Chapter VII
Escape From the Tower
In which they choose their path
In her bedroom—or prison chamber—Selàna fretted as she went about preparing for bed. Where did her duty lie? Should she choose Ironwing or the Silurans, if the groups diverged? Over and over she pondered the letter her mother had written to Edana.
Edana.
Envy and jealousy reared up in her heart. Pushing it back down took effort. Who was this girl, anyway? Why had she had the benefit and comfort of Mama’s love and care, while—
“While I murdered innocent people as an abyssal’s lackey,” she said bitterly, voicing her thoughts at last.
Alone now, she let herself collapse to the floor. The memory of murdering the young huntsman overtook her. His innocence. His valor and defiance, his faith that Zephyra was due divine punishment—all of these haunted her.
Selàna raised her palms, examining them. Clean and unremarkable.
Blood on your hands.
Isn’t that what people said, to speak of guilt and transgression? Guilt that could not be washed away by mere water?
Who was that young huntsman? What was his name? Who was his family? What restitution could she make to them? To any of her victims? To her parents?
“Oh, Mama,” she wailed.
To think she had stood there, pleased and triumphant when the eidolon more or less told her—told Zephyra—that he was going to kill Mama. And now, thus saith Bessa, Mama lay in an endless sleep. In such a state she could not hold Selàna. Could not stroke her head and soothe her with lullabies, nor speak remedies for her hurts. While Mama slept, it was possible to imagine her doing these things …
… So long as she slept.
Joy and triumph lay in store for the Rasena Valentian women when Mama awakened. They would embrace her and they would rejoice. They would bask in her approval and love. All of this Selàna would surely witness.
Then her mother would see her, and would make plain her delight. Until she looked into Selàna’s eyes. Into her soul. She would know.
Begone from my presence, child. No more shall I know you.
“Let me die! O gods, grant me death!”
Better to die than to witness the exact moment Mama’s heart broke. Better to die than to watch as the light of love vanished from her eyes.
Not that death would be the end. How could it be, when Zephyra must pay? And as she existed within Selàna’s body, Selàna would have to pay, too. What could she answer Yadon the Destroyer, when she came to stand before Him? Would He not simply examine her life and send her forthwith to the Abyssal Serpent?
Bear that she must, but at least in death she would forever escape having to face Mama or Papa. After all, Mama would never die. And Papa dwelled now in the Everlasting Lands.
If you changed your allegiance to the Restorer, you can undo what you did.
The Siluran’s words echoed in her consciousness.
Bitter laughter escaped Selàna’s lips. “Silly girl. Silly, silly girl. As if I could undo death! As if I would ever be so blessed!”
Fervent, devout, righteous Ironwing had not resurrected the huntsman, nor anyone else. Of course she could not, as a huntress. But were she a Restorite, and stood on the doorstep of the summer solstice, she might have raised him.
Even so.
Even so.
To match Ironwing’s ability to call upon divine aid was far beyond her capacity to imagine. The redemption Bessa dangled before her would never be hers to reach for. With this fact lodged firmly in her heart, Selàna curled herself into a ball on the rug, and sobbed until sleep took her.
Darkness surrounded her when she awakened. Stiff and aching, her body cried out in consequence of her subjecting it to the cold, hard stones. The thin rug between her and the floor provided no protection at all.
“Ahhh,” she moaned, forcing herself to sit upright. The trouble was, her entire right side tingled, like a limb coming to life. And her back screamed at her every movement.
She could see nothing. As a prisoner, Aletheia’s temple keepers gave her no further courtesy than what they absolutely had to. Thus, she remained in darkness, for no one thought she needed a glowlight or a lamp stand. The roaring fire that warmed her when she returned from dinner had now burned out. Undoubtedly the keepers thought she would be in her bed, under piles of blankets, like a sensible person. They would not trouble themselves to attend to her fire.
Fair enough. Fair enough. It was her fault she was shivering and aching now. At least the feeling had returned to her legs, so she would be able to safely get to her feet. She ought to climb into bed—
Something was watching her.
Hair stood up on the back of her neck.
Memory returned, of the alû on the Bridge of the Void. The thing had demanded her. Only Alia Ironwing’s protection had saved her from the fiend’s attack.
But the wicked were the rightful prey of the Erebossi.
Weak, exhausted, Selàna’s mind and body already felt spent. Defeated. She thought of the huntress, of her cool authority as a servant of the divine, and how aptly she wielded her authority. Ironwing would not sit patiently for her own destruction to arrive. Nor would that girl, Edana, who had stood fearlessly against Amavand and prayed with such confidence when they were besieged in the Void-vault of the echomancers.
But those women were untainted. They didn’t deserve to be punished.
“Do your worst,” Selàna said, speaking into the darkness.
Steeling herself, she crossed her arms over her chest, and was jolted by the clink of the bracers that bound her to the world of the living.
Oh. Right. Death magics, death powers, nothing of the kind would work on her. Yet still she wondered, what was in the darkness with her?
“Betrayer…”
The inhuman rasp sent shudders through her body. Truly, she was not alone in the dark!
Then the word penetrated her consciousness: Betrayer?
At last alarm bells rang in her mind.
Rahqu wants her vessel back!
Whatever that bitch queen wanted, she should not be permitted to have. Even Zephyra thought as much, in the end.
Galvanized, Selàna scrambled to her feet. Which way to turn? Would she blunder into an arsh’atûm?
“Betrayer…”
From behind. The voice came from behind … where Zephyra’s staff rested in a corner. The detestable staff could not be left just anywhere, so Selàna had reluctantly brought it with her, hoping to formally destroy it in a fire.
What she’d never noticed before about the staff were the flower bud vines that snaked about the wreath, and terminated into two opposing vines curving inward, in a heart shape. The bud on each vine glowed red. Like a pair of eyes.
Without thinking, Selàna fled for the door, her arms outstretched. She struck the heavy oak. Frantically, she felt for the knob. Only it wasn’t a knob, but more of a swash or sweep of metal, which she firmly yanked down.
The door swung wide open.
Cold air blasted her. Strange shapes greeted her.
“Hellllppp!” she cried out as loud as she could.
The oppressive presence behind her came closer. In the darkness two bulbous, sickly yellow eyes bearing elliptical pupils hovered over her.
Acute terror yawned open in her stomach.
“Amyntas—” Selàna’s throat closed, choked by her tears. The Protector of Innocents would not help her. She was on her own.
Utterly alone.
The shapes in the hall remained stationary.
Only one thought dominated: deny Rahqu what she wanted.
To her astonishment, Selàna’s slippers touched dirt the moment she stepped outside of her room. Not stone tile. Dirt.
Oh, by the gods! This was a dream.
Knowledge which helped her not at all, for the alû could stalk her dreams…
By her own will a faint light bloomed. Allowing her to see that the strange hideous shapes were nothing more than hedges of blackthorns, lining a country lane. An unfamiliar lane, but what did it matter?
With one hand on the door handle, Selàna dashed out, allowing her momentum to slam the door shut behind herself. Could she control any part of this dream? Would the door bar a fellshade in her dreams, when it could do no such thing in real life?
“Please,” she cried out. Again she silenced herself, again remembering that she was damned. Beyond any celestial aid at all.
Onward she ran. Only once did she chance to look back. The shape undulated in her doorway. It was moving, and would come for her.
Tentacles shot up through the soil, lashing at her legs.
“What?!”
Stung, shocked, Selàna locked her jaw and kept running. She dodged, slid, and scrambled always to stay one step ahead of the nettlesome appendages. In her haste she stumbled, and reached out, trying to catch herself from falling. She howled, discovering too late that she had unwittingly grasped a thick rope of thorns from the blackthorn hedge. For too many heartbeats she panted in pain as waves of agony overtook her. Quickly, she grit her teeth and picked up her pace.
The second time she stumbled, she did not crash to the ground. The ground vanished, replaced now by an icy-cold abyss.
“Nooooooooooo!”
There was not even wind here to buoy her, or batten her about. Long she fell. And fell. And fell.
When finally she slammed into the bottom, every bone in her body shook. She couldn’t even gasp; the breath had been knocked out of her.
“This is a dream. Get up. Get up.”
But her limbs were again innervated, and she could not move them. Tears ran down her face. The ground rumbled. Any moment now, the tentacles would emerge.
And she could not move.
“Wake up. Wake up. Wake. Up!”
Suddenly, a brick smacked her face.
Selàna’s eyes flew open. And slammed down again, blinded by a bright light. Pain seized her as she turned her head. Specifically, her left cheek throbbed. Gingerly she probed it, checking for damage.
“The brick,” she tried to say, but the words came out garbled.
“Sorry,” said a voice. “I hope I didn’t hurt you. You wouldn’t wake up.”
It took a moment for the words to make sense. And another to recognize the speaker’s voice.
Oh. Her.
The Eitanite woman. Edana Nuriel. A woman of few words, who spared even less for Selàna. But what little she first said to Zephyra had changed everything.
“I’ve moved the light, Selàna. Open your eyes.”
Bessa.
Had to be; she shared Edana’s strange accent, but with a different timbre … and she was the only one who showed her unreserved kindness.
Selàna obeyed her, in time to see Bessa step past her and set her glowlamp on the bedside table, illuminating the room.
Now she saw Edana kneeling over her, the linen night dress she wore pooling around her on the floor. She looked down at Selàna, her head cocked, and her lips pursed with concern. Naturally so, because Selàna was still on the rug, not in her bed. True to her dream-self, her body ached with the pain of having slept on a stone floor. Because of this, she accepted Edana’s help in sitting upright.
That was when she noticed Ironwing standing in the doorway, sacred dagger in hand. Arrayed in a Lyrcanian style, she made a striking figure in her blue silk trousers and wide-sleeved tunic, belted at her waist with a yellow sash. She fixed a hard, bleary-eyed stare on Selàna.
“What was your nightmare?” Edana asked.
“More than a nightmare,” Ironwing said. “What happened to her hand?”
Her hand? Selàna glanced down. Pain lanced through her, shooting from her right hand to her shoulder. What—?
Blood smeared her palm. Blood that issued forth from several punctures.
The blackthorn fence.
Selàna gasped.
Bessa dropped to her haunches and seized Selàna’s hand as she called for the slave girl. Until that moment Selàna had not noticed the fifth girl in the room, who was rekindling the fire in the brazier. Her eyes were wide as she stared at them.
“Fetch me water boiled with vervain and yarrow. Bring clean bandages as well,” Bessa commanded.
The girl hurried to obey. Edana and Bessa seized Selàna’s arms and helped her to stand. Between the two of them they got her into bed, with Bessa virtually cocooning her into the blankets.
Once she was satisfied Selàna was settled, Bessa repeated Edana’s question. “What did you dream?”
Selàna sat motionless. For a long while all she could do was shiver and stare at her hand, until at last her voice returned to her. In a quiet, dull tone she described her endless flight from the creature that relentlessly pursued her. The others gave a start when she mentioned grabbing the blackthorn fence.
By the time she wound down the tale of her ordeal, and answered every question put to her, the slave girl had returned. The girl carried a tray bearing a steaming bowl of boiled water infused with herbs. Next to the bowl was a stack of fresh linen cloths, plus a mortar and pestle, and jars of ointments. Without a word she set them down on the table at the foot of Selàna’s bed.
Bessa immediately set to work. First she took one bolt of linen and soaked it in the water infused with yarrow and vervain. Then she extracted it, wrung it out, and began to wipe and daub the medicine into the puncture marks on Selàna’s hand. Her touch was gentle, so Selàna bore it with as much graceful stoicism as she could.
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“Looks like no thorn pieces are embedded. That’s good, at least,” Bessa said.
“Why did the dream wound her in this world?” Edana asked. The mortar contained yarrow leaves, which she began grinding with the pestle.
Beside her, Ironwing was examining a bottle of ointment. She uncorked it and sniffed. “Aloe vera,” she said, and set it closer to Edana on the tray. “Perhaps the dream didn’t wound Selàna. Possibly she did it herself, with her own fingernails. Dreams can be influenced by what we hear—or do—as we sleep. Check your nails, Selàna. If your flesh is beneath them, there is your answer.”
The leaves crackled as Edana rocked the pestle back and forth over them. “Fellshades can’t harm us through our dreams?”
A question Selàna wished to have answered as well. Could she have hurt herself? The idea was preferable to the alternative. But when she studied the fingernails on her wounded hand, she found no flesh beneath them.
“Not directly, no,” Ironwing replied. “But I can’t swear that a susceptible individual might not be made to harm themselves. And, sometimes it happens that an Erebossan can hurt you while you sleep, and you dream of what it’s physically doing to you. But Selàna was alone when we came in.”
“We’ve already faced incorporeal monsters before, so it means nothing to say she was alone,” Edana countered. “The moving eyes sounds like an alû, and it probably went back to Erebossa. And the tentacle monster? Was that a fiction of Selàna’s imagination?”
Ironwing looked straight at Selàna. Her calm expression was oddly soothing. But why wouldn’t she feel calm? After all, even the alû had not moved Ironwing to fear. If the huntress was not afraid, then Selàna would stay calm, too.
“You’ve seen it before, haven’t you?” Ironwing asked.
“Yes,” Selàna admitted.
With a spoon Edana scooped a few drops of the boiled yarrow and vervain water into the mortar. Then she took a bottle of the aloe ointment and tapped a few drops into the mortar, and mixed the liquids with the crushed yarrow. As she did so, Ironwing unrolled more linen, spreading it out on the tray.
Ironwing explained, “Rather, Zephyra saw it. It’s Rahqu. The coldness you felt in the dream was her trying to leech your soul.”
In the midst of scooping up the yarrow paste Edana froze. “Great Sower save us.” She visibly swallowed, then squared her shoulders and began using the pestle to spread the paste at one end of the square of cloth. “Ready,” she said to Bessa. Her hands were steady as she held it out for the Siluran to take.
Selàna remained quiet. The Sower, or Amyntas—either god might save Edana and the others, but even in her waking life she could not bring herself to hope He would save her. But if she remained with them, she might be saved by extension.
As she knew it would, the poultice felt soothing on her wound as Bessa began to bind up her hand. Now came the kindness of Edana: because she had used warm water, the blue-green paste did not add to the uncomfortable chill that made Selàna shiver.
Thump. Bang. Boom!
Something crashed against the window. Bessa flinched, but otherwise concentrated on wrapping the yarrow poultice around Selàna’s hand. Ironwing’s grip tightened on her weapon, but only Selàna cried out. For a moment she felt sheepish, and lowered her eyes. Until—
Ironwing strode over to the window. She pulled back the curtains, by a sliver. Whatever she saw made her go very still for a few heartbeats, then she cocked her head. “I’ve never seen that before.”
“What?” Bessa asked. Caution laced her voice. Having finished binding Selàna’s hand, she now was checking how securely the bandages were fastened.
Ironwing snapped the curtains shut. She squared her shoulders and turned to face them. “There are…goats…and other things…flying around outside. It’s all because of some sort of…vortex…in the sky.”
Everyone stared at her.
The huntress made an ironic salute. “I don’t know how to tell jokes. I’m not against them on general principles, but I cannot tell them well so I shan’t tell them at all. Goats are sailing through the air at this moment. Let’s go.”
The lack of mirth in her face and voice gave no foothold to the notion of facetiousness on her part.
“Flying goats.” Edana Nuriel’s deadpan tone made it a statement, not a question.
“Without wings. The wind is doing it to them. When the winds blow fierce, the gryphons I’ve flown will balk and seek shelter. Flight may not be an option for us, but we need to flee.”
Stepping away from the window, Ironwing paused long enough to use her foot to slide Selàna’s boots closer to her bed.
Thump! Crack!
Immediately, Selàna swung her legs over the bed. She jammed her feet into her boots and stood up. Bessa threw a shawl around her, and knotted it shut in the front. The shawl and her nightgown were really all Selàna had to wear, but for the chiton the temple keeper had supplied her with the day before.
Her eyes strayed to a lone chair in the corner, where she’d draped Zephyra’s pashmina cape. In quality it matched the finery she’d once possessed, which had filled the cabinets lining one wall of her bedroom. The bedroom in Mama and Papa’s house, where wealth came from honest enterprises. Not through deceit and dark sorceries.
When she’d gone to the citadel she’d had need of Zephyra’s cape. Here, she did not. Therefore—
Selàna strode forward and swept up the garment. With all the care, grace, and preciseness her dear nursemaid once taught her, she folded the cape into a square, like a parcel.
“Here,” she said to the servant girl, whose eyes widened in surprise.
“Miss …?” the servant girl faltered. She bobbed her head and accepted the luxurious “parcel” in her arms.
Stand tall. Shoulders back. Chin up. That’s my girl.
Selàna cleared her throat and looked the girl in the eyes. “Take this. In Valentis you could sell such as this on the open market for its weight in gold; I imagine similar profits would obtain here?”
The so-called daughter of the Lord Protector of Elamis never asked the cost of items. Exquisite things were her due, after all. And Zephyra did not go out shopping amongst the common people. Merchants came to her, she selected from their wares, and her servants settled the bill. No one dared speak of prices or costs to her, only of quality and exclusivity.
What Selàna knew about the cost of goods came from sitting in on her father’s trade negotiations, or studying the bills of lading in his office.
Nevertheless, she forged on and added, “Make a tithe to this temple, but hold the rest as restitution. Among Zephyra’s victims was a young hunstman who tried to rescue the dryads. I know not his name. But surely the venatori know if one of their own has gone missing. Or his family reported his loss. Let good be done in his name with the gold you get from this.”
The girl bobbed her head. “It shall be done, miss.”
One thing more she must do.
“We need to bring that with us,” Selàna said, indicating the Staff of the Void leaning against her bedside. “Its presence may be harmful to the people here.”
Harrumphing, Ironwing claimed the staff and wrapped it in the sheet that formerly covered the bed. “Had we any sense we would destroy this. But then again, I think we may be able to use this staff to return the harm to its sender.”
As one they left Selàna’s quarters. Just as Selàna had done in her dream, Ironwing shut the door fast behind them.
In the corridor—which had remained a corridor, thank the gods!—the guards were rushing to and fro. The Lyrcanian men met them in the main hall. They were already dressed to go outdoors, with their packs strapped to their backs.
“There you are! You weren’t in your room,” Sheridan said to Ironwing.
Before she could answer, one of the guards pointed to Tregarde and shouted “You! Huntsman! You’re needed on the summit!”
Tregarde held up his hand in demurral. “That won’t help you, son. The fellshade is after us. But if we leave, the attack will stop.”
Us, Selàna noted. Rahqu was not after the sorcerer or the others. She was after Selàna. But the sorcerer, Ironwing, and the others were throwing their lot in with her. They were protecting her.
“Oh?” The young guardsman eyed him with frank appraisal. Indeed, he looked young enough that Selàna was surprised his voice didn’t crack. But there was nothing youthful or callow in his eyes when he narrowed them at the group. Was he calculating whether or not he should throw them all out of the tower?
Selàna spoke up then. “The shadow queen whom Protector Amavand served? These people have been fighting her. Is there a way to escape this building? This town?”
The guard’s lips tightened, as did his grip on his sword. Only one sound made it past his lips, before Ironwing cleared her throat. For a moment he looked mutinous, but her withering stare seemed to nail him to the spot. Two heartbeats passed before he visibly shuddered, and took a step back.
Prudent of him, Selàna considered. The priestess had not scrupled to chop off the hands of a viceroy. In public, where his guardsmen could see her do it. And all because the protector committed crimes against her goddess, in the name of his shadow queen. What, then, might she do to a lowly guardsman who would dare to cast her to the mercy of that same fiend?
They didn’t have to find out, because Fravak burst into view at that moment. Wild hair and rumpled clothes betrayed his haste in seeking them.
“There you are,” he cried. He stopped to clasp his knees. And catch his breath; he frantically inhaled and exhaled. Ironwing went over to him and patted his back, uttering soothing noises until he calmed himself.
When he could finally speak he said, “The whole sky is opening up. Animals, trees, wagons, everything that’s not nailed down is being sucked into a hole in the sky. And, three times lightning has struck this tower. You should know—you should know the pen where we kept your gryphons is gone. To say nothing of the carriage you came here in.”
Sheridan swore, putting into one word what Selàna was feeling. The gryphons were the best escape route, and were the fastest means of conveyance … short of a portal.
“Is there a portal here? Some other way out?” Edana asked.
Portal. Mama’s letter said to look for a portal. Apparently, Edana remained focused on her own objectives even in the midst of a crisis.
“Maybe…” Fravak tapped his lips, as if deep in thought. “Get dressed. We need to go to the temple.”
The women hurried to obey, rushing to the room they had shared. Selàna followed behind, more out an unwillingness to be left alone than for any other reason. In the cozy bedroom given to Ironwing and the Rasena Valentian women, fragrant logs burning in the braziers provided both heat and pleasant scents. While the others snatched up this and that, Selàna warmed herself by the fire.
“Here,” Bessa said, thrusting a satchel at her. “This one’s yours.”
Selàna blinked in surprise, but accepted the bag. A quick inspection revealed it contained clothes and a small toiletry kit. Removing the heavy wool caftan inside instantly lightened the load of the bag.
“Got everything?” Edana addressed the group just as she finished lacing up her leather boots. Wool lined hers, a practical choice for winter.
“Ready,” Bessa declared.
Ironwing hooked her arms inside her pack. Then she picked up a saddlebag, from next to her bed. It was the thick, heavy-duty kind used with gryphons. “If our mounts are gone, we’ll need to carry these ourselves. The men have the other two bags, let’s go.”
Back in the corridor they rejoined the men. Someone Selàna didn’t recognize stood amongst them. His posture tense, he looked this and way and that as if searching for someone.
“Âghâ Nima!” Bessa called.
The man’s eyes brightened and he sagged in relief. “Bânu Bessa, Bânu Edana. We must leave at once!”
Bessa and Edana reached the man first.
“We don’t ask you to come with us for this. You’ve done more than we could ask of you. It’s only going to get more dangerous from here on out. Stay here until daybreak. As soon as we leave, you’ll be safe. Ziri’s people will see that you return safely to your family,” Edana said.
By the way she said “Ziri’s people,” Selàna suspected there was more to their exchange than met the eye. Who was this Ziri, anyway?
Nima gave no argument. “What should I tell them?” He glanced at Fravak, who was bouncing from one foot to the other, not quite like a man in desperate need of relieving himself. But close. A mighty thunder clashed overhead, echoing off the marble walls of the great hall. Grit fell from the ceiling, and scattered about the floor.
Edana unfastened her satchel and pulled out a sealed letter, which she pressed into his hands. “Everything is in here. Thank you for all you’ve done for us.”
She hadn’t quite gotten out the last syllable when Fravak broke in.
“This way. Quickly.”
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Ever since he’d teleported her and Lady Nensela to Elon, Edana had pondered how Ziri’s teleportation ability worked. She had settled on the hypothesis that his abilities were limited or bolstered by the absence or presence of a nymphaeum, which were springs and fountains consecrated to the water nymphs. Ziri’s grandmother was a naiad, after all, and in stories they possessed a godlike-ability to appear where they wished—but always near water.
Several nymphaeum were scattered throughout Kyanopolis, Ziri’s main base of operations as chief arcanus of the Star Dragons. Certainly, priests and sorcerers were limited by the presence of temples to the spirits they swore allegiance to, so it made sense Ziri would have a similar limitation. When she had teleported with Ziri back to Kyanopolis from Abris, he had first had her accompany him to a nymphaeum three miles from the ruined fortress.
She thought of the question again when Fravak ushered them once more into the grotto, Aletheia’s sacred spring. Smooth and placid water yielded no vision, and thus Edana turned her gaze away from the spring.
Fravak also ignored the spring, making straight for a small platform at the far end of the room. Ropes closed it off from ready access. A placard hung from the ropes, with words written in Anshani and Pelasgian, amongst other languages. Fravak set to work, unfastening the placard and then the ropes. He tossed the placard aside, where it landed on the floor with a tinny thunk.
“In the old days, in the old dynasty, Anshan’s high king demanded that all of the temples of Arenavachi should be linked,” he began. The ropes fell to the floor, and he approached the platform. He moved stiffly, and his aged knees cracked audibly as he mounted the platform.
A heavy white blanket covered what Edana guessed was an altar, which stood in the center of the platform. Fravak didn’t bother to uncover the altar. Instead, he put both hands out and began to push. Tregarde and Sheridan hurried up the platform. Instead of pushing, the younger men grabbed opposite ends of the altar and lifted it up.
Their actions revealed the circle inscribed in the center of the platform. The words Edana didn’t recognize; she only knew the script vaguely resembled Anshani.
Bessa approached the circle, her amber eyes narrowed as she studied it. “Does this go to the shahanshah?”
Exertion made Fravak wheeze out a puff of air. “No … In the old days, every sharab—the protectors—were responsible for the upkeep and stationing of any fortress that was within a three day’s ride of his palace. The one I’m sending you to has not been used in more than three generations. It fell into ruin before even Amavand’s father came to the throne.”
Bessa caught on. “So, it’s unlikely Amavand himself would have thought of it. He wouldn’t have had any reason to mention it to Rahqu or her other minions, then?”
“You have the right of it. I’m sorry. This is the best I can do for you.” He glanced at Alia, and lowered his gaze.
At once Edana recalled the harsh rebuke Alia gave to the high priest before their confrontation with Protector Amavand. The priestess had scornfully suggested Fravak hide under his bed when he’d initially resisted giving them aid. Fravak had been motivated by political considerations, which did not impress the devout huntress.
Alia walked over to him and clasped his shoulders with both hands. “You have done well, Guileless One. Thank you for all of the aid you’ve given us. May the Truthsayer guide you always.”
The high priest bowed. When he raised his head, his expression was more settled.
“Come.”
Slung at Edana’s hips was the pouch where she kept Lady Nensela’s belt. Drawing it forth, she showed Fravak the Zanbellian coin.
“This coin was struck in Zanbil. Can you send me there?” It occurred to her that she didn’t know precisely how the portals or Gates worked. Only that tokens were often involved in determining destinations for man-made portals.
Fravak’s eyes widened in wonder. “Something of Zanbil came to you? But how—no, there’s no time. I can alter the teleportation spell, if you wish to go to wherever this will take you.”
“Wait—!” Sheridan dashed over to her. “Weren’t we supposed to get advice? You know we cannot return from—”
Edana coolly met his gaze. “Why would I be sent to a place of no return? I will trust in the Sower that if I am sent to a place, it is not so I can languish about in idleness. Do you truly believe a divine command is given on a whim?”
“They are not,” Alia interjected. Her tone brooked no debate.
Nevertheless, Sheridan offered one. “Why not go to the fortress where Fravak is sending us, and use its portal to go to Zanbil? It may be possible to pull you back—”
“If this portal is one way, there is no pulling back. But I remind you, the letter was clear that I am to enter Zanbil through a portal in Elamis. Not some abandoned fortress elsewhere.”
Sheridan started to speak, but Edana raised her hand, quelling him.
“Look: I’ve been through this before. The prophet who gave me this command, and this coin to make good the command, told me about prophecy traps. One can blunder into a particular outcome by trying to avoid it. She also told me that all of her plans relied upon other people staying true to themselves. This lesson came at a great cost, she said, and I believe her. Lady Nensela knows I will not disregard her prophecy. She trusts me not to. I will trust her. Whatever is in Zanbil, I will find it.”
“But—” this was all Sheridan managed before Edana shook her head and held up one finger.
“What you say is not insensible. I understand your point: I am not moved. Nor am I asking you to come with me. None of you.” She turned and spread her arms wide, encompassing the group. “None of you must accompany me. The high king does need to be warned, and you venatori are equipped to deal with the threats facing him. So we need not argue: I will go to my quest, and you will go to yours. I will pray for your success, as I hope you will pray for mine.”
“Edana.” Bessa’s tone reminded Edana of her own mother’s; what she used when Edana was treading thin ice. Or Bessa, for that matter, for the two of them were always in league together when it came to mischief. Mama would take Bessa to task as easily as she would Edana.
Yet there was no rancor, only the ghost of a smile on Edana’s lips when she answered her oldest friend. “Before you accuse me, know that I am not playing the lone wolf again. The days of that folly are past for me. I would welcome aid, and welcome company, and I have held back nothing you need to know. But in this one matter I will not yield, and in this one matter we have no time for me to convince anyone. Lady Nensela has earned my trust; the Lyrcanians don’t know her.” Edana turned to the Lyrcanians and met their gazes. “You have never met her, nor do you seem to know of her, so your lack of faith in her is to be expected. Come with me, or not. But I am going to Zanbil.”
Selàna had watched their exchange in silence, but her eyes flashed when Edana said her mother’s name. And while Edana refused to guess what was going on behind those beseeching hazel eyes, she knew she must handle this next part with care.
“Please listen, Selàna. As Lady Nensela’s daughter, I don’t doubt you are tempted to go with me. To see the place your mother spoke to you about. But I cannot protect you nearly as well as these three can. Your mother showed me kindness when I was utterly alone in the world. Allow me to repay her: stay with Alia, please. Stay under her protection. She will need you to get to the high king, so you will be serving your part, too.”
Selàna clapped her hands together and brought them to her lips. Distress was written all over her face. What, and how would she determine her path? Edana didn’t envy her. Everyone except her at least had a guiding light for their decisions. The girl was lost, in a darkness not even of her own making.
Edana clenched her jaw.
I don’t trust decisions made out of fear.
Bessa had said that to her, seemingly a lifetime ago. But fear was what animated Edana now.
Abominations like her are not permitted to exist.
But when Edana looked at the girl, she did not see an abomination. Only someone who must be protected from the evils that stalked them. Though she trusted Alia to safeguard Selàna, she was also keenly aware that both vengeance and divine law would justify the priestess if she deemed it necessary to slay Selàna. And Edana would not be there to intercede …
However, it was Sheridan who spoke up next. “We need to go the fortress, not Zanbil. Taking Selàna to the high king made sense when we could fly there. But, Ironwing, do you not remember having to put a shield over the Wolf & Raven? Can you do that for entire towns? Wherever we go, the shadow queen can send her people. Wherever we go, everyone is in danger. You know Selàna will be stalked relentlessly by—how did you put it, Optima Nuriel? — ‘Sleepless enemies’?”
Crash! In the hall outside the portal room, mirrored mosaics shattered to the floor. A scream rang out. And then came an awful silence.
“You mustn’t dither,” Fravak fretted. “Please, are you going to Zanbil, or the fortress?”
Alia whirled on Sheridan. “Look, I’ve given this some thought, before what sleep I was permitted to have. You are correct we need to rescue the high king. But we are close still to the winter solstice. Bringing Selàna to him right now will bring dangers to the king’s doorstep that we cannot afford to risk right now. My mother and my aunts told me of that land. Believe me when I say we venatori will not be idle there. To Zanbil we go.”