The roan mare soon caught up with the fiacre as it bumped across the heath road.
Acir reined the mare to a trot, bringing her alongside the carriage window, matching her pace to the vehicle’s slow progress.
The window flap opened and a head sporting an outrageously red wig appeared. Acir almost laughed aloud; the danger of the situation and the incongruity of this ludicrous perruque gave him a sudden wild surge of elation.
‘What in hell’s name are you doing?’ demanded Khassian. Beneath the wig, his eyes burned.
‘Escorting you.’
‘Won’t that draw attention to us?’
‘There have been rumours of brigands on the heath.’
‘So they’re after us already?’ Khassian was obviously not to be fobbed off with so lame an excuse.
‘Maybe.’ Acir pulled the mare’s head to one side and scanned the heath. Clouds were scudding up fast, dark, boiling clouds, threatening a storm. Sunlight glittered on the towers and cupolas of Bel’Esstar, unnaturally bright.
If he was leading the pursuit, what would he do?
Simple. He would cut them off at the river.
The only way to cross the wide Dniera in a carriage was by the New Bridge. The old bridges still bristled with ramshackle houses, too narrow for a modern carriage to pass across unimpeded.
A turbulence of dust darkened the heath behind them. Horses. Skirting to the west – but also heading towards the river.
Could he get them to the bridge before their pursuers?
Orial gripped the leather strap tightly as the fiacre wheels juddered over another pothole.
Little stars of sound kept bursting in her mind, like exploding rockets on the Day of the Dead. The slightest noise, the slightest jolt, was a torment to her aching head.
‘Are you all right?’ Khassian was staring at her from beneath Cramoisy’s wig. She so wanted to lean across and touch him to make sure he was really there. ‘You look as if you’re going to faint.’
‘I never faint,’ Orial snapped back. ‘I have a slight headache. That’s all.’
This was no megrim or fainting fit. It was the chaos of the Accidie. Her mind was beginning to disintegrate as splinters of sound flew from the star-explosions.
She had chosen to undertake this rescue mission; she had to see it through. If it was her last conscious act before the Accidie robbed her of her reason, then at least she would have done something of merit in her brief life. She might not have been given time to compose the music she had dreamed of… but she would have saved Amaru Khassian to continue the fight against the tyranny of the Commanderie.
Let me just get him safely back to Sulien.
They joined other fiacres and phaetons clattering over the wide gravel avenue that led through the tree-lined Winter Gardens towards the river. Thunder growled in the distance as the sky grew darker and a few rain-spots spattered on to the plane leaves. Acir could smell the coming storm on the earthy wind; so could the mare who jittered her head nervously from side to side. But still the storm did not break and the sense of tension increased in the darkening air.
At least the new wide-arched bridge with its bronze basilisk lamps was in sight now. And traffic still seemed to be passing across.
As the fiacre slowed at the approach to the bridge, Acir rose in the saddle to try to scan the river. It was impossible to see clearly in the thunder-gloom if anyone was patrolling the opposite bank.
‘The river,’ Khassian said under his breath. ‘We’re crossing the river.’
Glancing out he could see the wide grey waters of the Dniera alive with thunderspots. For the first time he began to dare to believe that escape was possible.
‘Go back,’ he called out to Acir through the rain. ‘You’ve done more than enough to help us.’
‘It’s too late to –’
There was a sudden flash as lightning split the sky and thunder drowned the rest of Acir’s words.
Orial flinched.
‘It’s only a storm,’ Khassian said.
She appeared not to hear him. Perhaps she was rigid with fear. He had always relished a powerful thunderstorm, the feeling of release that came when the rain had washed the humid air clean again. The thought of imminent freedom only increased his exhilaration.
And then he felt the fiacre begin to slow.
‘What’s up?’ he called to Acir through the drumming rain.
‘They’re checking the carriage in front of us. Give me your papers. I’ll get you through.’
Khassian held out his hand to Orial for the papers.
Can we trust him?
‘We must trust him,’ she said aloud, as if she had heard his question. ‘There’s no one else.’
Rain streamed down on Acir’s head, drenching him, as he dismounted at the customs post.
‘Captain!’ One of the Guerriors manning the post hurried out into the rain and saluted him. ‘What brings you this way on such a filthy afternoon?’
‘I’m escorting these travellers back to Tourmalise.’ Rain bounced off the leather folder covering the papers. ‘I promised the girl’s father I would protect her on the journey home.’
‘All seems to be in order, Captain.’ The Guerrior handed back the papers. ‘I wish you better weather for your –’
There was a sudden clatter of hooves on the bridge behind them.
Acir and the Guerrior looked back. No other carriages had come across the bridge – but a troop of horsemen were riding at the gallop towards them.
‘Stop that fiacre!’ a voice cried through the drumming rain. Lightning split the sky apart as thunder rolled across the city.
Acir’s mare shied, terrified by the noise and the oncoming horses – and bolted back across the bridge.
Acir swore.
The Guerrior, confused, seemed not to know what to do.
‘Go on, man!’ Acir shouted up to the driver. ‘Get going!’
‘Escaped Sanctuaree!’
Guerriors surrounded the fiacre and tore open the door, pulling Orial and Khassian out into the rain.
‘What are you doing!’ cried Acir, running forward. ‘By what right do you attack innocent travellers?’
‘Captain Korentan?’ One of the pursuing Guerriors had recognised him; he let go of Khassian to salute. ‘We have reason to believe that this is an impostor.’
A fleet phaeton was coming swiftly towards them. Its sole passenger held up a flimsy parasol, hardly any protection against the driving rain.
A parasol.
There was no time to think, hardly even time enough to react.
Acir threw himself in front of Khassian and Orial, flinging them against the side of the fiacre.
He felt the dart pierce his shoulder, a clean, pure pain, the sting of poisoned steel.
There was a stifled cry from the phaeton.
No time.
No time now.
Stumbling up, he pushed Orial and Khassian into the fiacre, clambering in after them.
‘Drive!’ he shouted to the driver. ‘For Mhir’s sake, drive!’
Lightning and thunder cracked immediately overhead. A tree on the near bank split apart in a plume of smoke and sputtering lightning fire.
The fiacre started with a jerk that flung them all to the floor.
‘Keep down,’ urged Acir.
The frightened horses charged on, scattering Guerriors to either side.
‘They’ve bolted –’ Orial whispered from the floor where they lay, all three tangled together.
Acir reached out with his other hand, clawing for a handhold on the leather seat to pull himself up. He could hear the driver shouting to the horses, he could feel the fiacre lurch each time he tugged on the reins.
Acir pulled open the window flap – and a cold rush of rain struck him in the face.
Behind them, their pursuers stood as though paralysed, watching. Some of the Guerriors who had been knocked over were scrambling to their feet. But even as the fiacre careered wildly from one side of the road to the other, they made no move to come after them.
Foremost amongst them he saw a woman, her gold hair windblown, darkened by the rain. She stood unmoving in the downpour beneath the dark trees. Behind her, the Dniera glistened silver with raindrops.
‘Fia,’ he whispered, ‘farewell…’
A sharp shaft of pain stabbed through his shoulder.
He pressed his hand to the place and felt a sticky warmth beneath his cold fingers.
Blood.
With every movement he made, her assassin’s dart would work further in, spreading its insidious poison into his bloodstream.
How long had the Sulien apothecary said before the effects of the venom began to work?
For a moment his mind went numb and blank. Then he forced himself to turn around to Orial and Khassian.
Long enough to see them safely across the border. That was all he asked.
They had huddled together in the corner, Orial clinging to Khassian. Her muslin dress was soaked, rain streaked her face. Rainbow eyes stared at him, wide with fright.
‘They’re slowing down,’ he said, trying to sound reassuring. It was an effort to find the words; his lips and tongue seemed locked. ‘Can’t you feel it? And the storm’s blowing away.’
Still she stared at him.
‘Your shoulder,’ she said. ‘You’re wounded.’
‘A graze,’ he said. ‘Nothing more.’
‘How far to the border?’ Khassian asked.
‘An hour, maybe more in this weather. The horses will be tired. It’s a steep climb.’
‘And if they’ve sent word ahead to warn the guards? A single rider travels more swiftly than a coach.’
‘I’m with you.’ Acir clambered clumsily on to the seat and sank back against the worn leather. ‘I’ll make sure – you get through – safely.’
The forest road is slowly, steadily growing darker as twilight falls. Dark cloudveils descend and a dense mist, soft as smoke, rolls through the black trees, blotting out the light.
Acir stumbles on into the night, not knowing which way to go, only that he must keep on, must keep on –
The thick mists swirl about his legs, numbing all feeling. He sinks to his knees, drowning in the chill, dark fog.
A flame sears the darkness.
Gazing upwards, he sees a sword tipped with fire cutting a path through the drowning fogs.
On his knees, he crawls towards the path.
A shadow figure moves before him through the darkness, fiery blade like a torch upheld to illumine the way.
Feathers of flame and smoke flicker in wings of fire.
The angel goes on before him and Acir follows his burning footprints into the night…
Someone was shaking Acir, insistently calling his name.
He regained consciousness with a start to find Khassian’s eyes staring into his, dark with concern.
‘S-sorry.’
‘Acir, what’s wrong?’
‘Just – tired. Dropped off a moment.’
The ache in his shoulder had become a slow-burning fire, spreading down his arm and into his breast.
‘That graze. Let Orial bind it for you. She’s a doctor’s daughter, after all.’
‘No.’ He shifted his position. He could not risk her touching the wound, for fear of contamination from the venom. Thunder still grumbled in the distance. ‘How – much further now?’
‘We’re almost across the plain.’
‘Ah.’ Halfway to the border. Farther away from their pursuers – but not far enough. How long could he stay conscious this time? And when the next bout of blackness overcame him, would it be the ultimate darkness, the tumbling descent into oblivion?
Orial sat silently watching him. When he looked into her eyes, he saw the glimmer of rainwater and healing springs, mingled.
He blinked, trying to clear the rainhaze from his eyes.
Must be feverish.
Outside he glimpsed the shadows of trees. The terrain had changed. The pace of the horses slowed as the coachdriver eased them around the steep bend at the foot of the mountain road.
‘Horses are all but spent, sieurs!’ he called down. ‘There’s a coaching inn a mile or so off the road…’
‘Keep – going,’ Acir said with an effort, as much to himself as to the driver.
The light seemed to be fading from the sky. Was it already evening? Or was his sight slowly failing?
‘Must – keep – going.’
Orial had fallen into a doze, her fingers twisted in the folds of her dirty gown.
And though Acir Korentan was silent, Khassian thought he detected a rattling catch in his breathing. In the growing gloom of twilight, the Guerrior’s face had turned deathly pale, drawn as if with pain. The dark patch of blood crusting his grey tunic looked black in the murky light.
Just a graze.
Suppose it was not just a graze and Acir was slowly bleeding to death within? Khassian had little knowledge of wounds but he had heard of such wounds, seemingly innocuous, proving fatal. But Acir was a soldier, well-versed in wounds, surely he would know what to do?
Khassian leaned forward, trying to discern if he were asleep. He touched Acir’s knee. His eyelids slowly opened. Dark bruising shadowed his eyes whose keen blue light was now glazed and dim.
‘Acir,’ Khassian said softly.
‘I’m – glad to hear you – call me by my – soul-name.’ Acir was staring fixedly into the darkness above his head; he seemed to find it hard to focus. ‘Wish – had been more – time – together –’
‘But you’re coming to Sulien with us! You can’t go back now. They’ll brand you a –’ He stopped, unwilling to say the word.
‘Traitor.’ Acir seemed to be smiling in the darkness.
The word shamed Khassian. ‘I wasn’t worth it.’
‘You – had to be – free. You – have a – great gift.’ Acir’s hand moved out – fumblingly – reaching towards Khassian’s face. ‘Use it. Use it – to set the city – free –’
Khassian felt the caress of finger-tips that were clammily, icily, cold against his cheek. He caught hold of Acir’s hand and pressed it between his own maimed hands, trying to warm it.
‘What’s wrong?’
But Acir’s eyes had closed again. Khassian tried to feel for a pulse – but his clawed fingers were too stiff, too clumsy, to achieve such a delicate task.
What should he do? They were so far now from help.
He glanced across at Orial, curled asleep like a slender white cat in the corner. Should he wake her? He didn’t want to alarm her – she had withstood too many shocks already.
Suppose word had been sent ahead to the border, suppose the Guerriors of the Commanderie had been alerted to their imminent arrival?
She had risked her life to come to his rescue. He could not bear that any more harm should come to her.
The horses laboured on upwards, the fiacre wheels grinding slower and slower over the stony mountain track.
It was so dark now, Acir could hardly see. Yet where Orial had huddled up into the corner he could distinguish a faint moonlike radiance.
Aura.
Numinous aura.
He fought to keep his leadheavy lids open. Darkness clotted his sight. A cold and terrible numbness was spreading up through his whole body. A weight seemed to press upon his ribs, stifling his breathing. Only her radiance still glimmered. He centred his concentration on her.
Lotos candles glimmer on the dark waters.
Must make it to the border.
‘Hola!’
A voice hailed them from the darkness outside.
The driver reined the horses to a halt.
‘Lanterns.’ Khassian peered out of the window. ‘The border. We’ve reached the border.’
Acir tried to nod his head. It felt heavier than lead cannon shot.
‘Help – me – out –’
Khassian opened the door for him. Acir tried to move towards it; his legs gave way beneath him. Khassian climbed down, offering his shoulder as a support.
‘N-no.’ His speech slurred. ‘Stay – in the – coach.’
The lantern-light swam like light ripples reflected in water. He staggered towards the dark figures looming out of the night. It was like trying to move through black waters, each step an almost insurmountable effort.
‘Captain – Acir Korentan,’ he said. He tried to straighten his jacket, to force his hand into some semblance of a salute. ‘My friends – are travelling back to – Sulien. I – am with them – to ensure – safe passage –’
He thrust the papers towards the border guard who seemed to have a blank where a face should be.
The pain had been almost unendurable but this fast-spreading numbness was worse. Mists were slowly rising; cold, dark mists. He felt himself swaying.
Words came to him through the mist, faint, indistinct words. He struggled to keep his fading mind on the sense of what was being said. It was important. But… why…?
‘All seems in order. You can cross into Tourmalise.’
Acir shakily raised his hand to return the guard’s salute.
‘C-cross over,’ he called up to the coachdriver.
‘Come on, Acir!’ cried Khassian, reaching out to him.
Acir sank to his knees.
‘Go – on – without – me.’ He began to crawl towards the border. ‘Go – on. Go.’
He was sinking slowly back down into the black waters, drowning, drowning…
‘Go,’ he whispered, falling forward.
Sliding slowly into the heart of the Rose, from black petal to black petal, soft velvet kiss of oblivion…
At the Rose’s burning core a figure opens its arms to embrace, to enfold.
The Lotos Priestess opens the gateway to the incandescent heart of the mystery…
Black melds into white. The Rose is One with the Lotos.
The mud-spattered coach lurched across the border into Tourmalise.
‘I can’t leave him here alone!’ cried Khassian. ‘I can’t –’
Orial let out a hoarse cry. She started up – hands raised, palms outward. Her eyes slid upwards until only the whites showed.
‘Sweet Mhir, not you too,’ Khassian whispered.
Words issued from her mouth. Incomprehensible words. Gibberish, maybe – but there was a coherence to them that implied a language with which he was not familiar.
‘Orial,’ he crooned, holding her rigid body in his arms. Tears were streaming down his cheeks unchecked. ‘Orial.’
The Tourmalise border guards approached the traveller warily. Was he drunk? One of them knelt down beside him and gently turned him over.
Even in the lantern-light, they could see that he was not drunk. His lips were blue-tinged, his eyes glazed, unfocussed.
The blue lips moved a fraction. The border guard leanted near, to catch what the Captain was trying to say.
The last whispered syllable died in a hoarse rattle – and the Captain’s head slipped sideways.
It was then that the phaeton arrived out of the darkness.
‘Papers!’ demanded the guard.
A woman came running over – and stopped, seeing the body, hands clasped over her mouth, as if to stifle a cry.
‘Acir,’ she said. She dropped to her knees. ‘Acir!’
‘You know this man?’ asked the guard.
She extended one hand and tremblingly drew her fingers down over the lids, closing the sightless blue eyes.
She knelt there, head bowed. Her shoulders began to shake with suppressed sobs but she made no sound. The guards looked on, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot.
When she raised her head, she seemed to have taken control of herself.
‘Did he – did he say anything before he died?’ she asked in a toneless voice.
They nodded.
‘What did he say?’
‘He said… “Elesstar”.’