by Sarah Ash
‘No.’
‘Damn.’ Jolaine went slowly, desultorily, down the steps, kicking at a dried crust of bread the pigeons had ignored. ‘Damn.’
‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ Girim nel Ghislain rounded on Acir Korentan, pale eyes narrowed with anger. ‘Countermanding my orders, my orders?’
Acir stood stiffly to attention before the Grand Maistre, gazing straight ahead, unblinking.
‘Well? What have you got to say in your defence?’
Acir cleared his throat. What he had to say was dangerous – and could condemn him as a rebel sympathiser. But Girim had ordered him to speak, so speak he must.
‘I believed the name of the Commanderie stood for honour and for justice. What I saw made me ashamed to wear the badge of the Rose. Three men hanged without fair trial.’
‘Without fair trial?’ Girim’s voice had gone quiet.
‘You sent me to the stone quarries. A day’s journey. In the time I was away, those three men were tried and executed.’
Girim stared at him. Acir squared his shoulders, steadying himself for the tirade to come.
‘And so you took it upon yourself to cut them down?’
‘I took the action I thought fit at the time.’
‘I see.’ Quiet, considering words, belying the clear, cold anger Acir could see flickering like distant lightning in the Grand Maistre’s face. ‘And did you think your rank would help you escape punishment for this insubordination?’
‘No.’ Acir looked Girim full in the face, refusing to be cowed. ‘But I would like it set on record that I acted in good faith to restore the good name of the Commanderie. A name that has become associated in this city – this holy city – with injustice, with cruelty, with –’
‘Enough!’ Girim’s voice cut across his.
‘Demote me. Court-martial me. But listen to what I’m saying, Maistre. If the signs, the dreams, are true and the time of His coming is drawing near… what will He find? A city divided. A city in fear –’
‘Dreams?’ interrupted Girim.
‘I… I have dreamed of His coming. I cannot be the only one…’
‘You saw Him in your dream?’
Acir hesitated. He had never spoken of his dreams before. Now it seemed as if he was breaking a sacred trust to speak of them aloud. And yet, if it would save lives, speak he must. But his throat had gone dry and tight. He swallowed, trying to find words to describe the indescribable.
‘He was in a vineyard.’
‘In a vineyard?’ The anger seemed to leach from Girim’s eyes, leaving only a blank and hungry emptiness.
‘I took Him for a vineyard worker at first… and then when I saw His face, I knew Him.’
‘Oh, Acir, Acir.’ Girim’s arms enfolded him. His voice had softened, the anger was dispelled… or cleverly disguised, Acir thought. ‘This is another sign. A sign that He is near.’
‘But in my dream the grape harvest was failing –’
‘Your dream was a metaphor. You’ve seen how thin a vintage we have here in Bel’Esstar. It must be strengthened by the testament of true believers. We must increase our efforts.’
‘And if that was not the true meaning of the dream?’
Girim shook his head, smiling. And Acir saw from his eyes that the Grand Maistre refused even to entertain the possibility that he might be in the wrong.
‘What other possible meaning could there be?’
CHAPTER 22
The Guerriors at the Fortress had told Orial that Captain Korentan was to be found at the Sanctuary. They had given her directions.
But now she was lost. Her feet ached. She was thirsty and tired. All the broad, dusty streets of Bel’Esstar looked the same to her. If only she could find a drinking fountain.
She sat down on a doorstep to shake a little stone from her shoe.
Where were the people? She was aware that a curtain twitched at the windows of the house opposite but the street was empty. Was there a curfew? It wasn’t even near twilight. She glanced around apprehensively. Maybe they thought her a woman of questionable virtue? In Sulien the thought would have made her giggle, but here she suddenly felt vulnerable and very alone.
She buttoned her shoe and, keeping to the shadowed side of the street, hurried away.
I won’t give up. I’m sure to come to the Sanctuary soon.
She turned the corner.
The fire-blackened shell of a great building dominated the empty street.
A flare of pain sizzled through her hands.
‘What is this place?’ she murmured, venturing closer.
A makeshift barrier had been erected across the entrance; a few boards nailed together blocked the way in. Behind, weeds grew in the charred ruins, the soft green of rose bay willowherb, topped with a froth of white seeds.
‘Vast enough to be a temple…’
The remains of the fluted columns and pediment of the front façade reminded her of the Temple of the Source in Sulien.
She reached out to touch one of the columns… and fire gashed across her mind, bright as a sunflare. She snatched her fingers away as if they had been burned.
She gazed at the mess of blackened timbers and fallen plaster that filled the central void.
She knew this place.
The Opera House.
Tentatively she reached out again and, closing her eyes, let her finger-tips make contact with the charred stone.
Voices echoed in her head, gorgeous voices, swooping and darting like swallows. And, matching them in colour and vibrancy, she heard the sudden surge of a great body of instruments, strings, woodwind, harps…
An orchestra.
Dizzied by the swell of sound, she snatched her fingers away.
The echoes of the opera orchestra resonated on in her brain, a candlelit tapestry of crimson, blue and rich gold.
This was where it had all begun. This was his world.
‘Good day to you, demselle.’
She started and, turning around, saw a streetsweeper watching her, leaning on his brush. He was ill-shaven and there was something about the way he looked at her that made her uneasy.
‘The way to the Sanctuary, please, sieur?’
The man hawked and spat on the ground.
‘What does a pretty girl like you want with the Sanctuary?’
‘I just want to know the way.’
He gave a grunt.
‘I’ll set you on the right route. Follow me.’
He set off down the deserted street, Orial following a few paces behind. Soon he had slowed and was walking beside her. She drew away. He persisted. She began to glance around, hoping to see someone else whom she could ask. But the streets were empty. Maybe the people of Bel’Esstar dozed the hot afternoons away, waiting for the cooler air of evening before venturing out.
The man leaned closer to her.
‘Come with me and I’ll show you a much better time.’
‘It’s very kind of you, sieur…’ Orial began to back away.
He made a sudden lunge at her, grabbing at her breasts. His brush fell to the pavement. Orial darted under his hands and, gathering up her skirts, began to run.
He came after her but she was fleeter-footed. Slipping into a doorway, she tried to quieten her breathing. The man loped past and stopped a few paces away, sniffing around like a hound scenting its quarry. She could hear him muttering and cursing her.
After a while, an interminable while, he gave up and went away. Still she waited, willing herself to find the courage to venture out again.
Cramoisy had warned her and she had not listened. ‘Men can go where women cannot.’
She was beginning to wish she had not come.
Although a canopy of high cloud loured over Bel’Esstar, it was not cool but oppressively warm. Orial trudged on across the heath that separated the Sanctuary from the city; the heath grasses were already parched for lack of rain and a thin, fine dust rose every time she put down her foot. Only a sulphur-leaved thistle
thrived in this barren terrain: its vicious spines caught on Orial’s clothes and its burgeoning thistledown seemed to give off a faintly putrid odour. She felt alone and vulnerable; the sandy hollows could easily conceal predators waiting to prey on lone women making their way to the Sanctuary to visit their loved ones.
Who would hear her cries if she was attacked and dragged off the path?
The Guerriors on duty at the gate took Orial’s papers and escorted her into an ill-lit little room beside the gatehouse.
She stood waiting, listening, her heart thudding so loud she put one hand to her breast to try to still it.
Would they confiscate her papers? Would they detain her?
‘Demselle Magelonne! Whatever are you doing here?’
In the shadows of the bare room, his hair looked more dull pewter than silver – but the eyes, the blue eyes, were unmistakably those of Captain Acir Korentan.
‘I’ve come to see you, Captain.’ She glanced around her, hoping he would correctly interpret what she dared not ask aloud: Is it safe to talk here or shall we be overheard?
‘You must be tired after your journey from Sulien,’ Captain Korentan said courteously. ‘Can I offer you any refreshment?’
‘My throat is dry. I would appreciate something to drink.’
‘Please follow me.’
Nothing of any consequence had been spoken aloud between them. But he had understood. There was still, then, a spark of hope.
‘I heard that you were grievously sick.’ He stopped. ‘Forgive me. You are evidently recovered and I am delighted to see you in good health.’
‘That is why I am here. The Illustre was deported on my father’s complaint. My father –’ Orial hesitated. ‘My father acted in haste. He regrets what has happened.’
‘Then why is he not here?’
‘I have come myself to prove his accusations unfounded. I am well, I am whole. There is no complaint against the Illustre.’
‘No complaint in Sulien. But here –’ His fingers finished the sentence with an expressive gesture.
Orial had feared such a reply. And yet she still sensed a subtle alteration in Captain Korentan’s attitude. She felt she could test him a little further.
‘He is here, isn’t he?’
Korentan nodded.
‘May I see him?’
‘He is not allowed visitors.’
Orial took up the cup of water and drank.
‘This is a terrible place,’ she said softly. He nodded in reply. When she looked up, she saw that his eyes had darkened as if in pain.
‘The Diva is here with me,’ she said. ‘Could you not make an exception in his case?’
‘And will the Diva be returning straightaway to Sulien?’ Captain Korentan asked. He looked her directly in the eyes, unblinking.
‘Yes. He has unfinished business to attend to.’ Orial held his gaze. For the second time he had understood her meaning.
‘I will see what I can do. Tell me where you are lodged – and I will send word if a meeting is to be permitted.’
‘The house is in the Dniera Faubourg. The Villa of Yellow Vines.’
‘Thank you. I have made a note of it.’
They walked back to the gatehouse without speaking. Orial stole a glance at the Captain as they walked but his expression was guarded, giving nothing away.
Had she read more into their conversation than he had intended?
As they approached the gatehouse, the gates were dragged open and an elegant phaeton pulled into the courtyard, the horses’ harnesses jingling. The coachman reined in his horses and one of the Guerriors hurried forward to open the carriage door. A woman climbed down and smoothed out the skirts of her travelling gown.
Orial felt the Captain’s brisk tread falter. The woman was gazing about her, adjusting the fit of each finger of her lace gloves. Deftly, Captain Korentan positioned himself on Orial’s other side and steered her into the shadows of the gatehouse door.
‘Who –?’ Orial whispered.
Captain Korentan hurried her to the door, out of sight of the courtyard, and unlocked it himself.
‘Go. Quickly.’
He helped her up and over the high sill and thrust her papers into her hands. Beyond, the dusty wasteland menaced in the sulphureous light of late-afternoon. It seemed a very long walk back to the Dniera Faubourg.
‘Wait for me at the waystone. I will escort you back to the city.’
‘Captain, I –’
But even as she turned back to Captain Korentan, the door shut with a firm click and she heard the key turn in the lock.
‘Captain Korentan!’
Acir turned automatically as Fiammis called his name. She stood framed in the archway to the gatehouse,
The milky pallor of her skin glimmered in the gloomy courtyard like a rare lily growing in a barren wasteland.
‘Contesse.’ He fought to keep his voice steady, emotionless; he must give nothing away.
‘They told me you were here. I hope you find your new situation agreeable?’
Agreeable. It was her report from Sulien that had had him demoted to nel Macy’s second-in-command. Had she merely come here to gloat or was there some other purpose to her visit?
‘But it’s not you I’ve come to see. I bring intelligences for the Governor. If you would be so good as to direct me, Captain…’
‘Guerrior! Escort the Contesse to Captain nel Macy. If you will excuse me?’ Acir gave Fiammis a brusque salute. ‘I have affairs of my own to attend to.’ If she could be oblique, then so could he. Two could play this game.
She opened her mouth as if to say something in reply – and then snapped it shut.
Had she seen Orial?
Acir leaned his forehead against the clammy stone of the gatehouse wall.
And even if she had, would she have given any indication to him?
He had the sentry unlock the door for him and hurried to find Orial.
She was sitting on the waystone, gazing towards the city. In the sultry glare she looked frail and tired… and yet as he came nearer, he thought he saw a pale haze of light about her. He put one hand to his eyes, thinking himself dazzled by the dry, dusty light – and at that moment, she heard him approach and rose.
‘You need not trouble, Captain, I –’
‘The heath is not safe, even by day. There are vagrants, cutpurses who lie in wait in the hollows. Besides… here we can talk without fear of being overheard.’
The narrow path led away through the gorse; soon they would be out of sight of the road. She seemed weary and yet she did not once complain; he found himself impressed by her quiet composure.
‘I wrote letters, Captain, requesting an interview with the Grand Maistre to beg for clemency for Khassian. Yet not one was answered. You are the only one in Bel’Esstar to show me any courtesy.’
How he never noticed before the luminosity of her eyes, light ripples on water?
‘You understand, Captain Korentan. You have heard his music. You know the power of that music… to move, to enoble the spirit.’
There was an affecting grace and dignity about her – yet there was also an air of other worldliness that made him fear for her safety. She had assured him she was recovered from her illness but…
‘You are taking a grave risk, demselle. I will do all I can to aid you, but if my part in this endeavour is discovered –’
‘Your risk is the greater, Captain. Believe me, I am sensible of what you are hazarding on Khassian’s account.’
The path wound downwards towards the city gate. Orial stumbled on the loose, dry stones and Acir put out his hand to steady her. She looked up into his face and for a moment the scrubby heathland melted away and he was back in the Temple of the Source, gazing into the water-misted eyes of the tutelary spirit the Allegondans had called Elesstar…
‘Are you all right, Captain?’
The vision faded as quickly as it had come; he put one hand to his brow and found it wet with sweat.
> ‘I – I was remembering the Temple in Sulien. Did we ever meet there?’ he heard himself asking.
‘I don’t think so.’ She smiled at him, a small, grave smile. ‘But I hope we may. In happier times. When all these troubles are resolved.’
A patrol of Guerriors was approaching along the boulevard, marching towards the Sanctuary. They saluted Acir as they passed; Orial shrank into his shadow as he returned their salute.
Their faces were dour, their eyes blank. The brisk tread of their marching feet resounded along the empty street with the harsh ring of steel-capped boots on stone.
They marched to the spectral beat of a different drum; they followed a warrior prophet conjured by Girim nel Ghislain from his fevered fantasies of fire and battle.
Acir glanced at Orial as they continued on their way to the Dniera Faubourg. Her quiet courage glowed with the same steadfast flame as the light of a lotos candle floating on the black reservoirs of the necropolis. Her calm was the water-shadowed calm of the Temple of the Source…
The Commanderie would interpret such a thought as heresy, the confused ramblings of an unbeliever. But in that moment of insight, Acir saw that the way forward was through the enlightenment of the Temple of the Source.
If only there was a way to bring the two faiths together…
Fiammis turned her back on Captain Korentan and followed the Guerrior across the Sanctuary courtyard. She snapped open her fan and began to use it furiously, trusting the swift movements would hide her face until she could compose herself.
She had felt a shiver of flame burn through her when she caught sight of him in the courtyard. And he had looked on her so sternly, so coldly; evidently he had not forgiven her for her interference in the Khassian affair.
Was she always to be torn between duty and desire?
Orial’s first request on returning to the Villa of Yellow Vines was a bowl of hot water sprinkled with refreshing salts. She sat with her sore feet in the fizzing water whilst Cramoisy fussed around her, plying her with lemon tea and almond biscuits.
‘Did you see him? Is he well? What happened? You were gone so long I was almost beside myself with worry. I was about to send for the watch –’
‘No, I didn’t see him. But I saw an acquaintance of ours.’
