CHAPTER 3
Voices in the ante-chamber, Laili started; it was late, too late for visitors, surely … She had dozed off on the couch of her mistress’s dressing-room and now she was suddenly awake, recognising the soft, cultured tones she had heard in the garden that afternoon.
‘Who is she, Sarilla? I must know.’
‘So she intrigues you?’ Coquettish delight in Sarilla’s cooing voice. ‘I thought she might.’
‘Don’t torment me! Tell me her name.’
‘Her name is … Laili.’
‘Such an evocative name. Laili. Distant shores …’
Laili sat up, clutching her gossamer shawl about her shoulders. She had begun to shiver.
‘Far distant shores. She’s from Ael Lahi.’
‘Ael Lahi? Beyond the Spice Islands? I thought they were all painted savages there …’
‘See for yourself, lord.’
The door opened; Sarilla’s long nails beckoned.
Laili pulled her shawl more tightly about her.
‘Come, child. You have a visitor.’
Laili came blinking into the Torella’s living chamber. A man was seated by the fireside, the dying flames casting flickers of blue and red across his robes of heavy brocade. A Mhaell lord. She bowed, touching her forehead in obeisance, as Sarilla had taught her, aware that her mistress’s sharp eyes were watching for the slightest mistake in etiquette.
‘Sing for me, Laili. I want to hear you sing.’
‘I – I do not know the art-songs that the courtesans perform, lord. And I have no instrument—’
He waved one hand, silencing her.
‘I have heard enough florid court music to last a lifetime. It has no heart, no soul, it is all ornamentation and meaningless embellishment. Sing me a song I have never heard. Sing to me one of the songs of Ael Lahi.’
Laili nodded. Then, hesitantly at first, she sang him one of the first songs her mother had taught her, the lament of the girl waiting in vain on the shore for her man to come home from the sea, the sighing refrain, ‘Ai, lilua, luali …’
And when she had finished, the silence hung in the candlelit room like a veil between them. She was afraid that his silence implied he had found her singing displeasing … But after a while she saw him draw his hand across his eyes … wiping away tears.
‘You are different from the others, Laili,’ he said, gazing at her so piercingly, so intently that she felt as if he were looking into her very soul. She did not know what to say, how to reply; she was trembling at the sound of his voice at once soft and low, yet burningly incandescent. His hand moved out to touch her hair, threading the strands between his fingers.
‘Red … as a flame.’
She had expected force. She had expected violation. She had not expected this … gentleness.
The brandslaves were roused every day before dawn with the jangling of a coarse-tongued metal bell. Firstmeal consisted of hunks of coarse bread washed down with hot malted ale. Then, no matter how cold the weather, they were made to strip down to loincloths and spend all morning practising the thirteen falls in Jhered-nai. After a short midday meal, it was practice of basic footwork and bladestrokes with wooden foils. When that session ended, Orthandor made them run the circuit of the barracks three times before allowing them into the bath house to soak away the day’s grime and sweat.
Each night Lai fell into dreamless sleep the instant his head touched the pallet – but no sooner had he sunk into oblivion than Orthandor was standing in the doorway, bellowing that it was time to wake up, time to move, get out of bed …
‘Red hair … Blue eyes … Honey skin …’
The Torella drew out robe after robe in dazzling silks, holding each one up to Laili’s skin.
‘This dark azure with the spangles – “dragonmoon” – looks delicious with your hair. Or the shot silk …’
‘No.’ Laili pointed to the white silk gown, plain as an adept’s robe. That one.’
‘Of course. How fitting. White for my little virgin.’
Laili looked at the Torella coldly. She did not like to hear her pronounce it in that way; her lascivious tone somehow implied that she was some choice morsel to be prepared for the Arkhan’s consumption.
‘So much to teach you, my innocence. And so little time.’
The Torella’s opulent perfume was beginning to make Laili feel queasy; purple musk-orchids mingled with sharp patchouli.
‘What is there to learn?’ she said angrily. ‘I am not entirely ignorant.’
The Torella pinched her cheek in a seemingly affectionate gesture – but the painted nail left a sharp scratch.
‘First you must learn when it is prudent to keep your thoughts to yourself. And second – you must learn how to please. He will not be enchanted if his little virgin merely lies meekly back on the sheets and closes her eyes tight, grits her teeth, waiting for it all to be over! He will expect some effort at participation.’
‘I’m still hungry.’ Wadhir let out a belch; Lai stared studiously down at his bowl of soup, trying to take no notice. ‘Well, Aelahim. Didn’t you hear me? I said I’m still hungry.’
Lai slowly looked up.
‘So?’
‘I thought I made myself plain the other night. Short memory, huh?’ He reached for Lai’s bowl of lentil soup. ‘I said I was still hungry.’
‘Wait!’ Lai grabbed at the bowl; soup slopped onto the scrubbed trestle.
‘What a waste of good food,’ said Wadhir. ‘You’d better not let that go to waste, pretty boy.’
‘You said you were hungry—’ flared Lai.
The next instant, he found his face slammed down into the congealing pool, Wadhir’s hands pressing on his head and neck.
‘Lick it up, Aelahim filth. Go on!’ hissed Wadhir.
Lai gasped for air, his bruised nose squashed into the glutinous liquid, hands flailing ineffectually.
‘I told you to be nice to me. Or else,’ Wadhir snarled in his ear. With one last tug at his hair, he threw him aside; Lai went tumbling onto the floor, blood dripping from his damaged nose. The other slaves watched in silence. No one moved to help him. Yet no one laughed. Wadhir noisily drained the last of Lai’s soup and wiped the bowl with Lai’s hunk of barley bread.
Lai pulled himself to his feet, one hand pressed to his nose; he could taste the warm blood leaking down the back of his throat. Anger almost blinded him; he wanted to pick up the soup-bowl and smash it over Wadhir’s head. But he could hear Orthandor’s firm tread outside: to retaliate now would be enough to condemn himself to the dye works and Wadhir knew it.
Lai turned on his heel and walked slowly, with as much dignity as he could muster, out of the hall. In the bath house he washed away the clots of blood with splashes of the icy water.
That night, long after the others had fallen asleep, filling the hall with the ebb and flow of their breathing, Lai lay awake, staring into the darkness, starting at every snore.
Run away, a voice whispered at the back of his mind. Run away before Wadhir traps you alone in some dark corner. You’ll never get on the right side of Wadhir.
Lai turned restlessly onto his side. His eyes ached with sleeplessness.
But what was the point in running away? He was marked for life, the Memizhon tattoo still raw on his forehead. Wherever he ran, people would know him for a fugitive, a runaway slave. And if he ran he would lose his only chance of finding Laili …
Lai pulled the coarse blanket up over him, huddling down, seeking warmth. It was already colder than the coldest winter night on Ael Lahi; he was unaccustomed to these autumn frosts and chill winds.
Ael Lahi. Such a surge of homesickness washed over him that he felt himself drowning, hopelessly submerged.
Two russet-haired children wandering the warm white strands barefoot, searching the rock pools …
‘Listen.’ Laili cups a speckled cowrie shell over his ear. ‘Aela says that if you can hear the sighing of tides on far distant shores, it means you’re going on a journey.’
Distant shores. Chilling premonition. How could they have known that their childish wishing game would come so violently true?
At first the Torella spent hours painting Laili’s face and nails. Laili found it easy enough to copy her; playing the apt and dutiful pupil seemed to keep her instructress content. After the art of cosmetics came the arts of perfumery and incense-making.
The exquisites of the court like to hold contests to see who can devise the most fragrant incense.’
Soon Laili’s little room became as sweet as the Goddess’s shrine with the mingled scents of sweet pine, sandalwood, tulip and aloes.
And now the Torella began to ply her with books.
This is a rare and precious manuscript from his library, it was commissioned by one of his ancestors.’
Laili could not decipher the ancient writing but she had no need, the drawings were explicit enough.
‘Study it carefully. I will bring another text tomorrow.’
The Torella read to Laili from the text the next day without a single blush or faltering of the voice; most of the instructions were couched in obscure metaphor so that anyone listening casually would have heard only of jade branches and fragrant terraces. Laili sat, hands in her lap, seeming to pay attention but letting her mind loose, trying to recall the Grove at dusk, the rising of the springtide moon, the music of the moonmoths …
A sharp rap on her arm brought her back to the narrow tower room; she stared at the Torella, confused, her eyes suddenly blurred with tears.
‘You haven’t heard a word! I don’t know why I’m wasting my time with you. He’s coming tonight. Yes, you heard me then, didn’t you! Tonight, sweeting.’
Flash of emotion, so vivid Laili could almost taste its acidity on her tongue. Jealousy. Resentment. The last flare of an old love that had almost died to embers … a love that she had not chosen to end herself. Laili looked at her closely and saw the fine lines of age at the corners of eyes and mouth, hairline cracks in fine porcelain.
The Torella unbound Laili’s hair and began to comb it until it crackled with blue fire. Laili endured her ministrations in silence though all the while she was mutely praying to the Goddess of the Sacred Grove.
What do you want of me? Should I throw myself from the tower window rather than submit to him? I have sworn to protect the sanctity of life – even my own. You know I have not chosen this path … but they are forcing me to break my vow.
But the Goddess gave no answer.
The Torella was twisting fresh-picked winter asfodyl in Laili’s hair, its poignant pale perfume moist as dark glades at twilight.
‘I wish you joy,’ she said, smiling with her perfect coralled mouth, although her eyes did not smile. ‘And I leave you with some advice you would do well to bear in mind. Myn-Dhiel is a snare of whispered intrigues. You are safe here in your tower room. But do not play your part too well. I have prepared other concubines … others prettier than you … and where are they now? Beware the charming gift that comes unannounced, unmarked. Beware the embroidered gloves, the enticing sweetmeats, the jewelled fillet. The apothecaries of Perysse are skilled in devising new perfumes – they are also skilled in making poisons.’
He came very late, so late that the perfumed oils had almost burned out in the silver lamp. Laili was so terrified that she could scarcely enunciate the words of welcome she had been taught to say. But her training in the Grove had taught her to contain her fear, to hide it in courtesies. She offered him spiced wine, little cinnamon cakes; he waved them aside.
‘Come, sit by me,’ he said. ‘I want you to tell me about Ael Lahi.’
It was not what she had expected. And he was not as she had expected, either, with his quiet voice, his expressive hands, his calm, easy manner. She began to talk. And as she talked she felt her hostility towards him slowly easing, evaporating like the scented fumes into the air. He seemed more disposed to talk than to use her for the purposes for which she had been prepared.
He raised one hand and gently touched the moonmark on her forehead.
‘I have never seen this sign before. What does it mean?’
She swallowed hard.
‘I am an adept of the Sacred Grove.’
‘I know nothing of this Sacred Grove. Was that where you learned to sing?’
‘To sing … and to play the flute.’
‘The flute? I am not overfond of the flute. It can be shrill on the ears.’
‘Maybe your Arkendym flutes are different from ours. We blow across the mouth-hole … like so.’ She mimed, placing her lips to her hand. ‘It makes a softer, sweeter tone. But I am so out of practice, I fear I would make a shrill sound now.’
‘If your fluting is as accomplished as your singing, I should like to hear you play. Tell me more of your Grove.’
‘It is a holy place. A place of mysteries.’
A frown shadowed his smooth brow.
‘I hope you are not going to try to convert me?’
‘Oh no. I have not the skill – or the power – to do that. The Goddess calls whom She pleases—’
‘So what sets an adept of your Sacred Grove apart from ordinary mortals?’
This was the moment. Even though she detected a hint of mockery in his question, this was her chance to slip Lai into the conversation.
‘I – I cannot easily explain. I – we – were Chosen. We endured the initiation and we were admitted to the mysteries—’
‘We?’
Laili took a deep breath.
‘I have a brother. He was arrested trying to protect me. Please – lord Arkhan – please spare his life. I will do anything – anything you want – but please—’
His eyes no longer looked so kindly on her.
‘I do not concern myself with such matters. The servants of the Haute Zhudiciar deal with criminals.’
‘I did not mean to presume—’ Terror gripped her; she had been too presumptuous – and now she had offended him. In her desperation to save Lai, she had thrown away her only chance.
‘What is his name?’
‘Lai. Lai Dhar.’
‘And what would you give me in exchange for his life?’
‘I – I have nothing. Except …’ She could not meet his eyes. ‘Except myself.’
‘In spite of your vows?’ His voice had hardened. ‘Or do you trust that your Goddess will punish me if I take the virginity of her handmaiden?’
‘You are mocking me, lord.’
‘You think I’m a barbarian tyrant who takes pleasure in forcing young girls?’
‘N–no—’
‘Are you much alike, you and Lai?’
‘Very much, lord.’ Her voice sank to a whisper; was he playing with her, raising her hopes, only to dash them? How could she convince him? ‘Twins are revered on Ael Lahi; there is a legend …’
‘Tell me.’
‘The Goddess bore mortal twins. The first man, the first woman. When they grew old and the time came for them to die, She changed them into moonmoths … and they flew up into the night sky and became twin stars.’
‘Can you see these stars in Perysse?’
Laili went to the arched window and he followed, snuffing out the smirching flame in the silver lamp. As Laili gazed up into the inky skies, she sensed the warmth of his body as he drew closer to her, close … yet not touching.
‘The skies look so different here …’
His hand rose to point; the fingers brushed against her cheek.
‘There. Are those your twins?’
She nodded. ‘Ainai and Ainaili. But they shine more brightly over Ael Lahi.’
He laughed suddenly and tousled her hair as he might have done with a child.
‘Here we know them by another name. The Warriors.’
Night after night the Arkhan returned. And night after night he demanded nothing of Laili but her company. Sometimes he would touch her hair … and sometimes he would graze her hand, her arm with his fingers, a fleeting caress, nothing more.
He must have known what he was doing, slowly wearing down her resistance. For she came to crave that touch, she came to long for his fingers to curl about her arm, to pull her close to him … She longed to taste the forbidden fruit that she had forsworn in the Grove before the Goddess’s shrine.
That night, Sarilla’s tower was rimed with the first hard frost of the year.
The Arkhan came late … but as Laili rose to greet him, she saw that his eyes gleamed as though he had some secret to impart.
‘I have found him.’
‘Who, lord?’ Laili asked, her heart pounding.
‘Your Lai. Your twin.’
‘And is he safe? Is he well?’
‘He is in my keeping.’ Enigmatic words; the lazy green eyes smiled tantalisingly at her.
‘But still a prisoner?’
‘No. He has been given the chance to earn his freedom.’
‘May I see him? Please?’
‘Not yet. Maybe in a little while …’
‘Thank you, thank you, lord.’ Laili dropped to her knees and, lifting the hem of Melmeth’s ivory robes, pressed them to her lips. She did not want him to see the tears that suddenly burned her eyes. And then she felt his hands on her shoulders, raising her to her feet. She shivered although the fire of pine-cones burned fiercely in the grate.
‘Are you cold, child?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘Come here, then. I will keep you warm.’
For the first time she let him put his arms around her, for the first time she rested against his breast and felt the strong beat of his heart beneath his ribs.
‘There, that’s better, isn’t it?’ His fingers stroked her hair … idly, it seemed. ‘You’re smiling … yet your eyes are always so sad, Laili. What troubles you?’
‘I … I miss Ael Lahi, lord. It is so cold here. I miss the warmth of the sun.’
‘If it would make you happy, I would bring back the sun. But I am only Arkhan, dear Laili … and there are some things even the Arkhan of the Seven Cantons cannot accomplish.’
He placed one hand beneath her chin, tipping her face up to his, bending to kiss her. For one moment, terror gripped her, she felt she was suffocating beneath the pressure of his lips – and then the pleasure of his kiss trickled through her body, warm as molten honey, and she did not want him to stop.
From the pine-cone fire it was but a few steps to the silk-hung bed.
It was not as she had imagined. There was no tearing, rending pain … for he was as skilful as she was inexperienced. Yet at the moment when the need for release overcame him, he shuddered and cried out in her arms and she felt an extraordinary feeling of power … mingled with an inexplicable tenderness. The Arkhan of the Seven Cantons was a man like any other, a man with needs, weaknesses, frailties …
And he needed her.
Laili awoke at dawn to find herself alone in the silk-hung bed. But on the pillow beside her lay a long, slender parcel wrapped in a tissue as soft as gossamer. Within she found a rosewood flute, intricately carved and inlaid with ivory.
On dry days, the brandslaves trained in the sheer-sided pit Lai had first seen when he entered the compound. The only access was from a damp and rank-smelling tunnel but, high above, a spiked perimeter grille round the rim permitted spectators to observe – and comment on – the exertions of the slaves. Sometimes Lai heard jeering laughter and, glancing up, saw tarkhastars lounging over the grille. Once or twice he had caught a glimpse of floating silks and a faint waft of perfume; shielding his eyes against the pale sun, he had seen women, richly dressed, avidly watching the sweat-streaked bodies as they strained and wrestled in the dirt.
Today, the sun was a thin disc of pale gold, sheened in clouds; Lai shivered as he stripped down to the leathern kilt and padded cuirass worn for blade practice. As he emerged from the dank tunnel, shielding his eyes against the sun’s pale sheen, he thought he glimpsed a single figure high above, observing the slaves at their practice.
‘You’re late, Aelahim!’ Orthandor cracked his flail impatiently.
Lai finished fastening the straps on the vambraces worn to strengthen the wrists and forearms, pulling the last one tight with his teeth. They afforded little protection against the bruising impact of the wooden blade: Orthandor believed his slaves should learn how to dodge and parry the hard way and Lai’s honeyed skin was already mottled with livid bruises.
‘Go find a partner!’ Orthandor tossed Lai one of the heavy blades.
The cool air rang to the clatter of wooden blade-staves as Orthandor strode amongst the slaves, bellowing his instructions, seemingly oblivious of the whirling blades.
Lai stared down at the wooden blade in his grip. It was a game now, an elaborate ritual dance of parry and thrust. But one day the wooden blade would be replaced with fine-honed steel. And the ritual would end in blood sacrifice—
Wadhir swung a shattering blow against his blade. Taken off-guard, Lai flinched.
‘Scared?’ jeered Wadhir. He followed through with another heavy thrust. Lai jumped back out of the way.
‘Keep the rhythm, Wadhir!’ Orthandor growled. ‘How can you develop a technique if you wave that blade about like a windsail in a gale? Watch Dhar. He has control. Self-discipline.’
‘Control? Self-discipline?’ echoed Wadhir between strokes. He stuck out his foot suddenly and Lai went sprawling in the dirt.
‘Clumsy footwork!’ Orthandor’s flail cracked about Lai’s ears as, winded, Lai stumbled to his feet only to fall again as Wadhir slyly tripped him up just behind Orthandor’s back. Lai’s blade went rolling away and as he made a grab for it, Wadhir neatly scuffed dirt in his face. Lai tried to rear up, only to find Wadhir’s foot on his neck, pushing him down—
‘Fight! Fight!’ The brandslaves began to chant. Yodelling jeers and catcalls egged Wadhir on.
Anger rose in Lai’s throat, almost choking him. Blindly he reached for Wadhir’s ankle and tugged hard. Wadhir, caught off-balance, crashed down with a yell. Next moment, he was pummelling Lai with blows—
‘Break it up!’ Lai heard Orthandor’s flail whistle down across Wadhir’s shoulders.
The chanting died to silence.
‘You have broken the first rule of the Tarkhas Memizhon – no brawling.’
Orthandor stood glowering at them. A thin trail of blood trickled down Wadhir’s shoulder; the Tarrakh’s flail had drawn blood.
Lai scrambled to his feet, brushing the clinging dirt from his body.
‘As punishment you will both clean out the bath house – latrines and all. I want every tile spotless. Not one speck of dirt on the floor or the walls. Get in there – and start swabbing!’
As Lai followed Orthandor into the tunnel, he thought he saw the Tarrakh glance upwards and exchange a brief nod with the silent watcher. Dazzled by the pale sun, Lai caught a glimpse of white hair … as the watcher turned and walked away.
The bath house floors were awash with dirty footprints; the night watch had just come off duty at Myn-Dhiel and had tramped down along paths muddy with fallen leaves.
Lai got down on hands and knees to wipe the cubicle floors clean, wringing out the muddy water into a bucket.
‘Woman’s work,’ came Wadhir’s sour voice. Lai looked up to see him lounging complacently in the doorway. ‘Must be why you’re so good at it, pretty boy.’
Lai took no notice and turned away to finish the last corner.
‘You’ve done a nice job there,’ Wadhir said. His foot kicked out casually, overturning the bucket and sending dirty water swilling all over the clean floor. ‘Oh. How careless of me. Now you’ll have to do the job again.’
Lai stared at the running rivulets of dirty water. His first instinct was to shove the bucket over Wadhir’s head. Clenching his fists, he slowly stood up and walked over to the doorway where he had left his mop. Wadhir, smiling, placed himself deliberately in front of it.
‘Looking for something?’
‘My mop,’ Lai said sullenly.
‘He’s looking for his mop.’ Wadhir mimicked Lai’s Aelahim accent with cruel accuracy.
‘Then I’ll find another.’ Lai went to pass Wadhir but Wadhir pushed him back against the wall.
He was trapped. And alone. It was quiet, so quiet, save for the hiss of the steam on the bubbling spring-water beyond the archway.
‘What will Maistre Orthandor say when he sees this?’ Wadhir began to slop the contents of his bucket around the cubicle; ripe horse manure, fresh from the stables.
‘Stop!’ cried Lai.
Wadhir slammed him back against the tiled wall. Before Lai could push free, Wadhir had him pinned to the wall, the mop handle against his throat, pressing it into his windpipe.
‘Do I have to rub your face in this horseshit to make you understand?’ Wadhir hissed. ‘No one crosses me and gets away with it. No one does that to Wadhir. Now get down on your knees and say you’re sorry.’
‘No!’ whispered Lai. The mop handle pressed harder into his windpipe, forcing his head back until he felt his eyes begin to bulge from his skull.
‘On your knees!’
The steam-sheened tiles swam before Lai’s eyes, dwindling to a red-jagged blur …
Survival was all – he must break Wadhir’s throttlehold – or die.
One knee smashed upwards in Wadhir’s groin; one hand, index finger and thumb flexed, jabbed with painful accuracy into Wadhir’s sour green eyes.
The mop dropped to the slippery, shit-smeared floor as Wadhir doubled up.
‘Damn you!’ screamed Wadhir, blundering about, hands clutched to his streaming eyes.
Lai was onto him, knocking him asprawl. The two brandslaves went rolling over and over across the bath house floor, Lai clinging grimly on.
‘Enough, Dhar.’ Orthandor’s great voice roared across the hiss of the waters. ‘That’s enough!’
Lai felt the weight of a strong hand clamp onto his shoulder, tugging him up and off his tormentor. Two azure-clad tarkhastars had hold of Wadhir, restraining him.
‘This place stinks of horseshit.’ Orthandor sniffed the air, gazing around him at the fouled cubicle. ‘Dhar – you will make this cubicle so clean I could eat my evenmeal off the tiles. And as for you, Wadhir – as you’re so fond of manure, you can muck out the Tarkhas stables tonight. And every night for the next seven. If there’s the slightest hint of trouble – from either one of you – you’ll be stripped and lashed in front of the whole of the Tarkhas Memizhon.’
As Lai limped away to fetch clean water, he noticed a figure uncurl itself from the shadows, caught the glint of sleek white hair and silver-grey eyes.
And he saw a look pass between the stranger and the Tarrakh, an indecipherable look. He did not know what it meant. But he knew it concerned him.
Lai sat in the hall trying to choke down firstmeal, dunking morsels of bread in warm malt ale to soften them.
The anger had drained out of him overnight, leaving nothing but the bitter realisation that he had proved himself to be no different from the rest. The other brandslaves were avoiding him – whether out of respect or fear, he was not certain. Now he knew; he was as violent, as brutal as they – no, he was more violent, for they had not made a life’s vow to the Goddess to follow the ways of peace, they knew no better. When put to the test, he had fought as viciously as a crazed beast.
‘Dhar!’ a sonorous voice called across the din of the hall.
‘Maistre?’ Lai stood to attention. Wadhir looked up and Lai saw a slow smile spread across his face.
‘Outside! On the double!’
Abandoning his meal, Lai followed Orthandor across the compound towards the Tarkhas Gate.
This must be it. The moment they told him he was to be sent to the dye works.
But Orthandor stopped outside a long, barrel-roofed hall beside the parade ground.
‘This is the armoury,’ Orthandor said brusquely. ‘Go in; Maistre Ymarys is waiting for you.’
‘For me?’
‘To start your training. And he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. So, run!’