His
boot found purchase against the wall and he forced his sole against it, using
Ayella’s weight and his own limited strength to pull himself up and over the
parapet. They both collapsed against the pigeon spattered stone, gasping and
shaking. Sobbing quietly, she reached out towards him but he shook his head,
scrambling as far away from her as he could get and burying his aching head
between his hands, squeezing, trying to hold himself together.
‘Don’t,’
he said. ‘Don’t touch me.’
It
was too much.
Horror
after horror was buffeting the inside of his skull and he couldn’t stand the
noise.
The
scream swelled, worse than everything else. The sound of the rain, the smoke, he
was soaked to the skin, sodden, drowning. Everywhere was Ida and Cash and
gravel and water and death. Ida, oh Ida, the constant voice in his head. He
tried to blink the blood from his eyes but the ground was bright with it,
running into the puddles of his memories.
He
turned towards her, shifting the horrible weight of the guilt in his head.
‘I’m
sorry,’ he spluttered. ‘Oh gods, Ayella, I’m so sorry. It was me. For Ida. He
left you…’ Leo shook his head. ‘Grace. Cash left Grace but I couldn’t… She’d
stabbed Javey! Salvage was going to kill her and I couldn’t-’
It
was incoherent babble but he couldn’t force order to his thoughts. His breath
came raggedly and he lost himself in focussing on oxygen, trying to suck some
semblance of sanity back into his shrunken world. When he could breathe again,
the words bubbled out to fill the breach between them.
‘I
wanted to go back but he wouldn’t let me. We fought and we fell as the
portcullis came down. It was-’
The
scream filled his ears again and he spoke over it, almost shouting as the wind
howled.
‘It
was chance that it wasn’t me. It was just chance and I’m sorry it wasn’t! He
saved me. I couldn’t think. I was- They would have-’
Silent,
she watched him, her wet face shining in the wash of the broken moonlight.
‘I’m
sorry. Please. I’m sorry.
He
felt the words keenly and he put everything he had into them, using them to
flatten the notion that he hadn’t been, not then, not when it mattered. He had
only wanted to get away, to run and survive in his cowardice and stupidity. He
remembered that part of himself, that amalgamation of anger, selfishness and
inadequacy and it was like exhuming a dead creature, stinking and rotten, from
where it had been buried under the floorboards of his consciousness. It was
part of him but it repulsed him. At once he was both Robin and Leo, the man he
could have been without that festering hatred and the man that he was. The
thing he’d most feared had come to pass, that when the truth came back to him
he would turn in on himself, his true self, and find his psyche wanting.
So
stop.
Ida’s voice. He relished the sound of
her, clear as a summer sky.
Stop what? Stop being?
But
he couldn’t escape his past and he found he didn’t want to. His body was his
once again, weakened but familiar and his memories and feelings and experiences
were an extension of that body, all of it, before and after the fall. He
couldn’t erase his mother or the love he felt for Ida, it would be like
cheating himself out of moments of joy he’d earned with years of bitterness.
But
why did he have to choose? Both identities were one and the same, constructed
with different parts but at the end of it, born from the same flesh, the same
soul. At the end of it there was only one choice.
He
would continue. Not begin again but take everything he was and carry on, remoulding
his future into something he could be proud of, something new and worthwhile in
the best way possible.
‘Please.
Please say something.’
‘I
wanted it to be you.’
She
said it so low he barely heard her.
‘If
Jala had asked me on that roof I would have traded you for Cash in an instant.’
Leo
nodded, slowly. He didn’t understand but he didn’t ask. The passion and the
pain behind her words suggested too private a feeling to pull into the open.
‘What
happened to him?’
‘We
left him at the Tower. Twist said if I helped him then we’d be able to get Cash
back, that if we had the crown then Javey would have to release him.’
‘Javey’s
alive?’
His
breath stalled with hope for Ida but he couldn’t speak it.
‘Barely.
It was weeks before we knew he was going to live.’
‘So
he’s not the king?’
‘They
missed Equinox. They’d had to wait.’
The
realisation sank slowly, like a dawning mist. Leo swallowed.
‘Ayella,
how long has it been?’
‘Six
months.’
It
was the least amount of time but still the horror of it rocked him. Those
memories came dimly and meekly, disobedient snatches of time, so broken and
meaningless that they might as well not exist. He remembered pain and the
confusion of being strapped down and leached and questioned and torn and
depleted. He didn’t fight for the recollection, even now his brain had spared
him the knowledge for a reason and he knew better than to try and dredge it
from the dark.
He
breathed out.
‘They’ve
had me chained up and drained for six months. Twist wants my blood, but why?
What does he want it for??’
Incredulous,
she hissed across the roof at him. ‘Why do you think??
There
was only one obvious reason but Leo scoffed at it. ‘That’s ridiculous. It’ll
never work. He can’t.’
‘But
he has!’ laughed Ayella bitterly. ‘I’ve seen it. You may be going to take the
crown but Twist is going to wear it.’
‘Why?’
Noises
echoed up through the hole in the dome. Levels below, they’d found the clerics.
‘We
have to go down,’ said Ayella. ‘They’ll be wondering.’
He
cut her off as she headed for the rope and they crouched over the gap.
‘What’s
the plan?’ he whispered. ‘How do we stop him? What do we do?’
His
sister looked back at him, her round face pale, her eyes empty. ‘We carry on,’
was the only reply. ‘We hope for better things.’
Leo
was aghast. ‘We give up?’
‘We
try to stay alive. What else is there?’
With
that she scrambled down the rope and dropped into the dimly lit mezzanine
below. Leo followed, burning with indignance at her capitulation. Surviving
wasn’t living. Twice his life had been reduced to the width of a thread and
twice he’d been granted a reprieve, this beautiful third chance of air and
blood and bone, and he wasn’t going to squander a second of it.
They
wound their way past empty bed cells and prayer chambers. Even up here in the
rafters the stench of church was thick in the air, tallow wax and incense. The
wooden stairs creaked under their weight.
On
the first floor they caught up with the players, herding a small group of
acolytes down the stairs and out through the annex into the main chamber of the
cathedral. They went calmly, filing into the pews as directed and there was no
sign that they had put up a fight. Twist turned his head.
‘I
was beginning to think you’d taken a tumble.’
Leo
looked at Hen who had frozen at the director’s side, startled and guilty, his
mouth slightly agape. The wolf pit was open and the dogs were baying for blood.
All he had to do was nudge him over the edge.
‘Why
the rush?’ he said instead. ‘I was admiring the view.’
Twist
laughed.
Bowman,
Kale and Norcross were nowhere to be seen but a few minutes later they emerged
from the opposite wing, trailing more sleepy clerics. The arch orderite had
made herself neat and had a formidable presence even as the hem of her floral
nightgown flicked out from beneath her robes.
‘What
is the meaning of this affront to our peace?’
‘Oh,
just a little moon tide entertainment,’ said Twist. ‘I thought we’d arrive
early and give you the pleasure of our company. The square fills fast and,
believe me, you’re going to want front row seats.’
The
arch orderite stepped across the aisle and he stooped and whispered something
next to her ear that made her recoil as she made the sign of Jala.
‘Sorcery…’
she spat. ‘By the gods, such sorcery and blasphemy.’
Twist
tutted. ‘Courtesy only I’m afraid.’
Dropping
into her seat, she said no more.
When
the clerics were secure, the main doors were hauled open in all their
glittering glory, spilling the weak moonlight along the carpet and illuminating
the far end of the hall where the cage stood and beyond that, raised high on a
temporary platform above the altar, the throne.
Leo
spared it one glance and headed outside. As he passed Hen he paused and laid a
hand on his shoulder.
‘Birds
of a feather,’ he said and squeezed. ‘You and I, Hen. Don’t forget it.’
He
felt the little man tense beneath his fingers and drew power from it before
leaving him at the door and chasing after Twist across the square.
They’d
made little progress with the lens and Pointer swung down from the statue’s
back.
‘Something’s
missing,’ he said to Twist.
‘Get
me up there,’ said Leo.
Neither
man argued. Pointer made a step with crossed palms and Leo was swung up into
the arms of Jala, kicking her in the middle as he struggled for purchase.
Abusing the statue was grimly satisfying and he took no care as he levered his
boots into her dress folds and climbed up onto her shoulders.
There
was a small circle of clear glass at the top of the disc, an undiscernible part
of the pattern from any other vantage point than this one. Pointer had fathomed
that much, he’d clipped the lens over it at the space in the mid-point. It was
a perfect fit. A few of the circles had already been levered out of the main
line. Leo looked up. The moon was clear but nothing was happening. He flicked
them all back in place. Still nothing. He had a thought.
‘I
need a mirror!’ he called.
Cydrid
pulled a compact from her pocket and Twist lifted her up with it.
Leo
took it, throwing aside the tray of caked powder hiding the glass. Carefully,
he leant forwards, catching the shape of the moon in the mirror and reflecting
it directly into the lens tube. He shifted his hand, once, twice, watching as
the clouds began to drift.
‘Please.
Please work.’
‘There!’
At
Nettle’s shriek they all turned to see a long beam of silver light pointing
across the square, directly into the cathedral. But was that it? Was it enough?
Breathing wildly, Leo concentrated on the small figure of Hen at the steps. He
raised his arm.
Leo
looked at Twist and Twist looked at Leo. The director’s eyes narrowed in
comprehension and a breath later he was running across the square.
Dropping
down from the statue, Leo tore after him, hammering the soles of his boots
against the flags.
Twist
was fitter but determination fuelled Leo’s legs. He caught up at the steps and
threw himself at Twist, bringing him to his knees on the marble where they
struggled and kicked, falling over each other as they reached for the prize.
For
a minute they were evenly matched, then Leo’s knuckles found Twist’s back. He
fell forwards, cracking his ribs on the steps, winding him enough to allow Leo
to wriggle free but he wasn’t quick enough and Twist kicked out, catching him
on the side of his knee. It was well aimed and the healed ligaments strained. Leo
howled though he didn’t let it stop him, there was too much at stake.
Dragging
his leg, he headed up the aisle. Vertigan and Bowman had Ayella pinned between
them but no one went after him. They stood, watching, as close as they dared to
the stench of the gold.
And
he could smell it, he realised, under the spice and smoke, sweet like almonds,
tempting, warning. Leo licked his lips, tasting his fear in salty sweat.
The
light was cold, its milky ambience bleaching the colours of the stained glass
to pale blues and greys. It fell through the slatted bars and across the crown,
sleeping on its velvet cushion.
The
cage door was open.
The
crown waited patiently.
Leo
approached and the closer he got the smaller it seemed.
This, he thought. Everything for this little piece of nothing.
He
picked it up, as delicate as paper and as easy to destroy. He tensed his palms
around it, tempted to squeeze and crush and eradicate the object that had
caused so much misery.
He
heard footsteps, padding slowly across the soft carpet. Leo turned around.
Twist
was at the end of the pews, right on the cusp of the zone of safety. Their
audience crowded the line, the priests straight backed and used to the
proximity, the players functioning at different levels of fear and tolerance.
As impossible as it was, some looked ill already.
‘What
are you doing with that?’
It
was a good question.
‘Bring
it out here, Lawrence. You shouldn’t touch things that don’t belong to you.’
‘Said
the thief to the prince.’ Leo scoffed at the absurdity. ‘It’s no more yours
than it is mine.’
But
was it? Really? If not his then whose head was it waiting for? Javey’s? The
next Frankish claimant? A Dorman? A Romillian? Wasn’t it better that it chose a
Bretton? That it chose him? The crown was a symbol, just as Twist had told him
weeks ago; it was more the king than the king himself.
All
he had to do was put it on.
He
looked at Twist, mindful of Ayella’s warning, but the man was keeping his
distance, sly and watchful though wary. Shielded by three walls of golden bars,
Leo felt safe enough to call his bluff. He held out the crown, dangling it
lightly from the end of his finger. A pointed end rested flat on the pad of
skin, testing but not breaking it.
‘If
you want this,’ he said. ‘Then you’ll have to come here and take it.’
For
a second, just a second, he thought he had Twist beaten. Then the director
shrugged, tucked his hands in his pockets and lazily ambled forwards. He’d
moved a few yards before he stopped and did a turn to show off in delight.
The
players were quieter than Leo had ever seen them and their unease was
infectious. Twist was their master but no one could take pleasure in this, what
he’d achieved was too big, too powerful and too god-like to sit well on their
shoulders. He had rearranged his biology, rewritten the destiny of his birth and
the realisation of it was frightening. He had defied the natural order. He was
a corpse walking. He shouldn’t be living. He shouldn’t be doing and there was no way to bend the mind around the rent in
reality.
He
took another step.
‘It
was your idea. A fancied whim at first I thought, an opportunist shot in the
dark, but in truth I find I can congratulate myself on having started the
wheels of it all a long time ago.’
Again,
he went to move but Leo pulled the crown back, tucking it against his leg.
‘Don’t
come any closer.’
‘Or
what? You’ll put it on? We both know you lack the fortitude to do anything of
the sort.’ Twist smirked and raised his palms. ‘But as you wish. I’ve waited
years. I have patience. I have time. What’s a little longer?’
Fortitude,
fortitude. Leo trampled the word in his head as he struggled to find it in his
heart.
‘You
might have stayed my puppet king had you not fallen and cracked open your
bones.’ Twist shook his head at the memory. ‘And there was so much of it for
such a small life, sticky and free flowing. So much red. So much blood. Far too much for one human being
to ever need. And I wondered…’ He let the word trickle out and peter away into
the echo of the cathedral. His smile grew broader in the silence that remained.
‘What if it were mine? So I fixed you, planted you, played you, farmed you and, in the end, wasn’t it
all oh so very easy.’
Leo
wrestled with his selfishness as the life of possibility he’d be abandoning swelled
inside him, renewed and unwilling to die. The fresh promise of better choices,
of living a better life was glaringly transparent above it. He had faltered at
the first test, he was scared and it felt as though he was holding his own
death in his hands. If he chose this, he would be bound here to this country,
to this role, to rote and ritual and tradition for the rest of his existence.
Bretton needed him to forget himself and put the value of its earth and water
and beating hearts above that of his own existence. Bretton needed him. He was the cost. The king was the
country and the country was the king and in acceptance of that symbiosis,
Leosandro Morrow would be lost forever. No choice regarding his own life would
ever be his again.
This
was it. This would be his last decision, his final portion of free will in
thirty two years of a life stunted by the lack of it. The cage was open at long
last. The bird was free. The door was swinging.
But
could he do it? Could he?
With
trembling hands, he raised his arm.
‘Aren’t
you forgetting something?’
Leo
looked up. Twist had approached with absolute silence and they stood face to
face within the confines of the bars. The green eyes were cold and animated,
the lined skin pulled taut by the wild excitement of his smile. He’d seen that look
before and too late, he registered the syringe.
‘Your
reward,’ said Twist and seized him.
‘No.’
The
stab was pinpoint small but the pain that burst from its centre was a riot of
agony. Like fire, it spread fast, igniting his veins and turning him to ash
from the inside out. All consuming, all-encompassing until it felt like there
wasn’t anything left to burn. The pain increased.
He
wanted to run from it, tear off his skin, pull out his organs to separate
himself from his torment but his smouldering muscles were slack with paralysis.
Leo
collapsed into Twist’s arms and the crown dropped from his fingers, smacking
the tiles and rolling into the wall of the cage.
‘It’s
a shame really,’ said Twist as he lowered Leo to the floor. ‘If you hadn’t remembered,
I might have let you go on in ignorance.’
He
tried to scream but his voice had evaporated and only his mouth moved, gaping
as if in suffocation. His eyes were wide, his pupils tiny. Twist clucked his
tongue.
‘I
know, I know; who am I fooling? We all play our parts and this is yours. I
wouldn’t keep it from you. But don’t mistake me; I did enjoy having you around.
You were entertainment beyond my expectations and for that you have my
everlasting thanks. You made it interesting, you made it fun.’
He
smiled and the smile was sad and genuine but the last thing Leo saw were the
directors eyes, focussed far away on another time, another place. It wasn’t for
him.
Then,
at last, the intensity overwhelmed him and he fell into nothingness.
#
Ayella
was released when Twist stood up and she moved to Leo’s side. She didn’t touch
him, she was too afraid. Instead, she stood over him, watching his skin turn
grey and clammy. Speckles of blood rose from his swollen pores like his body
was at the point of rejecting its own matter. His breathing had slowed; the
rise and fall of his chest so shallow she could barely see it.
Across
from her, Twist assessed the same sight solemnly. There was no sound, like the
cathedral itself had smothered its occupants, nullifying their existence
beneath the great dome and vaulted rafters.
‘Why?’
Ayella pushed the word from her tongue slowly to steady it but her voice
faltered anyway and the break in it echoed. A hollow sound. She glanced up. ‘He
would have given it to you.’
‘I
know.’
‘So,
why did you stop him?’
‘We
had a deal,’ said Twist simply. ‘Lawrence got was he was promised. What he
wanted.’
‘So
much for patience.’
‘Oh,
I spoke plainly. I have waited for this moment longer than you can imagine… The
sun, however, will not wait and neither will Prince Jarvis.’
She
looked down again at the body of the man with the tea brown eyes and she
started to shake.
‘You’ve
killed him.’
Twist’s
voice was low and pragmatic. ‘Not at the moment. This part is like sleeping.
His body is in shock and his consciousness can’t cope. Tomorrow perhaps, when
he emerges and the real pain begins, then he might start to wish I had.’
Bending,
he raised the crown from the floor with slow reverence, enjoying every renewed
touch of his skin against the gleaming gold. Then he began to change. Like he
was removing a disguise one layer at a time, the director peeled away his
character. He straightened his stance, gaining an inch in height and he seemed
narrower and leaner. His shoulders relaxed. He rearranged his expression, his
eyes softened, his jaw tightened. He turned the full effect on the girl,
watching her evenly and as his lips parted, a voice emerged. And it wasn’t
Twist’s low and rasping tone, the words which came were presented deeply and
carefully and regally.
It
was the voice she loved best in the world.
‘But
he’ll live,’ said Olav. ‘I did.’
Ayella
couldn’t breathe.
Taking
great care, Olav pressed the crown onto his head. The teeth did their job. The
points ripped rents around his scalp, scratches that tapered into pierced holes
as the metal tightened but he showed no sign of pain or fear. Instead, he
welcomed the injuries with a peaceful smile, tipping his head back and closing
his eyes as the drops grew, gathering like shining rubies at each golden point
then bursting to run in slow crimson tracks down his face and neck. It was a
private moment, watched by all, but Olav sighed into the feeling as if he and
the crown were the only things in the world. Perhaps to him they were and
perhaps they always had been. Himself, the crown and their joint undoing in a
sense of relief that at long last, here they both were, unified, the threads of
time woven back together in the completion of their destinies.
In
satisfaction, he turned towards the silent watchers.
‘I
want to thank you all for bearing witness to my coronation. Unorthodox though
it is, you can’t neglect the legalities. Arch orderite, who am I?’
Unaffected,
the cleric got to her feet. ‘You are a trickster and a deviant,’ she said
coldly. ‘But you are of blood enough to wear the crown, though I cannot
comprehend it.’
‘I
don’t require your understanding, only your attestation. Who. Am. I?’
She
seemed unsure of committing to an answer; as if aware that by agreeing, she was
aiding a plan she wanted no part of.
‘Come,’
he said. ‘The faith of your religion calls every day for the blindness of belief
in something you cannot see or touch or taste. I stand before you now as solid
as any human being has ever been and you are bound to tell the truth. What do
you see?’
‘I
see the body of Olav von Gartenfeld Hasley.’
‘And
has he the right to rule?’
‘He
has.’
‘There
now.’
‘But
that isn’t all,’ she continued. ‘I see a man with ghosts in his throat and
shadows in his spine. You speak with the voices of the dead. You bore Ulrich’s
tongue in your whispers.’
Olav’s
smile skewed into Twist’s; amused and inviting. ‘Ulrich is dead is he?’
She
scowled but was not deterred. ‘He has been missing since the Frankish
bombardment of the Tower on the eve of the last Equinox. Dead or otherwise, you
are not him, villain, and you have no business with his voice.’
‘Dead
indeed.’ Olav sucked his bottom lip thoughtfully. ‘Ayella, dearest, is your
uncle dead?’
The
address was sudden and the redirection of attention was almost audible.
It
was a meshed creature, a horrible tangled monster of Twist and Olav and it was
looking right at her. Still and dumb, she couldn’t understand. It was as if a
gigantic wave had crashed down over her head, washing her of all comprehension
and emotion, then carried on without her, leaving her waist deep in silt and
floundering in his shadow, swaying with the push and pull of love and hate she
felt at once towards him. How could they be the same thing? How could two men
so different occupy the same body? How could she not have noticed?
She
glanced around, hoping to find her own failure echoed in the shock of those
around her, but the clerics were still and sombre and the players rivalled
their stoicism. Everyone, she
thought, everyone but me. She was
desperate to scream at them, shake them, call up some life behind their flat
expressions but her spirit was as paralysed as Leo’s body and the knowledge
that once again she’d been cut out of another lie merely lapped at her ankles.
She
wanted her anger back, her sadness, relief, anything but the aching emptiness
she’d been left with in the face of the truth. It was one too many hurts.
Slowly,
she’d learnt to accept the fact that she’d never hear him say her name again
and now here it was, all three syllables just as they used to sound. And ‘dearest’,
so earnest and licked with regard from his lips. Oh, and what of her dearest? What had become of him to
turn him into such a creature?
And
now everyone was watching.
The
question, the question; what had he asked her? Ulrich?
It
was difficult to talk. The collapse of her soul had left her thick on the
inside and all the words she could be saying were clogged and mountainous in
the tar that had replaced it.
Olav
stepped over Leo and gently took her chin in his hands. He tilted her face up,
his bright eyes roaming her expression. She couldn’t meet them.
‘I
don’t know,’ she managed.
‘Yes,
you do.’ He kissed her forehead and the shiver it sparked rippled down her
spine from the nape of her neck. ‘You found him together, you and the boy. I
left him in the garden, with Gideon.’
Ayella’s
lips parted as she remembered a spring afternoon long since tucked away in her
mind, Leo’s scream, a garden of nightmares and brown bones buried amongst the
roots of a maple stump…
She
shook her head. ‘No. I spoke to him afterwards, he said-’
‘Ah, my wayward
niece. I’ve been looking for you.’
It was as the
arch orderite said; the ghost of a voice she knew by heart. She could only
stare as she drew the facts together. He was patient, helpful.
‘I never forget
a line. I never forget a scene.’ He smiled. ‘And that moment, the day it
began in earnest, was the day it almost all unravelled. Do you remember? You
caught me in my one and only mistake; wrong uncle, wrong room. I waited that
evening for you to mention Ulrich’s indiscretion but you said nothing.’
The event had eclipsed
her then and it struck no relevance now, all that she could recall was the
contents of afterwards and before and before again. So many lashings and
whippings of the tongue and the switch, cutting her flesh and her psyche and
all delivered by his hand.
‘It was you?’
she asked finally. ‘It was always you?’
He
thought about it, tilting his head from side to side with his lips pursed.
‘Most of it,’ he conceded but the next words were soft and serious. ‘It gave me
little pleasure, if it gives you comfort, I was merely following the shape of
Ulrich’s character and unfortunately for both of us his brutishness was dogged.
He’d built too many years on the back of it for me to change his persona in my
copy.’
The
shock broke suddenly and Ayella gasped as, at once, her body was filled again
from the bottom of her stomach with cold and heavy sorrow. But she
didn’t mourn for Ulrich. She’d had little positive feeling for him when he was
alive and she could barely muster any now that he was dead. And dead for a long
time. The news just flowed around her and she let it pass with indifference.
‘But
I saw you,’ she said. ‘Both of you,
Ulrich and Olav, at the sun ceremony.’
‘Then
and only then,’ said Olav. ‘Pointer helped as a mute alternate when it was
physically impossible to split myself in two. He made a good von Gartenfeld
Hasley, don’t you think?’
Pointer
had the grace to look abashed at the accolade.
Olav
laughed. ‘And thank the gods and your mother for the masks!’
As
if taking advantage of finally being able to touch her, he patted Ayella on the
cheek as he ascended the steps to the throne.
Then
came the first stumble.
It
was almost imperceptible, a slight sway to the left, but as he turned and sat,
there was more colour in his face and his skin had gained a sheen of sweat.
As
if the symptoms meant nothing, he continued like they’d asked a question,
addressing them like he would a court, like he would an audience.
‘He
knew too much,’ he said. ‘About Lawrence and what I’d done to save his life
with Leticia and Genovetta. He confronted me, threatening to tell Emmerich,
wheedling to the higher power like he used to wheedle to me when we were boys. But
Emmerich had no love for him, our stuttering little brother, not like I did. He
was tolerated for his fawning, I imagine it made Emmerich feel important, but
it was me Ulrich came to with his garden boy and I kept his secret. And it was
I who suggested the church as an escape from the marriage that would have
destroyed him. Though, in the end, he brought all that destruction on himself.
I was merely the facilitator. But he would shout and rage and question, like
substitution was worse than murder, like Lawrence had deserved it more because
of the accident of his birth, like it was some destiny I’d subverted. He left
me with no choice. He wouldn’t stop…’
He
took a deep breath, sucking the spicy air through his teeth like he could feel
what was coming. A dream like state had settled over him, his eyes moved as
they stared into the middle distance and when he spoke again it was almost as
if he were talking to himself. A church confession.
‘And
I was sorry when I saw the contents
of him running into the carpet. His head made such a crack against the
decanter. His eyes popped open and the surprise-’ He mimed it. ‘Like he
couldn’t believe it of me. There was no time for betrayal so I provided it for
him. I couldn’t believe it of myself and I watched him drain until the candle
burnt out and I couldn’t see anymore. And I-’
Olav
shivered in pain, convulsing in his seat and clutching the arm of the throne.
‘And
I buried him in his garden. I buried him. I buried him.’
Cydrid
had had enough. Unafraid of the cage, she crossed the carpet and climbed the
steps to kneel beside her husband.
‘Alaisandrina,’
he said and regarded her fondly, placing his hand over her arm. ‘Alais.’
She
was struggling to keep back her tears but her voice was steady. ‘Yes, Olav, I’m
here.’
‘So
it begins. O’er top the twine a carkanet of acture and wicked invention woven
by mine own hand. And twice over am I fordone!’ He smiled but it was laced with
concern. ‘You’re too close. You’ll be hurt.’
‘I
don’t care.’
‘You
should have left me years ago. You were always too good for me.’
She
laughed. ‘I was as bad as you, nothing more. But I could never leave you, you
know that.’
‘Bitter
obligation.’
‘For
love of you, always. First and always. Twist was my fault and my punishment but
I stayed for Olav. I stayed for you and I won’t abandon you now. I made a vow.’
He
repeated it. ‘And only death shall part us.’
Cydrid
bit her lip.
‘Then
this is death?’ Another wave of anguish flushed his face and he grimaced and
pushed a laugh through the pain. ‘I expected a quicker ride when the time came
but I’ll bear what I’m given, a gentle outing and more than I deserve. There’s
time to say goodbye at least. Death and I are old friends; he’ll wait a little
longer.’
Ayella
hadn’t registered the dimness until the clouds parted again and filled the
cathedral with silver light, watery and sparkling, muting the gold and throwing
the two figures on the dais into rippling grey shadows. And there sat the king
on his throne, feverish and trembling, the blood black on his face like oil; an
ethereal portrait of the culmination of desire, beautiful and terrible and
nearly, nearly passed. The perfect setting for the curtain to fall, for the
actors to take their bows.
And
there it was, stark and obvious. A scene. The finale. An orchestrated and long
awaited piece of theatre tragedy. The cathedral was Olav’s stage and they were
his audience. There was no after, no great beyond of rule or ruin and there
never had been. The payment for years of weaving and struggle was measured in
seconds alone. There was only this brief victory and the last performance of
the greatest actor in Bretton. His triumph, his epitaph, his funeral.
Olav
was going to die and something in that notion wormed its way into Ayella’s
heart and she found that it didn’t matter what he was or what he’d done, only
that he was Olav, the uncle she worshipped, and she was going to lose him.
It
tugged her forwards until she was standing opposite Cydrid. In the grimness of
the harsh light on the dais, his suffering was repellent, his blotchy skin
radiated heat and the shadows cut hard angles of his face despite the
puffiness. He turned his head, showing clearly the features he had in common
with Cash, the relationship she’d denied for so long.
She
didn’t recoil but old habits restrained her from reaching for his hand. ‘Was it
all an act?’ she asked. ‘Was there ever a time, even for the smallest moment, when
you loved me at all?’
His
eyes narrowed beneath his creased forehead. ‘You’re asking for the truth from
the lips of a consummate liar. What does it matter? Either way, you won’t
believe me.’
‘It
matters to me.’
Olav
inclined his head and looked away. ‘You were a distraction when you were small
and then you grew into your use. Little outcast, a small reflection of myself,
suffering the burden of our family in my stead. In turn, you rested me, amused
me, encouraged the best parts of me… But love? Dearest, how can you love a peg
on a gaming board?’
Ayella
nodded, slowly, accepting his speech with the disbelief he’d foretold. He’d
answered. It was enough to live with on top of her memories. ‘And Cash?’ she
asked. ‘And Grace? What of them?’
Cydrid
looked haggard but there was unrivalled pride in Olav’s face.
‘They
were the best of us,’ he said to his wife. ‘Cydrid and Twist, Alais and Olav,
free of the histories and events that warped them.’
‘You
have a coloured view of it,’ she spat. ‘We broke our children and now they’re
gone. Their lives were a disservice to the people they were, in spite of us.’
‘He
died well…’ said Olav as if he hadn’t heard her.
Ayella
bit her tongue hard as the last sliver of hope was wrenched from her chest.
‘Forgive
me,’ said Cydrid, her plea desperate and quiet. ‘It saved you, he saved you.
You had to hope for something or else it would have crushed you.’
She
couldn’t answer but her hand clutched hard around the silver locket. Perhaps
somehow she’d always known. Perhaps she’d been acting too.
Suddenly,
Olav sat bolt upright, his features contorted with pain and surprise. He
gripped Cydrid and his voice was wild.
‘Do
you hear the bells, Alais? Bells, bells. There were bells that day, a feast, a
birthday. I took him to see my father, when he was small. I said, father, this
is my son, I named him after mother, and he looked at us and he opened his
mouth. It made a round shape and the noise was ‘oh’ like he could manage the
start and nothing more. Oh. Oh for Olav. Oh Jala! Be my justicer! I accite thy
censure as these your booming servants bear witness to my exigent.’
Quivering
and shuddering violently between delirium and comprehension, his words skipped
and jumped through snatches of time as the choking reaction swelled his throat
and lungs.
‘Alas,
poor Banoch. Alas, Alais. My father is a tyrant but you are my own soul and for
you I’d give up everything. And I-’ He gasped as he struggled. ‘Hold my hand.’
Cydrid
obliged, pressing it to her damp cheek.
‘Oh
sweet bells! Bronzed knells of fate! The hour of my demise is upon you. Speak
if thou knowst it! Speak! Banoch Corradigan dies this night! Shall you not weep
for your king...? I’m missing words. I’m missing – Gideon in the garden. I
didn’t want to make him do it, you have to believe me. You must understand. I
didn’t ask him. But it helped. Oh gods, it helped me and I was glad. And I
don’t forget my lines. My breath abates. And I was a good king, wasn’t I a good
king?’
‘You
were,’ Cydrid sobbed. ‘Yes.’
‘Take
it off,’ said Ayella. ‘Please, it doesn’t have to end this way. Just take it
off.’
But
it was useless. Olav could no more part with the crown than she could with her
own heart. The points of gold went deeper than his scalp. The blood burner had
done more than remove his gift; it had infected him with the need for revenge,
for vindication. And the splinter had grown to split his whole being,
fracturing his psyche along the way.
‘I’m
sorry. I don’t want to. Please, Minus. I’ve changed my mind, make it stop. The
noose takes hold. I can’t breathe. I’m afraid. Alais, Alais!’
‘I’m
here.’
Begging
with a ghost, his pulled at his collar and the skin of his neck.
‘Olav,
look at me.’
He
did. ‘Morwenna, my love! Here’s to thee. No.’ He touched her clumsily. ‘I know
your face. Cydrid Roux, with a voice like quick-silver. Your lips are wet,
darling. Why are you crying? Don’t cry for me. I wanted this. Ring out bells!
Ring out sky! Let every man know that here died the last king of Cambria,
attainted but addressed at the close. Here is the close. I can’t feel my heart.
It’s yours, for always. I told him. The bells! Now! Ringing in my ears. My sweet
elegy! You call at last! I’ll go, I’ll go...’
There
was a silence but a second later his green eyes widened. He looked once at
Ayella and then at Cydrid, gripping her hand as his expression seized in
terror.
‘Alais…’
he said, his voice full of surprise. ‘I… regret…’
And
then he stilled, his gaze fixed beyond where any of them could reach, gone to
whatever lay beyond the realm of beating hearts and breathing. At peace. At
last.
The
hush that followed was unbearable but when they arrived, the echoing sobs of
the players were no better. Backing away, she stumbled down the stairs, falling
on the last step as she turned and landing hard on her knees. She tried to cry,
she tried but there were no tears left, for pain, for loss, for anything.
‘Agg.’
Cydrid’s
voice, in sharp warning. How strange it was, now that the façade was gone. So
long spent in wholeheartedly living the lie, that even the name she’d borne for
years sounded alien to her ears.
‘Ayella!’
She
laughed as she looked up at the stream of guards entering the cathedral, their
torches too bright for the sobriety of the occasion. They surrounded the pews
but the cage’s glittering presence gave her and Cydrid sanctuary.
They’d
waited too long, the final hour before the dawn had arrived and with it came the
prince to claim his country and there was no one alive left to stop him.
Javey
walked up the aisle, weakened and slow but still proud, still set on his
inheritance. He stopped at the square and made the sign of Jala as he took in
Olav’s body, slumped and sleeping. His mouth opened but he chose to say nothing,
focussing instead on the princess at his feet. He’d heard her name, she knew
but the mistrust on his face was evident. He approached with caution, holding
out his hand.
‘My
lady?’
Ayella
looked at his outstretched fingers, their pads and palm soft and pink. She knew
how it would feel to touch him, to submit, to go backwards.
As
she moved, the locket swung forwards, catching the torchlight and glimmering. Where
once its simple silver casing had been flat and plain, its plate now shone two
tones; silver and gold. Stopping, she let it dangle from her neck in confusion.
She must have scuffed it, up on the roof.
Her
hand closed around it and she sat back as she turned it over in her palm,
smoothing her thumb against the scratched metal in wonder.
‘Things are
going to be different now but no matter what happens; this isn’t everything you
are. You hear me, Ayella?’
She
heard. She understood at last. His last secret, this part of them was shared
and he had fought against it. The gold was part of his blood. Part of it, just
part, not everything. It didn’t define him and it didn’t have to define her
either. Nothing did. Not her blood, not her name or rank, not the circumstances
of her birth, not her appearance or gender.
Her
head was full of rules and now that she had finally opened her eyes she saw
them for what they were, binding webs curtailing her thoughts and actions.
Others may have restricted her body but the sanctions of her mind were self-imposed.
Don’t. Can’t. Shouldn’t. She had put them there, wrapped herself in the
suffocation of tradition and operated beneath its bounds, alternately cowering
and struggling and wondering why she couldn’t move for stuffy decorum. One by
one, she loosened her bounds and stretched in the new space.
With
new eyes she looked at Olav and then at Leo.
She
was alone in the cathedral. The last von Gartenfeld Hasley standing and now
there was nothing stopping her. Nothing and no one.
Nothing.
So,
why not?
Why?
Not?
Javey
was still reaching, for her and the crown. She backed away from him and shook
her head as she got to her feet. Then, without stopping she ascended the dais,
took the crown from Olav’s head and raised it above her own. The blood dripped,
staining her hair but she paid it no heed.
‘Ayella…’
He
took a step, but only one, hesitating like her steely gaze was sticky.
‘Yes,
Javey?’
‘I
don’t think…’
She
blinked at him. ‘Then perhaps you’d better start.’
The
players tittered, as they’d titter for Twist. Ayella didn’t stop. ‘But then,
why would you, when there are edicts of tradition to do it for you? There has
been too much action and not enough thought of late. So think now. There are
two kingdoms and there are two of us. I am Brettish and you are Frankish. Once
you told me that you were not your father and that you planned to rule
differently. Well, here is your chance. You can have peace alone and a leg
either side of the channel or peace conjoined and return to Frankland. Rule how
you like, marry who you like; what could be simpler?’
Without
waiting for a reply, she settled the crown into her scalp before she could
change her mind, gasping as the cold metal cut her skin. It hurt more than
she’d prepared for but she forced a smile and privately enjoyed the repugnance
in his face at the brutality of the custom.
‘Well?’
she asked. ‘Will you take it from me?’
What
little fight had been in the prince had collapsed and he leant against the
golden cage as he sighed his defeat in a huff of breath. Shrugging, he raked
his hand through his hair, a boy again.
‘And
what happens from here? What do you want, Ayella?’
She
smiled and her delight was infectious. She held out her arm.
She
wanted the chill breeze in her lungs. She wanted the bowl of the sky to arc
above her head. She wanted to see the sun break above the river and flush the clouds
with the chasing red and gold of a fresh autumn morning.
It
was a new life. A new day. A new world.
And
she wanted to live.