ARC: Sunstone (16 page)

III

Comminor sat behind his desk, which was covered in sheets of paper ingrained with his small, neat handwriting. He had a steward who kept the tally of resources in the Embers. This included the number of sacks of moss oats in the storage rooms and how many rolls of goats’ cheese remained wrapped in leaves, a count of the men and women in the city and how many in each age group, how many goats there were and when kids were born, any incidences of disease, and careful observation of relationships which might lead to the occurrence of a child.

He leaned back and ran a hand through his hair as he read that three more women had become pregnant. The day before, he had been walking through the Secundus District when a woman had thrown herself at his feet, begging him to let her keep her baby. He had commanded the Select with him to remove her and take her to the palace apothecary, but that one had weighed heavy on his mind overnight.

More babies meant more strain on their resources. It would have been easier to regulate the birth rate by separating the men and women completely, and only allowing relationships on a controlled basis. He had considered it on more than one occasion, rejecting it each time for several reasons; the difficulty of implementing segregation on a population that would obviously resent and rebel against such a decision, the difficulty of maintaining it even if they were to achieve it, and the effect on morale should they be able to achieve it
and
maintain it, which he sincerely doubted.

Morale was an issue that weighed heavily on his mind. Standing at the long window in his foyer, looking down at the Great Lake and the busyness of daily life, he sometimes thought he could feel the depression his people exhibited at times like a tangible thing, like a fog that descended on them, enveloping them and causing their spirits to sink, their enthusiasm to wane. It happened after festivals, market days and other important events, and also at other times of the year, when there seemed little for the people to look forward to. Taking away his people’s mates, refusing them sexual relationships, closing down the whorehouses, effectively turning the place into a prison – that would not go down well. He understood the need for companionship, for sexual release – that was perfectly natural, and the only way the Embers had survived for so long was by maintaining their humanity, by ensuring they continued the way of life that they had known before they were cut off from the world.

Bored with statistics and records, he pushed the papers aside, stood and went to the entrance to his chambers. Most of the time he kept the embroidered curtain pulled back, but now he let it drop, signifying that he did not want to be disturbed.

He walked across the room to the cabinet that stood in the corner. Innocuous and plain, it did not draw a second glance from anyone who came into the room, which was how he liked it. He took the key from around his neck and unlocked it, opened the doors and withdrew one of the large books that lay within. Carefully, he carried it over to his desk.

He sat and looked at the cover. It was made of the skin of some animal unknown in the Embers, and although the ink on the front had cracked and peeled slightly, he could still make out the words.

The Nox Aves Quercetum II.

Carefully, he lifted the cover and began turning the pages.

He spent a while looking through the book, more out of a need to remind and reassure himself of his purpose than out of a wish to read the text. He knew most of it off by heart anyway, could recite long passages due to the fact that he had read the book numerous times from cover to cover.

It contained the accounts of members of the group who called themselves the Nox Aves from their creation many thousands of years ago up to its latest and only member – himself. Here lay the history of Anguis in two volumes, including the writings of Oculus, the invasion of the Darkwater Lords at the beginning of the Second Era, the rise of the Incendi, and the event that had led to the creation of the Embers itself.

He smoothed his fingers over the crackled parchment. Touching the book always filled him with a sense of awe, of reassurance. He had accepted the role of Chief Select from his predecessor knowing that he had the combination of personal characteristics that the role required: vision, empathy and the necessary ability to be cruel, because no leader can rule purely out of the goodness of his heart. And in such a place as the Embers, governance would always demand hard decisions for the general good of the people.

Still, he had doubted over the years, especially lately. The dreams had been coming thick and strong, vivid and real, and it made it even harder for him to continue to hold onto his control, not to doubt himself. Not being able to share his knowledge had been hard. Reading the words of those who had come before him comforted him, made him feel less lonely. There were reasons, he told himself, for his harsh decisions, and if everyone knew what he knew, they would not question him.

He turned the page and came across the passage written by his predecessor about the presence of bards within their society. Though he knew the words, he read them again, tracing the ink with his fingers as his eyes followed the words.

There are families in the Embers who seem to carry within their blood a memory of the old days,
Comminor read.
These men and women keep alive the world on the Surface, and pass on to their successors the dreams of the green and blue, the birds in the sky and the creatures of the earth. They keep their gifts secret, their abilities buried within themselves. They are special and extraordinary, and they are to be hunted down and destroyed at all costs.

Comminor’s finger paused, then retraced the last sentence again.

His predecessor had not known that Comminor himself was a bard, and Comminor had not disclosed it, mainly because he had not even been aware of it himself until he read the Nox Aves book. His high birth and confident personality had let him rise quickly amongst the ranks until the previous Chief Select had noticed him, and he had been careful to keep his dreams to himself.

But it was only once he read the
Quercetum
that he realised what he had been dreaming about. And by then it was too late for him to take the path of anything but Chief Select, bent on destroying those with whom he would otherwise have been seeking to collude with. There was no point in seeking them out now. He had read the book. He knew the truth. And he knew there was no other way to keep the people in the Embers alive than to kill those who dreamed of another world.

The bell outside the door rang, and he called out, “One moment,” before closing the book and replacing it in the cabinet. He locked the door, hung the key around his neck, and only then walked across to the curtain and pulled it back.

His eyebrows rose to see four Select standing there, as well as his two guards. They were breathing heavily, although whether from exertion or emotion he was not sure, because although their chests heaved, their eyes flickered with fear.

“What is it?” he demanded.

Viel, one of his most loyal followers and the leader of the small hand-picked group closest to him that he called the Umbra, leaned towards him and murmured in his ear, “It is about the Veris.”

Comminor’s eyes narrowed. “Come in.”

He turned and walked back into the foyer, and the members of the Umbra followed. One of them shut the door, and they all turned to face him.

“So?”

Josse, a young Select with wild dark hair that refused to be tamed, spoke up. “Sir, I managed to get close enough to overhear a conversation that Nele the apothecary had with another member of the Veris. And they were discussing plans to leave the Embers – tonight.”

Comminor stared at him. “Who was the other member?”

Viel hesitated. “You are not going to like it.”

Comminor just glared at him.

“Turstan,” Viel said.

Fury lit Comminor up like a lantern. He had picked the young Select himself, impressed by the lad’s record and abilities. “Fire and ash! Where is he?”

“We brought him back to the palace prison. We have been trying to get him to talk, but so far he will not reveal anything.”

“What did you do with Nele?”

Josse shifted from foot to foot. “We let him go, although there is a Select tracking him. I was not sure what to do.”

Comminor supressed his anger. He had instructed them to follow the Veris only and not to alert them to the fact that they were aware of their presence. They were right to take Turstan, but he could not have expected them to arrest Nele and go against his earlier command.

He strode out into the corridor, the rest of them scurrying to keep up with him. Viel managed to get ahead to sweep aside the curtains covering the doors, leading the way through the huge palace to the caves at the back in the deepest, darkest part of the Tertius District.

Viel stopped outside one of the cells and instructed the two Select on guard to open the door. Comminor marched in, immediately seeing the young Select tied to a chair in the centre of the room, shrouded in darkness.

The Chief Select held his pendant and passed his hand over the lantern on the wall, and it flared into life. He turned and surveyed the sorry figure sitting in the chair.

Turstan had slouched forward to the extent of his restraints, and his head hung down, his hair matted with a mixture of sweat and blood. Drops of red also dripped from his face onto the floor, pooling at his feet.

Comminor dropped to his haunches before him and pushed up his head. The Select had been badly beaten. Both eyes were swollen almost shut, his nose was broken and covered in blood, his lip was split and several teeth were missing.

Comminor stroked his cheek with his thumb. “Turstan?”

The young man opened his eyes as far as he could. He blinked a couple of times and focussed on the man in front of him. Comminor was not surprised to see a spark of fear in his eyes.

“Sir,” Turstan said hoarsely. He turned his head and spat onto the floor, a mixture of saliva and thick red blood.

Comminor surveyed him thoughtfully. “Josse overheard you talking to Nele,” he said. “You were discussing leaving the Embers, I understand.”

Turstan said nothing, just surveyed him dully.

“I know about the Veris,” Comminor said calmly. “I know about Nele, Amabil, Kytte and Betune. And I know there are others, whose identity I will discover in the very near future.”

Turstan spat on the floor again.

“Tell me what time you are planning to leave,” Comminor said, “and where you are meeting.”

Turstan tested his teeth with his tongue. “Beat me all you like,” he said. “I will not tell you anything more.”

“I have no intention of touching you,” Comminor said. “How is Orla?”

Turstan stared at him.

“Yes,” Comminor said, “I am aware of the whore you frequent on a weekly basis. I know that you loved Iriellor, and that since she died you have been lonely. And that you have been keeping Orla company instead. And I encourage that – man was not made to live alone. I know you do not mean to marry her. But equally, I know you have affection for her.” He shifted position to get more comfortable. “Shall I bring her here? Torture her in front of you?”

Tears filled Turstan’s eyes. “Please. Do not harm her.”

“I will do it, and I will force you to listen to her screams.” He stood, lifted Turstan’s head by his hair to force him to look up at him. “I am Chief Select, and I am in charge of the Embers. You will tell me everything you know about the Veris. I will not have citizens under my rule thinking they can leave and leading the rest of our society to destruction!”

Turstan gave a kind of gurgling half-laugh, half-cough. “You really think you know everything, don’t you?” He licked his lips. “Did you know Sarra is a member of the group?”

Comminor stared at him. Ice slid down his gullet and into his stomach, as cold and chilling as if he had drunk from the Magna Cataracta itself. “Sarra?”

Turstan’s eyes gleamed. “You did not know.”

“I…” For maybe the first time in his life, Comminor was speechless. He had not known. His love for Sarra had been completely separate from his role as Chief Select, one of the few pure things he had allowed himself in his life. The moment when she had accepted him willingly in his bed had been one of the best moments of his life. She had a quality that fascinated him, an inner surety and purity that he had had to possess, as if in making her his mate, he could somehow gain a little of it himself. The thought that she was a member of the Veris – that she had kept that secret from him, brought the fire scorching through his veins to flame in his palms.

Turstan saw his fingers spit sparks and lifted his chin. “The baby is a bard,” he said. “And not just any bard. It knows the way out. It has showed her in a dream.”

“Where is she?” Comminor grabbed the Select’s throat, squeezing his fingers until the man’s eyes bulged, flames licking from his fingers and scalding the other man’s skin. “Tell me where she is or I swear I will bring Orla here and pull out her fingernails one by one, remove her teeth and slice her into tiny pieces until the room fills with blood!”

Turstan gurgled. “They have gone,” he managed to say. “They will have left when… they knew you… arrested me. You are… too late…”

Anger roared through Comminor, bursting from him in a wave of flame that swept over the man before him. Still he continued to squeeze until Turstan’s tongue turned blue and he grew limp, and his skin blackened and bubbled, popped and burst beneath the heat of the fire that burned within the Chief Select.

Comminor dropped the man, stood back and let the fire roar from him. It engulfed the room, sending the others scurrying outside, billowing in folds of red and orange and gold until the whole room glowed.

His anger burned, but the hurt at Sarra’s betrayal burned even hotter. He had loved her, and she had deceived him. He would hunt her. He would track them all down, bring them back to the Embers, and then he would make her pay. He was the Chief Select, and the future of the city and its people was his task and his alone. He would not be held accountable for its destruction. He would not be the one responsible for bringing it down.

He clenched his fists, forced the anger down deep inside him. The fire flared briefly, then died. He stared dispassionately at the charred remains of the man before him, then turned to the door and opened it to see his Umbra, their faces showing their willingness to do whatever he commanded.

“Come on,” he said. “We are going on a hunt.”