A Thousand Glass Flowers (The Chronicles of Eirie 3)

COPYRIGHT 

Copyright © 2011 by Prue Batten

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
 

All rights reserved. 

Published August 2011 by Darlington Press

ISBN: 978-0987330512 

WINNER OF THE SILVER MEDAL (2012):

READER'S FAVORITE INTERNATIONAL BOOK AWARD FOR FICTION

Author’s note:

Glass flowers are known as
millefiori
and a
millefiori
paperweight is a stap
le of fine Venetian glassware.
‘
Millefiori
is a glasswork technique which produces distinctive dec
orative patterns in glasswork.
The
millefiori
technique was developed in Murano, I
taly in the fifteenth century.’
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Millefiori#History_of_Millefiori

It should be noted that the word Færan (pronounced Far-An) was referenced from an internet site: (
http://www.etymonline.com
).
The word was derived from the Old English
færan
meaning to "terrify, frighten."
I first used it in The Stumpwork Robe (2008) where the meanings of panic and grief fitted the theme of the story and have chosen to continue its use through each of my novels.

It should also be noted that the word
Faeran,
as opposed to
Færan,
was used by Cecilia Dart-Thornton in The Bitterbynde Saga (2002) and The Crowthistle Chronicles (2006) and no distinction of any sort should be drawn between the two.

Acknowledgements.

To my son for buying me a paperweight in Murano
, Italy and thus inspiring the story.

To
Salt Studio
for a stunning cover that is the very essence of the book.

To Andrew Shepherdson from
Andrew Shepherdson Antiques
for providing the Syrian
dagger used in the cover image.

To Kathryn and her team of editors at
Cornerstones Literary Consultancy,
London, for advice and s
upport over the last two years.

And finally to my husband for his unending belief in me and my work.

Glossary

Aine: Irish folklo
re, a princess.
In this novel, the Goddess-Creator

Alfil: elephant piece in shatranj

Arifa: Moroccan folklore, benevolent female djinn

Afrit: a lesser level djinn

Baduh: Arabic folklore, sprite responsible for speedy relay of messages

Baghlet al Qebour: Moroccan folklore, a ghost who haunts graveyards and people wandering at night

Bain As: P
iss off

Bitseach: bitch

Cantrips: charms

Cuju, dhada: games from the Middle and Far East, similar to football

Diff Errebi: King of the Djinns

Eldritch: enchanted

Frisson: a sensation that can be felt by mortals and Others indicating a Færan is close by.

Glamour: magical power

Had Al’ Khorine: Moroccan folklore, polite way of referring to Others

Hadduok Ennass: Moroccan folklore, ditto

Hammams: communal bathhouses

Kizmet: in the Raji tongue, a breeze from an Other source inspiring trepidation.  Identical to the welkin wind in Trevallyn, the Pymm Archipelago and Veniche.

Lalla Rekya Bhint Al Khamar: lady djinn of the bath houses

Mesmer: enchanted magic act or magic power

Muirnin: beloved, darling

Sarbaz: shatranj piece similar to a chess pawn in shatranj

Shatranj: chess-like game from the Far East, pre-dating chess

Siofra: Irish folklore.
Small sprites who can be benevolent

Tellak: bathhouse attendant

Vazir: counsellor piece in shatranj

Veela: Balkan folklore.
Can be benevolent or malicious

Washi paper: cobweb-like paper from the Far East

Welkin wind:
a breeze from an Other source.
So named in Trevallyn, Veniche and the Pymm Archipelago.  Inspires trepidation

Wight: enchanted person

Ymp Trees: rows of trees that have been gra
fted to form an unbroken line.
Believed to be one of the Gates to Færan

Chapter One

Lalita

Thumping woke her, the dog growling from her bed.
The bar across the door rattled and undern
eath her fingers
the
hackles on the animal’s spine stiffened.
‘
Hush, Phaeton,’ she whispered.
‘He can’t hurt me.’

'Lalita Khatoun.’
The hated voice boomed fr
om the other side of the door. ‘Bestir yourself, my niece.
We have much to do before the Grand Vizier graces the premises.'

Get you gone, fat Uncle.
I
despise
you.
She swung her legs to the floor, the dog ar
ching his back and stretching, the hackles flattening as the threat diminished. The floor trembled as Uncle Kurdeesh and his
bl
oated ego moved away down the passage, the vibrations of the bar across the door settling.
For the thousandth time she wished her
guardian uncle and aunt were here to share the moment to come, not the gross man outside who lurked like an
indelible blemish on her life.
She grunted in disgust.
I can’t believe he emerged from the same womb
as my father and Uncle Imran. He’s a foul man, evil…

Dismissing Kurdeesh with effort,
she thought on the parents she had never known but who had loved her and she blessed the memory.
Think of me, Mother and Father, and pray for me.
But then she allowed the mechanics of rising and dressing to focus her mind for the momentous time ahead, strengthening her spirit
as she pulled on each garment.
A quick glance in the mirror revealed eyes bright with expectation and lips tense with nerves for this was the day that could change her life, a day that could alter
her status beyond recognition.
She looped a scarf around her neck, and bent to smooth her fingers over Phaeton’s head as i
f the action would settle her.
‘Come, dog,’ she said as equably as she was able and lifting the heavy iron bar from her door, she walked down the stairs to the small emporium, her thoughts centered only on this day of chances – perhaps the Grand Vizier would commission her.

The Sultan Mohun was to send the gift of a book to the people of Veniche and there was talk this manuscript would be an illustrated copy of
A
Thousand and One Nights.
For a week she had dreamed of how she would lay out the figurative work, the colours she would use, how she would copy the text, and now she scrutinised the shop display, eager
it should represent her well.
She unlocked the door to the street, pushing
the heavy studded panel back.
The townsf
olk bustled past calling to her
and she answered them with a smile and butterflies in her belly.

Ahmadabad, the City of a Thousand Magnificenc
es, glowed in the desert dawn.
The pink walls of the palace
and royal seraglio dominated a
skyline interspersed with onion-dome
d minarets coated in gold leaf.
The bureaucracy of the Raj squatted close by in marble buildings with shady colonnades and in one entire corner of the city the Academie spread itself under
the shade of aged date palms.
Water ran from fountain to rill and quiet porticos provided spaces for the men of the province to debat
e and philosophise.
But like the rest of Eirie, it rested on the whims and wherefores of the Other world that laced through the rhythms of life like a heartbeat and Lalita prayed for such spirits to bring her good fortune.

‘Have you written your fingers t
o the bone yet, Lalita?’
The baker hurried past, tossing her a honeyed pastry.

‘Not yet, Sulieman.’
She gri
nned as he jogged on the spot.
‘But I shall try.’

He laughed and winked at her and she watched him leave as she nibbled on her pastry.

‘Lalita,’ a voice called out and she swung the other way, wiping away the crumbs from her chin and brushing her clothes.

‘Mahmoud.’

‘Good morning, are you prepared?’
A young man of her age, studious in his black
kurta
and trousers, walked toward her.

‘Oh Mahmoud, I have such high hopes but I am merely a woman in a man’s world.’

‘Nonsense.
In your heart you know y
our work is beyond excellent.’
The son of the apothecary, he and Lalita had grown up together, studying flowers and leaves and all manner of things, he for their properties and
she for their artistic value.
When she needed to examine the famous books in the Academie, it was he who took her as his assistant, for to be a lone woman studying the tomes of men of l
earning was a difficult thing.
‘Can you remember my father’s delight when you handed him the
copy of the Venichese Herbal?
Every petal, every leaf and every stamen was detailed so well that you might as wel
l have given him the original.
Besides, how often have you said to me that it is the c
hallenge.
That you can accomplish this like no other.’

‘That was my ego speaking,
Mahmoud, and well you know it.
But I understand what you are trying to do and thank you fo
r reminding me of your father.
I’ll keep the memory close, if only to believe in myself for just this morning.’

Mahmoud moved toward her, lowering his voice
so that she leaned in to hear.
‘Lalita, I have been so worried about you alone with that man . . .’ he tipped his
head toward the shop interior.
‘He is strong, you . . . ‘

‘I’m s
afe, honestly.
Your iron bar works admirably on my door and only a djinn could enter my room.  Kurdeesh dare not be obvious.  Please don’t fret.’

‘I wish Imran and Soraya were here but as they are not, I wish you had agreed to stay in the women’s quarters at our home.’

‘Mahmoud,’ Lalita
laughed in spite of her nerves.
‘Would you entomb me in a seraglio?  My dearest friend, you have provided for my immediate safety and Aunt and
Uncle will be home tomorrow.’ She gave him a tiny push.
‘Call in this evening when you are finished with your business
and I shall tell you my news.
Wish me good fortune.’

‘Always, Lalita.’
He touched his forehead and chest and
bowed slightly over his hand.
Lalita felt the eloquence of his gesture, knowing he had feelings for her and
would ask her to be his wife.
But she knew also that he understood her well and respected her desire for freedom.

She turned back to the store, endeavouring to survey the emporium with the objec
tive eye of a lordly customer.
A simple space but one she had enhanced wit
h the quality of its contents.
Light glanced off the pure colours of the illuminations and
seductive goldleaf glistened.
Pots of inks were shelved with precision, the quills, pens and burnishers lying below them, ev
enly spaced according to size.
Lalita walked to an open book displayed on a polished cedar lectern, the page turned to a workday illustration of some bucolic scene
, rich in blues and viridians.
Some instinct made her fingers flick the page over and there was the illustration of a room of houries in transparent garb, their skin lustrous
and draped with silk organza.
The piece had taken her two weeks of painstaking work with a brush that she had plucked,
leaving only one or two hairs.
She believed the painterly rendering of such sheer fabric might almost be considered the touch of a Master.

Kurdeesh bustled into the shop tying a vast
green sash around his middle.
His turban gleamed whi
te and
his
waxed and trimmed moustache flew
up in two handl
es on either side of his face.
‘You’ve done well, my little flower,’ he grunted and reached to touch her, sliding his arm along her shoulder and then down so that h
is fingers brushed her breast.

She stepped away, putting the lectern between herself and the man she abhorred
, taking a risk to speak her mind. She grasped the lectern, her palms greasy with sweat
.
‘Uncle, I would like the opportunity to speak to the Grand Viz
ier myself.
I am the scribe and I und
erstand what will be required.
It makes sense.’

He glanced at himself in the mirror
behind his brother’s counter.
‘Perhaps to you, Lalita.  But it’s not the way of men and most definitely not the way of the Court.
I
shall speak for you and for my brother’s emporium.’

‘But I…’

‘
No
, Lalita.’
Kurdeesh raised his hand and slapped it down hard on a pile of journals and she shrank further behind the lectern as
a shadow filled the open door.
The street noise faded as the Grand Vizier stepped inside and Ku
rdeesh licked his lips. ‘Aah, E
xcellent Lord, we w
elcome you to our humble shop.
You do this house much honour by entering the portals.  May you be blessed with . . .’

The noble brushed past.
‘Enough, I am here for a pu
rpose.
This is your niece?’

‘Yes, yes.’
Ku
rdeesh moved to Lalita’s side. ‘This is she. Our little scribe.’
His hand began its vile creep across her shoulder.

‘I am honoured, Lord.’
Lalita shifted away from the impolite grasp and lowered her head.

The Grand Vizier tucked powerful fingers under her chin so that she was forced to look at his face; a strong face with slightly slanted eyes as dark
and depthless as an oubliette.
He was clean-shaven, his head polished to an unworldly shine and when he spoke, Lalita found she could barely stand, her knees as weak as a baby’s.

‘Pretty. Maybe more than pretty.’
The Vizier’s scrutiny burned into Lalita’s skin and her hands twisted together.

‘Ah sir, she is our little flower, a flower just waiting to be plucked by some lucky man.’

Lalita wanted to yell at her uncle
.
Is it a commission we
are selling Uncle, or my body?

‘Lord, please feel free
to examine all that you wish.’
She drew the Vizier’s attention with a sweep of her arm, seeking the confidence that had vanished when the man had entered the emporium.

He stepped away from her, the austerity of his black Raji jodhpurs and
kurta
arousing an i
mage of some forbidding djinn.
He moved with grace, his stride soft but powerful, his fingers careful as he examined the odoriferous papers and the tools of her trade, but his eyes lingere
d long on the page of houries.
He flicked back and forth through the book with slow and careful deliberation, before returni
ng to the page she had marked.
‘How long did this work take?’

‘Not so long, perhaps a week.
The transparent fabric on the odali
sques required some attention but
I can see you appreciate the detail, sir.’

‘I am impressed with your hand here, the use of the qu
ill and brushes, very elegant.
And here, the curve of your capitals and your clever figur
ative design, it is excellent.
The colours you have used too, they are very pure.’

‘I make my own sir, when I require a tint peculiar to my tastes.’

‘You handle linen paper well.
Most scribes use parchment.’

Lalita was sur
prised at the man’s knowledge.
‘Yes, but despite
its cost paper is magnificent.
The grain, the texture . . .’

He glanced at her again.
‘And the bin
ding, did you do it yourself?’
His long fingers ran back and forth over the indented, burnished leather.

‘I did, Lord.’

‘It i
s unusual to pursue such work.
Surely the work of men.’

‘Indeed, but I found I had an affinity with the pen and with paper and binding.’

‘So I have heard.
It seems half the well-to-do women of A
hmadabad crave
your journals and herba
ls. Even in the Court.
Did you know the Valide Sultan was present
ed with an illustrated herbal? Ah, I see you are surprised.’
He took the book off the lecter
n and weighed it in his hands.
‘In Fahsi, the paper and ink makers speak of your skill with an admiration they would normally use for a Master.’