Page 133 of Play of Shadows
I was about to signal Shariza away: why give the audience the satisfaction of this illusory happy ending? Corbier’s memories ended with his death, and there was no reason to believe this scene ever took place.
Please,he begged,let me have this moment– let me see it unfold as it might have been. . .
Acquiescing to his plea, I pretended to feel no pain as I rose to my feet, my rapier clattering to the stage. Her appearance shifted between Ajelaine and Shariza with every step and I was overcome with love for both of them, as I was filled with grief for Corbier.
The sound of a throat being cleared drew my attention to theside of the stage where Duke Monsegino, still in his golden armour, was looking on, weeping like some silent saint forced by the gods to bear witness. Without needing a nudge from me, he shed the guise of Pierzi and took on that most ancient of roles, the eulogist.
‘Let us imagine them together,’ he began, his rich tenor carrying over the near-silent crowds. ‘Let us allow ourselves this one moment of beautiful delusion, a small gift in exchange for the terrible truths we have had to face. Let us believe that somewhere, somehow, a different Archduke Corbier, one not caught in the web of deceit woven for him by the same men who ensnared Prince Pierzi, walks upon the shore of a small island not far from here, where a young woman fleeing for her life took refuge with her sons. And let us imagine one small, perfect moment. . .’
Shariza let go of Zina and Tolsi’s hands and ran to me. She had tears in her eyes and though it should have been impossible, I saw reflected in them a taller man, lean but broad of shoulder, with raven-black hair and ruby-red eyes.
And Raphan Corbier was smiling.
Thank you, he said, and the spirit or memory or whatever it was that had inhabited me these past weeks drifted back into the past where he belonged.
Duke Monsegino was finishing his soliloquy. ‘There has only ever been one redemption for any of us: the one which led Nevino Pierzi to take pity on the woman who had come to their marriage already pregnant with the children of his nemesis; the same spirit of valour which guided Raphan Corbier, the Red-Eyed Raven, to sacrifice himself, so that those he loved best should know peace.’
In the stillness Monsegino left behind, a whisper came from the crowd, then another and another, until they grew in volume like the rising tide upon the shore. ‘Let them kiss,’ the audiencepleaded. ‘One kiss—!’
A small request: one tiny lie to ease the pain brought on by so many uneasy truths. How could it harm anyone to imagine Ajelaine and Corbier together in the afterlife?
But the Iron Orchids were on the move. The column that had split the crowd in two was advancing on Monsegino’s personal guard, while those ringing the massive courtyard had turned their spears on the crowd and started driving them towards the stage. They would soon overwhelm us.
‘Firan Monsegino,’ one of the Orchids called out, ‘you have committed treason most foul against the decent folk of Pertine.’ The sneering thug held out a rolled sheet of parchment as if it were a sword. ‘By the demand of tradition and soon of law, your tyrannical oppression of this duchy is at an end. Yield yourself for judgement before the Court of Flowers!’
Below the stage, Captain Terine was struggling to keep her paltry troop formed up against the steadily growing onslaught of the Orchids and the panicked crowds they were funnelling towards the stage.
‘Damelas, what should we do?’ Beretto asked.
I almost laughed. What should they do? Become Veristors and travel back a year, so when a cowardly messenger fleeing a duel invades their sacred operato, they can hand him over to the bully-boys to drag him back to the duelling court and let the Vixen do her worst? But I had discovered the hard way that the Veristor’s gift didn’t work that way. It could no more alter the past than it could save the present.
The Knights of the Curtain, the bravest, the best men and women I’d ever known, were about to die, and along with them, the Duke of Pertine and any hope this duchy had of being free.
I was surprised to find Shariza still with me; I had expected her to have made her way to the duke’s side. Instead, I caught a trace of a wry smile– only. . . I was absolutely positive that smilebelonged to someone else.
‘What did you say?’ I asked, unable to hear her quiet words over the chaos being unleashed in the courtyard.
As she opened her mouth, the cacophony was replaced by the soft rustle of waves upon a distant shore.
‘What’s happening—?’
She reached out, placed her hands on my cheeks and leaned closer, and I thought Shariza was about to kiss me, but instead she spoke a third time, and at last I heard her.
‘Alas, we’ve no time for tragic romance, my dashing Veristor,’ Ajelaine said as the night sky was banished by a blazing sun overhead and two boys ran from her side to play on the beach. ‘You and I have a duchy to save.’
Chapter 69
The Never Queen
Ajelaine was older now, with strands of silver in her chestnut hair. The iron in her gaze reminded me more of Ornella than the vivacious young hellion who’d teased me on horseback in Corbier’s early memories. But while the years might show on her face and hands, still her eyes shone with mischief and inquisitiveness. She was as beautiful as the dawn.
The elaborate curtsey with which she greeted me sent the rough hem of her faded blue linen dress flapping in the breeze. ‘You look surprised to see me, Veristor. Did I not promise we would meet one last time?’
‘You did, but—’ I had to struggle for a moment to hold onto the vision of Ajelaine, superimposed over my own world, although the stage was covered in sand and the screaming crowds in the courtyard had merged into the cries of seagulls flying overhead. This felt more tenuous than my previous ventures into the past.
‘How is this possible, my Lady?’ I asked. ‘Corbier’s memories have always carried me to you, but his tale has ended and his voice is lost to me.’
Ajelaine rolled her eyes at me. Apparently, age hadn’t muted her propensity for mockery. ‘For a Veristor, you suffer from an awfully short memory, Damelas Chademantaigne. Did I notexplain to you many years ago in the orchard that your talent reaches beyond the recollections of a single individual? That yours is the gift to hear those echoes of our thoughts and experiences, and your duty to—’
