That wouldn’t do. She took a steadying breath, let the tension drain from her shoulders. Setting out at a pace she hoped would appear unhurried, she made her way toward the sanctuary. At the first sign of a Sheraigh patrol, she faltered and barely curbed an impulse to turn off the lane.
You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re a supplicant headed to the God’s temple.
She walked on.
Twice more she encountered soldiers, and each time she kept her gaze lowered and her stride steady. They would expect her to be timid. The trick was not to look guilty.
Upon reaching the temple gate and its formidable guards, she hesitated again.
“You may pass,” one of the women said.
Elinor nodded, but lingered. “I– I need to speak with… with someone.”
“There is a priestess in the sanctuary. She’ll hear your supplication.”
“No, it’s…” She looked over her shoulder as a trio of soldiers turned onto the lane and started in their direction. “Of course, thank you.”
She followed the winding stone path to the shrine. Other supplicants trod the walkway as well, some making their way to the temple, a few already leaving it. Too many people. She needed time alone with a priest or priestess.
Usually she kept to the rear of the great sanctuary, but today she walked to the very front and sat in the first wooden pew, in the center, directly in front of the priestess who blessed supplicants. She thanked Sipar for her good fortune: Nuala, the high priestess herself, was greeting worshippers this day.
She wore a flowing white robe, and her hair, also white, hung loose past her shoulders, so that she looked ethereal, like some creature of wind and flame. Her skin was smooth, her pale eyes youthful. Elinor had listened to her lead rites in this building for years, but she wouldn’t have dared hazard a guess as to the woman’s age.
She breathed a prayer, staring at the priestess the entire time. Finally, she rose and joined the line of those awaiting benison.
As she waited, she stared past the altar and through the apse at the stunning colored glass window at the far end of the temple. The sanctuary was filled with statues and images of the God, including a dramatic one on the soaring ceiling of the shrine. The window had been her favorite since childhood. When she thought of Sipar, she pictured him as he appeared here, one arm hanging at his side, the other reaching toward those within the temple, his chin raised, his eyes blazing with golden light, his robe glimmering with every hue of the rainbow. In the image, flocks of worshippers stood behind him; men, women, and children gazed up at him, rapt, awestruck. That was how she felt when she stood in the light of this window. Even today. Especially today.
“You’re next.” A whispered voice behind her.
She muttered an apology and stepped forward to kneel in obeisance before Nuala.
“Welcome, friend,” the priestess said, placing her hands on Elinor’s bowed head. “May Sipar bless you and your loved ones in all you do, and may His glory be in your life as shelter, as sustenance, as enlightenment, and as love.”
A ritual prayer, to which Elinor was to respond, “My thanks to you, Mother Priestess. May I prove myself worthy of His bounty.”
Instead, she whispered, “I require a word, Mother Priestess. In private. Please.”
Nuala’s pause would have been too subtle for most to notice. “I’m sorry. As you can see, many await my blessing. Perhaps another day–”
“No. It can’t wait.”
Her expression turned stony. One of the attendants near the altar took a step in their direction, but the priestess waved him off.
“I’m not accustomed to having others dictate to me what I ought and when.”
“I know. I beg your forgiveness, Mother Priestess. This is a matter of grave import. Lives hang in the balance.”
“Lives. Your own?”
“Perhaps, yes. Others as well. Including–” She broke off, wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. Tobias might never forgive her, but she saw no other way to convince the woman. “Including one,” she went on, dropping her voice so that the priestess had to bend closer, “who belongs to our city’s greatest family.”
Nuala’s eyes widened. “That family is said to be lost,” she whispered.
“Not all, and this last one is in danger. Please.”
The priestess dipped her chin, straightened, and said in a voice that carried, “Of course, friend. You have my blessing, and the forgiveness of the God.” Again she rested her hands on Elinor’s head and bent lower. “Return to the pews.” She breathed the words. “Sit, pray, contemplate. I will leave the temple shortly. After I do, you should do the same, through the main doors. Come around to the other side. I will meet you outside the window that distracted you so.”
Elinor looked up at that. Nuala graced her with a smile.
“Thank you,” Elinor whispered. She stood, and did as the priestess had instructed, this time choosing to sit farther back in the shrine. Her entire body shook, but at last she had some hope. As she took her place in the rear pew, she saw Nuala speak briefly with a younger priestess before returning to the altar to bless more supplicants.
Perhaps a quarter bell later, the young priestess approached Nuala and leaned close to say something. The high priestess nodded, indicated the ever growing line of worshippers, and left the temple through a small door at the entrance to the apse. The younger priestess greeted the next supplicant.
Elinor waited a few spirecounts before standing and leaving the temple.
Once outside, she trod a stone path around the sanctuary to the far end of the apse. There she found… no one.
Had the priestess forgotten her? Was this the wrong place? She was about to hurry back to the main doors when she heard a sound behind her. Another door opened on a small structure that stood a short distance from the temple, among fragrant spruce and pines. Nuala stood in the doorway, though back in shadow. The priestess beckoned to her with an open hand.
Checking to be sure she wasn’t seen, Elinor walked to the door. Nuala stepped back to let her enter, and closed the door behind them. Only when Elinor was inside did she understand how Nuala had honored her. This was her private residence.
“Please sit,” Nuala said, following her into a modest common room. “Can I offer you tea? Perhaps some bread and jam?”
“No, Mother Priestess, thank you.”
“Sit,” the priestess said again, indicating a wooden chair near the hearth.
Feeling awkward, frightened, beyond her depth, Elinor sat. Nuala did the same.
“Let’s begin with your name.”
“Elinor, Mother Priestess. Elinor Timmin.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Elinor. I recognize you. You come here often, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You have information for me?”
“I have it, and I seek it.”
The priestess frowned, the penetrating gaze of those pale eyes discomfiting. “You’re speaking in riddles.”
“Yes, I know. I’m… I’m not… I make jams!” she said, blurting the words. “I’m not used to playing at this sort of game.” She took a fivecount to compose herself. “A man came to us the morning after Mearlan was killed. And… he had a child with him. He claims she’s the sovereign princess, and we believe him.”
“Who is he?”
Elinor shrugged. “He calls himself Tobias. He’s young, a Northisler.”
Nuala sat forward. “A Northisler, you say? Dark-skinned, tall, with the beginnings of a beard?”
“Yes! You’ve seen him.”
She shook her head. “Sadly, no. My guards did, but before they granted him access to our grounds, he was taken into custody by men from the castle.”
“Soldiers?”
“I don’t believe so. Not as they were described. I’m afraid that may bode ill. I fear for him.”
“Can you help him? Can you help the child?”
Nuala’s cheeks drained of color. “We can’t risk an
tagonizing the Sheraigh army. As I say, I’m afraid for him, but I have a larger responsibility to the people of this city. Making an enemy of the new sovereign for a single man–”
“It’s not for a single man. It’s for the princess as well. It’s for Hayncalde, the house as well as the city. Surely that means something.”
The high priestess studied her. “You said you make jams?”
“Yes, Mother Priestess.”
“And do you talk the fruit into giving itself up?”
Elinor’s cheeks warmed.
“There may be a way,” Nuala said, her gaze drifting. “If this man is still alive, and if my suspicions of where they’ve taken him are correct, we may be able to help him. The danger is… considerable, but less than it would be if the Sheraighs knew the city better.”
“I don’t understand. Where do you think he is?”
She shook her head. “Leave that to me. Can you bring the child here?”
Elinor’s mouth went dry. “I wouldn’t know how. By day or by night?”
“Day would be better. If you’re found at night, you’ll be in violation of curfew, with the child. By day, at least, you can hide in a crowd.”
“She doesn’t look anything like me. They’ll know she’s not mine.”
“I know. She’s a perfect reflection of her mother. You’ll have to cover her, keep her face hidden. If you can do that, you’ll seem nothing more or less than a woman with her child.”
“Her grandchild, I fear.”
The priestess smiled. “Yes, I suppose.”
“All right,” Elinor said, sighing. “I’ll try. He left things with us. Should I–”
“Yes, bring those as well. I’ll have the guards watch for you. You’ll speak only with me, hand her over only to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Another smile softened her face. “Good. You should be on your way then. I have work to do. It seems I need to investigate some of our hidden history.”
Time lost meaning for him. In a corner of his mind that remained relatively whole, despite the torture, the anguish, the waking nightmare of cruelty heaped upon him by these grim, silent men, he recognized the irony in this.
He couldn’t have said whether it was night or morning, or whether his time in the dungeon could be counted in bells or in days.
They came for him and he screamed. The assassin – Orzili – followed, with water and kind words. Once he put some sort of salve on one of Tobias’s cuts. The relief it brought was immediate and profound. But each time, inevitably, Orzili would ask about Sofya, and just as inevitably, Tobias would refuse to answer. Pride. Stubbornness. Devotion. Love.
All led to the same place. Pain.
Orzili would leave, his men would return and renew their meticulous assault, until Tobias passed out.
So when he woke to whispered words and the flame of several torches, he moaned, turned his face away, tried to curl into a ball, though every muscle screamed in protest.
“Tobias,” someone whispered. A woman’s voice. “That is your name, yes?”
He opened his eyes, his vision swimming. The woman kneeling beside him wore white. A dream then. Perhaps he was finally dying. He let his eyes flutter closed.
She touched his arm and he jerked away, bringing more pain.
“We’ve come to get you out of here.”
“Impossible,” he said, his voice like a blade scraped on stone.
“No, it’s not. There are ways into this place. And out. They were known to the Hayncaldes, but not to the Sheraighs. Not yet.”
“Not a dream?”
She smiled, shook her head. “No. We must go right now.”
He started to cry again. He had cried more as an adult in this dungeon than he had during his entire childhood in Windhome. Another irony.
Someone grappled with the cuffs at his ankles. In moments they fell away. So simple, yet beyond him. Strong hands gripped his arms and hoisted him to his feet. Tobias swayed, but they held him upright, their touch burning his skin, his bones. He wailed, and they shushed him.
They dragged him deeper into the dungeon, away from the stairway, away from the torches and blades and hammers.
Shadows blurred, melded. He saw an opening in a wall, a dim orange glow emanating from it.
“That’s right,” said one of the women supporting him. The same one who knelt next to him. “Through here. It’s a long way, but we’ll help you. You’re safe now. You’re with us.”
He didn’t resist. Wherever they were taking him, it had to be better than this place. But he wasn’t foolish enough to believe he was safe.
Chapter 27
26th Day of Sipar’s Settling, Year 633
He drifted through dim corridors of damp stone, following the inconstant glow of torches, held upright by shadowy figures who whispered encouragement and told him they hadn’t far to go. It felt like they were walking leagues.
Everything hurt, every movement jarred his tender bones and abraded his ravaged skin. He could hardly remember a time when he hadn’t been in pain.
He was almost certain that he hadn’t told Orzili and his men anything important. Almost. He’d been in a daze of exhaustion, fear, agony. What if he’d said more than he remembered, more than he intended? What if he’d let slip enough to let them find Sofya? The thought nearly paralyzed him.
“Not yet, Tobias.” A woman’s voice. At his elbow. Apparently he’d tried to stop. “We’ve some distance yet to cover. Do you need to rest?”
He shook his head, not trusting his voice.
They passed through doorways. Each time, they paused while someone ahead of them unlocked an iron door. Each time, he heard the door close behind them after they crossed through.
Eventually the path they followed angled upward. The air warmed, grew drier. The smells of stale water and must receded like a spent wave. The incline made each step an ordeal, but he welcomed this respite from the chill.
One last door, and after a lengthy wait they stepped into the night.
“The streets are clear for now. But we need to hurry.”
He nodded and let them steer him along.
Cobblestone brushed at the soles of his pained feet, blessed wind touched his face and neck. They had covered him with a soft blanket, but now he shrugged it off, sighed as the air caressed his burns and cuts.
“This way,” the woman whispered.
A thin mist haunted the lanes. Faint stars shone overhead and a blood red crescent moon hung low in the east.
Outside the tunnels he saw what he had missed before. Eight guards surrounded him in a tight diamond formation. All wore the white robes of Sipar’s sanctuary and carried curved blades. They walked in utter silence. His ragged breathing made more sound than their boots on the cobbles. If they were discovered before they reached the temple, it would be his fault.
He made no attempt to trace the turns. His knowledge of the city was too limited, his grip on consciousness too tenuous. They conducted him and he allowed it. If this turned out to be a ruse of Orzili’s, an elaborate scheme intended to win his trust, he was lost. He had abandoned all to this single last hope.
When they turned one final corner and approached the sanctuary gate, tears sprang from his eyes once again.
“I didn’t believe,” he said, the words choked.
None of his escort said a word. They led him through the gate, past the grand spires of the temple itself, to a smaller structure. A corridor, a chamber, a bed and blankets and pillows. A lamp extinguished, and whispered voices at his door.
Sleep.
He was aware of others speaking to him or about him, touching him, prodding him, causing him additional pain, though nothing like what he had endured amid the stone and iron and flame of Orzili’s dungeon.
He knew that was wrong. The dungeon belonged to Mearlan and his line. An odd thought, since Mearlan was dead. Yet in this dream state such things seemed to matter. It was Hayncalde Castle. Those were Hayncalde torches
and, quite possibly, Hayncalde steel.
Right or wrong, though, forevermore in Tobias’s mind that place would be Orzili’s dungeon.
At times, as he lay in the softest, warmest bed he had ever known, he was aware of gentle hands on his knees, his wrists, his ankles, his elbows and ribs and shoulders. Warmth radiated from those hands, penetrating skin, muscle, and bone, bringing relief from pain that had become so constant, so much a part of his existence he had forgotten it.
The words he heard almost made sense to him, were nearly enough to pull him from his slumber. But as the pain diminished, the voices withdrew. Tobias slipped away again, content to feel nothing, to hold to no one thought, to wonder in passing if he was dead rather than asleep. Not that he cared. His pain was gone. The rest was of no consequence.
That was what he thought.
Yet one sound did reach him, drilling through his weariness, his desire to be left alone.
A cry, and then chatter.
Tobias forced his eyes open, blinked against the light of too many candles.
A woman he didn’t know sat in a chair beside his bed, holding Sofya. Barely. The princess strained against the woman’s grip trying to reach Tobias. Tears smeared the light and dampened his cheeks.
“She’s happy to see you.”
“I’m happy to see her.” His voice was like a rasp on brittle wood.
The woman retrieved a cup from the table by his bed and held it to his lips. It was naught but water, yet it burned his throat going down. Still, he drank deeply, emptying the cup.
“More?”
He shook his head, and surveyed the chamber, which was spare and simple. A fire burned in a small hearth. A sack that might have been his leaned against the wall by his bed.
“What is this place?”
The woman shifted Sofya, drawing another cry of protest from the girl. “You’re in the sanctuary of Sipar, still in Hayncalde.”
She was white-haired, but otherwise youthful, with soft gray eyes and a kind smile. She wore robes of white, clasped at her neck with a small golden medallion.
“And you are?”
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