Darkhaven Page 14

  Serenna massaged her temples, where the first inklings of a headache were beginning to make themselves felt. The warning seemed almost directed at her personally, making her doubt her own judgement in coming to Darkhaven. But having been burnt and trampled by a Changer creature, she knew better than most how unsafe they could be. And although she had glimpsed the fierceness at Myrren’s heart, she didn’t think he was cruel.

  But then, of course, Myrren wasn’t a Changer.

  After the introduction, the following chapters appeared to be a brief history of the Nightshade line. She skimmed through them until, unexpectedly, the word murder caught her eye. Returning to the top of the page, she scanned the text.

  Calyst had an especially large family. He had three wives, upon all of whom he fathered children. Once all those children had grown up there were nine Changers in Darkhaven, as well as one who it was rumoured had been born without the gift (though she was never seen outside the walls of the tower). These Changers took all kinds of forms, and at any one time there were often two or three of them to be seen in the skies above Arkannen.

  It is rumoured that Calyst planned to use his children to found a Changer army. No longer willing to be squeezed between the Ingal States, Sol Kardis and Parovia, he wanted to prove Mirrorvale’s strength. Yet before he could continue with this plan – a foolhardy one, perhaps, with the threat of war so recently averted – a spate of murders in the city changed the direction of his focus. People were dying, and in such a way that it was obvious a Changer was the perpetrator. Rather than give up one of their own to public justice, the Nightshades closed ranks and denied responsibility. Several times the Helm were sent down into Arkannen to quell any threat of protest or rebellion. It was this, in part, that led to the Helm losing much of their power only a few decades later.

  Serenna drummed her fingers on the desk, frowning. So there had been murderous Changer creatures around before. It seemed most Changers were no more aggressive in animal form than they were in human form, but occasionally there was one who became really vicious when he or she Changed … or perhaps it was just a reflection of the individual’s own nature. After all, there were plenty of ordinary people who did all kinds of terrible things through greed or rage or ambition – or even madness. It was inevitable that the Nightshade line should be prey to the same emotions; it was just that those emotions were all the more terrible when translated into creature form.

  She kept turning the pages, lingering over the illustrations again when she reached them. After that she discovered a section called Unusual Changer Conditions, which she read quickly, and then again more slowly.

  As well as the hybrid forms, both more and less common, there are various other oddities that spring up in the Nightshade line from time to time. For instance, it is true that most Changers have a single creature-self; indeed, for a long time it was thought that nothing else was possible. However, there have been rare instances in which a Changer was able to take on two distinct forms. In some of these cases the Changer was able to choose at will which form to take. In others, he didn’t know when he Changed which creature he would end up as. And in a very few cases, the Changer was unaware of his second form, the periods that he spent in it appearing as blanks to his conscious human mind.

  Serenna shivered. She had asked Myrren whether that very thing was possible, and he had replied in the negative. A Changer’s other form is like an expression of identity. It is unique. Yet this book contradicted that. According to this single paragraph, Ayla might be able to Change into both an Alicorn and a Wyvern. Which meant – whether she knew it or not – that she could still be the killer they were looking for.

  Serenna didn’t relish the prospect of passing the news on to Myrren.

  By now her shoulders were aching, and her scalp throbbed from the pins that held her veil in place above her tight braid. She looked up and realised it was getting dark; the lamp on the desk cast a pool of light around her, throwing everything else into shadow. Furtively, she scanned the room, but she was alone with the books – and Myrren had told her she wouldn’t be disturbed. With a sigh of relief, she pulled off her veil, sending hairpins skittering across the desk. Then she unwound her hair, separating the braided strands with deft fingers and letting it flow over her hands like a river of flame in the lamplight. Already the pressure in her head was easing. She leant back in her chair and indulged in a luxurious stretch, arching her back, raising her arms as high above her head as they would go. She’d done enough for today. The only question was whether she should tell Myrren what she’d learned – and if so, when.

  When she lowered her arms and opened her eyes, she found the man himself standing at the edge of the circle of light.

  Immediately she could feel herself blushing. Her chagrin was laced with a strange sense of guilt, as if on some level she had known he was there and had tried to entice him with her ridiculous display, like a stupid heroine from a romance who lounged around in provocative poses and pretended not to realise what she was doing. Yet what made it even worse, somehow, was that Myrren didn’t appear to be at all enticed. His mouth was set in an unusually stern line, and he was staring at the floor in front of his feet as though she was making him profoundly uncomfortable. With trembling hands, Serenna snatched up her veil and pinned it as fast as she could over her hair.

  ‘Good evening, Lord Myrren,’ she said with an attempt at her usual cool smile.

  ‘Good evening, Sister Serenna.’ His voice held the clipped tone that she had come to realise meant he was concealing some strong emotion. ‘Have you found what you were looking for?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She couldn’t tell him about her suspicions – not now, when she was still striving to suppress the tremors of nervous embarrassment. ‘I’ve certainly learned a lot about the Nightshade line.’

  ‘You probably know more than me.’ Myrren glanced around at the shelves full of books. ‘My father tried so hard to drum our ancestral history into my head that I think he must have drummed it right out again.’

  He was endeavouring to put her at her ease, Serenna realised, but the knowledge only set her more on edge. She swept her remaining hairpins into her hand and stood up. ‘Well, I must get some rest if we’re to visit the city tomorrow.’

  He turned back towards her. ‘Serenna –’

  ‘Good night, Lord Myrren,’ she said, and fled.

  SEVENTEEN

  Another day trapped in Caraway’s room, and by fourth bell Ayla thought she might go mad with boredom. If only she had a book to read, or a sketchpad for drawing – even a page of mathematical problems, which she’d always hated being set by her tutor, would afford some relief from this mind-numbingly slow passing of time.

  It’s no worse than being locked in Darkhaven’s cells, she told herself. Better, in fact, since you’re free to walk through the door. She’d never expected to escape one jail only to end up in a different one, but at least here there was some prospect of getting out in the near future. If Caraway kept his word and brought her a wig, she might be able to emerge into the relatively fresh air beyond the tanner’s yard as soon as this evening. She just had to be patient until then. Yet the longer she sat here, the more other things began to break through her boredom, like jagged rocks just below the surface of a sluggish stream. Her father’s death and all the complicated feelings that went with it. How much she missed home – because she hadn’t realised, until she left it, how lost she’d feel outside the only place she really belonged; the place that had formed the backdrop to every happy memory she’d ever made. How much she missed Myrren. How, more than anything, she longed to take her other form and fly …

  In the end, she filled the rusty bucket from the pump downstairs and attempted to scrub the mould off the windowsill. From there, it was a short step to cleaning the grimy windowpane, then sweeping the floor and stacking the empty bottles in a neat array. She was just about to fetch another bucketful of water to try washing the blankets when she heard the foo
tsteps out on the landing.

  ‘Like I told y’all,’ a woman’s voice said. ‘I saw ’er yesterday. Dark hair all ragged like someone ’acked it off wiv a rusty blade. Those blue eyes an’ all.’

  Fire and blood. One of the women she’d met the day before had informed on her. Whatever reward the Helm were offering through their spy network, it clearly outweighed even the local people’s respect for Caraway. Ayla looked wildly around the barren room for somewhere to hide, and failing that, something better than a knife to defend herself with. She found neither, so contented herself with backing up against the far wall, the weapon clutched tightly in both hands. If she had to she would Change. It didn’t matter if Myrren sensed it, after all. They already knew where she was.

  The door banged open, rattling back on its hinges with a shudder that shook the whole room. Two men dressed in Helm uniform entered, positioning themselves so they completely blocked the doorway.

  ‘Ayla Nightshade,’ one of them said, grinning. ‘You’re wanted back at the tower.’

  ‘You do know what I’m wanted for, don’t you?’ She was pleased that her voice remained steady; pleased too that her hands didn’t shake as she aimed the knife blade at the speaker. ‘They say I murdered my father. That I attacked a priestess. If that’s so, what’s to stop me Changing right now and doing the same thing to you?’

  For an instant, a shadow of fear touched his eyes. Then he shook his head as if to dispel a dream, and the moment was gone.

  ‘This room ain’t big enough to Change in, sweetheart. You know that as well as I do.’

  He was right, curse him. Her creature-self was far too large to be contained in these four drab walls; trying to Change would bring the whole building down around the lot of them. Ayla pressed herself even harder against the peeling plaster as the Helmsmen advanced. It was possible she was stronger than one of them alone; she might be half a Nightshade, but she still had many of the abilities of her bloodline. Yet there were two of them, and they knew what they were doing – whereas Ayla’s father had never allowed her to train alongside Myrren. Which meant she was relying on …

  Where are you, Caraway? She bit her lip. He should have got back by now. Unless, of course, he’d sent them here. Unless he’d sold her back into captivity in return for reinstatement to the Helm …

  ‘What’s goin’ on here?’ As if her whirling thoughts had produced him out of thin air, Caraway appeared behind the two men. She could only see part of his face in the gap between them, but it was enough to tell her something wasn’t right. Then the Helmsmen turned, opening up her view, and she saw the full extent of Caraway’s dishevelled state: the tousled hair, the rumpled coat, the way he leaned against the doorframe as though he depended on it to keep him upright. In a heartbeat, relief became sinking cold fury. He was drunk. She was about to be hauled off back to Darkhaven, and he was drunk.

  ‘You stay out of this, Breakblade,’ one of the Helmsmen said. ‘You’re lucky we aren’t carting you off to jail with her.’

  ‘Dear me.’ Caraway blinked at the speaker, apparently having difficulty focusing. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Concealing a criminal. Obstructing the Helm in their duties. Being a drunken idiot.’ The man ticked each of them off on his fingers with a sneer, and Ayla winced at the contempt in his voice. In response, Caraway pushed himself off the wooden frame to stand upright and wavering on his own two feet.

  ‘Then I s’pose I should thank you,’ he said brightly. ‘’Cos the thing about jail is, you see –’ losing his balance, stumbling forward into the room – ‘the thing about jail is –’ catching himself on the nearest Helmsman’s arm, and looking into his face with a sweet, absent smile – ‘the thing about jail is, I’m really rather fed up with it.’

  With that, he straightened and brought his knee up hard and fast into the man’s groin in one smooth movement. Then, as the Helmsman doubled over, Caraway spun on his heel and went for the second man, who was in the process of drawing his sword. The Helmsman didn’t even have time to finish the move. Caraway grabbed his shirt in two fists, knocking him off balance; at the same time he lowered his head and drove it into the other man’s face. Ayla bit back an involuntary cry as the sound of the impact echoed in the tiny room, a sickening thud accompanied by the crunch of the Helmsman’s nose breaking. He fell against the wall and slumped to the floor, his face smeared with blood.

  Without hesitating, Caraway turned back to the first man and hooked his legs out from under him, dropping him onto his back. Still in pain from the previous blow, the Helmsman didn’t react quickly enough; in an instant Caraway was on him, a flurry of punches bouncing his head off the floorboards. The other man tried to fight back, his hands stabbing at Caraway’s throat and eyes, but then Caraway’s fist caught him directly beneath the jaw and he went limp. In the ringing silence that followed, Ayla could distinctly hear her own heart pounding beneath her ribcage.

  Caraway got to his feet, breathing hard, but with no trace left of his apparent intoxication. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I – I –’ Ayla couldn’t get the words out. She was still gripping the knife, her hands shaking with the tension that held her entire body locked in position. Dizzy with shock, she gulped in air and tried again. ‘You’re not drunk,’ she said, and detected a suspicious quaver in her own voice.

  ‘No.’ Caraway reached out to take the knife from her rigid grasp. His anxious brown eyes examined her face. ‘Ayla, are you sure –?’

  She shook her head, blinded by the tears that were welling in her own eyes. Then, somehow, her cheek was pressed against his shoulder and his arms were around her. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her like that, in a simple gesture of comfort. Maybe not since her mother died …

  The thought hit her like a cascade of freezing water, returning her to full awareness of where she was and who she was with. Wriggling backwards out of his embrace, she wiped each eye in turn with the back of her hand.

  ‘We should go,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘Before they come round.’ She didn’t ask how likely it was that the two injured Helmsmen would ever come round; she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  ‘You’re right.’ Caraway reached into the bag that had contained her hair and drew out a blonde wig, which he handed to her. ‘Here, put this on.’

  Skirting the unconscious men on the floor, he walked over to the chest in the corner of the room and began throwing its contents into the now-empty bag. Still shaky, Ayla dipped her head and tugged the wig into place, tucking as much of her hair as she could underneath it. The wig’s inner layer of fabric was something coarse and prickly; it made her head itch.

  ‘Ready?’ Caraway returned to her side, bulging bag over one shoulder. He studied her for a moment. ‘It’s on a bit crooked – let me –’ He reached out to adjust the wig, pushing a few errant strands of her hair into place, then nodded.

  ‘All right, here’s what we’re going to do. These men came here in a carriage so they could take you back to Darkhaven. There are two more of the Helm waiting outside with it – I saw them on my way in, though I didn’t let them see me. You need to leave first: wear your cloak, it’s good and nondescript, but keep your hood down so the wig shows. They aren’t looking for a blonde, so it’ll fool them at a casual glance – there are plenty of rooms in this building you could be coming from. I’ll follow you and provide a distraction if necessary.’

  He paused, and Ayla saw something akin to pain flash across his face. Then it was gone, and he looked down at her with a rueful smile.

  ‘Me, they will recognise. And they’ll probably want to talk to me. So I’ll do whatever is required to keep them occupied for as long as it takes you to get away. Whatever you hear, don’t look back; just keep walking until you reach the corner of the street where the slaughterhouse is, and wait out of sight. If they arrest me, or if anything goes wrong –’ he shrugged – ‘just run as fast as you can.’

  He was suddenly very much in control of
the situation, and Ayla wasn’t going to argue with him. It hadn’t even occurred to her that there would be more of the Helm outside, whereas Caraway seemed to know exactly what he was talking about – and after all, this was why she had agreed to let him help her. So she nodded a silent assent.

  ‘Good,’ Caraway said. ‘Then I’ll keep this, if you don’t mind.’ He lifted a hand, and Ayla realised he still had her knife. That hint of pain was in his face again as he added, ‘It’ll be more useful than my own blade.’

  She looked down at the hilt of his sword, then back up at him. ‘Why don’t you just throw it away?’

  ‘I’m not ready for that yet.’ His voice was soft enough that she wasn’t quite sure she’d heard him correctly. She wanted to say something else, though she didn’t know what, but then he was moving towards the door and the moment was lost.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Let’s get out there before they break the door down looking for us.’

  Without a word, she followed him onto the dingy landing and down the stairs. At the bottom of the steps, Caraway gave her an encouraging nod and stood aside to let her pass him. She hesitated, scanning the yard outside for any sign of the Helm.

  ‘I’ll be right behind you,’ Caraway murmured, and she threw him a narrow-eyed glare. He’d better not think she was scared. She was just … preparing herself.

  After a final calming breath, she stepped through the archway and set off across the yard towards the exit, keeping her shoulders back and her pace unhurried. When she neared the wide gateway that led onto the street, she saw Caraway had been right: a carriage was waiting outside the yard, with one Helmsman leaning against it and another sitting up on the driver’s box. Ayla’s pulse quickened, her veins humming with the giddy urge to run, but she forced herself to maintain an even speed. As she passed the carriage, she was aware that the Helmsman leaning against it was sending an idle glance her way, but she didn’t look at him; she fixed her gaze on the street corner and kept walking. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him straighten up.