Why did he suddenly feel like this now, for the first time in his life? Randur had read about it in books, never quite believed it; but it had found him too. The days spent together seemed to stretch out forever, and their late- night intimacies made them feel they had been lovers for years. Time itself began to seem a little pointless.
Randur was aware that people in Balmacara were beginning to whisper, asking questions. There were already political manoeuvres, he suspected, being concocted in the shadows of the richer taverns, men looking at boys looking at men, and somewhere between them a knife would be placed on the table, his name would be mentioned, some young thing's dreams of riches would blossom.
For them, an unknown outsider such as Randur wasn't meant to be for Eir. It broke the rules, it diluted the concentrated power at the top of the Empire. Secretly her fate had been discussed and decided. Possibly by senior members of the Council. In his new-found bliss, he didn't give a shit what such people thought. Had this cynical island boy finally been hooked? He'd told her everything about himself, his disreputable past.
That was the one honest move he'd ever made.
He had thought once the Snow Ball was over he could simply leave, taking with him whatever cultist trickery he'd bought to extend his mother's life. He sighed. That was no longer so easy.
He slid his other arm from under Eir's neck.
'You going somewhere?' she whispered, still facing the wall.
He moved her short dark hair away from her ear, with no specific purpose, just tenderness. He kissed her arm. 'I have to go and pay the cultist today. I'd almost forgotten.'
'Of course. I'll get you the money.' She looked up, smiling softly.
*
Randur felt awkward as he thanked her for the four hundred Jamuns, though she insisted impatiently that money meant little to her. A month ago he would have called her a spoilt brat for being so reckless with it. Funny, he thought, how love can affect your outlook so quickly.
Tomorrow, she reminded him excitedly, was the Snow Ball. To spend a wonderful evening with a man she chose to love. Even someone as cynical as Randur was surprised to find he, too, was looking forward to it. He made a note to examine the latest fashions in the city, then to push it on a bit more, as it was his secret mission to enhance the unadventurous trends of Villjamur.
Down the steps of Balmacara he strode, a sack of Jamuns under his cloak, then out across the raised platform offering views of a fog-caked city. He couldn't see half as many spires as yesterday, but at least it wasn't snowing. A garuda sailed overhead, disappearing into the white, but there weren't as many people out and about these days.
For a quarter of an hour he sought out the street of the cultists, searching his memory for the way there amidst the deceptively surreal routes of the alleyways. Eventually he arrived at what seemed the right location, and frowned to see no door any longer, only a cloaked figure standing guard.
'Morning,' Randur said, trying to skim past her.
'Get out,' the woman spat.
'I need to see Dartun,' Randur protested. 'I've something for him. We had a deal.'
'He's not here,' the woman replied sourly.
'Anyone from the Order of the Equinox?'
She stared at him angrily. 'Why d'you want to know?'
After he explained, he was taken inside to be questioned further.
*
Randur was ushered into one of those dreary underground chambers that Villjamur possessed no shortage of – with minimal light and no warmth. He was instructed to wait on an uncomfortable stool in the corner. Randur was beginning to panic, having all these months assumed that all he need do was hand over the money to the cultist, and his mother would be miraculously saved.
There were sounds: the clattering of a metal door opening, the shuffle of footsteps, heavy breathing nearby. Then someone grabbed his shoulder, pushed him back against the wall.
Another female voice snarled, 'Why are you here to see Dartun?'
Randur squinted through the darkness, the fingers tightening on his shoulder. 'I was just coming to make him a payment as agreed. And I find out he's not here, and there's some weird shit going on. Now will you let go of my shoulder, and tell me what has happened to him?'
'He won't be coming back to Villjamur.'
'But… what of the rest of his group of cultists?' Randur was getting desperate. Dartun should have been here.
'They've either gone with him or been arrested. The Order of the Equinox is now outlawed throughout the territories of the Empire.'
'Shit,' Randur gasped in alarm, then further explained his situation.
'I remember you now,' the voice said. 'You're the boy I pointed in his direction as a favour, for saving my life. But I can't help you any more.'
'You must. You have to. That's the whole fucking reason I'm even in this city.'
'I'm sorry. But you're free to go.'
'Can't any other cultists help me? I've got money – I'll show you.' Randur stood up but found, after a lengthy silence, that he was now totally alone. Torch light entered the chamber and he was escorted out.
*
His world had imploded. Lying on Eir's bed later, he felt he wanted to vomit, but instead he cried like a ten- year-old as he told her everything. She sat next to him waiting for him to finish – he knew that, and he felt ashamed, to expose his emotions like this. But, despite her age, she possessed an unexpected motherly quality. He liked that. After that he got up and left, walked for two hours across the city bridges, then returned, damp and cold.
Then he resumed crying.
Eir held his hand. 'It's understandable you're upset, Rand, so don't be so harsh on yourself.'
She got up and lit lanterns and soothing incense and waited for him to compose himself. He realized he was comfortable being vulnerable in front of her. Soon he began to feel better, until somehow his failings as a son didn't seem to matter quite as much.
FORTY
There were times in his long life where Jeryd had been afraid. Cornered in an alley with a sword against his throat. Going undercover with gangs in his youth. Chasing suspects along icy bridges and precarious rooftops. Dealing with crime, you'd expect that.
But as he now awaited Marysa to wake from her slumber, he was truly frightened.
She had slept right through for two nights as if under some spell. His life was balanced, waiting for these moments for her to wake up. He'd already forgiven her for her misdemeanour. Didn't matter that she'd found something, momentarily, with someone else. That wouldn't be the first thing he would think about when she finally opened her eyes. His tactic was to pretend it had not happened. He loved her so much, it caused him an entirely new level of pain inside.
As the milky light of day began to filter through from the window, he looked around at the clutter of junk filling the bedroom. It was all hers, of course. Jeryd was one of those who didn't care to accumulate anything much. As soon as he'd finished with it, it was gone. His rooms had been bare, before she was around. She'd filled the void systematically, buying steadily over the years, nearly all of it antiques. Maybe much of it was junk, but it was her junk.
He had got comfortably used to her filling his otherwise empty life with objects of uncertain purpose, and he'd often wander around the house, simply to uncover items he'd have no recognition of. It seemed to suggest something deeper about their relationship.
As he rested a hand affectionately on her arm, she finally stirred, her fingers gripping the white bedsheets gently. He sprang to life, a silent prayer to Bohr on his lips.
