Moths to a Flame Page 7

  It must be near to dawn, Lai told himself, huddling under the thin blanket. His teeth were chattering with the cold.

  Only a dream, it was only a foolish dream … Moonmoths were too frail to cross the sea to snow-chilled Ar-Khendye; at this time in their brief life-cycle, their progeny were cocooned safe in silken chrysalises, waiting for the first moon of spring.

  But why had she been a part of it? She had seemed so real.

  ‘Clodolë, Duskstar …’

  He whispered her name aloud. He could still smell the musk of her perfume, still feel the soft silk-skein of her amber hair.

  She was the Arkhan’s consort, so far above him that he burned with shame to think of what he had imagined in his dream.

  Put her out of your mind. Forget her.

  Banging his arms about his body to keep warm, Lai began to pace the cell again, watching the murky sky gradually grow light until the distant blare of the tarkenhorns announced the end of wakenight watch above the snow-crusted roofs of Perysse.

  As the light grew stronger he noticed that a folded paper had been pushed under the door.

  Puzzled, he knelt to pick it up and broke the scarlet seal:

  I am well cared-for, I have had a little fire to warm me in the snows, and enough food. Perhaps they will let us meet, I don’t know. I miss you so very much. Your loving sister, L …

  The signature had been erased but Lai knew Laili’s hand as well as his own. He read and re-read it, searching in vain for clues. No hint of where it had been written or when.

  He sat heavily down on the bed, the letter clutched in his hand. The fragments of scarlet seal dropped to the floor. After scrabbling around in the dust a while, he retrieved them and fitted them together: the emblem was a flame. The Undying Flame of Memizhon.

  It was proof of a kind, proof that she still lived.

  CHAPTER 5

  The bleak hours of daylight waned and blizzards howled about the gilded domes and spires of Myn-Dhiel as year’s end drew near … and passed.

  The Arkhan had ordered that warm clothes be provided for Lai as well as gloves of supple leather to protect his hands. But in spite of these privileges, Lai was still locked into his cell after evenmeal every night and only released at dawn when the tarkenhorns blew for roll-call. And every day was spent in training: alone with Ymarys or in the company of experienced tarkhastars.

  Alone in his cell at night, Lai made himself repeat the invocation to the Goddess. Whispering the familiar words evoked the scent of the Sacred Grove at night, the intricate chatter of the nocturnal insects, the lapping of the moonlit tide. But he found little comfort in remembering …

  Better to forget.

  Laili sat waiting alone, her heart skipping a beat at every slightest sound, her hands tightly folded in her lap.

  Where was he?

  Past wakenight when the wicks of the scented candles were guttering in puddles of molten oil, she still sat, agitatedly twisting knots with her fingers.

  She rose and went to the window, flinging it open, gasping at the sting of the frosty night air. Far below, Perysse lay shrouded in a mist of black-ice.

  Why did he send no word? Am I so insignificant that I do not merit one word of explanation?

  And then a kind of frenzy welled up within her and she beat with her bare fists at the rough stone framing the casement window until the knuckles were torn and lacerated. She wanted to open her mouth and howl her rage out across the frosted stillness. But instead she put her forehead down upon the cold stone sill and whispered his name into the vastness of the night.

  She must have fallen asleep, her head on the sill in the numbing cold, for suddenly Sarilla was shaking her awake, chiding her for leaving the window open.

  ‘Look at you, blue with the cold! Are you trying to make yourself sick? What is the matter with you, child?’

  Laili stared at her through a veil of mussed hair, hardly understanding.

  ‘He – he did not come last night.’

  ‘Of course he did not come! Do you not know what time of year it is? He has to prepare himself for the Day of the Flame.’

  ‘I know nothing of your customs.’

  ‘My poor little heathen.’ Sarilla set about Laili’s tangled hair with a brush. ‘You must learn our ways if you are to understand him better.’

  Laili winced as the brush caught in a snarl of hair.

  ‘This Day of Flame. What is it?’

  ‘It is a ceremony venerating the sacred fire of Mithiel. The Arkhan must perform this in the shrine; in the days beforehand, he spends his time with the priests of Mithiel in prayer and fasting. We recognise it as the first sign of spring.’

  ‘Spring!’ Laili said. ‘With all this snow?’

  ‘The snow will melt soon. And then comes the day all Perysse has been waiting for – the day of the arena. Those delicious young brandslaves – fighting to the death for their freedom—’

  ‘To the death?’ Laili’s head jerked up, knocking the brush out of the Torella’s hand.

  ‘Now look what you have made me do!’ The Torella’s hands flew into the air in a gesture of furious exasperation. ‘If he had not ordered me to take care of you myself, I—’

  A timid scratching at the door interrupted what promised to be a stinging tirade. The Torella marched across and unlocked the door.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded, tapping her foot impatiently.

  ‘She said I was to bring the gown here.’

  Laili caught a glimpse of a waif of a girl in the doorway, staggering under the weight of a rich brocade gown.

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘The dhamzel Lerillys. It’s the one you ordered.’

  ‘Fool of a girl! I said I would call for it myself. She’s sent you here to snoop, hasn’t she?’

  ‘No! I never—’

  ‘Wait outside until you are called for.’ The Torella snatched the gown and slammed the door in the girl’s face.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Laili said, taking the gown and running her fingers over the delicate stitchery.

  ‘Try it on. There’ll be alterations to be made.’

  ‘But I thought it was for you—’

  ‘Ivory! With my complexion!’

  Sarilla helped Laili into the gown; the cold brocade slithered against her skin, the seed pearls prickled her neck and shoulders. She had never worn anything so rich – or so stiffly formal.

  ‘But when should I wear such a gown as this?’

  ‘When? At the arena, where else?’

  ‘I must attend this – this blood rite?’

  ‘He wishes it so. You’ll be masked, of course. No one will recognise you.’

  Suddenly Laili felt trapped, confined within the tight-boned bodice.

  Alien people. Alien customs. Alien rites.

  ‘Turn around. The hem needs taking up. And the neckline embroidery is unfinished. Look at these loose threads! Take it off.’

  Laili obediently stepped out of the gown and Sarilla took it back into the outer chamber, taking care to lock the door behind her.

  Laili knelt and peered through the keyhole.

  ‘It won’t do. The hem needs raising by a thumb’s breadth and this neckline is a disgrace!’

  The girl seemed terrified; Laili saw she was shivering, her thin arms wrapped about her as though clutching in what little warmth she could generate.

  ‘What are you waiting for, chit? Get to work!’

  ‘I was up all night to finish it,’ wailed the girl. ‘It’s cost a fortune in candles—’

  ‘No more excuses! I want it by sundown. Now be off with you.’

  Laili heard the Torella’s voice rising from the courtyard garden, sharp as the cry of a crane. She drew close to her window and, gazing down on the twilit garden, saw that the little seamstress had returned with the ivory gown.

  ‘What’s this?’ The Torella held it up critically to the fading light. ‘It looks like blood!’

  She jabbed a finger at the intricate embroidery around
the hem.

  ‘It’s only a pinprick, it won’t show—’

  ‘It won’t show?’

  Laili saw the Torella’s jewelled hand flash through the light, heard the smack as she hit the girl across the face, saw the girl stumble and fall to her knees.

  ‘Shoddy workmanship! If you think I’m going to pay you for this, you’re much mistaken, my girl.’

  ‘Not going to pay?’ The girl was struggling to her feet, one shaking hand clutching at the dress. ‘What about my fee?’

  ‘Such insolence!’ Sarilla snatched the dress away. ‘Be gone with you! Or I’ll call the tarkhastars!’

  Laili turned away.

  There, but for your grace, Goddess …

  ‘What kind of a place is this where children work their fingers to the bone?’ she whispered.

  Lai stood silently in the open doorway of the armoury, observing Ymarys coaching a trio of tarkhastars. A few bleak weeks ago, he would have observed them uncritically, dazzled by their élan and vivacity. Now he found himself assessing their weaknesses: one was unevenly balanced, another ill-guarded on the right flank, so easy to slip the blade through and—

  Goddess! He checked himself. What has become of me? I’ve begun to think like a killer – a ruthless, calculating killer—

  The battered leathern quintains were brought out, each torso marked in scarlet with the artery points where a sharp slash or thrust would bring certain death. Lai watched Ymarys demonstrate a lunge to the carotid artery. The Razhirrakh moved with the elegance of a dancer, carelessly graceful, more an artist than a lethal blademaster.

  As Ymarys stepped back from the quintain, he caught sight of Lai in the doorway.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Ymarys saluted the tarkhastars with his blade. ‘Today’s session is at an end.’

  The tarkhastars saluted in return and filed out past Lai, wiping the sweat from their faces.

  Lai began to unfasten his jacket when Ymarys checked him.

  ‘They’ve cleared the snow from the arena. Bring your blade with you.’

  At the back of the armoury a cobalt-stained door led down a deep, winding stair to a sombre, cobwebbed archway; beyond lay a subterranean passage. Ymarys struck a tinderstone to light his lantern and led the way into the darkness. Unlike the noisome passage to the slave-pit, this tunnel was wide enough for four men to walk abreast. After Lai’s eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, he began to notice that an intricate pattern had been worked into the ancient stones in a dull glimmer of silver; his fingers traced it, feeling the smooth, cold texture.

  ‘Thylz,’ Ymarys said. ‘A rare metal, much prized by the ancient Memizhon smiths. It glints faintly in the dark. Even without a lantern you could find your way.’

  ‘These sigils—’

  ‘An ancient tongue that few can decipher now. The Blood Rites trophy – the famed Razhir of Mithiel that Melmeth is so anxious to win back – is forged from thylz.’

  A chill draught seeped into the passageway; soon the passageway came to an end in a rising stair. Lai shivered, sensing a sudden echo of terror and dull despair that emanated from the ancient stones. Only one way out – and that led to the arena.

  The air grew sharper, cleaner, as they climbed.

  ‘Sarafin’s Gate.’ Ymarys led Lai through an archway toothed with spikes. ‘Your doorway to freedom – or oblivion.’

  Lai found himself blinking in daylight on the inner rim of a vast empty circle of carven stone.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ Ymarys said softly. ‘Imagine. Every seat filled, the stones shuddering to the din of the crowd, all shouting, baying like beasts for blood.’

  Lai walked slowly towards the centre. It seemed so far to walk.

  ‘It’s vast.’

  The frozen sand crunched under his feet. In the distance there were men at work; laboriously raking and sifting.

  ‘Still a trifle hard underfoot.’ Ymarys bent and sifted the grains through his gloved fingers. ‘But with the thaw so late …’

  ‘You mean – we work here today?’ Lai blew on his numb hands; his breath sizzled like smoke in the frosty air.

  ‘See the Arkhan’s dais?’ Ymarys said, pointing. ‘That is where you go to receive your token of freedom – if you win. That is where the Arkhan casts the deathstones—’

  ‘What are deathstones?’ Lai said, frowning.

  ‘When one combatant draws blood, the Arkhan throws down the seven deathstones into the arena. If the stones fall in favour of the victor – then he must kill his opponent.’

  ‘Kill?’ Lai said. The echo went whispering around the arena. ‘You mean execute.’

  Ymarys shrugged.

  ‘That is the tradition. If both contestants have fought with skill, the Arkhan may choose to spare the loser. But the crowd comes to see blood spilt. And the Arkhan likes to please the crowd.’

  ‘This – blood rite. It is in honour of your god, Mithiel. Why is this god so hungry for blood?’

  ‘Enough talk!’ cried Ymarys in sudden irritation, flinging off his cloak, a fireswirl of brimstone yellow against the white sand. ‘To work!’

  Each bladestroke was rehearsed and re-rehearsed in slow motion until their movements acquired the grace and pattern of an antique dance.

  Zigzag, interlace, then cross, dragonfly, reverse dragonfly, blade-whirring waterwheel …

  ‘Bravo, Maistre Razhirrakh!’ A burst of applause shattered the stillness.

  Ymarys stepped back, his blade lowered. Lai turned around – and saw that there were people watching from the Arkhan’s dais.

  Melmeth and his entourage were wrapped in costly furs against the chill. Spiced smoke from brewing hippocras drifted across as a servitor poured the hot wine into goblets for the Arkhan and his guests.

  ‘A stirring display, wouldn’t you agree, my lord Zhudiciar?’

  ‘It was elegantly executed, zhan.’ The man beside Melmeth was robed in crimson velvet. ‘But I’ll wager neither of these bravos is a match for my champion.’

  ‘That’s Jhafir, the Haute Zhudiciar,’ Ymarys said in Lai’s ear. ‘Head of the rival Tarkhas, the Tarkhas Zhudiciar.’

  ‘A wager!’ Melmeth cried. ‘Do you hear that, Maistre Ymarys?’

  Ymarys replied with a bow, hand on heart.

  ‘And what does my lord Zhudiciar bet on his champion’s success?’

  ‘A pack of sable-spotted deer hounds. And a pair of grey stallions, bred on the plains of Djihan-Djihar.’

  ‘Hmm. Handsome beasts. An attractive proposition. Come closer!’

  Ymarys, still breathing hard on the frosted air, took Lai by the arm and drew him towards the dais.

  ‘You heard my lord Zhudiciar? This leaves me with a delicate decision to make. Which of you two shall I match against his champion? How did you decide, Jhafir?’

  Lai saw the Haute Zhudiciar smile.

  ‘I made an occasion of it. The men like a clan match – it whets their appetites for the rites to come. I set my two fighting cocks together to spar it out in front of the Tarkhas Zhudiciar.’

  ‘Not to the death, surely!’

  ‘To the first blood. And a most stimulating contest it proved to be. Young Dhussyk against Rho Jhan.’

  ‘And who won?’

  ‘Rho Jhan.’

  ‘Rho Jhan,’ repeated Ymarys under his breath.

  ‘Though Dhussyk made him sweat. Learned to fight on a corsair galley, apparently. Only twenty – but a veritable whirlwind of a bladesman.’

  ‘Well, Maistre Ymarys.’ Melmeth’s words seemed bright and brittle on the cold air; Lai detected a shimmer of anger beneath the brightness. ‘A contest it will be. In front of the Tarkhas Memizhon. Unbuttoned blades. Tomorrow at ten.’

  ‘The Arkhan is right,’ Ymarys said carelessly. ‘Rho Jhan is a formidable opponent. But what he significantly failed to mention is that Rho Jhan is Clodolë’s current favourite. What a scandal! To take the rival champion to her bed! Now do you understand why Melmeth would like nothing better than to see his consort’
s lover publicly humiliated? He’ll go to any lengths to ensure that happens. Oh, there’s more at stake here than a few lives, Lai. There’s the honour of the ruler of the House of Memizhon to be protected. At all costs.’

  ‘So we must fight each other?’

  ‘Yes, we fight each other,’ Ymarys said, his voice suddenly chill, winter black-ice, ‘for the privilege of besting Clodolë’s lover.’

  A note had been pushed under Lai’s door. He opened it with trembling fingers; it was sealed with the scarlet flame of Memizhon but the writing was unfamiliar.

  Be in the Sassistri Gardens by the Windflower Pavilion on the stroke of wakenight tonight. Come alone, unarmed.

  No signature.

  Lai sprawled on the bed, kicking off his boots, to read and re-read the terse message. He had just come from the bath house; even after a soak and a vigorous pummelling from one of the masseurs, he was ready to drop, every muscle aching with fatigue.

  How can I leave this room? I’m locked in for the night … and so tired I can not keep my eyelids … from closing …

  The creak of a key turning in the lock …

  Lai sat up with a start. The lucerna had burnt down and the charred wick was smouldering, a smoking emberlight in the dregs of the oil.

  How long had he been asleep? He could only have dozed for a few minutes … and yet the lucerna was all but out.

  He tested the door handle; the door swung open.

  He grabbed his cloak and ran. The thaw had melted the snow and the courtyards were wet with slush. There were lights in the gatehouse and the sounds of singing. Orthandor’s rich bass dominating all other voices in a bawdy drinking catch.

  I could slip away now – and no one would notice. But then – what would become of Laili? How could I go and leave her here?

  Lai sighed and took the shadowed path that led into the gardens.

  A slight, wet wind rustled the branches. The unlit path was treacherously slippery with mud.

  Lai reached the pavilion as the wakenight bell tolled out, dull bronze reverberations on the moist air and from faraway, the tarkenhorns of the Tarkhas Zhudiciar answered.