by Evie Manieri
“But then the ashas…” Daryan’s face changed again and he rushed forward and seized her by the shoulders. “The way out—I know where it is. I was there, just a little while ago.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “By the gods—then we can get him out—we can get everyone out.”
Daryan turned back to the tall Shadari. “Omir, tell everyone to meet at Shairav’s rooms—but they mustn’t all go at once. The Dead Ones mustn’t find out—especially the White Wolf. Find a way to get word to everyone who’s not here. We don’t want anyone left behind.”
The tall man—Omir—nodded curtly and disappeared into the smoke.
Jachad had left the odd little company at some point without Rho noticing, but now he returned with news. “It’s chaos in there: Meiran and Frea are both caught up in the fighting. I’ll stay and do anything I can to keep Frea from following you.”
“But you should come with us,” Harotha said.
Jachad shook his head. “No, I need to wait for the triffons to come back. I need get to my people in the desert and I’ll never be able to walk there in time. This time the Nomas are going to take sides.”
“Jachad.” She reached out and clasped the Nomas’ hand. “Thank you.”
“Thank me later. I’ll let you buy me a drink.” He flashed them a quick smile and then he too disappeared into the smoke.
“Come on, then, quickly!” Daryan ducked into the little passageway as Harotha gestured for Rho and Dramash to go before her. He stooped down through the dark opening with Dramash skipping along behind him. The space was cramped, and he sucked in a deep breath of relief when they emerged at the other end.
Daryan ignored the quickest way to Shairav’s chamber and took a route that would keep them further away from the stables and Frea. The night was well advanced and the hallways were dark. Harotha took up a position by Daryan’s side; Rho saw their heads tilted toward each other and caught a few words of their conversation. “I have an idea about that. Let me handle it,” he heard Daryan say before the daimon looked back at him, his brow furrowed.
As they neared Shairav’s quarters they met more glassy-eyed, wheezing Shadari. One woman caught sight of Rho and screeched in terror until Daryan rushed forward to quiet her. “He’s all right, he’s with us—he won’t hurt you.”
Dramash brought his scorching body nearer to Rho’s side as the two groups merged and he began to feel faint again. Then they rounded the last corner and found a much larger crowd bottled up in the hallway.
“Make way, make way, please,” Daryan called, elbowing his way through, but now it was Dramash leading them all forward, wanting to be at the front for whatever was about to happen. Daryan continued burbling reassurances to the crowd as they entered the chamber, while Rho kept his eyes on Harotha’s back and tried not to think of all those hostile Shadari eyes fixed on him.
“Daimon!” a rich voice boomed out of the darkness.
“Omir?” Daryan called toward the faint light coming from the far end of the room.
“This way, Daimon, over here. We’ve found it.”
They passed through a narrow doorway and made their way slowly across a floor littered with debris of some kind, then ducked through yet another doorway. This last room was round, hardly large enough to be called a room at all. A black hole in the middle of the floor took up most of the space. A dozen Shadari hung back against the walls, their expressions hard, nervously fingering their weapons. Rho felt the unmistakable movement of fresh air over his face and looked up to see the star-lit sky. He shut his eyes for a moment and breathed in the clean, cool air.
Dramash stretched toward the hole as they shuffled carefully into the room. “What’s that? It doesn’t look like a well. How deep is it?” he asked excitedly. Instinctively Rho tugged the boy back against the wall.
“There it is—and the sand’s there already, just like I told you,” Daryan said to Harotha; to Rho it sounded like the continuation of their secret conversation in the hallway. “Do you really think you can do this? Why don’t we ask—?”
“I can do it,” she said firmly, and slowly lowered her heavy body to the floor. She began sweeping up the scattered sand into a pile.
“What are you doing?” asked Dramash. He was almost dancing with impatience, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Rho was careful to stay between the boy and the hole.
Daryan turned to Dramash. “There are steps there,” he explained, watching as Harotha smoothed the pile of sand out into a crude rectangle, like a tablet. “They were made to slide into the wall, like they are now—that’s why we can’t see them. We need to get them to slide out again, then we’ll all be able to go down the steps and escape.”
“What’s she doing?” Dramash asked, pointing to Harotha with his free hand.
“Praying,” said Daryan as she began to write in the sand with her finger. Every other Shadari in the room hastily turned against the wall, or covered their eyes with their hands.
Dramash snorted. “You don’t need that. Here—” And before Rho could stop him, he darted toward the gaping hole. For a dizzying moment Rho thought he actually saw him hurtling over the edge, disappearing into the bottomless darkness while he stood there, paralyzed with dread—but the boy had just flopped down onto his stomach next to his aunt. He peered into the chasm. “Look, like this,” he said, extending his hand over the opening.
There was no tremor, just a gentle little click, echoing down into the darkness. Even the grinding sound was soft and innocuous. And then the scent of the sea came wafting up to them.
“Light,” Daryan cried, “we need light—someone bring a torch.”
Moments later someone placed a torch into Daryan’s hand and he stepped toward the hole. Dramash was now sitting on the edge with his legs dangling over the side. Rho looked around: every Shadari face displayed the same stunned expression.
“Gods,” Daryan breathed. There were the steps, spiraling down, and in the center was a gap about the length of Rho’s forearm. Daryan gingerly extended the torch over the gap and released it, letting it fall down through the aperture. A dozen heads bent forward, watching the sparks fly as the torch bumped against the sides of the chasm on its way down. The light grew dimmer and dimmer, but then, noiselessly, it hit the bottom and then vanished completely for a moment, then flared back up again. It was just a far-away glow, but it was vastly significant: there was no water at the bottom, and enough air to keep the torch alight.
“Omir,” said Daryan. He spoke quietly, but the silence he broke was so profound that he might as well have screamed. He moved over to help Harotha up. “You go down first with Harotha. The rest of you, get back into the hallway and try to organize this somehow. We need to move quickly, but it’s a long way down and we can’t have people pushing each other or someone’s going to get hurt. We’ll have to stagger them somehow. Groups of ten or twelve, maybe…” He trailed off, but those in the room had already roused themselves to obey. Everyone except Omir, Harotha, Daryan, Rho and the boy left the chamber. Rho saw the looks as they went out; in a few moments every Shadari in the temple would know what Dramash had done.
“Daryan,” Harotha said—and then she, too, looked at Dramash. Her face had gone very pale. “I’ll take him with me.”
Daryan shook his head. “I said I would handle it, and I will, I promise. But you must go, please. I’ll be with you soon. Then I’ll explain everything.”
She hesitated, but Omir started down the steps immediately and stood waiting for her at the point where the turning would take him out of sight. She frowned, but started down after him. A moment later both were out of sight.
Rho looked at Dramash, still sitting on the edge of the stairwell, kicking his heels into the wall. One of the Shadari returned with the first disconcerted party of escapees and began ushering them down the steps.
With the noise and movement as cover, Rho beckoned Daryan over and whispered, “I must get back. My friends need me. You’ll take him back to
his family and make sure Frea can’t find him?”
“I need to talk to you about that.” Daryan flicked his tongue over his dry, cracked lips. “You see, I have this idea.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Harotha squirmed, struggling to loosen the burly arms that held her, and when the squirming failed to produce a result, she jammed her shoulder pointedly into the man’s chest. The stranger released her at last, but he gave her an affronted look before he turned to grab a more willing partner out of the crowd.
“You were crushing the baby,” she explained, but it was too late; he’d gone. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat, feeling a burn deep in her chest from the smoke she’d inhaled in the temple. A sharp elbow poked her in the small of the back and someone else trod on her foot. She felt like she had just landed on some alien shore. She didn’t understand how word of their escape could have spread to the city so quickly—the beach had been deserted when she and Omir had groped their way out of the caves at the bottom of the steps, splashed across the little hidden cove and climbed around the rocks to the shore. But now jubilant Shadari were cavorting on the beach in droves, and everywhere she looked she could see joyful faces and tearful reunions. People had unearthed drums from some dusty hiding-place—their ceremonial drums had been forbidden by the Dead Ones long ago as an affront to their sensitive ears—and unpracticed hands were taking turns reviving the half-remembered rhythms. The uneven beats jarred against her pounding pulse, shaking her half-formed thoughts loose before she could grab hold of them and examine them properly.
She had wanted to bring this moment about—this exact moment—for as long as she could remember, and now here it was, all around her, and yet she could not surrender to it. She watched strangers embrace, lovers kiss, old enemies shake hands or clap each other on the back, while she remained detached and unfeeling. She accepted the thanks and congratulations of those around her, but behind her smiles she knew that she deserved neither. Daryan had been the one to rally the temple slaves and start the uprising—against her advice. Rho, a Dead One, had been the one to free Dramash from the White Wolf. And Dramash—was it the effortlessness of what he had done that galled her so, or his innocent, unabashed pride? Or was it just the fact that he had done it and she had not?
A strong hand clamped down on her shoulder and spun her around.
“Where’s my son?” Faroth demanded. His face was pinched and pale, in sharp contrast to the flushed faces of the revelers, and his eyes were as hard as stones.
Harotha’s heart thumped. “He’s with Daryan,” she answered. “I’ve been trying to—”
“No, he isn’t,” Faroth said coldly. He kept his tight grip on her shoulder. “And no one saw him leave the temple.”
“What?” She looked back over her shoulder toward the little cove, but the crowd was too dense for her to see very far. “No, that’s not possible. He—”
“How could you let my son out of your sight?” he asked in a low, tight voice, thrusting his face close to hers. “I’ve heard what happened up there—everyone is talking about it. Can’t you see what this means to us? For the gods’ sake, just how stupid are you?”
“Me?” She straightened up and stepped away from him with a derisive laugh. “You’re blaming me? You’re his father—would you care to explain to me how the White Wolf found out about Dramash before you did?”
He shot out his hand and grabbed her around the throat, pressing his thumb down on her windpipe. She gagged as he squeezed, too surprised and terrified to fight back. Her vision blurred, and through the fog she realized she was looking into the face of an absolute stranger.
“I know you and Daryan are trying to keep him from me, but it won’t work,” he snarled. “The daimon means nothing to the Shadari. He’s a bootlicker, and soon all those who helped the Dead Ones will pay for it. Soon only my favor—only mine—will keep this mob from tearing you both apart.”
She fell to her knees when he released her, breathing in great choking gasps. His thumbprint burned her neck like a hot brand and some nameless feeling pressed down on her chest. And now, humiliatingly, she found herself convulsed, not with tears—she never cried—but with noiseless, heaving sobs that came from someplace outside of her control. She crossed her arms over her belly and tucked her head down into them, not sure whether she was trying to comfort the baby, or whether she hoped to draw comfort from him.
It wasn’t until her brother’s attention shifted away from her that she realized that the drumming had stopped and people were calling out all around her. She struggled awkwardly to her feet, fighting to regain her equanimity. A figure stood on top of a tall cluster of rocks at the surf’s edge: Daryan, his dark hair wet with spray and curling romantically over his forehead. The moon, setting across the sea to his left, lit a sparkling path to him over the water. He had already begun to speak, and Harotha, far up the beach, had to strain to hear him.
“—the bravest ones, died tonight,” Daryan was saying. His voice was hoarse, but it sounded deeper, older than it had just a few hours ago. “Don’t let it be for nothing. There will be a time to celebrate, believe me, but it isn’t now. Go home, sleep if you can. Eat. Be with your families. We’re going to need everyone’s help. We’ve got to be ready to defend our city from whatever’s coming next.” He paused. She saw him tug at the back of his hair and even now she smiled a little to herself: that old, familiar gesture. “Okay. Well, that’s all for now, I guess,” he finished awkwardly. He looked around at the rapt crowd and then repeated, “Everybody go home.” She lost sight of him as he climbed down from the rock, but the crowd around her began to move, breaking up into groups, murmuring earnestly among themselves.
“Come on.” Faroth grabbed her hand and pulled her down the beach with him, but they had not gone far before Binit appeared, shouldering his way toward them. As soon as he saw Faroth he announced, “Here he is, Faroth! We’ve got him!” Just behind Binit came Daryan, flanked by the rest of Faroth’s crew, with Omir and some of the others from the temple following closely at their heels. But Dramash was not with them.
“Harotha! Here you are, thank the gods! I was looking all over for you!” Daryan cried out the moment he saw her. He brushed past Faroth and rushed toward her with his arms outstretched.
Faroth stepped out in front of her. “Where’s my son?”
“Safe,” he answered, dropping his arms. “He’s safe. We got him away from the White Wolf. But he’s not here.”
She groaned. Faroth was right: she should have never trusted Daryan; she never should have let Dramash out of her sight. She’d been such a fool.
“Then where is he?” Faroth snarled.
Daryan’s eyes hardened. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Give me my son!” Faroth screamed, and lunged at Daryan in pure blind rage. Omir caught his fist in one of his huge hands and cocked his other arm menacingly. Faroth’s friends tried to pull him back, but he kept on shouting, “Curse you, you have no right—he’s my son! I know what you’re trying to do—I see what you are!”
“That’s enough.” Daryan’s smoke-darkened voice roared out over the sound of the surf and the murmuring crowd hushed instantly. Faroth’s wrathful glare did not change, but behind it Harotha saw that same strange, dangerous look she had seen a few moments ago.
“Let him go, Omir,” Daryan commanded, without taking his eyes from Faroth. Omir hesitated a moment, but then let go of Faroth’s hand. Faroth dropped his arms to his sides and she found herself staring at her brother’s hands, reliving the memory of them pressed around her throat. “For the gods’ sake, Faroth, is the White Wolf not enough of an enemy for you that you have to fight me, too?” he asked. He turned a reproachful eye on the rest of the company. “Dramash is safe; that’s all I’m going to tell you right now. Now, I have good information that the White Wolf won’t do anything else until sundown tomorrow—we’ve bought ourselves one day. I’m going to get some rest; my head feels like there’s a swarm of bees li
ving in it. Faroth, you keep charge of your own people in the city. Omir, I want you to look after the temple slaves. We’ll all meet at midday, at the palace, and I’ll explain everything. All right? Now, go!”
Faroth held Daryan’s gaze for another moment, his lips pressed together in a thin, hard line. Then he turned without a word and joined the others as they headed back up the beach toward the city. His followers went with him, as silent and stone-faced as their leader.
“He’s not going to leave it at that,” said Omir.
“I know,” Daryan sighed. “Well, we’ll deal with him when we need to. You should get some rest, too, Omir. You must be exhausted.” He turned to Harotha. “What about you, are you all right? You look terrible.”
She didn’t trust her voice enough to speak, but she nodded.
“Come on, dear,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders and turning her toward the water.
“Daimon, you should have something to eat. We’ll bring you—” began Omir, but Daryan waved him away.
“Thanks, Omir, but I’ll take care of that. Don’t let anyone disturb us, all right? I want some time alone with my wife. I’m sure you understand.” She felt a little pinch on her arm as he made that last remark, and with a shock she realized he was actually teasing her.
A few others among the crowd had hung back, eager for a chance to see or speak to their daimon, but Omir shooed them away.
Daryan led her down toward the water, and in a few moments they were alone. She could see the long white crests of the waves as they crashed down and then ran foaming up the smooth stretch of wet sand toward them. The tide was high, but it had already turned. He brought her around to a little dry hollow on the far side of the rocks, protected from the spray by a jutting outcrop.
“Holy hells, what a night.” He exhaled deeply, then dropped down onto the sand and let his back fall against the rock. He stared up at the dark sky. “There’s so much space out here. It feels strange, like my eyes don’t quite know how to focus.” He reached up and ran his fingers along the stone beside him. “Odd to think I used to play here with my friends when I was a little boy. I don’t remember it, really. Only the smell. Isn’t it strange how sometimes you can remember a scent more clearly than anything else?”