Sunstone

by Freya Robertson

  “So there is a Surface?” Paronel spoke in a hushed whisper.

  “Yes,” Comminor said.

  The three of them stared at him, and he could only guess what they were thinking. Since they had heard of the Veris, there had been rumours about the other world, but everyone had assumed they were only that – rumours, and the Veris’s tales were just stories told to make their dreary lives more exciting.

  Viel leaned forward. “What is up there?”

  “We do not know.” Comminor warmed his hands and stared into the fire. That was one piece of information he was not prepared to share. “But we cannot risk the Incendi finding out about the existence of the Embers. If they know, they will come to destroy us, and I have vowed not to let that happen. I have dedicated my life to ensuring the Embers remains isolated, and I do not intend to stop now.”

  They all thought on that. Paronel drew her blanket around her shoulders and leaned her cheek on her arms. Comminor thought she slept, but when he looked closer, her eyes were open as she stared at the fire.

  “You should have told us you did not think we would return when you asked us to come with you,” Viel said.

  “I did not know about the Cataracta,” Comminor pointed out. “And nothing is certain. That much I have learned over the years.”

  “What do you intend to do when you catch them?” Josse’s anger appeared to have faded.

  “Persuade them to come back.”

  “And if they will not?”

  Comminor met his gaze. He knew the answer, but did not want to put it into words, and the others fell silent.

  For a short while, they rested. Comminor lay back and closed his eyes. Just for a moment… The cool stone seeped into his muscles, calming them, and even though the floor was hard, his body relaxed, and he slipped into an uneasy sleep.

  He opened his eyes, and Sarra stood before him. She was large with child, and one hand rested on her sizeable bump. She wore a long blue tunic of a rare fine material she would not have had access to in the Embers, and a gold circlet set with gems. He recognised the circlet – it was in the palace vault. He had given it to her – she was his woman. His heart swelled.

  Her other hand rested on the bark of a tree. Comminor tipped his head back and looked up at the branches. He had never seen anything like it before in the Embers, but he knew what it was. An oak tree. The oak tree. The Arbor.

  Its leaves shook a little in the early morning breeze, almost as if it were beckoning him closer. He hesitated, then reached out a hand and rested it on the trunk. To his shock, the bark was warm, and beneath his fingers beat a slow, steady pulse.

  “Can you feel it?” Sarra asked him.

  He nodded, turning his gaze back to her. She smiled, her eyes filled with such love that it warmed his heart.

  “I have something for you,” he said, and unfurled his hand. A small flame danced there, and he offered it to her.

  Sarra’s smile slowly faded. “It burns,” she said. “It burns because of you.”

  Against his will, the flame lengthened and above it, a leaf caught light. Alarmed, Comminor reached out to take it in his hand, but beside it another burst, then another. He went around the tree, trying to extinguish all the flames, but he could not move quickly enough. A chain of flames spread around the branches, leaves curling and crisping; soon twigs were catching light and then whole branches burst into flame.

  The heat drove him back, and he held his arms up to his face as the fire spread down the trunk and soon the whole tree was burning. And now it was crying, its heart-wrenching sobs filling the air, tearing at his heart.

  Then, to his shock, he saw that Sarra still stood beneath the branches, unmoving. Burning leaves fell onto her hair, setting it aflame, and her clothes caught light, enveloping her in a halo of orange. Comminor tried to get to her but the heat was too intense, and in the end all he could do was watch as her skin bubbled and blackened, and she collapsed to the floor, filling the air with the smell of roasted flesh.

  The tree roared, burning fiercely, and he fell to his knees, tears running down his face. Sarra’s voice continued to whisper in his ears, haunting him. It burns because of you.

  “No!”

  He opened his eyes, aware he had spoken out loud, and sat up. He was back in the small stone room, the fire nearly dead, and the others were sitting up and rubbing their eyes, awoken by his cry.

  “Sorry.” He ran his hands through his hair. “A dream.”

  “What did you dream about?” Josse took out his water bottle and had a mouthful. They all looked curiously at the Chief Select.

  He shook his head, unable to voice the horror. Was it an omen? Was the Arbor trying to tell him he was going to be the downfall of his people? Or was it just a dream born out of his fear that he couldn’t fulfil his role as protector of the Embers?

  He pushed himself to his feet. “We should get going.”

  This time they didn’t argue but rose with him and packed away their blankets. He shouldered his bag and walked to the doorway, raising his hand and producing a flame to light the way. He tried not to think of how the leaves had caught light when he had done that standing beneath the Arbor. It was just a dream, not a portent. It meant nothing.

  They walked again for what felt like hours, threading through passages and caves, each as quiet and empty as the last, long since abandoned and left to the mosses, and spiders and insects that scurried away as their feet scuffed on loose stones and dirt.

  Comminor continued to run his fingers along the walls, following Sarra’s echo. Why he could feel her presence so clearly, he did not know. From the first moment he saw her, he had felt a special connection to her, but he could not have said why or put it into words.

  The passageway opened up into a large room, the floor filled with cooled and folded sheets of rock. His fingers tingled and, heart pounding, he walked up the rising pathway and exited the doorway at the end.

  The others came to stand beside him, mouths open as they looked down at the enormous cavern and the gigantic pyramid at the other end. The sheer scale of the place made him dizzy, and the faded pictures on the walls showed the history of the elementals he had read about in the Quercetum since he was a young man.

  But in spite of the wondrous view, it was not this that drew his attention. That was captured by the sight of a figure standing in the huge doorway of the pyramid, looking up at him.

  They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Sarra turned and disappeared into the pyramid.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I

  Horada knelt on the rocky floor, head bowed, trying to control her shaking and failing miserably.

  Sweat ran down her face and back, and her clothing stuck to her skin uncomfortably. In front of her, the magma pit swirled and spat occasional globs of burning rock at the path on which she knelt. So far none had landed on her, but she watched them bubble and hiss on the rock and knew it was only a matter of time.

  In the pit, the giant firebird flapped its wings lazily, surveying her. She kept her eyes lowered, but could still see its scarlet form, could feel its glowing red eyes fixed on her.

  The King of the Incendi. She could not believe she knelt before him. If only she could take a sword and thrust it into his heart and end this once and for all. But unfortunately she didn’t have a sword. And even if she did, she wasn’t sure he had a heart, or not one that could be hurt by a blade. He seemed made of fire, and although he appeared to have form, he had materialised from the liquid rock as if by magic.

  Her wrists were chained to rock on either side, her arms stretched out, her knees hurt but she could not rise. She was totally at his mercy and wondered if at any moment she would feel the fire wash over her, burning flesh from bone and taking away her life in one brief burst of pain.

  As if hearing her thoughts, the firebird moved towards her with a sweep of its wings, pausing just in front of her. He lowered his head, and a fiery tongue emerged to flick past her cheek. The hea
t made fresh sweat run down her neck, and she swayed with exhaustion.

  “Water,” said the King, and beside her one of the elementals brought in a bucket and tipped it straight over her head. The liquid evaporated almost immediately, but not before the wetness brought her to her senses like a sharp slap. She gasped and shook her head, droplets flying off and meeting the rock with a hiss.

  The firebird lowered its head to look into her eyes. “Hello, Horada.”

  She moistened her lips. How did he know her name? His scarlet orbs, brilliant as rubies, hot as a forge, burned into her. “What do you want?”

  His tongue curled out and then back. “You.”

  Her heart raced. She tried to look away from his stare, but found she couldn’t, as if he was hypnotising her, keeping her entranced. “You cannot have me,” she whispered, aware even as she said the words how feeble they sounded.

  The tongue flicked in and out. “We will see.” He sounded amused.

  For the first time, indignation rose inside her. “You can do what you like to my body,” she said firmly. “But you will never control my mind.”

  “That sounds like both an offer and a challenge,” Pyra said.

  Horada swallowed down the fear rising within her at the thought of what torture he could put her through, and lifted her chin to meet his gaze. “Take it whatever way you wish. You do not frighten me.”

  The firebird swept in a circle. “You have a very high opinion of yourself. Let me summarise my intentions by saying that by the end of our conversation, you will have submitted yourself to me willingly. Your body and your mind will be mine, to do with whatever I wish.” His tongue flicked out. “I have a lot of ideas.”

  “Never,” Horada whispered. “You cannot make me do anything I do not want to do.” But she could not stop herself shaking. Could he control her mind – make her do things against her will? But he said she would submit willingly. That would never happen.

  The King turned and breathed out a long, scarlet flame. Steam rose from it to form a white wall. On this screen, a picture began to form.

  It took her a while to recognise the person. She could not understand how the picture was moving – she had seen painting and tapestries, but never a picture where the figures moved. It was as if Pyra had transported them to the scene, even though she could still feel the rock beneath her knees and the heat from his sour breath.

  It was her brother, Orsin. He lay on his back on a sheet of rock, eyes half-lidded while in front of him danced a woman clothed in sheer layers of gauze. Around them, golden coins and ornaments glistened, and she could not mistake that look of lust in his eyes. She had seen it before late in the evening when, in his cups, he had grabbed one of the serving wenches before leading her off to one of the pallets where the household slept and sliding under the blankets with her. The dancer draped her gown across him and let the silky fabric trail across his face, and he arched his back in ecstasy.

  “You are seducing him,” she whispered, once again unable to tear her gaze away.

  “Orsin was already halfway to being my follower,” Pyra said scornfully. “He has been attracted to fire since he was a child, and none of you recognised it. His family have never tried to understand him, nor find his strengths. You also dismiss him as a fool, but he has power you could never dream of. Power that I now possess.”

  In spite of the heat, Horada went cold. Orsin was a follower of the Incendi?

  “I do not believe it,” she said, fighting against the tears that threatened to form. “He may not be religious, but he would not betray the Arbor or his people.”

  “You deny he is a slave to his senses?”

  Orsin loved good food, fine ale and pretty women. There was no denying it. “That does not make him a traitor,” she said.

  “He is soundly connected to the physical world, which is what I desire. He is the perfect container for my spirit, and through him I shall conquer Anguis and all its people.”

  The firebird reared up, scattering flecks of magma across the room, and spread its wings, fire leaping from the ends. Horada cowered before it, squealing as boiling sparks landed on her skin. She shook them off but they left tiny blisters, and she sobbed, holding up her hands in defence.

  “Stop, please stop.”

  “Then join with me.” He lowered back into the magma. “The pain will be but momentary, and then we shall be one. I can show you bliss such as you have never experienced before, and you shall live forever!”

  Horada leaned forward, head bowed, fingers digging into the hard rock. “No.”

  “You think you can refuse me?” The King laughed, his searing breath blasting her so she nearly fainted.

  “I will not,” she said, although her bottom lip trembled and she continued to shake.

  “If you will not do it for Orsin, then do it for your other brother.” Pyra beat his wings, and the scene on the sheet of steam cleared and was replaced by another.

  This time she saw Julen. He was walking through the forest, the greenery painted with sunlight from the shafts that filtered down through the canopy of trees. It was difficult to see him as he wore clothes that blended with the colour of the trees, although she knew it was more than that because even his face and hands seemed to match the colours of the undergrowth. He was camouflaging himself, using his special talent to hide as he moved quickly, glancing occasionally over his shoulder.

  “Clever,” Pyra said. “What a wonderful gift that is. Amazing we can see him at all.”

  Horada said nothing. She watched as Julen reached the edge of a line of trees and dropped to his haunches. Ahead of him was a rockface darkened by the entrance to a cave. He had reached the mountainside, she realised. He was coming to find her.

  Even as her heart leapt, she saw the two Incendi figures in the cave’s shadows. They lay in wait, aware of his presence, ready to ambush him the moment he entered.

  “Hmm,” said Pyra. “They are waiting for my command. Do I tell them to move forward, or do I hold them back?”

  Horada bit her lip and turned her gaze to the King. “Please. Do not harm him.”

  Flames ran down the elemental’s form, glistening in gold and scarlet. “Then join with me.”

  Tears finally ran down her face. To save her brother, she would have to throw herself into the magma and join with the Incendi. But that would be the end of the Arbor, she knew it instinctively. In another age, another era, Tahir was nearby, and so presumably was the girl he spoke of, the girl from his future. They were coming together, about to join in location if not in time, and with the Apex formed, their destruction would be inevitable.

  “I cannot.” She lifted her chin, not ashamed to show her tears.

  The King did not wait. Clearing the picture, he let another one form. This time of her mother, leaning close to the neck of the horse she rode, fleeing through the countryside at full pace. Her hair had escaped her usual tight knot and it trailed behind her like a pennant, snapping in the breeze. Trees and fields flashed by, cows and sheep a blur of colour. She glanced over her shoulder, and to Horada’s alarm, fear lit her mother’s face. She had never seen her mother scared before.

  “Procella fears being caught by Hunfrith,” Pyra said. “He wants her, in all the ways a man can want a woman. She knows he is stronger than her. She can remember that moment your father first bested her in mock combat – that moment of humiliation and fear that she could not hold her own. She will experience that tenfold with Hunfrith. Your father loved her, but Hunfrith will use her body with no sign of the tenderness that Chonrad felt towards her. Hunfrith will abuse her, rape her, then give her to his men to use in any way they wish. Do you want that for your mother?”

  Tears streamed down Horada’s cheeks. Her chains clanged as she moved her hands to dash them away. “No. Please…”

  “Then join with me.”

  She closed her eyes. Forgive me, Mother… “I cannot.”

  Pyra roared, making her eyes snap open again. He cleared the scen
e. This time, the new picture puzzled her. It looked like a view of somewhere in the mountains, with more magma bubbling redder than blood. She blinked, trying to focus on the figure in the centre. He lay stretched out on a rock, arms and feet spread and tied, and he was naked. Fire elementals crawled over him, and his skin blistered, renewed and blistered again, accompanied by his cries of pain.

  It was her father.

  Horada’s jaw dropped. Horror filled her. “Father?” She turned furious eyes to the King. “Now I know you lie. He is dead. I saw his body and buried it afterwards.”

  “But this is not his body,” said the King. “This is his soul.”

  Horada stared. Since the beginning of time, scholars had debated the presence of a soul and whether it lived on when the body gave up its life. Current thought was that, like with trees, when the physical body died its energy returned to the ground and brought life to the new shoots in a circle that never ended. The existence of a person’s mind, of their very being, outside of the body was not thought to exist.

  And yet here was her father, his face clearly distinguishable, captured by the Incendi and kept to be tortured for all eternity.

  Bile rose inside her and she vomited onto the ground.

  The King lowered himself in the magma so he could look into her face. “Join with me,” he whispered, “and I will end your father’s suffering. I will return his spirit to the Arbor so he can rest in peace.”

  A fire elemental climbed onto Chonrad and stretched out along him, lying like a lover atop her partner’s form. He screamed as the fire ate into him, arching his back in a spasm of pain.

  “Stop,” Horada whispered, curling up, her forehead almost resting on the ground. “Please, make it stop.”

  “Join with me…” His insidious voice crept over her like a warm blanket, promising an end to the suffering, an end to the pain.