Sunstone

by Freya Robertson

  She followed the Select into the palace and up the same stairs where Comminor had taken her last time. At the top, she passed two more guards and entered the large foyer with its window looking down across the lake. But it was empty, and the Select did not stop there. She walked across to a door on the opposite side, pulled the curtain back and then waited, her gaze finally coming to rest on Sarra.

  Sarra walked slowly towards the door. The curtain was made of tiny squares of turtle shell interlinked with golden hoops, and it shimmered in the light of the lanterns. When she reached the door, she paused and glanced up at the Select. The woman looked down at her, and although her face was impassive, her eyes were gentle.

  “Go on,” the woman whispered. “He is waiting for you.”

  Sarra swallowed and walked into the room, and the Select let the curtain swing behind her.

  It was Comminor’s personal bedchamber. In the centre against the wall stood the largest bed she had ever seen, waist high, covered with a magnificent dark blue blanket embroidered with silver and gold stars. Beautifully carved wooden furniture – a table and chairs, a large coffer – stood against the wall containing the doorway.

  On the opposite wall hung a huge tapestry. It was formed from geometric shapes using threads of all colours, and to the untrained eye it looked like a beautiful abstract pattern. However, it reflected Sarra’s embroidery clearly enough for her to realise that whoever had made this was a bard. The blue “sky”, round yellow “sun” and green “grass” stood out amongst the other bright colours. Darker triangles depicted birds in the sky, while two arcs with their tails crossed represented fish in the sea. And on the far side, the long brown rectangle topped with hundreds of green circles – surely that represented the Arbor?

  Comminor stood in front of it, studying it, and he did not turn immediately as she walked in. She took a few steps forward and waited, heart pounding, trying to calm herself.

  “It is beautiful, is it not?” Comminor said after a moment, and he reached out a hand and traced the curve of the white ball she was sure represented the Light Moon.

  “It is amazing,” she said truthfully.

  “What do you think of the design?” he asked, finally turning to look at her.

  Only one lantern was lit in the room, and Comminor’s face was in shadow. She swallowed and looked back at the tapestry. “It is… unusual. Lots of different shapes. But they fit together well.” Was he trying to see whether she recognised the pattern? She thought of her embroidery back in her sleep room, in her private box. Had the Select been through her belongings? Had Comminor seen her work?

  He moved forward, his face coming into the light, and to her surprise it held neither harshness nor recrimination. He glanced back at the tapestry, and his expression showed only pleasure. “A team of five artists worked on it. I am very pleased with the final result.”

  Who had designed it she wondered? Because clearly the person dreamed of the Surface. She longed to ask him, but did not want to draw attention to the design, and anyway, he was now turning his attention away from the tapestry, and focussing instead on her.

  “Sarra,” he said, and moved a little closer to her.

  She looked up at him, speechless. He wore a long silver tunic that matched his hair, and he seemed to glow in the semi-darkness. The room smelled of expensive incense, something musky and exotic that stirred her senses.

  She had heard others speak about the Chief Select, about whether he held some kind of magical power that enabled him to have a hold over his followers. Turstan had dismissed this, saying Comminor was a man who knew how to reward those who did as he said, and who had no qualms in punishing those who did not. But standing before him, Sarra wondered, because the man’s golden eyes were mesmerising, and he emitted an aura of power such as she had never seen before in anyone in the Embers.

  He raised a hand and cupped her cheek, and she shivered.

  “You said you would give me a month,” she whispered.

  “I could not wait,” he replied, his deep voice stroking all her nerve endings just as his thumb was stroking her cheek. “I have observed you walking the lake every day, seen you at work, watched you dance in the evenings.”

  She gasped, not having been aware of his presence at any of the music performances. “You watched me?”

  “Always,” he murmured, slipping a hand into her hair. “You have captivated me, Sarra. I do not know why, and I am not even sure that I like it, but I cannot stop thinking of you. When I see you, I light up inside. It is like I have a fever – I cannot think of anything else.” He moved closer, so their bodies touched. “I have to have you, or I will burn.”

  He lowered his lips, and Sarra stood frozen, her heart pounding. His words flattered her, but she could not be sure he meant them. What if this was all just a way to find out about the Veris? To get her to relax her guard?

  And yet his desire seemed genuine, and when he raised his head, she could see only tenderness and need in his eyes.

  “Say yes,” he murmured. “Say you will have me.”

  She moistened her lips. “And if I say no? Will you have me anyway?”

  He brushed his lips against hers again. “I promise you, you will not be disappointed. I have never had any complaints before.”

  Between them, her hand rested on her abdomen. She could not hide it any longer. If she did not agree to be his mate, he would take her anyway, she was sure of it, and either way she could not keep the baby secret any longer.

  She stepped back, grasped the hem of her tunic and drew it over her head, then let it drop to the floor. His eyes blazed. She did the same with her more finely woven under tunic, and stood before him naked.

  His gaze raked her, and then stopped as he discovered what she had been hiding all along.

  His eyes rose to meet hers.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered, and steeled herself for the full onslaught of his fury.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I

  Horada stood at the edge of a small cluster of trees and shivered as she looked across the expanse of countryside separating her and the large Forest of Bream, two days’ ride to the west. Between them lay the hamlet of Franberg, her current destination.

  Even though whatever had been following her had come awfully close to finding her in the trees, she still felt more comfortable within them, as if the Arbor itself had sent its children to protect her. But out there, in the fields where there was little cover and an unusual bout of light rain, she would be exposed and vulnerable, an easy target for whatever strange entity it had been that had decided that stopping her reaching Heartwood was its ultimate goal.

  Still, she couldn’t stand there all day. Her only hope, she felt, was to keep going and put some distance between her and her stalker.

  She nudged Mara forward with her knees, aware that the horse also appeared strangely reluctant to leave the forest’s skirts, and guided her along the pathway leading between the two hills ahead of her. The rain, which was more like a heavy mist really, soon soaked into her cloak and made it hang heavily, but Horada didn’t mind the weather. Oddly, in contrast to what she had felt before exiting the forest, she found her spirits lifting the further they went, her mood echoed in the way Mara’s ears pricked up and her tail swished as she trotted along in a lively fashion.

  She puzzled on this as they passed the fields of wheat, the ripening sheaves a blurred golden yellow through the rain. She remembered that moment she had tried to open her eyes in the forest, the heat she had felt on her skin, and the way the leaves had been turned to ash when the tree finally released her. And there was also the information that Julen had imparted, about there being strange fires springing up all over the place.

  Unbeknown to her mother, Horada and her father had often discussed the Darkwater Lords’ invasion in great depth. Chonrad had confessed to his daughter that Procella didn’t really understand the love-hate connection he had with the Arbor, and he didn’t want to burden her with thin
gs she couldn’t – or wouldn’t – understand. But Horada’s willingness to listen, and the fact that she seemed to comprehend what had happened, meant that he had told her everything of the events of twenty-two years ago.

  The history had rung a bell deep inside Horada, her understanding somehow more than just mere comprehension. It spoke to something within her, in her blood maybe, an emotion or a knowledge concerning the elements and the balance that the Arbor tried to control that Chonrad hadn’t needed to put into words. She had known intuitively that the wars and the people’s disconnection with the land had led to the imbalance which had subsequently made the rise of water possible.

  And now, just as instinctively, she knew the same thing was happening with fire.

  She lifted her face and let the misty rain fall on it. Perhaps this was why she felt more at ease in the open air? Even though she had thought the Arbor could not protect her out here, somehow the wet weather meant the fire elemental – if there were such a thing – would not be able to travel, or at least its power would be subdued, like throwing a bucket of water at a house on fire.

  She thought about what Julen had said about another attack on Heartwood and the Arbor. That was worrying, because the Arbor itself had broken down the Temple that protected it, telling her father it did not need protecting in that way. It had told Chonrad that, providing the love of the people for the land was strong, it could defend itself. And since then, the Heartwood Council, headed by Dolosus, had made great efforts to maintain the Nodes, honour the Veriditas greening ceremony and keep the energies flowing. So what had gone wrong?

  She pondered on the question as Mara trotted through the puddles, heading for the hamlet of Franberg. Country lanes diverted every now and then from the main road, and they passed the occasional house or workers in the field who raised their hands as she passed, but otherwise the road remained quiet, with no sign of anyone following her, even though she looked over her shoulder frequently to check.

  She arrived in Franberg as the sun was beginning to set and went straight to the small inn. The innkeeper’s son took Mara to rub her down and feed her, and the innkeeper’s wife sat Horada in front of the fire with a plate of stew and cup of ale. She tried to engage her in conversation, and Horada chatted for a while, finding out that there had been a few fires in the neighbourhood recently, which the woman thought strange because they had seemed to spring up out of nowhere.

  The woman finally went back to sweeping the floors and serving the other couple of travellers in the inn, and Horada finished her stew and curled up in the chair, tired and comfortable.

  She studied the fire as her aching bones – unaccustomed to hours in the saddle – gradually began to relax and her eyelids drooped. The flames leapt around the log like dancing figures, dressed in yellow, orange and red. She watched as they danced higher and higher, the figures more twisting and writhing than dancing, like tortured souls bound by invisible chains.

  Something thrummed in her ears, a rumbling like the tremors that could supposedly be heard in the middle of the Spina Mountains. They passed up through the legs of the chair and vibrated through her, until her heartbeat seemed to match the steady pounding like a deep bass drum. For a brief moment it was as if her body had melted and soaked into the ground and become one with the earth – she felt that if she stretched out her arms she would be able to touch the sea on one side of Laxony and the mountains on the other. It was a glorious sensation, a merging, and her heart swelled.

  Almost immediately, a noise filled her ears – a bellowing roar, like the backdraft of a fire as it engulfs a house. Heat swept over her, as if the flame had entered her fingertips and travelled along her arteries and veins. Pain made her open her mouth in a soundless scream as her whole body stiffened. She was going to burn…

  And a voice said, “Halt!” and abruptly the roaring noise stopped, the pain dissolved and the heat disappeared. She opened her eyes slowly, panting with exertion, only then realising her eyes had been closed.

  In the inn, a man stood before her, dressed in a long light grey cloak topped with leather bracers and straps across his body, and a hood that covered his face.

  She pushed herself to her feet and glanced around. The half-dozen people in the room looked like statues, frozen in various poses, and the air had a strange, shimmering quality to it.

  She looked back at the man.

  “Hello, Horada,” he said.

  Heart thumping, she glanced around again, noting that the people still hadn’t moved. “Who are you? What have you done to everyone?”

  “I have done nothing to them,” he said, his deep voice mellow and soothing to her frayed nerves. “The Arbor has paused the passage of time to enable us to have a conversation. And in answer to your first question, my name is Cinereo. I am from the Nox Aves.”

  She recalled the name of the group from Julen’s conversation, although not the name of the man. She couldn’t think what to say. In front of her, the air glimmered as if the sun had highlighted silver dust motes. A shiver ran through her. Something magical was happening, way beyond her understanding. But if the man standing before her was from the Nox Aves, she knew she could trust him.

  “What do you need from me?” she asked. “I want to help. What can I do?”

  The air shimmered around him. “The wheels are in motion,” he said, “the chess pieces are moving into place. It is nearly time, Horada.”

  “What can I do?” she repeated.

  He passed his hand in front of her in an arc, and the air glittered again. An image appeared before them. She had not seen anything like it before, but her father had described one to her once when he had journeyed to the University of Ornestan many years before.

  It was an hourglass. It tipped slowly in the air, the sand trickling from one bulb to the other, marking time.

  She stared at it, not knowing what it represented in this context. “I do not understand,” she murmured.

  “You are the Timekeeper,” Cinereo said, his voice deepening, resonating through her.

  “The Timekeeper?” She watched the hourglass turn, the movement reminding her of the wheel of the stars in the sky above her head at night.

  “You must be ready.” His form shimmered, and for the first time his voice sounded faint. “They are coming, Horada. The Incendi – the fire elementals – they use the Arbor’s roots to move through space and time. They use them to find you.”

  Her eyes widened. “That is who was following me in the forest?”

  “Yes.” He disappeared, then reappeared briefly. “You have a natural link to the Arbor. But be careful how you use it – the Incendi are coming!”

  He vanished.

  At the same time, Horada opened her eyes to see the fire in the grate leap up a foot high. She stood so suddenly her chair toppled over, only then realising that the people in the room had started to move again, and were exclaiming as the fire spat scarlet embers across the floor to light the rushes. Flames sprung up all around the room, and in her half-daze, Horada was sure she could see figures within them.

  The innkeeper’s wife squealed, grabbed a bucket and dashed outside, and Horada followed suit, finding a pail outside the front door and following her to the large water butt to one side of the building. They dipped the buckets and ran back into the inn, and proceeded to douse the floor with water.

  For a brief moment, Horada thought they weren’t going to be able to get the blaze under control and she was going to be responsible for burning down the whole inn, but then the flames gradually sputtered and died, and the emergency was over.

  They put down the pails, panting and wide-eyed. Horada wrapped her arms around herself, close to tears.

  The innkeeper came forward and rubbed the top of her arms. “It is all right, no damage has been done.”

  “They found me,” Horada said, shaking.

  The innkeeper’s wife frowned. “Who found you?”

  But Horada couldn’t reply, knowing none of what she said w
ould make any sense. Had it all been a figment of her imagination, a dream born out of tiredness and exhaustion? Or had Cinereo really been there? There was no way of knowing, and because of that she couldn’t afford to stay there any longer and put herself – and all these people – in jeopardy.

  “I have to leave,” she said, turning to pick up her bag. “Please, let me give you some money in compensation for the mess.”

  The innkeeper’s wife waved a hand, concerned. “It is my fault the fire was not well tended – I should have placed a guard around it. Please, stay a little longer.”

  Horada took out some coins and shoved them into the woman’s hand. “No, I have to go.” Too upset to talk further, she walked out of the inn and round to the stable to collect Mara, led her to the road, mounted and set off at a fast trot, aware of the innkeeper’s wife’s anxious face watching her as she left.

  Tears poured down her cheeks, joining with the rain, which had grown heavier since she had arrived at the hamlet. What was happening to her? Had Cinereo spoken the truth? Were these Incendi really hunting her down?

  And what had he meant by calling her the Timekeeper?

  II

  Catena’s uneasiness grew the more miles they put between themselves and Harlton.

  She had thought she would enjoy the adventure of travelling all the way to Heartwood, seeing the changing countryside, meeting new people, new places. But instead she found the whole process unsettling. The food – even in the cities – tasted different: bland and without the usual spices she was accustomed to. The air, absent of the tang of metal from the forges and the dust from the mines, smelled strangely sweet, reminding her of the cloying odour of rotting meat. Her joints ached from too many hours in the saddle, and the water in the bathhouses was never hot enough to relieve it. The wine was sour. Even the beds were uncomfortable.

  She had thought the experience of meeting people from other lands would be exciting, but ultimately she discovered the inhabitants of all cities had the same old prejudices – the same bad attitudes, the same grumpy moods and irritations with life – as anyone else in her home country. The sense of humour was different, and they made jokes about things that left her staring blankly. The men seemed lewd, the women interested only in what other women were wearing and which members of the opposite sex were available for marriage. She could find nothing to connect with them at all, and longed to return home. She had thought her life in Harlton dull at times, but now she ached for her rooms in the castle, for the peace and quiet of daily life, for the nights she would spend patrolling the castle walls, letting her thoughts trail off into the star-scattered sky.