The Firefarer

Part Eight / Chapter Three: Alchemy

It was the mornings that Moran liked best: waking up beside Andre while she still slept, with her face buried in her hair and her pale, slim body draped across the bed, swathed in silk and linen. Now the winter had finally passed and the sun's rays already carried some heat as they broke in between the curtains. The morning air was rich with birdcall and the scent of blossom. Stretching, Moran rose, poured water from a jug into the washbasin and splashed her face. A loud rap on the door had her flinch and freeze.

"What is it?" Stirring, still half-asleep, Andre groaned, pointing towards the heavy drapes around the window. Moran slipped behind them.

"A visitor for Moran." Moran recognised the deep voice of Andre's brother, Estachien. "But she doesn't appear to be in her room. Would you know where she is?"

His words carried through the keyhole with a light, amused ring. He knew about them: Moran was certain of it. But Estachien was loyal to his sister. And, besides that, an unbroken chain of young women seemed to wind their way into his own bed at night, no doubt succumbing to his delicately handsome good looks and his winsome way with words.

"I'll go and find her." Andre sat up in bed and raked a brush through her long, brown hair. "Who wants to see her?"

"Her sister."

Moran heard him leave ˗ humming to himself as he walked down the corridor ˗ and stepped back into the room, watching Andre as she continued to brush her hair, the locks spilling down over her shoulders and breasts.

"I should go to speak to her." She slumped down on the bed, kissing Andre's sleep-warm lips.

"I suppose so. She's come a long way, so whatever she has to say, it must be important."

Moran slipped a dress on over her head, putting her ear to the door to check that no one was outside. Then she eased her way into the corridor, its carpet warm and soft beneath her bare feet. A maze of twisting, book lined passages led her downwards until at last she reached the same small solar that she had arrived in on that first wintry night in Adama.

Carin had made herself comfortable, evidently keen to display all the contempt for the Pagi she could possibly muster. One knee cocked up against the arm of a chair she sprawled, munching on an apple, a book open across her knee.

"I see you've made yourself at home."

With a smirk, Carin rose, allowing the book to slide to the floor, its cover creasing as it fell. "Sister." She caught Moran in a rough embrace. Then, releasing her, she gazed with narrowed, suspicious eyes around the room. "What are you doing here?"

"Carin, I'm...I'm staying here."

"As the lowly servant ˗ sorry, the lowly tutor of a Paga?"

"No," Moran said carefully. "As her lover."

Carin hawked and spat into the empty fire pit. Shaking her head, she threw herself back into the chair. "You really don't know anything, do you, Moran?"

"What is there to know?"

"Have you any idea what is happening out there? In those lands you used to call your home?"

"Of what?" A cold skein of unease unravelled like thread from a spool.

"Moran," Carin rose again, threw the apple core into the hearth and gripped Moran's shoulders beneath powerful hands. She winced. "The Elector of Ol Terenzo has taken it into his head that we're vermin. Scum. A scourge upon the Pagi."

Bewildered, Moran stared into her face. "Who? Us? Our village? Our family?"

"No, idiot!" Carin prodded Moran's forehead with a short, stubby finger. "Not just us! All of us. The Ruach."