by Evie Manieri
The Shadari murmured knowingly before moving along the corridor.
He guided Harotha back into the shadows. “What are you doing here? How the hell did you get here?” He felt like his nerves would snap at any moment.
“The same way Faroth did, on a stolen dereshadi,” she told him in her low, steady voice, “only I landed on the roof instead of in the stables.”
“The roof?” he repeated, blinking in confusion. “The roof—all right then. You can go back the way you came. How do you get up there? I’ll take you.”
But she was shaking her head. “It’s too late. The dereshadi got away from us while we were trying to tie her up. She’s probably back in her berth in the stables by now.”
“Us?”
“King Jachad came with me—but never mind that, I don’t have time to explain any of it right now. We have to—”
“But why are you here?” he demanded again. Did she really think she wouldn’t need to explain? “Do you have any idea what’s been happening up here?”
Her mouth hardened; he knew that impatient frown all too well. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you—if you’ll let me finish.”
He stared at her in disbelief: here she was, the same old Harotha, not softened one bit by her pregnancy. The resentment that had been stewing inside him ever since he’d learned of her deception began to boil up. “I don’t know why I’m surprised,” he said, “because this is just like you. You couldn’t just stay in the Shadar and let me handle things up here, could you? Haven’t you put Eofar through enough misery already? Do you have any idea how upset he’ll be if he finds out you’re here?”
“Eofar is all right then?” She tried to keep her voice low, but when she grabbed his hand he felt her pulse thudding through her fingers. “He’s still alive?”
He looked down into her glistening eyes. “You know, I don’t think I really believed it, not until just now. You and Eofar—after everything you said about them. The way you acted when I told you that Eofar was my friend—”
“I’m not going to explain myself to you.” Her face flushed, but she was as composed and uncompromising as always: the Harotha who made him feel small. “I can understand why you’re angry, but I can’t do anything about that right now. Do you want to stop the White Wolf or don’t you?”
“You know I do.”
“Then listen to me, I’ve been spying on her for the last hour: her men have cleaned out the armory and raided the storerooms. She’s rounded up anyone who might still challenge her authority, even Eonar’s physics, and locked them in the lower levels. What we need to do is—”
“I know all that. We already have a plan. Everyone’s already in position.”
“That doesn’t matter. The only way—”
“Yes, it does matter.” He backed away from her as he realized that she expected him to do whatever she wanted—to do as he was told—without questioning her. Worse, she expected him to be grateful that she was here to take charge of the situation. He swallowed his anger—this was neither the time nor the place for a confrontation—and repeated, “We have a plan, Harotha, a good one. It might not be perfect, but we’re going through with it. You can’t just turn up here and—”
“Daimon!” Omir called out from the end of the hall.
“Daryan,” Harotha started, and as he looked at her he realized he had nothing more to say.
He reached out to stroke her hair, years of gnarled, unspoken feelings contained in that one awkward gesture. “Hide,” he told her. “Go and hide. If you care anything about Eofar or that baby, hide until we can find some way to get you out.”
Then he pelted over to Omir and the others waiting near the doorway. Even in the torchlight, he could see that Omir’s face had gone pale.
“I’m sorry, Daimon, but she’s here. It has to be now.”
He clenched his jaw tight, even as fear squeezed his chest. Harotha would do just as she pleased; he knew that. There was nothing more he could do for her now. He lifted the nearest torch from its bracket in the wall.
“All right, then,” he told his comrades, taking a moment to look at each resolute face. “Here we go.”
* * *
Harotha felt a cold lump of shame hardening in her chest as she watched him hurry back to Omir and the others. She could still feel the unexpected touch of his hand on her head, but the tenderness of the gesture did nothing to soften the truth: the puppyish adoration he’d once had for her was gone. Somehow he’d become aware of his role as a toy or a tool, something to be picked up when she needed and discarded when she did not. Though she’d always urged him to defy Shairav, to make a stand, she had never really believed that he could amount to anything more than the puppet king he had always been. And now, somehow, he knew that.
She ran her thumb along her bottom lip. There was no help for it. She’d have to rescue Dramash on her own. Her nephew was the key; she was certain of it, and she had to get him back before the White Wolf forced him to carry out the horrors she had seen in her visions. If she could stop this, then the sacrifice of the ashas would still count for something. They wouldn’t have died in vain, because their deaths would have led her to this.
She had only a few moments to come up with a plan before Daryan and his friends began their attack. Once they lit that fire, the White Wolf would be on her guard and getting to Dramash then would be impossible. But the fire itself—that would be the perfect distraction. As soon as they lit it, she could dart out and grab him. She still didn’t know how she was going to get him out of the temple, but if she could find the location of the ashas’ secret door, with what she knew now …
She forced her heavy body into a run. Her hands were trembling and she was feeling dizzy. She knew she’d been foolish not to eat and sleep when she’d had the chance; it was too late now. Too late, too late: her footsteps beat out the rhythm as she ran. There was a small, easily overlooked doorway leading in to the eastern end of the stables which should put her quite close to Frea, who was bound to be keeping Dramash close.
She concentrated on the turns: left, round some rubble from a wall damaged in the earthquakes, past a basket of laundry dumped out on the floor. Now to the right. The geography of the temple hadn’t changed and yet everything felt odd and unfamiliar, like a place she’d heard about in a story or seen in a dream. She slipped down a hallway so narrow that she could touch the walls on either side. The stench of the dereshadi rolled over her and her stomach muscles heaved at the assault; she steeled her nerves and looked out into the stables.
She saw Dramash at once, less than a dozen paces away. He was standing at the White Wolf’s side, balancing impatiently first on one foot, then the other. She could see no signs of injury. He wasn’t tied up or restrained in any way—he didn’t even look frightened. She had heard him say he wanted to be a soldier when he grew up, and now here he was: the White Wolf’s protégé. At least Saria wasn’t alive to see it.
Suddenly a wave of nausea hit her with such intensity that she had to lean against the rough wall behind her for support. A dreadful clammy feeling crawled over her skin, and once again her hands tingled numbly. An image of Saria lying on the ground, her hair matted with blood, flew into her mind, and she shut her eyes tightly against the image. She couldn’t give in to grief or fear now. Saria had died trying to protect her son and Harotha had failed her sister-in-law then. She mustn’t fail her now.
Once she had slowed her racing heart she looked out into stables again. Whatever Frea had in mind apparently required the support of the entire garrison; it looked like most of the soldiers were here, and they were far more heavily armed than usual. Most were wearing their white cloaks, even though the night was only a few hours old, so they obviously expected to be out for a long time. Many of the soldiers carried filled sacks—supplies, maybe. Almost all of the dereshadi had been coaxed down and were shambling sleepily among the stacked bales of fodder, wagging their massive heads, leaving barely enough space for the slaves to walk b
etween them. It looked like the Dead Ones were preparing for a journey—except for the obvious fact that there was no place for them to go except the desert or the sea.
She couldn’t see Daryan, so she moved to the other side of the hallway to get a broader view. Something must have delayed him. She peered across the cavern, looking for a finger of smoke, the glow of fire.
One of the soldiers had been talking to Frea; now he walked up to a slave no more than a few paces from her hiding-place. As she shrank back against the wall, the Dead One said out loud, “Find Shairav. Lady Frea wants him. These triffons should have been saddled and ready by now.”
“Yes, sir,” the slave agreed rapidly, and then melted into the crowd. As the soldier turned back to the White Wolf, Harotha saw his face. She recognized him at once despite the colorful bruises: Rho was one of the few Dead Ones who spoke Shadari. He was also Frea’s lover.
Dramash walked up to Rho as casually as if the two of them were old friends. “Are we going soon?” he asked.
“Soon,” said Rho.
“Are we coming right back after we get Mama?”
The soldier hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“Can I ride with you this time? Will you let me hold the reins?”
Rho hesitated even longer this time. “I’ll ask.”
Harotha’s hands tightened into fists. Now, she thought, as loudly as she could, hoping Daryan could hear her somehow. Send them now—please! He’s so close …
For one heady moment she thought that her plea had been answered. There was a definite change inside the stables, a sudden hush, and she caught the flare of a torch moving among the dereshadi and the hay-bales. A heartbeat later, she saw the torch-bearer emerge from the crowd.
It was Daryan himself.
She bit her lip angrily. How careless of him, to expose himself like this. He should have lit the fire from the other side, where the Dead Ones wouldn’t have seen him—
But as she watched, stupefied, he passed by the pile of hay-bales and walked straight up to Frea. He stopped little more than a sword’s-length away from her and said, “Shairav isn’t coming.” He held his head high and he spoke using his full voice, not with the whispers of a slave. “Shairav is dead.”
Now the other armed Shadari melted out of the crowd and ranged themselves in a ragged line before the Dead Ones. Daryan backed up a few paces—purposefully, not cringingly—putting himself closer to the bales piled up behind him. Harotha watched, sick with apprehension. Certainly the gesture was brave enough, but was he trying to get himself killed?
“This hay is soaked with oil,” he called out, speaking slowly and clearly to ensure that Frea understood every word. “If I light it, none of you will be leaving the temple tonight.”
Frea drew her sword.
The armed Shadari leaned forward. “Stay back!” Daryan roared out to them. “Everyone! Stay back!”
Why was he doing this? Harotha thought frantically. They were going to kill him; he had to know that. What did he hope to accomplish by throwing his life away?
But then she realized that while she’d been staring at Daryan, she had forgotten all about Dramash—and so had Frea. The boy stood only three paces away, and all of the Dead Ones, Frea included, were facing the opposite direction. She leaned forward, readying herself to lunge.
Then she saw Rho looking at her. He could see her, even within the darkness of her hiding-place. His reflective silver eyes told her nothing. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe—
His eyes moved toward Dramash and then back to her face and he shook his head, slightly, just once. Her eyebrows shot up. He shook his head again: No, he was telling her, I see you. I know what you’re going to do. Don’t.
“Tell us what you’re going to do,” Daryan was saying. “If you’re leaving the Shadar, go, and good riddance. I will take your word. I know how much you value your honor.”
There was another pause, and then the White Wolf looked at Rho. Harotha caught her breath in a gasp and pressed her back against the wall. She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn’t move.
Rho drew his sword and walked toward Daryan, leaving Dramash behind.
Harotha felt the air rush back into her lungs. Rho had not apparently given her away, but she had no time to wonder why not, or what he had meant by his warning. It didn’t matter; she wasn’t going to give up now. She would grab Dramash the moment she was sure that the White Wolf was looking the other way.
In his flat Norlander accent Rho told Daryan, “Lady Frea says that any slave who stands in her way will die.”
“Does she?” he replied, ignoring Rho and looking straight at Frea. “Well, that’s all right, then, because I’m not a slave. I am the daimon.” Rho looked back at Frea, as if listening to her response, but Daryan went on without waiting for him to translate, “I am the humble servant of the gods. I am the nephew of Shairav’Asha. I am the son of the father whose name I bear—” His voice broke, but after a moment he continued, “and the protector of the Shadari. And the Shadari, my Lady,” he added in a voice that welled up from somewhere below the very roots of the great stone temple, “have had all they’re going to take from you.”
Harotha’s chest tightened with pride and pain. She didn’t know why he’d taken such a chance, but it didn’t matter: he really was the daimon now, and no one could ever take that away from him. The White Wolf would command his death now. Rho would thrust his sword, and Daryan—beautiful, suddenly brave Daryan—would be dead. This was her last and only chance to get Dramash, to make good on his sacrifice and the sacrifices of every other person who had died to bring about this moment. She took a deep breath—
—but before she could move, someone rushed past her, knocking her into the wall. As she struggled to regain her balance, she saw the person run into the stables, straight to Dramash, and hoist him off the ground as if he weighed nothing at all. Just as she remembered where she’d seen that mane of black hair, its owner turned around to face Frea, easily managing the bucking, kicking child she was holding. Harotha saw a long Nomas knife—the same knife she’d held in her own hand—shining against the boy’s throat.
The Mongrel had Dramash.
* * *
Lahlil had left them in the funeral room, supposedly to gather more supplies, but she had never returned, and now Isa was convinced that something had happened to her. Eofar was equally convinced that she had abandoned them. They had waited long past the time when they should have gone, until finally he refused to wait any longer. For her part, Isa would have been quite content to lie in that chamber indefinitely, looking up at the stars through the open ceiling while she slowly emerged from the cocoon of Lahlil’s drugs, listening to Eofar tell her about Harotha, and Daryan, and all of the other things she’d missed. A strange odor had filled that room, not at all unpleasant, a soft mixture of perfume and ash and sand. Isa thought she would remember that scent for the rest of her life.
Together they continued on to the stables, staggering awkwardly. The numbness had given way to spasms of fiery pain, and when those finally abated they’d been replaced by a relentless, teeth-grinding ache. She fel
t so weak that she could barely lift her head.
At last they made it into the stables, but the room was so crowded with triffons, slaves, bales of hay, paraphernalia of all kinds, that she could see only a few feet in front of her in any direction. The Shadari subtly moved out of their way, and though no one spoke to them or looked at them directly, Isa thought they exchanged glances as they passed.
She tried to pay attention to him, but most of her mind was preoccupied with the impossible task of lifting her feet and putting them down again. She vowed that she would never again take her strength for granted, now that she knew what it felt like to be without it. She never wanted to feel this helpless again.
As they approached Aeda, the triffon responded to Eofar’s scent with a nervous, welcoming snort. Isa stopped beside the creature’s massive head, breathless and exhausted.
She looked into Aeda’s great dark eyes and felt nothing. Her nightmarish fear of flying had vanished completely in the face of the real nightmare she was living—but then, how could anything be like it was before? She had pushed up against the membrane that separated life from death and nearly passed through it. She had lost a part of herself that she would never get back and she had found something that, if she lost it now, would be worse than losing her life.
he answered shortly, as he tried to lift her up onto Aeda’s back without jarring her.