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  The fifth ring, her first step into unfamiliar territory, had been harder. It was the training ground of weaponmasters, warriors, the Helm: anyone involved in the subtle arts of combat. Even with dawn no more than a faint smear on the horizon, people had been up and walking the streets. And these were men and women with hard eyes and purposeful gaits, conditioned by years of experience to notice anything unusual. Ayla had hurried along with head bowed, sure that at any moment she would hear her name spoken or feel a hand close around her wrist. As the sun rose higher in the sky, prying into the shade of her hood with bright inquisitive fingers, she had slipped into the narrow gap between a duelling room and a weaponry. There she’d squatted in an unsettled half-doze, waiting for her chance.

  Finally, as the light began to fade once more, she’d used a taciturn group of mercenaries as cover to escape through the Gate of Steel into the fourth ring, the residential ring where most of the citizens of Arkannen lived. The onset of evening meant many were returning home after a day at work, whilst others were venturing out; the streets were full of horses, carriages, hurrying pedestrians, crossing-sweepers, dogs and the occasional mechanical cycle. Overwhelmed by the sheer number of people – more than she’d seen in the previous eighteen years of her life put together – Ayla had wandered along for some time before admitting to herself that she had no idea where to go. She knew from her lessons that the fourth ring was divided into sixteen Quarters, each named after one of the semi-precious stones mined in the mountains to the north of Mirrorvale, but that dry fact couldn’t possibly have prepared her for the reality.

  The largest and most attractive dwellings may be found in Charoite, home to Arkannen’s oldest and wealthiest families. She found herself silently reciting her tutor’s words, trying to make sense of it all. Airmen and their families live in Angelite, while traders and merchants from the land caravans make their homes in the Serpentine Quarter. Those who migrate to Arkannen from elsewhere in Mirrorvale, or from one of its neighbouring countries, tend initially to move into Elbaite. The crowded streets of the Dravide Quarter are home to the city’s labourers and sewerers, while plumbers and gas suppliers live in the slightly more spacious Larimar. And so it goes, with each Quarter having its own character and inhabitants.

  She was so intent on trying to remember the lesson that she walked straight into a heavyset man in worker’s overalls, who swore at her with incomprehensible vigour.

  ‘… Watch where yer goin’, girlie!’

  She tensed in expectation of being recognised, but his gaze skated over her for an indifferent instant before he moved away. Her apparent anonymity gave her enough courage to call after him.

  ‘Wait! I’m trying to find the Gate of Wood. Can you –’

  ‘You want blue.’ As she stared at him, trying to get some meaning out of the words, he puffed out an impatient breath. ‘Follow the pale blue line ’til you reach the Angelite Quarter.’ His finger stabbed downwards at the stretch of road between them. ‘Then keep going ’til you see the gate.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she muttered, but he had already rushed on. She looked down at the stripes of different colours that paved the street. It hadn’t occurred to her earlier, but presumably they represented the sixteen Quarters of the fourth ring. Follow the pale blue stripe to the Angelite Quarter, he’d said; it made sense, because airmen would want to live near the gate to the third ring where they plied their trade. But how would she know the Angelite Quarter when she reached it?

  As it turned out, it was as straightforward as the stranger had made it sound. When the blue stripe stopped, Ayla raised her head to see that the roofs and window frames of the houses around her were the same shade of blue. She kept going along the main street, and soon enough the gate came into view. The third ring. One step further away from captivity. Already she felt as if she’d been on an epic journey, full of colours and textures and scents she had never previously experienced. Darkhaven was built on stark lines and silence. Who could have guessed there were so many different shapes and sounds in the world?

  She spent the night in the shadow of a tethered airship, listening to the cables creak and strain in the breeze, thankful it was summer and the air was mild. Despite her exhaustion, it was impossible to sleep. Her mind was brimming over with everything she had seen: the buildings, the people, the noise. By the time her second day of freedom dawned, her eyes were grainy, her head as light and bobbing as the balloons that were taking up their first passengers of the day around her. Yet she had to keep going. The sooner she could bury herself in the obscurity of the first ring, the safer she’d be.

  She descended a short flight of steps cut into a sheer rock face, and found herself on a ledge overlooking the lower rings of the city. Tiered roofs stretched down and out, red tiles and golden wood and grey-blue slate. She identified the dark smoke rising from the factories, as well as several lighter puffs of steam – travelling fast – which must be the trams that partly circled the lower rings. Even from here, with four rings behind her and only two ahead, the city merged into the horizon. She couldn’t make out where Arkannen ended and the rest of Mirrorvale began.

  Of course, she had seen the city many times from the air, at night, but the sheer scale of it had never impressed itself upon her as it did now. From above, Arkannen was orderly and structured, seven neat rings descending in sequence. She hadn’t realised how much bigger and more complicated it would appear when she was actually in it. It was daunting, but it was also encouraging. As long as she was careful and didn’t draw attention to herself, she didn’t see how anyone would ever find her.

  Dragging herself away from the view, she plunged into the darkness of the narrow passage that cut into the rock behind her. She emerged into a spacious, paved square with various streets and staircases joining it on three sides. On the fourth side stood a high-arched gateway, the sole route into the second ring: the Gate of Wind. Although each of the gates Ayla had passed through so far had been impressive, she thought this one might be the most spectacular of all. The arch was carved from pale, translucent marble, a series of abstract curved shapes swirling around each other like the patterns of the breeze; in every gap hung delicate crystals that tinkled with the slightest movement of the air, so that the gate was never silent. In the centre of the square, a three-bladed sail on a long pole turned with the currents, marking wind speed and direction for the captains of the airships.

  None of the other gates had posed a problem, but even so, Ayla pulled her hood forward to hide her face before she joined the workers who were converging on the gate from all directions. It was even busier down here than it had been in the higher rings. An elbow caught her in the ribs; she stumbled, and someone trod on her foot. Then, as she passed under the archway itself in a squeeze of tight-knit crowd, she overheard a snippet of conversation.

  ‘Murdered in his bed … the old Changer …’

  In an instant, the press of people around her – their heat and smell – became unbearable. She tried to keep up with the two men who were talking, but they were borne away from her like twigs in the relentless current. The many voices of the crowd became a tumult, a hundred different words competing for attention. Ayla snatched at one sentence, then another, letting each one slip away as she became aware of the next. But she heard nothing more about her father. Perhaps her overwhelmed brain had conjured up a phantom.

  Once through the gate she could breathe again, but the half-heard sentence still niggled at her. As she hesitated at the top of the steps that led down into the second ring, buffeted and jostled on all sides by people passing to and fro, she heard a shout like an echo of her thoughts.

  ‘News-up! News-up! Git yer news here!’

  A boy stood at the foot of the stair, catching at the sleeves of the crowd as they passed by. It was his voice that had cut through the sounds of the city like diamond through glass. Ayla descended the steps and offered him one of her few coins, keeping her head down and her eyes averted. In exchange, he pressed a sh
eet of green-tinged paper into her hand with a mumbled ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ As his calls started up again, Ayla retreated to a quiet spot by the wall and unfolded whatever it was he had given her.

  The first thing she saw was her father’s face: a smudged line drawing, perhaps printed from a woodcut, but recognisable nonetheless. Above it, large bold letters shouted FIREDRAKE DEAD. Her pulse accelerated, the flimsy paper damp beneath her fingers as she scanned the rest of the story. Florentyn Nightshade … unexpected death … Her gaze snagged on her brother’s name. No information has been provided by the new overlord of Darkhaven, Myrren Nightshade, concerning the manner of his father’s demise. However, it is rumoured on the streets of Arkannen that this was no natural death but a murder of the foulest and most vicious kind.

  The paper crumpled in Ayla’s hand.

  Her father was dead. Someone had killed him.

  Shock washed through her in a cold wave, leaving her gasping and close to tears. It was too large a thing to comprehend all at once; maybe that was why she felt so hollow. Yet as the treacherous waters of emotion subsided, they threw up a sneaking small relief. She didn’t need to be here after all. She could go back home without being imprisoned. Maybe there, in the safety of solitude, she’d find a decent way to mourn the father who had always viewed her as a source of humiliation …

  Though the news-sheet hadn’t mentioned her escape.

  Another wave broke, drowning relief in breathless fear. She smoothed out the paper, scanning the article again. Florentyn had died the night before last – the same night she’d left Darkhaven – yet there was no mention of her disappearance. If the Helm hadn’t put the word out, it could mean only one thing: they thought she’d done it. They thought she’d murdered her own father, and they planned on giving her no warning whilst they searched for her. Far from being safe to return home, she was in even greater danger.

  Myrren must think she was a murderer as well. That realisation hit Ayla harder still. If he’d believed her innocent then he would have sent messengers to find her, as he’d promised he would. Which meant she couldn’t Change; Myrren might not have the gift, but – like all the Nightshade line – he could sense the transformation in others. She was stuck in the city, perhaps for good, never able to show her face for fear of discovery, living always cloaked and shadowed …

  No, she told herself sternly. It won’t be like that. I’ll find a way to prove I didn’t do it. The prospect was daunting; she swallowed over a dry throat, her stomach suddenly tight with anxiety. Or if not, I’ll stow away on an airship or a goods barge and escape to another country. The Helm can’t pursue me over the border.

  Yet even as she thought it, she knew she wouldn’t go through with it. Fleeing Mirrorvale was too much like professing her guilt. She didn’t want to be an exile the rest of her life; though she might have railed against her lack of freedom, the austere walls of Darkhaven were her home. And besides, where else in the world would her Changer abilities be accepted? What was considered a gift in her own land might be deemed an unnatural curse elsewhere. No, she would be better off staying in Arkannen and maybe, just maybe, finding a way to prove her innocence.

  Stuffing the news-sheet into the pocket of her cloak, she squared her shoulders. She had to get down into the first ring, as far away from Darkhaven as possible. She had to find a place to hide. Only then could she work out how to make things right.

  FIVE

  The priestess was an attractive woman. Myrren eyed her sideways as they walked together through the corridors of Darkhaven, their pace slow and steady to make allowance for her injured ankle. Despite the thin veil covering her head – required costume for a priestess outside her own temple – her hair shone like polished bronze in the light from the gas lamps. He couldn’t make out the freckles that he knew were scattered across the bridge of her nose like seeds on a fresh-baked roll, but the curves of her body were clear enough through her high-necked gown. There were very few women in Darkhaven; it was a place for men, hard-eyed and dour. Serenna was like a bright bird caught within its walls, something vibrant and incongruous.

  As though sensing his hungry stare, she turned her head to look at him. Quickly, he averted his gaze. During their previous conversation, her frank grey eyes had met his without any hint of judgement. He had liked that; he was used to people judging him. He didn’t want to spoil it by making her uncomfortable.

  ‘I hope I haven’t caused you too much inconvenience by asking you to come here, Sister Serenna,’ he said. ‘The high priestess seemed happy enough when I spoke to her, but I know how these things can be.’

  ‘No inconvenience, my lord.’ Her voice rose and fell in measured cadences, like the bells of her temple; he’d noted that about her on their first meeting. ‘The Altar of Flame is always open to those who seek advice – though admittedly, it’s rare for us to leave the temple in order to give it. The high priestess was glad to be of service to Darkhaven.’

  ‘You can stay in Ayla’s room,’ Myrren said. ‘I hope that will be all right. Our guest rooms are really not in a usable state.’ He shot her another sideways glance. ‘The Nightshade line doesn’t receive many visitors. I can’t think why.’

  He saw the lifted curve of her cheek; she was smiling beneath the flimsy veil. But her voice remained as cool and even as always.

  ‘I assure you, Ayla’s room will be more than sufficient. I am used to far more ascetic surroundings.’ She stopped, leaning on her cane. ‘But first, I think it would be a good idea for me to see your father’s body.’

  Surprised and rather dismayed, Myrren tried to make out her expression beneath the veil. ‘Are you sure that’s –’

  ‘If I am to help you, I need to know as much as possible,’ she said. ‘And that includes seeing with my own eyes how your father died.’

  She was right, of course. It had been presumptuous of him to solicit her aid at all, but now he’d done it, there was no purpose in keeping anything from her. Still, something in him shrank from the idea of showing her exactly what Ayla had done. Except she didn’t think it was Ayla, did she? She’d suggested that the creature she had seen might have been something else altogether. Maybe if she saw the body, those suspicions would be confirmed. Hope rising in him, Myrren nodded.

  ‘Very well. I’ll take you to him.’

  Florentyn’s body had been carried to the vault beneath the tower, to lie for the requisite number of days in the unlocked antechamber before being moved into the vault itself. The tradition dated back centuries, to a distant Changer ancestor who, it was said, had been discovered lying still and cold in his bed. Believing him dead, his family laid him to rest in the vault; a day later, he awoke and found himself trapped. Unable to wrench the door open or make anyone hear him, he Changed and came bursting out of the vault in his Hydra form – after which, driven half mad by the experience, he refused to return to his human shape until his real death several years later. The precaution was hardly necessary in this case, Myrren thought; there was no way his father could still be alive, not after losing that much blood. Still, tradition was there to be followed.

  He showed Serenna into the antechamber, closing the door behind them so they wouldn’t be disturbed. His father’s body lay on a marble slab in the centre of the room. It had been washed and dressed in good clothes, but the ugly wound at the throat was undisguisable. Above it, Florentyn’s face looked waxy and stiff, like an ill-fitting mask over the head of a completely different man. Nauseous again, Myrren lingered by the door as Serenna approached the body, pushing her veil back from her face with steady hands. A contemplative silence fell, during which Myrren closed his eyes and tried to think about something different. After a time, Serenna’s cool voice recalled him to the present.

  ‘Have you examined these wounds yourself?’

  ‘Not closely.’ He opened his eyes again, fixing his gaze on her glossy hair rather than the body on the slab. ‘I – I couldn’t bring myself to –’

  He choked back the
rest of what he had been about to say. He’d already revealed more of himself to the priestess than perhaps was wise; showing the extent of his weakness could only be dangerous. No need to tell her that the sight of blood made him weak and squeamish inside.

  ‘I asked the physician to make a report,’ he said, trying to sound firm and competent. ‘He concluded that no man could have made those wounds. It must have been a creature both fierce and powerful.’

  ‘He was right about that.’ Serenna glanced over her shoulder at him. ‘Come and see.’

  Reluctantly Myrren approached the body. Serenna moved closer, her arm brushing his as her slender fingers hovered over the throat wound, gesturing in time to her words.

  ‘See here, and here? Those are tooth marks. Something seized his throat in its jaws and ripped it out as easily as tearing paper.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Myrren’s stomach roiled, and he swallowed. He couldn’t be sick; it would be too humiliating. ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m not sure you do, my lord!’ Her face was animated with discovery. He concentrated on that, on the way her grey eyes lost their habitual serenity as she talked. ‘The form Ayla takes – does it have teeth?’

  He frowned, belatedly understanding what she was getting at. ‘Yes … but not that powerful. A horse can deliver a nasty bite, but it can’t rip a man’s throat out. A Unicorn’s main weapon is its horn.’

  ‘Exactly! If Ayla had killed your father, I would expect to see stab wounds all over the body. Unless …’ She bit her lip, studying him as though trying to work something out. ‘Is it possible for a Changer to take more than one animal form?’

  ‘Not that I know of. A Changer’s other form is like an expression of identity. It is unique.’

  ‘Then Ayla must be innocent.’ Serenna gave him a decisive nod. He smiled at her, forgetting his discomfort.