The Hall of Whispering Reeds echoed to the hiss of hot springs. All around Orial people were laughing and hugging each other. Children crept forward to plunge their hands into the fizzing steam and ran away again, squealing with delight.
Orial’s mind still glittered with the final flight of dragonflies… she felt light, buoyant, floating on air…
The real world, the everyday world, began to intrude on her consciousness. The gilded vision of the otherworld began to recede, to fade…
Through the rising steamclouds she saw Amaru Khassian staring dazedly at her.
‘Amaru,’ she said, going towards him. She felt filled with warmth and affection for him.
‘I – I’m a little afraid to touch you,’ he stammered.
‘You helped make it happen.’ She stood on tiptoes and brushed his cheek with her lips. ‘For that time you became Lifhendil too. I could not have spun the song without you. One voice alone was not enough.’
‘Lotos Princess!’ cried Jolaine Tradescar, coming forward to hug her.
‘Not any more,’ she said, sadly. ‘It’s over now.’
‘Nonsense!’ The Priestess stood holding out her hands to her. ‘It’s just beginning.’ Behind her clustered the Priests and Priestesses of the Temple, all nodding and smiling.
Orial bowed her head respectfully.
‘No, child.’ The Priestess gently placed her hand under Orial’s chin and, raising her head, kissed her on the brow. ‘You are one of us. We must talk together, we must talk of your future. But only when you have rested…’
‘One of you?’ Orial stared questioningly up into the dark-veiled face.
‘Your place is here in the Temple.’
‘I had never thought of myself as… as a Priestess.’
‘Come with us now to the Temple Court and take some refreshment. There are many things you will need to know before you can make your decision.’
Beyond the beaming faces in the Temple Court Orial became aware that her father was looking at her. The sadness in his eyes belied his proud smile; she could always tell when he was dissembling.
Her decision would take her along a different path from the one he had designated for her. It would lead her from his side at the Sanatorium to the mysteries of the Under Temple.
‘Papa?’ she said questioningly.
He came towards her through the circle of Priestesses.
‘The Priestess is right; you should rest now,’ he said. He put his arms around her and she rested her head against his shoulder, feeling the worn cloth of his favourite jacket against her cheek. ‘The time for decisions is yet to come. Go with them, if that is what you wish.’
‘But you. Will you –’ The question died on her lips.
‘I’ll be all right.’ He finished it for her. ‘I have to get back to the Sanatorium. Now that you have revealed the new source, there’s plenty to do: treatment pools to be cleaned, pipes to be checked…’
She heard the bravado in his voice; she also heard the unspoken permission to decide for herself what she must do.
‘Thank you, Papa,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Thank you.’
He released her and walked away without a backward glance. The Priestesses closed around her.
‘Illustre!’
Khassian turned around to see Jerame Magelonne approaching through the crowd. What could the doctor possibly want to say to him?
‘Illustre,’ he said stiffly, ‘I owe you an apology. I misjudged you. I misjudged you very badly.’
Khassian, confounded, could not think what to say in reply.
‘I would ask if you would shake my hand in forgiveness… but I know the pain that would cause you. Instead, please accept my thanks, my heartfelt thanks, for what you have done to restore my daughter. You will always be welcome at the Sanatorium.’ Dr Magelonne stepped back and gave the composer a brusque little bow.
Khassian nodded his head in gratitude. He was exhausted, emotionally spent. He needed to be alone.
‘Coming for a glass of pommerie?’ Azare called to him.
‘You go ahead,’ Khassian said. ‘I’ll join you later.’
‘Moon and Sickle tavern!’
Khassian slipped in amongst the crowd and let himself be moved slowly forward, upward, out of the Undercity.
When he emerged, he saw it was twilight. Hours must have passed below ground without his noticing.
Sulien came alight with coloured lanterns, glittering festoons of pale jewels. Spurts of fire fizzled up, punctuated by loud retorts and cries of wonder: firecrackers, rockets and candles were being let off. The city was in celebratory mood.
In the Parade Gardens families were merrily picnicking on the grass, each picnic lit by bright flares: citrus and lime green. He wandered past aimlessly, detached from the holiday mood that had infected the city.
‘Amaru!’ Jolaine Tradescar hailed him; she was sitting on the grass with Theophil Philemot who was busy opening up a wicker basket. ‘We’ve got a splendid picnic hamper here. Spit-roast chicken, salads, mountain strawberries, clotted cream… We’re waiting to see the fireworks. Won’t you join us?’
‘We’d be honoured,’ said Theophil Philemot shyly.
Khassian shook his head, smiling. He was not hungry.
He walked slowly on beside the Avenne, leaving the lanterns and the celebrations behind. On the far side of the river the walls of the Foreigners’ Cemetery loomed, a shadow against the dwindling light.
He had not come here purposely… and yet now he found himself crossing the bridge, drawn to the solitude of the silent cemetery.
The moon was rising, casting a shimmer of silver on the graves as Khassian walked through the rustling grasses. White rose petals lay scattered over the long grasses.
The last time he had seen the cemetery by night had been in a dream. Had he hoped that he might glimpse Acir Korentan once more, Acir transfigured, holding out his hand to him?
Khassian sat down in the grass beside Acir’s grave and gazed up at the star-pricked sky.
A rush of memories overwhelmed him, memories from the time those strong arms had pulled him back to life from the cold drowning waters, to that final, nightmare coach-ride when he realised that Acir was slowly slipping away from him… and there was nothing he could do to bring him back.
They had spent so much of their short acquaintance in conflict that only now did he realise how much he had come to value Acir.
Only now did he realise that he had loved him.
As dusk fell, Jerame slowly made his way back to the Sanatorium alone.
He lit a waxen lotos candle of pure white and placed it beneath Iridial’s portrait.
Distant bangs and fizzes from exploding fireworks punctuated the night’s silence. He felt too weary to go lighting bonfires or fireworks. Weary – and troubled. Since that transcendent moment of revelation in the Undercity, one thing alone had obsessed him.
The translucent brightness that had irradiated the Hall of Whispering Reeds, that spinning, celestial music…
Had Iridial been a part of it?
He picked up the lock of fair, faded hair and stroked it against his cheek.
And now he was so very, very weary.
He sat down in the chair, still holding the lock of her hair. His head nodded, his eyes slowly closed…
The dying lotos flame flickered beneath Iridial’s portrait. The image of the dead woman shimmered in its frail glow… then the shimmering image seemed to emerge from the portrait within the frame.
Starting up, Jerame saw a creature, transparent as molten glass. It was clothed only in long, wild strands of hair, white as hoarfrost, and strange ichors flowed in its veins: silver, rose and gold.
‘Iridial?’ he said uncertainly.
‘Iridial…’ The voice vibrated in his mind, brittle as silvered windchimes. Inhuman. ‘That name. Dream-name. I dreamed I was called Iridial…’
Slanted eyes stared curiously up at Jerame.
Rainbow eyes.
This weirdling creature of mist and air could not be his long-lost wife. And yet there was something in that iridescent gaze that awoke a frisson of memory.
He said haltingly, ‘You were my wife. Your name was Iridial. We have a daughter, Orial.’
The creature writhed away from him in a whirl of glitter-mist hair.
‘Don’t you remember anything? This is our house, this was your room, these are your clothes.’ He picked up the fragile, faded dresses from their chest, showing them to her.
‘All I remember from before…’ the bell-like voice faltered ‘… is the dark. Then sunlight woke me. They called to me. I dragged myself from the clinging waters and let the sun dry me. They had come for me. I was part of them, and they a part of me. The spinning circle. How long I have been one with the circle I cannot tell…’
‘So you don’t even remember me?’ Jerame let the dresses drop to the floor. ‘Our life together? Our – our love?’ He could hardly choke the words out.
‘You are part of a dream, a distant dream…’
He turned away from her, angrily wiping the tears from his face. How could he explain to her? How could he put it into words?
‘Do not grieve, Jerame.’ For the first time she used his name. ‘I am always here. I am Eä-Endil.’
‘But I’m – I’m mortal.’
‘Then live as a mortal. Jerame. Be free.’
‘I – I don’t think I can.’
‘I let you go.’
‘No. Don’t. Iridial.’
Flowerbreath brushing his cheek, translucent lips, rose-flushed, pressed to his.
‘Now let me go, Jerame.’
‘I – I don’t know how.’
‘The lock of hair. Burn it.’
‘I – I can’t.’
‘Burn it.’
Shaking, he took the lock of fine, fair hair from his breast and held it to the lotos candle.
It flared into pale flame… and a fine, grey smoke rose up in a dwindling spiral.
She seemed to fade into the flame, to merge with its soft smoke, melting into the nothingness.
With a cry he reached out to grasp her, to hold her, to bring her back – and found he was clutching empty air.
Jerame came awake with a start. The lotos candle had burned down to a faint glow within the cupped petals.
He raised his hands… and saw that where he had been holding her lock of hair, his hands were dusted with a powdery ash that drifted away between his fingers.
No lingering smell of burned hair tainted the room – only the faint scent of star-lilies.