A chorus of giggles broke into the silence. Amilia sighed and glanced toward the door. Challen tied the leather sleeve a little tighter around her scroll and slid from the window seat.
"I knew it was too good to last,” Amilia whispered. She went back to her couch and picked up her work. The blue glass beads glinted like the water in the pool of an oasis, and Challen suddenly found herself homesick.
Vashina and her followers streamed into the room, chattering and giggling, moving in a cloud of perfumes and gowns like gossamer wings. Challen stayed perfectly still, knowing predators only saw what moved. She disliked all five girls intensely, both because they were graceful and did everything right, and because they mocked her scholarly pursuits. Challen knew it was foolish to want to be praised by the very people who mocked what she valued, but that didn't change the aching of her heart.
Finally, all the girls had their backs to her, busy settling their dainty selves onto couches and arranging baskets of fruit and sweets, sewing and flutes to their satisfaction. Their eunuch warders stayed in the hallway beyond the cool shadowed room, resting on benches. O'klan was within calling reach, busy with his own share of Challen's research.
Challen slid through the shadows along the wall toward the door. She didn't care if the girls realized she didn't want to be with them, she simply hated to be accused of running away.
"What horrid clothes!” Vashina cooed. “Only slave girls wear trousers. And what unflattering colors. No jewelry. No makeup. However in the world does she expect to find a husband?"
A wave of laughter followed Challen out the door. She felt no guilt abandoning Amilia to their presence. Amilia actually enjoyed the other girls’ gossip.
"I wear these clothes because they are comfortable in this heat,” Challen murmured as she hurried down the hall to her suite. “And I do not want a husband."
Still, there was that young, broad-shouldered historian who had walked in on her and Haneen in the archives. Challen had nearly forgotten to maintain her blurring when she looked at him. His eyes were very blue, with thick lashes and he had a hearty laugh that vibrated in her chest. He had joined their ongoing discussion with ease and listened attentively to the points Challen had made.
Would it be so bad, married to a scribe like him? Scribes weren't eunuchs and their shaved heads garnered them instant respect in the marketplace. Only a man with a death wish attacked scribes or their families. Scribes were as sacrosanct as priests, and soldiers always watched out for them. Many scribes became poets, and a poem could flay someone's reputation more quickly, with longer-lasting results, than a whip.
* * * *
Elzan glanced up at the half moon directly overhead. He played with the notion that it shone down specifically to make guard duty a little easier for the Host of the Water Gate on their third night of guard duty. He knew better. The brightening of the moon heading toward fullness and equinox had a double-edged blessing. In two days, the Chadrasheeri would leave Bainevah, going empty-handed to their king and blood priests. One more day to guard the Sanctum, temples, and princesses.
He smiled, remembering the scene in Court when the ambassador grew frustrated enough on the subject of Kena'Shazzur to call King Nebazz a liar.
Someone, intending trouble, told the Chadrasheeri Kena'Shazzur was an adopted daughter of the King, a trained healer, and a holy priestess. The ambassador blustered and raged before the entire Court and demanded the girl be given to him. Elzan had been there and heard the man claim Shazzur's daughter was a fulfillment of prophecy. He couldn't decide whether to be sick or to laugh when the barbarian pretended injured innocence and claimed Bainevah had no right to deny Chadrasheer's needs and polite requests. The King denied the “requests” as he had done when the subject of the Sanctum Brides had first arisen.
Elzan had been relieved when he learned the Chadrasheeri priesthood had set a deadline. They required a royal marriage and virgin blood on the descent equinox for one of their filthy dark ceremonies. If Bainevah stalled them long enough, they would go home and find a noble maiden from among their own people. He would have spared pity for the poor girl, but knowing the Chadrasheeri, the bridal victim would consider it an honor to be publicly raped to appease the dark spirits.
It was Andorn who had come up with a disturbing theory, during their long night watches guarding the Sanctum and the Brides within—especially Kena'Shazzur.
"Perhaps the Chadrasheeri never would have come here for a bride unless someone gave them the idea?” Andorn had said, when they met after a long night of patrol. “They're too noisy, too brutal to think of such subtlety. They always go for the obvious. I think someone else did the thinking for them and now they refuse to let go, like a dog with one bone."
Elzan had agreed. He wondered about the enemies who had been too quiet lately. Maybe one of them had instigated the Chadrasheeri problem, and now quietly waited, watching, preparing to take advantage of whatever trouble erupted. Among the enemies of Bainevah, he was sure the danger came from either Dreva or Moragraen. But which one?
Still, the Chadrasheeri ambassador tried to embarrass Bainevah's king before all the other royal ambassadors. What did they need one Sanctum Bride for, when they had an entire house full of them? Why deny poor, tiny, starving Chadrasheer a royal bride who would bless the tribes?
The tactic had earned a reprimand strong enough to banish him for the remainder of his stay in Bainevah. Then, like the sweet course at the end of a royal feast, witnesses came to attest to Kena'Shazzur's need for training in the Healers Temple. The testimony made her sound like a child barely out of swaddling, who might never realize the full potential of her talents if she left the Healers Temple.
All Elzan cared about was that the barbarians were leaving. Cayeen would be safe. The temple virgins could move freely outside their precincts again, and he could stop worrying about Shazzur's daughter.
Elzan felt a stab of guilt and anger on her behalf. He wished there was something he could do to make her time of service more bearable.
A chill raced down his back. Elzan felt the hairs on his neck stand up despite the sweat under his helmet.
Something tapped; light and soft, like the strings of prism beads in his mother's windows when he was a child.
Elzan shifted his grip on his spear and stepped from the dark corner where he watched the back wall of the Sanctum garden. It was the most vulnerable spot, in his estimation.
A brushing sound, like wood across cloth, interrupted the tapping. It sounded almost like a massive wall loom being used, but that made no sense. The sound grew louder. Then faded away. The chill wrapped around Elzan's middle. He froze, only one step from his dark hiding spot.
Shadows moved at the base of the Sanctum wall. He heard hooves on packed dirt. A visitor at this time of night? Elzan drew his horn to sound the alarm.
Two hooded and cloaked men emerged from the shadows at the corner of the wall to toss a weighted rope around the pole where banners hung on moon full and moon dark days. Two more men appeared from the darkness at the other end of the wall, where a street met it to form a little courtyard before joining with a larger, main street. They led five horses.
Four men, four horses, and one horse for a stolen Bride.
Elzan gripped his spear in his right hand and waited until the rope whirred through the air, the weight wrapping around the pole five times before thudding softly against the painted stones. Two men started to climb and the other two watched them—but not the shadows.
They had no sense of precautions or danger. Elzan sent a silent prayer of thanks that they were such arrogant fools. Then he waited until the first man was on top of the wall and the second man was halfway up.
With his left hand he raised his horn to his lips and blew four hard, staccato blasts. Each man on duty had his own code so the others would know where the breach had appeared.
Elzan arched back and flung his spear with all his might. Aided by his anger, the spear seemed to sprout wings of fire
.
The Chadrasheeri on the wall shrieked, but not the eerie, desert raider ululation of the barbarians. This was the desperate, pitiful cry of a man facing death. Elzan exulted in the sound and leaped forward, drawing his sword even before his spear hit its mark and the target tumbled down to the street.
The two on the ground leaped onto their horses and galloped to the courtyard and open street. Elzan ignored them, knowing Andorn would meet them. He braced himself as the man halfway up the wall jumped down, dark robes flying.
Long desert knife met sword blade with a shower of sparks.
The tapping, sliding sound grew louder, like music played behind a good Song Weaver's performance.
The sparks from their blades gave off a sour smell and Elzan felt the chill deepen in his gut. Magic worked here. Barbarian Chadrasheeri blood magic, based in death and pain.
The two combatants turned, moonlight glinting off their blades. Elzan saw darkness writhe along the flat of the knife as the blade twisted and nicked his gloved wrist. He pivoted on one leg, jerking his other leg up to give momentum and dug it into his opponent's gut under his guard. The Chadrasheeri grunted and stumbled backwards. Elzan heard the echoes of battle elsewhere.
Chattering like an enraged rat, the Chadrasheeri lunged forward. A second blade appeared in his other hand. Ice filled the prince's sweat as he twisted aside, too mindful of that tainted blade.
He tripped as he stepped backwards. Sprawling, he had one moment to realize the obstacle was a dead body. The barbarian leaped on him, kicking the sword from his grip, metal-toed boot connecting with enough force to break finger bones.
Gagging on a roar of mixed anger and shock, Elzan flung his legs up, twisting aside and kicking at his attacker. His good hand banged against the spear still lodged in the dead man.
"Mother Matrika,” he whispered and yanked it free, twisting around on his knees and leaping to his feet in a move he knew he could never repeat. Elzan barely felt the flicker of fire along his arm as one tainted blade sliced through his thin leather cuff. He continued turning, bringing all his weight to bear, plunging the spear into the side of his opponent.
They both went down in a heap, blood gushing as the spear traveled through the Chadrasheeri. Elzan saw sparks fly as the magic blades clattered against the Sanctum wall. They snapped, proving the shields against evil magic still held.
Elzan heard the tapping, sliding sound grow louder and an icy fist wrapped around his arm. He rolled free of the man in his death throes and struggled to his feet.
CHAPTER 10
Challen moaned in her sleep. She knew she dreamed. Her heart told her to stay asleep, or disaster would strike.
Her soldier, her dark-eyed gift from the Mother, fought black serpents that tried to writhe into his veins. Challen called out to him. Light shot through the air with her voice and bathed him in brilliance.
He looked at her, dark eyes bright, and smiled, baring his teeth with a fierceness that made her hunger to wrap her arms around him. He dug his hands into the light, his knuckles white from the effort, and the black serpents retreated with agonizing slowness.
"Hold tight!” she cried, and the light flowing from her grew brighter, thicker, more solid.
The serpents retreated a little more.
The shadowy Bull-man stood behind her soldier and glared at him with burning eyes. Challen fought the knee-weakening urge to flee. To wake and hide. If she stayed in the dream, if she gave all she had to her soldier, would the Bull-man catch her?
* * * *
"Well done, Prince,” a rich, amused voice whispered from the shadows at the foot of the wall. “Such a pity you won't survive the poison. I could use a valiant fighter."
"Who—are you?” Elzan forced the words out through the sudden chattering of his teeth. He couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman who spoke. Did the poison affect his mind?
Darkness wrapped around him thicker than a blanket, colder than the blizzard that killed hundreds last winter.
"That really doesn't matter, does it?"
Voices shouted his name, but muffled and distant. Elzan strained his eyes at the darkness. Was that a robed, hooded figure he saw?
"I could save you. For a price.” The speaker laughed, a rumbling, rich chuckle.
"Price?"
Elzan thought he heard a voice calling, sweet as wine, smooth and soothing as oil. A faint spot of illumination at the edge of the darkness grew stronger. Gold and crimson flickered like dancing flames. A warm breath of sweetness like lemons on the tree in summer came to him through the cold.
She was there in that faint light. His flame-haired vision. He had to resist, or he might never find her.
"Serve me. I will save your life and give you the throne. That is what you want? I agree, you are the best choice. I'm willing to let you have it, if you serve me."
"Who?” Elzan strained to see the girl.
"Choose!” The voice snapped like a whip, reverberating along Elzan's nerves, jagged teeth that dug into his flesh. “Your mother can't save you. There's no time. Only I can save you. Vow to me and I will save you."
"Mother.” Elzan filled his lungs, and it seemed to take an eternity. The air burned inside him, as if he had never breathed before. “Mother Matrika!"
"Too late, Prince!” the voice hissed, and blackness wrapped around Elzan, choking him.
"Mother,” he whispered, feeling the air pressed from his body by a sudden, inconceivable weight.
"I am here, my hawk,” Lady Mayar whispered. “Feel my hand. Open your eyes. See the healing light, Elzan, my hawk.” Her voice shook, and that wasn't right. She was the Lady of the Healers Temple. She wasn't permitted to cry.
"Don't cry, Mother.” He forced his eyes open against the heavy blackness.
"Then do not leave me.” She leaned over him so the tears dropped from her lashes onto his cheeks.
"You lost that toss,” a whining voice whispered, laughing, inside Elzan's head. The prince barely heard through his weariness.
"It does not matter,” the rich voice responded. “The game is nearly over, and no matter what they do, no matter how their pieces increase rank, they cannot win."
* * * *
Challen struggled free of the dream as she sensed a healing presence enter the battle. Shivering, drenched in sweat, she forced herself awake. Her untrained help was no longer needed.
The air in her room was thick, with a faint rotten stench as if something had died inside the walls and the corruption tried to leak through. Gagging, she crawled out of bed and to her door. Her legs wobbled as she crossed her sitting room. She wrapped a blanket around herself and grew steadier, as if the chill inside her had stolen her balance and strength.
O'klan found her huddled against the garden wall as dawn filled the city with pale gold and rose light. She still shivered but the whiteness had left her skin and her night robe had begun to dry, no longer plastered to her body with terror sweat.
Challen only nodded when he scolded her. She barely heard when he told her the Chadrasheeri had tried to break into the Sanctum during the night. Her soldier was all right. That was all that mattered.
* * * *
"Interesting,” Shazzur murmured. He gazed off into the distance. From the fifth level garden of the Healers Temple, he could see nearly to the leading edges of the desert to the west.
Elzan sighed and exchanged amused, exasperated glances with his mother. He had recovered quickly from the Chadrasheeri poison. Lady Mayar had fought the magic that enhanced it while Cyrula fought the poison. Veerian, who had learned much in her battle to free Rushtan, confirmed that no taint of magic lingered in him. It was late afternoon of the day after the attack. His mother insisted Elzan tell Shazzur about his dream before she let him leave the Healers Temple.
He left out the details of the flame-haired girl, reticent to let anyone know she existed. She was his to find. He didn't want anyone curious about her, afraid that the attention of others might drive her away. How was he
to know she wasn't a denizen of the spirit world, taking tiny, hesitant steps into the physical world?
The Chadrasheeri were completely gone from Bainevah, having fled in the night. The King had decreed they would never be permitted within the borders while he lived. The two remaining kidnappers managed to hang themselves only a few hours after being thrown into prison.
"You say you don't know what that sound was?” Shazzur sat back in the embrace of his chair of woven wood, and reached for a cup of the iced, watered wine Lady Mayar had brought for them.
"I should. I only know I heard it long ago.” Elzan shrugged. The movement aggravated his healing wound.
"You realize, there is significance to your sudden sensitivity to powers and magic. To all intents and purposes, Mother Matrika has gifted you to eavesdrop on the plots of demi-gods.” The Seer chuckled when Elzan shuddered at his words. “Don't be alarmed. My daughter had a nightmare last night. Her warder was concerned enough to report it to me."
"If the barbarians used magic to fuddle her mind, to make her easier to kidnap, that would explain it,” Lady Mayar said slowly. “I will test her for residue right now, if you like."
"Please.” He stood, bowed to the priestess, and stayed standing until she had gone inside.
"What did Lady Kena'Shazzur dream?” Elzan had to ask.
"She refused to call it a dream. Stubborn child.” Shazzur chuckled, evidently proud of his daughter. “She told me ... it was too vivid, as if she had stepped from the known reality into a stronger reality. If she hadn't broken free and awakened, she likely would have heard a voice as you did."
"Offering her whatever she wanted most,” Elzan murmured. “I worry when someone is so desperate they offer great riches and rewards if I will ally with them."
"There is reason to believe the Chadrasheeri were only a distraction while some more insidious plot unfolds around us."
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