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  ‘You’re right. I can send messengers into the city, call Ayla back to Darkhaven …’ His excitement faded just as swiftly as it had flared. ‘But no. I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Two reasons.’ Myrren turned his back on Florentyn’s body, folding his arms. ‘First, we have no solid proof. Unless we can locate the real culprit, Ayla will be found guilty by default. With my father’s death, she is the only known Changer in Mirrorvale – and no-one has ever seen her other form except Florentyn and myself.’

  He paused. Serenna’s grey eyes searched his face.

  ‘And the second reason?’

  ‘The second reason follows from the first,’ Myrren said. ‘If Ayla is innocent then there must be another Changer in Mirrorvale. Perhaps an illegitimate child of my father’s.’ He still found that hard to believe. ‘If so, any public message intended for Ayla will also send a message to the murderer: it will tell him I have guessed his existence. No, if we’re to have any chance of catching this criminal, we have to let him think he’s still safe, still unknown.’

  ‘Then how do you suggest we go about finding him?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Myrren frowned, thinking it through. ‘We know a little about the creature he Changes into. You’ve seen it, albeit briefly. And –’ He felt in his pocket for the black disc he had carried everywhere since Florentyn’s death. ‘This was found beside my father’s bed. We’re looking for a Hydra, or perhaps – since it’s a half-blood we’re dealing with – a hybrid creature like Ayla’s.’

  Serenna took the scale and turned it over in her fingers, examining it closely.

  ‘But as for the man himself, we know nothing about him at all … and I say “man” for no good reason, since the killer could just as well be a female Changer.’ Myrren shrugged, allowing temporary defeat. ‘I really don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Have you searched your father’s room?’ Serenna suggested, handing the disc back to him. ‘If he did have an affair then he may have kept some token that would give us a clue as to the identity of the mother. And once we find her, it should be relatively easy to find the child.’

  ‘True. My father wasn’t a sentimental man, but it’s possible there is something.’ Myrren slipped the scale back into his pocket, then bent to kiss her hand. ‘I am most grateful for all the help you have given me, Sister Serenna.’

  ‘I must admit, I am anxious to catch this criminal on my own behalf.’ She gave him a cool smile, extricating her fingers from his grasp in one graceful movement. ‘Being trampled by the creature hasn’t given me much liking for it.’

  Her earlier vivacity, ignited by the joy of discovery, was gone. She was all priestess now, and both gesture and tone of voice were telling him to keep his distance. Myrren answered her smile with a grave one of his own, showing that he understood; in return, her expression warmed just a fraction.

  ‘I will search through my father’s possessions when I have the chance,’ he told her, handing her the cane she’d abandoned on the floor whilst examining the body. ‘In the meantime, allow me to show you to my sister’s room. I will have someone bring you refreshment.’

  Ayla’s room was a large one, the furnishings heavy and elaborate. Serenna sat at the table by the window, enjoying a glass of Parovian wine and a plateful of sweet cakes – neither of which came her way very often in the Altar of Flame. She was trying to forget the sensation that had stirred in her when Myrren kissed her hand, something strong and animal that she was sure was inappropriate for a priestess to feel. Perhaps she shouldn’t have ventured outside the walls of her temple.

  The temples of the sixth ring celebrated the elements and life in all its forms. That was the Mirrorvalese way. The lower rings were scattered with shrines to the lesser powers, available day and night for prayers of thanks or supplication. But the great temples of the sixth ring did more: they kept the balance of nature. It was widely believed that if a temple were ever to fall, that power would fail in the world, leaving utter chaos in its wake. And so the people made offerings to their favourites, and gave thanks on appropriate days – and revered the priestesses of the sixth ring, who maintained the balance.

  To that end, a priestess was expected to take on the qualities of the power she served. In that sense, Myrren should count himself lucky the rogue creature had attacked Serenna and not a priestess of Winter or Steel. As she’d told him, the priestesses of Flame were used to giving advice and resolving disputes amongst the populace, so it hadn’t been such a stretch for the high priestess to let her go. Flame was quick and warm and bright. Flame was welcoming. And so unlike the colder temples, the Altar of Flame stayed open to the inhabitants of Arkannen on all but the most sacred days.

  Yet despite that, Serenna still had rules to follow – particularly when it came to the relationships she was allowed to forge. Her temple was her family, and she was forbidden any other. As for the physical side … well, the Altar of Flame might not be one of the most severe, but nor was it as lenient as the Temple of Procreation, where on certain days the priestesses opened their doors to all comers for an orgy of satisfaction and the conception of new life. A priestess of Flame was expected to remain devoted to her element above all things, playing her small part in maintaining the balance of the world. She had to remain detached from everyday concerns, and she couldn’t do that if distracted by desire. And she could certainly never give in to her body’s impulsive urges. Like her sisters, Serenna had sworn to remain chaste: an untouched vessel for the power she served. Break that vow, and her future at the temple would be in grave doubt. She’d certainly never be high priestess, as it was already rumoured she would be one day.

  Still, Myrren had accepted her unspoken warning, remaining solemn and formal throughout the walk from the vault to Ayla’s room. No doubt his gesture had been a courtly one, not meant to convey anything other than gratitude. There was no danger he would lead her into anything she might later regret.

  Darkhaven was lit by gas lamps, but Serenna had asked for a candle, which had been brought to her along with the food and drink. Now she pushed her plate aside and set the candle holder in the centre of the table. Gazing into the flame, she took a deep breath, allowing the flickering orange light to become the focus of her entire body. She had always been attracted to fire above all the other powers: its fluidity, its changeability, its heat. Letting it fill her vision, she became one with the flame.

  Later, the candle guttered and Serenna realised her muscles were stiff with sitting still. After blowing the candle out, she got up from the table and went to turn the lamps back to their full brightness, stopping halfway across the floor to yawn and stretch. Her mind’s eye still brimmed with firelight, reassuring her that she was doing the right thing. It was as Myrren had told her, at their first meeting: the old Firedrake, Florentyn, had belonged to flame more than to any other element. Whatever this creature was that had killed him and attacked her, she owed it a debt of vengeance.

  Besides, the freedom of an innocent girl was at stake.

  Hoping to get a sense of what Ayla was like, she looked around the room, taking in the details that earlier had been swamped by embarrassment and confusion. In the middle was an imposing bed, its four posts carved with the shapes of powerful creatures. The covers were neatly folded, the pillows arranged square upon the bolster. On one side of the bed was the window, with the table and chair that Serenna had been using earlier. On the other side was a large wardrobe, and beyond that a cabinet with a basin embedded into its surface. Serenna went over and turned on the long-necked tap; it coughed and spluttered, having sat unused for some time, but finally spat out a thin stream of water. She trailed her hand through it, then turned the tap off again. So they had plumbing in Darkhaven. In the Altar of Flame, water for washing and drinking was still drawn from the central well.

  She opened the wardrobe and ran her fingers over the heavy fabrics within: velvet, brocade, silk, all far richer than anything she was used to. What happened to
a Changer’s clothes when he took animal form? Did they go through the transition too, becoming hide and hair, then reclothe the wearer when he turned back? Or were they discarded, leaving the Changer in an uncomfortable state of nakedness when he became human once more? Perhaps she would ask Myrren … or perhaps not. Based on her earlier misgivings, it was the kind of subject she should probably avoid.

  A drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe turned out to hold underclothes; the cabinet beneath the basin gave up a toothbrush, a bar of soap, a facecloth. Serenna sat on the bed and stared around at the dark wooden furniture. There was nothing here that could tell her anything about Ayla – no books or ornaments, no pictures on the walls. Either Ayla was a very secretive girl, or she must have been bored and lonely. Even Serenna’s simple room in the temple revealed more of herself than these luxurious, empty surroundings.

  A memory slipped into Serenna’s mind: Myrren talking about his father. He was devoted to her, to Ayla’s mother, in a way he never was to his own kin. Members of the Nightshade line intermarried, to keep the gift of their bloodline strong. Ayla and Myrren were destined for each other; even if Ayla were convicted of her father’s murder, she would be kept alive to bear Nightshade heirs.

  Serenna shivered, the wide walls and high ceiling closing in on her where she sat. Ayla had spent her whole life in this room, knowing she was obliged to marry her own brother, her only escape the ability to Change into a creature her father disapproved of. Yet now, despite the difficult circumstances, she had tasted freedom …

  Serenna sighed. Perhaps she and Myrren would be able to prove Ayla’s innocence beyond doubt. But by then, would Ayla even want to come home?

  SIX

  They let Caraway out at first light, bundling his possessions into his arms and shoving him through the door without even giving him the chance to put his boots back on. As he sat outside the jail and tugged them over his much-darned socks, the bustle of the city held as little promise for him as the four walls of the cell in which he’d spent the night. The grey morning was reflected in the windows of the buildings and the eyes of the people, making everything dull and dreary. He couldn’t begin to comprehend what he should do next. It was tempting to turn around and walk straight back inside. Perhaps if he punched the duty guard in the face they’d lock him up again until tomorrow.

  For five years he’d been living like this, doing odd jobs to earn the coin he needed to rent a room, clothe himself, buy food and drink – mostly drink, of late. He knew it was only a matter of time before the alcohol dissolved his brain and he became one of the old drunks he saw wandering the streets at night, with a web of red veins across his cheeks and a purple nose and wet, gummy eyes that forever gazed upon a vision of the past. Soon he’d lose even his current small room above the tanner’s yard, forced to sleep in doorways and under bridges with only cheap spirits to keep him company.

  In the cold light of day, he knew it; yet already he was wondering when he’d next be able to buy ale.

  You’re not going to drink today, he told himself. You’re going to go and find work. Rent’s due in a few days and there’s nothing to pay it with.

  In response his craving tugged harder at him, setting his guts lurching with the need for a liquid something to see him through the day. Trying to ignore it, he set off down the street at a brisk pace, though his head swam with every jolting step. He would go to the second ring and see if the smelters or smiths were looking to take anyone on. Casual labour was usually available for anyone who didn’t mind working a long, hot, noisy day; perhaps he could sweat the desire for alcohol out of his skin.

  His resolve lasted nearly all the way to the Gate of Flame – lasted, in fact, until he spotted a scuffed silver coin lying at the side of the path. He snatched it up and scrutinised the markings, chewing on his lower lip. One donol: a tenth of his weekly rent. Enough to buy a good meal at a cookstand that would keep him going until the evening, and still leave plenty of change for more food over the next few days.

  Or the exact amount needed to obtain a pitcher of ale in the Wyvern, just a few short streets away …

  ‘You bastard,’ he whispered to the coin, before pocketing it and turning in the direction of the inn.

  It was noon before Caraway emerged from the Wyvern, floating in a world that seemed altogether more pleasant than it had that morning. He considered going on to the second ring as he’d planned, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. The day was half over; better to rest this afternoon and go tomorrow. Guilt stirred in his chest, but he smothered it. It was up to him how he spent his time.

  His way home took him through the nearby bazaar, a rather disreputable centre of trade on the edge of the Night Quarter. The booths lining the streets offered an array of imported goods, some rare, some specialist and all on the verge of being illegal. Caraway stopped to look at a gigantic snakeskin draped over one counter, its mottled pattern faded yet still discernible. Ahead of him, a girl in a hooded cloak was examining what looked like a large hookah pipe.

  ‘You want some?’ The man on the other side of the counter from Caraway held up a little bottle, tilting it enticingly. ‘Powdered skin of the Kardise cobra. Most powerful aphrodisiac in the world. One pinch of that’ll keep you up all night, know what I’m sayin’?’

  He offered a suggestive wink, extending his hand for Caraway to take the bottle. A breeze caught the skin, making it rustle like dead leaves. Discomfited, Caraway shook his head; his voice came out too loud.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  The girl in the cloak glanced over her shoulder, and Caraway caught a glimpse of blue eyes beneath the hood. His heart gave one sudden thump, pure shock cutting through his clouded brain. He would know Ayla Nightshade anywhere. What in the name of the elements was she doing in the first ring?

  Leaving the snakeskin booth behind, he trailed after her as she walked on down the street. His gaze was so firmly fixed on her that twice he bumped into passers-by, murmuring absent-minded apologies without ever looking to see who he’d trodden on. Then Ayla turned the corner, heading deeper into the Night Quarter, and Caraway quickened his pace. Whatever she was doing here, it wasn’t safe. And if one of the Helm caught her, they’d have her back in Darkhaven and on trial for her father’s murder before she even had the chance to cry for help.

  At the corner he stopped, peering down the street towards the lavishly decorated brothels, his pulse quickening as he realised he’d lost her. He started forward, searching in vain for the slight figure with its hood of dusky grey – and then a blade pricked him in the small of the back. Her voice was low and determined.

  ‘Who are you and why are you following me?’

  ‘I just wanted to make sure you were all right.’ Caraway didn’t turn, although he could have had the knife from her in an instant. His reflexes still worked, even after five years spent deadening them. ‘I spotted you further up the street. My lady Ayla.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ The blade pushed harder, piercing the thin fabric of his clothing; he had to suppress a yelp. ‘My name isn’t Ayla. I think you’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘I recognised you as soon as I saw you.’ He kept his voice even. ‘I understand you must be nervous. But I’m not here to hurt you or to turn you in.’ A sudden ache constricted his throat as he added, ‘I believe you’re innocent.’

  ‘Why?’ She was trying to sound defiant, but the word cracked as she said it. ‘Why should you? You don’t know me.’

  ‘I do.’ The pressure of the knife at his back had slackened; he risked taking a step away, turning around slowly, hands spread. Ayla was there in the shadow of a doorway, hair tucked beneath the hood. The blade glinted in her taut fist.

  ‘I know you,’ he said again, and watched recognition spark in her eyes.

  ‘You,’ she breathed. ‘You were in the Helm … five years ago …’ Her face changed as though the blood in her veins had congealed into ice. The knife lifted, forming a barrier between them. ‘Yo
u killed my mother.’

  So she did remember him.

  Caraway didn’t try to refute the accusation, just stood still and kept his gaze on hers. The hint of green in her eyes was stronger in the dim light, a wash of turquoise over the Nightshade blue. He had always liked that in her, that one echo of her mother. It made her more human.

  ‘What do you want?’ she demanded.

  ‘To help you.’ He offered her a hopeful smile, then winced as her nose wrinkled in disgust.

  ‘Of all the people in the world, Tomas Caraway, you’re the very last one I’d want to help me.’ Her contemptuous gaze raked him from stubbled chin to scuffed boots. ‘You look as if you haven’t washed for days. You stink of cheap ale. And in case you’ve forgotten –’ the knife blade stabbed towards him, a vehement statement – ‘you let my mother die, and I hate you for it.’

  ‘No more than I hate myself,’ he mumbled. ‘Lady Ayla … you’re in danger out here alone. You need help.’

  She shook her head. ‘Not from you.’

  ‘Please …’ He reached out to her. ‘For your mother’s sake …’

  Ayla’s whole body tensed like an arrow poised on the string. Her free hand caught him square across the cheekbone, the full weight of her arm behind it. The sound of the slap reverberated in the confined space.

  ‘How dare you? You piece of filth, how dare you ask me to do anything in my mother’s name?’

  Flushed with anger and embarrassment, Caraway grabbed her wrist and twisted it until she dropped the knife. Then he gripped her by the shoulders and gave her a shake, desperate to make her understand.

  ‘You can’t stay out here alone, Ayla! If I let you go there’ll be two deaths on my head, not one!’

  ‘Get off me!’ She struggled in his grasp, kicking at his shins. ‘Get off me, you murdering bastard!’

  At the last two words he released her, stung by instant remorse and an intense sense of his own worthlessness. Momentary anger fading into melancholy, he bent down to retrieve her knife for her. She snatched it out of his hand, glaring. Her fingers brushed fastidiously across her cloak as though she wanted to remove all traces of his touch.