DARKFALL

The Firstmade adored Shenavyre,

protecting her and healing her when she ailed …

Above all things, it loved to hear her sing.

In return, it told her stories.

Entranced by their beauty and wisdom, Shenavyre wove them

into cloth.

Thus came to humankind the power of immortal remembering …

LEGENDSONG OF THE UNYKORN

It was dawn, and Ember had slept little. Every time she closed her eyes, she found herself in the same dream. She was in a forest clearing and there was music. She would speak or move and the music would stop. Then she would have the feeling of being watched, and this would grow until she woke, sweating and trembling, terrified of the darkness that loomed on the edges of the dream.

Giving up trying to sleep, she rose, pulled on a silken robe and padded barefoot through the now all-too-familiar soulweaver’s apartment.

In spite of all Feyt’s fears, Alene had not been thrown into the palace dungeon on her arrival at the palace. Nor had any of them been summoned to an audience with the Holder.

‘Maybe he has forgotten about us,’ she had suggested to Alene after some days had passed.

The older woman had replied soberly that the opposite was almost certainly the case. ‘This is an old game of power that Tarsin plays. He commands me to come at once, and then keeps me waiting indefinitely. Eventually he will send someone to say I may go from the palace without his seeing me. Or he may send for me with no notice at all.’

The soulweaver had said that although Tarsin showed no interest in them, if they tried to leave the citadel they would be brought back by legionnaires and probably imprisoned. They were free to roam as they liked in the cliff palace and even in the citadel, but Alene had asked Ember not to leave the apartment.

That had not seemed a difficult promise to make when she had first arrived. After walking the length of the citadel with Feyt, running a gauntlet of hostility aimed at the amazon and suspicion at her own veiled state, she had arrived at the steep steps leading to the palace gates swaying on her feet with exhaustion. Feyt had wordlessly picked her up and carried her past the startled legionnaires stationed at the gate. Tareed had let out a cry of consternation when they entered the apartment, thinking Ember had been attacked.

‘Lay her down,’ Alene had murmured. The older woman had laid her fingers on Ember’s clammy forehead, and a cool wind seemed to flow under her scalp, blowing the sick weariness from her.

Alene had made some response, but Ember had slipped through the words into a deep, dreamless sleep from which she had wakened the next day completely refreshed. Her collapse had given the soulweaver the idea of telling everyone in the palace that Ember was ill.

‘Revel did us no service in telling Asa you were a visionweaver because, as so few Sheannites come here, you are a curiosity.’ She sighed. ‘I can hardly complain since I gave Revel the lie, though I did not know where it would lead us. But we have to keep people away from you, and a serious sickness which is possibly contagious will ensure you are left alone. The fact that you were carried into the palace is already being talked about.’

The soulweaver’s apartment was beautiful. There was even a small swimming pool on a private terrace overlooking the citadel on one side and the sea far below the cliff palace on the other. But you could swim in the red sun and stare at the view and eat and sleep just so much.

She had far too much time to fret about her amnesia. Alene claimed it was the result of the crossing between worlds, but Ember believed that something had happened to her in her own world before the crossing, that had caused her loss of memory. Something to do with dying horses and being in the ocean fully clothed. Whatever it was had been so horrible that her mind had shrunk from it, and the hovering darkness in her recurring nightmare symbolised it.

With nothing else to do at the cliff palace but think, she had replayed the dream images over and over, trying to find some clue as to what it could have been that had made her forget.

She pushed open the fragile woven shutters to the balcony a crack and a cool breeze flowed through the gap. The sky was stained with dawn colours that softened the bloody stone of which the majority of buildings in the citadel were formed. She would have liked to go out onto the balcony, but she was not wearing her veil and felt too lethargic to go back to her bed and find it.

She turned away from the window and her gaze fell on a long instrument like a narrow guitar. No doubt it had been a gift from one of Alene’s visitors, because she had not noticed it before. Ember experienced a strong desire to take up the instrument, and was surprised to find herself imagining the fingering required to reproduce the music of her dream. Her fingers had moved so swiftly and with such confidence in the fleeting vision, that she looked down at them. Her hands were thin, but capable-looking compared to the rest of her. The nails were long, but their length annoyed her, as if she were not accustomed to it.

Could it be that she was a musician? Perhaps the music in her dream also, had some connection to her loss of memory.

‘This is absurd,’ she said aloud, turning again. She would make herself mad thinking round and round in ever decreasing circles. Maybe she was right about the dream being connected to her lost memory, but mooning over it and making herself sick was not going to help, even if she was supposed to be sick.

Patience, Alene had counselled, saying it would be to their advantage. If the fickle palace court grew bored with talk of the visionweaver, Tarsin was far more likely simply to allow Ember to leave without wanting to see her, even if he did not release Alene.

Am I patient? Ember wondered. She had the feeling she might be, but she did not know. She had the idea she was not only quiet but very self-contained, for she was perfectly content to sit without saying a word to anyone for hours, her hands still in her lap. She would just think about things. I am a thinker, she told herself, but what else am I?

‘When you get to Darkfall my sisters there may be able to restore your memory as I cannot,’ the soulweaver had promised. That ought to have comforted her. The trouble was she had to get to Darkfall, and that depended entirely on the whim of a mad king. What if he decided to keep her here for years?

Ember had reached the door that led from the apartment to the rest of the palace. It was locked from the outside, which meant Tareed and Feyt had gone out to exercise and practise with their weapons. She sighed and turned away, envying them. She had paced the apartment so often that she knew it intimately, even to the number of steps it took to get from one part of it to another.

Alene had not yet arisen. No doubt she was tired. She had had a constant stream of visitors since their arrival. The number seeking her aid and advice did not gel with the treatment that had been meted out to her in the town but, as Feyt had pointed out, it did reflect the political situation. Most callers came from those islands openly loyal to Darkfall. Vespians were in the majority. No Sheannites came – but only because there were none on Ramidan. Sheannites were pacifists and disliked city life, Tareed had explained, but Sheanna was as loyal to Darkfall as Vespi. There were a few from Acantha who called themselves refugees and begged Alene to speak to her sisters about some matter on their island. Ember had been sent into another room to substantiate the rumour of her contagious illness and, with nothing else to occupy her, she had listened at the door to the exchanges.

There were even several obviously wealthy nobles from the palace itself, but Ember had the feeling they merely came to gather material for their gossip. There were only three Myrmidori islanders who came, but again this had more to do with the current climate of hatred of myrmidons than anything else. Feyt had explained that the Myrmidori who had come were not the sworn spear maids known as myrmidons, but natives of Myrmidor, though people who hated Darkfall did not differentiate. In truth, Myrmidor stood with Darkfall. Significantly, not a single person from Iridom came and, for obvious reasons, most of the poor were Ramidan islanders. With a few notable exceptions, visitors from within the cliff palace could be as easily foes as friends, the amazon had said cynically, for those in the palace seldom wore their true faces.

All of Keltor’s volatile political currents seemed to break on the rock that was Darkfall. Everyone could be divided into those who were for the misty isle and those against it. Generally speaking, anyone against Darkfall was also against myrmidons. But on Ramidan there was a ruler utterly straddling the debate for and against Darkfall; he had been crowned by the soulweavers, yet now appeared to have come to despise them. A lot of the people who visited Alene asked when the soulweavers would deal with Tarsin. She had told them coolly and very sternly that they must not speak thus of their Holder; that they must have faith in the misty isle.

The ambivalence in attitude to Darkfall even showed in the soulweaver’s luxurious apartment. Of course, the apartment had not really been given to Alene by Tarsin. It had been bequeathed to Darkfall in perpetuity by the first Holder, Lanalor, who had clearly valued his soulweaver far more than Tarsin did Alene. Tareed told Ember that Lanalor had, in between making laws, ruling Keltor and setting up the Darkfall order, designed the cliff palace. He had also been mad for a time.

She stared down at the floor. It was streaked pink marble and overlaid with beautiful rugs. Her eyes ran slowly along it to the walls of the apartment and up, until they rested on a dazzling tapestry featuring a red-haired woman in a long gown, caressing the neck of a white unicorn.

Ember thought that this was quite possibly the loveliest thing she had ever seen. Without intending it, she drifted across the apartment to stand before the tapestry. She was fascinated by the intricacy of the needlework. The face of the unicorn was incredibly detailed, and therefore very real-looking.

The eyes brought her back again and again to the tapestry. They were so lifelike.

A strange, compelling stillness came over Ember and, with it, an intense feeling of deja vu.

‘This is the only thing I miss when I go away from the palace,’ Alene said, having come up quietly beside her.

‘It is a visioncloth made by the Sheannite visionweaver, Galen,’ the soulweaver continued. ‘He is said to have been the most gifted visionweaver ever born, and from the line of Shenavyre herself.’

Ember turned reluctantly from the tapestry. ‘That is Shenavyre, isn’t it? In the visioncloth?’ Tareed had seemed unusually evasive the one time Ember had tried to ask her about it.

Alene nodded. ‘Aye. Shenavyre and the Unykorn – Firstmade of the Song of Making.’

Ember turned back to the tapestry. She had guessed as much. Tareed was not subtle in her evasions, and there was enough of a resemblance for it to be obvious that this was who she, Ember, was supposed to look like. Both she and the woman in the tapestry had long red hair and were finely built. Even their faces were slightly alike, but beyond a superficial level the similarity was not so very pronounced. She found the presence of a unicorn in the tapestry far more astonishing, for how had an image out of the myths in her world come to this world? Coincidence?

‘Where I come from, there is a mythical creature called a unicorn,’ Ember said slowly.

‘So says the Scroll of Strangers, which you may be interested to examine when you reach Darkfall. Some of it was written by strangers themselves. It is not surprising that you have that image there,’ Alene added lightly. ‘It is told the Firstmade flew through many worlds not Made by the Song, and that his image remained there.’

Ember did not know how to respond to this. It seemed to her this was like Adam and Eve or Jesus in Christian mythology. Some believed they were real people, while others thought of them as theological or philosophical metaphors. She found it hard to believe unicorns could be real, but who knew? This was, after all, another world. Clearly Alene and Tareed were convinced they were real. She was not so sure about Feyt though.

Staring into the unicorn’s eyes, Ember murmured, ‘Looking at it … makes me feel strange.’

‘It would be strange if you were not affected. The threads of this visioncloth were dipped in crushed darklins. That alone would make a tapestry priceless, even if it were not a visioncloth. It is the darklin dust which calls your eyes, for it casts out minute soulweaving particles. Usually the dust is added afterwards, for so few visioncloths are finished that it would not make sense to use the precious crushed stone in the making phase. But in the case of exceptional visionweavers such as Galen and Leandra, the threads were dipped before being woven. Lanalor himself commissioned this piece and it is said to be the finest rendition ever made of the Firstmade.’

There was a small silence, then Alene pulled Ember round with a jerk to face her. Ember felt a terrible wrench of sorrow.

‘I must find …’ she stopped, wondering what she had been about to say. The words had seemed to rise from somewhere deep inside her.

‘Come,’ Alene said softly. ‘Do not stare too long at the visioncloth. They have been known to steal a person’s wit with their beauty.’

Ember shuddered. ‘I … I’m fine. I just hope I never have to pretend to be a visionweaver.’

Alene had been giving her lessons each morning on how to behave in court during an audience, just in case she had to be presented to Tarsin.

‘I understand that,’ Ember said, ‘but why can’t I just be one of those Sheannites Tareed told me about who make rugs or rope? Something less important.’

Alene sighed. ‘Unfortunately the die has been cast and there is no going back. Now let us do some more work. Today we will discuss Sheanna and its weavers. The more you know, the easier it will be to imagine yourself a Sheannite.’

Ember sighed inwardly as Alene told her to go and bring back a woven map of Keltor from one of the other rooms. She had studied the map but Alene’s form of teaching involved endless repetition. Unrolling it, her eyes went first to the isle of Ramidan. Of the seven islands making up the main land mass on Keltor, it was the smallest but one. Like earth, the planet was mostly water. The largest island was Iridom, it being more than ten times the size of Ramidan. Tarsin had been born there and his mother, Coralyn, ruled Iridom still as its chieftain. It had a huge population, being composed of crowded cities surrounded by dense miasmic swamplands. Fomhika was next to largest and featured one major city, a few villages and immense tracts of pasture and crop lands. Myrmidor was about half the size of Fomhika, but was very mountainous. Most people lived in its port town or in coastal villages. Within its almost enclosed bay was the smallest island – a tiny misty smudge marked as Darkfall. Vespi, shaped like the head of a sickle, was the nearest neighbouring island to Ramidan. Furthest away from Ramidan was Sheanna, and next distant were Acantha and Myrmidor. There were some smaller islands marked on the map, but Alene had not bothered to speak of them. She said Ember did not have to know much about any island other than Sheanna because Sheannites scarcely travelled.

Ember obediently located the very small cluster of islands which collectively passed under the title of Sheanna, wondering if it was possible to be bored by a place she had never seen. Alene began to speak of the weather there, which was apparently very nearly subtropical, as on Iridom. Weather on Keltor seemed to have no pattern or reason for its wild fluctuations from island to island. It was not at all like weather on earth and seemed to operate in some completely different way. Chilly Acantha, for instance, was closest to tropical Fomhika. Tareed had tried to explain how it worked, but Ember had ended up hopelessly confused.

‘To really discuss the weather you need a Vespian scholar and philosopher,’ Alene had comforted them both.

Alene moved on to explain that all of the tiny Sheannite islands were part of one larger land mass which had sunk, leaving only high points above the water. The largest central island was dry and inhabited, and the rest were tidal islands, swallowed and regurgitated daily by the sea’s ebb and flow. Alene called the sea the great water.

‘The outer islands are farmed by the Sheannites. When the tide comes in, it covers the low islands, depositing sea grasses, which are snagged when the tide recedes. The Sheannites collect the grasses, which are then dried on racks and treated with an Iridomi potion to soften and whiten the fibres. They are then woven into cloth or rugs or even rope, depending on the fibre quality. Only the finest skeins are used to create the visioncloths.’

‘And they are called visioncloths because they are made by a weaver in a weaving trance,’ Ember finished wearily.

‘All Sheannites may vision as they weave,’ the soulweaver continued as if Ember had not spoken. ‘But not all manage to hold the vision long enough to complete the work. Once the trance is broken, the weaving cannot be finished. Sheanna is littered with incomplete visioncloths.’

‘What causes the visions?’ Ember asked curiously. ‘Do the weavers induce them with some kind of drug?’

Alene smiled. ‘The trances are natural, but to hold them long enough to complete a visioncloth takes great strength of will. Some manage only one visiontrance in a lifetime, while others vision often. Only the Song knows what triggers them. Perhaps Shenavyre knew, since it is said the Firstmade taught her to vision and sew, so that she might record its stories, but she never passed on the knowledge.’

‘It will not be hard, I promise. Little will be required of you if you are presented to Tarsin and his court. Sheannite shyness is legendary, as is their dislike of speaking lightly or without reason. And it works in our favour that you have the look of a Sheannite. They are a slender, small-boned people with pale skin. As you know, you resemble Shenavyre who is the most famous Sheannite of all, though of course we will not be emphasising that.’

Ember smiled. Poor Tareed was fascinated by her resemblance to the girl in the tapestry.

‘The soulweaver says I am too literal in my translation of the old myths, and maybe I am,’ Tareed had confessed the previous night. ‘But I am certain your coming and looking so like Shenavyre and being a stranger, means the Unraveller will come soon.’

Alene reached out and touched a strand of Ember’s hair. Ember flinched away involuntarily, not entirely convinced the woman was not a mind-reader. There were certainly enough odd abilities among Keltans for this not to be extraordinary, but the one time she had asked, Alene had only said solemnly that she could not read Ember’s thoughts.

‘They won’t expect me suddenly to have a trance, will they?’ Ember asked unhappily now, thinking again of the exquisite unicorn tapestry.

This time Alene laughed aloud. ‘Child, Sheannite visionweavers are prized throughout Keltor, and highly honoured. It is rare that Sheannites come to the citadel, as Asa said, and if you are called up to see Tarsin in his court, no one would have the temerity to suggest you perform like a trained aspi. In the remote likelihood they did, you could simply refuse. No one would accuse a Sheannite of behaving badly. You may be silent and mysterious and ignore anyone who asks awkward questions. No one will take offence.’

Alene frowned. ‘We will bind your head in a Sheannite head-dress, and mask the side of your face, covering your blind eye.’

The soulweaver shook her head. ‘Masks are more the fashion in the citadel than elsewhere, perhaps because so few have more to hide than those who dwell here. It is true that Sheannites do not wear masks, but we have already let it be thought your illness has somehow deformed you, to explain the veil. It is assumed that the mask covers the scars you bear.’

‘This is a complicated island,’ Alene responded. ‘I wish we could have avoided the palace, but that was not woven for us by the Song. Now we must do the best we can to keep you safe until we can get you off Ramidan.’

‘Good.’ Alene greeted her return with brisk decisiveness. ‘It is time we prepare Ember to transform herself into a Sheannite, in case she must be presented at short notice. With Tarsin that is always possible. Besides, I have been thinking it might be wise to let her be seen here in the apartment. Feyt says that keeping her entirely hidden is causing a lot of talk. Bring the mask I wore to the last grand hall.’

Tareed fetched it and Alene used a small knife to cut the mask deftly in two. She pressed one half over Ember’s cheek and eye but it was too wide and flat in shape to fit neatly. The soulweaver held the mask over a candle, working it with her fingers until it fitted snugly. Then she attached it to Ember’s hair.

‘It will look well enough once we have dressed you in a visionweaver’s head-dress,’ Alene soothed. ‘And do not judge it strange until you see what others wear. Here, extravagance is very fashionable.’

Tareed plaited Ember’s hair into single tight strand, then encased the plait in a long purple sleeve. Her neck and head were then bandaged in purple and a long, cobwebby violet cloth was draped over the top of her head and held in place by a close-fitting circle of woven flowers.

Gazing into a mirror brought by the myrmidon, Ember decided that she looked like Maid Marian in mourning, but the purple-tinted colours of the head-dress did make the mask seem less extreme.

Finally Alene had Tareed produce a dark-violet dress that fitted Ember’s arms and breasts snugly, then fell in heavy soft folds to the ground.

‘You do look wonderful,’ Tareed enthused. ‘Just like a visionweaver. Even the mask does not look out of place …’

Alene reached out then, and ran her fingers over Ember’s face lightly but thoroughly. Then she frowned. ‘If only all would go well …’

‘You could soulweave if you want to see what will happen …’ Tareed suggested.

Alene shook her head. ‘I dare not scry the future here where I might be interrupted at any moment by one who knew that waking me in the midst of a trance would kill me.’

‘Once, a soulweaver in a trance was revered,’ Alene said sadly. ‘She could stand weaving in the midst of a busy crowd. People would walk around her with lowered voices. If it rained, she would be sheltered. If it was hot, her lips would be moistened. None would dream of harming her, but now …’

Absently, the soulweaver ran a fingertip over the scar on her cheek. It had all but disappeared but she was looking drawn and had lost weight since coming to the citadel.

There was a knock at the door and Alene motioned for Tareed to answer it. Ember rose to withdraw, but the soulweaver shook her head, as ever seeming to intuit everything that was going on around her. ‘Put on the light veil. We might as well test out your disguise.’

Doing as she was bid, Ember felt unnerved. She had felt safe hidden under the opaque veil and the thought of exposing her face, even masked and lightly veiled, frightened her. Instinctively she moved into the shadows beside the window.

Tareed admitted a young man with flat brown hair. He bowed slightly to the amazon, who beamed at him.

Ember had heard the name, but he had crossed the room before she remembered this was the name the girl Unys had given to her despised suitor.

‘Well Sung, Kerd,’ Alene greeted him. ‘This is a pleasant surprise. I heard you had left to cross to Vespi the day I arrived in the palace. Have you returned so soon?’

‘I did leave,’ Kerd agreed, ‘but when I heard from Revel on the Stormsong that you had come to the citadel, I turned back immediately. Your presence brightens these rooms.’

Kerd blushed rosily and, shifting a little, caught sight of Ember. He regarded her for a moment, then his eyes widened. ‘You are the visionweaver, Revel spoke of?’ Half a statement and half a question.

Remembering the soulweaver’s advice, Ember merely inclined her head slightly. To her gratification, this seemed enough.

‘Since my return to the citadel, I heard you were ill. But I am glad to see you are recovered,’ Kerd said respectfully.

‘Ember is not recovered, Kerd. She is simply not in pain right now,’ Alene said gently. ‘I hope Tarsin will permit her to travel while she is well. I am sure Revel mentioned that I had asked her to carry Ember to Myrmidor where she might seek healing from the white cloaks.’

As ever, Ember was startled by the effortlessness of the soulweaver’s lies. Looking into her face you would think she never spoke anything but the truth.

‘She said you had asked her to carry the visionweaver, but she did not say where or why.’ Kerd gave Ember a look of gentle compassion. ‘I am truly sorry for your sickness, Lady. It is a shame you have been kept here for so many days. Perhaps I can speak with Tarsin on your behalf. I would be glad to offer passage direct to Sheanna on my own vessel.’

Ember expected Alene to jump at the offer since they had lost the chance for her to travel on the Stormsong, but she was wrong.

‘I thank you, Kerd, but Tarsin will do as he thinks best,’ the soulweaver said briskly. ‘Now, tell me. What is the purpose of your visit at such an early hour? I am certain you did not delay your crossing to practise courtly manners.’

Kerd blushed again. ‘I do not have courtly manners, I fear … but you are right. I wanted your advice on a matter of some importance.’

Kerd’s blush deepened as he nodded. Ember saw Tareed scowl as she went out of the room.

‘Come to me tomorrow in the afternoon and we will have time to talk,’ Alene said. ‘I am shortly going to make a formal request to see Tarsin.’

‘Tarsin summoned me to the palace, but he makes no move to see me. Therefore I will seek him out. I know it is provocative, but I weary of being held here.’

Ember was startled. Alene was going to seek an audience with the Holder? That must be why she wore such an ornate overdress.

Kerd nodded, frowning. ‘I suppose you know what is best. I will leave you to dress. I know these preparations take much time.’ He bowed again and let himself out.

Alene’s face was a study of exasperation. ‘That boy would be insulting were he not so desperate to please. That is his trouble with Unys of course. She is so used to Iridomi charm and deception that she has no way to recognise or appreciate simple honesty. He would do better to treat her as badly as she treats him.’

‘I do not want Kerd involved because that would mean Vespi is involved and, for many reasons, Vespi must be seen as neutral, despite its loyalty to Darkfall.’

The politics of that were beyond Ember. ‘Won’t Kerd be on Coralyn’s side if he ends up with Unys?’

‘That is what Coralyn intends, but Kerd is not poor Ranouf, to be seduced into losing his honour. Kerd is less a stickler for what is correct than his father, but he is Vespian to his bones.’

Ranouf. Ember reflected on the name. What had Tareed told her of the man who bore it? Something about Tarsin’s mother, Coralyn, seducing him to do something against his Vespian honour, but she could not recall what.

‘Kerd understands the need for Vespian neutrality. His passion for Unys will not change that,’ Alene went on calmly.

‘Vespi must be seen to honour and obey both Tarsin and Darkfall. In many ways, Vespi is the key to power on Keltor because they control the crossings. Others have always taken their lead.’

Tareed entered with three glasses of a frothy sherbet drink, and a steaming jug balanced on a tray. She seemed disappointed to find Kerd had gone, but there was another knock at the door as she set the tray down on a table, and she hurried to open it. Ember let her veil down just as a tall, extremely good-looking man came in wearing a jade cape to match his eyes. He had long blond hair falling loose about his shoulders but for one thin plait hanging either side of his face, and reminded Ember of a Viking. He strode across the room and swept the soulweaver into an enthusiastic bear hug.

‘You wound me deep with your cruelty!’ the man said dramatically. ‘Should you command it, Lady, I will cut my heart out in remorse.’

‘I desire that you be serious,’ Alene snapped in exasperation. ‘Where have you been?’

The smile faded from his face. ‘Away trekking. Anything to get a break from this place and its endless intrigues. And speaking of that, although I am glad to see you, what are you doing here? I thought you had decided it would be wiser to remain in the hut.’

‘I had, but circumstances forced me to come into the citadel. I did not plan to come to the palace, but we were seen and, before I knew it, Asa was bearing down on me with a summons from Tarsin.’

‘I can not think of anything important enough to bring you into the citadel after the last time. How do you imagine you would be able to come and go like any maidservant? You should not have come. It has grown much rougher, even here in the palace. Gutter attitudes prevail and are openly voiced. I heard a balladeer sing a story that named the Unraveller a fire-breathing demon. It was very effective. Two children had hysterics.’

‘I am less certain that abandoning the citadel was wise in the light of all this,’ Alene said in a troubled voice. ‘It may be that I retreated at the wrong moment, leaving free reign for Coralyn and her rabblerousers. Perhaps I should have stayed and fought them.’

‘Ahh,’ he said. ‘The ailing visionweaver. Welcome to the darkest of the cities, Lady.’ He gave a mocking bow and Alene beckoned to Ember, forcing her to come out of the shadows and into the light.

The mocking smile disappeared when Bleyd saw her face properly. ‘By the Horn, she looks like …’

‘I know,’ Alene said tartly. ‘Even her hair is red. I had hoped to get her out of the citadel and onto a ship for Myrmidor before anyone saw me. That is why I came.’

‘Let us just say she wishes to travel to Myrmidor,’ Alene said smoothly. ‘I sent for you because I must know more about what has been happening in the citadel. You say the situation has worsened and I see that. What I want to know is why.’

‘Aye,’ Alene murmured. ‘My sisters spoke from time to time of her chits and her questions. Some of them raised issues that produced fascinating debates among us. Then she began to propose her own interpretations of the Legendsong, some verging on blasphemy. The Myrmidori who have visited me in the last few days speak of a cult following and of her hold on Acantha. It is not surprising her cult should find a home there, given Jurass’s hatred of soulweavers.’

‘That balladeer I spoke of sang her version of the Legendsong and it is now a great deal more than merely verging on blasphemy. And it is not just on Acantha that she has a following,’ Bleyd said grimly. ‘It is also on Fomhika, thanks to my father’s liberal nature. And here in the citadel, where people bear the brunt of Tarsin’s behaviour, the cult is taking a swift hold.’

‘I doubt he could prevent it, but in any case he does not care. Coralyn, of course, encourages it because although she believes in the Draaka’s theories no more than in Darkfall’s, the resulting hatred of Darkfall suits her.’

‘I am about to seek an audience with Tarsin. I will raise the matter of the Draaka cult and see how he responds.’

‘You think it is wise to go to him?’ Bleyd asked. ‘If anything, I think he is getting worse. If only he was …’

‘I do not know why Tarsin was chosen as mermod,’ Alene said sternly. ‘I was but a young woman when it happened, overwhelmed at being told I would be soulweaver to him when he assumed the role of Keltan Holder. But I do not question the choosing and nor should you. All things have their place in the Song. Even this Draaka, whether she knows it or not.’

Bleyd shrugged. ‘You might as well know it is being said openly now that Darkfall made a mistake in choosing Tarsin and that Kalide was the rightful choice,’ Bleyd said.

‘Coralyn wishes for an opportunity to discredit you and crush Darkfall because, without the Decree, she will have no difficulty in putting Kalide on the throne.’

‘And what of the mermod, who is to inherit the title of Holder after Tarsin?’ Alene’s voice was sharp.

‘I think Coralyn will dare anything to get what she wants,’ Bleyd said grimly. He hesitated, and glanced at Ember. ‘Alene, I do not know what it means that a visionweaver should look so like Shenavyre, but if I can see the likeness, others will too. The mask alone is not enough. You must use cosmetics to change the shape of her eyes and cheeks …’

Feyt entered at that moment, panting hard. ‘Thank the Horn no one is here but you, Bleyd,’ she said in a low urgent voice. ‘Coralyn is behind me, headed this way.’

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