CHAPTER 7

The sky had cleared by the time Rielle and her family arrived at the temple but the streets still smelled of rain. Though some of the parade participants looked a bit damp they were not going to let it keep them from enjoying the beginning of the Festival of Angels. Rielle’s family was dry, having been protected by a large, brightly coloured waxcloth canopy that the dyeworks’ servants had held over them as they walked into the city centre.

That canopy was now being dismantled and rolled into bundles. Rielle and her family would now join the crowd, much to her relief. As a child she had loved being part of the spectacle, but now, as a young woman, it embarrassed her. She looked down at herself and sighed. Her clothes were all new, made from fabric dyed a bright and expensive orange-red. The tunic was overstitched with temple scenes. She had to admit Narmah’s work was beautiful, but it was overly gaudy for her tastes. At least she had been able to convince her aunt and mother that too much jewellery would unfairly distract the eye from Narmah’s work.

She looked at her brother, as brightly attired in sky blue, and he smiled back at her. Every year Inot returned for the festival, and each time it shocked her to see how much more grown up he was. The seven-year difference in their ages seemed to grow wider. To her disappointment, he had not brought his wife and children with him, as Wadinee was heavily pregnant with their third.

As their parents started towards the temple, Rielle and Inot followed. They wove through the crowd, each of them holding a furled pennant dyed in their family colours. People let them through out of respect for her parents’ status as the best and largest dyeworkers in Fyre, though Rielle could not help wondering if habitual avoidance also played a part. Her father would eventually stop when those in front did not step aside. This is one way the residents of Fyre know where they stand in the hierarchy of status, Rielle mused. The closer the crowd lets you get to the temple, the higher your status.

She was surprised, when they stopped, that her father had managed to penetrate quite so far into the crowd before people no longer moved aside. Nearby stood Bayla and Tareme’s family, though the girls were not with them. Polite greetings were exchanged. Rielle’s mother asked after Ako and the girls. Rielle caught the words “young ones” and “party”.

“Are you not going to this party?” Rielle’s mother asked her quietly, when their exchange was complete.

“I assumed you would want me here with you, as always,” Rielle replied. Though she didn’t care that she hadn’t been invited, her mother would.

“Oh, you should have asked me. Hmm, maybe it is not too late to accept the invitation.”

The crowd was quietening down. “Since I wasn’t going, I didn’t find out where it is.”

“I’ll just ask…”

“No!” Rielle grabbed her mother’s hand and earned a frown. “Not now. I think the ceremony is about to begin.”

She had seen no such sign, but fortunately it was not long before the temple door opened and priests emerged. The head priest, Sa-Koml, began to address them, beginning his usual summing up of the year’s events.

Looking at the other priests, Rielle could not help smiling at Sa-Baro, who beamed down at the audience. He so loves a celebration, she thought, remembering the relish with which he read to them of the revels and feasting within the tales of the past. She also recognised Sa-Elem. The man stood with a straight back, looking down at the crowd soberly. His gaze moved slowly over all and she could not help imagining he was considering those who over the last year he had noted might have magical ability.

Then his gaze met hers, or at least seemed to. He was a little too far away for her to be certain. He paused, then his chin dropped slightly before he looked away. Rielle found herself staring at him, wondering if she had imagined his nod and resisting the temptation to look behind her to see if it might have been intended for someone else. Had he meant it for her? And, if so, why?

Someone else was looking in her direction, and Rielle’s eyes shifted instinctively to the man beside Sa-Elem. Now it was the younger priest, Sa-Gest, who appeared to be looking at her. He was smiling but, perhaps because she already felt uncertain and self-conscious, it did not seem friendly. She tugged her scarf closer to her face and looked away, directing her gaze at her father in the hope that the priest – if he was watching her at all – would think she did so in response to being addressed.

Sa-Koml had finished his account of the year, and led them in a prayer of thanks. Rielle whispered an extra one of gratitude to the priests and Angels for her escape from the tainted. And for introducing me to Izare, she added silently. No mention had been made of the new tainted the priests were hunting for, or the corrupter who was teaching them. The festival was meant to celebrate the good things in life, not the bad.

As the prayer ended, hundreds of pennants rose above the crowd. Rielle broke the seal that held hers closed and felt it loosen and unfurl in her hands. She lifted it up, smiling as it and her parents’ added a rainbow to the broad crop of family colours. All began to sing and circle around the temple. Once for thanks, several more times for good luck.

As they walked, they dropped coins into grates that were uncovered once a year for this ceremony. The coins fell through into the underground tunnels beneath the courtyard, where they would later be collected by priests and spent on improvements to the city. Not all citizens joined in this ritual – the entire city could certainly not fit into the courtyard these days and it freed the poorer Fyrians from the obligation to donate. At the edges of the courtyard people perched in doorways or crowded windows to watch. Parents held children high or let them ride on their shoulders.

A familiar face among these caught her attention and her heartbeat doubled. Izare smiled back at her and waved. She smiled back. He beckoned. She shook her head.

“Who is it?” her mother asked.

Rielle turned and was relieved to see her mother was searching the faces within the circling crowd. It would not occur to her that her daughter might know someone outside of it.

“A friend,” Rielle told her.

“Oh, then you should go and join them.”

“But what about—?”

“No, no. Narmah can find someone else to help with the feast. I’m sure your friends’ party will be even grander than ours. Go and join them.” She plucked the pennant from Rielle’s hand. “Be home before dark.”

Rielle yielded to the hand pushing her shoulder. She turned away, heart racing with both fear and excitement. If she joined Izare now she would have hours to spend with him. Can I get away with this? Mother might ask Bayla’s parents about the party later and learn I didn’t appear. She’ll wonder where I went instead.

Those parties could be large, though. Rielle could claim she’d spent it in a quiet corner, talking to one or two people she’d just met, whose names she couldn’t remember. If she said that one of them was handsome or nice her mother would be distracted by speculation about who it might be.

The edge of the crowd was moving faster than the middle so Rielle let herself be carried along until she reached the corner she had seen Izare standing in. Stepping out, she searched the faces. He was nowhere to be seen. Had he tried to follow the crowd and was now in a different part of the courtyard?

A hand suddenly curled under Rielle’s arm and she jumped and turned. Greya smiled down at her.

“Don’t you look impressive?” she said.

“Thank you,” Rielle replied, though to her eyes Greya was the impressive one. Tall, pale and graceful, she stood out in the crowd.

“He’s over here,” Greya said, leading the way.

As they wove between the people, Rielle noted how the gazes of men were drawn to her guide more than to her own gaudy clothes. Their reactions were mixed. Some stared in appreciation, seeing the beauty in her graceful, long limbs, but others scowled, clearly only noticing the pale hair and skin that marked her out as having foreign blood. A feeling of danger awoke in Rielle.

“Bino,” someone said as they wove through part of the crowd. Rielle gasped, appalled at the insult. It was slang for an albino, insinuating that her colouring was a deformation.

“How rude,” Rielle said.

Greya shrugged. “It’s just a word. That they mean it as an insult is more insulting to albinos than to me.”

With a sudden flash of understanding, Rielle realised that Greya must endure such hostility all the time. How did she gather the courage to step out on stage? Or, worse, to venture onto the streets of the city alone? Perhaps she remained close to her friends, relying on their protection.

“How long have you lived in Fyre?” Rielle asked.

“I was born here. My father was an actor in a troupe that travelled from city to city. He was seduced by a local singer. I saw him every time he returned to the city. When I was old enough to sing and perform I travelled with him until I was a young woman.”

So she had Fyrian blood as well. Rielle looked up at the woman in admiration. Everyone Izare knew had such interesting, unusual pasts. The women were so confident and didn’t hesitate to speak their mind.

“Why did you come back here to live?” Rielle asked.

“There was a man in the group who wanted to lie with me. I didn’t like him. I told our leader that if the man didn’t leave the troupe, I would.” She shrugged. “Ah, here’s Dorr.”

The dashing actor joined them. In his reassuring presence, they continued on to meet Izare, Jonare and Errek. Izare grinned when he saw her, and his greeting was a kiss on the cheek that left her happily speechless for a few breaths. The others complimented her on her “costume”.

“They’ll be at this for another hour or so,” Dorr said, glancing back at the circling crowd. “I’m hungry. And thirsty!”

“Back to the fountain?” Izare asked.

“Back to the fountain!” the rest agreed.

The six of them set off along a route now familiar to Rielle, ending in the little courtyard near Izare’s home. The residents had brought out tables and chairs to fill the space and were laying out a feast, to which Izare contributed dishes of dried fruit and bottles of cheap iquo. It was a humble and rustic feast compared to what Rielle was used to, but she didn’t care. The company was much more interesting.

Izare and his friends introduced her to so many of the residents that she doubted she’d remember anyone’s names. A pair of women boldly introduced themselves as whores, though Rielle suspected they’d noticed her rich clothes and decided to shock her. A trio of acrobats arrived and treated the children to a display of tumbling and balancing. Someone began to sing, and soon instruments were brought out and people began to dance.

Hours passed. As the shadows lengthened, visitors started to leave and the residents settled into chairs to talk and to sip iquo.

“Monya, where is Dinni?” Dorr asked of one of the neighbours.

The woman grimaced. “She’s still upset. She says ‘why should she thank the Angels for ruining us?’.”

“Is it that bad?” Jonare asked in a low, concerned voice.

“Not quite. Not if she starts working on a new sculpture straight away. She’ll still get one finished by the customer’s wedding if she starts soon and we borrow the money for the stone.”

“Has she begun work?” Izare asked.

The woman looked at him and shook her head. “She gets so attached to them. It’s like asking her to replace one child with another.”

“Should I talk to her?”

She nodded. “That might help. But not today. Tomorrow. Or the day after.” She looked up at one of the houses. “I’d better go and see how she is.”

The group fell silent after the woman left. Rielle bit her lip, mystified by the conversation but uncertain if it would be nosy to ask about it. As Errek began talking with Merem, Greya leaned towards Rielle.

“Monya’s wife is a sculptor,” she said in a low voice. “She’d almost finished the largest commission she’s ever had. It took her many halfseasons. It was … smashed.”

Rielle sucked in a breath at the thought of all that work ruined. “By whom? Robbers?”

Greya shook her head. “The priests, during the last inspection.”

“But … why? Was it offensive to them?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Greya shrugged.

“It could be she wasn’t gracious enough,” Dorr said. “Or didn’t offer them a large enough donation.”

Rielle frowned, guessing that he meant the donations were nothing of the sort. But why would the priests want bribes? Did the sculptors need them to turn a blind eye to something? Like a tainted?

“It’s not the money,” Jonare added, to nobody in particular. “It’s her setting up with Monya.”

So when Greya had referred to Dinni as Monya’s wife, she hadn’t made a mistake, Rielle mused. That’s a bit odd, but surely nothing worth punishing them so severely for.

“Which priests were these?” Rielle asked.

None of the others replied, instead exchanging glances and shaking their heads. Izare smiled at her sadly and shook his head.

“It will do you no good to report them,” he told her. “Nothing will change and you will only reveal that you’ve been talking to us.”

“The priests will always harass artisans,” Dorr added, shrugging. “We’re used to it.”

“Because people think we’re more likely to be tainted?” Rielle shook her head. “I’d never heard that until Jonare told me. It’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Dorr asked. “Most of us will never be rich. Poverty can drive people to do desperate things. As the great poet Barhla said, ‘artists are but a shade away from whores and slaves’.”

“In Keya I knew whores who used magic to prevent conceiving,” Greya said. She looked up and smiled at all the expressions of discomfort this revelation had produced. “It’s forbidden to use it there as well, of course.”

“How do they avoid detection?” Jonare asked.

Greya shrugged. “Stain sticks to a place, not a person. I gather they went somewhere to do it that the priests didn’t go.”

“Did you tell the priests about them?” Dorr asked.

“No. People there are more likely to ignore the occasional small transgression, especially if it was for a good purpose.”

Rielle felt a chill spread through her body and a memory rose of an old woman. “From what I heard, it was a good thing, too. Saved someone’s life. Who’s to say that’s a bad thing, eh?” She shivered.

“Well, no more talk of magic today,” Izare said. “The festival is supposed to be a time of good cheer.” He looked at Rielle and tilted his head to the side. “Perhaps I should take advantage of Rielle being here to work.”

Rielle’s heart skipped a beat. As he raised a questioning eyebrow she nodded. “It would be a shame not to, and once the festival is over my aunt may expect me home sooner.”

“Go on then,” Dorr said, then grinned, “and no need to worry. Your iquo won’t go to waste.”

Izare stood up. “Leave me at least one bottle.”

“A bottle!” Jonare said. “You’ll be lucky if we save you a cup.”

Rising, Rielle smiled at them all. “If you’re gone before we’re done, a good year to you all.”

To her surprise, they chuckled and exchanged knowing looks. Her face warmed as she realised how they had interpreted her words.

“Done painting,” she told them firmly, then looked to the sky as their grins only widened. “Angels save my reputation.” She turned to follow Izare to his door.

“Or at least ensure you have fun sullying it,” Errek called after her. She glared over her shoulder at him, earning another laugh.

Izare did not seem at all bothered. He opened the door to his house and stepped aside to usher her through. She took a step towards the stairs, but a hand caught her and pulled her up short. Turning, she heard the door shut behind him and felt the warmth of his fingers curled around hers.

But these things were suddenly unimportant compared to what her eyes told her.

His gaze was intense, but not in the analytical way he stared when painting her. There was uncertainty and hesitation – which she had never seen. And then a strange, almost crazed light flared in his eyes and he pulled her towards him. Pulled harder than she expected, so that she lost her balance. But instead of falling against him she felt him catch her shoulders … and press his mouth to hers.

All of her froze except her heart, which did a crazy, impossible flip. Before she had time to recover he pulled away, searching her face.

“I’m sorry,” she said, then giggled as she realised her voice hadn’t suddenly deepened – he had spoken the same words at the same time. “You surprised me,” she added.

“A nice surprise?” he asked.

Blood and heat were rushing around her body and it was not an unpleasant sensation. “Yes,” she said slowly.

Being ready for it made the next kiss no less exciting but certainly more … interesting. What he did she mirrored, since he had clearly done this before. It continued for some time, and the barest of pauses separated one movement from the next. Rielle wondered how such a simple action could have so much nuance, and remain so deeply thrilling even as the time in its occupation lengthened. Her awareness gradually spread outward, to the brush of his cheek against hers, to the feel of his back beneath her hands, to the way his fingers moved up to tangle in her hair (where had her scarf gone?), trace the back of her ear, slide gently along her neck, cup her shoulders in his palms, encircle her arms …

… and then somehow move smoothly from there to her breasts.

She stilled, not drawing away but no longer kissing him. What was it about this that lit a spark of indignation? Why did this touch set off a warning? She knew she ought to pull away, that this was leading to things she ought not do, yet at the same time she wanted to know what those things felt like.

His thumbs ran over her nipples. The sensation was not unfamiliar – she could hardly have not noticed that this part of her body had become more sensitive in the last few years – but now it flowed inward and through her, amplified until her whole body was vibrating with it, awakening other feelings in other places that might also like attention.

At the same time, she had somehow wound up so much in contact with him that she could not help noticing a corresponding, and rather more obvious, physical change in his body.

Unbidden and unwelcome, words rose up from her memory. Words of her aunt. “People would assume he was doing a lot more than painting a portrait.”

She gently took hold of his wrists and stepped away. He did not resist. She realised she was breathing quickly. He was, too. They regarded each other for a long moment, then he slowly smiled.

“Shall we go upstairs?”

She nodded. “To paint. You have a portrait to do.”

“And I owe you some lessons.”

“Yes. Lessons. In painting.”

He did not move. “Do you think your family will notice, if you continue coming home a little late from temple?”

“Perhaps. We’ll have to see. We’ll have to make the best use of the time we have.”

His smile broadened. “Indeed, we will.”