Chapter 49
Ilahe’s dress clung to her back. Sweat ran down her face, even in the darkness. The too-hot sun had disappeared, leaving only the faintest umber smear along the horizon, but the heat had not gone with it. Thick, humid air pressed down on Khi’ilan, but it had not slowed the evening foot traffic. Men and women, their pale skin shining in the torchlight, fine hair like gold and copper. They were so different.
A troop of men in green robes and chain mail appeared at the mouth of the temple compound, just up the street from where Ilahe hid in an alley. Trust the god-made-flesh to find one more way to ruin women’s lives.
Something moved along the edge of the roof opposite Ilahe, and she glanced up. For a long heartbeat, a washed-out, gray face stared back at her, its gaze as hard and unreadable as stone. Then, a moment later, the face was gone, lost in shadow. The eses marched past, chain clinking, and the smell of oil tainted with rust, reached Ilahe. Not until the jingle of their chain shirts had faded did Ilahe continue down the alley to turn and take the next street—this one with much less light and far fewer people.
In a short time, the dirt road—always dirt, these Khacens, not a decent paved street in the city itself—ended at an overgrown field. A hundred paces further, at the end of the strange mixture of tall grass and wildflowers that seemed ever-present within the Thirteen Paths, rose the walls of the temple compound. A wall of weathered boards, but well-maintained, marked the perimeter, and within Ilahe could see the outline of a dome against the dark sky. She plunged into the tall grass and hoped that there were no guards watching from the walls. The ripple of the vegetation would betray her in an instant.
A hundred heartbeats—hot, sweaty, the grass sticking to her face and making her arms and legs itch. Her breath fast and wet in the heavy air. Then she was at the wall, running her hands along the planks, searching for a way in. Not a single warped board. No loose nails. The crossbeams kept her from working a slat free. With a muffled oath, Ilahe rested her sweaty forehead against the bleached wood.
The temptation to use one of her cam-adeh was strong. She longed for that world of perfect precision, impossible clarity. But to use one now would leave her with only a single cam-ad, and when she came face to face with the people who knew she was in Khi’ilan, Ilahe would need all the advantages she could get.
A dull thud reverberated through the wall, scratching Ilahe’s forehead. She looked around her, then up. A shadowy figure perched on the upper walkway and stared down at her, head cocked to the side. Ilahe’s heart fell into her stomach. Someone had seen her. She stumbled back into the grass, waiting for the alarm to sound, her eyes locked on her observer.
As the thick grasses rose up around her, Ilahe heard a shout. She froze; the Khacens were known for their archery, and if she moved, the grasses would give her away. Ilahe did not fancy an arrow in the lungs.
The shadow at the top of the wall tensed, and then a moment later launched itself into the air—nothing more than a shadow across the night sky. Toward the center of the compound. Torches appeared on the wall, and the shouts continued, but no one seemed to have noticed her.
A heartbeat later, the shadowy figure was back on the railing of the wall, and in the torchlight Ilahe caught a glimpse of pale flesh. More shouts, and nets flew through the air—spiderwebs of darkness against the stars and torchlight. The man—Ilahe was sure it was a man, and a Khacen at that—disappeared, and the nets found only air. One, perhaps miscast, almost missed the wall entirely, only the last strands catching the tip of the wall. It dangled almost to the grass where Ilahe stood.
The torches danced back and forth along the wall, and the shouts continued, but eventually the voices and the lights faded. Ilahe stood at the bottom of the wall, just at the edge of the overgrown field, in darkness. The sounds of pursuit continued, and new shouts—pained and angry—rose.
Ilahe did not wait to see if the guards would come back. The dress had been cut for riding, fortunately, and it let her run—albeit not as easily as her trousers would have. She reached the net in a heartbeat, and in the next breath was climbing up, cursing her slowness. Each breath came faster than the last, and a sharp pain stitched her shoulder, but Ilahe did not stop. Only when she had pulled herself over the wall onto the narrow walkway, driving splinters into her hands as she clutched at the worn wood, did Ilahe let herself stop to draw in a set of deep breaths.
A dozen heartbeats of pain in her shoulder and gasping for air. Then she stood, grateful the walkway was still dark and abandoned, and hurried toward the closest ladder. Torches, like angry ants drawn by sugar-water, swarmed the open courtyard of the compound, directly in front of the large domed building at the center. Screams, the clash of metal, and an occasional, distant, thud were all that Ilahe could make out. All the rest was chaos.
She did not stop to see what the eses hunted, what had attacked them in their stronghold. Down the stairs and into the darkness between a pair of long wooden buildings. Small, evenly spaced windows gave them the appearance of either a prison or a barracks. Ilahe ran to the edge, crouched, and stopped to examine the compound.
Maq and Ayde. Balat and Qatal. Four names echoed around in her head, pebbles in a deep well. Names she had picked up from the Khacens waiting for her in the Danma. She did not know those names, but the priest-guards had attacked her at the meeting place. The temple compound seemed the likeliest place to start searching.
What she saw, though, left her bewildered. This collection of wooden buildings—even the great, domed building at the center was wood—lit by torchlight and echoing with screams as someone slaughtered the eses that guarded it—how could it compare to Osmir, with its stone-needle towers, the surge and retreat of crystal-blue waters, the City of Bones? This place was the home of a god-made-flesh? It seemed too strange to believe.
Aside from the central building, none of the rest gave any indication of importance. Most were long and tall, with the even windows that spoke of housing many people. A few wandered, with wings stretching out from many-storied cores. These buildings, with their haphazard design, had no windows on the first floor, although the upper stories had large shuttered stretches and balconies almost lost in the darkness. Lights burned behind in almost all of the windows—whether because of the intruder, or because the god-made-flesh demanded unceasing vigil from his servants, Ilahe did not know.
With a last look around the compound, Ilahe started toward the central building. It seemed the most promising, although she hoped the god-made-flesh would not sense her. She had little idea of what the tair was capable of, but she had felt his power in the street harvests, and the thought of facing the creature made her mouth dry. Even as fear rushed over her, Ilahe felt a surge of excitement mixed with bitter hate. She had come to kill a god. If she stumbled across the tair tonight . . . well, even a god-made-flesh would die on a blade of salt and steel and blood.
Ilahe crept along the edges of the buildings, drawing herself into doorways and the irregular crevices that marked the worn boards. Shadows shifted around her as men with torches ran to the courtyard, and the shouts shifted, growing more triumphant. Anger still bled through the voices, but Ilahe no longer heard fear. The eses would have sarkomancers, of course—men whose speed and strength would help them against any opponent. With a smile, Ilahe checked her twin blades. Any opponent, that is, without a salt-blade.
Three nervous strides carried her from the edge of the last building to the corner of the central, domed structure. She could see the fighting much more clearly from here; a long row of orange trees, their branches woven with jasmine vines, ran along the face of the building, but between their trunks Ilahe watched the eses do battle.
The man in their midst was covered in blood, and where skin showed through, it was pale and dull. The torchlight slid off it, as though it could gain no purchase, and the blood glistened all the more brightly in contrast. A white face and gray hair appeared between the bright mail and green robes of the eses for a moment, and Ila
he stared, certain that she recognized him from somewhere. Then the man was gone, disappearing as a net flew through the air and the eses closed in around him.
Footsteps sounded near Ilahe, just around the corner of the central building. She pressed herself up against the painted stucco, breath caught between her teeth. The steps drew close; someone running.
A thought seized Ilahe. An arm appeared at the corner of the building, and Ilahe reached out and snatched it by the wrist. She swung her captive toward her—a man in chain and green robe—and drove her knee into his gut, almost where the ribs came together. It was like slamming her knee into a stone wall; a single, solid wave of pain rushed up her thigh and brought tears to Ilahe’s eyes, but the man doubled over with a gasp, his face as red as his hair.
Knee on fire, Ilahe grabbed the man by the armpits and dragged him behind the row of orange trees. She drew her dagger and half fell on top of him—her knee still throbbing—to press the blade against his throat.
“Nice and quiet,” she said, the words barely more than a breath.
Watery blue eyes stared up at her, and the man sucked in air. He nodded as Ilahe pressed the blade into a fold of skin on his neck, but he didn’t stop gasping. Only after long moments did he finally quiet, though his eyes continued to water.
“Maq, Qatal, Balat, and Ayde,” Ilahe said. “Who are they and where are they?”
For a moment, he stared up at her. “’Bow-blood,” he said. “You don’t even know who they are?”
Ilahe drove her good knee into his side, and he let out another gasp.
“Tair fend, alright, alright,” he said, voice low. “They’re the tair’s own Renewed—Maq’s his tun-esis, the other three are the lap-eses.”
“What does that mean?” Ilahe asked.
Eyes still wide, almost incredulous, the man said, “Tair and Father, it means they’ve got the blood of gods pouring through their veins.”
“What is a tun-esis?” Ilahe asked.
“You ’bow-bloods—a tun-esis is the tair’s voice. Like a priest and a king mixed together. Lap-eses are the next best thing, if you’ve got a mind to work your way up.”
Ilahe wanted to curse. Blackness take her, somehow she had gotten involved with the four most powerful people in Khi’ilan. No wonder they wanted her dead; her employer had hired her to kill their god, and without the god-made-flesh, Ilahe was not sure how long the Khacens would allow the eses to rule. Another Khaskander the Liberator would appear in Khi’ilan before long.
“Where are they?” she said.
“You’re too late, bitch,” the esis said, his face turning red again. “Maq’s dead, Qatal has disappeared. Ayde and Balat are still running things, but no one has seen Balat in days. The tair still rules, though. Your gods have no power here—”
She cut him off with another knee to the side. “Ayde,” Ilahe said. “Where is she?”
The esis glared up at her. Ilahe pressed down on the blade, and a trickle of blood ran down the esis’s neck, warm against her thumb. “The house to the right of the temple,” the esis said through gritted teeth.
Ilahe drew the dagger up and slammed the hilt into the side of the esis’s head. He gave a single jerk and went still. A part of her hoped she had not killed him—she could not seem to muster that hatred of men and gods today, for whatever reason. Ilahe couldn’t afford to have him awake, though, and so better dead or injured.
Grateful for the row of trees that hid the motionless esis, Ilahe sprinted along the face of the building. Torches marked the massive doors that led into the temple, and their heat seared her skin as she ran past, but the guards were gone—drawn away, Ilahe assumed, by the intruder in the center of the courtyard. Then she was past the entrance, back among the orange-blossom darkness, legs carrying her through jasmine clouds.
The pain in her knee pounded with every step, and Ilahe breathed a sigh of relief when she came to a stop in front of the next building. It was one of the winged monstrosities, with extensions branching off from a tower at the center. Lights burned in almost every window.
The others who might know about her were gone. Once Ayde was out of the way, Ilahe could have her new life. Peace, for a time. Ilahe drew both blades and marched toward the front door.