by Sarah Ash
The Commissaire had been reading Fiammis’s warrant; now he handed it to the clerk who began to copy it into his ledger.
‘It’s too late to request asylum,’ he said. ‘The extradition papers are in order. The matter is out of my hands.’
‘Wait!’ Khassian cried as the constables placed their hands on his shoulders. ‘Dr Magelonne! Don’t let them do this to me! I can help Orial. I want to help her! Please – make them listen.’
For a moment he thought he had moved Magelonne as he saw a doubting frown pass across the doctor’s face. Then as the constables hustled Khassian out, Magelonne pointedly turned his face away.
‘This man may try to do himself some mischief,’ Fiammis said to the constables. ‘He should be restrained.’
‘As you wish, Contesse.’
They drew Khassian’s wrists together in front of him; the fine lace fell away, revealing the raw-scarred remains of his hands. He sensed them hesitate – then clamp on the manacles. Cold metal chafed his damaged flesh as they forced him back into the closed carriage. Fiammis delicately lifted her dark skirts and climbed up after them, closing the door. She sat, placing her parasol across her lap, smoothing out her skirts, each movement elegant yet precise.
‘At least let me leave word for Cramoisy,’ Khassian said.
‘He will be informed. In good time.’
The carriage rolled out into the silent streets of Sulien, the ring of the iron-bound wheels echoing in the night. Khassian eyed the door, wondering if it would be possible to throw himself against it – and out on to the street. But he was wedged too tightly between the burly constables to make any sudden move. And the carriage was going faster now, leaving the city, making for the border road. Soon it would start the slow, winding climb towards the gorge and the foothills of the mountains.
He was to be handed over to the faceless inquisitors of the Commanderie.
They would order him to recant, to make public confession of his sins. He would refuse – less out of bravery than sheer stubbornness. Then they would work on him mentally, physically, until he broke. And when they broke him, he would lose the last tatters of dignity, of self-respect.
He would rather die than endure the humiliation.
Numb and cold with dread, Khassian began to shiver.
The exchange took place not long after midnight at a lonely watchpost high in the mountains above Sulien.
As the Sulien Constabulary carriage slowed, stopped, Khassian became aware of a mosaic of tiny sounds embellishing the silence of the mountain night: the fretful rattle of nightjars, the distant hooting of a snow-owl, the sighing of wind in the tall cinder pines.
Another carriage stood waiting beyond the borderline. The constables helped Khassian down. One tripped on the rough, stony road, lost his grip – and Khassian ducked free.
Vain fantasies of escape danced through his brain as he ran. And then he caught a rush of movement from the shadow of the pines.
Guerriors.
‘Stay where you are!’ cried Fiammis. Her voice pierced the cold air, keen as a crossbow bolt.
As his eyes adjusted to the night, he saw them more clearly. Half a dozen armed men, grey as night shadows, swiftly closing in on him.
And she stood blocking his way, still clutching that absurd parasol – as though she could fend him off with its laces and ribbons.
In that one instant’s hesitation, the constables grabbed hold of him.
‘You may return to Sulien,’ she said to them, coldly dismissive. ‘My thanks to the Commissaire for his co-operation. But from here I take full charge of the prisoner.’
CHAPTER 19
‘So. You are Amaru Khassian?’
Khassian shaded his eyes, squinting into the rising sun. Girim nel Ghislain, Grand Maistre of the Commanderie, was a shadow silhouetted against the blinding glare.
‘I had not realised you were quite so young. So young and so talented. A god-given talent. Only once or twice a century one as gifted as you is born, Illustre. Come into the light. I want to look at you.’
When Khassian did not move, two Guerriors seized hold of him by the arms and dragged him forward.
‘Let go of me!’ Khassian shook himself free. The two Guerriors stood at his side, staring into the dazzling sun, faces unmoving.
The Grand Maistre gestured to one of the officers.
‘A chair for the Illustre Khassian.’
A gilt chair was placed behind him. He shook his head.
‘Oh, please sit down, Illustre Khassian. This interview may take a little time.’
Hands were placed on Khassian’s shoulders. He was pressed down, gently but firmly.
‘Interview? Wouldn’t interrogation be a more accurate term?’ he said.
‘Your words, not mine.’
‘Then why the secretary?’ Khassian nodded towards the grey-suited officer discreetly writing in a ledger.
‘For your protection as much as my own.’
‘So that you can twist my words to condemn me.’
‘If you have nothing to hide from us, Illustre, then you need not fear a record being kept of our conversation.’ Girim sat back in his chair. ‘You showed such promise, even as a young child. All that burgeoning talent so sadly misused. Abused. Frittered away in sick, sad projects like this… what did you call it?… Elesstar – or Litanies of Transubstantiation?‘
‘Only a working title.’
‘But blasphemous. Even the title reeks of heresy. You arrogant young intellectuals – why must you mock and deride what you do not understand? I am called back to Bel’Esstar, Jewel of Cities, my spiritual home – and what do I find? The Blessed Mhir’s shrine neglected – even His name, His holy writings, desecrated in – in vulgar entertainments.’
‘Elesstar is not an entertainment!’ cried Khassian. ‘It is my interpretation of Mhir’s writings. The Vineyard Verses.’
‘Your misinterpretation,’ said Girim coldly. ‘Your blatant distortion of holy texts. It seems a remarkably contentious work to me, Illustre. A work calculated to disturb. To provoke. Inflame.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, I think you understand very well, Illustre. For a young man, you demonstrate a great degree of understanding. In the Opera House you know how to rouse the passions of your audience. You manipulate them through your art.’
‘Manipulate!’ Khassian echoed.
‘Music is the most powerful manipulator of the emotions. In the hands of the corrupt, the spiritually warped, it can be a terrifying weapon. My role is to protect the vulnerable, the innocent, the untainted, Illustre. I have to guard my flock from the wolves.’
‘And you’ve marked me down as a wolf?’ Khassian smiled, an ironic smile.
‘If I read this libretto aright, you planned to depict the seduction of the Blessed Mhir by the Angel Messenger sent by Iel the All-Seeing. The carnal seduction.’
‘Mhir’s words are explicit: “Then he put His mouth to my mouth and His tongue was a scorching flame. The fire of His words flowed into –”‘
‘You have no need to quote the holy texts to me, Illustre. I have spent a lifetime in study and contemplation of Mhir’s words. And I find your interpretation a lewd distortion of what is essentially a poetic metaphor.’
‘So you deny the power of the metaphor? Mhir’s metaphor?’
‘I question your motives in portraying literally what was meant to be interpreted metaphysically. I question your motives in portraying Mhir on stage in a work of entertainment. In my opinion this opera of yours is a blasphemous abomination. The anger it arouses amongst true believers is justified.’
‘Oh, so they were justified in trying to burn us alive?’
‘I do not condone the arson attack upon you and your company. But your opera has stirred up strong feelings, Illustre. Dangerous feelings.’
Khassian had focussed his attention on the Grand Maistre’s hands; the nails perfectly manicured, the skin smooth and pale and supple. The hands of an aesthete,
one who does not sully his fingers with everyday matters, Khassian thought. Before the fire his own hands had always been stained with ink, the nails chewed: craftsman’s hands; honest hands.
‘Together, Illustre, we could re-fashion your opera into a celebration of Mhir’s life. The aggressive musical language of your recent works would be wholly inappropriate, of course. But a composer as versatile as you would have no problem adapting his style to create a less contentious work.’
Girim was looking at him over steepled fingers. His eyes were colourless; neither the grey of winter skies nor the pale brown of endless sands. For a moment Khassian was balancing on the top of a dizzy precipice; far below the clouds eddied and swirled.
He gasped in a deep breath.
‘Impossible.’
The steepled fingers slowly lowered. There was silence in the panelled chamber; even the scratching pen stopped.
‘I beg you to reconsider,’ Girim said quietly. ‘We can find you an amanuensis.’
‘You understand nothing about music! Even with an amanuensis, it would be impossible. You ask me to compromise my name as a composer, to compromise my own style, my own voice – I will not do it.’
‘So be it.’ Girim turned to the secretary. ‘Let it be set down that I offered the Illustre Khassian the opportunity to recant. And he refused.’
Khassian closed his eyes. He had condemned himself.
‘I will give you one more chance to change your mind. So I am sending you to the Sanctuary, Illustre. There, in a solitary cell, you will have time to reflect upon the answer you have just given me.’
Voices outside the bedroom door drifted into Orial’s consciousness.
‘A remarkable recovery, wouldn’t you say, Tartarus?’
She smiled drowsily to herself: Papa’s voice, reassuringly confident.
‘Remarkable, indeed. But for how long will it last?’
‘For as long as I can keep her away from the music.’
‘Ha! And you really believe you can do it?’
‘If music overstimulates certain areas of her brain, provoking these manic episodes, then yes, I must do it. She’ll come to see the sense of it in time.’
What was Papa saying?
No music meant never to see Amaru Khassian again. Never to share again the unique melding of musical consciousness that had bonded their minds.
How could Papa say he loved her – and deprive her of the one thing she cherished most?
‘If you change your mind, Jerame, you know where to find me.’
The voices faded as the men moved away down the corridor.
Orial lay motionless.
There was still a choice.
To live a sterile life, safe from the dangerous influence of music, a sheltered life, trapped within the silent walls of the Sanatorium…
… or to break free, to follow the glamour of the music wherever it led her, to dance to its tune until the madness finally claimed her.
‘Good morning, Papa.’
Jerame looked up from his breakfast to see Orial propping herself against the doorframe.
‘Why are my legs still so weak?’ she complained.
‘My dear, you have been very ill.’ Jerame tenderly helped her into a chair. ‘You must try to regain your strength slowly, not rush at everything.’
‘But there is so much to be done! The Illustre will be wondering what has become of me –’ She stopped, one hand flying up to cover her mouth.
‘I know,’ Jerame said, steeling himself to tell her what had happened. ‘I know what you were doing.’ Better he told her the truth than that she heard some garbled version from Cramoisy Jordelayne. ‘Listen, Orial. Khassian has gone back to Bel’Esstar.’
‘Gone back!’ she echoed in an incredulous whisper. ‘And he left no word for me?’
‘He had very little time, I believe, to leave word for anyone. There was an extradition order.’ He moved to the window, pretending to look out at the weather. ‘He had to go.’
‘But, Papa – do you know what this means? They’ll kill him.’
The volatility of youth. Everything was a life-or-death issue. He sighed.
‘There were charges he was obliged to answer in Allegonde. He was fulfilling his duty as a citizen –’
‘Who have you been talking to?’ She was looking at him shrewdly. ‘Because don’t you believe for one moment, Papa, that his rights as a citizen will be respected in Bel’Esstar. I must see the Diva. We must organise a petition on his behalf. We – we must –’ She tried to raise herself from the chair but sank back, drained.
‘All in good time,’ soothed Jerame, tucking a shawl about her legs. ‘Right now you must conserve your strength.’
‘This is most vexing,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Can you not at least invite the Diva here, Papa? Talking should not exhaust me.’
‘I have much work to catch up with, my dear. Maybe in a week or so… when you are stronger. Rest now. And don’t forget to drink your restorative tincture; it is made from mountain herbs and flowers.’
He did not tell Orial that the Diva had been calling every day, begging to see him – and every day Jerame had somehow managed to avoid him, to send him away.
But how long would it be before Orial discovered the part he had played in Khassian’s deportation?
Another sad band of Sanctuarees had arrived. Acir Korentan stood and watched the prisoners trail after nel Macy as he marched them to their quarters, barking out orders.
They had taken one away from the others and were hurrying him towards a separate wing of the Sanctuary. Acir frowned into the sunlight. There was something oddly familiar about that defiant stance, that shock of tousled dark hair.
Khassian?
Acir hurried down the steps after the prisoner and his escort. But before he could reach them, nel Macy hailed him.
‘A new batch, Captain Korentan!’
‘So I see.’
‘Will you take charge of their induction? I’ve been called to the Fortress.’
Take charge. A chance at last to assess what processes were at work within the Sanctuary. A chance to find out how it was that Amaru Khassian had come – in spite of all Acir’s efforts – to be imprisoned here.
‘And the last prisoner?’ he asked casually. ‘What are the instructions regarding him?’
‘Who? 654? He’s marked down for Meditation. Special instructions. A hard one to break, apparently.’
Meditation. Another of Girim nel Ghislain’s euphemisms. Meditation meant solitary confinement. Acir’s hopes of making contact with Khassian were immediately dashed.
‘You were sent here as a spiritual advisor, Korentan.’ Nel Macy clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You can take charge of the weekly confessionals.’
‘And what,’ Acir said levelly, ‘is the precise purpose of these confessionals?’
‘When these rebels arrive at the Sanctuary, they’re in poor shape spiritually. Morally weak. We talk to them. We give counsel. We keep a check on their spiritual progress. And if any feel ready to make a public renunciation of their old beliefs, then we welcome them back into the faith. There have been torchlight ceremonies in Bel’Esstar – crowds of onlookers. A stirring sight!’
Acir listened in silence, arms folded across his chest.
‘And if they are not ready?’
‘We have our methods. Even the most stubborn breaks… eventually.’
Everywhere the posters advertising the second appearance at the Guildhall of Cramoisy Jordelayne By Public Demand were slashed across with red writing proclaiming the blunt message: CANCELLED.
The sky was filling with clouds as Orial hurried towards the Crescent; the first drops of rain began to patter on to the pavements as she went up to Mistress Permay’s door and rapped loudly with the knocker.
‘Ho! It’s you, demselle,’ said Mistress Permay suspiciously.
Raindrops spattered Orial’s head; the sky had darkened and the pavements were already glistening with the downpou
r.
‘I’ve come to see the Diva.’
‘He’s not receiving any visitors.’
‘He’ll receive me.’ Orial could feel the rain trickling into her hair. She took a step forward. Mistress Permay blocked her way.
‘No more musicians. They’re nothing but trouble.’
Orial thought swiftly.
‘But I’ve come from the Sanatorium.’
‘Oh? Well, that’s different, then, I suppose you’d better come in.’ Mistress Permay grudgingly moved aside to allow her into the hall. ‘Mind you wipe your feet. The floor’s just been polished. Can’t have mud and filth trodden in everywhere.’
Orial wiped her feet on the mat and hastened across the shiny floor under Mistress Permay’s watchful eyes.
She tapped on the door of Cramoisy’s apartments. There was no reply. She quietly pressed the handle and opened the door.
The salon was exactly as it was the day she had been taken ill – except for the absence of Amaru Khassian. She had half-expected to see him in his customary position by the window, turning to greet her.
Now she felt a bleak chill wrap round her heart as she gazed around the empty room.
It was only then that she saw Cramoisy Jordelayne.
The Diva was sitting staring into empty air. His hair was unkempt, lying lank and straggling about his shoulders. He was still in déshabillé, not having bothered to dress; from time to time he pulled at the lace on a crumpled handkerchief clutched in one hand.
‘Cramoisy?’ Orial called his name softly. The Diva started and glanced around; his face was streaked with black-stained tear runnels.
‘Orial?’ Cramoisy said bemusedly. ‘But – but I thought you – they said –’
Orial crossed the salon.
‘I’m here.’
‘I had feared the worst.’ The Diva hesitated a moment – and then he enveloped her in his arms, crushing her in a pomade-scented embrace. His fingers tremblingly touched her face. ‘And here you are – healed.’
Orial, overwhelmed by this unexpected show of emotion, gently extricated herself from the Diva’s fond embrace.
