So when an anonymous message had arrived four days ago, slipped under her dinner plate, she had known at once that she was reading truth:
Things are not well in the home of your lover. Loyal friends are posted elsewhere. Strangers walk the halls, sharpening knives while they wait for his return. He needs help. He needs you. Come now. Come carefully.
Without hesitation, she had made a show of throwing up and had then retreated to her room, leaving strict instructions that she was not to be disturbed. An hour later, she was on the road, hidden in the back of a wagon, and en route to the castle of Lord Rochant Sapphire.
He was in danger, of this she was certain, and that was enough to have her enter, uninvited and unlawfully. Discovery would mean disgrace and the possible loss of her immortal status. But not to act, to allow whatever was coming for Rochant to take his life unopposed, was unthinkable.
She had been twenty years younger the last time she used the tunnel. Though it was unchanged, her age lengthened the journey, doubling the effort required for each drag of the knee, tripling it where walls and ceiling narrowed and she was forced onto her chest, worm-like.
For Rochant, it would feel like no time at all, the space between death and life but a moment for him, while she had felt keenly every second they had been apart. And she had lived those seconds, time taking its toll on her body. Would he still be drawn to her? Would he still recognize her? Of course he will, she chided herself, our attraction is stronger than common sense, or family taboos, or time. She tried to picture his surprise at seeing her, and his joy. The picture in her mind found a mirror on her face, infused by the growing sense of excitement that, at last, they would be reunited. And while the feeling did little to remove her discomfort, it made it a lot easier to ignore.
As she inched her way forward, noises of the castle wound their way up to her. The chatter of servants, hushed, preparing to retire. Snores of the drunk, rattling and regular. And softer, a groan of relief, followed by a litany of curses directed against shoes and the people that made them so tight. Nothing that suggested danger. A little doubt wormed its way into her thoughts. What if she was wrong? And what if, by being here, she put his life and reputation at risk? Perhaps the letter was a trap rather than a warning and her instincts were wrong. What a bitter irony that would be.
One by one, the noises settled, till only the snoring could be heard, and Pari came to the end of the tunnel and her lover’s bedroom. In the dark, her fingers fumbled, memory not enough to guide them, until persistence brought them to the catch.
Inside the room, a painting of a surprised young man slid aside, allowing Pari to pull herself free. Able to stand upright again, each limb was stretched in turn, joints cracking like whips. Pari grimaced, knowing that she would pay for this excursion tomorrow. Such is the price of age, she thought. Not so much that we have less fun, just that the cost of it keeps going up.
She allowed her hand to slide along the gem-studded wall, until there was warmth under her skin, and pressed. Solar light, captured over the day and piped where needed, spilled out, filling the room with heat and illumination, blue-tinted.
The bedroom was mostly as she remembered it. Plain walls hardly visible beneath the paintings, all of them of live subjects, and by a variety of different artists. She used to know the history of every piece but it was so long ago. The subjects were long dead and her memories were of Rochant’s face rather than his words, and the way his stern features became so delightfully boyish when enthusiastic.
No dust had settled on the furniture, and the sheets on the bed were perfectly smooth until Pari sat on them. The room smelt fresh, clean, but it did not smell of him, and she was struck by the hollowness of the place.
It’s waiting for you to come back. We all are, my darling.
Pari went to the door on the opposite wall and slid it back to reveal a rack of clothing. Hanging underneath Lord Rochant’s cloak, hidden, was a second simpler one of Sapphire design, the kind worn by the castle staff on a cold night.
She took out the cloak and slipped it over her shoulders, pulling the hood forward till it cast her face in shadow, hiding her only concession to vanity: a pair of golden earrings that fastened to the top and bottom of each ear; a gift from him to her from their early, heady days.
There was a sad lack of mirrors but some of the paintings were protected by glass and, from the right angle, she was able to see a paler version of herself. Her reflection gave her an approving nod, before smiling.
Much better.
So far, her intrusion had been easy. The routines of the castle had not changed, and it was a small matter for her to sneak in through the servants’ quarters. House Sapphire had few enemies, and Lord Rochant fewer still. With most of the guards assigned to the ceremony, she had plenty of opportunities to cross from the courtyard where visitors were taken, to the outer wall. From there, it had only been a short run to the tunnel’s entrance and complete concealment all the way to Rochant’s bedchamber.
The hard part was yet to come. She slipped out into the corridor and began her walk towards the Rebirthing Chamber. By her estimate, the suns would only just be starting to rise. Rochant had been born under the lesser red sun, Wrath’s Tear, and so she still had a little time before the ceremony began.
In short bursts, she travelled, crouching by glazed vases bursting with yellowed leaves, then dashing forward to hide by a statue of a serious looking man in long robes: Lord Rochant Sapphire, rendered in crystal, and mounted on a plinth. It had been grown over years, sculpted meticulously to match the subject at every stage of life. If the rebirthing ceremony was successful, the statue would be moved to the ancestral hall and a new one would be put in its place. Accuracy had been given priority over flattery, every feature worked to match the original’s. The artist had done an exquisite job and it was no accident that Pari’s hand came to rest on the statue’s bottom.
Where are the guards? she wondered. So far, she had seen no one, heard nothing.
Halfway to her next hiding place, she saw one coming out of a bedroom, closing the door, carefully, quietly. It would only be a few moments before he looked up and saw her. Instead of diving for cover, Pari straightened, trusting to her disguise.
No longer creeping, the sudden sound of her footsteps filled the pre-dawn quiet, and the guard jumped so high the plume of his helm nearly tickled the ceiling.
Making the most of the man’s surprise, Pari hurried past: the guard stayed facing the door until her back was to him. She heard him then set off quickly in the opposite direction.
She’d noted the slight shine of his cheeks and wondered about it as she turned the corner. Something in the man’s manner nagged at her, slowing her steps. Embarrassed or not, the guard she had encountered was in the family wing of the castle on the night of Rochant’s ceremony, and he should have challenged her.
Suddenly, all thoughts of her reunion faded away, banished by the puzzle. Not only had the guard not challenged her, she realized, he had been as keen to get away as she was. And then another thing occurred to her. When the guard had left, he was going at speed, and yet she could not remember hearing the sound of his footsteps.
Pari stopped. She didn’t understand what was going on but all of her instincts were telling her to run, and so she did, away from where the ceremony would be starting and back to the door where she had first encountered the guard.
It was quiet on the other side of the door, the same kind of quiet she’d experienced in Rochant’s room. With a sickening feeling, Pari turned the handle and pushed open the door.
Dim light from the corridor bled through into the dark room, painting a sleeping girl in greys, serene. Pari would guess her to be no more than fifteen, most likely one of Rochant’s grandchildren.
Around her the room contained a few hints of chaos: a broken chair, a scattering of beads and a second body, a young woman in a guard’s uniform, chest down, head twisted too far to the left, as if she wished one last look at the ceiling as she died. Her