So far the Siyee had been securely imprisoned close to Nekaun inside a building. Once outside, the only person who could prevent her freeing them was Nekaun. Any attempt to free them would have to happen before they reached Glymma. She was sure escape would be much harder to arrange once they reached the city.
A line of platten now waited outside the building. The First Voice emerged and walked around the vehicles as if inspecting them. She tensed as she detected the Siyee’s fear rising. They were being taken out of the room they had been imprisoned within. Pentadrians guided them firmly out of the building. She watched as, one by one, they were taken outside, lifted into the platten and bound to iron rings attached to the vehicles’ sides.
If only Nekaun wasn’t here, she thought.
But even if he hadn’t been, how could she have freed the Siyee without fighting off the attacks of the Servants? She ground her teeth. Chaia’s voice echoed in her memory.
:... If this ambush of yours leads to Auraya turning from us...
She was determined to disappoint Huan. If she was going to fail a test of loyalty, it would be by doing something much less trivial than fighting when she had been ordered not to.
But what if not fighting leads to the Siyee’s deaths? Auraya’s jaw ached from grinding her teeth. She rubbed it, then sighed. I’ll only be able to decide that when - if - the time comes. But if they die I will make Huan pay for it. Somehow.
She grimaced at her own thoughts then. How had she come to the point of wishing to take revenge on a god she had once loved?
Mirar would find this amusing.
The platten were full of Siyee and Pentadrians now. The last of the vehicles bore only Nekaun and a driver. They began to move.
People paused to stare as the procession wound through the town. The Siyee were a strange sight to them. A frightening one, too. Siyee had killed many Pentadrians during the war.
As the platten reached the edge of the town and set out along the road to Glymma, Auraya began to rise. Mischief gave a sleepy whine of protest as she lifted him into her pack.
“Pack bad,” he murmured.
“I’m sorry, Mischief,” she told him.
Stepping off the rock pinnacle she had been sitting on all night, she propelled herself after the Siyee and their captors.
21
A familiar figure stood before the Sanctuary flame, head bowed. Reivan approached slowly and stopped several steps away, not wanting to interrupt Imenja’s thoughts. She heard the Second Voice murmur a prayer, then saw her straighten.
“Ah, Reivan.” Imenja turned and smiled. “What do we have to sort out today?”
Reivan walked to Imenja’s side. The flame twisted and snapped like fine cloth in a wind. Its constant movement was hypnotic, and it was said the gods could steal one’s sanity if one dared look at it too long. She forced her eyes away.
“Karneya has appealed to us again to release his son from slavery. You asked me to report whenever he did.”
Imenja grimaced. “I pity him. It is hard to accept that one’s own child has committed a terrible crime.”
“In any other land his son would have been executed.”
“Yes,” the Second Voice agreed. “And we cannot grant his request, but I will write to him. What else?”
“Tiemel Steerer wants to become a Servant, but he believes his father will disapprove.”
“He’s right. This will be a difficult one.”
“His father cannot prevent him.”
“He’ll try. Even if it means having him kidnapped and sent to Jarime.”
“Does he disapprove of us that much?”
Imenja laughed. “No, quite the opposite. But Tiemel is his only son. Who will run the ships when he is too old?”
Reivan didn’t answer. Better that the business be sold than the son spend years doing what he hated, his magical Skills wasted.
Imenja turned suddenly, her gaze shifting to the distance. She frowned, then her face relaxed and she sighed.
“These matters will have to wait,” she said. “Our wayward acquaintance has returned.”
Reivan felt a thrill of hope. “Nekaun?”
Imenja nodded and smiled knowingly. “Yes.”
The Second Voice’s smile widened as Reivan felt herself blush. “Come on then. Let’s go together.”
She led Reivan away from the flame into the Sanctuary buildings. At first the Servants they saw were quiet, pausing to make the sign of the star as Imenja passed. Then a messenger raced past, his urgency making Imenja pause and frown. Closer to the entrance of the Sanctuary they encountered small groups of Servants whispering together.
“What’s going on?” Reivan asked.
Imenja sighed. “They’ve heard reports he’s bringing prisoners with him. Not ordinary men either.”
Hearing the frustration in Imenja’s voice, Reivan decided to keep her questions to herself. It was already clear her mistress hadn’t approved of Nekaun’s secrecy. If people realized the other Voices hadn’t known the reason for his disappearance they might conclude that Nekaun didn’t trust them, or value their opinions.
They reached the hall and crossed to the other side. Shar and Vervel waited within one of the arches. Imenja walked over to join them.
“Here he comes,” Shar murmured.
Following their gaze, Reivan saw that a crowd was emerging from one of the crossroads of the Parade. It spilled out into the main thoroughfare and split into two, allowing room for several open platten to approach the Sanctuary.
Inside the platten were Servants and several children, the latter tied by their wrists to the rails of the vehicles.
Reivan heard shocked gasps around her and found herself agreeing. Why had Nekaun taken all these children prisoner? What could they have done to deserve this treatment?
“Siyee,” Vervel said, his voice low and dark with hatred.
Siyee? Reivan looked closer. The faces of the prisoners were not those of children, but of adults. Memories of the war rushed into her mind. It had been hard to judge the size of the sky people when they were in the air. She had seen dead ones on the ground, however. Had even examined one of them, fascinated and repelled by the distortions of their limbs and the membrane that formed their wings. Some of her fellow Thinkers had wanted to take a few home to study, but the Voices had forbidden it.
The last platten had only one passenger, and her heart swelled to see Nekaun smiling broadly. As the platten stopped he leapt out and strode effortlessly up the stairs. He did not look at Reivan; his attention was fixed on his fellow Voices.
“How have you all been the last few days?” he asked. “I hope everything ran smoothly in my absence.”
“Smoothly enough,” Vervel said calmly. “I see you’ve been busy.”
“Yes.” Nekaun turned to look at the platten. The Servants had begun untying the prisoners from the rings. The Siyee were bound together at the ankle. “The gods informed me that Siyee warriors were coming to attack Klaff and that I should deal with them and their sorceress.”
“Sorceress?” Shar repeated.
Nekaun looked up at the sky, his gaze roving about. “The former White.”
Imenja drew in a sharp breath and looked up. “Auraya?”
He looked at her and smiled. “Yes. She followed us here so I have no doubt she is somewhere close.”
“Is she a danger?” Vervel asked.
“I don’t think so. The Siyee believe her gods have forbidden her to fight us.” Nekaun smiled, then looked down at the sky people. “I had better escort our prisoners to their cells.” He took a step away. Reivan felt a pang of disappointment. He hadn’t looked at her. Not even a glance.
“There are no prison cells in Sanctuary,” Imenja pointed out.
Nekaun turned and smiled at her. “Yes there are, they just haven’t been used for a very long time.”
As he turned away, Imenja made a small stifled sound.
“The caves,” she said with obvious disgust. “What ar
e we becoming?”
“They are our enemy and they did try to attack us,” Shar reminded her.
“The Siyee belong in the prison complex,” she said. “Outside the Sanctuary.”
“Nekaun needs to be close to prevent Auraya rescuing them,” Shar said, shrugging. “We can’t expect him to live in the prison complex.”
Imenja frowned at him, then sighed. Reivan hesitated as her mistress turned and stalked away. The Second Voice stopped and looked back. She smiled with obvious effort.
“Come, Companion Reivan,” she said quietly. “We have work to do.”
Sreil hurt all over. His arms were sore from being held in one position for so long and his wrists were red and blistered from the ropes, but that was not all. The vehicles that had carried them to the city had shaken and jerked constantly until Sreil imagined all his bones would surely be loosened from their joints. His muscles were sore from bracing himself against the rocking, and his side was bruised from knocking against the railing.
It was only the beginning. There was sure to be worse to come. He had been certain of it from the moment the net pinned him down. The Pentadrians hadn’t killed them, so they must have some other terrible plan.
The previous night, tied up in a large room covered with dried grass and in the company of the animals that pulled the vehicles, he had slept fitfully. Nightmares had taunted him, shaped from old stories of the early days of the Siyee. A time when their bodies had warped and changed. The older ones whispered these stories late at night. It was wise to remember the sacrifice and the cost of transformation, they whispered. The pain. The suffering of the failures. The deformed ones.
Those stories came back to haunt him, perhaps drawn out by the twisting of his arms. A single torch on a stand provided the only light in the enormous room they were in now, making the broad columns they had been chained to look like the trees of the Open. On a raised area to one side an enormous stone chair towered over them, crumbling with age. Perhaps one of the Pentadrian gods visited from time to time. At that thought, he could not help also imagining that the Siyee had been left here as sacrifices.
If he pushed his mind away from such dark places he only ended up thinking about his mother and the grief she would feel when she heard of their failure. He hoped the two Siyee that had escaped made it back home. If they didn’t his mother might send more Siyee out to find out what had happened. It was clear he and his warriors had been betrayed, so it was likely that any others who came would also be ambushed and captured.
“Sreil.”
He jumped at the voice and turned to see that the Siyee chained to the other side of the column was peering around at him.
“Tiseel?”
“I’ve been thinking,” the warrior said. “About who betrayed us.”
Sreil noticed that other Siyee had heard and were watching him.
“So have I,” he said.
“You don’t think... you don’t think Auraya could have?”
“No,” Sreil said firmly.
“But she didn’t help us.”
“She isn’t allowed to. The gods forbade her to fight, remember.”
Tiseel sighed. “Why did they do that? It doesn’t make sense. Or maybe she’s just saying they have.”
“Teel said so, too. If she had betrayed us, she would have ridden with the Pentadrians, not followed us from the air,” Sreil reasoned. “The Pentadrian leader kept watching her, as if he was worried she’d attack him.”
Other Siyee nodded in agreement.
“Then who?” Tiseel asked. “Surely not a Siyee.”
Sreil shook his head. “No. What would anyone have to gain?”
“Landwalkers did it,” someone hissed. “A spy who heard about our plans from the White.”
“That’s possible,” Sreil agreed.
“Or maybe the Elai,” another said.
Heads turned toward the speaker. He shrugged. “I heard the Sand Tribe suspect the Elai are trading with Pentadrians.”
“They’d never betray us,” Tiseel said. “How could they have heard of our plans, anyway?”
“Huan says the Pentadrian sorcerer is a mind-reader,” a new voice said. All eyes turned to Teel. “He probably read our intentions from our minds when we flew over the city.”
Sreil felt his heart sink. I led us over the city. It was all my fault. But how could I have known their leader could do that? Nobody told me. Not Auraya, or Teel...
“Will the gods let Auraya rescue us, Teel?” someone asked.
“I don’t know,” Teel admitted. “Perhaps only if it doesn’t involve fighting.”
“Was our capture part of some bigger plan?”
“I don’t know,” the priest repeated. “All we can do is stay faithful to them and pray.”
And then he began to do the latter. Though a few of the Siyee groaned in annoyance, Sreil felt the words soothe him. It was comforting to hope this was all part of a grander scheme.
That it wasn’t my fault, he told himself.
Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the young priest’s words in the hope they would keep darker thoughts at bay.
The walls inside the lower levels of Hannaya’s Palace were so thick the rooms appeared to be connected by short passages. Niches had been carved into these and some were lined with fresh stone. Busts of important men and women peered out, their expressions uniformly dour.
Men and a few women hurried about. It was easy for Emerahl to imagine they were eager to be out of this oppressive place, but she sensed no fear from them. There was only the usual undercurrent of irritation, purpose and anxiety she had felt in a dozen other cities.
According to The Twins, the palace had been the home of the royal house that had once ruled Mur but which had long ago died out. The maze of rooms, both grand and crude, were still occupied by the same range of servants, courtiers and artisans, but the ruler was now a Pentadrian Dedicated Servant, known as the Guardian.
Two of the Thinkers searching for the Scrolls were from rich and influential families who lived in the palace. They were providing accommodation for the others. For most of the day, however, the five of them gathered in the library. It was there that Emerahl was heading now.
The boy she had paid to take her there turned toward another passage, leading her deeper into the cliff. Her pulse quickened as he stopped before two large carved wooden doors. The boy held his hand out to her. She dropped a coin into it and he raced away.
Emerahl paused to take a deep breath, then knocked.
A long silence followed. She concentrated on the space behind the door, picking up emotions of several people. Most were distracted and quiet, but one was purposeful and a little irritated.
Then the handle lifted and the door swung inward. An old man peered down his long nose at her.
“Yes?”
“I wish to see the Thinkers,” she told him. “Are they here?”
His eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. Stepping back, he gestured at the room behind him.
And there was a lot of room to gesture at. The roof, like in most rooms in the palace, was disconcertingly low. The far wall, in contrast, was some distance away. The long side walls were lined with shelves piled with scrolls and other objects. Statues and tables covered with arrangements of curious and ancient objects divided the room into three sections.
The old man moved to a scroll-covered table next to a half-empty shelf. He lifted a piece of wet cloth from a clay tablet and put it aside, then picked up a scribing tool. As he turned his attention to his scrolls, Emerahl smiled wryly. Clearly she was to find the Thinkers herself.
She walked down the length of the library slowly, examining the objects on display. Several men of different ages were scattered about the room, some reading, some writing, and a few talking quietly together. At the far end five men of differing ages were relaxing on benches, talking. Fragrant smoke wreathed up from a smokewood burner set between them, most likely some kind of stimulant.
As Emerah
l approached, the three men who were not talking looked up at her. The younger watched her curiously, while the others turned their attention back to the speakers. She stopped between the benches of the pair who were talking, and the conversation ended. A large man with thick eyebrows and a thin, lipless man looked up at her and frowned in annoyance.
“Greetings, Thinkers,” she said. Now all were watching her. She glanced from face to face and settled on meeting the stare of the larger man. “Are you Barmonia Tithemaster?”
The eyebrows rose slightly. “I am.”
“I am Emmea Startracker, daughter of Karo Startracker, a nobleman and mathematician of Toren.”
“You are far from home,” the youngest of the men remarked.
“Yes. My father and I have an interest in antiquities.” She lifted the box containing the fake scroll. “Recently he bought this, but being unfit to travel he sent me here on his behalf to search out more information. My enquiries have led me to you. I think you will find it most interesting.”
The large man made a skeptical noise. “I doubt it.”
“I did not mean the box,” she said dryly. “I meant the contents.”
“I assumed so,” he said.
She met his eyes again. “I was warned that the Thinkers had no manners, respect for women, or personal hygiene, but I did expect to find clever and enquiring minds.” This brought a smile to the younger Thinker’s face, but the others looked indifferent.
“We’re wise enough to know no foreign woman could ever bring anything of interest to us.”
She looked at the burner then smiled and nodded to herself. “I see.”
Turning away, she strolled back down the length of the library. On a heavy table lay a slab of stone, carved with ancient glyphs. To her surprise it was a monument stone from a long-ago dismantled Temple of Jarime - or Raos, as it had once been known. She had probably walked past this very stone in its original resting place many times. How had it come to Mur?
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