Darkhaven

by A. F. E. Smith

  Serenna called up a mental image, her memory from the night of the attack. The shrine, lit by a hundred flickering tapers. Herself, kneeling at the altar. A shadow falling across her face, cutting out the light. She had turned, and seen – what? It had been such a brief impression. Something dark, that gleamed in the candlelight. It rushed towards her, and there was fire –

  ‘It burnt me,’ she said aloud. ‘The creature that attacked me. I fell down, and it trampled me. My ankle was crushed.’ She indicated her brace. ‘I saw it only for an instant, my lord, but I don’t believe it was a winged horse.’

  He frowned. ‘Then why didn’t you say so, when you reported the incident?’

  ‘I did. Both to the guard who came originally, and to the Helmsman who turned up when it became clear what sort of crime they were dealing with. I told them everything I could remember.’ She watched hope and scepticism brighten and dim his eyes, and added, ‘I don’t think it meant to hurt me, either.’

  His eyebrows lifted. ‘It burnt you and trampled you, but it didn’t mean to hurt you?’

  ‘I know it sounds silly.’ She maintained her equanimity. ‘But the creature seemed … lost. It didn’t know its own strength; the harm it caused me was accidental. I don’t think it came looking for me. Why should it?’

  ‘That’s a lot to see in an instant,’ Myrren said. ‘And even if you’re right, it certainly meant to hurt my father.’

  In the silence that followed, Serenna suppressed the questions she longed to ask: intrusive, shameful questions that were none of her business. Is it true his throat was ripped out? That there was so much blood it leaked under the door? Do you really believe your own sister could have done such a thing?

  As if her restraint had reassured him, Myrren gave her a direct look; not Darkhaven overlord to sixth-ring priestess, but one person to another.

  ‘Serenna … will you help me with this? Help me find the truth? Because until I do, my sister is condemned to a life in exile from Darkhaven, and I …’ His shoulders lifted in a weary shrug. ‘I am forced to live in uncertainty.’

  ‘Surely the Helm …’ she faltered, but he shook his head.

  ‘They have never liked Ayla – for being a half-blood, for having the gift that should be mine. Indeed, it sounds as though they reported the attack on you in such a way that it made my father suspect her. I’m afraid of what they might do if they find her before I get to the bottom of this.’

  Serenna studied him. It seemed crazy that he should ask for her aid. She had seen the creature only once, and that by candlelight; really she had no more knowledge of it than anyone else. She opened her mouth to say as much, but he forestalled her.

  ‘The priestesses of the sixth ring are renowned for their wisdom, Sister Serenna. I need wisdom more than anything, now. And besides … my father was a creature of Flame, just as you are its avatar. No-one can doubt your commitment to uncovering the truth.’ Almost to himself, he added, ‘Even Captain Travers will have to respect that.’

  Serenna wavered a moment longer. Surely there must be someone better he could choose … But the directness was still in his eyes, in the honesty of his face; it compelled her.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll help you, if I can.’ And she touched her fingertips to his to seal the bargain.

  THREE

  Tomas Caraway was just sober enough to know he was very drunk indeed. The world around him had blurred into a pleasantly indistinct haze, through which faces and voices loomed and receded like shapes in the mist. Yet despite his extreme inebriation, a small, detached corner of his mind watched his antics and mocked him for what he had become.

  It was, he thought with a self-pitying glance at his empty mug, the tragedy of his life. No matter how hard he tried to drown his memories in a pitcher of best Ingalese ale, a part of him always remembered. He’d have been better off saving his coin and getting himself a decent meal for once.

  Still, now he’d started on the path of self-deconstruction he might as well see it through. A few more drinks and with any luck he’d be unconscious.

  ‘Hey, barkeep!’ He waved his mug at the man on the other side of the counter, nearly falling off his stool in the process. ‘’M empty. D’you think y’could remedy the situation?’

  The man gave him an appraising look. ‘Got any more money?’

  ‘Well …’ Caraway fumbled in all his pockets, then offered his best smile. ‘You find me temporarily unfunded. Better put it on my account.’

  ‘Sorry.’ The bartender folded his arms. ‘No coin, no service.’

  ‘But I’ve been comin’ in here for weeks!’ Caraway protested.

  ‘And that’s exactly why I’m not going to serve you. Be reasonable, Tomas. We can’t give credit to a man who has no hope of paying his debts.’

  ‘Oh, pour him a drink, why don’t you,’ the mocking edge of another voice cut in. A hand slapped two copper coins down on the counter. ‘After all, he doesn’t have many pleasures left in life.’

  Tensing at the familiar tone, Caraway twisted in his seat. The man standing at his left shoulder was tall and blond, his pale eyes dancing with malicious amusement. Caraway looked from his multicoloured striped coat to the slim-bladed sword at his hip, and felt a heavy stone lodge itself in his guts. Quickly he turned back to the bartender.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said with as much dignity as he could muster. ‘I no longer have need of refreshment.’

  ‘Then I’ll have it myself.’ The note of amusement in the supercilious voice remained unchanged. As the bartender went to fetch the ale, the new arrival leaned one elbow on the counter and regarded Caraway through narrowed eyes.

  ‘So how are you, Breakblade? Still drinking yourself into a stupor, I take it.’

  Caraway forced himself not to react to the name, though the ale surging through his blood made him long to throw a punch.

  ‘What d’you want, Travers?’ he muttered.

  ‘Captain Travers.’ The correction was prompt. ‘I’m still commander of the Helm, remember? Whereas you are just a civilian.’

  Caraway flushed. ‘This is Arkannen, not Darkhaven. You have no authority here.’

  ‘Not as yet,’ Travers agreed. ‘But that will change. Didn’t you hear? The old Firedrake is dead. And his heir is much more … persuadable.’

  ‘Florentyn Nightshade is dead?’ Caraway rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his head. He squinted at Travers with intense dislike, but his desire for information was even stronger than his hatred. ‘When? How?’

  ‘Last night. He was murdered.’ A smile twisted the corners of the captain’s mouth. ‘By his daughter, no less.’

  ‘Liar.’ Caraway was off his stool in an instant, glaring into the other man’s face. ‘Lady Ayla would never –’

  ‘She killed her own father and went on the run,’ Travers said, still smiling. ‘No more than you’d expect from a half-blood, I suppose.’

  Caraway’s hand fell to the hilt of the sword at his belt, a mirror image of the other man’s. Travers tracked the motion with his eyes, then looked up with eyebrows raised, satirical.

  ‘Why does it matter to you?’ he drawled. ‘It’s a well-known fact you cared little enough for her mother.’

  Caraway’s remaining rationality dissolved in a dark rush of anger. For one hot, crazy instant he forgot everything except the habits that had once been drilled into him; with a scrape of metal he drew his sword, dropping into a defensive position.

  There was silence.

  Caraway’s gaze travelled slowly up his own arm, over his hand holding the sword hilt and the span of jagged steel that was all that remained of the blade, and beyond to the captain’s laughing face.

  ‘Why on earth do you still carry that thing, Breakblade?’ Travers lingered over the hated name as though he knew how much it hurt. ‘It’s completely useless.’

  ‘By the elements, you’re absolutely right.’ With a sweet smile, Caraway pushed his broken sword back into its scabbard. Then he d
id what he’d wanted to do all along, and punched Travers in the face.

  His head was still swimming with ale; the blow didn’t land square on the other man’s nose as intended, but on the side of his mouth, sending him staggering backwards. Travers regained his balance with an effort, turning his head aside to spit a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the floor. His scarlet-edged teeth showed in a snarl.

  ‘That was stupid, Caraway. Just one more stupid thing to add to the list.’

  Caraway shrugged, massaging his stinging right hand. Already he was beginning to regret his hasty reaction. What did it matter if Travers mocked and insulted him? He had already lost everything that was important to him, through negligence and his own conceit. After five years, it shouldn’t hurt so much.

  It shouldn’t, but it did.

  ‘And now you wish you hadn’t done it.’ Travers was watching him with contempt in his eyes. ‘Always the same, with you: the thought arrives long after the deed. What insane whim ever led me to admit you into the Helm, I’ll never know.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Caraway hung his head, staring at the worn leather of his boots. ‘I’m a drunkard wasting his life away in a second-rate alehouse.’ He looked up, meeting the other man’s gaze. ‘Still, at least I’m not a vindictive bastard like you, Travers. ’Cos if I was, I’d probably do this.’

  With that, he flung himself at Travers, bearing him to the floor. He got in one good punch before he was dragged away by the two slabs of muscle who guarded the entrance to the alehouse: enough to give Travers a bloody nose to match his swollen lip. After that, they just held his arms and let Travers beat him. The ale wasn’t much help; the effects had begun to fade by then. Caraway sagged between his two captors, a crooked grin on his face, absorbing the pain. Maybe if he endured it for long enough, Travers would hit him with sufficient force to knock the memories right out of him.

  Unfortunately, he passed out before they got that far.

  When he came round, it was to a familiar stench of unwashed bodies and filth: he was in one of Arkannen’s jails. He turned his head, licking dry lips, then winced as pain skewered his skull. His entire body felt like a giant bruise, all his limbs aching in unison. Travers had certainly got his own back.

  He forced himself to sit up, though the effort made him want to vomit. Once his head stopped spinning, he examined his surroundings through swollen eyes. There wasn’t much to see: four stone walls, a small barred door, a ledge lined with straw from which came the occasional suspicious rustle. The city watch had taken his boots and his broken blade, for all the good it would do them. No doubt he’d get them back in the morning, with a stern word about the perils of drinking alcohol and picking fights with the Helm. Until then, he was stuck with his nauseous stomach and his uncomfortably persistent thoughts.

  He lay back on the rat-infested straw, and gave in to memory.

  It had happened five years ago. He’d been a young man, fresh out of training, new to the Helm. And he’d been given the task of guarding Florentyn’s second wife, Ayla’s mother, as she walked in the forest north of Arkannen.

  They said the old Changer had married for love, the second time. He had done his duty, begetting a Nightshade heir on his cousin, but when she died in childbirth he didn’t hesitate to take a second wife. Her name was Kati: a blonde-haired, green-eyed sprite of a woman who brought light and laughter into the solemn walls of Darkhaven. Barely two years after Myrren’s birth, she gave Florentyn his second child, Ayla – a girl who bore all the hallmarks of a Nightshade, except for the hint of green in her eyes. And for the next thirteen years after that, they were happy.

  Yet Darkhaven was not an easy place to live in, especially for one who had grown up unconstrained by its walls. Kati yearned for freedom, for fresh air and growing things and open spaces. Submitting to her persuasions, Florentyn allowed her to go walking outside the city, always accompanied by at least one of the Helm. She was never in any danger … until they put her in the care of young Tomas Caraway.

  ‘Let’s follow the river today, Tomas,’ she said, eyes alight with the prospect. ‘See if we can spot any fisher-birds, or maybe a golden trout.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ He bowed with one hand on the hilt of his sword, a callow fool replete with self-importance. They took a balloon to the edge of the forest, setting down where the river entered the shadow of the trees. He followed Kati as she wandered along the bank, turning his head at every splash and leafy rustle, taking pride in his own alertness.

  ‘This is a good place.’ She stopped when the forest began to climb into the mountains, on a flat rock overlooking the water. By then the river gorge was narrow, the banks steep on either side.

  ‘Be careful, my lady.’ He took her arm. ‘Don’t go too close to the edge.’

  Kati laughed at him. ‘It’s fine, Tomas. I’ll sit here, look, and watch for birds. I’ll be quite safe.’

  She settled down on the rock, some distance from that vertiginous drop. Caraway stood two paces behind her and kept his futile lookout.

  ‘Oh, do go away,’ she told him after a while. ‘You’re scaring the birds.’

  ‘As you wish, my lady. I’ll be over here if you want me.’

  With another bow, he retreated to the treeline and sat down with his back against a sturdy trunk. Kati’s golden hair glinted in the sunlight; she didn’t turn her head in his direction, all her attention fixed on the opposite bank and the holes where the fisher-birds nested. The air was warm, with a gentle breeze that did little to relieve the stuffiness of his new striped coat. He tried to make himself as still and quiet as she was, listening to the sounds of insects chirping and the water running by.

  He closed his eyes.

  Some time later, he drifted back into consciousness with the guilty realisation that he’d been asleep. Something had woken him, a sound that seemed to linger just beyond the edge of hearing. The light had faded. He got to his feet, rubbing his eyes – and then he saw it. An invisible monster had taken a giant bite out of the bank; earth and rock had vanished into the gorge, leaving only a crumbling lip. The ground was all cracked and torn around it, tumbled by a mighty force.

  Landslide.

  For a sick, frozen instant he stared, unable to take it in. Then he ran forward, shouting Kati’s name, searching for her. Any moment now, he told himself, she would appear from the shelter of the forest and laugh at him for being so silly. He kept on trying to convince himself of that, right up until he dropped to his knees at the edge of the crumbling bank and gazed down at the slowly eroding mound of debris in the river below – at the pile of rock and earth not quite concealing the splash of bright red that was Kati’s skirt.

  Red had always been her favourite colour.

  Caraway pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, desperate to block out that final, fatal image. After he’d returned to the tower alone, incoherent with shock and grief – after a search party had recovered her body – they’d taken his coat and broken his sword. They’d banished him from Darkhaven and even from his old training grounds, confining him to the lower rings of the city where he belonged. But no punishment they dealt him could have been worse than the knowledge of his failure. He had been given a duty to perform, and he hadn’t been able to perform it. In the end, his devotion to the Nightshade family hadn’t been enough.

  Of course, there had been whispers about him after it happened. People said he hated Kati for being an ordinary woman, that he was a fanatic who thought the royal line should remain pure. They implied that the accident wasn’t an accident at all, that he’d pushed her into the gorge and sent the rocks down after her. He didn’t blame them. After all, if it weren’t for him she’d still be alive. The guilt of it gnawed at him every day, a constant unforgiving presence.

  And now, five years later, Kati’s daughter was being accused of murdering her own father. Caraway couldn’t believe that was true. He had always loved Ayla the best of her family: her mercurial moods, her ready wit, the way her face seemed to gl
ow when she was excited. He would have been willing to lay down his life for her – for all of them, but for her most of all. It just wasn’t possible that the girl he’d known could have turned into a killer.

  The alcohol had worn off by now, leaving a pounding headache and a faint bilious haze in its wake. Caraway turned onto his side, curling around his tender stomach. There was nothing he could do about any of it, anyway.

  He’d be much better off trying to work out where to get the money for more ale.

  FOUR

  Ayla was lost. She had never ventured into the lower rings of the city before; her human life had been spent within Darkhaven’s walls, save the occasional visit to one temple or another on celebration days. Her father had always claimed that this restriction was imposed with her own welfare in mind. Too many dangers wait in the world for an unprotected girl, he’d say. After what happened to your mother … Yet in creature form Ayla was equally limited, allowed only brief flights to the deserted country north of Arkannen – and even that at night, when she’d be no more than a shadow against the moon. Florentyn might have called that solicitude, but she knew it was shame.

  It had taken her a full day to descend from the seventh ring to the fourth. Getting out of the seventh ring had been easy enough; it was the job of the two guards at the Gate of Death to watch for intruders from the city below, not fugitives from within the grounds of Darkhaven. And it had still been dark when she passed the temples of the sixth ring, their delicate spires and gleaming rooftops concealed by shadow. She had identified each one by sound alone: the gentle ticking of the Temple of Time, with its thousand clocks of different sizes; the spine-chilling moan of the wind caressing the Spire of Air, a needle-thin shard of glass that reached higher than anything in Arkannen save Darkhaven itself; the soft, rippling murmur of water flowing endlessly through the many wheels of the Water Garden; the whispering and rustling of the Cathedral of Trees. Only the Shrine of the Moon had been awake, its priestesses raising silver voices in homage to the eternal power of night.