Daughter of the Flames (21 page)

There was a stinging pain on my cheek and I jerked out of the well of memories like someone waking from a dream, my breathing sawing in my throat. I found myself on Sorin’s lap, clasped hard against his chest. I looked up into his face and found him staring at me with a mixture of anger and concern.

“It’s all right. I’m all right now,” I said, my voice rough, as if I had been screaming. Had I been screaming?

“Thank the goddess,” he muttered, closing his eyes in relief.

I raised my hand and rubbed at the hot aching place on my cheek where he’d slapped me. “Ow.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his tight grip on my shoulders loosening a little. “But you didn’t seem to hear me.”

“No. No, I didn’t. Thank you.”

I sat up properly and slid off his lap to sit next to him, by the window. I took a deep breath, braced myself, and peeked through the opening again. Nothing new came. The memories seemed to have settled into place now. It was a new layer of knowledge: an important one, fresh and clear.

“What happened to you?” he said, voice still low with emotion. He put his arm round me, and I could feel him shaking.

“I remembered this place. You know things often come back to me – memories – of the time before the fire. But this was like … like the first time, when the Holy Mother spoke to me. It hurt.”

“Why would your memories hurt you?”

I had tried to describe my walk into the sacred fire to him, but I had not been very successful, partly because he did not worship the Holy Mother and it was hard to talk around the parts I wasn’t allowed to mention, and partly because … well, the experience seemed beyond words.

Still, I tried to explain. “Because there were so many of them at once. Too much. It was like drowning in memories. Sorin, the summer palace was where I lived. Mama couldn’t stand the heat in Aroha, so we spent nearly all our time here. I hadn’t realized. Practically every memory I have of my life before is of this place.” I turned to look out of the window again. “This was my home. Look!”

There was a flash of spotted brown and gold fur among the trees and then a splash of water, and I laughed in shock and delight.

“What was that?” Sorin asked, surprised.

“It was a tamul!” I said, leaning forward to try to catch another glimpse. “They’re a type of antelope, but they can swim underwater for minutes without coming up for breath. They eat the fruit that falls out of the trees onto the lake bed. This is the only place in Ruan where they can live.” I sobered suddenly. “My father taught me about them.”

Sorin rubbed my shoulder. I sat back with a sigh, realizing that the tamul – and the brief moment of happiness – was gone.

“Well, I’m glad, even if the territory belongs to the enemy, that it isn’t completely unfamiliar,” he said.

“No. I know this valley as well as any place on earth.” I paused. “We should have made Deo stay with Mira.”

Soirn smiled. “Short of cutting his legs off, I doubt we could have managed it.” He leaned his head back against the squabs tiredly. “He loves you, Zahira. He couldn’t let you go into danger alone. In any case, Deo will be very helpful to have around, and Mira supported his decision to come. We need all the help we can get.”

“I know. I just hope Rashna is having some luck.”

He smiled again, and this time the smile held a hint of its old arrogance. “That woman doesn’t need luck. We’ll probably arrive to find that she’s taken the palace herself and tied Abheron in a bow for us.”

I snorted with laughter. I could just imagine the look on Rashna’s face – half smug, half disdainful. The laughter died as I realized I couldn’t imagine anyone besting Abheron, not even Rashna.

When Sorin had suggested that we send a couple of agents ahead of us to the summer palace, to pose as servants and try to discover Abheron’s plans, Rashna had been the last person I’d expected to volunteer. Especially as it would involve working with a Sedorne man, picked for the task by Sorin.

“Why do you want to do this?” I asked her seriously.

“Why do you think, Reia?” She tapped her foot impatiently. “You’re walking blindly into a trap. God knows what the Pig has planned for you. You need a secret weapon, and I’m the best person for it.”

“Rashna…” My voice trailed off uncomfortably as I tried to think of a way to ask my question without offending her. Why do you care?

“Look,” she interrupted, “you know what I think of you, and I know what you think of me. But that has nothing to do with it. I may not like you much – or that cocky Sedorne you married – but you’re the only reia we’ve got, and we can’t afford to lose you.”

I blinked. “Very well. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She bowed – her graceful, sarcastic bow – and turned to leave, but I said her name as she reached the door.

“Um… Don’t get killed or anything, will you?”

“I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself, thanks. You worry about yourself.”

I sat back, put firmly in my place, and she disappeared through the door.

She’d gone that night disguised as a bent old namoa whom Abheron’s men had dismissed as harmless. Riding a pair of the best horses in Mesgao, Rashna and Stefan – Sorin’s man – had crept out of the town, intending to ride hard for Jijendra. She should be there by now, hopefully blending in with the rush of servants that the palace would have to hire to pull off this impromptu ball in my honour. Please, God, she would find some way of helping us.

If only we could figure out what Abheron was up to. His actions, contradictory and apparently impulsive, made no sense. If he intended to kill us, then why not just do it? Why this elaborate charade? What did he hope to achieve? Unless even he didn’t know…

“Sorin.” I picked absently at the embroidery on my blue skirt. Mira had persuaded me into Sedorne dress for this journey, telling me that it would put Sedorne men at their ease in my presence, causing them to underestimate me. I knew her argument had merit, but I still felt horribly overdressed and uncomfortable.

“Yes?”

“Why is he doing this?” I asked. “All this – it isn’t his normal behaviour, I know that much.”

Sorin sounded as frustrated as I was. “You’re right that it’s out of character. Abheron’s not a sadist. He’s a murderer and a traitor, yes; but I’ve never heard that he enjoys playing with his victims.”

“I don’t think what’s happening now is part of any clever plan. I think he intended to kill us but he changed his mind.”

“What makes you believe that?” He looked at me intently.

“It seems to me that he’s constantly playing a part: all that languid hand-waving and the clever wordplay. It’s a cover for the intellect underneath, and it’s deliberately unconvincing because he knows that it keeps people off balance. But when he looked at me that first time – when he took my hand – and then again, after he kissed me … I could swear I saw something in his eyes. Something real.”

Sorin frowned. “Real what? Emotion?”

“Yes. He was shocked, angry. And there was something else. I could feel it, pushing at me – and it made me frightened. He was hanging on to his control by his fingertips.”

Sorin rubbed his hand over his face. “If you’re right that we’ve upset his plans, then it could be a good thing – give us a chance to escape before he decides what to do with us. But I don’t like the idea that he’s teetering on the edge, Zahira. I don’t want to think about what Abheron might do if he ever really lost control.”

There was a moment of quiet – except for the rattle of the wheels on the road, and the creaking of the carriage roof, and the clashing armour of the gourdin unit escorting us. We leaned against each other, and didn’t say anything else for a long while.

Tiede was enjoying a late and intimate meal with his mistress when the king’s page scratched on his door.

After hastily readjusting his clothes, Tiede followed the page through the unfamiliar corridors of the summer palace, wondering why he had been called to the picture room. As far as he knew the chamber was not in regular use – the portraits of the previous occupants having long since been removed, leaving the walls bare – and besides, the king had only just arrived from Mesgao. In his place, Tiede would have been soaking in a hot bath.

Tiede was never confident when he was summoned to see the king. To allow oneself to fall into complacency was a fatal mistake when dealing with His Majesty, and one that Tiede had never committed. Mainly because the king terrified him, and always had.

On this occasion, however, Tiede felt, if not at ease, then at least not uncomfortable. He had been given a chance to make up for his recent lack of success, and he had done it. He had provided the king with the exact details that had been requested, organized everything just as the king had wished, and had even accomplished the feat of turning one of Sorin’s own household to the king’s use, something no previous spymaster had ever done. He very much hoped that on this occasion, the king would have only words of praise for him.

Two gourdin in light travelling armour were posted outside the door. Tiede was too preoccupied to notice that the men did not salute him as he passed, as would have been normal etiquette. The long, narrow chamber was blazing with lights, mismatched candelabra crammed into every available niche in the walls, and some extra even placed on the floor. The walls danced with shadows, highlighting the paler squares left when all the paintings had been taken down.

The first thing Tiede noticed was that, today, one of the portraits had been restored to its original place. It depicted a blonde Sedorne woman with vivid blue eyes, dressed in outlandish Rua clothing and with her hair arranged in an unattractive Rua style. She looked vaguely familiar, but Tiede only spared her one curious glance. He was more surprised to see His Majesty, still dressed in dusty, sweat-stained riding clothes, slumped in a chair placed directly before the painting.

Tiede bowed low – as low as he could, with the first two courses sitting undigested in his stomach – and murmured, “Your Majesty summoned me?”

Abheron didn’t answer, never taking his eyes from the picture before him. If Tiede hadn’t known full well that the king never drank to excess, he would have thought the man was drunk, lolling in the chair with his legs flung out, and his head resting on the back of the chair as he stared up at the portrait.

Tiede waited. He thought of the delicious dinner he had ordered, and which was congealing as he stood there, and the luscious young woman no doubt growing more drowsy and bored by the second, and felt a slight ruffle of annoyance pass over him. Perhaps the man
was
drunk. He was the first to admit that the king was nothing if not unpredictable.

He cleared his throat noisily. “Your Majesty summoned me?”

Abheron stirred. “Yes.”

The word was flat and without any trace of the normal drawl that coloured the king’s speech. Tiede’s annoyance was instantly replaced with the cold brush of anxiety. What now?

King Abheron continued to stare at the picture. Tiede suddenly wondered if he had seen His Majesty blink since he entered the room. He was uneasily convinced he had not. He flicked a quick glance at this apparently fascinating portrait, trying to figure out why the woman, with her odd clothes and hair, seemed familiar.

“Repeat to me the report you gave on Sorin’s new bride,” the king said abruptly.

“Well. Er…” Tiede cleared his throat again, then pulled himself together and began. “The girl calls herself Zahira Elfenesh, apparently claiming a relationship with the deceased Elfenesh royal line.”

“No. Not that,” the king interrupted. “The physical description.”

Tiede huffed out a short breath, now thoroughly unnerved, and began again. “Approximately five feet nine inches tall. Quite mannish in appearance, with short black hair and dark skin. She is said to have a very ugly scar – possibly from a burn – on the left side of the face. No tattoos or other unique features known.”

“So much detail, Tiede. Yet none of it at all useful. Tell me – do you recognize the woman in this picture?”

Tiede moved uneasily from foot to foot. “I’m afraid I do not, Your Majesty.”

“I’m not surprised.” Abheron stood slowly and reached out a gloved hand, brushing his fingers gently over the painted curve of the woman’s face. His voice lowered to a whisper.
“Emelia.”

They both stood silent, the king staring at the painting, the lord staring at the king.

“I do not believe you are a stupid man, Lord Tiede,” Abheron said eventually. “Yet you have all the subtlety and perception of a lump of rock. Again and again, amid your endless reports and details, you have managed to miss the one truly important fact. Again and again, you have failed me. You did not tell me, faithful spymaster, that Zahira Elfenesh has her mother’s eyes…”

Caught off guard, Tiede broke his own cardinal rule and began to babble. “I – I apologize, Your Majesty. The information was not in any report – I could not have known—”

“I don’t care, Tiede. It’s too late now to undo the damage. This is the last time you will send me blindly against my fate. The very last time.”

At those words, Tiede heard the clash of the gourdin’s armour directly behind him. Gauntleted hands closed on his shoulders and forced him to his knees. Terror, all the worse for being completely unexpected, rose in his throat with a sick, burning taste like bile. He struggled feebly under his captors’ hands, breath sobbing.

“No! No – Your Majesty, please! How could I have known? Please, in the sweet goddess’s name, have mercy!”

“Mercy?” the king repeated.

Suddenly his shoulders began to jerk, and a low, rumbling laugh broke from his chest, echoing hollowly from the high ceiling of the room. It was a bitter, joyless sound. The gourdin holding Tiede shivered.

After a moment, King Abheron sighed. “Take him away, for pity’s sake. Get him out of my sight, and don’t let me see him again.”

The gourdin needed no further urging. They dragged the pleading, struggling man away. Abheron waited until the last, desperate noises of his former spymaster grew distant and eventually ceased. Then he leaned forward to pick a candle out of the holder near his foot. He raised it up before his face, so that the heat of the flame beat against his skin and blocked the picture from his sight with its hypnotic yellow movement.