Daughter of the Flames

by Zoe Marriott

  “What makes you believe that?” He looked at me intently.

  “It seems to me that he’s constantly playing a part: all that languid hand-waving and the clever wordplay. It’s a cover for the intellect underneath, and it’s deliberately unconvincing because he knows that it keeps people off balance. But when he looked at me that first time – when he took my hand – and then again, after he kissed me … I could swear I saw something in his eyes. Something real.”

  Sorin frowned. “Real what? Emotion?”

  “Yes. He was shocked, angry. And there was something else. I could feel it, pushing at me – and it made me frightened. He was hanging on to his control by his fingertips.”

  Sorin rubbed his hand over his face. “If you’re right that we’ve upset his plans, then it could be a good thing – give us a chance to escape before he decides what to do with us. But I don’t like the idea that he’s teetering on the edge, Zahira. I don’t want to think about what Abheron might do if he ever really lost control.”

  There was a moment of quiet – except for the rattle of the wheels on the road, and the creaking of the carriage roof, and the clashing armour of the gourdin unit escorting us. We leaned against each other, and didn’t say anything else for a long while.

  Tiede was enjoying a late and intimate meal with his mistress when the king’s page scratched on his door.

  After hastily readjusting his clothes, Tiede followed the page through the unfamiliar corridors of the summer palace, wondering why he had been called to the picture room. As far as he knew the chamber was not in regular use – the portraits of the previous occupants having long since been removed, leaving the walls bare – and besides, the king had only just arrived from Mesgao. In his place, Tiede would have been soaking in a hot bath.

  Tiede was never confident when he was summoned to see the king. To allow oneself to fall into complacency was a fatal mistake when dealing with His Majesty, and one that Tiede had never committed. Mainly because the king terrified him, and always had.

  On this occasion, however, Tiede felt, if not at ease, then at least not uncomfortable. He had been given a chance to make up for his recent lack of success, and he had done it. He had provided the king with the exact details that had been requested, organized everything just as the king had wished, and had even accomplished the feat of turning one of Sorin’s own household to the king’s use, something no previous spymaster had ever done. He very much hoped that on this occasion, the king would have only words of praise for him.

  Two gourdin in light travelling armour were posted outside the door. Tiede was too preoccupied to notice that the men did not salute him as he passed, as would have been normal etiquette. The long, narrow chamber was blazing with lights, mismatched candelabra crammed into every available niche in the walls, and some extra even placed on the floor. The walls danced with shadows, highlighting the paler squares left when all the paintings had been taken down.

  The first thing Tiede noticed was that, today, one of the portraits had been restored to its original place. It depicted a blonde Sedorne woman with vivid blue eyes, dressed in outlandish Rua clothing and with her hair arranged in an unattractive Rua style. She looked vaguely familiar, but Tiede only spared her one curious glance. He was more surprised to see His Majesty, still dressed in dusty, sweat-stained riding clothes, slumped in a chair placed directly before the painting.

  Tiede bowed low – as low as he could, with the first two courses sitting undigested in his stomach – and murmured, “Your Majesty summoned me?”

  Abheron didn’t answer, never taking his eyes from the picture before him. If Tiede hadn’t known full well that the king never drank to excess, he would have thought the man was drunk, lolling in the chair with his legs flung out, and his head resting on the back of the chair as he stared up at the portrait.

  Tiede waited. He thought of the delicious dinner he had ordered, and which was congealing as he stood there, and the luscious young woman no doubt growing more drowsy and bored by the second, and felt a slight ruffle of annoyance pass over him. Perhaps the man was drunk. He was the first to admit that the king was nothing if not unpredictable.

  He cleared his throat noisily. “Your Majesty summoned me?”

  Abheron stirred. “Yes.”

  The word was flat and without any trace of the normal drawl that coloured the king’s speech. Tiede’s annoyance was instantly replaced with the cold brush of anxiety. What now?

  King Abheron continued to stare at the picture. Tiede suddenly wondered if he had seen His Majesty blink since he entered the room. He was uneasily convinced he had not. He flicked a quick glance at this apparently fascinating portrait, trying to figure out why the woman, with her odd clothes and hair, seemed familiar.

  “Repeat to me the report you gave on Sorin’s new bride,” the king said abruptly.

  “Well. Er…” Tiede cleared his throat again, then pulled himself together and began. “The girl calls herself Zahira Elfenesh, apparently claiming a relationship with the deceased Elfenesh royal line.”

  “No. Not that,” the king interrupted. “The physical description.”

  Tiede huffed out a short breath, now thoroughly unnerved, and began again. “Approximately five feet nine inches tall. Quite mannish in appearance, with short black hair and dark skin. She is said to have a very ugly scar – possibly from a burn – on the left side of the face. No tattoos or other unique features known.”

  “So much detail, Tiede. Yet none of it at all useful. Tell me – do you recognize the woman in this picture?”

  Tiede moved uneasily from foot to foot. “I’m afraid I do not, Your Majesty.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Abheron stood slowly and reached out a gloved hand, brushing his fingers gently over the painted curve of the woman’s face. His voice lowered to a whisper. “Emelia.”

  They both stood silent, the king staring at the painting, the lord staring at the king.

  “I do not believe you are a stupid man, Lord Tiede,” Abheron said eventually. “Yet you have all the subtlety and perception of a lump of rock. Again and again, amid your endless reports and details, you have managed to miss the one truly important fact. Again and again, you have failed me. You did not tell me, faithful spymaster, that Zahira Elfenesh has her mother’s eyes…”

  Caught off guard, Tiede broke his own cardinal rule and began to babble. “I – I apologize, Your Majesty. The information was not in any report – I could not have known—”

  “I don’t care, Tiede. It’s too late now to undo the damage. This is the last time you will send me blindly against my fate. The very last time.”

  At those words, Tiede heard the clash of the gourdin’s armour directly behind him. Gauntleted hands closed on his shoulders and forced him to his knees. Terror, all the worse for being completely unexpected, rose in his throat with a sick, burning taste like bile. He struggled feebly under his captors’ hands, breath sobbing.

  “No! No – Your Majesty, please! How could I have known? Please, in the sweet goddess’s name, have mercy!”

  “Mercy?” the king repeated.

  Suddenly his shoulders began to jerk, and a low, rumbling laugh broke from his chest, echoing hollowly from the high ceiling of the room. It was a bitter, joyless sound. The gourdin holding Tiede shivered.

  After a moment, King Abheron sighed. “Take him away, for pity’s sake. Get him out of my sight, and don’t let me see him again.”

  The gourdin needed no further urging. They dragged the pleading, struggling man away. Abheron waited until the last, desperate noises of his former spymaster grew distant and eventually ceased. Then he leaned forward to pick a candle out of the holder near his foot. He raised it up before his face, so that the heat of the flame beat against his skin and blocked the picture from his sight with its hypnotic yellow movement.

  “I’m sorry, Emelia,” he whispered. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  Slowly, slowly, as if struggling with an object a hundred times
heavier, he lifted the candle so that its dancing point touched the edge of the picture frame. The gold paint began to blister and blacken. Abheron’s tongue flickered out to wet his lip. His hand shook.

  A long rivulet of wax spilled over the edge of the candle and onto his skin.

  With a hiss of pain Abheron dropped the candle, and the liquid wax doused the flame as it fell to the ground. He stared down at the smoking wick, and then at the ruined corner of the picture frame. He blinked, as if waking from a trance.

  Then he buried his face in his hands and wept.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Sorin told me that under Abheron’s rule the summer city had enjoyed more popularity than ever before. The pale-skinned Sedorne people, used to cooler weather in their native Sedra, found it impossible to stand the heat in the lowlands. Still, the main part of the population – living in small wooden houses close to the waterline – remained Rua. And somehow they knew who was in the carriage travelling along the road to the summer palace that afternoon.

  Everywhere we looked, people were clustered, staring at the carriage, running along after it, trying to catch a glimpse of us through the windows. Their faces were alive with curiosity and fearful hope. I was too used to that look now. When gourdin peeled away from the column around us to break the gatherings up and force the crowds back, I almost felt grateful.

  The road climbed steeply, zigzagging back and forth along the steps of the terraced riverbank towards the palace. The building seemed to glow ahead of us, pearly and luminous. As we drew closer I saw that carved lanterns hung from the peaked roofs – an incredible extravagance so early in the day. Dada had loved the cool green shadows under the trees, and would never have banished them.

  We drove slowly past the east wing of the palace and into the central courtyard. The carriage jerked to a stop before the entrance.

  The doorway was not grand, but the wooden frame and lintel were beautifully carved just as I remembered – images of pygmy monkeys, leaping tamul and parrots with their wings spread wide. Three low steps, inlaid with blue and yellow tiles, led up to the simple wooden door. The archways of the verandas on either side were covered with the climbing starflower vine, the bellshaped blossoms closed now.

  There was a moment of stillness. Sorin and I looked at each other.

  “Well,” I said. “We’re here.”

  The door of the palace opened and a small elderly Sedorne man, grandly dressed, appeared. His steps as delicate and precise as if he were taking part in a dance, he came down the stairs to the carriage door and opened it. He unfolded the coach steps with his own little hands, and then reached out to me.

  “My lady,” he whispered, his voice papery and dry.

  Reluctantly I reached out and took his hand; it was as papery and dry as his voice. He made a production of helping me from the carriage, though I was perfectly capable of climbing down on my own. Then he stepped aside to allow Sorin to disembark too. I looked around and realized that, somehow, without me noticing, the second carriage with our luggage and servants, including Deo, had disappeared. The courtyard was empty except for us three, and the unit of gourdin who had been our constant companions throughout the journey. They formed a loose crescent around us and the carriage, apparently happy to hand us over to this harmless-looking little man.

  I gazed down at him with some misgiving. What was happening now? Beside me, Sorin was braced and waiting, gripping his cane below the heavy silver cap at the top. I realized he was getting ready to use it as a club.

  “Lord and Lady Mesgao, I am the master of palace ceremonies, His Majesty’s personal servant,” the man began, his breathy tones addressed respectfully to our feet. “He has instructed me that you are to be treated as his most honoured guests. There is an amusement planned for you tonight; but for now, he wishes you to rest and recover from your hard journey. If you would consent to follow me…” His voice trailed off and he waved his hands towards the entrance.

  I looked at Sorin in confusion. Honoured guests? I didn’t know quite what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this.

  Sorin shrugged, his shoulders relaxing a little. He let his cane drop down into its normal position in his hand. “Into the lion’s den, my love?”

  He held out his free arm – a peculiar Sedorne gesture that I didn’t believe I would ever grow used to. I laid my palm on his arm, and we walked up the low steps. I heard muffled boot falls as two of the gourdin fell into step behind us, and was surprised to find the noise slightly reassuring. It reminded me that no matter what games Abheron played, we were still prisoners here.

  As I passed through the doorway I found my free hand reaching out to the frame at about waist height – and there, on the nose of one of the tiny carved monkeys, the smooth place that I had stroked each time I entered this door as a child. It had been at eye level back then. My finger slid off the wood, and then we were inside.

  I felt another echo of recognition as the cool shadow of the hall fell over us. There were no lamps burning here; the dim shapes of the archways around us were quiet and mysterious. I made out the geometric patterns of the yellow and blue tiles underfoot more through memory than sight.

  The little man stepped up beside us. “A suite has been prepared for you,” he said. “Your possessions and servants should already be there. If you would care to come this way…”

  He led us to a large room, where there was a very formal, very Sedorne arrangement of chairs and reclining couches. I looked in vain for a comfortable cushion anywhere.

  “I will leave you here,” he said, gently sculling his hands in the air. “Arrangements will be made for you later on.” He slid gracefully out of sight.

  “Whatever that means,” I muttered.

  The gourdin who had followed us took up positions on either side of the door. Sorin smiled wryly and we passed inside. On one side, light flooded in through doors opened onto the garden; and on the other, I could see another room dominated by a large bed. In the centre of the room, golden-haired Anca stood over a pile of trunks and cases, directing several Sedorne servants to unpack them.

  When I had told Mira that she would not be coming with us, she had insisted that I would need a maid, and to my surprise, Anca had volunteered. Even after my warnings about possible danger she had stood fast. Her lady would need someone, she said, and she knew how to do the job properly.

  She curtsied when she saw us. “Deo is caring for your horse, my lady – the one who pulled up lame. He said he would come later and report to you.”

  I smiled at her in gratitude. She knew I hadn’t the faintest idea about horses. She was reassuring me that Deo was well and would come and see us when he could.

  “Thank you, Anca,” Sorin said.

  “Would you like me to order refreshments?”

  “Um … not for me,” I said. The idea of food made me feel a little queasy. Suddenly I was very tired.

  “No, we ate on the journey,” Sorin said. I could feel him gazing at me with concern. Always trying to look after me, I thought guiltily. I should be looking after him.

  “I think we should rest,” he continued. “Whatever … amusement Abheron has planned, it would be best to attend with clear heads. I imagine we’ll need them.”

  When I woke, the bronzy shadows told me that dusk had fallen. I lay still on the bed, listening to the peculiar quiet that holds the world still as it passes from day to night.

  Sorin was sprawled beside me on his stomach, pale hair lying in a long curve along his spine, face relaxed into a secret smile. I reached out and stroked a few stray strands back from his cheek, careful not to disturb him. I liked to see him quiet like this. When he was awake his face could change as swiftly as clouds in a storm, alive with emotions both real and assumed – whatever would help him to convince people of his point of view. At other times he could look blank and impassive, his features a mask that only I saw through. I liked to watch him when he slept, and remember that he was only eight ye
ars older than me.

  But the quiet, rather than lulling me back to sleep, stirred a vague itch of restlessness. I stretched, pointing my toes and hands. My muscles felt stiff and my bones creaked ominously. Too much waiting around; too much sitting in carriages. I lay still again, but it was no good. I had slept my fill; I needed to be up and moving.

  I burrowed under the draped muslin – arranged over the bed to keep out stinging flies – and emerged to stand beside the bed. Anca had folded my dressing gown over the footboard. The gown was gorgeous, heavy watered silk in my favourite shade of blue. Sorin had given it to me as a surprise a week before we married the second time, and I loved it. It seemed far too fine to be worn casually but I could never resist putting it on – it made me feel like a child playing in a queen’s robe. I pulled it on over my shift. The hem, heavy with blue beads, swirled majestically around my feet as I tied the beaded belt at my waist. I kicked the dusty, creased travelling gown, which I had flung down on the floor in disgust earlier, out of my way and opened the door into the sitting room.

  I found it empty as I had expected, with the doors to the garden closed. I looked at the square, formal Sedorne furniture. The low ceilings and windows were not meant for such tall objects – they made the room seem out of balance. My restlessness increased and I began to pace the walls. Something wasn’t right. This room was blank, empty of memories. I’d probably been here as a child, but it looked so different now that it failed to touch anything in my mind. I wanted familiarity and comfort. This place only offered strangeness.

  Then a memory came – the nursery where I had played with my brothers and sister. The room where I had once slept. Without thinking, I was at the door and opening it.

  I half expected the gourdin to block the exit, but they stood back, not even glancing at me at the door swung inwards. I looked at them suspiciously, wondering what their orders were. If all the exits were guarded in a similar fashion, perhaps I was allowed to move freely within the palace. I paused on the threshold, looking around. There was no one to be seen in either direction, and when I stepped out, the guards still did not move.