by Sarah Ash
Through the rising steamclouds she saw Amaru Khassian staring dazedly at her.
‘Amaru,’ she said, going towards him. She felt filled with warmth and affection for him.
‘I – I’m a little afraid to touch you,’ he stammered.
‘You helped make it happen.’ She stood on tiptoes and brushed his cheek with her lips. ‘For that time you became Lifhendil too. I could not have spun the song without you. One voice alone was not enough.’
‘Lotos Princess!’ cried Jolaine Tradescar, coming forward to hug her.
‘Not any more,’ she said, sadly. ‘It’s over now.’
‘Nonsense!’ The Priestess stood holding out her hands to her. ‘It’s just beginning.’ Behind her clustered the Priests and Priestesses of the Temple, all nodding and smiling.
Orial bowed her head respectfully.
‘No, child.’ The Priestess gently placed her hand under Orial’s chin and, raising her head, kissed her on the brow. ‘You are one of us. We must talk together, we must talk of your future. But only when you have rested…’
‘One of you?’ Orial stared questioningly up into the dark-veiled face.
‘Your place is here in the Temple.’
‘I had never thought of myself as… as a Priestess.’
‘Come with us now to the Temple Court and take some refreshment. There are many things you will need to know before you can make your decision.’
Beyond the beaming faces in the Temple Court Orial became aware that her father was looking at her. The sadness in his eyes belied his proud smile; she could always tell when he was dissembling.
Her decision would take her along a different path from the one he had designated for her. It would lead her from his side at the Sanatorium to the mysteries of the Under Temple.
‘Papa?’ she said questioningly.
He came towards her through the circle of Priestesses.
‘The Priestess is right; you should rest now,’ he said. He put his arms around her and she rested her head against his shoulder, feeling the worn cloth of his favourite jacket against her cheek. ‘The time for decisions is yet to come. Go with them, if that is what you wish.’
‘But you. Will you –’ The question died on her lips.
‘I’ll be all right.’ He finished it for her. ‘I have to get back to the Sanatorium. Now that you have revealed the new source, there’s plenty to do: treatment pools to be cleaned, pipes to be checked…’
She heard the bravado in his voice; she also heard the unspoken permission to decide for herself what she must do.
‘Thank you, Papa,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Thank you.’
He released her and walked away without a backward glance. The Priestesses closed around her.
‘Illustre!’
Khassian turned around to see Jerame Magelonne approaching through the crowd. What could the doctor possibly want to say to him?
‘Illustre,’ he said stiffly, ‘I owe you an apology. I misjudged you. I misjudged you very badly.’
Khassian, confounded, could not think what to say in reply.
‘I would ask if you would shake my hand in forgiveness… but I know the pain that would cause you. Instead, please accept my thanks, my heartfelt thanks, for what you have done to restore my daughter. You will always be welcome at the Sanatorium.’ Dr Magelonne stepped back and gave the composer a brusque little bow.
Khassian nodded his head in gratitude. He was exhausted, emotionally spent. He needed to be alone.
‘Coming for a glass of pommerie?’ Azare called to him.
‘You go ahead,’ Khassian said. ‘I’ll join you later.’
‘Moon and Sickle tavern!’
Khassian slipped in amongst the crowd and let himself be moved slowly forward, upward, out of the Undercity.
When he emerged, he saw it was twilight. Hours must have passed below ground without his noticing.
Sulien came alight with coloured lanterns, glittering festoons of pale jewels. Spurts of fire fizzled up, punctuated by loud retorts and cries of wonder: firecrackers, rockets and candles were being let off. The city was in celebratory mood.
In the Parade Gardens families were merrily picnicking on the grass, each picnic lit by bright flares: citrus and lime green. He wandered past aimlessly, detached from the holiday mood that had infected the city.
‘Amaru!’ Jolaine Tradescar hailed him; she was sitting on the grass with Theophil Philemot who was busy opening up a wicker basket. ‘We’ve got a splendid picnic hamper here. Spit-roast chicken, salads, mountain strawberries, clotted cream… We’re waiting to see the fireworks. Won’t you join us?’
‘We’d be honoured,’ said Theophil Philemot shyly.
Khassian shook his head, smiling. He was not hungry.
He walked slowly on beside the Avenne, leaving the lanterns and the celebrations behind. On the far side of the river the walls of the Foreigners’ Cemetery loomed, a shadow against the dwindling light.
He had not come here purposely… and yet now he found himself crossing the bridge, drawn to the solitude of the silent cemetery.
The moon was rising, casting a shimmer of silver on the graves as Khassian walked through the rustling grasses. White rose petals lay scattered over the long grasses.
The last time he had seen the cemetery by night had been in a dream. Had he hoped that he might glimpse Acir Korentan once more, Acir transfigured, holding out his hand to him?
Khassian sat down in the grass beside Acir’s grave and gazed up at the star-pricked sky.
A rush of memories overwhelmed him, memories from the time those strong arms had pulled him back to life from the cold drowning waters, to that final, nightmare coach-ride when he realised that Acir was slowly slipping away from him… and there was nothing he could do to bring him back.
They had spent so much of their short acquaintance in conflict that only now did he realise how much he had come to value Acir.
Only now did he realise that he had loved him.
As dusk fell, Jerame slowly made his way back to the Sanatorium alone.
He lit a waxen lotos candle of pure white and placed it beneath Iridial’s portrait.
Distant bangs and fizzes from exploding fireworks punctuated the night’s silence. He felt too weary to go lighting bonfires or fireworks. Weary – and troubled. Since that transcendent moment of revelation in the Undercity, one thing alone had obsessed him.
The translucent brightness that had irradiated the Hall of Whispering Reeds, that spinning, celestial music…
Had Iridial been a part of it?
He picked up the lock of fair, faded hair and stroked it against his cheek.
And now he was so very, very weary.
He sat down in the chair, still holding the lock of her hair. His head nodded, his eyes slowly closed…
The dying lotos flame flickered beneath Iridial’s portrait. The image of the dead woman shimmered in its frail glow… then the shimmering image seemed to emerge from the portrait within the frame.
Starting up, Jerame saw a creature, transparent as molten glass. It was clothed only in long, wild strands of hair, white as hoarfrost, and strange ichors flowed in its veins: silver, rose and gold.
‘Iridial?’ he said uncertainly.
‘Iridial…’ The voice vibrated in his mind, brittle as silvered windchimes. Inhuman. ‘That name. Dream-name. I dreamed I was called Iridial…’
Slanted eyes stared curiously up at Jerame.
Rainbow eyes.
This weirdling creature of mist and air could not be his long-lost wife. And yet there was something in that iridescent gaze that awoke a frisson of memory.
He said haltingly, ‘You were my wife. Your name was Iridial. We have a daughter, Orial.’
The creature writhed away from him in a whirl of glitter-mist hair.
‘Don’t you remember anything? This is our house, this was your room, these are your clothes.’ He picked up the fragile, faded dresses from their chest, showing them
to her.
‘All I remember from before…’ the bell-like voice faltered ‘… is the dark. Then sunlight woke me. They called to me. I dragged myself from the clinging waters and let the sun dry me. They had come for me. I was part of them, and they a part of me. The spinning circle. How long I have been one with the circle I cannot tell…’
‘So you don’t even remember me?’ Jerame let the dresses drop to the floor. ‘Our life together? Our – our love?’ He could hardly choke the words out.
‘You are part of a dream, a distant dream…’
He turned away from her, angrily wiping the tears from his face. How could he explain to her? How could he put it into words?
‘Do not grieve, Jerame.’ For the first time she used his name. ‘I am always here. I am Eä-Endil.’
‘But I’m – I’m mortal.’
‘Then live as a mortal. Jerame. Be free.’
‘I – I don’t think I can.’
‘I let you go.’
‘No. Don’t. Iridial.’
Flowerbreath brushing his cheek, translucent lips, rose-flushed, pressed to his.
‘Now let me go, Jerame.’
‘I – I don’t know how.’
‘The lock of hair. Burn it.’
‘I – I can’t.’
‘Burn it.’
Shaking, he took the lock of fine, fair hair from his breast and held it to the lotos candle.
It flared into pale flame… and a fine, grey smoke rose up in a dwindling spiral.
She seemed to fade into the flame, to merge with its soft smoke, melting into the nothingness.
With a cry he reached out to grasp her, to hold her, to bring her back – and found he was clutching empty air.
Jerame came awake with a start. The lotos candle had burned down to a faint glow within the cupped petals.
He raised his hands… and saw that where he had been holding her lock of hair, his hands were dusted with a powdery ash that drifted away between his fingers.
No lingering smell of burned hair tainted the room – only the faint scent of star-lilies.
CHAPTER 29
Girim nel Ghislain knelt at his private shrine in prayer. But though his lips moved, his mind had wandered far from the words of devotion.
Why had the Rose bloomed so far from Bel’Esstar? He had dedicated his life to creating a holy city fit for the Prophet, a city where sedition and blasphemy had been ruthlessly punished. He had striven to build a temple worthy of a god, the Stronghold, the Fortress of Faith. And now came the news of a miraculous rose that had blossomed not in Mhir’s shrine – but in an obscure graveyard in Sulien. The news rubbed salt into a wound still raw: the rank treachery of Acir Korentan, his sword-brother. Even bringing Acir’s name to mind stirred up such bitter rage that he could no longer remember the words of the prayer.
It did not matter now. Nothing mattered except the Rose. Today they would ride to Sulien and bring the Rose back to its rightful place in Mhir’s shrine.
There came a discreet tap and his secretary put his head around the door.
‘The Contesse Fiammis to see you, Grand Maistre.’
Girim rose from the shrine.
‘Show her in. And see we are not disturbed.’
Fiammis entered. She was in full court dress: an exquisite collier of diamonds and sapphires around her slender neck, panniered taffeta skirts over a brocade underskirt, tight-laced bodice, grey, ivory and blue, the colours of winter favoured by Prince Ilsevir. Yet above this perfection of costume, her painted face was an expressionless masquerade mask of white and she moved jerkily, like an automaton.
‘Contesse.’ Girim extended his hand; she took it and kissed his ring. The brush of her cold lips left a chill on his skin.
‘I owe you a debt of gratitude, Contesse. You took the life of a traitor. A traitor whom I had trusted as if he were my own brother.’
‘A traitor,’ she repeated, the words icily precise.
‘But you let Khassian get away. I’m afraid I must ask you to return to Sulien with us and complete your mission. Your new weapon,’ and he indicated the grey and ivory parasol which she held in one hand, ‘seems remarkably effective.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is.’
She raised the parasol until its tip was pointing at his head.
‘There is no antidote to the venom,’ she said, not moving. ‘Though the victim can take quite a while to die. It depends on the constitution. A strong, healthy man may last several hours. A weaker one… an hour at most. Which are you, Grand Maistre?’
‘You’re teasing me.’ He essayed a little laugh and turned away to the desk to pick up a travel permit. ‘Now with regard to Khassian –’
‘After all Acir’s years of faithful service to the Cause…’ she said. Her voice was brittle as the trembling crystal chandeliers above their heads ‘… you had his body stripped and left unburied. Don’t deny it. I was there. I heard what you said.’
He had no time to argue about insignificant matters now. The Rose had bloomed. He must ride to Sulien.
He straightened up, the travel permit in his hand.
‘If it had not been for you, he would still be alive.’
She was still pointing the parasol at him – directly at his eyes.
‘My dear Contesse.’ Girim put up one hand, backing away. His other hand reached vainly for the bell on his desk. ‘Let’s discuss this. Let’s–’
There was a quiet click and before he could swerve away, the dart entered his eye.
Blood flooded his vision – black blood, streaming down, blotting out the light.
From somewhere far distant he thought he heard a woman’s laughter, crystalline, mirthless, manic.
And then oblivion claimed him.
Girim’s secretary looked up from the letter he was penning.
What was that sudden crash in the Grand Maistre’s room? And, sweet Mhir, who was that laughing?
He put down his pen and crept to the door, trying to spy through the keyhole.
She was standing with her back to the door and her whole body seemed to shake with this never-ending crazed laughter.
It sent a chill through him.
He ran into the corridor and began to shout aloud, ‘Help! Murder! Help!’
Flanked by Guerriors, he flung open the doors.
She turned to face him, still laughing.
And what they saw beyond the Contesse Fiammis made them stop, staring.
Girim nel Ghislain lay on the polished floor. The body still twitched a little – but one look at the ruined eye, pooling blood on to the floor, told that the Grand Maistre was dead.
‘I killed him,’ she said.
The Guerriors seized hold of her, wrenching the parasol from her hands.
She did not offer any resistance.
‘You – you damned murderess!’ said the secretary. He felt sick. He kept finding himself stealing looks at the body of his master – and wishing he hadn’t. Blood trickled sluggishly from the pierced eye, from the ear and one corner of the slack mouth.
‘Murderess? I am only what he made me,’ she said. ‘His creature. And now I am free.’
‘You’ll pay the highest price for this!’ He shook his fist in her face; a furious, redundant gesture. ‘The question. The scaffold. A long, lingering death.’
‘I have already paid – the price.’ Her speech sounded slurred.
‘What?’
‘The venom – went straight to his – brain. It may – take – a little longer – in my case –’ She suddenly slumped in the Guerriors’ arms.
‘Poison? You’ve taken poison?’ He slapped her face. ‘Answer me, woman!’
‘Too – late –’ she whispered. She began to laugh again – low, husky laughter – and then the laughter turned to a retching rattle as her head jerked upwards and her body writhed in the death-spasm.
They lowered her to the floor, stepping hastily away. The doll-like face contorted – and a froth of dark liquid appeared on th
e lips.
‘Acir…’ She gave a soft little sigh… and finally lay still.
‘The Grand Maistre is dead.’
At first it was only a whispered rumour passed from guard to guard, servitor to servitor, in the gilded corridors of the Winter Palace. But soon the tocsin began to clang out over the city of Bel’Esstar.
Girim nel Ghislain was dead. Assassinated.
Cramoisy Jordelayne, labouring with the other Sanctuarees at the Fortress of Faith, heard the tocsin and looked up.
‘Get back to work!’ shouted the foreman, cracking his whip. ‘Back to work!’
A Guerrior came riding at the gallop towards the Fortress. Several of the guards left their posts to meet him.
‘Ghislain is dead!’ he cried. ‘Assassinated!’
A look passed between the Sanctuarees. A long look.
Cramoisy cleared his throat and started to sing.
‘“Freedom”.’ It began as a croaked whisper – but slowly gathered tone and power as the Diva found his lost voice again.
As his brilliant tone carried upwards into the shell of the unfinished building, one by one the Sanctuarees stopped their work to listen. The voice that once had ravished the hearts and souls of his listeners, soared into the air.
‘“Freedom”.’ Other voices joined in Khassian’s chorus until the walls reverberated with the fervour of their singing.
‘Be silent!’ cried the foreman. ‘Show some respect for the dead!’
The Sanctuarees only sang louder.
‘Get those men down here at once. Have them beaten for insubordination.’
The Guerriors moved towards the ladders – and stones and tiles began to hail down on them from the high platforms.
One Guerrior was hit and fell to his knees, blood streaming from his gashed head.
A ragged cheer went up from the Sanctuarees working on the ground.
The Guerriors turned on them, blades drawn. But the unsupervised Sanctuarees had been busy with their chisels and had worked off their shackles. Now they came running forward to meet their oppressors, wielding axes, tools, mallets, anything they could lay their hands on.
