The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(68)

Kiiren appeared to be on the defensive, as if he were trying to justify his decision to leave, but without a sound argument to back it up. Mal began to think he had been wrong about Kiiren's status; throughout the debate, participants referred back to the judge, as if seeking his expert opinion on a point of contention.

Eventually Kiiren came over to where Mal was sitting and held out his hand, gesturing for him to rise. Mal followed him into the centre of the circle, wondering what this was all about. Suddenly the ambassador seized the shoulder of his robe and pulled it down. Mal glanced at him in alarm.

"Do you neked," Kiiren murmured in Tradetalk, smiling.

Mal let the robe fall to the ground, so that he was wearing nothing but his linen drawers. Kiiren untied the knots holding the bandages in place. As the strips of linen fell around Mal's feet, those of the crowd sitting behind Mal gasped. The ambassador put a hand on Mal's shoulder and turned him gently so all could see.

"Was that necessary?" Mal muttered to Kiiren, clutching the robe to his chest, as they returned to the front row of the crowd and sat down.

Kiiren smiled apologetically. "Our people must see what is done, so they understand why we leave."

Judge Scarheart now took the floor. This time Mal did not even try to follow the discussion. He sat, eyes downcast, whilst Kiiren rewound his bandages, trying to ignore all the stares the two of them were attracting. He felt totally out of his depth, alone amongst a people whose customs made no sense to him. Men who took on the role of women; an ambassador who was at once revered by his people and yet as humble as Our Lord… He caught himself at this blasphemous thought. He must not allow himself to be led into heresy and damnation by a skrayling, no matter how charming.

The skraylings fell silent, then one by one they began to remove their necklaces, placing them on the ground at their feet. Mal glanced at Kiiren, but the young ambassador was too intent on his own part in this apparent ceremony. Once the crowd was still again, Judge Scarheart began chanting, low and soft. Others took up the song and soon the tent reverberated with their joined voices, rising and falling like waves on the shore. Memory stirred, and a terrible loneliness swept over him. Without thinking he reached up and removed the earring, placed it in his lap…

He was there, under the strange starless sky, but he could no longer see the moor with its distant lights. A wall of mist surrounded him, not quite close enough to touch. Shapes swirled within it, and he thought he heard voices, but when he turned to locate the speaker he found only an echoing silence, like the memory of words just spoken.

He ought to be afraid, the creatures were still out there, he was sure of it, but somehow he knew the mist protected him. Together we are strong, the mist voices seemed to say.

"Who are you?" he shouted, but no sound reached his ears.

A brighter patch of mist weaved back and forth in front of him, as if examining him. He was reminded of the blinding light from before, only this time it was veiled, a pearly glow like the moon behind clouds. The light retreated, and he plunged into the mist after it. The light flared around him, engulfing him, drowning him in shining water like the skraylings' lamps. He cried out – and woke with a start in the musty dimness of the little tent.

Kiiren was kneeling by the brazier, watching him intently.

"Wha' happened?" Mal mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his face. He felt as if he'd woken from a long fever.

"You took this off," Kiiren said, handing him the earring. "That was not wise." The force of the reprimand was rather spoilt by the gleam of delight in his eyes.

Mal fastened the heavy pendant in place. "I don't understand."

"You will," Kiiren said. "Now, you must sleep."

He placed a hand on Mal's shoulder as if to urge him to lie down. Mal's breath hissed between his teeth as his raw back protested at the touch.

"Please forgive," Kiiren said, inclining his head to the side in obeisance. "I did not think – I mean no hurt."

"It's nothing." Once again he was taken aback by the young skrayling's peculiar mix of friendliness and humility.

When Kiiren had gone he stripped off the robe and lay face down on the pallet, covering his lower half with a blanket for modesty's sake. There were no pillows, so he pulled a cushion over and rested his head on it. He closed his eyes. His mind still buzzed with the memory of the dream. If it had been a dream. Though it must be well past midnight, he did not feel the least bit sleepy. Not sleepy at all…

Coby was woken by sounds from the tiring room below. Footsteps? She groped for the cudgel, her heart pounding. Surely she had locked and barred the doors before coming to bed; at least, she thought she had. No, she was certain of it. How then had someone got in?

The footsteps sounded on the stairs now. She pulled the cloak over her head, hoping not to be noticed in the shadows. If a thief were after something, it was better she spied on him and reported to Master Naismith later. She lay there, hardly daring to breathe. Yellow light, as of a candle or lantern, outlined the door at the far end of the office. The footsteps halted, and the door opened to reveal the face of a devil.

She clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. The devil advanced into the room, holding the lantern so that its hideous blood-red face was lit from below like the fires of Hell. Its eyes glinted, and the hooked nose cast enormous shadows on the walls and ceiling. Coby moved her hand very slowly to the little wooden cross that hung on a cord around her neck.