The piercing sound of the nestling’s cries called an old verse to Roh’s mind …

  Oh hush now, little nestling,

  One day you will find your song.

  But quiet now, little nestling,

  For in dream is where you belong …

  This was what every cyren had in common; even those damn highborns Finn and Yrsa shared this with her. Every one of them had offered up their tears to Dresmis and Thera, to Saddoriel. To become one with the water, to be linked to cyren territories all over the realms. Keeping to the shadows, Roh motioned for Odi to follow her from the grotto, shaking her head. The Pool of Weeping was the beginning and the end of anything she shared with the rest.

  When Roh and Odi returned to the entrance of Saddoriel, the archway of bones seemed more imposing
than ever. It towered above them, its ivory components gleaming in the generous torchlight as they passed beneath it. The entrance was busy. Cyrens of all ranks crossed the open space, shooting her and Odi curious looks but not interfering. Still rattled, Roh had never felt so grateful to have a human, her human, at her side. She glanced in Odi’s direction frequently, finding his lean frame a comforting presence in her peripheral vision, his ridiculous half-gloves failing to bother her as they once had. He was alive. He hadn’t succumbed fully to the lure of the lair, and they still had a chance in this gods-forsaken tournament.

  ‘You found him!’ exclaimed a familiar voice. ‘When you ran off like that, I feared the worst.’ Roh turned to find Arcelia Bellfast approaching them, her human close behind.

  ‘So did I,’ Roh admitted, smiling at the warmth in Arcelia’s tone. That too was a comfort.

  Arcelia rested a hand on Roh’s shoulder. ‘You missed the instructions for the second trial,’ she said.

  Roh’s heart sank. ‘What?’ She couldn’t have missed that vital information. She couldn’t have triumphed in finding Odi only to have missed the —

  ‘We have to build something.’ Arcelia’s words cut into her panicked thoughts.

  This was all part of Finn’s plan. Rage simmered just below the surface. She was going to —

  ‘Roh?’

  Her eyes snapped back to Arcelia.

  ‘We have to build something. That is the trial. It will be judged by the Council of Seven Elders.’

  ‘Why … why are you telling me this?’ Roh stammered, realising what her former tutor was doing.

  Arcelia gave a strained smile. ‘You warned me of the poisoned drinks at the gala. You laid no trap for Fasiel in the hunt. It’s only fair that I share this with you. I owe you.’

  Roh studied Arcelia’s lilac gaze. She could sense nothing but sincerity and a keen sense of honour, not common amongst their kind. With another glance at Odi, Roh nodded slowly.

  ‘Can you tell me – us, in the common tongue?’ she asked.

  Arcelia released Roh’s shoulder. ‘Very well,’ she agreed, changing languages without missing a beat. ‘The criteria for the second trial are as follows, with each criterion offering a maximum of five points. First, the item must have significant meaning to the cyrens of Saddoriel. Second, the item must be created with sophistication and finesse. Third, the item must have a practical application. Fourth, we will be scored on the originality of our concepts. And finally, we must meet the deadline as stipulated by the council. The projects are to be presented within the next moonspan.’

  Ignoring the look of disbelief Odi was aiming at her, Roh herself gaped at the cyren before her. ‘What?’

  Arcelia’s mouth was set in a straight, grim line. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s not much time.’

  ‘Much time? It’s not any time.’

  Arcelia merely shrugged.

  ‘And that’s the whole trial? That’s all the instructions?’

  ‘You have my word, Rohesia. That is all we were told.’

  Roh believed her. ‘Thank you,’ she said, knowing full well that none of the other competitors would have shared this information with her.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Odi’s voice sounded from her side.

  Arcelia looked at him, brows raised in surprise before a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She turned back to Roh, dipping her head slightly. ‘We are even now, you and I?’

  ‘We’re even.’

  ‘Then, I wish you – both of you,’ she added, ‘the best of luck.’

  ‘You too, Arcelia,’ Roh said, and meant it.

  Build something. It sounded so simple, yet between the two little words lay a churning sea of doubt. What would be worthy of the lair? What made something original? What sort of creation was practical for a sector of highborns who had everything they needed?

  Down in the workshop, Roh tried to palm the exhaustion from her eyes. After the ordeal of the tour and Arcelia’s news, she and Odi had wandered all over Saddoriel, searching for inspiration for the trial. But it was as though upon mention of the trial, a solid wall sprang up between Roh and any semblance of an idea, blocking her at every possible turn. It hadn’t helped that all throughout the evening, the phantom echo of the nestling’s cry from the Pool of Weeping filled her mind, rendering her listless. For a time she had tried to lose herself in the heavy tome she’d borrowed from Andwana: Life, Law and the Lair, but in truth, she had no idea where to start. The table of contents alone was twenty pages long. Which was why they had ended up in the workshop, yet again. Roh, Harlyn and Orson sat huddled around Ames’ desk at the front of the workshop, while Odi paced between the workbenches, toying with the protective token he’d come so close to losing.

  Harlyn monitored him suspiciously, not taking her eyes off the human as she talked. ‘Why don’t you use your music theatre?’ she asked, waving a hand to the back of the room where Roh’s model sat hidden beneath its cloth.

  Roh shook her head. ‘It has to be built specifically for this tournament.’

  ‘So build another.’

  Sighing, Roh went to the back of the room and brought the model back to the bench, removing the fabric. She’d never shown her friends what it looked like up close and in detail, but now seemed like the right time. ‘This took me months,’ she explained. ‘The initial sketches alone took weeks.’

  ‘But you have the sketches,’ Harlyn argued, turning the model around to examine it from all angles. ‘It won’t take half as long if you start again now.’

  Odi stopped his pacing, approaching curiously. Roh found herself wringing her hands as she watched him wordlessly take in the details of her design. Her stomach swooped uncomfortably and she curled her toes in her boots; she didn’t like feeling like this – exposed. Besides the tournament and her friends, her miniature music theatre was everything she cared about. She’d poured her heart and her soul into its design and creation for so long and now … Odi was seeing it, judging it. She may as well have been naked.

  ‘I don’t think the Council of Elders will see this to mean much to Saddoriel,’ Orson said quietly.

  Although Roh had already been disagreeing with Harlyn, her heart sank.

  ‘Not because it’s not incredible,’ Orson added quickly, with a worried glance at Roh’s fallen face. ‘But because it’s for the Lower Sector. If it’s not for them … Well, they won’t see the meaning, will they? They want for nothing up there. They need nothing. Did you not just visit the queen’s music theatre today?’

  ‘Yes,’ Roh admitted. ‘And it was a thousandfold better than this thing.’

  Orson sighed. ‘What about —’

  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ Odi said suddenly.

  Roh struggled to swallow. ‘What?’

  ‘The one we saw today, it wasn’t a thousandfold better than yours.’ Odi’s voice was clear and sturdy. ‘It was just different, Roh.’

  Roh and Orson fell quiet, looking at the human boy with a begrudging admiration. Harlyn eyed him dubiously, a sharp comment undoubtedly poised on her tongue.

  ‘But Orson’s right,’ he continued, resting his palms flat on the workbench and meeting Harlyn’s gaze as if in challenge. ‘Even if Roh somehow managed to build another model in time, the Upper Sector already has its music theatre. And I get the sense that your Council of Elders are not the sort to use valuable resources and currency on those lesser than themselves.’

  It was the most Roh had ever heard him speak. His eyes were bright with amusement as he surveyed their surprise. ‘You could always just make another big cage to trap us useless humans in?’

  Roh braced herself for Harlyn’s bloodletting. Her friend was barely tolerating Odi’s presence as it was, and now, Odi had outright provoked her. Orson looked as panicked as Roh felt, and had not-so-subtly placed herself between Harlyn and the human. Harlyn, however, looked thrilled.

  ‘Finally,’ she said, drumming her talons against the bench. ‘I was wondering when you’d c
ome out of that sad little shell of yours.’

  ‘As soon as you three stop talking in circles and come up with a decent plan,’ Odi quipped, holding her stare. He drew a stool up to the bench and took a seat.

  Roh froze, waiting for the others’ outrage to hit, that a human dared to join them at their table. A human boy thinking he was part of their ranks? But Orson and Harlyn were quiet, watching him with renewed interest, as though he were now something other than an inconvenience. Harlyn gave Roh a sideways look, for once saying nothing.

  Roh took this as her cue to continue. ‘What about a suit of armour?’ she asked. ‘For the queen?’

  ‘The queen already has armour,’ Harlyn said flatly. ‘And last time I checked, you weren’t an armourer.’

  ‘The queen’s armour is made out of sea-serpent scales,’ Orson said. ‘I’m sure one of our tutors mentioned it during our lessons.’

  ‘Ah yes, our extensive education,’ Harlyn said with mock fondness.

  Orson gave a roguish grin before continuing. ‘It used to be some sort of sport – hunting sea-serpent scales.’

  ‘What?’ Odi choked. ‘Sea serpents are … real? I thought they were just myths, made up to scare little children.’

  Orson ignored this. ‘Glory seekers would attempt to acquire a scale for the ruler’s armour. It went on for centuries, but the sport got outlawed after the Age of Chaos. So many cyrens had already perished that it was deemed senseless for more of our kind to die for a simple sport.’

  Roh stilled her tapping foot beneath the workbench with a glance at Odi, who looked just as impatient. ‘This is all very well and good,’ she told her friends. ‘But I think it’s safe to say that both these options are out. What else?’

  The trio reeled through numerous items Roh could build, each one struck off the list of possibilities faster than the previous. Their ideas were too impractical or unrealistic, or even worse, unoriginal. They debated the meaning of the criteria hotly, frustrated that their intended audience knew nothing of need.