Fire & Shadow - Forbidden Love

A Dream

She dreamt that she was standing at the top of a tower, alone except for a woman who stood with her back to her. Wind howled and whistled as it circled them both, but the chill of it didn’t reach through the thick stone and glass. The tower was octagonal, with a pillar of stone for each corner, and between all but two corners was a perfect and enormous pane of glass. Zhira felt as if she stood in the sky. The wind groaned so fiercely that she expected the tower to sway or hum in the wind. However, it remained solid and unperturbed, unmoving in the assault. Set into one of the stone walls was a hearth and the opposite wall had a low arched door. A worn red rug covered the floor.

Zhira realised that the only light was that of a false dawn. The woman was standing at the eastern window and paid no attention to Zhira. Her eyes were shut as though she was resting. She was the same height as Zhira and had both thin hands pressed, palms flat, to the glass. Approaching with caution, Zhira studied her. Her clothes were made of expensive wool, but were simple in design. Her underdress was a midnight blue and the overdress, embroidered around the hem and neck with small gold suns, was only a shade or two lighter. She wore the sleeves of her underdress tight, till they almost pinched her wrists. Her hair was pulled into a braid and wound into a knot and all her focus was directed into the glass in front of her nose. Zhira was caught in the mix of emotions that wrapped the woman like a cloak. Deep wells of sadness made the pale skin of her face look taut; she was younger than Fraelyn but seemed birdlike, as though her skin was stretched over her bones. Grief, Zhira realised, had robbed her of youth. And beneath the sorrow emanating from the Lady, Zhira felt something else. Like a half-thought, or forgotten dream, hope sparkled beneath all the sadness. It suffused the air of the room, but focused on the glass.

Curiosity overcame her, and Zhira stepped into place beside the Lady. She found that the world stretched away beneath her feet. The first bite of true winter had stripped all the trees of their leaves and left every surface sparkling white in the growing gloom. Far below at the tower base was a great long building, a hall with expansive steps that lead down into a courtyard, growing wider as they went. The yard was bordered on the left and right by long thin buildings with slate tiled roofs. Facing the steps was a high, thick wall with an arch through the centre. She watched a horse and rider pass through the open gates with ease. The wall itself had steps that led down from the top to the yard, and round towers stretched up on either side of it. Archers’ lookouts

were worked into the stone. But neither of the defensive towers were half the height of the tower she stood on.

Beyond the wall, a white paved road dropped away through a town, much like Taren but larger. Timber-framed buildings leaned into one another, and smoke drifted up from a few of the low thatched roofs as ovens were lit. The ground dropped suddenly on either side of the town, down to the seas, and at the far edge of the town was another thick wall. Towers rose from the cliffs themselves on either side of it and another large archway permitted passage out and down again. Beyond, Zhira saw forests and hills giving way to mountains, where the sky was beginning to lighten. Not once, she realised, with a glance to her left, had the woman moved. Banners snapped on the more distant wall: two white fish on a green background, and above them a tall, thin triangle to represent the Spire. The King’s sigil. She knew where she was and a thrill wound through her. She was in the Spire itself, again. In the tower. Such wonderful things dreams can be, she thought. They took her to places she had only imagined.

She heard the voices crying at the back of her mind and shushed them, promising to save this place. Far below, she saw a few men emerging from the barracks and through the courtyard to the walls and towers. Looking to the north, she recognised the Sea of Sorrow and to the south the Great Ocean. A ship leaving from the Spire would travel the Great Ocean to Taren and then to the rest of the world. It would sail straight past her, she thought with wonder. Her attention was caught again by the sky behind the land. The sky had turned to soft pinks and blues and the girl looked with wonder at the woman beside her. The first ray of sunlight charged the energy in the room. Her eyes, the colour of the Northern Sea at night, remained fixed on the distance.

The air hummed sweetly with the energy of the woman’s Spirit Gift. Zhira could almost hear the whispering of a familiar spell. It tickled the back of her mind, but she knew she couldn’t hear anything with her ears at all. The sound of the wind had also faded. She felt her heart racing. The woman was searching for something, or someone.Anticipation spread through the air, tangible and exciting. Leaping, sparkling from pillar to pillar and through the glass like shining threads of silk. All of it came, Zhira realised, from the centre of the woman herself. It spread like the dawn, and just as the sun broke free from the distant forest over frost covered treetops, the energy swiftly withdrew back into the woman, as though regrouping for a final burst of power.

Zhira held her breath, sure that something amazing was about to happen. She was standing on the edge of a precipice. Whatever the woman was searching for, she was about to find it. The door behind them was flung open. Zhira jolted in shock and spun around to glare at the intruder. A man ducked hurriedly under the lintel. The spell shattered into shards of glass in the air, but he showed no sign of realising it. Zhira however, felt them as they landed, silent and invisible around her. The woman had turned too and Zhira was surprised to find her face still, without the smallest trace of frustration or annoyance. Hadn’t she known how close she was? Hadn’t she felt it?

‘My Lady.’ The man bowed.

Zhira studied him, reluctant to look away from the Lady. He reminded her of a fox. Cropped and bristly orange hair stuck up from his head at all angles and he had an inquisitive face and dark eyes. His beard and moustaches were neatly trimmed, and his expression was one of concern, ranging to panic.

‘Well?’ the Lady asked as he straightened.

‘The King is looking for you.’

Zhira glanced between them as they spoke, fascinated by the careful restraint evident on both sets of features. The man barely seemed to keep himself from action. A flash of worry crossed the Lady’s features.

‘Do you know why?’ She walked towards him, picking up her skirts in preparation to return down the steps. The room was so high, there must have been hundreds of steps in the stairway up here. No wonder the man was short of breath.

‘The magistrates of Taren and Farefendell arrived in the early hours. They have reported grain shortages.’

‘But we had a good harvest.’ Concern warred with confusion as the Lady paused. ‘And that isn’t all of their news, is it?’ A note of fear danced through the air.

‘More Champions cross the border, with his approval.’ The lady inhaled sharply, her fingers curling more tightly around her skirts.

‘There is nothing in Arngeir for them.’

‘The King, Graidon has accused you of stirring up rebellion.’

‘Treason?’ The word fell into the room. Silence stretched slowly from wall to wall until Zhira felt

she couldn’t bear it any longer. What could she say? They didn’t know she was witness to their discussion.

Finally, the Lady inhaled again and straightened up. ‘From where could I gather an army? The magistrates will not condemn me.’

‘Come away with me. Even if there is no evidence, he’ll find something else to try you for.’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong. The Champions know I wield the Light. They wouldn’t dare.’

‘They will find their way, my Lady.’

‘I’ll not leave my people.’ Her voice was resolute.

‘You have waited too long to remarry. He won’t be satisfied until you are dead or bowed to his will.’

Zhira realised without a doubt that this was the Lady of the Spire. Eleia De’Nor. The Widow they called her in the Temple. A woman who refused to mourn the death of her husband.

The Lady’s laughter was soft and bitter. ‘I cannot have two husbands, Stoke. The law is clear.’ She stepped past him and made her way to the door.

‘Alorn is dead.’ Stoke’s voice was pained, but he wavered. ‘Graidon will kill you if he can’t have you.’

Eleia hesitated. Her hand trembled on the stone wall before she clenched it into a fist. She turned, and Zhira was astounded when the woman’s blue eyes pinned her. She had been seen.

There was a pause before a smile ghosted across the Lady’s features.

‘All things change, Stoke.’

Then she was gone, skirts whispering as she made her descent. Zhira was left reeling in the centre of the floor. She’d been seen? But this was a dream…?

‘You shouldn’t have to.’ Zhira heard Stoke’s bitter murmur before he gathered himself. He checked his sword and his belt knife, straightened his jerkin over the mail he wore, and

turned to hurry after the Lady.

A chill draught blew through the open door and Zhira shivered. She felt an itch in her mind, as though there was something she had forgotten. She was tempted to run after the pair of them and see Graidon, the King. Perhaps he might be able to see her too? She took a step towards the door, but found herself pulled back. Her dream would not permit her to leave this room.

A worry tugged at her thoughts, and she searched her mind. Abruptly the day flooded back to her. She wasn’t in her bed in the Temple. She remembered her departure. She remembered waking up in the leaves. She could picture the man Rhyode and the river, and the elf. She shouldn’t be dreaming at all! She couldn’t slip away into sleep.

Her eyes snapped open and she looked frantically around. The river was rushing past, and finches chattered in rustling trees. As she stared into a grey sky, her sense of self returned. She’d woken that morning feeling as though she’d ached, and yet that was nothing to the pain that ravaged her now. Zhira was warm and dry, and wrapped in a thick blanket. She smelt smoke tinged with honey.

She sat up from where she lay.

‘Ah,’ someone said, ‘the sleeper wakes.’