Dawn was breaking over Sulien as the battered fiacre came slowly down the green mountain road into the valley of the Avenne.
Khassian opened his eyes to the clear light. Orial’s head lay against his shoulder. They must both have fallen asleep, lulled by the dragging pace of the spent horses. The arm he had wrapped around her had gone numb – excruciatingly numb, threatening pins and needles – and yet he was loath to wake her.
There was a kind of trust in the way her body had moulded itself to his in sleep, born not just of exhaustion but of familiarity.
How could she trust him? He had blighted her life.
She saw him as a revolutionary hero, worthy of her self-sacrifice.
And now he knew he was no hero. He could not challenge the might of the Commanderie alone. The only man capable of such an act of heroism lay dead in the dust beside a lonely mountain road.
They had reached the bridge across the Avenne; the horses’ hooves clip-clopped slowly across. No hurry now.
The river breeze stirred wisps of fine hair against his face, soft as golden silk; Orial sighed in her sleep and he felt the gentle rhythm of her breathing alter. She was drifting upwards through sleep to consciousness. He felt a pang of anxiety, remembering how the fit had gripped her last night. Once the frail thread of sanity unravelled, how possible was it to spin the separate strands back together?
‘Where to?’ called the driver.
‘Dr Magelone’s Sanatorium,’ Khassian called back. ‘D’you know it?’
‘Pump Street? I know it well.’
The coach drew to a standstill at the entrance to Pump Street and the driver clambered down to open the door.
‘Can’t go any further. The street’s all dug up.’
Orial stirred. Her eyes opened, misted with sleep. She looked up into Khassian’s face and shrank away, as though terrified.
Did she even know him?
‘Down you get, demselle.’ The driver offered his hand to help her down into the street. Khassian followed slowly, stiffly, stretching his aching back.
Cramoisy’s crimson wig lay abandoned on the floor of the coach.
As the coach clattered away over the cobbles, Khassian looked up at the Sanatorium. Curious. All the shutters were closed.
‘Orial,’ he said gently. ‘You’re home.’
When she did not move, he put his arm about her again and steered her slowly around the open trench in the street towards the entrance to the Sanatorium.
‘That’s right, my pet. Let Cook help you off with your things.’
Orial stood numb with shock whilst Cook fussed around her, tutting at the state of her clothes.
‘Now you put on this clean nightgown and get into bed. Cook’ll bring you up a nice hot drink later on when you’ve had a little sleep.’
She could hear the words Cook was saying but they seemed to make no sense.
‘Milk with a grating of nutmeg… or cinnamon sugar, that used to be your favourite when you were young.’
Cook gathered up the travel-stained clothes and went out, still talking, ‘Get tucked into bed and rest. You’ve had a terrible journey. Rest… that’s what you need.’
Far above the heat of the plain, the air was cloudily cool. The red-barked trunks of the cinder pines made the winding mountain road dark, haunted by shadows. A faint scent of cinder-pine sap, aromatic yet tinged with its peculiar odour of burning, wafted into the Grand Maistre’s coach. If Girim shut his eyes, he saw flames: burning timbers crashing in on the ruined Opera House, sparks of charred music flying high into the sky…
The coach slowed as the road levelled out. His secretary opened the window flap and looked out.
‘We’re here, Maistre. The border.’
‘Hola!’ The Tourmalise border guard emerged from his hut as they passed across the border line, and upraised. ‘Your papers!’
‘Don’t you know who this is?’ said the secretary, shocked. ‘Girim nel Ghislain, spiritual adviser to His Altesse Prince Ils—’
‘I need to see papers,’ said the guard doggedly.
‘Everything’s in order.’ The secretary thrust the papers in his face. ‘I drew them up myself. Where’s the corpse?’
Girim nel Ghislain dismounted from his coach and stood looking down at the body of Acir Korentan. Acir, the best hope of the Commanderie. Acir, his brother-in-arms.
What had become of this bright and shining star that it should have fallen so far and so fast?
Girim went down on one knee to draw back the cloak from the face. The pale skin had already taken on a blueish tinge, the lips were mauve.
He had died an agonising death.
Yet death had smoothed away any hint of that agony; the expression was remote and calm… almost serene.
‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘Why did you betray me, Acir?’
Someone gave a polite cough. He turned around and saw his secretary hovering behind.
‘Shall we prepare the body to take back for burial, Maistre?’ asked the secretary respectfully.
‘No.’
‘But I had thought – given Captain Korentan’s distinguished record of service – at the very least a military funeral with honours?’
‘I said no, did you not hear me? The man was a traitor. No Commanderie funeral. No honours. Strip the body of the uniform and leave it here to rot. And strike his name from the records. Let all the Commanderie see how I deal with traitors.’
The Tourmalise border guard stood scratching his head, perplexed, as the coach with its fine trappings of crimson leather disappeared into Allegonde.
What was he to do with the body? The dead man must have been someone of importance for the Grand Maistre to come so far up into the mountains…
‘Is there a cemetery in Sulien?’
The guard started. He had thought he was alone. And there the woman stood, watching him from the brown shadows of the cinder pines, pale and gaunt as a revenant.
‘Wh-where did you –’
She came closer, her skirts catching on the brambles. Her white face was stained, her hair dishevelled. Reddened eyes stared at him… through him.
‘I asked if there is a cemetery in Sulien?’
‘You were here last night, weren’t you? Have you been here all this time? That’s against the regulations. You crossed into Tourmalise without a passport –’
‘I have papers, travel permits.’ she said in a dull, distant voice.
He beckoned her towards the hut. She gathered up her torn skirts and followed slowly after him, moving as if she were sleepwalking. In the hut she produced the papers.
‘You’ll find they’re all in order. Now tell me where I may arrange for this man to be buried?’
The guard hesitated.
‘He’s not a citizen of Sulien.’
‘I have money,’ she said, her dirt-streaked face a mask. She held out a handful of coins. ‘Does that cover the necessary documents?’
The guard took the money, counted it and nodded.
‘I’ll fill in a certificate. The Foreigners’ Cemetery is down by the river. Ask for Asper, the gravedigger. He’ll do what’s needed. Now…’ he said, reaching for a pen ‘… what was this man’s name?’
‘Korentan,’ she said, her voice tightening. He saw the sudden glitter of tears in her eyes. ‘Acir Korentan.’
*
‘What you need right now, young man, is a cup of good, strong qaffë. Where did I put that qaffë filter…’
Khassian heard Dame Tradescar muttering to herself, the clinking of crockery – and then the delicious smell of brewing qaffë began to waft into the parlour.
The old woman at the Sanatorium had told him to go and inform Dame Tradescar of Orial’s return. Now as he sat here, safe amidst the comforting clutter of books, drawings and archaeological artefacts, his hands began to shake uncontrollably.
‘Sugar?’ Jolaine Tradescar brought out a yellowed cane sugarloaf and chipped off granules with the edge of a spoon. ‘Here.’ She passed him a bowl of hot qaffë. ‘Drink this.’
Khassian balanced the bowl between his shaking hands and raised it to his lips. The qaffë burned his tongue but it was strong and very sweet. He could not remember the last time he had tasted qaffë. He concentrated on savouring the taste, blanking his mind to what he knew he must do next.
As he set down the empty bowl, he saw Dame Tradescar observing him with her inquisitive blue eyes: scholar’s eyes that missed nothing.
‘You’ve been very kind.’
She shrugged the compliment aside.
‘But I mustn’t take up any more of your time. There’s something I must attend to.’
‘Ah,’ said Jolaine.
‘Your burial practices are very different from ours. But – with so many visitors – there must be a foreigners’ cemetery in Sulien?’
‘There’s a sorry place, overgrown and neglected, on the other bank of the Avenne.’ She was still watching him keenly.
Suddenly Khassian began to talk. All that had happened came spilling out, unchecked: the terrifying escape through the thunderstorm, Acir’s dying efforts to get them safely to Sulien…
‘I can’t leave him there unburied.’ Khassian turned his head away.
‘I’ll hire a cart.’
‘You?’ Khassian looked up.
‘My dear young man, have you any idea how bored I’ve been? Fretting away the days, trying to get back down into the Undercity yet frustrated by those confounded Priests at every turn.’ Jolaine thumped her fist against the table, making the qaffë pot jump. ‘I’d welcome a little action to relieve the tedium. Besides, I can’t have you risking recapture. Orial would never forgive me if that were to happen.’
Orial.
A black, choking sense of despair welled up within Khassian. He was free – and yet his freedom had been achieved at too dear a price.
He buried his face in his ruined hands and sobbed aloud.
Cook peeked around the door. Orial was sound asleep.
Poor mite. She looked so wan, so wasted.
And there was still no word from her father. She had sent a message to his hostelry in Bel’Esstar, but even a swift post rider took at least half a day to travel to Allegonde.
Still, a long sleep would do her good. What troubled Cook was what she should do when the girl awoke.
She had seen that lost, unfocussed look before.
She had seen Iridial the day she drowned herself.
A sombre melody wove itself into Khassian’s dreams, the dark music of the slow-flowing river of oblivion, the lightless waters of the underworld.
Orial’s tune.
A pale figure stands on the far shore. The music wreaths about her, caging her in a shroud of woven songthreads.
He sees her mouth open in a silent scream, sees her throw herself forward into the black waters, sees the drowning waters swallow her –
He woke, soaked in sweat, to find himself lying cramped on Dame Tradescar’s couch. The sun had moved around and the long, low light of late-afternoon gilded the dusty bookshelves.
The melody still flowed on through his head – but now he heard possibilities, permutations, the beginnings of a complex contrapuntal structure.
If only he could get it down on paper.
It was late-afternoon when Jolaine Tradescar reached the border yet the sun’s heat had not penetrated the thick clouds. Chill mist swathed the tops of the pines, stifling sound and light.
‘Identify yourself!’ The border guard’s voice rang out through the trees; Jolaine thought she detected a nervous edge to the customary challenge.
‘A man died here late last night,’ she said.
A muscle in the guard’s face twitched; he looked around, as though fearing to be overheard.
‘I’ve come to collect the body,’ she insisted.
‘A relative, are you?’
‘No. A friend.’
‘You’re too late.’ The guard lowered his voice. ‘He’s been taken for burial already.’
‘Taken back to Allegonde?’ Jolaine asked.
‘To Sulien. A woman came for him. I told her to ask for Asper.’
The Foreigners’ Cemetery stood in a grove of trees beside the Avenne. High stone walls, built in the previous century, had begun to crumble and fall. Weeds grew in profusion amongst the neglected graves: rose bay willowherb, with its drifting white down, and red valerian.
The Contesse Fiammis counted out fifty courons in payment to the gravedigger Asper and his apprentices. Then in the hushed Sulien evening, she stood and watched as they lowered Acir’s body into the grave.
No Allegondan wooden coffin could be commissioned in time; a simple white Sulien shroud had sufficed.
Fiammis found wild roses growing in profusion over the western wall of the cemetery, perfuming the twilight with a sweet fragrance.
She had pricked her hands and wrists trying to pick a spray. Now, as the first earth was thrown in, she dropped to her knees at the open grave and cast the spray of roses on to Acir’s breast. The pale petals were stained with spots of her own blood.
‘It won’t be long now, miu caru.’ she whispered.
She did not feel the pain of the thorns. She felt nothing. The light had been extinguished from her life. Without him, there was no point in continuing. She was weary of subterfuge, weary of killing.
There was just one thing more she must do.
Spadefuls of the soft, dark red earth fell softly on to the shrouded body. High on the broken wall, a speckled thrush began to pipe a shrill, lonely threnody into the coming night.
The garret door opened; Khassian, startled, looked up to see Dame Tradescar had just let herself in.
‘Well?’ he said tensely.
‘The body was collected before I arrived.’ She lowered herself into an armchair with a sigh; in the twilight her face looked grey with tiredness.
‘Collected? By the Commanderie?’
‘No, a woman. She’s buried him in Sulien. I called at the Foreigners’ Cemetery. Old Asper was filling in the grave.’
‘A woman?’ Khassian said, puzzled.
‘She wouldn’t leave her name… but she paid Asper very handsomely. He was well pleased with the arrangement.’ Jolaine sat forward a little, reaching for the decanter of pommerie on the table. She poured herself a glass and drank it in one gulp.
‘And Orial? Is there any news?’
‘I stopped by the Sanatorium. There’s been no change in her condition. She’s sleeping, Cook says. Maybe that’s for the best.’
Feelings of frustration and fear from the time of Fania’s final illness returned to haunt him. It was happening again. If only there was some way he could stop the nightmare…
‘Where is this Foreigners’ Cemetery?’
‘On the far bank of the Avenne beyond the gardens. Outside the city walls.’
Khassian reached for his – Cramoisy’s – coat. He felt trapped in the garret apartment.
‘It’ll be dark by the time you get there,’ Jolaine said, pouring another glass of apple spirit. ‘Wait till morning, dear boy.’
But Khassian had already opened the door; the darkening city invited him. He had spent weeks confined in a cell; now he wanted to escape, to walk the long hours of night away…
‘Orial…’
Who was calling her name?
‘Orial, Orial…’
Many voices now, calling to her from afar, a multitude of voices, dead voices, soul-voices,
‘Set us free, Orial…’
And she could hear them all. All at once. All jumbled, all incoherent, all in despair.
Orial slid down on to the floor, her hands clutched to her temples.
‘Who are you? How can I set you free?’
The mingled voices became jagged colour, scarlet and blinding white, setting nerve endings jangling. Each collision sent sound-shards shivering into her aching head.
‘Stop,’ she whispered. ‘Please stop.’
She curled up on the floor, arms tight-crossed, knees drawn up to her chest.
‘Let me alone. Please. Please.’
An archaic strain seeped into the chaos, a dark trickle at first, slow-flowing.
Watermusic.
Waters of forgetfulness, waters of oblivion…
She stands beside Iridial in the Temple, gazing up at the statue of Elesstar. Indiai scoops some of the green spring water from the stone shell and touches her forehead and cheeks with it.
‘Goddess protect you, child.’
Orial blinks as the sunlight filters on to Iridial’s hair. The Goddess opens her painted eyes – and smiles at her.
Sacred springs. Healing springs.
‘Springs. Must get to the springs…’
Down the stairs Orial went. Her feet were bare, she was clad only in the thin muslin nightgown.
A group of late-night revellers were coming along the dark street towards her. She could see their lanterns bobbing in the breeze, she could hear their drunken singing collide with the music dinning in her head.
She shrank into a doorway, hoping they would not see her. But as they drew closer, they began to point, to call and whistle, waving her to join them. She could see their mouths moving yet their voices seemed blurred, distant, voices from another dimension.
Masked faces leered at her, hands reached out for her, trying to pull her into their midst.
‘Let me be!’ Orial twisted free of the groping, grabbing hands. Breaking through the chain, she went running away down the street.
Cook added a dash of eau-de-vie to the hot milk and cinnamon, taking a surreptitious swig herself, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. A nice hot posset should help restore Orial’s strength.
She had left her to sleep round the clock undisturbed, hoping the rest would do her good. The Goddess only knew what the girl had been through, she had looked more like a ghost when she arrived back –
The ghost of her mother.
Cook shivered and took another swig of the eau-de-vie to stop the shivers.
‘Here I come, Orial my pet.’
She walked the long corridor slowly, a little unsteadily, and climbed the stairs, trying not to spill the posset in the saucer.
‘Orial?’ She blinked, wondering whether the eau-de-vie had affected her sight. The bed was empty.
The cup began to judder against the saucer in Cook’s trembling hand. Liquid slopped over the rim.
‘Oh, no. She’s gone. She’s gone!’
Orial leaned on the rail, gazing down into the moonstreaked river.
Reeds whispered in the murky darkness, spirit voices, calling her…
‘Orial…’
The voices were growing louder.
‘Set us free…’
She gave a little gasp.
They were there on the far bank, she could see them now, a host of shadowforms, faintly defined by the shifting moonlight. Their pale eyes glimmered in the darkness, hungry for succour, hungry for release.
‘Who are you?’ she cried.
The spinning watermusic in her mind had become a gaping whirlpool.
Someone placed their hands on her shoulders, holding her back.
‘Now, demselle, what do you think you’re doing?’
‘Let me go, let me go!’ She beat frantically against the restraining hands.
‘No need to be alarmed, demselle. Constable Alterre of the Night Watch.’
Three short bursts on a whistle and another constable came running up.
‘What is it, Alterre?’
‘Attempted suicide. What’s your name, demselle?’
Orial suddenly slumped, spent.
‘I – have to – set them free,’ she whispered. ‘Into the light –’
The two constables exchanged looks.
‘One for Dr Tartarus.’
‘I’ll get the carriage.’
‘No! N-not mad.’
‘Of course not, demselle,’ soothed the constable. ‘You need a little rest and quiet. And we’re taking you to just the right place…’
Clouds scudded across the setting moon as Khassian slowly, wearily, made his way towards the River Avenne. He had wandered the streets and alleys of the sleeping city half the night, not knowing or caring where he was going, just walking.
Now he had come to do what he knew he must.
He found his way to the Foreigners’ Cemetery, crossing the river by the bridge, stumbling over the tussocks and weeds between the overgrown graves.
The last light of the fading moon showed him the freshly dug earth of a new grave.
‘Well, here I am,’ he said out loud.
The only sound was the shiver of leaves in the breeze off the river. He sat down in the long grass. He would keep vigil throughout the rest of the night beside Acir’s grave. It seemed the only fit thing to do in the circumstance. Tomorrow he would go and see Asper about a memorial stone; he would raise the money somehow.
But now… he would keep watch till morning.
In the twilight, the waters of the River Avenne glint grey.
Acir is dead.
Overcome with grief, Khassian sinks to his knees on the damp bank, weeping.
‘Amaru…’
A voice is calling him, calling his name. He raises his tear-wet face and gazes out across the grey riverwaters. A figure stands on the far bank, a man, half-clothed in shadow.
The man moves towards the river, his hand held out in welcome. Starlight glimmers in his silver hair which falls loose about his shoulders.
‘Acir?’ Khassian’s heart leaps within his breast. ‘But I thought –’
‘Amaru.’ Acir’s hand beckons him.
And Khassian, as though pulled by a will stronger than his own, finds himself gliding across the river, gliding towards the still-beckoning figure, passing between crumbling walls into a garden.
Acir stands, smiling at him, a warm smile, a tender smile.
Then he draws open the loose robes he wears, baring his left breast. The tattooed rose is weeping tears of blood: one by one they splash on to the ground.
And where the dark drops of blood fall, Khassian sees a green shoot pushing up through the earth, its leaves unfurling as he watches, astonished, until a crimson bud appears at the tip.
Acir plucks the Rose and hands it to Khassian. It glows, red as sunset, in his cupped hands, its perfume dark as incense.
Jerame Magelonne slept restlessly, starting awake whenever the diligence ran over a rut in the road. Cook’s message had arrived as he was packing his valise, confirming the information delivered by one of Girim nel Ghislain’s agents: Orial was back in Sulien.
He was only too glad to be leaving Bel’Esstar; the city was a slow-fizzing powder keg of dissent, primed and ready to explode. Though what faced him on his return was none too inviting: an empty Sanatorium; unpaid bills; creditors – the possibility of financial ruin.
But what did it matter, so long as Orial was restored to him? He could face an uncertain future with equanimity if she was at his side. There was still a reason for continuing.
He dozed off again, rocked by the steady motion of the diligence’s wheels…
Orial floating, face down in the green waters of the Avenne. Orial dragged limp and lifeless from the river, water running from her slack mouth, her weed-trailed hair –
‘Ahh!’ he cried out as he awoke – to see the disapproving faces of the other passengers regarding him with suspicion.
‘A – a dream,’ he said, embarrassed. Yet even his embarrassment could not dispel the unpleasant taste which lingered after the dream had fled – or the growing anxiety.
The closed Constabulary carriage stopped outside the Asylum. Orial had shrunk into the corner, hugging her arms to her.
She must not let them commit her. Once committed, she would never escape Tartarus’s clutches. She would never fulfil her task.
She must get away.
Constable Alterre opened the door and climbed out. The cloudy sky was streaked with the first light of dawn. Birds had begun to whistle and call in the stillness.
Beyond the stark walls of the Asylum she could just glimpse the river marshes and the faint gleam of the Avenne.
Constable Alterre had rung the bell-pull and was standing waiting for the porter to answer.
Now. While his attention was distracted.
She slipped out of the carriage and tiptoed around the back, one step at a time. The rough gravel grazed her bare feet.
‘Hey!’
They had seen her.
‘Come back here!’
She turned and ran towards the marshes.
‘Stop! Stop!’ The constables were after her.
She slipped on the dew-wet grass, forced herself back up, on towards the tall reed-beds. Her sides ached with running, her nightgown was mired and wet, yet still she stumbled on.
They would never find her in the reeds.
Khassian awoke with a groan. He was stiff, he was damp with dew… And he had meant to keep vigil all night.
Now the sun was up.
He sat up, stretching his aching body.
The freshly dug earth of Acir’s grave was a brown scar against the silvered grass.
A spray of green had pierced the rich earth. Fresh green.
A rose was growing in the red soil. Tender new leaves surrounded a single bud.
Where had it come from?
Khassian extended his hand – and then swiftly withdrew it. Black thorns, hooked and vicious, protected the single bloom.
His skin suddenly chilled as if the sun had been covered by fast-moving cloud. He glanced up. There were no clouds in sight.
Maybe Asper had planted it last night? Maybe he had taken a cutting from the white rose rambling over the broken wall… although Khassian was almost certain from the furled petals that this rose would prove to be red.
Crimson red. Red as heartblood.
‘Orial at Asylum. Come at once. Tartarus.’
Jerame read the blotted note for the tenth time and scrunched it into a ball in his sweating hand. The fiacre had slowed to a crawl. The street was noisy with shouting and arguing. People were milling around, some bearing placards and banners. A rhythmic chant was building as they made their way to the Temple. One or two began to thump in time on the side of the fiacre as they walked past.
‘Bury our dead!’
‘Respect for the dead!’
‘Open the reservoirs!’
Jerame leaned out and called up to the driver, ‘Hurry! I said, hurry!’
‘The road’s blocked ahead.’
‘Then turn around, take another route. But be quick!’
‘There she is!’ Tartarus said to himself.
Moving slowly like a sleepwalker through the reed-beds, her wet feet bare, her hair drifting in the breeze, the white nightgown slipping off one shoulder, Orial looked more like a river-nymph than a madwoman.
The reeds grew in the river shallows… but the bank suddenly shelved steeply beyond – many drowning spans deep into black mud.
He came closer.
He must not startle her. If surprised in this precarious state, she would almost certainly throw herself into the water
And then she looked up, half-seeing him, half-seeing through him.
Her eyes.
Tartarus – who had witnessed many bizarre physical manifestations in his time as Asylum Director – shuddered.
The brilliant rainbow colours had vanished.
Dulled eyes, drowned eyes, muddied as the reflected riverwater.
‘Orial,’ he called lightly, coaxingly.
She seemed not to hear.
He edged a little closer to the bank.
‘Orial,’ He beckoned invitingly, raising the restraint-shroud he had brought. ‘You must be cold. Come. I have a shawl to wrap around your shoulders.’
The whispering sigh of the reeds as they moved to the breath of the breeze was the only reply.
She turned away and began to wade further out into the reed-beds. Water lapped around her legs, staining the trailing robe with green. Beyond, the wide Avenne glistened in a brief sunslick, deceptively placid beneath the cloudy sky.
He had no choice but to go in after her.
But then, he reasoned, as he kicked off his buckle-shoes and peeled off his hose, he would have no choice now but to use his machine on her. And for that it was worth getting his feet wet.
His toes sank down into the river-ooze. It was far colder than he had anticipated and emitted a mephitic gaseous odour that almost made him choke. Decaying river-weed and a green scum of algae clung to his legs.
But in his mind he was already strapping his wayward river-nymph into the treatment chair, he was pressing the metal helmet on to her reed-bedraggled hair. She would be his triumph. The triumph of science over superstition. No more nonsense about Faer Folk or rainbow eyes.
The two constables appeared on the bank.
He waved to them to keep down, to fan out. If he could hold her attention, the other two could creep up on her unnoticed.
He lost his balance, almost falling face first into the noisome waters, grasping at the fragile reeds to steady himself.
Cursing, Tartarus tried to brush the mud-spatter from his clothes. The slender reeds had scratched his palms; the reek of the black mud filled his nostrils.
It would be necessary to administer a strong charge to the right hemisphere of the brain. At the touch of his hand, the power-spark surged into her. Her slender body convulsed, juddered…
Was it his imagination? Or did the noisome air suddenly smell fresh and sweet as a spring dawn?
And then his vision cleared and he was only looking at a poor, mad thing, a chit of a girl who had lost her wits and was half-naked, dirty and bedraggled.
‘Set us free…’
Whenever Orial shut her eyes, she could still see them, the Dead, raising their shrivelled hands to her, their decaying eyes lit with the mephitic fire of marsh gas.
She lifted her hands to her throbbing head, rocking to and fro.
Dead voices filled her mind, spirit voices, soul voices…
‘The Lotos blooms on the dark waters.’
‘The Lotos Princess opens her arms to receive us.’
‘The sacred springs flow again.’
The waters called to her. Beneath the cool, green Avenne lay silence – an end to the incessant clamour.
‘Open the gates and let us pass through into the light.’
Walk out into the waters… sink slowly beneath the gently flowing river… seek the eternal silence of the drowning deeps.
River goddess, rock me gently to sleep…
Orial closed her eyes – and threw herself into the Avenne.