The Dying Flame Read online

  The rest of the day she wandered the house aimlessly, a feeling of restlessness growing into anxiety. Where was he? What if he didn’t return? She felt that at any stage she could find herself catapulted into a new game with new rules and new stakes. She didn’t feel ready.

  That night the silence of the house was heavy. She had not realised how accustomed she’d become to the companionable sounds of Roland’s footsteps, his humming, his music, his snoring as he drifted into sleep. Now there was nothing but the faint crackling of the fire that she had lit in the hearth below and the voice of the wind. The day had been clear and bright but the weather was changing. The wind had picked up and she couldn’t make out the moon for thick clouds. Perhaps it was one of those storms that Roland had told her about, that strike the mountains hard and without warning.

  She settled herself into bed but she couldn’t sleep. She kept seeing Roland’s face when she’d asked him what happened to the last Reader. She wasn’t surprised by his answer. As the Uruhenshi Brethren had increased their control, many who had previously been tolerated or even respected found themselves on the wrong side of Confessors, and the punishments meted out were often severe.

  What did it mean for her, she wondered? Why would Kynan have gone to the trouble of bringing her here, of taking her from the Brethren, if she was just going to be killed anyway?

  She sat up from the bed. The wind had risen now from a gentle whisper to an insistent howl. Beneath the noise of the wind she thought she heard something else: a long, inhuman yowling. Through the window she could just make out the trees bending, branches waving wildly. She felt cold.

  She got up and pulled on a cloak. She would sit by the fire. There was always something comforting about flames, she thought. They would make her feel less alone. She made her way downstairs. She fixed herself a cup of tea the way Roland had showed her, so different to how her mother had made it, milky and sweet with honey, and sat before the embers of the fire and drank it, surprised when sleep crept up and took her, gentle as a cat circling and settling on her lap.

  Chapter twenty-one

  ‘Taken my spot have you?’

  She started awake. Roland was standing over her. For a moment she was pleased to see him, then she reminded herself that he was her captor. He would never be a friend.

  ‘You’re back,’ she said.

  ‘The storm delayed my return.’

  Orla sat up, rubbed her eyes.

  ‘Did you go to meet the messenger?’ she asked, unable to keep the excitement from her voice.

  He nodded.

  ‘Is there any news?’ she asked. She wanted to say about Merryn but couldn’t bring herself to even say her sister’s name.

  He shook his head, ran a hand over his eyes, and then sat down across from her.

  ‘Please listen. I did as you asked. I sent word through my informants and they searched for your Merryn. I’m sorry, Orla. She is gone.’

  Orla froze. She looked at him, unable to think, unable to feel, knowing she should feel something but feeling nothing at all.

  ‘She’s been released?’ she said, certain that this was what he meant. She almost laughed at the thought of it.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Then she escaped,’ Orla said, the certainty not leaving her.

  ‘She was executed. Her body was identified by a priest. Your Loom-head. What was his name? Kendrid? The messenger spoke to him personally.’

  Orla felt a terrible knifing cold in her chest.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Roland said again, reaching across and taking her hand.

  She was not even able to pull away.

  Merryn, her Merryn.

  ‘No,’ she said certainly. ‘No, she’s not dead. I would have known. I would have felt it.’ And then she thought of her dream, of Merryn’s body floating in the Metkara River.

  ‘There’s a burial ground for those who die in the Vaults. I have the details, I know you’ll want to go there, when you’re able…’

  Orla shook her head. ‘No. She’s not there.’

  ‘Orla, I’m sorry. Merryn is dead.’

  Without a word, Orla stood. She made her way up the stairs. She opened the door to her bedroom. Her prison. The room was flooded with bright daylight. The storm had passed and the only signs of it were the scattered leaves and branches strewn across the ground far below. She closed the door behind her.

  She had failed. Failed completely. She had promised her sister she would return and Merryn had died alone, needlessly, without hope. Merryn. Her legs gave way beneath her. She screamed and sobbed and tore at herself, at the floor, until her hands were bloody. She only half-noticed Roland beside her, kneeling. He was sorry. She didn’t care that he was sorry. It changed nothing. He was leaning closer, she pushed him away. He came closer again, gripped her tightly. It hurt but the pain was nothing. She tasted something bitter and strange in her mouth and then everything receded.

  She was not unconscious, but it was as though the world paused. The pain was still there, she could sense it waiting just beyond her awareness, but it could not touch her. Roland lifted her easily, and laid her down on the bed.

  She watched numbly as he pulled the blankets up and over her, pulled the curtains closed. He looked old, and tired, and sad.

  ‘It was not your fault,’ she heard him say then he shut the door and left her to float on clouds of nothing.

  Not your fault.

  She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything anymore.

  Chapter twenty-two

  She did not die. Her body continued: heart beating, lungs drawing air, eyelids opening and closing. But something in her was dead. She looked out at the world as though from a husk and saw nothing that meant anything to her. She was mired in grey. Outside there were birds and flowers, sometimes there was sunshine, sometimes there were clouds. The moon and stars occupied the night sky. None of it meant anything. It did not mean freedom or happiness or hope, it did not even mean foreboding or discomfort. It existed and she existed and that was as far as it went.

  Roland brought her downstairs to eat but other than that he left her to her own devices in her room, which meant left her to sit, to stare, only rarely to sleep. She asked him for more of the drugs that he had given her and at first he gave her more, but after a day or two he shook his head. ‘It’s not safe,’ he said. ‘What must come, must come.’

  But even after he stopped it was as though the numbing effect of the potion continued. The wild horror of grief did not return to claim her. She felt empty. She did not cry. She meant as little to herself as anything else did.

  It was not your fault.

  Roland said it to her so many times the words lost all meaning. They rose in her mind sometimes like the striking of a bell.

  But of course it was her fault: it was her fault Merryn had been taken; her fault she hadn’t reached her in time; her fault she hadn’t saved her.

  ✤

  One day there was a quiet knocking on her door. She sat up from the bed.

  ‘Orla?’

  It was unusual for Roland to disturb her in her room. She felt no curiosity, just a quick irritation that she was not being left alone.

  ‘What?’ she snapped.

  ‘You have a visitor.’

  He expected a reply, probably.

  ‘Let them in,’ she said.

  The door opened.

  Kynan stood there. She felt the waves of his worry washing over her, concern and anxiety and guilt and sorrow. The pain was sharp and sudden. It had been so long, she realised, the longest time she’d ever spent without reading anybody. Now it felt overwhelming being in proximity to another mind. She didn’t want it.

  ‘Go away,’ she said.

  ‘I understand you’re angry with me…’ he started.

  She looked at him blankly. Angry? She had not even thought to be angry with him. She had not thought of him at all. It seemed so long ago, another lifetime, that he had rescued her from the Confessors and brought her
across the ocean and up the mountain.

  ‘I have a headache,’ she said and turned away.

  It was true. The pain was pulsating behind her eyeballs, like some monstrous parasite inhabiting her, sucking away at her energy, at her life.

  ‘I’m so sorry about your sister.’

  Worse than hearing the words was feeling the intensity of emotion they carried.

  She didn’t respond. She sensed Kynan looking to Roland, some interchange between them, and then the door was closed. There was a weight on the bed. She opened her eyes. He was sitting there, beside her, like some giant gangly insect, his red hair and blotchy skin bringing out the striking blue of his eyes.

  ‘You can’t go on like this,’ he said.

  She laughed. At least, she guessed it was a laugh. Her chest heaved and there was a strange, discordant sound that filled the air for a moment.

  ‘You’d like a more cheerful prisoner?’ she said.

  She felt him burn with white-hot anger for a moment, and then as quick as pouring water on a fireplace, it was gone.

  ‘Council decisions are often slow. This one has been tortuous. But I have worked hard. I have argued your case. I believe that a decision will be made soon and that it will be in your favour.’

  ‘My case?’

  ‘To join the Court. Not as a captive but as a respected participant. As Reader to the King.’

  ‘That’s your case, not mine,’ Orla said. She wondered, for a moment, if she was asked what she wanted, if she was able to choose, what she would choose for herself?

  She knew in an instant.

  Revenge. Revenge against the one who had taken Merryn.

  ‘I am sorry for what happened to your sister,’ Kynan said again. Orla looked away.

  Roland was sorry. Kynan was sorry. Everyone was sorry. It made no difference. It did not bring Merryn back.

  ‘But it was not my doing, and it was not the King’s doing. Think on this. Your enemies are my enemies. What I want is for the King to regain strength and power, to cast this blight from our Realm and rule as he always longed to. And then there will be no more Vaults, no more Confessors, and no more Penitents. There will be no others suffering as your sister did. Surely that gives you reason to continue?’

  ‘And you think I can help you?’ Orla could not keep the incredulity from her voice.

  ‘More than you could possibly know,’ Kynan said. ‘You have suffered a terrible loss, I know. But there is still so much for you to do. I need you, Orla.’

  She was shaken by the intensity of his emotions. She lay back down on the bed.

  ‘I’m tired. Please go.’

  ‘Is Roland taking care of you?’ he asked. He was studying her intently, brows furrowed.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Good. I will come back. I hope that next time I’ll be able to tell you more.’

  She said nothing, but closed her eyes and waited. After a few moments she heard him sigh, felt him rise from the bed, cross the room and leave, closing the door behind himself. She opened her eyes again. She felt a sudden energy filling her as she hadn’t felt since the news of Merryn’s death. She sat up.

  Did he really think that it was possible, that they could cast the Brethren out of Sondaria? Did he really think she could help?

  The idea seeded itself within her and grew quickly, sending down deep roots.

  If revenge was what she wanted, what better way to seek it than as Reader to the King?

  Chapter twenty-three

  When the call came she was utterly unprepared.

  There was a knock at the door in the middle of the day, a time that she’d taken to lying on her bed and flicking through books, examining the pictures even if she couldn’t read the words. She heard Roland answer and a quiet interchange of voices. Then she heard feet on the stairs and her door eased open.

  ‘Ready yourself, child. The Council will meet with you within the hour.’

  Roland was pale, his eyes dark-ringed, one hand fidgeting with a heavy ring he wore. He began to shut the door.

  She sat up from the bed, her heart racing. ‘Wait…’

  He paused but did not meet her gaze.

  ‘Please. What do I do?’

  ‘Pray,’ he said softly, then bowed his head and left her.

  ✤

  She rifled through the clothes that Kynan had sent a few weeks earlier. He had not come again himself, although he’d promised he would, but had sent messages, parcels, and books. She had not told Roland that she couldn’t read, and had let the books pile up beside her bedside imposingly. Whatever secrets they might have held, whatever assistance Kynan had been trying to provide, had been lost on her.

  She chose a dark gown, simply cut but elegant and austere, the material finer than any she had ever touched before. She washed her face and pulled her hair back. She studied herself a moment in the mirror that was set above the basin. She had changed, she realised, from the day her sister had been taken. There was a coolness, a hardness to her features that had not been there before. She would never be beautiful, but she recognised something striking in the set of her cheekbones, the angle of her jaw. She might be a prisoner, but she would not act like one. She had power. They feared her already. She would watch and listen and learn what moves she might make.

  She touched the spot on her neck where her necklace should have hung, the chain that Din had given her, a pretty thing he’d dragged from the river’s stinking mud. She thought of Din and then of Merryn. There was no need for fear, she reminded herself. The worst had already happened. Nothing they could do to her now could hurt as much. But still, she was trembling. She took one last look at her reflection, then made her way downstairs to find Roland.

  ‘Where did you get those clothes?’ he asked as she made her way to stand beside the window, near the fireplace where he was seated.

  ‘Kynan. Should I change?’

  He stared a moment, his expression unreadable, then shook his head.

  ‘You’ve chosen well. They won’t know what to make of you. A Metkaran girl who carries herself like the daughter of a King and reads thoughts as though she were looking at pebbles at the bottom of a clear stream…’ His words slurred slightly. ‘There’s always a chance –’ he began.

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ She could smell it on him. His eyes were glazed and bloodshot. His movements were just a little too big, verging on uncontrolled. He spoke too much, after weeks of almost not speaking at all.

  ‘You have been preparing yourself. I have been preparing myself. I chose the God to whom I would pray.’ He raised his glass.

  ‘You have that little hope?’

  ‘For you, my dear, I have every hope. For myself, I am less sure.’

  ‘But you have not been called before the Council, have you?’

  ‘Have not been, never will be. They don’t want to see me. They don’t want to remember that I exist. If they remember me, they will have to remember her.’ He raised the glass to his lips and swallowed heavily.

  Not for the first time, Orla wished that just for a moment she could sense something of what he was thinking, could know some of what he knew.

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me now that would help me? Anything at all.’

  He looked at her for a long moment. He was old, she thought. And tired. He had seen too much.

  ‘You are part of a long and illustrious line. Reader to the King is a sacred role, although many would prefer it were forgotten. Your power brings a duty, to serve and protect with honesty and faith. Don’t let the Council forget that. Go well for now, Orla.’

  As he said it Orla heard footsteps approaching and a hard and decisive knock on the door.

  She stood and waited as Roland fumbled through the ring of keys until he found the one that fitted.

  The door swung open. A pair of guards stood on the other side. Without waiting for them to say anything, Orla stepped forward. She sensed how they drew back as she approached. The day outside was war
m and clear and the scent of blossom was intoxicating. For a moment she felt almost giddy with freedom. It didn’t last for long.

  ‘This way ma’am,’ one of the guards said, an older man with a slight pot belly and a scar running across his forearm, an accident of life she guessed; not a mark of belief. A team of horses and a carriage waited at a small distance to the house. Orla walked slowly, taking deep breaths of fresh air, determined not to give any indication of the anxiety she felt. The carriage was parked directly below the tree that she had spent so many hours looking down on from her room. Strange now, she thought, to be standing beneath it, feeling the deep shade it cast, smelling the faint scent of menthol that it gave off. Above her a bird called.

  The guard opened the door of the carriage for her. Kynan sat inside. He gave her a quick grin. ‘The dice are rolled at last,’ he said.

  Chapter twenty-four

  The carriage blinds were closed as they approached the Palace. Kynan’s cheerful mood had almost immediately dispersed and he sat, tense and silent, waves of worry washing off him, for the rest of the short journey. When the carriage drew to a halt and the door opened again, Orla found that she had been brought to the gated entrance of a small stone courtyard surrounded by high, vine-strewn walls. Kynan ushered her through and the guards withdrew, locking the metal gate behind them. Another prison, she thought. But a pretty one. The sun warmed her skin; it had been so long since she’d just felt the touch of sunshine. There was a pool with floating lilies, each flower huge and white as a full moon, and as she passed she could just make out vivid yellow flashes of fish gliding beneath the surface.

  ‘The Reader’s courtyard,’ Kynan explained. Orla looked curiously at the door they approached. It was not the grand entrance to the Palace that she had imagined. But of course it wouldn’t be. As if they’d let a girl from the Metkaran, a Reader, walk in through the front door. The heavy wooden panels were peeling blue paint, and Kynan fumbled with the lock before the door creaked open. He brushed away a cobweb from the doorframe. ‘I will have it restored for you.’