Ambergate (36 page)

The musicians struck up the nuptial march.

It was difficult to see Leah at first: she was hidden by a gray mass of bodyguards. It was only when she reached the Lord
Protector’s pew, and Caleb stepped out, that the bodyguards dispersed and I saw her white, clenched face beneath the pearled
snood, her dark eyes staring up at the swanskin, her hands twisting and twisting together over her cream satin skirts.

The Facilitator came down the altar steps, and Leah and Caleb stood before him, their heads bowed. The Facilitator’s white
gown had moth holes in the hem. My heart thumping, I stared at the back of his head, at the ruff of gray hair that ran around
his pink scalp. It had become very dark in the Cathedral, as if a storm brooded above us. The windows high above the glowing
candles were dull and opaque.

Nate had shown me the words of the nuptial service, so they seemed almost familiar when I heard the Facilitator speak them
in his deep, gentle voice.

“My Lord Protector, Members of the Ministration, we are here today to witness a marriage, as the Birds of the heavens witnessed
the first marriage of all, between the Robin and the Wren, who sit on either side of the Almighty…”

As his introduction went on, the Bird Keeper came in and placed the Cages on the table: the Robin in one and the Wren in the
other. My eyes went to those poor little captive
birds, half-dead lumps of feathers huddled on the floors of their cages, dazzled by candlelight into a state of shock. Even
sacred birds, it seemed, suffered from fear. For indication of a good marriage it is said they burst into song after the vows,
but a human singer is always provided should they not do so.

The words of that old song “Who Killed Cock Robin?” began to run around my head in the most macabre way.
“I,” said the sparrow, “with my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin
.”

The musicians had stopped playing. Caleb, the Cock Robin, would be the first to take his vows.

Leah’s eyes were contemptuous; she didn’t look at Caleb. She didn’t see the malice in his sidelong glance at her. In the darkness
I bent and took the dagger from my boot and held it behind my back.

Then, unexpectedly, as the Facilitator was about to pronounce the vows for Caleb to repeat, the Lord Protector moved from
his seat and strode forward toward the chancel. He left a surprised murmur from the Ministration seated behind him. My heart
almost stopped beating.
He is coming for me! He knows what I’m holding!
The Facilitator stepped hastily to one side, startled from his gravity; the clerics eyed each other in shock. But even as
I cowered back, the Protector stepped up to the lectern.

The great Eagle’s head lowered as he looked briefly, dismissively, at the Divine Book, then regarded his captive audience
through the eye slits. There wasn’t a sound throughout the Cathedral.

He took off the head. A cleric hurried forward to take it, but the Lord Protector waved him away, and gripped the
head in one hand. He seemed equally imposing without it. His voice ground through the vast spaces of the ancient building,
hitting the stone and coming back.

“Friends,” he began, “we’re gathered here for the weddin’ of my son to my niece—a family occasion, you might call it. Yet
you all know of the rumors concernin’ Leah’s late mother, and, indeed, of the mystery surroundin’ Leah’s time here in the
Capital the past three years. When she was found half-drowned, she was clutching the very swanskin that hangs above us.” He
paused, so that a hundred feathered heads could look up and regard the swanskin above the altar.

“We remember the legend of the avia, and some of you may be concerned that the Ministration itself will be sullied by such
a marriage, despite the new law allowin’ it. As those of you who remained in the Capital for our recent Councils will know,
Leah has declared in writin’ that she is one of that mythical race. She is, indeed, avian.”

He paused as a muffled gasp of horror went up from some of the pews. Leah’s face was expressionless, her eyes downcast. In
the Chapel of the Lark, Erland stirred restlessly, but I could not see his face. The back of the Protector’s bald head turned
swiftly from side to side: he was scanning the nave. I studied the bulge of flesh at the top of his neck as his voice grew
harsher.

“Perhaps it is worth repeatin’ my own personal views on this matter to you now, my friends, so that in future they will be
your views as well.

“I believe we have misjudged and misinterpreted the avia through the ages. We have always thought them cursed by
their double life—seen it as a punishment for challengin’ the power of God Himself and wishin’ to emulate Him.

“Yet, what if through this double life the Almighty intended to bestow on them power and grace beyond the reach of ordinary
man? My friends, I, your Protector, whose prime consideration is your well-bein’ and that of my country, have come to understand
only recently that all my life I’ve misinterpreted the legend of the avia. It is they that have the power, my friends, they
who will grant us all salvation. If you marry earthly power with heavenly gifts, then you can achieve no stronger union for
the rulin’ of a country. This is what the marriage between my niece, Leah, and my son, Caleb, will achieve.

“It was when I made a remarkable discovery below us in the crypt of the Cathedral that my views changed. As you know, the
crypt had been blocked for many years. No one suspected it was there. Not only does it contain the legendary and priceless
treasure of the Capital, the Amber Gate”—he paused, as a murmur of astonishment ran around the congregation—“but also an ancient
painted ceiling, whose prophecy will be clear to you, as it was to me when I first saw it. Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends,
after this service you will be led down to view these marvels’—he paused again for emphasis—“then you will understand.”

He moved away from the lectern and bowed to the Facilitator. “Now get on with the nuptials, man,” he muttered. Then he went
down the altar steps, the Eagle head under his arm.

I thought it must have been a good speech, for throughout the Cathedral there was an enthralled and utter silence. The members
of the Ministration did not speak or cheer or clap. They were eerily calm and unmoving. But as the Protector returned to the
nave, they rose row upon row in their claret robes, and the bird heads lowered in submission. No one would dare question the
Lord Protector’s will.

Leah and Caleb knelt on the silk prayer mats, their heads bowed. Nate nodded to me and we went down to stand on either side,
so that we could perform our motet as soon as the couple had taken their vows.

The girl singer must stand by the man who is to be married.
The Cock Robin
. I looked at Caleb’s black head, gleaming in the candlelight. Above us the swanskin moved softly, and for a moment Leah looked
up and her eyes were desperate. I clutched the dagger tighter; my hand was slippery with sweat.
Now!
I thought,
do it now, while he mutters his vows after the Facilitator and his back is bowed
. Yet I was standing in full view of the entire Ministration and the Protector himself, the candles shining behind me. I would
surely be stopped before the deed was done!

Unless I was quick.

I glanced behind me at the Eagle. I fancied I saw sadness in His damaged eyes.

The gilded cage was brought before Caleb as he knelt, and the Facilitator took his hand in his and placed it on the top. The
robin inside did not stir. “And I, Caleb Grouted, do swear…”

“… By the love I bear the Eagle and the first among His Heavenly Company, the Robin…,” said the Facilitator, with a touch
of reproof.

Caleb repeated the words in a mutter: “… to keep the words I have uttered pure unto my death-day.”

And then it was Leah’s turn, and still I had not acted. The Facilitator waited, but she did not speak. “I, Leah Tunstall,
do take thee, Caleb Grouted…” He gave her the first line.

Her mouth opened; everyone in the Cathedral waited for her to speak. In the shadowy chapel, I saw the pale gleam of the Messenger’s
silk coat.

Leah’s gaze caught mine.

Behind my back I slipped the dagger from its sheath.

But now that the moment had come, I could not do it.

I blinked—perhaps I gave a tiny sound—for Leah looked at me again, her mouth still open to speak. But then my hand unclenched
of its own doing.

With a dreadful clatter, I dropped the dagger on the stone.

But no one heard it. At that moment there was a commotion by the main door, and two soldiers burst in, dragging a man between
them who swore and bellowed like a maddened animal.

The bird heads of the Ministration craned around at the noise. The Facilitator stood frozen at the second interruption to
his service. Whispering arose in the choir stalls and
among the musicians. Quickly, I looked around for the dagger. It had slid beneath the nearest musician’s chair.

The soldiers restrained the struggling man by the door, and an officer hurried forward to speak to Mather. I caught sight
of the prisoner’s furious face, the hacked gold hair, bright protruding eyes. It was Titus Molde, his hat knocked off and
without the sack he’d been carrying.

“Sir, this man has been found loitering outside,” said the officer to Mather, his voice ringing in the silence.

“You know who he is?” said Mather. His voice carried back to the altar steps. “One of the rebel leaders. You’ve done well.
Take him away.”

Molde yelled something that was cut off abruptly as the soldiers half-carried him out. A blast of heat hit us as the doors
opened and closed.

In the front pew the Lord Protector was unruffled.

“Molde captured, eh? An excellent augury coming today, Mather.”

It was then I knew I was reprieved. My understanding of things turned a somersault in my poor mazed mind. Molde—a rebel leader?
I could scarce grasp it after so long believing him to be a soldier. I was free of his impossible bargain at last. How long
had I known I would never be able to kill another human being? Perhaps from the very first. Murder was surely the greatest
wrong of all.

But if I was reprieved, Leah was not.

“On with the ceremony, then, Master Facilitator,” called the Protector, and he settled himself more comfortably. “Let’s hear
my niece’s vows.”

The officer said something to Mather in an undertone; they had a hasty conversation while the Facilitator waited for silence.

“What now? Why the delay?” growled the Lord Protector irritably. He’d not replaced the Eagle head, and I could see him glare
about him.

Mather bent to whisper. The Protector shook his head. “No! Let ‘em deal with it!” He shoutec across to the Facilitator. “Hurry
up, man!”

The officer hurried back down the aisle. The soldiers guarding the West doors murmured like a restless wind and the murmur
was taken up by the others in the shadows behind the arches. As Mather slipped away to deal with them, the Protector ignored
the whispering; he jerked his head impatiently at the Facilitator.

The Facilitator repeated the first of the marriage vows to Leah, his voice shaking a little. “I, Leah Tunstall, do take thee,
Caleb Grouted…”

Leah bowed her head. Caleb shot her a glance of pure venom. Then Leah spoke at last, her voice reedy and thin, like the wail
of a drowning soul. “I, Leah Tunstall, do take thee…”

She never finished. With a high sound like the ripping of silk, the swanskin began to split. Along the length of the golden
pole the tear grew. Every person in the Cathedral saw it. They stared, motionless, as feathers flew loose and, caught in the
down-drafts from the roof, eddied and swirled in all directions.

The swanskin was rent from end to end. It dropped heavily through the air.

I started back as it swept past my head, almost touching my hair, narrowly missing the candle flames. A gasp went up. Someone
screamed in the choir stalls.

A figure was struggling on the stone floor at the bottom of the altar steps, writhing beneath the skin, fighting through the
feathers. One hand clawed at the floor, clawed at Leah, who drew back, ashen-faced; the other hand brushed frantically at
mouth and nose.

Caleb was trapped. The Protector and the Ministration could not see him, for the musicians’ stands hid him from their view,
but the Facilitator, the clerics, all those in the chancel, stared down in horror. No one wanted to touch a skin that had
belonged to a member of the avia.

I shook Nate’s hand away; I moved quickly, with no thought. In one movement I threw the swanskin off Caleb, and was astonished.
There was no weight to it at all.

He lay, sobbing for breath. He was scarce a man at all at that moment. I wasn’t sure why I’d freed him.

Leah clutched the ruined swanskin to her breast. She looked around wildly. “Erland?”

“Hush!” I whispered. But I could no longer see him in the Chapel of the Lark.

“Are you recovered, Sir?” called the Facilitator to Caleb, who was sitting up and swearing most vilely to himself—oaths that
I alone could hear.

“No, I am not!” he shouted back. “That thing”—pointing
to the swanskin—“nearly killed me! What fools hung it? I shall have their guts!”

“Should we get back into our positions?” said Nate nervously to the Facilitator. The Protector was standing up, would be coming
to rally his son, to bully the Facilitator into continuing the service. With a resigned expression, the Facilitator watched
Porter Grouted—Lord Protector and Controller of the Church—step from his pew and march forward.

The muttering from the soldiers that had been silenced by the rending of the swanskin arose again, louder, more urgent. An
officer ran up the nave toward the Lord Protector as he began to weave determinedly through the musicians’ stands toward the
chancel. A yell went up from the entrance: meaningless, filled with fear.

The Ministration stirred as they heard it, the bird heads turned toward each other. The Lord Protector stopped where he was,
his face like thunder. He turned, sending vellum sheets of music flying. The officer said something, the Protector thrust
him off.