by Claudia King
Kale voiced a soft groan. “We told them our names. What if word gets back to my village? What if they already know what I have become?”
“None of them recognised you, did they?” Netya reassured him. “I do not think they would know which village you came from. There are so many people in these lands it would be like trying to pick out a single bee from an entire hive.”
Kale rubbed his forehead with the back of a knuckle and gave a faltering nod. “Yes, I suppose you're right. I remember when I came here before, when we gathered to begin our pilgrimage, there were more people in the Dawn King's village than I'd ever seen in one place. It reminded me of when the farmers around my village all gathered for the harvest celebration.”
“It is easy to become lost in gatherings that big. We might be able to come and go without being noticed.”
“I hope so. What then?”
“We ask after the pilgrims, and Adel and Kiren. If they are here then someone will have seen them.”
Kale agreed that it was a good start. They could plan no further until they knew more, and so they hurried on toward the temple village at a brisk pace.
The night before arriving they found a squat, square building near the river being guarded by a trio of men wearing bone scales and carrying spears. They looked intimidating at first, and Kale became especially nervous when he realised they were wearing tokens of yellow. Once it became apparent that Netya and Kale were just another pair of empty-handed travellers, however, the warriors greeted them warmly and invited them to share their fire. A hearty meal of roasted meat followed, some of the first they had tasted since reaching the plains, and the warriors kept them up long into the night with stories of their past adventures. They were obviously very weary of having to watch the house, though according to them it was a necessary task when supplies were being ferried to and from the temple village. Thieves—wild men, as they were called—sometimes dared to approach the temple itself at this time of year, and so it was important for every stopping point to be watched by warriors who could protect the travelling caravans and their supplies. One of the men inquired curiously as to whether Netya was Kale's woman, and to avoid any further attention she quickly answered that she was. To her relief the trio showed no more interest in her after that. There was a strictness to their behaviour that belied the eagerness of their conversation, attesting to the fact that these were men used to following commands swiftly and without question. They were firm and principled, and she suspected that they wielded their spears with ruthless efficiency. It was simultaneously tense and reassuring to sleep in the company of such men. Netya only hoped they would not have to resort to violence to secure Adel and Kiren's freedom, for warriors like these seemed every bit as dangerous as wolves of the Moon People.
Late in the morning of the following day they joined a restless string of travellers that were moving in and out of the temple village. Just as Kale had said, this place was like a gathering in perpetual motion. It seemed as if every single person in the land had come here at once to trade their produce and shout proclamations from the roofs of the nearby houses, though Netya knew that could not possibly be true. When she tried to imagine all the people from the farmsteads and villages in one place—and all the uncounted hundreds beyond that—her mind reeled. The world was so much larger than she had once thought, and as the years passed by it only seemed to grow bigger.
Rough shoulders jostled her from side to side as she walked down the muddy path into the village, threatening to trip her up if she failed to keep pace with the surging, shifting momentum of the crowd. She and Kale held on to one another tightly, realising that they might easily become separated in the human throng. Where were all these people going, she wondered?
Her answer came in bits and pieces as the village buildings closed in around them. Houses with wide open fronts, some little more than grass roofs upon stilts, provided places for the traders to negotiate their barter. Netya noticed warriors like the ones they had met the night before watching these houses, one of whom she briefly glimpsed hurrying toward a commotion of raised voices before the crowd blocked him from sight.
As they drew closer to the hill the chaos thinned. Once the traders were gone the houses around them took on more homely shapes. Men and women cooked food in fire pits beside the road, feeding large groups of hungry travellers all at the same time. The smell of sizzling meat and vegetables mingled with the scent of humanity, filling the air with a dense fragrance that was almost cloying in places. Netya's heart started beating faster, the deluge of sensations pressing in on her from all sides like a rushing river. How could people live like this day after day? It was so loud, and all around her there were walls of wood and mud and clay hemming her in. Even the great gathering had not held such a stifling confluence of people.
To her relief the crowd became more breathable the farther they went. By the time they were half way to the hill they had space to walk as they pleased without being tugged to and fro by the current of people. The houses grew larger and more complex, with smaller paths winding off between them into open areas from which Netya could hear the hammering of stone on stone and the splintering thunk of wood being broken. Men and women still traded here, though these were craftspeople presenting finely made goods rather than farmers offering food or livestock. Some of them wore strange necklaces of metal rings around their necks, and as Netya watched she saw one woman unfasten hers, remove a ring, and then offer it to a man in exchange for two lengths of exquisitely polished hardwood. Others swapped pretty shells for tools or garments, while others argued the value of their respective items as they tried to barter directly.
Everything had to be traded here, Netya supposed. A clan shared everything they had for the good of the group, but this clan was filled with outsiders. Perhaps it was more outsiders than natives. When she thought about it like that, the abundance of trade seemed less unusual. This might just be the natural way of things once a village became too big for everyone to share.
They were almost at the base of the hill, and Netya was beginning to wonder whether they might have gone too far. There were so few people here that she feared they would be recognised if they happened upon one of Liliac's men.
“Where would travellers go to rest?” she asked Kale. “Would it be back where they were cooking food?”
“I think so. Our village had a wayhouse for travellers. There must be many of them here.”
“You'll be lucky to find a wayhouse tonight,” a craftswoman called as they passed by. She was a little older than Netya, seated next to a mat beneath a thatched shade that hung over the front of her house. As Netya met her eye she smiled, beckoning them in. “Stones for the spirits? Some of these are so smooth they'll catch the look of your face like water.” She gestured to the trinkets arrayed upon her mat. All of them were shaped pieces of stone ground flat on one side. True to the craftswoman's words, they were smooth enough that Netya could see the light dancing on the surface of some of the darker ones.
“I am afraid we have nothing to trade you,” Netya said.
“Nothing at all? That's a shame. Maybe next time you pass by.” The woman turned back to her work, dipping her fingers in a bowl of cloudy water and flicking it upon the surface of a worn rock in front of her. Once it was damp she picked up the trinket she had been working on and resumed the process of grinding it flat against the coarse surface. Netya noticed she had several different rocks around her, each likely of a finer grain than the last. They would have to be, to grind stone smooth enough that it shone like water.
“Why would we have trouble finding a wayhouse?” Netya asked.
The woman looked back up. “It's a trader's moon tonight. Why do you think the village is so busy? Unless you have friends here you'll be sleeping outside with the animals.”
“We don't mean to stay for long.”
“I don't know why you'd stay at all if you've nothing to trade,” the woman said, then a look of understanding crossed her fa
ce. “Oh, you've come for the temple. You chose a poor time for it, but Son's blessing to you all the same. Maybe you'll be one of the lucky ones.”
Netya was quickly becoming confused, but she nodded as if she understood. “And the pilgrims have returned recently, I hear.”
“Who told you that? I've not seen any pilgrims since half a season ago.” She stopped grinding for a moment, squinted at the piece of rock she was polishing, spat on it, then resumed her work. “I might be wrong, though. Lots of work going on up at the forges, so there must be new metal from somewhere.”
“Do you know the shaman Liliac?” Kale asked. “We saw him coming down the river. They say he had two women with him.”
The woman paused again. “Liliac. I know the name, though not the face. Aye, I've heard his name said. He's home, but he never came to the temple. The pilgrims always come to the temple.” Netya's heart began to sink, then the craftswoman added, “If those two came with him that might explain it. Pilgrims aren't supposed to take women along.”
“You've seen them, then?” Netya asked, trying to restrain her excitement.
The woman gave her a wry look. “Well, I didn't see them, but everyone's heard the tale by now. High Priests went out with their guard and came back with two women one night. They went into the temple, and no one's seen them since. That was a few days ago now.”
“Was one of them tall and beautiful, with long dark hair like mine? The other would be shorter—”
“So you have heard,” the woman interrupted. “Probably concubines, so everyone thinks. But what if Liliac stole them away for his pilgrimage before he left?” She cackled. “The priests would be angry at him for that! They'd send their guards after him when he got back for sure. Oh, I'll have some tales to tell tonight after hearing this.” The craftswoman picked up a broken piece of one of her trinkets and tossed it to Netya. “There, you can have that for bringing me something good to talk about. Might not see many spirits in it, but you can try.”
Netya gave the woman a small bow and a smile. “Thank you.”
They left the stone shaper to her work, though judging by her gleeful chuckles she was now far more preoccupied with the fantasy of Liliac stealing concubines from the Dawn King. Netya wondered whether she would still be chuckling if she knew the truth of who those two women were.
She thumbed the small piece of stone as they moved on, admiring its smoothness and trying to make it catch the light so that it reflected her face. It looked to be made of something close to obsidian. Though she saw no spirits in the polished surface, she did manage to make out the shape of her own eye when she peered close enough.
“Netya!” Kale called, tugging her aside an instant too late. Her shoulder struck that of a man who'd been walking toward her, spinning her around as she lost her footing. A pair of arms caught her before she hit the ground, and she found herself staring up into the face of a handsome young man of a similar age to Kale. For an instant he appeared outraged by her blunder, then his expression softened and a smile appeared on his lips. The look he gave her was one she recognised quite well; here was a man of power whose temper was easily softened by a pretty face.
“They say you can lose yourself gazing into those spirit stones,” he said as he helped her back to her feet. “Look to the world around you if you want to hear the spirits. You'll not find them in rocks.”
Netya was about to apologise to him when she realised the sounds of the village had grown quiet around her. Even Kale had frozen awkwardly on the spot, staring at the blue shawl of the man who now held her.
When Netya hesitated to speak he reached up to touch the beaded braid in her hair, running his fingers over the feather at the end. It was the same blue as his clothing, she realised.
“Very bold for a woman to wear the colour of a high priest,” he said. “I think red would suit you better.”
“Blue is the colour of my guardian spirit,” she replied.
He raised his eyebrows. “And which of the spirits is that?” His tone was judgemental. Imperious. There was still a friendly smile masking it, but Netya could sense the authority this man wielded, and it was beginning to unnerve her.
“One of the forest spirits,” she answered quickly.
“Ah. Of course. You must be one of our cousins from afar. Well, you can be forgiven, then.” The man looked away from her and acknowledged Kale for the first time. “I know you, don't I?”
Netya's chest tightened. Was this one of Liliac's men? She did not recognise him, but she could easily have been mistaken.
“You do, High Priest,” Kale said, making a deep bow. “We were born in the same village.”
“Kale!” the priest said with a grin, unhanding Netya for a moment. “What a fool I am. How could I forget such a dear friend. Though, forgive me, are you not supposed to be dead?”
Kale shifted uncomfortably. Somehow Netya doubted that the pair of them had been as dear of friends as the priest implied. Thinking back, she recalled the tales Kale had told her in the terrible darkness of the tunnel. This must be Eral, the young shaman the Dawn King had taken from his village and made into a high priest.
“No, I am not dead,” Kale answered in faltering tones. “Though I... only recently returned.”
“Wonderful. Your family will be so delighted to hear of it. They presented themselves to the temple, you know. Ah yes, I remember it now, it is all returning to me. I took it upon myself to give them an audience. How could I not?” He spoke in a grandiose manner that hit the ear with all the enticing cadences of a song. Gone was the stern authority. Instead it now seemed like he was giving a performance. “Alas, the spirits had no comfort to offer them, though I sent them home with the temple's blessing and one of our finest goats as recompense for their son's sacrifice. I suppose now I shall have to ask for that goat back.”
“I am sorry, High Priest, I was not— I could not—”
“Hush now, I jest,” Eral replied. “The temple has plenty of goats. Though if you feel the need to offer me a favour, my dear friend,” he turned back to Netya with a smile and bent to kiss her hand, “I should like your companion to join me this evening. These past few days I have been denied the company of a dark-haired beauty.” He looked up at the temple with a sigh.
“What?” Kale still sounded bemused. The encounter had clearly caught him by surprise.
“She isn't yours, is she? If she is I promise I'll return her tomorrow. If not, well, this might be a very fortunate day for her indeed.”
“Would you take me up to the temple?” Netya asked.
“Of course. I could not stay down here with the laypeople all evening. Not on a trader's moon.”
Netya glanced at Kale, an idea beginning to form in her mind. It was dangerous, but she was prepared for danger. “May I discuss it with my friend first?”
“Of course.” Eral took a gracious step back, a hesitant note lingering in his voice that suggested he wanted to know her name.
“Netya.”
“Netya. Do not make me wait too long for your answer.”
As the high priest watched patiently Netya turned away to have a moment of privacy with Kale. Wherever she looked there were people watching them. Eral seemed to carry an aura of influence that silenced nearby conversations and drew all eyes toward him. Netya suddenly felt like an outsider, the same way she had felt when she arrived in Alpha Khelt's pack. She was a curiosity now. Something different that did not belong. The high priest's attention had marked her as such.
“If I go to the temple, will you wait here?” she whispered to Kale.
“Of course. But Netya, I think he means to take you as a concubine.”
“I have been a concubine before. It is no difficult role for me to play.” Yet the way Kale had said it made her wonder whether there was something different about being the concubine of a high priest.
“Are you sure? They say the women who serve the temple rarely leave. It is... It is an honour, I think, and not one that is easily cast as
ide.”
Netya felt her stomach twisting with uncertainty. This was more complicated than simply enticing a man to get what she wanted. What expectations would fall upon her once she was inside that temple? What bargain was she about to enter into?
“Is there another way for us to get inside the temple?” she asked.
“We could try for an audience.”
“Would that work?”
Kale hesitated, shot a glance at Eral, then shook his head uncertainly. “Not if you say no to him.”
“What is your answer, fair Netya?” the high priest called over. The hint of impatience in his voice was just conspicuous enough to be noticed.
Kale bit his lip, then whispered, “Go with him. If Eral is still the boy I remember he will do anything for a pretty woman. You are a seer. You can use that.”
“I will be very careful.” She squeezed Kale's hand and turned back to the high priest, giving him the kind of nervous smile that had always enticed Alpha Khelt. “I would be honoured to accompany you, High Priest.”
Eral swept forward and took her arm, making a flourishing gesture toward the temple with his free hand. “What a delight today shall be! Come, Netya, I will have you bathed in warm water and dressed in the softest wool before sundown. Kale, my dear friend.” He unlooped one of several pendants that hung around his neck, all of them circular wooden tokens stained yellow. “Take this and find a wayhouse keeper named Nirut. Show it to him and he will ensure you are taken care of. I cannot have you sleeping outside on a trader's moon.”
Kale took the token and began to voice his thanks, but Eral was already walking Netya away in the opposite direction.
“Tell me, Netya,” he said. “Do they worship the spirit of the Daughter in the forest?”
“No, High Priest. We know nothing of your great spirits.”
“Ah, then it must be my duty to change that.” With one hand around her waist and the other gesturing into the air, Eral began expounding the virtues of the Daughter as he walked Netya up the path toward the temple.