by Sarah Ash
‘But killing?’ He cleared his throat. ‘In cold blood?’
‘A woman alone has to learn to protect herself.’
‘There must have been some other way –’
But she was not hearing what he was saying, she seemed snared in some private horror of her own weaving.
‘Do you know what they do to convicted murderers? Don’t believe Girim’s talk of leniency. First they shave your head.’ Her fingers moved up across her skull, touching, caressing her hair. ‘Then they parade you through the streets on a cart with a noose around your neck, to be pelted with mud. Abused. Spat at.’ Her voice had dropped to a monotone. ‘The gallows is on Pasperdu Hill. Haven’t you seen the corpses left to dangle there till they rot?’
‘Oh, Fia, Fia…’ he said, unable to hide the ache in his voice.
‘Just seeing you here, just hearing you call me Fia…’ She nestled against him. ‘No one else ever called me Fia. If only we could go back – if only we could be as we were then.’
He felt the weight of her golden head against his shoulder, the warmth of her body pressed against his. If he shut his eyes, he could remember that distant summer meadow, the dazzle of sunlight, the green smell of crushed grasses as he pulled her down into his arms, the taste of her, sweet yet sharp, like early apples.
‘Help me, Acir,’ she said, mouth moving against the base of his throat. ‘I am so very, very wretched.’
He could not bear to think that beneath this radiantly beautiful shell lay such a void of cynicism and despair.
The shutters blew inwards, gusting rain into the room.
‘A storm!’ Fiammis cried. She ran to the open casement and out on to the balcony, raising her face to the pouring rain. ‘I love storms!’
Lightning lit the dark sky, lit her rain-streaked face, and she flung up her arms as if to welcome it.
‘Are you crazy?’ Acir cried. He went out on to the balcony and caught hold of her as thunder rumbled closer. ‘You could get killed!’
‘But what a magnificent way to die!’ she cried, laughing. ‘Seared by elemental fire!’
‘Come back inside,’ he begged her, pulling her towards him. Suddenly she was in arms and kissing him hungrily as the thunder-rain poured down, drenching them both. And a heat burned through his body like a raging fever as a host of forbidden sensations reawakened.
‘No,’ said Acir, gasping. Her lips were wet and cold, tainted with the bitter thunder-rain, but her tongue tasted sweet. He picked her up in his arms and lifted her back over the sill into the bedchamber.
‘You’re soaked to the skin,’ he said hoarsely. He set her down but still she clung to him.
‘So are you.’ Her fingers moved to unfasten his wet jacket, his shirt.
‘You should dry yourself –’
‘I should?’
She gave a little shrug and the drenched gown slipped from her shoulders to the floor.
‘Fia…’ he whispered.
‘Shhh.’ She wound her arms around him, pressing her wet body against his burning skin. Her breasts crushed against him, slippery with rainwater.
The tempest broke outside, battering the shutters with its violence, howling about the Palace rooftops. But Acir was aware only of the raging of his senses and her subtle, sinuous movements as Fiammis entwined herself around him, drawing him inside her. And inside all was dark heat and sweetness. His veins seemed to run with honey, he could feel the golden liquid coursing through his body, coursing ever stronger until it spilled over and he felt himself melting into that dark heat –
The thunder cracked overhead and the shutters blew inwards. Out went the candle-flames and the room was filled with rainwet blackness.
Acir gave a cry and rolled away, his voice swallowed by the thunder’s deafening roar that shook the whole city.
Blinded by the white glare of the flickering lightning, he rocked in silent misery, shielding his head from the storm’s fury. Fiammis lay in the lightning’s shadow, watching him. After a while he raised his head and gazed at her.
‘Why?’ It was more of a cry of pain than a word. ‘Why, Fia?’ First the sweetness, then the aftertaste. And the aftertaste, bitter-black as aloes, filled him with revulsion for what had first seemed so sweet.
‘Because I wanted you. I always wanted you.’ She stroked his cheek and he shuddered at her touch, a faint flicker of burning honey still afire in his loins. ‘And you wanted me. Your need was as great, don’t deny it. What point your vows of celibacy, what point all those fruitless years of self-denial and privation? Is that what Mhir asks of you?’
In one night he had broken the contract he had made with his god. All he foresaw now for himself was years of penance, of monastic desolation, shunned by his fellow Guerriors, despised as the man who betrayed his vows for one brief moment of love.
Sweat, colder than the gusting rain outside, chilled his body. He seized his clothes, tugging on his breeches, his boots, buckling on his sword.
‘Where are you going?’ She knelt up on the bed. ‘Don’t go. Don’t leave me.’
‘I have to go.’
‘Come back, Acir!’
He heard her still calling his name as he went down the stairs and out! into the night. He could not stay. If he had stayed, he would have broken his vows again.
She had revealed his weakness. He had vowed at Mhir’s shrine to stay pure in mind and body, the better to serve the will of the All-Seeing. If he was unable to keep that covenant, what right had be to be a Guerrior? Heedless of the driving rain or the howling wind, he walked on through the streets of the city.
She had said she loved him… but was she merely playing with him? In those fleeting moments of passion, he had believed her… but it could all have been another deception, a cruel trap set by the Grand Maistre to test his resolve. She was Girim’s agent still.
The storm seemed to be abating, rolling on across the river plain towards the sea. In the first rain-streaked light of dawn, he found he had made his way to the half-built Fortress of Faith.
He went down into the darkness of the shrine. Racked with shame and despair, he slowly bent forwards until his forehead touched the worn stone of the Prophet’s tomb.
‘Help me. Help me.’
Fiammis sat motionless in front of her mirror. Behind her, the open shutters still banged and creaked in the dying storm-wind.
She should feel triumphant. She had achieved her aim. She had made the virtuous Acir Korentan break his vow of chastity; she had proved that he was a man, like any other. Just another conquest…
She reached, unseeing, for her comb and began to drag it through her rain-darkened hair, still staring at her reflection.
Why then did she feel a shiver of desire when her lips framed his name? Why did her body still burn where he had touched her, held her? Why did she feel tears welling up as she remembered how he had drawn away from her, eyes bleak with betrayal.
She rose in a sudden movement, knocking over the chair on which she had been sitting.
Would he ever come back? Or would he look through her when next they met, pretending they were strangers?
The thought was unbearable.
All she wanted was to see him again, to feel his hand caress her hair. It was as if a burning wind had swept through her, searing her in its flame. She craved to be burned again, consumed to ashes in its cleansing flames.
‘Acir…’ she whispered his name aloud. ‘Oh, Acir… come back to me.’
Sister Crespine raised her hand to knock on Dr Magelonne’s door – and stopped, seeing it was ajar. Through the glass she glimpsed Magelonne sitting with his head in his hands, his spectacles lying on the desk beside a pile of bills. Unpaid bills.
She hesitated. He would not want to hear the news she had brought. First his daughter… now the Sanatorium. Troubles, nothing but troubles. She wished she had thought to bring a tray of tea with her, to sweeten the tidings.
She tapped lightly on the engraved glass.
‘Come in,
’ he said. There was a dragging weariness in his voice. ‘Oh, it’s you, Sister. Not more bills, I hope.’
‘More cancellations, I’m afraid. The news has spread.’
‘You’ve assured the patients that we can heat riverwater, we can still provide excellent treatment?’
‘Yes, yes, I’ve made every assurance. But no one seems to want second-best. You can’t blame them really, can you? We made our reputation on the healing properties of the mineral springs. Now we’ve no mineral water…’
‘You’ve been at the Sanatorium – how many years, is it now? Fifteen, sixteen years? I don’t want to have to release you but…’ he gestured to the bills ‘… I don’t know if I can pay your wages beyond this month. If you want to go elsewhere –’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it!’ exclaimed Sister Crespine. ‘I’ll stand by you, Doctor. You can depend on me.’
The porter appeared in the doorway, staggering slightly.
‘Message for you, Doctor.’
‘Thank you.’ Sister Crespine snatched the piece of paper from his hand and gave it to Doctor Magelonne. ‘Doesn’t that man ever knock?’ she said in a loud whisper. ‘And he’s been at the cider again, I can smell it on his breath. Why, whatever is it, Doctor?’
Magelonne was staring at the paper.
‘Not more bad news?’
‘Bel’Esstar,’ he muttered. ‘Bel’Esstar!’ He stood up.
‘News about Orial?’
‘From the Diligence Company. One of their drivers says he took a young woman answering Orial’s description to Bel’Esstar last week – in company with a “rather loud, theatrical person answering to the name of Cramoisy Jordelayne”.’
‘Bel’Esstar!’ Sister Crespine was shocked. ‘Whatever would make her want to go there? All those religious fanatics…’
Dr Magelonne suddenly walked straight past her.
‘Where are you going, Doctor?’
‘I’m going to get her back.’
‘But the patients, Doctor – the bills!’
‘Will have to wait till I return,’ he called back over his shoulder.
*
Jerame sat in the antechamber to the Grand Maistre’s apartments in company with many other petitioners. The hard little gilt-backed chairs that lined the walls were exceptionally uncomfortable: too low for a tall man like Jerame and too close together, so that his elbows kept colliding with the petitioners sitting on either side of him. The elegant clothes of many of the petitioners also made him feel uncomfortable in his drab doctor’s suit. Was he being ignored because of his lowly dress?
This was the second day he had come to wait his turn to see the Grand Maistre – and there were still others ahead of him in the queue. How many days would he have to wait? Would he have spent his time more profitably searching the streets of Bel’Esstar, making his own enquiries?
A woman in full court dress came sweeping into the antechamber. There was a noticeable stir of admiration in the crowded room. Jerame looked up – and saw the Contesse Fiammis. Starting out of his chair, he half-raised one hand to greet her – and then, embarrassed in case she ignored him, sat down again.
‘Why, Doctor Magelonne.’ She had recognised him. ‘Whatever are you doing here?’ It was stiflingly close in the antechamber and she was fanning herself with an ivory fan.
‘I’m searching for my daughter, Contesse. I have reason to believe she may be in Bel’Esstar.’
‘And why is that, pray?’ A seemingly innocent question… yet the Contesse’s blue eyes suddenly glittered with curiosity.
‘Amaru Khassian,’ he said in a whisper.
She snapped the fan shut.
‘I was just on my way in to see the Grand Maistre. You may accompany me.’
‘I am grateful for this information, Dr Magelonne.’ Girim nel Ghislain folded his hands upon the desk-top, as though in prayer. ‘You have already been most helpful to the Cause. I would like to express my thanks to you in some appropriate way. How can the Commanderie help you?’
Jerame had vowed that he would not let himself be overawed by being granted a personal interview with the Grand Maistre himself.
‘I want to find my daughter, Grand Maistre,’ he said brusquely. ‘That’s all.’
Girim glanced up at the Contesse who had sat motionless throughout the interview. Jerame saw her nod, almost imperceptibly.
‘My agents will find her, never fear, Dr Magelonne.’
‘But if she has involved herself with dissidents –’
‘I will endeavour to ensure she is unharmed,’ the Contesse said coolly, ‘although I cannot wholly guarantee it.’
‘There won’t be any charges, will there?’ Jerame’s anxiety broke through. ‘She’s only a young girl, she’s had her head filled with idealistic claptrap, she doesn’t know what she’s doing –’
‘There have been reports from Sulien which interest me,’ Girim said. ‘Is it true that the hot springs have dried up?’
‘Well, yes, it appears to be so.’ Jerame was flustered now; was he to be interrogated about the mineral waters – and if so, why? What possible interest could the Grand Maistre have in their domestic problems?
‘I can see that this would pose a problem for healers like yourself who rely on the hot springs for their livelihood. But in a wider, more spiritual context…’
‘I – I don’t quite follow.’
‘“A time shall yet come when the sacred flame burns low in the shrines and temples.”’ Girim’s eyes were half-closed, fixed on some distant point.
‘“And the heathen shall defile the holy places, yea even the sacred name of the Prophet shall be mocked and reviled in his holy city. The healing waters shall run dry, even the hot springs that gush from the sacred womb of the earth.” ‘
‘The healing waters?’ echoed Jerame, puzzled.
Girim’s eyes were open again, staring directly into his.
‘Do you not know the words of the Prophet Mhir?’
By now Jerame was feeling distinctly hot; his hand crept to his collar, trying to loosen it.
‘For any believer, these words are of the utmost significance. In them, Mhir foresees His death – and His resurrection. His second coming.’
Now Jerame could see the fires burning behind the clear grey eyes. He felt suddenly afraid.
‘B-but you’re not saying that Sulien –’
‘It is yet another fulfilment of the prophecies. First the birthplace in Enhirrë then the Prince’s miraculous recovery. You bring me good tidings, Dr Magelonne. This only serves to confirm what I have known in my heart to be right. We stand on the threshold of a time of wonders. We await His return.’
Outside, in the antechamber, Jerame leant against the wall and fumbled for his handkerchief to mop his forehead. He felt ill.
There was a geological explanation for the drying of the waters, he was certain of it. Mining in the mountains could have silted up the source. Or a run of dry summers. That or – most likely of all – poorly maintained plumbing. The City Council had tried to save funds by neglecting to repair or replace worn pipes. The precious water must have been seeping away into the soil for months, maybe even years.
‘Such an inspiration, our Grand Maistre,’ said a voice at his elbow. He looked around to see the Grand Maistre’s secretary nodding at him. ‘A man of such vision. I often feel quite overcome – just like you – after our little meetings together.’ He offered Jerame a glass of water. Nodding his thanks, Jerame took the glass and gulped down the water.
The doors opened again and the Contesse came out. She stopped by Jerame and tapped him sharply on the arm with her fan. He started, spilling water down his shirt.
‘Thank you for your information, Doctor. Write down your address so that I may send you any information as to your daughter’s whereabouts.’ She spoke without any expression.
Jerame wrote down the name of the lodging house; his hand, normally so steady, shook.
She took the paper from him and folded
it.
‘I cannot guarantee her safety. In the interests of state security, I will take what measures I must. Do you understand me? She has involved herself with dangerous people – and she must face the consequences.’
‘Letter from the Palace for you, Captain Korentan.’
Acir glanced up from the report he was penning to see the Guerrior place a sealed paper on the table in front of him. His hand moved out automatically to pick it up – and then stayed motionless in the air above the letter. It bore the seal of the Order of the Rosecoeur, the sealing-wax rose a bright gloss-red.
Rainwet hair against his bare chest, the dark-honeyed sweetness of her kiss –
No, Fiammis was too subtle to play that trick twice.
He took up the letter and cracked open the seal:
I need to see your report on Amaru Khassian. Bring it to the shrine after even-prayer tonight.
Girim nel Ghislain
The writing and signature were not forged; he knew Girim’s firm, self-assured hand too well.
He looked down at the report. It was a fabrication, deliberately written to play for time. It spoke of a significant change in Khassian’s attitude to the concept of conversion. Acir prayed that by the time Girim nel Ghislain decided to investigate that change of attitude for himself, Khassian would have crossed the border in Orial Magelonne’s carriage.
As to what would become of himself when his part was discovered…
He put the thought from his mind. As long as Khassian was free, there was hope for the people of Bel’Esstar.
At night the unfinished walls of the Fortress of Faith towered like the sheer walls of a moonless gorge, gateway to a profound abyss.
The evening shift had worked until the end of the light. Acir passed them on the heath as they made their way back towards the Sanctuary, many stumbling with exhaustion.
The site was empty, eerily silent now that the day’s clamour had ceased.
Holding aloft a lantern, he picked his way through the piles of masonry, the arched window frames, the stacked roof joists and timbers, to the concealed entrance to Mhir’s shrine.
Girim knelt at prayer alone in the shrine. Alone – unguarded.
