Given the state of affairs between Emerald and Sapphire, I expected their shared border to be a big deal. Guards, checkpoints, identification marks – whatever they are. Yet in fact, I don’t realise we’ve crossed into new territory until Fabithe says, offhand, “That was the border.”
“What was?”
He gestures behind us. “That stone.”
I twist round in the saddle. Sure enough, there’s a tall stone leaning drunkenly to one side of the road. Something was probably carved on it, once, but now it’s green with moss.
“But how – I mean, don’t they try and stop people crossing?”
He shrugs. “What for? The land on one side is just as unproductive as the land on the other. It’s the towns and cities that are guarded. The Citadel and the Keep. That’s where the resources are. The mercators squeeze everything they can from the countryside and sell it to whoever can afford it – and the noble lords and ladies of the high bloodlines, like your friend Oriana, wall themselves in and leave the rest to rot.”
“She isn’t like that.”
“If you say so.” His tone conveys the exact opposite. I choose not to argue with him.
“Is it the rain?” I ask instead. “That makes everything so difficult?”
“It’s worse in Castellany than anywhere else, for sure. But it’s always been that way.”
“Where are you from?” I ask curiously – but at that, his expression darkens.
“Nowhere in particular.”
He spurs his horse forward, and it’s all I can do to keep up. After that, we don’t talk any more. The rain keeps falling, the wind keeps blowing until I can hardly feel my face, and I begin to wonder if I’m actually dead. Maybe this is a very particular kind of hell. Day after day, I’ll ride this horse through the rain. I’ll never reach my destination. And my feet will be cold and damp forever.
Morning becomes afternoon. We pass a man with a herd of goats. We pass a fork in the road, then a place where a small stream cuts across our path. The land remains yellow and barren. Hurry, my fear says. Hurry. I want to run, to gallop, to fly – but I’m constrained by the horses’ feet picking their way gingerly through uneven stones and mud.
Finally, when I can bear it no longer, I call to Fabithe, “Are we close?”
He glances over his shoulder at me. “Close enough. That’s the boundary wall ahead. Can’t you see the rain barrier?”
I squint past him. He’s right. There’s a dark mass on the horizon, a faint azure shimmer above it. Almost there. And if I made it this far, I can make it the rest of the way.
“Better hurry,” Fabithe says. “It’s really going to pour soon.”
“You have got to be kidding me.” I lift my head to scan the endless expanse of sky –
From the window of her chamber, Oriana stares out at the cloud-muffled sky, fists clenched at her sides. Ifor permitted her a bath earlier, a real bath with hot water and cleansing herbs. And she is dressed not in rags but in the elaborate bridal gown her father ordered for her. To be clean and properly clothed for the first time in weeks – perhaps she should be grateful for that, at least. But when she remembers the reason for it …
You do not own me, she told Ifor yesterday, forcing herself past her fear. Forcing herself to keep fighting. Yet that is about to change. And once it does, the constraints he has been under will be lifted. He wants to kill her, she is sure of it. He is only keeping her alive to gain the Sapphire. Which means that after tonight, he will have no need to restrain himself.
Her hands are shaking. She concentrates on forcing air through her lungs: in. Out. In. And a knock sounds at the door.
Goddess, please. Help me get through this.
She turns. Her father enters, and she stands still as he embraces her. When he steps back, there are tears in his eyes.
“Oh, Oriana. It is good to see you up and well. Does your leg hurt?”
She is conscious of a dull ache, far away, like someone else’s pain. “Not much.”
“Good.” He holds something out to her. It takes her a moment to recognise her mother’s dagger. Last time she saw it, Ifor was using it to cut her hand, on the tower-top; now it nestles in a decorative sheath, hanging from a belt of braided gold.
“Your mother would have wanted to uphold the traditions of her bloodline,” Cinemand says. “She wore this on our wedding day. I hope you will wear it, too.”
Oriana takes the belt. As she fastens it over her gown, she is briefly comforted by the idea that she is carrying her mother with her. Yet if the dagger has been returned to her, it is because Ifor wanted it that way – and there is no comfort in that, none at all.
“Perfect.” Her father smiles at her. “Are you ready?”
No! she wants to scream. If I live through this, it will only be so I can die later. And I am so afraid, Father, please …
But the best way to fail is to stop trying.
She nods, and he gives her hand a clumsy pat.
“Good girl. Let us begin.”
Rain fills my eyes; I wipe it away, to find Fabithe’s gaze intent on my face. The fear has inflated like a balloon in my stomach, driving out every other emotion and making it hard to breathe. But we have time. The wedding hasn’t happened yet. I still have a chance to save her – and I refuse to let her down.
“It’s starting,” I tell him urgently. “We need to hurry.”
He nods, and we speed up. By the time we reach the foot of the rise on which the Citadel stands, I’m gritting my teeth with every lurch. All the same, my pulse quickens when I gaze up at the blue dome of the protective barrier. It’s just as I imagined. Just as I’ve seen it since I was twelve years old. Despite myself, I allow my horse to slow.
“Stop staring.” Fabithe has halted beside me. “Show any uncertainty and they’ll be suspicious. Ride in as though you have every right to be there, and chances are they’ll not ask questions.”
I look at him. His posture is upright but relaxed, his hands confident on the reins, his face calm. Yet the darkness in his eyes tells me that he, too, is tense. It won’t be fear. Rather, I suspect it’s the anticipation of a long-awaited vengeance. Perhaps it should scare me, but I find it comforting: the knowledge that he won’t accept failure.
He turns to meet my scrutiny, but all he says is, “You need to go first. A guard always watches his employer’s back. Take off your hood so they can see you. I’ll follow.” He pauses, then gives me a rare unconstrained smile. “Just remember, it’s dry on the other side. That’s something to be thankful for.”
Surprised, I return the smile. For a moment, he looked like a different person, free from anger and the desire for revenge – but now it’s gone, and the danger is back in his eyes as he gazes at the boundary wall.
“Right.” I take a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Here goes – ”
Oriana and her father start the walk down from her chamber to the Great Hall, endless corridors and flights of stairs and archways. The people of the Citadel line the route; they are silent, as tradition dictates, but they rain flower petals upon her. A sweet, sickly smell fills the air.
“Now, Oriana,” her father says as they walk. She steals a glance at him; his eyes are screwed up with embarrassment. “I do not want you to worry about the ceremony. It will be over soon enough, and then you can settle in to married life. And you love Ifor … that helps.”
Laughter bubbles in her stomach, unexpected and wild. Cinemand imagines her terrified by the thought of consummating her marriage. He does not know she has already experienced that particular pain with sufficient frequency to dull its edge. No, it is not the act itself that scares her, but what her new husband might do when it is over.
“It is a union blessed by the gods, you know,” her father continues with some awkwardness. “To lie together in the Sapphire’s light … One willing, Atchika the water-goddess will grant you children, and they will be filled with the power of the royal line.” Mumbling, he adds, “If your mother were here, she would know how to say these things.”
For his sake, Oriana manages a tremulous smile. He pats her hand again. Then they step through the final archway into a courtyard thick with dusk. It is a still, clear evening; the Guardians would not allow rain to spoil their Highest Lady’s wedding. Out here, the people lining the walls are not ordinary Citadel folk but soldiers, both Sapphire Blades and northerners. An honour guard. A guard, anyway. The blue light of hundreds of candles flickers over their faces and dances on the falling droplets of the fountain. Oriana shoots a glance at the little door in the corner, the one that leads to the stables, but there is no possibility of reaching it. Not now. They would be after her in an instant.
She looks up. Ahead, the Great Hall is a fantastic shape in the shadows, myriad carvings tumbling over each other on its weathered stone face. A flight of steps lined with pillars leads up to the vast double doors through which lies the realm of the Guardians, masters of Water … and somewhere inside, Ifor is waiting.
Run. The futile impulse wrenches at her; she stumbles on the first step, clutching her father’s arm for support. As they climb towards the hall, she tries to focus on the patterns that cover wall and door. She loved the mystery of them, as a child. She used to gaze at the lines in the wood, the shapes in the stone, inventing images and stories from what she saw. But now they blur in front of her eyes, and all she sees is darkness.
When she reaches the top of the steps, the doors swing open. The hall on the other side is cavernous, filled with shadows that the single candle at the far end cannot dispel. There Keeper Chen waits, Ifor with him, their faces made unfamiliar by candlelight. As Cinemand leads Oriana around the long table with its nine stone seats, her reluctant feet falter as though her slippers are soled with lead.
Then she is kneeling beside the man who wants to kill her, and Chen is speaking the ritual words. His voice washes over her in waves.
“Etethe.”
This is it.
“On darrené.”
No way out.
“Tul’donaralo.”
Fear blinds her, but she can still feel. Hard stone beneath her. The unaccustomed weight of fabric. Ifor’s arm brushing hers.
He is so close.
Holy goddess Atchika, if you love me –
“Great One …”
– if you love your people –
“… here before you, this man and this woman …”
– let me die now. Keep the Sapphire from his grasp.
“… that they may be joined forever …”
Keep me – keep me –
“… they offer you their betrothal rings in token of the more binding promise to come.”
Ifor slides the woven lock of hair from her finger. With trembling hands, she does the same for him. The Keeper sets a flame to the two rings, Oriana’s dark red hair mingled with Ifor’s golden strands; the acrid reek of it is sharp in her throat, burning away the haze of panic. Making everything much too clear.
“Do you have the lianthis?” Chen asks. Ifor draws it from an inside pocket: an intricate band of interlocking stone, set with sapphire and onyx. His loving glance belied only by the amused curl of his mouth, he slips it onto Oriana’s wrist. As he closes the clasp, she suppresses a cry. It is tight – viciously so – like a thousand teeth cutting into her flesh. She looks down. Blood is trickling from beneath the stone, splashing onto her skirt. Tears rise in a flood behind her eyes, but she forces them back. She will not cry. Not now. Not yet.
“Thus are you bound together by Sapphire law,” the Keeper intones, oblivious. “This is an eternal bond; it can never be broken.” Stepping back, he gestures them to their feet. Beyond him, the door to the Inner Shrine stands open.
“Most high lord. Keeper. May your story continue.” Ifor bows to Cinemand and to Chen in turn. Then he grasps Oriana by the wrist, grinding the lianthis even deeper into her flesh, and leads her away.
The embroidered curtain at the far end of the Inner Shrine is drawn back, letting the Sapphire’s blue light spill through. The last time she was permitted to see it was the day of Mama’s funeral, after her body was laid to rest in the crypt. Then it brought Oriana peace, but now she is beyond even its reach. She stands frozen beside the pool in the middle of the room while Ifor closes the heavy door to the main hall and bolts it. Candles encircle the water, and blankets have been spread on the cold stone floor by one wall. Ifor turns to her and smiles.
“Happy wedding day, Oriana.”
“I saw them marry. I saw it all.” My fear has grown yet again; I swallow a couple of times, determined not to let it take over, even though I want to scream, to sob, to be sick. She needs me. I can’t break down. “We have to get in there, now.”
Fabithe shakes his head. “Surely that means we’re too late.”
“No!” It’s almost a shout. Pushing down the panic, I lower my voice to an urgent hiss. “No. You said it could be the future, remember? It was dusk when she came out into the courtyard. It isn’t dusk yet. We still have a chance!”
I urge my horse forward, and he follows. As we approach the gate, I force myself to sit upright. My hood is thrown back, as Fabithe instructed me, revealing the pale skin and dark hair that in this world mark me out as a northerner. I paste my favourite impassive expression on my face and stare straight ahead.
“Long journey, milady?” one of the guards asks me.
“Very.” I’ve heard Ifor’s voice often enough to know what a northern accent sounds like, but I don’t trust myself to replicate it. I might not sound northern, but I don’t sound southern either – and apparently that’s enough. The man says no more to me. He nods at Fabithe, one professional to another, and we’re through.
As Fabithe predicted, it’s dry on this side of the gate. Suddenly, blessedly dry. The rain barrier is in place above us, filtering the sky from grey to blue and giving everything beneath it a faint sapphire sheen. As we race up the stone-lined road towards the distant Citadel, I glimpse fields and orchards – clusters of low, thatched buildings in the distance – but there’s no time to focus on any of it. Because the sky is darkening. Dusk is here.
“Where’s the door?” Fabithe asks.
“That way …” Straight ahead is the entrance to the Citadel itself, which would require conversation and explanation and proof of identity. I point left, along the wide expanse of the inner wall. We branch off from the road, far enough away from the entrance that we won’t be noticed, and aim for a point along the wall that’s my best guess as to the location of the hidden door. But even as we ride, dusk is deepening into night, and I can hardly breathe –
Fighting to catch her breath, Oriana backs away until her foot slips on the damp edge of the pool. Automatically, even now, part of her is searching for defences. There is the dagger. Stab him. Or throw a candle in his face. Hold his head beneath the surface of the water. If nothing else, scream –
But she knows that if she tries any such thing, it will be her flesh that singes under flame and wax. Her lungs that burst with the desperate need for air. The dagger has already failed her once. And no one will hear, however loud her cries for help.
If you want to survive this, you will submit, she tells herself. No matter how it shames you.
“Nowhere left for you to go, little one.” Ifor strides forward to grasp her wrist. With a single violent movement, he jerks her away from the pool and towards the wall, where he shoves her to her knees on the waiting blankets. “Lie down.”
Heart breaking, she does it.
“Fabithe,” I plead. “We need to hurry.”
“Just find the blasted door, Alyssia.”
“I’m doing my best.” My face is wet again, but now I’m not sure if it’s rain or tears. Hold on, Oriana. I’m coming. I’m sorry. “This way.”
I’m leading him in the right direction, I’m sure of it. But it’s going to be harder than I thought. I only know this wall from the other side. And this side is crumbling, shadowed by bushes and little trees. If we’re not careful, we’ll walk right past the concealed entrance.
“It’s here somewhere,” I tell Fabithe. “Keep looking. I can’t – ”
“Look at me, Oriana!” Ifor’s fingers wind through her hair, forcing her head round. With her last scrap of defiance, she closes her eyes, and he laughs.
I will not look at you, she vows silently. Whatever you take from me, I will not look.
I don’t want to see this.
I blink. Did I pull myself out that time? That’s never happened before.
It’s never happened before, and I shouldn’t have done it. We need to know where she is. And besides … the flashes I’m getting may be bad, but I’m not the one who’s actually living through it. The least I can do for Oriana is be there with her, even if she doesn’t know it.
“Have you found anything yet?” I ask hoarsely.
“No.”
A touch of ice slides over my skin, and I lift a hand to the familiar–unfamiliar stone at the base of my throat. He is –
Oriana opens her eyes. Her husband is tracing her birthstone with the point of her mother’s dagger, a smile on his face.
“Turn over.”
She stares at him, not wanting to obey but not daring to resist, until the blade pricks her throat hard enough to draw blood. “I said turn over.”
Clumsily, she wriggles round onto her front. I am not here. He begins to unpick the fastenings on the dress; she waits, cheek pressed against the coarse weave of the blanket, candlelight and shadows swimming before her eyes. I am not here. A thick slice of fear sits cold in her stomach, but she is not here. She is floating outside herself. She is gone, and all this is happening to someone else.
With gentle hands, he smooths down the fabric of that girl’s dress, folding it over to expose the top of her shift and her naked back. The point of the dagger caresses the curves and hollows of her spine, drawing a shiver in its wake.
Then his left hand presses down on her neck. The dagger bites deep into her flesh, branding her with fire.
“Got it,” Fabithe says. I rub my eyes, turning in the direction of his voice, but it still takes a moment for the indistinct pattern of light and shadow to resolve itself into something recognisable: a recessed door, half concealed by creepers and a stunted tree. At least that proves I’m not a liar. Yet what difference does it make? We’re too late. Far too late.
“Well?” He turns to me, lowering the moonlight-coloured lantern that he’s been using to examine the door.
“Well, what?” I whisper.
“Where is she?”
“He’s hurting her.” I can’t stop shaking. Guilt and panic flood me, sending thoughts whirring through my brain like clouds of startled butterflies.
She’s hurt, and it’s your fault. You’ve known the truth for months and you did nothing.
She’s hurt, and it’s your fault. Your sick imagination dreamed the whole thing up.
Fabithe puts down the moon-lantern and strides over to me, gripping my upper arms. My eyes are definitely wet this time, but I’m not crying. I never cry.
“Listen,” he says roughly. “I know this must be hard for you, all right? But as long as she’s alive, we can still help her. You just have to tell me where she is.”
Somehow, the press of his fingers is comforting. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. He’s right. We can still help her. The best way to fail is to stop trying.
“She’s in the Great Hall.”
“How do I get there?”
“I’ll show you. Just hurry. Please.”
He turns back to the door. It has no handle on this side; it’s designed for egress only, no one ever passing through it but the dead. Yet there is a keyhole, and thus Fabithe is able to make short work of the lock. After that, he slides the blade of a knife between door and frame to lift the latch, before prising the door open with his fingertips. As it creaks back on its hinges, I release a long sigh. I knew he could do it.
Propping the door open with one foot, Fabithe turns to me. “You know, you really should stay here. Someone has to watch the horses.”
“No. No way. You’re not leaving me behind.”
“You can’t help,” he says bluntly. “All you’ll do is slow me down. I don’t know what I’ll have to do in there. Whether I’ll have to break in to the Citadel. Whether I’ll have to kill anyone. And I can’t afford to think about your safety as well as my own.”
“I’m not asking you to protect me, Fabithe. I’m telling you, I’m coming with you.”
He shakes his head. “Just tell me where to go.”
“We can’t reach her in the Great Hall itself,” I say slowly. “But afterwards …”
Afterwards, he leaves her bloodied wedding dress discarded on the floor; yet her mother’s dagger, in its ceremonial belt, he replaces around her waist. Why not? He knows she cannot use it to harm him. It is simply a reminder of her subjugation. A reminder that her death will come, as soon as he tires of tormenting her.
No, she tells herself. It means Mama is with me. Still. Always. Hold on to that.
Ifor leads her back out to the courtyard, her father and the Keeper ahead of them. No longer required to stay silent, the guards around the walls fill the air with cheers and shouts that rain down on her head like blows. Her legs are unsteady. She stumbles, but Ifor’s grip keeps her upright. For a moment, she lets herself imagine what he allows them all to see: a dazed bride clinging to her husband’s arm. A shy blush. A contented smile. Not her torn shift or her ruined back. Not the scarlet drops that lie in her wake like a trail of fallen petals.
“Join us!” Ifor calls to the guards, waving an expansive arm. “Your duty is done. Take a cup of ale to celebrate our wedding day.”
They obey him eagerly: some crowding after her father and Chen through the double doors that lead to the ballroom, others coming to offer best wishes to their new lord and lady. Oriana glances sideways at the unattended walls. And she stumbles again.
“Please,” she murmurs to Ifor. “I cannot walk any further.”
As if to prove it, her knees fold. Ifor lowers her to sit on the edge of the fountain. He casts a suggestive comment over his shoulder that leaves the men laughing, but his gaze on her is cold.
“What are you doing?” he asks in an undertone.
“I am sorry, my lord. I cannot – ”
Her breath catches in her throat. She bows her head, fighting dizziness, but not before she has seen his face change. Irritation, yes, but also satisfaction. He has gained what he wanted. He has finally broken her.
From the corners of her eyes, she watches him consider the options. Their marriage is consummated, now – no danger there. She is far too cowed even to think of defying him. And she has nowhere to go, even if she dared. It is safe enough for him to enjoy his victory.
“I will be back for you shortly,” he says. “Take a moment to compose yourself.” Then, to one of the guards, “Watch over her.”
He turns away, towards the men and their laughter and their offers of a toast to your good health, my lord, and lets them bear him off towards the ballroom.
Gone.
And it is true, they are married. And it is true, she is broken. Yet she does have somewhere to go. Leave it unlocked for me, she wrote in her note to the stable-master. I have a surprise planned for my new husband. If he has done as she asked, the little door in the corner of the courtyard will be her way up to the clifftop. And once there –
She will make her death, at least, her own.
“Please,” she says softly, looking up at the sole remaining guard by her side. He is a northerner, one of Ifor’s men; she feels less compunction over his inevitable punishment than she would if he were one of her own. “Take your cup of ale. No harm can befall me out here.”
He frowns down at her. “But milord said …”
“I am his wife, now,” Oriana says, with barely a tremor. “My commands are his.”
“Yes, milady.” Then he, too, is gone.
She waits a moment by the fountain, chill beads of water settling on her naked arms, listening to the hubbub of music and conversation from the ballroom. Her head swims. Her wounds throb. She aches to the bone. But she is alone.
This is it, she tells herself. Your last chance. She barely knows what it means. Yet somehow, her legs are moving.
Every step jolts her sore body, pulling the top edge of her shift back and forth across her wounds. She grits her teeth and keeps going, towards the little door in the corner of the courtyard. Let it be unlocked. Let the stable-master have obeyed me.
Her fingers close on the handle, and the door swings open.
“She’s making a break for it.” Even as I’m fighting to re-inhabit my own brain, I pass on the warning. “Heading for the clifftop.”
“Clifftop?”
“Where her mother died.” Before he can think about leaving me behind, I push past him through the doorway. “Come on. This way.”
He hesitates, holding the door open with one hand. “Alyssia …”
“I’m coming with you. Don’t argue.”
“Fine.” He picks up the lantern. Then he closes the door, and we run.