ARC: Sunstone (20 page)

III

Although a burning fear filled Sarra that pushed her to keep on moving, she reluctantly agreed they had to stop for a while to rest. Even though she did her daily perambulation of the Embers’ main roads the same as many of its citizens, she had never walked so far for so long. Her leg muscles ached, and she felt that if she sat for too long, her eyes would close and she would probably sleep for weeks.

Part of her tiredness was due to a matter that had become apparent the further they walked from the Embers. At first she had thought she was imagining it, conjuring it up out of a combination of tiredness, fear and panic about the fact that she was supposed to be leading the group, and she had no idea where she was going. She tried to concentrate on her surroundings, her fingers trailing over the paintings on the walls as they walked, her ears straining for any sounds of others ahead, but she grew to realise that although the drawings spoke of an ancient civilisation, they were there no longer, and the place felt deserted, the corridors silent and cold.

And because there was little else to distract her, her companions as silent and withdrawn as herself, she couldn’t help but notice the changes in her body, and eventually had to admit the truth.

The baby was growing.

And not just that – the baby was growing
fast.

It had been moving for a while, but since they left the city its kicks had grown stronger, and her bump had grown to the point that she had to loosen the belt around her waist. She had not been with child before, but she had observed many pregnancies in those around her, and she knew enough about the process to understand that what she was experiencing was unnatural.

Still, she kept the news to herself, aware that her condition was the least of their worries at that moment. For Kytte – who had struck the rock during the fall from the Cataracta into the pool and almost certainly broken a couple of ribs, if not more – was in great pain and obviously finding it difficult to walk at any speed.

Sarra watched Geve and Amabil tend to her while Betune stood beside them, holding up the bag she carried around her neck. Sarra’s gaze was drawn by the bag, which glowed with a golden light, illuminating the small party where they sat in the corner of an empty room.

To the amazement of everyone – including Betune – she had emerged from the pool to find herself lit up, and on realising the glow came from the bag, she had withdrawn the acorn inside and held it on her palm for them all to see. It was almost too bright to look at, shimmering as if sprinkled with golden dust, a lantern for them to follow in the darkness of the caves.

None of them had had an answer as to why it had reacted in such a way. As they gathered initially, supporting Kytte and trying to bind up her ribs to ease her pain, they speculated that the Arbor knew they were coming and was trying to guide them, leading them on to their new life. The thought gave them hope at a time when despair kept rising inside them, and made them feel the Arbor was there, supporting them, and that this wasn’t a futile journey – that the reward was there waiting for them. It had lifted their spirits as they comforted Kytte, and had given Sarra heart.

But even though the acorn still glowed, Sarra’s heart was beginning to sink. She had heard a bellow far off in the distance, and although she couldn’t be sure, instinct told her it was Comminor. He had followed them down the rope. He would not let them go free, and the thought of his anger and what he would do to her if he found her had kept her heart pumping and her legs moving with the intent of putting as much distance between them as they could.

But they couldn’t walk forever, and she had no idea how far it was to the Surface. She had hoped that once they left the Embers, the knowledge would flower in her mind and she would receive the image of some sort of map, or at least a strong instinct of which way was correct. But so far nothing had happened to guide her. She had wandered along the maze of passages blindly, turning randomly, too worried to admit to the others that she didn’t know the way, and too afraid to stop and wait for the knowledge to come.

Perhaps she had been mistaken and it had all been a dream, something her mind had made up to fool this poor, pitiful woman – who had barely anything to call her own – that she mattered, that her life was worth living. Maybe it had been a creation of a mind intent on survival, even to the extent of trying to fool the body in which it resided?

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She could not give up hope or she wouldn’t be able to take another step. She had to believe it was all real. The glowing acorn, the baby’s rapid growth – these must all be signs that they were nearing the Surface, and that the road they were on – literally and metaphorically – was the right one.

She lifted her head. “We should get going.”

Nele met her gaze, his eyes glinting in the golden light. “I do not think Kytte can carry on.”

She looked across at the injured girl. Kytte lay on her side, her face bleached of all colour, features racked with pain. Her breath rattled, and blood already seeped through the bandages they had tried to wrap around her.

“I think the broken ribs have damaged organs.” Amabil struggled to hold back tears, and anger flared her cheeks red. “This was such a stupid idea. We should not have left home.”

“We had no choice,” Geve said calmly, although Sarra could see the worry etched in the lines on his face. “The Arbor sent the dreams of the Surface to us for a reason. We were meant to escape and find our way to it.”

Tears ran down Amabil’s cheeks and she dashed them away furiously, but as she opened her mouth to reply, Kytte gave a strangled cough, turned and vomited blood onto the floor.

They gathered around and tried to calm her, but it was clear to Sarra within moments that the young woman was beyond help. Her body twitched for a while and more blood issued forth, but her movements slowed, and eventually her chest failed to rise and fall, her eyes glassing over.

“Is she…?” Betune couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

Geve nodded, swallowing, and closed her eyes.

“We cannot just leave her here,” Amabil whispered.

Sarra pushed herself to her feet. She wanted to weep and wail and take the time to burn the body in their usual tradition, but the thought of Comminor hastening through the corridors urged her on. “We do not have the time.”

Amabil went scarlet. “I am not leaving her here like this!”

“Then you carry her.” Sarra picked up her bag, hardening her heart.

When she turned, however, and saw the tears in Amabil’s eyes, she melted and put her arms around her. “I am so sorry. My heart feels broken too. But we cannot wait, we simply cannot.”

“I know.” Amabil sobbed into her shoulder. “I know we had no choice in coming, and that we have to go on now. By why did she have to die, why?”

“I do not know.” Sarra held her tightly, meeting Geve’s gaze over the top of her head. His eyes held pity, but he gave a small smile at the sight of her comforting the other girl.

Sarra itched to get going, but she made herself wait until Amabil’s sobs died down. Together, they all laid Kytte’s body out and crossed her arms over her chest, cleaned away the blood around her face and covered her with one of the wet blankets. Then they collected their belongings together and left the body behind.

Sarra led the way, with no more idea than before of which way to go, hoping the decisions she made were not random choices but instead some inherent ability she was unaware of to sense the right path. Truth to tell, though, she knew they were lost. The air grew cool and stale, each tunnel and cave so similar to the one before she wondered if they were going around in circles. Certainly it didn’t feel as if they were going up. The paths remained level, each passage seemingly the same width, with the same smooth walls and faded paintings that she couldn’t quite make out.

And then finally one of the tunnels widened, and without warning opened out into a largish room of a size similar to the first one with the pool. They all filtered onto the raised platform and stared around silently. The platform ran around the walls above a floor that looked as if it should be filled with water, but instead all that remained was rock. But instead of the surfaces they were used to, like the irregular surface in their own rooms, the polished floor of the palace or the earthen texture near the riverbanks, the rock here looked like grey bread dough kneaded and folded and then left so the rolls softened and blended into one another.

“What has happened here?” Nele wondered, but none of them had an answer.

The platform sloped upwards at the far end, so Sarra led the others around the room and up towards the doorway, wondering what they would find when they exited.

Nothing could have prepared her for the vista before them.

The cavern dwarfed even that containing the Great Lake, being maybe four times its size, stretching away from them far into the distance and to either side to such an extent that for a moment Sarra felt dizzy. She had never been in a place so big, and found it difficult to get used to the perspective. Geve clutched her, and as she glanced over, she had the feeling he felt the same, because he held onto the wall with his other hand, and his jaw had fallen open, his eyes wide.

She looked back at the view. How could she see? She looked up and realised there were small holes in the roof like the Caelum in the Embers, through which light filtered down to cast the room in a dull, dusty glow. The far end of the room was filled with an enormous pyramid. She knew the shape from childhood mathematic lessons, but had never seen it put to use for buildings. It was difficult to comprehend just how large the structure was, reaching almost to the roof and filling a good two-thirds of the width of the room. What in Arbor’s name was it?

The floor was littered with small structures and debris, bits of metal, tools, broken pots, strips of cloth, all covered in dust. As in the corridors, paintings filled the walls, old and faded so she had difficulty making them out, but she thought they had probably been brightly coloured once, and would have brought the whole place alive.

Now, though, it was deserted, so silent that when Nele’s shoe scuffed on loose rock, the noise filled the air and echoed loudly for some time.

“What is it?” Betune’s whisper rustled around them like the feet of a hundred small creatures.

“I think it was a city,” Nele said, his voice hushed even though nobody could hear them.

Geve moved forward to peer over the edge of the platform. “I wonder how long it has been deserted.”

“It must be hundreds of years,” Nele said. “Maybe thousands.”

Amabil shivered. “How odd to think of people living here, not far from us. Do you think they lived here at the same time as people lived in the Embers?”

“I do not know,” Nele said. They had talked long and hard about how and when the Embers had been created. Because the keeping of histories was forbidden, the only record they had was anything that had been handed down orally, and although they had worked out that the Embers had existed for at least twenty generations, they had not been able to decipher exactly when it had begun.

Sarra felt Geve’s hand slide into hers. They couldn’t afford to waste time staring around. She thought of Comminor marching through the passageways, coming for her, and wasn’t sure if it were that or the cool air that made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

“Come along,” she said. “Perhaps it is not much further now.”

Betune guiding the way with the light from the acorn, they walked along the platform and began to descend the steps to the cavern floor.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I

Orsin wasn’t sure where they were taking him. They had been travelling west for days towards the Forest of Wings – the dark, closely wooded area in west Wulfengar that most people avoided like the pestilence. The road wound around the outside of the forest, apparently as reluctant as people to enter into the shady depths. But the elementals he travelled with came off the road and plunged into the trees, weaving through the tightly-knit trunks towards the mountains.

He didn’t care that he didn’t know his destination. At that moment, he felt as if he could have ruled the world. He had the strength of a hundred men, the passion of a hundred lovers, and he burned with a determination he had never felt before.

What had happened to him? Some small part of his brain remained puzzled over the transformation. He couldn’t quite remember what had occurred in Kettlestan. He had been feasting at the table, wondering where his mother had gone with Hunfrith, and he had been staring into the flame, and then…

He looked down at himself seated astride a horse, then across at his companions. They did not ride horses. And they were not men. They stood tall as men on horses though, slender and willowy, their forms flickering like candles in a draught as they ran beside him. They were not human, and inside, he turned to ice.

But even as fear filtered down him, fire ran through his veins and filled him with an intoxicating excitement and power that knocked all other thoughts out of his head. He didn’t care what had happened to him. He liked feeling this way, liked the energy and the power, and he had no desire to go back to being the person he had been before.

He rode through the night, heading ever west, and reached the edge of the mountains as the sun began to rise. The six fire elementals with him lit up the forest so the entrance to the cave stood out clearly as they neared. He reined in outside, dismounted and tied the horse to a tree.

Then he followed the elementals into the cave.

In turned out to be the first of a series of caves and tunnels, leading deeper into the mountains. The air became humid and stifling; sweat soaked his hair and clothing, stung his eyes. Still they went deeper, the elementals’ fiery skin making the crystalline rocks sparkle as they passed from passageway to passageway and cave to cave.

As the air grew thicker and the walls hot to the touch, they rounded a corner and the passageway opened up to a larger cavern. Orsin stopped, taken aback at the size of it – which was bigger than the Great Hall in Vichton Castle – and the strangeness of its construction. Circular in shape, most of it was filled with a pit of boiling magma that bubbled and spat flecks of scarlet onto the pathway that ran around the edge. The pit led to a river of red that ran through a doorway on the other side of the cavern and disappeared into the distance.

The intense heat seared his skin and made his hair crisp and his eyebrows shrivel. He gasped, the dry air burning down his gullet, and backed up to the wall, stopping as he felt rock behind his shoulders. He wanted to flee, but equally the molten rock called to him, and part of him wanted to throw himself into its fiery depths and let it consume him. He had always had a fascination for fire, but never anything as intense as this. The need frightened him, and his chest heaved as he fought with himself for a moment, gaze fixed on the thick scarlet and gold viscose liquid that swirled and popped and called him to come.

Inside him, something twisted, and he grabbed hold of the rough wall as his body shuddered and stiffened. Fear overwhelmed him again and he opened his mouth to cry out, but as he did so his voice refused to come. Instead, burning heat rose inside him, up into his throat, choking him momentarily, and he panicked as he couldn’t breathe, his fingers scrabbling on the rock. He tipped his head back and tried to scream, but instead of sound issuing forth, he vomited a stream of magma that arched over the path towards the pit, disappearing into its fiery depths.

Orsin dropped to his knees, retching at the feel of the thick, slimy liquid passing through his throat, and gasping as it finally left him and his airways cleared. How was he still alive? And yet although the heat from the pit blasted his face, his insides appeared untouched from the heat of the thing that had possessed him.

On hands and knees, he watched the fiery stream join the magma pit. He was sure a long sigh filled the cavern, or was it just the wind soughing through the tunnels? The elementals that had accompanied him circled the cavern, taking up places at regular intervals on the path as if waiting, and he stared into the pit, heart pounding at the realisation of what had happened.

He had been possessed by the Incendi king. He remembered now. That
was why he had felt so powerful. Now that the elemental had deserted him, his thoughts remained his own, and his head spun at the knowledge that one of the creatures standing before him had been inside him. It frightened and invigorated him at the same time. What strength, what power! He was almost disappointed it had left him, and yet equally the thought of it entering him made him nauseous.

As he watched, the pit churned, boiled and then, to Orsin’s alarm, the whole pit reared up before him in a wall of dripping magma.

He fell back, pressing himself against the wall in fear as the wall hovered in the air, then gradually took the shape of a creature. A long body formed with a flaming tail and wide, wide wings that stretched across the room. It was a firebird, but on a scale Orsin had never seen before – filling the room, the wingspan a hundred feet wide and with eyes of fire that seared his skin as they looked at him.

The creature beat its wings and moved forward, and the elementals bowed as it passed. Clearly it was their leader, and Orsin’s stomach turned to water as it stopped before him.

“What are you?” he whispered, the words sounding as insubstantial as a dandelion puff in the wind.

But the salamander heard him. “I am Pyra, King of the Incendi.” It surveyed him thoughtfully. “Good morning.”

Orsin blinked. Had the King of the elementals really just exchanged pleasantries with him?

“Thank you for allowing me the use of your body,” said the King. “It was… an interesting experience.”

“For me also,” Orsin said, his mouth dry.

A fiery tongue flicked out, flamed heat onto his skin. “You enjoyed the experience?”

Orsin cleared his throat. “Maybe enjoyed is the wrong word. But it made me feel…” He thought about how he had felt when the creature had been inside him. Strong, powerful. “Alive,” he finished, puzzling himself with the answer.

The firebird swept across the room, magma dripping from it and falling into the pit. “You have been a follower of mine for a long time.”

Orsin frowned. “I am not your follower.”

“Words do not make it so, but neither can they unmake the truth. Fire has always fascinated you. You have always been drawn to me.”

Orsin could not deny it. That the element enchanted him, he could not refute. But that did not make him a follower of the Incendi king. That was traitorous talk, and horror filled him at the thought. He loved the Arbor, and although he did not consider himself a religious man and was struggling with his role in life, he did not wish the holy tree harm.

“I will not betray my people,” he whispered, trying not to think of how he had incinerated a room full of people in Kettlestan, burning forests and cremating animals along the way.
It was not me
, his mind insisted, but deep down he knew he had enjoyed the power.

The firebird flicked out its tongue, but did not reply. Instead, after a few moments, it merely said, “Come with me.”

It turned and beat its wings, floating above the magma to the room beyond. Orsin swallowed, wondering whether to try to flee. But the six elementals hovered around him, and he knew that the moment he tried to escape, they would burn him to a crisp.

He pushed himself weakly to his feet and lurched along the pathway to the door. He had burns on his arms and legs where flecks of magma had eaten through his clothing; his face felt sore to touch, and his mouth was dry as a desert. But he had no choice, and so he almost fell through the doorway, collapsing onto his knees at the edge of the cavern beyond.

He stared, his eyes on stalks, unable to believe what he was seeing. The river of magma fed in a wide, deep channel through the room, and the firebird flew above it to the centre. It swooped in a circle to face Orsin, scattering burning fragments across the floor.

“All this can be yours,” it hissed. “Can you really deny your heart’s desire?”

The room was filled with gold. Coins and objects made from the valuable ore were stacked in huge piles to the ceiling. From doors on either side, fiery figures marched through with more objects that they scattered on the heaps as if they were valueless stones. Obviously the elementals had a fascination for the metal, and as coins ran down the piles and slid into the pit, the firebird dipped its claws in and raised them, letting the discs melt and slip through to mix with the swirling magma.

Orsin had never seen so much wealth in one place, and his jaw dropped at the King’s words. “Mine?”

“All this and more.” The firebird raised its wings.

Before Orsin, the magma pit boiled and a curtain of steam rose from it. And in the steam, pictures formed before his eyes. A huge castle, the size of Vichton and Kettlestan together, with rearing towers, battlements and spires. Outside, its standing army – bigger than Heartwood’s Exercitus had ever been – guarded the castle and prepared for war, weapons shining, armour glinting. The picture moved as if he were a bird floating down on currents from high in the sky, and he descended through an arrow slit to the castle interior, into a sumptuous Great Hall.

The walls were hung with rich and colourful tapestries, the tables piled high with dishes full of cooked meats and fruit. Every seat was filled, and the mood was that of a celebration, music spiralling in the air along with the smoke from the hearth. Wine flowed, ale spilled, and women danced between the tables, dressed in thin gauze gowns that revealed their curvaceous bodies.

“Your castle,” the firebird murmured. “All this and more.”

Orsin watched the view before him, his mouth watering at the thought of owning a castle bigger than his father’s and living a life of indulgence. So what if he didn’t spend his days in battle, risking his life for stories to be related after his death? He would rather enjoy his life now, with the pleasures of the body.

A woman came towards him through the smoke, arms above her head, wrists crossed, baring the soft white skin under her arms. She danced in front of him, lips curving in a tempting smile, the fabric of her gown moving like silk ribbons around her curves. As she moved nearer, he closed his eyes, his lips parting as the gown whispered across his skin, arousing him and teasing his senses to dizzy heights of pleasure.

“All this and more,” the King whispered again.

The sensations faded, and Orsin opened his eyes, disappointed and filled with a deep longing.

“I have to go now,” the King said. “Others need my attention. But I will be back. I need a host, Orsin. I need to work on how to make my army flesh, and you are my first choice. Welcome me, join with me, and you will never want for anything ever again.”

It lowered itself into the magma, its form dissolving into the liquid like a block of salt in a cooking pot. “Think on it,” it murmured before its head disappeared, the words echoing around the chamber and joining with the whisper of coins.

Orsin’s chest heaved. His body ached for the girl, yearned for the treasure. In his world, he was nobody and would never amount to anything – even his own mother had no respect for him. He thought of her, and anger grew inside him at the way she had dismissed him as if he had been something she had scraped off her boot.

The King had offered him a castle, riches, power and love, everything his heart craved.

How could he refuse an offer like that?

II

Tahir sat with his back to the wall, head drooping, too tired to sit up straight. He didn’t think his heart could sink any more. He had never felt so alone, so frightened and so sure that the world as he knew it was coming to an end.

His guards had taken him back to his cell, chained him up and left. He was alone in the dark, cold stone room. His body ached from where Pyra had kicked him, and he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, fighting the urge to cry. Even though his parents had rarely shown him any affection, they had never beaten him, and nobody else had ever dared to touch a finger to him.

Except Catena. Once, many, many years ago when he was perhaps four or five, she had caught him climbing onto a well. He had dropped a penny into it to make a wish, and had wanted to look into the water to see if he could see the penny sparkling. She had pulled him back from the edge, put him across her knee and spanked him several times. He had never forgotten it, and he suspected she hadn’t either. Part of him hated her for it, but strangely part of him also respected her for it, too. Nobody else had cared enough to berate him for endangering his life. He supposed that was why he had always had a soft spot for her, and she for him. Probably the only person who ever had.

Until he met Demitto. Just the thought of the emissary made him smile, even though it took an effort to curve his lips. He thought about the moment when Demitto had walked into the Hall, striding towards him with the full weight of Heartwood behind him. Later, he doubted his own senses, but at that moment the emissary had seemed filled with light that radiated from him to all four corners of the Hall, illuminating the room and everyone in it. Tahir thought he had never seen a man so handsome or charismatic, and even though he had tried to show his usual boredom and disdain, inside, his heart had pounded and his body had warmed.

“Tahir.”

The sound of someone speaking his name jolted him out of his pleasurable semi-doze and made him open his eyes.

He looked around. How could anyone be talking to him? Achingly tired, he peered into the shadows in the corners, wondering if the girl Horada had returned to talk to him.

A figure moved in the shadows and came forward into the light of the single lantern above his head. Tahir stared, and then joy burgeoned inside him like the flowering petals of a rose. “Demitto!”

The emissary dropped to his haunches before him and looked into his eyes. “Are you all right?”

“Yes… well no… well yes, I am tired, but I am not hurt really, I just…” Tahir’s eyes filled with tears. “I do not understand. Why… how…?”

Demitto placed a finger against his lips and glanced up at the grating above the door. “I had to make sure the guards had gone. I am sorry to have made you wait for so long.”

“It does not matter, now you are here…”

Demitto indicated with a twirled finger for him to turn around, and Tahir did so. The emissary fiddled at his manacles, and then the iron cuffs fell away.

Tahir rubbed his wrists and then pushed himself tiredly to his feet. “How are we going to escape? There are so many guards.”

“Do not worry. I know my way out of here.” Demitto held out a hand. “Come on.”

The young lad’s heart surged and he slid his hand a little shyly into the older man’s grasp. His skin was warm and dry, and Demitto smiled as he led the Prince over to the door.

The emissary took a key from his pocket and slotted it into the lock. “Stole it from one of the guards,” he whispered. He turned the key and, opening the door slowly so it didn’t squeal, he inched it open.

The corridor was, surprisingly, empty.

“Where are the guards?” Tahir wondered, and then he realised. “Catena? Is she here?”

“Not far,” Demitto said.

“And Atavus?” Tahir had tortured himself with the memory of his dog’s high-pitched squeal, sure he had been killed. “Is he dead?”

Demitto’s eyebrows rose. “No, no. He is here too, with Catena.”

Tahir filled with joy. “Oh, thank the Arbor.”

Demitto smiled. He waited a moment, listening, then slunk out into the corridor, holding tightly to Tahir’s hand. “Come on.”

With a flame dancing in the centre of the ambassador’s hand, they crept along, Tahir’s heart pounding so loudly, at first he thought drums were playing in another cavern. At the end of the corridor, Demitto turned right and they crept through another silent cave.

How deep did the cave system go? Tahir knew they must be well into the mountains, possibly miles in, and the thought of having to walk for a few hours made his heart sink, even though he was eager to escape.

“Are you tired?” Demitto asked, pausing to look around the corner of a corridor.

“I cannot remember the last time I slept,” Tahir admitted.

Demitto turned back and motioned for silence, and the two of them waited in the darkness. Tahir could hear voices in the distance, and he panicked at the thought of being found, but the people must have chosen a different path because the voices grew no louder, and gradually faded away.

Demitto waited for a moment and then looked around the corner again. Still holding Tahir’s hand, he led him out and away from the noise.

They walked for some time in semi-darkness, their feet scuffling on loose stones and fallen debris. Occasionally they passed the doorway to other caverns, lit with flame, from which voices echoed, but Demitto ignored them and stuck to the passageways, taking them even further from the centre.

“I long to see the sun again,” Tahir confessed. “When it was there every day I did not give it a thought, but now I have no access to it, it is all I think about.”

“That is always the way of things,” Demitto said. “What else do you miss?”

Tahir thought about it. “The freedom, I suppose. I was very lucky – even though I was the King’s son, I could do whatever I wanted, within reason. I was not left by myself very often, but they did not stop me having the run of the castle and most of the city. I mean, I knew from an early age that my destiny lay in Heartwood, but for a long time it seemed very far away.”

“And now it is so close.” Demitto paused at a doorway. For the first time he didn’t pass but instead walked inside.

Tahir followed him in. They were in a smallish, square chamber, the walls polished to a smooth sheen and painted with red and golden figures and patterns. In the centre was a round pool of water. It did not appear to be boiling, but the steam that arose from it suggested it must be hot.

A small torch had been placed in a bracket on each wall, and Demitto closed his hand and extinguished the light in his palm.

“Is Catena to meet us here?” Tahir asked.

“Yes.” Demitto led him over to a bench on the opposite wall, and they sat, shoulders touching.

Tahir sagged against the emissary, wishing he could just lie down and go to sleep.

“Rest for a while,” Demitto said. “You are young and not yet at your full strength. It is no wonder you are tired.”

“I am tired,” Tahir admitted.

Demitto touched his hair. “It is a shame to think you will not come of age. I am sorry for that.”

Tears filled Tahir’s eyes at both the words and the tender touch. Too tired to wipe them away, he let them trickle down his cheeks. “I knew I would never be a knight,” he said. “I have neither the talent nor the ambition. And what was the point in training when I knew I would not live past my fourteenth birthday?”

“It must have been very difficult for you.” Demitto’s hand continued to stroke his hair.

“Yes.” Tahir’s throat tightened, so he chose not to elaborate.

“How much do you think the fact that your future had already been written affected your youth?”

He thought about it. “In some ways it made me careless, reckless. I did not care what I said to anyone or what they thought of me. But in other ways, it made me take fewer risks, because there seemed no point in training or trying new things because I knew I would not have the time to carry them through. Now I think maybe I should have been more adventurous, travelled more, but at the time I suppose I was angry. I did not want to see more of the world and know what I would be missing.”

“I understand,” Demitto said, “but it saddens me to think of all the things you will be missing. The thrill of battle. The delight of getting drunk.”

Tahir’s lips curved in spite of his sadness. “I suppose.”

“Falling in love,” Demitto said.

Tahir’s smile faded. He concentrated on his hands, thinking how dirty his fingernails had got.

Demitto put a finger under his chin and lifted it so the lad had to look up at him. “You
have
fallen in love then?” he questioned.

Tahir’s cheeks grew warm. He couldn’t think what to say.

Demitto’s expression softened. “Oh.”

Tahir lifted his chin out of the man’s hand, face now burning. “Please, I…” He cursed himself for not denying it. Would the man get angry or disgusted?

But Demitto just continued to stroke his hair. “Do not be embarrassed.”

“You cannot ask that of someone,” Tahir said, looking away and closing his eyes.

“Young prince, you have led a sheltered life with few heroes to idolise – it is only natural that you look up to me. I am not alarmed by it; only flattered.”

Tahir didn’t know what to say to that. He was conscious of the emissary’s touch on his head. He had never been touched like that before.

Demitto picked up a stray hair and tucked it behind Tahir’s ear. “It is not fair. You should have the whole of your life to explore love and sex.”

The burning sensation slid down from Tahir’s cheeks to his neck and chest.

The emissary continued to stroke him. “It is so sad to think you will never know another’s touch.”

Tahir’s insides twisted, a mangled wreck of sadness and bliss. “Yes.”

“You are a handsome young man. Your eyes are like twin suns – I have never seen anything like them.”

Tahir raised his gaze. He knew people found his eyes unnerving. When he was younger, he had grown angry when other children stared at him, and pointed or giggled, but as he had grown older he had learned to use them to his advantage. Now he caught the emissary’s gaze, and Demitto’s own eyes locked on his.

“Sad to die so lonely,” the ambassador murmured. “So unloved.”

A fresh tear ran down Tahir’s face. “Stop…”

Demitto cupped the lad’s cheek and ran his thumb across it to wipe away the tear. “I cannot believe no one will ever love you.”

Tahir’s lip trembled. “Do not… I cannot bear it.”

Demitto’s eyes were clear. He leaned forward and, before Tahir could react, pressed his lips against the young prince’s.

Tahir stilled, shocked, heart pounding at the feel of the man’s warm lips against his own. Demitto waited a moment, thumb still stroking his cheek, before moving back. Tahir stared at him, face burning again, unsure what to do or say.

“Did you like that?” the emissary asked.

Half-afraid, half-excited, Tahir nodded slowly.

Demitto’s mouth curved up. He looked across at the warm water, the heat rising slowly. “That looks so inviting. I think we should get in.”

Tahir stared. “Now?”

The emissary shrugged. “Catena may be a while. I think we are safe here. Would you not like that?” He stood and began to undo his belt, the Heartwood buckle glinting in the light of the torches.

Tahir’s jaw sagged. He got to his feet, eyes wide as Demitto undid the clasps on his leather tunic and then dragged it over his head. The sleeveless linen undertunic joined it, and Tahir stared at the man’s glistening brown skin, his developed muscles.

The breeches joined the rest of his clothing, and then Demitto walked down the steps into the warm water. “Aaah!” Up to his waist, he smiled and held out a hand. “Join me!”

Tahir walked to the edge of the pool. He wanted nothing more than to plunge into the water, to watch it close over his skin. To feel the emissary’s lips on his again. His hands rose to his belt, began to unbuckle it. Then he paused.

Demitto beckoned. “We do not have long. Come on. I know you wish to be with me.” His wet arms gleamed and his long dark hair clung to his muscular neck. “Know some happiness before the end, young prince. Join me.”

Tahir said nothing. His heart raced. “Your Heartwood belt buckle. You lost it at Realberg.”

The emissary looked at his clothing and frowned. “It was found and returned to me.”

Tahir shook his head, ice sliding down inside him. His head began to spin. “This is wrong.”

“Tahir…”

The Prince closed his eyes.
Oh Arbor’s roots, what have I done…

Heat flared around him. His eyes shot open.

He stood on the edge of the pit of magma in front of the pyramid. His toes were burning, his skin scarlet from the heat. Gone was the room with the water pool – gone was Demitto.

Pyra stood beside him, face filled with fury. “Get in!” he yelled.

Tahir looked at the magma. He had been about to step into it of his own volition, talked into it by a vision of the man he loved. Shame and indignation shot through him that Pyra had used his idolism of Demitto against him, to try and talk him into killing himself.

He stumbled back, tripped and fell on the floor, cowering as the Incendi king towered over him.

“Get in!” Pyra screamed.

And suddenly Tahir understood. The King could not kill him. He may be able to physically hurt him, but he could not take away his life. The Arbor still protected him, even deep in the mountains, miles from Heartwood. He might be alone, he might never have known affection in his life, and he might die without ever knowing another person’s touch.

But the Arbor loved him.

He pushed himself to his feet, rose up and stood before the King, and said one word.

“No.”