The Dying Flame

by R L Sanderson

  Orla swallowed, hesitating just a moment too long.

  ‘What happens now?’ Merryn asked in a small voice.

  ‘Now, you come with us.’

  Orla heard her mother moan.

  ‘Can I… can I bring anything?’

  ‘Everything you need will be provided,’ the man said. ‘And you will find you need less than you imagine.’ He turned to one of his companions. ‘Take her,’ he commanded.

  ‘Please, no!’ Orla cried. ‘She’s only a child. She hasn’t done anything wrong. Please –’

  The man caught Merryn’s arms and twisted them behind her back, then tied them quickly. Merryn whimpered, a small frightened sound.

  ‘She’ll be cold,’ Orla said. ‘Look how she’s dressed. At least let me get her a cloak.’

  The man made a snorting laugh. ‘A cloak? Of course. Though it will be burned with the rest of her belongings when she enters the Vaults.’

  ‘I’ll give her mine then,’ Orla said, a small defiance. She ran to the next room and found her heavy blue cloak. She held it for a moment. Take her fear, make her strong. She closed her eyes and let herself fall, down, down deep into herself, into her memories, into the store of peace that she tapped and tapped, wondering when she would find its end, and she poured her own calm into the thing that she held, like she would do for one of the animals when it faced the knife.

  She opened her eyes, let the room settle around her, picked up the cloak and carried it out. She laid it around her sister’s shoulders, fastened it around her neck. She kissed Merryn on the forehead like she did each morning when she left for the farm.

  ‘I’ll come for you,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll find you. Don’t be scared.’

  Chapter six

  She didn’t knock and wait or kneel or pray or do any of those things that was expected when you entered the Sanctuary.

  Kendrid rose, his look half-way between astonishment and outrage. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘No. Merryn shouldn’t be in the Vaults. The Confessors came to our house. They’ve taken her. Did you know about that?’

  She watched intently, reached out just a little, and felt it – clear and definite. Shock. Anguish even. This was not his doing.

  He stood and took her arm, led her from the room in which the others, who were supposed to be in prayer, were watching their discussion with interest. He let the heavy wooden door close behind them, looked up and down the corridor to be sure that it was empty, and then led Orla down a little further, away from the doorway, to stand beside a window which looked out onto a courtyard. Miniaturised trees grew in slanting light.

  ‘What – why – when did –’ It was the first time she’d ever seen Kendrid lost for words.

  ‘Just now. I came straight here to find you. Can you help her?’

  He rubbed a hand over his shining scalp. ‘That depends on what she has been accused of…’

  ‘Oh, just everything they could think of. Blasphemy, unnatural activities, consorting with the enemy…’

  She saw his hands clench by his sides. He shook his head.

  ‘This is… this is very serious.’

  ‘Surely there’s someone you can talk to. The head of your order, wouldn’t they be able to get her out? It’s a mistake, it must be…’

  Kendrid groaned. ‘I wish it were that simple. If I try to intervene on her behalf it might just make things worse. The Confessors’ actions are not to be questioned, Orla. They act on behalf of the God. It is for the God to decide.’

  He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between a finger and a thumb. When he opened his eyes again he did not meet Orla’s gaze. He looked old, tired, and defeated.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Orla felt a sickening cold growing inside her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kendrid’s voice was gentle now, and that was worse than anything. ‘She’ll have to face her accusers. She’ll have to go to trial.’

  ‘And that will prove that she’s innocent? Then they’ll let her go?’

  ‘Trials by the Confessors are intended to prove guilt, not innocence.’

  ‘There must be something you can do. Anything. Please.’

  ‘Have hope, Orla,’ he said. ‘I will pray for her. I will pray that the God of Broken Things will be merciful.’

  ✤

  Her mother wasn’t there when Orla pushed the front door open.

  Orla walked quickly through the house. As she did, she shivered – it was as though the air contained a resonance of what had happened there. She felt the presence of the Confessors still, dark and malevolent and bitingly cold, passing across her skin. She didn’t have much time.

  She grabbed a small bag and began to fill it. She stuffed a cloak in, a round of bread, tucked a small knife into the side pocket. It was the knife that Joseph had given her for her last birthday. She remembered how Joseph had looked at her as she opened the parcel, his expression pained and apologetic, then he’d cleared his throat and muttered something about how she’d probably rather jewellery or fancy cloth or something pretty. She’d hugged him and told him that she loved it, because she did.

  Orla swallowed. She wouldn’t see Joseph again. She wouldn’t even have time to send him a message, to give him any kind of explanation of where she was or what had happened. As far as he was concerned, she would just be gone; even if she did manage, somehow, to free Merryn, she wouldn’t be able to return. They would be hunted. They would have to leave the Metkaran. They’d probably have to leave the island of Ekenshi.

  Orla felt dizzy. She knew so little about the rest of Sondaria. Of course, she’d learned the names of the Seven Isles as every Sond child did: Vaturi, Aturi, Tok, Tev, Koralis, Ekenshi and Rinu. She’d seen travellers once or twice in the marketplace or at the docks and she’d always been fascinated by them, by the strange clothes they wore, the unfamiliar music of their speech. But beyond that she knew almost nothing. She didn’t know where they would be safe. She only knew they’d never be safe here again.

  And if she didn’t manage to free Merryn?

  She had heard stories of what happened to those who openly opposed the Confessors. She tried to put them out of her mind.

  Either way, she wouldn’t be coming back.

  Chapter seven

  Orla had never been to Kiralai before. She’d seen the grey stone spires from a distance, heard the monotonous ringing of bells, but whenever she’d been close she’d been overwhelmed by the cold and the silence of the old city. She’d avoided it because it frightened her.

  Now, she walked down a broad, empty street towards what had once been the Market Square, renamed the Square of Penitence since the Brethren had taken hold. Kiralai used to be different, Joseph had told her once. Before the war, Joseph’s granddaughter had sold produce from their farm in Market Square. There were stalls there every day, and on feast days traders and buyers came from miles around, from other islands even. There were performers then too: acrobats and singers and people with trained animals. Joseph’s eyes had lit up as he’d remembered, but not for long. Because his granddaughter was dead and the city was empty. Since the Treaty everything beautiful, everything that lifted the senses, had been prohibited and destroyed by the Brethren.

  When Orla reached the square a few people were beginning to gather. A young boy with bright red hair skipped towards her across the grey stones. ‘Token for your visit,’ he said, dangling something in front of her. ‘Only five vei, and that’s a bargain.’

  The tokens were blackened metal orbs hung on plaits of leather. The orbs were imprinted with the mark of the Confessors: the Watching Eye. Ishkarin damn it, Orla thought. Are they trying to gain wealth from people’s pain? It took all her strength not to let the outrage show on her face.

  ‘I don’t have any coins on me,’ she said.

  ‘That’s a shame. The Confessors look well on those who carry a token,’ he said. ‘Maybe next time?’

  ‘There won’t be a next time,’ Orla was unable to keep th
e anger from her voice.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ The boy turned, scanning the square for another likely target. Before he could skip off once more, Orla caught his arm.

  ‘Wait. Can you tell me what’s going to happen?’ she asked.

  And for a moment she caught her own reflection in his mind. He’d seen her before, versions of her, many, many times. People come to watch the procession of one they love. People come from grief and not from perverse curiosity or devotion to the strictures of the Uruhenshi.

  ‘They’ll enter the square from there,’ he came closer and pointed to a small gate in the high wall that surrounded the building at the far end of the Square. ‘They walk in single file to the stage and then they’re presented to the crowd, one by one. Their names and crimes are recited, their hair is cut, and then they’re taken into the Vaults.’

  Orla shivered, imagining Merryn’s beautiful hair falling to the ground to be swept up like so much rubbish.

  ‘Does it take long?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘You never know how many there’ll be. Could take an hour or could take ten minutes, depending.’

  ‘And are they guarded?’ She spoke the words then realised how transparent they were.

  The boy tilted his head and regarded her curiously. ‘Of course. There’s the guards you can see,’ and he indicated to soldiers lining the entrance to the Vaults, ‘and there are others in the watchtowers, looking down. I saw a Penitent try to escape once. They were cut down in front of everyone.’

  Orla swallowed. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and before she had the chance to say anything else he’d skipped over to another group that had begun to assemble closer to the central stage.

  Orla looked up at the stone clock-tower that cast its shade over the square. She had a few hours until midday. She still had no idea what she was going to do. The information the boy had given her was something, at least. She looked around the square and chose the spot where she would watch, closest to the arched gateway where the Penitents would emerge, but farthest from where the guards were posted. She studied the square itself, looking for cover, for exits, for anything that might help if, somehow, by some freak chance, she and Merryn were to run. But her eyes kept being drawn back to the guards.

  There was a line of them – a dozen at least. They were not from the Palace but were Uruhenshi soldiers, and they carried the flail and the knife and wore the sign of the Watching Eye on their chests. One turned and looked straight at her. Orla looked away quickly. She had only been there a matter of minutes and was already drawing attention to herself. She would walk to pass the time, she decided. She would walk and come up with a plan and return just before the Penitents were due to be paraded. The square would be full of onlookers then. Orla would just be one of many.

  ✤

  Orla cut through the square, keeping as much distance between herself and the black-cloaked guards as she could. She turned down the first side street she reached. For a few minutes she was so caught up in her thoughts about what was to come that she barely saw where she was walking. Then she sensed a shift, something that she could not pin down but that made her stop and look around.

  She was in a narrow laneway. Sheer walls of grey stone towered high either side of her, windowless and blank. She sensed – something. A rush of terror so intense that for a moment she couldn’t breathe. It passed, like a shifting breeze.

  Then she realised where she was; she was beside the Vaults. She must have traced a path around an outer wall. The feeling she’d just sensed, the terror, came from inside the place where her sister was to be taken. She turned, placed her hands on the wall, leaned her head against it and waited.

  Nothing. The rock was cool and silent. She closed her eyes, reached with her mind. And then, she connected – she was in darkness, the air was cold and damp and stank of excrement… she felt a burning pain in her shoulders and her wrists. She tried to move but could not. She heard them coming, footsteps echoing, and the terror twisted and knotted inside her. She started to scream –

  ‘You!’ A voice tore her back.

  She stepped away from the wall, her heart racing, the panic still filling her, the daylight confusing her. As her eyes adjusted she saw, at the other end of the alleyway, a pair of guards observing her suspiciously.

  ‘State your name and business.’

  The taller of the two, a grey-haired man with a wisp of beard and a scar slashed in a V across each cheek, took a step toward her.

  Orla took a stumbling step backwards. Her fingertips grazed the stone and for a moment she was pulled into the sensing again; the agony was beyond bearing.

  ‘Grab her –’ she heard a man call.

  Before the guard could get hold of her she broke free of the terror and ran.

  ✤

  She took a series of turns at random, hurling herself down increasingly narrow alleyways, up a tight flight of steps, around corners, into the heart of the old city. Every turn she took she expected to find herself facing a dead end. She tried to relax her thoughts, to let her instincts guide her, but the urgent hum of fear in her blood made it almost impossible. She was running blind. Nobody would help, she knew. Nobody would intervene when the Uruhenshi found a target. Footsteps pounded behind her. She pushed herself to run faster. She had to find somewhere to hide, some way to lose them. And she had to get back to the square to find Merryn. Quickly. She was losing too much time.

  She heard voices calling and then sensed, in an instant, that another guard had heard the commotion and was joining the chase, coming toward her from across an open courtyard. She veered sharply before she saw him. She jumped a low fence, cut around the side of a building, and then turned onto another street. She had no idea where she was anymore. All the streets in Kiralai looked the same to her.

  She kept running.

  After a few moments she heard them again, but at last she’d gained a little distance. They were losing ground. She felt a surge of energy.

  She was fitter, lighter, and at least twenty years younger.

  She reached back for their thoughts and was surprised to feel that only one guard was following her now. And he was tiring. She pushed herself and lifted her pace, though the effort tore at her lungs and burned in her throat. Her legs were heavy, leaden, aching, but she kept running. Then she felt it – a stitch caught her pursuer, a sharp jag, and he doubled over and stopped, leaned up against a wall. She ran on, letting his thoughts unspool behind her. She kept running, taking another few turns, until she was sure she had lost him. Then, at last, she slowed and let herself gulp air.

  She had escaped. But now she had no idea where she was. And from the height of the sun, it must be almost midday. She didn’t have long to find her way back to the square.

  Orla looked around. She was at the bottom of a winding stone stairway that was carved into the slope of the hill. She couldn’t risk going back the way she’d come from. Glancing quickly behind to be sure the guards hadn’t followed her, she began to climb.

  Moss clung to the corners of the stones and ivy grew along the wall. Orla climbed and climbed. The air seemed cooler, damper. Her legs were shaky still from running. When she finally reached the top she turned and gasped.

  She could see everything. The old city lay below her, carved in the same grey stone as the steps she had just climbed. Beyond it the rambling chaos of the districts spread all the way to the curve of the bay. She could just make out the jumble of colours and shapes that was the Metkaran hugging the edge of the river. She took a deep breath. It seemed incredible that she had spent almost her whole life in that place. It had felt infinite to her, a whole world. From here it looked so small.

  ‘You’re not going to make it.’ She jumped, and then looked around.

  The voice came from almost beside her. A young woman dressed in breeches and a dark jacket was sitting on the wall above her, looking down.

  ‘You’ve come the wrong way if you were wanting to go back to the square. And those guards will be looki
ng for you too.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Orla said quickly, her heart pounding.

  ‘I saw you back there. Listening to the wall. I saw you being chased.’

  Orla felt her cheeks flush. ‘Please. Can you help me get back to the square? I have to be there. My sister –’

  ‘Will end up dead even quicker if you try to pull her out that way, under everybody’s noses.’

  The girl gave off an air of confident nonchalance, but Orla had no sense that she intended her harm.

  ‘You want to help your sister?’ she said, dropping down from the wall and landing lightly beside her.

  Orla nodded.

  ‘I can help you,’ she said. And without waiting for a reply she turned and began to walk.

  Chapter eight

  The girl led her to a house on the outskirts of the old city. They entered without knocking. A fire was burning and a blackened pot sat on it, filling the air with the smell of food. Orla’s anxiety curdled in her stomach. The last thing she wanted to do right now was eat.

  ‘I’m Ani,’ the girl said, as she indicated for Orla to sit.

  ‘Please, I need help,’ Orla said. She had no time to make small talk. ‘My sister has been taken by the Confessors. She’s being paraded today in the square. Soon. I need to get her out before she’s taken down to the Vaults.’

  All Orla could think about was Merryn. Where was she? Was she being forced to her knees in front of the crowded square, even now? Was her beautiful hair being hacked off? Her heart was racing. This was a mistake, it was all a terrible mistake.

  ‘Do you want some?’ Ani indicated the pot. Orla shook her head.

  Ani served herself a small bowl of soup then sat beside Orla on the ground, legs crossed, and she sipped at it, the steam rising around her.

  ‘So, you’re from the Metkaran,’ she said quietly, once the bowl was emptied.