Darkhaven

by A. F. E. Smith

  Flustered, Serenna gazed up at him. Part of her wanted to lean in towards him and kiss him as she had last night – to tell him she wanted nothing more than to stay with him in Darkhaven. Yet the rest of her knew she needed time to be alone and think things through. She was a priestess: she had dedicated her life to that. One impulsive night of pleasure couldn’t be allowed to determine the course of her future.

  ‘Of course I’m still willing to help you,’ she said. ‘But until these crimes are solved, my lord, it must be as though nothing ever happened between us.’ Gently, she extricated her hands from his clasp. ‘Otherwise it will be too hard.’

  Myrren nodded. ‘I understand. And after that?’

  ‘After that …’ She hesitated. He was watching her with ill-concealed hope in his face; she didn’t like to destroy it. Yet she had to be honest. Promises were worth nothing if they were based on lies. ‘After that, I don’t know.’

  In the silence that followed, she recalled that she still hadn’t told him about her discoveries in the library. Yet again, it seemed the wrong time. She resolved to do it as soon as they had spoken to Elisse and Sorrow – as soon as they had moved away from this awkwardness between them, and back onto their previous businesslike footing.

  ‘I’ll leave you to get ready,’ she said instead. ‘Elisse is in Ayla’s room, so I suppose this dress will have to do for me. In the meantime, shall I fetch the physician for you?’

  ‘That would be very helpful.’ Myrren inclined his head, giving her a controlled smile. Once again, he’d gathered up all his emotion and tucked it out of reach. Maybe sometime soon she’d be able to offer him the words that would mean he no longer had to hide what he was feeling. She ached to do that now, but she knew she owed it to herself to think it all through first.

  ‘One good thing, at least,’ she offered as a palliative. ‘Didn’t you say you’d often wished you had a brother?’

  A kind of wonder crept into his eyes. ‘You’re right. Sorrow said it, but I didn’t even think – you’re right.’ He gave her a grin that was childlike in its spontaneity, as though he’d rediscovered the ability to take joy in simple things. ‘How remarkable. I have a brother.’

  Serenna couldn’t help herself. Stepping closer, she rested her hands on his arm to steady herself and kissed his cheek. Then, drawing her veil down over her face to hide her blushes, she retreated from the room and went to find the physician.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  As soon as Caraway had left, Ayla walked into the middle of the room and took a deep breath. Right. It was time to investigate the communal bathing facilities.

  With slightly flustered haste, she unfastened the dress she’d worn every day since she left Darkhaven and let it fall down around her ankles, then shuddered in release. This must be what a butterfly felt like when it emerged from its wrinkled and grubby cocoon. She wanted to burn the thing, but it was all she had to wear, so she contented herself with kicking it aside. Now what? Her wig would be no good if she wanted to wash herself thoroughly, so she pulled her cloak on over her shift and tugged the hood down until it touched her eyebrows. She’d only go in if there was no-one else around. She couldn’t run the risk of being recognised.

  Caraway had given her a square of towelling and a bar of grainy soap, both of which he’d purchased from the landlord the previous evening. She also tucked her knife into a pocket of her cloak; she didn’t think there would be any abductors lurking in the bathing room, but it was better to be safe. Then, clutching the folds of thick fabric tightly around herself as though they could protect her from prying eyes, she slipped out through the door and along the corridor to her destination.

  To her relief, the bathing room was deserted; even more to her relief, as well as the large communal tub in the centre of the floor there was a smaller tub set behind a battered screen. It was all rather cramped, but Ayla’s standards had changed somewhat since she first entered the lower rings. She didn’t let herself stop to think about how many other people had used the bath before her. She just set herself to carrying buckets of hot water over to it from the vast hissing cylinder that squatted in one corner of the room. When the bath was full enough, she flung cloak and towel over the screen, then stepped into the tub still wearing her shift – at least if anyone came in she wouldn’t be caught naked. The temperature of the water verged on painful, yet she could feel it working its way through tensions she hadn’t even realised she had. Who would have thought plain hot water could feel so good?

  Yet once she was settled in place, the doubt that had been climbing up and down her spine all morning returned with full force. She hadn’t told Caraway, because she hadn’t wanted to crush her own modicum of hope, but she’d woken up again last night with the same cold shiver she’d felt on the night of her father’s death and again a few nights ago: the shiver that meant a Change was taking place somewhere nearby. If it had been a true feeling, and not merely a nightmare, it indicated that the killer was still on the loose. Not wanting to consider the implications of that too closely, she was trying to avoid thinking about it at all until Caraway came back with a news-sheet. Until she saw the truth set out in blurred print, there was always the possibility that she had been wrong and that she’d be able to go back home today.

  Unless, a small mean voice said inside her head, Myrren is colluding with the Changer girl just as Caraway suggested, and calls you back to Darkhaven so he can convict you of murder, as he has planned all along.

  Shut up! Ayla told it. Myrren wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t! But the doubt remained.

  She took a deep breath and submerged herself fully in the water, letting it cover her head as though it could wash away all her uncertainty. Then she concentrated on working up a lather from the gritty soap and scrubbing her skin so hard it tingled. She’d find out the truth soon enough; until then, there was no point in picking at it, no matter how it itched.

  She sought for another topic to distract her frantic thoughts, and found herself remembering Caraway’s face illuminated by firelight. The understanding in his eyes, and the way he had offered her his honesty. His tentative smile, after he’d given her the gift of last night’s freedom. She tried to call up her mother’s memory, to set Kati’s vengeful shade between them, but somehow the pain wasn’t there – or, if it was, it was no longer directed at him.

  What are you doing? the same mean voice whispered. Falling in love with the man who let your mother go to her death?

  ‘He didn’t do it on purpose,’ she answered herself aloud, realising even as she said it that it was true, and that she had known it for quite some time. ‘And he’s paid for it ever since.’ Belatedly recalling which part of her own thoughts she should have been objecting to with greatest vigour, she added in a mutter, ‘And I’m not in love with him.’

  Closing her eyes, she rinsed her hair again. The whole thing was ridiculous. She’d just been cooped up alone with him too long: another reason to hope she’d be able to return to Darkhaven today. All the same, much as she hated the idea, she supposed she ought at least to offer him an apology before she left. Choke back a bit of her cursed Nightshade pride, and thank him for what he’d done for her. She owed him that much.

  He’d probably rather be given money, her thoughts said with a certain amount of snark. He can’t drink thanks.

  Though he hadn’t had a single drink since she’d stumbled back into his life …

  Letting out an incoherent sound of frustration, Ayla plunged her head back under the water. She wasn’t sure who she was more annoyed with, Caraway or herself. But since he wasn’t there to take it out on, she had to be content with scrubbing herself all over one final time. By the end of it the water was cooling rapidly, so she stood up and wrung out as much of her shift as she could gather into two hands before applying the towel. Once she’d carried all her dirty bathwater, bucketful by bucketful, over to the drainage channel that ran along one side of the room, the thin fabric of the shift had more or less dried and her
back was aching. She’d never appreciated before just how hard life must be for people who couldn’t afford proper plumbing.

  Wrapped in the cloak again, she left the bathing room and made it back to her own room without seeing a single person. She dropped the cloak on a chair, then looked with some distaste at the discarded dress. She ought to put it on right away – though her shift was decent enough, it was too flimsy even for summer wear – but the idea of climbing back into her shed skin sent a tremor of mild disgust through her. It felt so wonderful to be clean.

  Rubbing ineffectually at her hair with the damp square of towelling, she crossed to the window and stood looking out at the busy street below. Where was Caraway? There had been plenty of time for him to fetch a news-sheet and be back by now.

  ‘So here you are.’ The voice was loud in the stillness of the room, making her jump.

  ‘I was beginning to think something had happened to you,’ she said – or started to say, because even as the first words left her lips she realised that the light, mocking tone was nothing to do with Caraway. Heart thudding, she turned. Owen Travers was standing in the doorway, watching her, the corners of his lips curled into a slight, satirical smile.

  ‘How did you get in here?’ Ayla forced as much anger as she could into her voice, though her knees were weak with fear. Travers stepped into the room, pushing the door closed behind him with his heel. One hand dangled a key in front of her.

  ‘The landlord gave it to me. The law-abiding citizens of Arkannen are only too happy to aid the Helm in their enquiries.’

  His gaze drifted over the thin fabric covering her body in a way that made her stomach plunge uncomfortably. She darted a quick surreptitious glance across the room towards her abandoned cloak. If she could just reach the knife in the pocket …

  ‘What do you want, Captain Travers?’ she asked, affecting cool unconcern. He gave her a sceptical look.

  ‘You know what I want, Lady Ayla. I’m here to take you back to Darkhaven where you belong.’

  ‘I see. Then if you’ll just allow me to finish getting ready …’

  She walked across the room to pick up the cloak. Travers made no effort to stop her; he just stood there, his amused gaze tracking her movements as though he knew exactly what she intended. There was a bandage peeking out from beneath the collar of his shirt, she noticed now, and another protruding from his left cuff.

  ‘Have you been injured, captain?’ she asked to distract him as she gathered the cloak into her arms. Again, his expression was frankly disbelieving.

  ‘You should know.’

  Ayla frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You should know that, too.’ He took a step towards her; she slid a hand into the cloak pocket, her pulse accelerating until it hissed in her ears. ‘Enough dissembling, my dear. You’re coming with me whether you like it or not.’

  ‘Keep back!’ Her hand closed around the hilt of the knife; she drew it out, brandishing it in his direction. ‘I’m not afraid to stab you, Travers. I mean it. And when Caraway comes back –’

  ‘Ah, yes, Caraway.’ Travers didn’t seem at all disconcerted, either by the weapon or by the prospect of Caraway’s imminent arrival; on the contrary, the smile was back on his lips. ‘I have to say, I’m shocked. I’d have thought you too proud to accept help from your mother’s killer.’

  ‘He didn’t kill her,’ she spat back at him. ‘It was an accident. It wasn’t his fault.’

  ‘I know that, Lady Ayla. I’m just surprised you do.’

  She stared at him. ‘You know?’

  ‘Of course.’ Travers shrugged. ‘Caraway wouldn’t have had the guts for something like that. He was devoted to the woman.’

  ‘Then why did you ruin his life?’

  ‘Not me,’ Travers said. ‘It was your father who insisted he be punished for what happened. I was only following orders.’ He smiled. ‘Just as I’m doing now.’

  There was a disquieting look in his eyes, a hint of something dark and deranged. Ayla backed away, lifting the knife between them as he advanced on her. Please come back, Tomas. Come back soon.

  ‘You don’t have to do this,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know I don’t.’ Travers grabbed her wrist, wrenching the blade aside, and kept coming. His other hand went into the inner pocket of his coat, drawing out a piece of cloth. ‘But I want to.’

  Only a handspan separated them now. She tried to resist him, but his grip was unbreakable and the knife dangled uselessly from her fingers. Gasping, she brought her knee up, angling it towards his groin; he blocked it with his hip, his leg pushing hers apart. Then she was caught between his body and the wall, and the darkness in his eyes was growing more intense. She had the strange sense that he didn’t really see her any more – not as a person, anyway. Some idea had taken hold of him so strongly that there was no room for anything else.

  ‘You shouldn’t fight me, Ayla,’ he whispered, so close to her lips that she could feel the shape of the words. In response, taking a tip from Caraway’s fighting style, she lowered her head and drove it as hard as she could into his face. Yet no-one had ever taught her to defend herself; she had neither the power nor the accuracy she needed. Travers staggered back a step, blood staining his mouth, but even as she strained to get free he recovered himself and slammed her back against the wall. His fingers twisted viciously at her wrist, making her cry out in pain and drop the knife.

  ‘I warned you.’ He pressed still closer to her, fury glaring from his narrowed eyes. Fury and … something else. Ayla’s breath caught in her throat as she realised she could feel his excitement. He wasn’t just following orders. Some of his interest in her was purely personal.

  Energised by a new and sharper fear, she struggled even harder, but he was solid, muscular, immovable. She looked up into his face, and saw him smile. Then his lips were on hers, a brutal invasion. She tasted the bitter iron of his blood. She couldn’t breathe. Her limbs strained against his, striving without success to push him away; her heart stuttered in her chest as though her entire body were crying out at what was being done to her. She nipped at his mouth and tongue with her teeth, trying to hurt him, but it only seemed to excite him further. A scream rose in her throat, but it had nowhere to go.

  Finally Travers drew back from her a fraction, his passion-darkened eyes scanning her face with clear enjoyment. Then, as she took a shuddering breath, he clamped the cloth that was still in his hand over her mouth and nose. A sweet odour rose from it, penetrating deep into Ayla’s lungs. Her eyes watered, tears spilling down her cheeks. She attempted to turn her face away, but his grip was inexorable. He was going to suffocate her. Panic rushed through her, a desperate longing for air. She tried not to take another breath, but her spinning head and the sharp pain in her chest left her no choice. Her lips parted in a ragged gasp, drawing in another cloying lungful. Only then did he lower the cloth, studying her as if to assess the results.

  ‘What have you done to me?’ she whispered. Her voice sounded hoarse and unfamiliar, like a stranger’s. She tried to breathe normally, but no matter how much air she sucked in it wasn’t enough. Something was circling in her head, a promise of darkness to come.

  ‘Don’t worry, sweet girl.’ Travers smiled at her, lifting a hand to stroke her cheek with the backs of his fingers. ‘You’ll recover in good time.’

  Ayla’s vision was growing hazy, her limbs no longer able to support her. She sagged against Travers, feeling his arms come round her to hold her against his shoulder. That was wrong. She shouldn’t be clinging to him like this, as though they were lovers, as though she wanted him to be there. But she didn’t seem to have a choice.

  ‘That’s right,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘It will all be over soon.’

  The last thing she felt before the shadows swallowed her was his lips touching her brow in a gentle caress.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Elisse looked down at the sleeping child in her arms. She was sore and exhausted, but most of all s
he was amazed. Amazed that she could have created something so perfect. Amazed that Florentyn’s selfishness could have produced something so good. Above all, amazed at the love she already felt for the tiny life she was holding.

  ‘Myrren and the priestess will be here any moment,’ Sorrow said. She was sitting at Elisse’s bedside, as she had been all through the physician’s examination. The man had deplored the circumstances of the birth, but had been forced to admit that both mother and child were healthy. He’d added that Sorrow had done a good job – though with the sellsword herself watching his every move like a cat who’d spotted a bird with a bad leg, he’d probably been afraid to say otherwise.

  She did do a good job, though. Elisse studied her son’s crumpled features. His eyes were closed, but the patch of night-dark hair on the crown of his head – darker even than her own – proclaimed him a Nightshade beyond doubt. If it wasn’ for Naeve Sorrow, both o’ us would be dead.

  ‘Have you decided what to call him yet?’ Sorrow asked. Elisse looked up, blinking.

  ‘Can I – I mean, is it up ta me ta –’

  Sorrow gave her one of those flat stares. ‘He’s your son, Elisse. No-one has a better right to name him than you.’

  Elisse ran a finger gently along the baby’s downy cheek. ‘Then I’ll call him Corus. Tha’ was my father’s name.’ She glanced uncertainly at Sorrow. ‘Are ya – are ya going ta get inta trouble for being here?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it.’ Sorrow shrugged. ‘Hopefully I’m going to drop Owen Travers in it instead. He’s the one who got me into this mess.’

  Elisse nodded and rocked the baby in her arms, saying nothing. She supposed that was all it had been, to Sorrow: a complete and utter mess. But she didn’t know how she’d survive in Darkhaven without Sorrow. Now, more than ever, she didn’t want to stay here. Myrren had said it would be safer, but Myrren had been wrong.