The letter bore the official rose-seal of the Order of the Rosecoeur. But when Acir broke the seal, he found only the laconic instructions:
Attend on me at the Winter Palace tonight. Wistaria Apartments, West Wing, first floor.
Girim usually signed his correspondence – and there was no signature. But the seal was authentic.
Once he would have felt a genuine pleasure at being summoned to Girim’s presence. Now all he felt was a dull sense of dread. What new atrocity had the Grand Maistre planned in the name of the Commanderie? Another torchlight procession to welcome more new converts to the Faith? Would he be forced to watch another unfortunate prostrate himself on Mhir’s tomb and stammer out the words of contrition – words spoken in fear, not in true faith and humility?
But he had been summoned so he must go.
The night was close, sultry, and little shivers of wind stirred the trees in the Palace Gardens; Acir thought he could hear the distant rumble of thunder far out on the Dniera plain.
The West Wing was not directly connected to the royal apartments and although candles burned in the crystal chandeliers, the corridors were deserted. No one challenged Acir as he climbed the elegant winding stair, his solitary footfall echoing hollowly in the marble stairwell. Shutters rattled in the fitful wind.
He wandered the upper floor until he came to a painted door decorated with a border of wistaria; he opened it and found himself not in a private office as he had expected but a candlelit bedroom hung with wistaria-painted silks: soft green, grey and mauve.
‘Good evening, Captain Korentan.’
A woman was sitting before a mirror, combing her hair with long, slow strokes; its marigold brightness glinted in the candlelight.
‘Fiammis?’ he said, confused.
‘And you thought it was Girim who had summoned you here.’
Fiammis was smiling at her reflection, a strange smile, as if she was amused by something of which he was not yet aware.
‘Have you forgotten so soon? You owe me a favour, Acir.’
‘I owe you nothing.’
‘Amaru Khassian?’
‘Khassian? Who is even now in prison?’
‘Ah, but the favour was in exchange for his life.’ She set down her comb with a sudden movement that made him jump. ‘Not his liberty.’
Her smile appalled him; it was as if she were playing some bizarre game with him in which only she knew the rules.
‘What favour then?’ he said tensely.
‘Nel Macy believes you are on official Commanderie business. You are not due back on duty till dawn.’ She rose and moved across to him. ‘Who will ever know? Who would even care?’
Only now did he realise what she was proposing. He felt a slow flame rising through his body until his face burned. How stupid she must think him. To be so unworldly, so unimaginative, not to have understood.
She had moved closer still, one hand sliding along his collar, lifting his hair to stroke the nape of his neck.
He caught her wrist and held her at arm’s length.
‘Don’t,’ he said harshly. ‘Don’t do this, Fia.’
To his astonishment she began to cry. ‘I had hoped you would understand.’
‘What is there to understand?
‘Oh, you don’t have to say it aloud. I see it in your eyes. Killer. Cold, calculating killer. But I was driven to it, Acir, I had to do it – or sell myself to live.’
Still he did not believe her.
‘You married the Conte. You were rich.’
‘The Conte? Old and impotent.’ The words came out between sobs – ugly, wrenching sobs that were not, he now saw, in the least feigned. ‘When he died, his family moved in to evict me, the vultures, before he was even cold. No heir – so no estate, no money. The title I could keep.’
‘I didn’t know.’
Thunder rumbled closer, a long, ominous drum-roll. The storm was blowing towards Bel’Esstar.
‘How could you have known? You were half a world away, fighting to preserve some ancient shrine.’ She looked up at him, the perfection of her creamy skin blotched, blue eyes red with weeping. ‘I was alone. And friendless. There were men who thought they could take advantage of me.’ Her voice hardened. ‘I proved them wrong. That was how I came to the attention of the Prince’s secret service. It was pointed out to me that I could use my talents “for the good of the state”. They would train me, give me authority. But if I ever chose to leave… then I would be fully answerable for all my crimes. A neat little piece of blackmail, yes?’
Acir listened in numbed silence.
‘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.
Incense smoke twirled slowly up into the gloom, spicing the air with dark and costly fumes. If he closed his eyes, Acir could think himself back in Enhirrë, standing guard at the birthplace shrine on a hot, airless night, breathing the dry and pungent scents of the desert: nard poppy, curcumine and cardamom…
But as his eyes closed, the cherished memories of the desert vanished and fire-streaked visions scored across his sight: the Winter Palace in flames, rebels fighting Guerriors hand-to-hand in the street, cobbles slippery with the blood of innocents –
Acir’s hand crept to the hilt of his sword.
Rid Bel’Esstar of the tyrant.
The Grand Maistre suddenly senses his stealthy footfall approaching – and turns. The smile of recognition freezes on his face as he sees the assassin’s steel. His hands flail wildly as he tries to fend off the frenzied blows, until he slumps forward, his blood defiling the tomb.
Acir pressed his hands to his eyes.
He could not do it. He could not kill Girim, even this changed Girim, this brutal distortion of the man he had once loved.
But neither could he stand by and let the atrocities continue.
He placed his report at the entrance to the shrine and went silently away.
Dragonflies dance over the riverwaters. They dart like arrows across the sun-warmed shallows.
Earth, air, fire and water.
Orial kneels on the bank. They flock to her, circling her head, a winged coronet.
They weave, in and out, each one threading a songline like a jewelled streamer until the air sparkles with sound.
Orial raises her hands, enchanted by the spinning singers.
The spinning circle widens. A whirlpool yawns, the cold, dark vortex opening to swallow her, to drag her down into oblivion –
Orial’s eyes opened. She was lying in bed in the Villa of Yellow Vines, clutching at the coverlet, staring straight ahead of her.
The dragonflies were gone. But the melody threads had clung to her memory, sticky as spider-silk.
Somewhere in the street far below her window she could hear the clank of the water churns as the waterman delivered the Villa’s supply. Sparrows were squabbling in the gutter. Ordinary sounds of an ordinary day. Yet all the sounds were distant, as though heard from the end of a far tunnel.
Orial staggered out of bed and opened the window. The slow clip-clop of the waterman’s horse echoed around the empty street, the grind of the cart wheels over the cobbles.
Louder still, much louder, was the still-spinning song of her dream, the song of the winged ones. She banged the window shut. The glass shuddered in the pane – she felt its vibrations – yet the bang was a remote sound, hardly registering above the insistent web of dream-music.
She made her way back towards the bed. Each footfall resounded hollowly as though she was walking through a vast, echoing cavern. Each step was an effort as – disorientated – she seemed to have forgotten how to move in this heavy human body.
She had felt like this once before. But when was it? She had a vague memory of Papa forcing vile-tasting medicine down her throat, of this light-headedness, faces swimming above hers…
‘Accidie,’ she murmured aloud.
There was a sharp tap at the door.
‘Orial, Korentan’s sent us a message!’ Cramoisy’s voice fluttered with excitement. ‘Listen to this! “A visit has been arranged for this afternoon.” A visit! This is it! Start packing!’
Accidie.
Orial pressed her finger-tips to her throbbing temples.
Why? Why today, of all days, when she needed her faculties to be at their most acute? She had known the period of remission might be short – but she had never imagined it would recur so soon.
‘Give me a little more time,’ she pleaded silently. ‘Just a little.’
‘Captain Korentan?’
The youthful voice made Acir stop and turn around. The young Guerrior at the gate saluted him; beneath the guard-helm his face was brown, burned by the sun.
‘Tobyn!’ he said. And then, overwhelmed with gladness at the sight of a familiar face, he put his hands on the young man’s shoulders and embraced him. ‘But I thought you were still in Enhirrë?’
‘The detachment sailed into Bel’Esstar a couple of days ago. They transferred most of us here. It’s good to see you again, Captain.’
‘How’s the shoulder?’
‘Fine, Captain.’ Tobyn flashed him a broad grin. ‘Though it wouldn’t have been so fine with me if you hadn’t beaten those Enhirran Sbarreurs off in the raid. I’ll never forget what you did.’
Acir acknowledged the compliment with a smile. ‘And the others?’
Tobyn leaned forward, lowering his voice.
‘A mite perplexed, Captain. We didn’t come back to be prison warders. Not to our own countrymen. What’s been going on?’
Acir felt a brief flutter of hope in his heart. At least the members of his Enhirran detachment were still uncorrupted.
Perhaps he was not entirely alone after all.
The closed fiacre drew up at the gate to the Sanctuary as the Guerriors on guard waved the coachman to a stop.
‘What’s happening?’ whispered Cramoisy to Orial.
‘Out. All Sanctuary visitors get out here.’
Orial and Cramoisy climbed down; as they were showing their passes, more Guerriors clambered into the fiacre, prodding the leather seats and checking the roof for concealed weapons.
‘Mind where you’re poking those pikes!’ called the coachman, aggrieved. ‘That’s expensive leather. If anything’s ripped, I’ll take the bill direct to your Grand Maistre.’
“This isn’t going to be so easy,’ Cramoisy said in Orial’s ear. Beneath the crimson perruque his brow was glistening with sweat.
‘Think of them as a difficult audience.’ Orial murmured back. ‘Play them for all you’re worth. You know you can do it. You’re the Diva.’
Cramoisy nodded.
‘Conduct the visitors to the gatehouse!’ called the Guerrior who had taken their passes.
Orial darted little glances around the courtyard, hoping in vain she might catch sight of Captain Korentan. And when they were ushered into a bare, barred room and the door was instantly locked, she found herself staring apprehensively at Cramoisy, wondering if she had been deceived.
He went to the door and rattled the handle.
‘There! I told you! A Commanderie trap. Pfui! What an unpleasant stink there is to this place. Next to the latrines, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Hush.’ Orial raised one finger, listening. ‘Someone’s coming. Sit down. Keep your face in shadow.’
As she heard the key grind in the lock, Orial hurried over to Cramoisy’s side. He clasped hold of her hands.
The door opened. A man, shambling and ragged, was pushed inside.
‘You have a quarter of an hour.’
The door shut and the key turned again.
The man blinked in the light. He seemed unsteady on his feet. Orial went towards him.
‘Orial Magelonne?’ he said uncertainly. ‘Orial?’
‘Yes,’ she said, tears starting to her eyes. ‘Yes, it’s me.’ He looked so gaunt, so frail; the meagre light obviously hurt his eyes. ‘And look who is also here to see you.’
‘I don’t think much of your new tailor,’ Cramoisy said, venturing forwards. ‘If I were you, miu caru, I’d take your custom elsewhere.’
‘Oh, Cram,’ said Khassian, extending one arm to hug him.
‘God, you could do with a bath!’ said Cramoisy in tones of high disgust.
But his voice wavered and Orial saw tears glistening in his eyes too. They stood rocking gently together, the three of them, locked in a triangular embrace.
‘What day is it?’ Khassian asked after a while. ‘What time?’
Cramoisy straightened up. ‘Time you were out of here.’
‘They’ll never agree to that.’
‘Get those rags off.’ After so many days languishing in self-pity, the Diva seemed suddenly charged with vitality.
‘What do you mean?’ Khassian looked baffled.
‘You heard me. Now don’t tell me you’re going to make a fuss!’ Cramoisy lifted the heavy perruque off his head and placed it on Khassian, tucking in escaping curls of dark hair. ‘There. Not a bad fit. It hides the ear-tag rather neatly, don’t you think?’
‘Cram, what is all this? What’ve you done to your own hair? You’ve dyed it brown?’
‘Autumn Bronze, please – not brown. Orial, watch the door. Don’t turn around until I tell you.’ Cramoisy had begun to unbutton his embroidered top-coat, to untie the lacy jabot. ‘Strip off, Amar. She’s not going to peep. Are you, Orial?’
‘Exchange clothes? With you?’
‘You’re going on a journey. To Sulien. Here – let me.’
‘Just exactly what do you think you’re doing?’
‘Samira, Act Four. Remember?’
‘Cram, this isn’t an opera. This is real.’
‘I know.’ Cramoisy glared at him. ‘So stop wasting time and put on my clothes.’
‘I can’t.’
‘What? Do you mean you’re going to stop me giving the greatest performance of my career?’
‘I won’t. I won’t let you do it. They’ll kill you.’
‘And how long will you last if you stay here?’
‘I can’t go and leave the other Sanctuarees behind.’
‘What nonsense! How can you help the others whilst you’re in here? Outside you can organise an escape far more effectively.’
Orial sensed Khassian hesitate.
‘Now for Mhir’s sake, give me that apology for a garment and stop delaying.’
‘You’ll have to help me.’
Orial heard the capitulation in his voice. But she also heard footsteps in the corridor outside.
‘Someone’s coming!’ she cried, starting up. Only a few minutes had elapsed. Had they been betrayed?
The door opened – and Acir Korentan came in, closing the door instantly behind him. Orial saw that his face was taut, his eyes troubled.
‘Oh, Captain,’ cried Cramoisy in tones of extravagant relief, ‘what a scare you gave us.’
‘There’s no time,’ he said. ‘You must go now.’
‘He’ll do, won’t he, Captain?’ Cramoisy said, stepping back to assess Khassian’s transformation. ‘Though I have to say he’s nowhere near as devastating as me.’
‘Cram—’ began Khassian.
‘Go!’ Cramoisy gave him a push towards the door.
‘Take care,’ Orial whispered, pressing Cramoisy’s hand in her own.
‘My greatest performance,’ he said.
Without the elaborate wig, fashionable clothes and exaggerated maquillage, the Diva seemed to have dwindled to a shade of his ebullient self.
Captain Korentan ushered Orial and Khassian out into the passageway and locked Cramoisy in the interview chamber.
At the entrance to the passageway, two Guerriors stood on guard.
‘Take 654 back to his cell,’ Captain Korentan called over his shoulder.
Khassian stumbled; Captain Korentan put out one arm to steady him. The large wig tipped awry; Orial reached up to adjust it, glancing nervously all about her to see who was watching. Wherever she looked there seemed to be grey Commanderie uniforms.
‘Don’t upset yourself, Diva,’ she soothed. ‘Keep your head down,’ she whispered as she helped Khassian up into the coach.
‘Open the gates!’ called Captain Korentan.
The fiacre began to move slowly, oh, so slowly, towards the gates. Orial risked a glance at Khassian who had huddled into the corner. Passing the guards at the gate was the last hurdle to be overcome. And in daylight, the exchange would be more obvious.
‘Your papers.’ Captain Korentan handed the papers through the window. ‘May I wish you safe journey back to Sulien.’
‘Thank you, Captain.’ Her fingers brushed his and she was overwhelmed with a sudden premonition, clouds gathering in a lightning-gashed sky.
And then they were rattling through the gates and out on to the potholed heath road. Orial sat unmoving, clutching the papers to her, staring straight ahead.
A litle starburst of light burst on the edge of her vision. And then another. And another.
She shut her eyes; the pinpricks of light continued to form – and burst – against the darkness. She felt suddenly sick and ill. Maybe a storm was approaching…
The fiacre lurched suddenly, swinging to one side. Orial was almost thrown to the floor.
The driver reined the horses to a stop; Orial heard him leap up, swearing.
Opening the window, she was choked by a cloud of dust rising from the wheels of a swift phaeton, galloping past them towards the Sanctuary.
‘Are you all right, demselle, Diva?’
‘Yes,’ gasped Orial through the dust. Khassian nodded his head.
‘Cursed speedster! Almost had us in the ditch!’
‘Open up! Commanderie business!’
Acir recognised Fiammis’s voice. Just to hear it evoked memories, painful memories dark with anger… and desire.
He beckoned Tobyn over to him.
‘Stall her. Give me a few minutes.’
‘What’s wrong, Captain?’ The young man stared at him in dismay.
‘Everything, Tobyn. Everything.’
He pushed the Guerrior out to greet her.
‘A young Sulien woman came visiting here today. Where is she?’ Fiammis’s voice was sharp and keen; she was predator still, delighting in the pursuit of her prey. ‘Is she still here? I need to speak with her.’
‘I – I’ll have to check. I’ve only just come on duty.’
Fiammis was on Orial’s trail. It would not be long before the deception was discovered – and the alarm bell rang out across the heath.
He must warn them. Protect them. Above all, they must not fall into Commanderie hands again.
There was another way out of the Sanctuary, a side door leading from the stables – for the use of officers only. Nel Macy’s roan mare was standing ready saddled and bridled in the stalls; Acir made a swift adjustment to the stirrups and led her out through the side door. Once on the heath, he climbed up into the saddle and set off in pursuit of the fiacre.
As he rode, he heard the bell began to clang.
He should have known he could not outwit Fiammis.