“How is it you came here? You can’t have come looking for me. No one knows I’m missing.”
“Ah, well, there’s a story.” Yet he hesitates.
“What is it?” I demand.
He hands me a tiny strip of rolled papyrus. “I’ve said many things about the Saroese, but even I am obliged to admit their calligraphy is superb.”
Written in the intricate strokes of the palace trained, Princess Berenise’s message to King Kalliarkos crams a great deal of information onto both sides. Menoë and Berenise will sail south with the West Saroese fleet. A regiment of Shipwright mercenaries hired for the duration of the war will march east to the Great River with Lord Thynos and descend on Saryenia from the north. The Royal Army will remain inside besieged Saryenia until these two separate groups of allies arrive. In this way the East Saro and Saro-Urok alliance, under Prince Nikonos, will be threatened on three fronts: from the sea, from the north, and from the city.
At the end of the message, in a corner of the papyrus, two words are scratched in smeared ink by an awkwardly painstaking hand.
SPYDER COT
“The message arrived in Saryenia from Maldine weeks ago with one of the royal messenger pigeons. For the king’s eyes only. As you can see, this addition is a bit cryptic.”
“Also misspelled.”
“True, and while I first wondered if you had somehow managed to send it yourself, such a childish attempt wouldn’t be like you, would it, schemer? King Kalliarkos understood the words to refer to you. Spider caught.”
“Oh. Of course.”
“He sent a messenger upriver to his uncle Lord Thynos, asking him to inquire if you had been seen in Maldine. Thynos told Inarsis, who sent me to investigate.”
“I saw Inarsis leaving Maldine in company with Thynos. Inarsis is still with the rebellion, isn’t he?”
“He has always been with the rebellion.”
I’m not usually this slow-witted. Thinking is as hard as dragging my feet through thigh-deep sludge. “But then… is Lord Thynos secretly part of the Efean rebellion? Of course he must be. And no one in Garon Palace knows it. Not even Kal.”
A horn call lifts over us. The Efean captain rides past, spear in hand.
“Poet! We’re moving out.”
“Yes, Captain!”
“Is captain an Efean rank?” I ask.
He shrugs. “We’re accustomed to Saroese military titles. It’s an efficient system.”
“Poet is a military rank?”
“I can tell you’re feeling better because you’re mocking me.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To take back what is ours.”
20
I doze despite the jolting of the wagon. When I wake, the sun has shifted direction, and I’m sliding into the tailgate because we’re climbing an incline. There are eight other people in the wagon. Djesa sits crammed in beside me, and she smiles with a brightness I’ve never seen from her before.
“The poet asked me to keep an eye on you. Is he your secret lover, the one the king sent you to the mines to keep you away from?”
“My secret lover? Did Ro tell you that?”
“He didn’t have to. He’s very handsome.”
“I’m sure he thinks so,” I reply in a raspy whisper of a voice. Then I laugh, because it’s such a good story, the kind Amaya would adore. “Where are we?”
“We are in the land of Efea, among our own people, guarded by our own soldiers. Come to take back what belongs to us.”
We halt at the gates of the Inkos temple atop the table mountain, the last of the wagons to arrive. Such a frightful clamor rises from beyond the open gates that I climb out of the wagon and make my way to the top of the huge staircase. From the height I look down.
Even with their temple wardens to protect them, the priests never stood a chance. Dead people lie strewn like leaves on walkways and in courtyards, Saroese and Efean alike, marking the course of the battle. By now the surviving priests and servants are surrendering and being herded into a livestock corral. In the training courtyard boys kneel in rows with heads bowed.
A rush of frightened energy seizes me: Where are Maraya and Polodos?
A group of wardens has been backed up against the entrance of the temple Archives, fighting a losing skirmish against the press of furious soldiers. I descend as fast as I can manage, and even that is a struggle. Fortunately the Archives are close to the main entrance because I’m wheezing as I reach the forecourt. The final rank of wardens give way, slapping hands atop heads to beg for mercy as they accept the day is lost.
I spot Ro charging ahead. Of course a poet goes straight for an Archives. Inside I discover him yanking an armful of scrolls out of reach of a soldier who is trying to set them alight.
“No! Don’t burn books or scrolls,” Ro shouts. “Don’t burn anything!”
The smell of smoke already wafts from distant rooms as Efeans rampage through the building.
“Ro!” I call, and he turns.
“Jessamy! Go back to the wagons. It’s not safe—”
“My sister is being held prisoner somewhere in the temple!”
An Efean soldier appears, a young man about the same age as the honored poet. “Hey! Ro! There’s a barred door deep in the complex. Should we batter it down? The people inside claim to be innocent scholars.”
“How would you know?” Ro asks him. “You don’t speak Saroese.”
“An honored lady is negotiating in perfect Efean.”
“It has to be Maraya,” I say.
The soldier leads Ro and me through a series of rooms that ends in a set of iron-reinforced doors. About ten soldiers are pressed up against them, and at first I think they are shoving, trying to open it. But when several gesture at us to keep quiet I realize they are listening with intent interest to a voice muffled by the heavy doors. The voice is declaiming in the manner of a teacher.
“We have always been told the Saroese priests brought magic from old Saro, but listen to this account, which I discovered three days ago. ‘This holy metal called “winged silver” occurs in traces near the gold mines of the Stone Desert. It is rumored that this holy metal is strong enough to draw out the very spark of life from a beating heart—’”
“Maraya!” I shriek in a most undisciplined way. “Is Polodos with you?”
Silence answers me. Then, in a voice half broken by repressed tears, she says: “Yes, he’s here. He’s fine. Jes? Are you safe? What is Amaya’s favorite mask?”
“A cat! Open the door.”
“I mean no insult by this, Jes, but I need assurance from someone in charge that the scholar in here with us won’t be killed. He’s an elder and in poor health.”
“Surely an old man won’t be killed,” I say with an accusatory look at Ro. “Where is the captain?”
“What need for a captain when you have a poet beside you?” Ro offers me a mocking bow and a steady look that makes me unaccountably embarrassed. Then he grins, happy to have discomfited me.
“A captain would have settled this already,” I snap.
The barb digs deeper than I expected. His smile vanishes and he turns to the door. “Honored Lady, I am the poet Ro-emnu, with your permission speaking out of turn and before you have addressed me. If you shelter the head priest of this temple, I cannot offer any assurances. We have come to take back the holy temple of our Mother. That means tearing down the edifice that was erected atop her body.”
“Ro-emnu! Thank goodness it’s you!” She switches to Saroese. “There is a wealth of old Archives kept in this locked chamber, including a complete history of the reign of Serenissima the Third written by the philosopher and poet Sokantes.”
“The one that Serenissima the Third executed for writing rude poems about her?” Ro is so excited that he gasps like a child being given a toy.
“Yes, the very one!”
I have never heard of the philosopher and poet Sokantes.
“Also his treatise on metals, wh
ich I was just reading an excerpt from. And other material I haven’t had a chance to look at. This is a treasure-house of knowledge that we can ill afford to lose to people rampaging about looting and burning.”
“What? Like the Saroese did to Efean archives and records when they conquered us?”
Unlike me, Maraya takes no offense at such jabs. “In my opinion no one should ever burn archives or murder old people. Both are repositories of priceless knowledge that can’t be replaced if they are carelessly or callously eradicated.”
“Can we just get them out?” I demand impatiently. “Where are we going after this?”
“I will take you wherever you wish to go, Honored Lady,” Ro says with a lift of the eyebrows that makes me flush and starts all the people around us guffawing because that, evidently, is Efean humor.
Maraya calls, “Do I have your assurance, Honored Poet? For myself, for my husband, Polodos, and for the old scholar?”
“I give my oath as a poet bound to the Mother of All that I will personally intercede for the safety of all three of you.”
“My thanks, Honored Poet.”
A bar scrapes as it is lifted away. A bolt is drawn. A latch clunks, and the door opens.
The armed people pile in, weapons ready for an ambush, and I shove my way in after them, ready to throw myself in front of Maraya if any dare strike at her. But the musty chamber looks just as Maraya suggested: an isolated storeroom with shelves, cubbyholes, windows set so high into the walls that only an adversary could climb out, and a white-haired man seated in a chair holding a cane across his lap. Maraya stands beside him with a hand on his shoulder. His hands tremble with palsy, his skin has the papery delicacy of extreme old age, and he has the distinctive nose and chin of the Kliatemnos lineage. That he’s blind is obvious by his scarred-shut eyes.
“This is Warden Kallos.” She ignores me as she meets Ro’s gaze in the way of a person sharing a conspiratorially significant moment.
Ro whistles softly, like the name means something to him, then drops to one knee in a show of respect the old man cannot see.
“I am Ro-emnu, Domon,” he says in Saroese.
“That is an Efean name,” says Warden Kallos in a whispery voice. “Efeans are not allowed into any temple of Lord Judge Inkos by order of the holy priests.”
“I mean no disrespect, Domon, but the temple belongs to us now. What your ancestors took, we are taking back. I have a feeling you have a great many stories you can tell us.”
“I lost my eyesight and my youth and all that came with it long ago. I have nothing to share.”
“If you will accept our escort, Domon, I have something in my keeping I would like to show you. It may inspire your memory.”
With attentive respect, Ro assists the old man in rising and guides him out. Polodos eyes the armed Efeans nervously, but Maraya has no fear. Her tone blends Mother’s firmness, Father’s bark of command, and her eldest-sister bossiness.
“These boxes must be handled with the greatest care. I will pack the loose scrolls and books into chests. In fact, if you organize yourselves into groups of four, you can help me pack.”
I’m suddenly too tired to keep standing so I sit in the chair the old man vacated.
“Jes!” She grabs my shoulders. Her belly nudges me right in the face.
“You look adorable all fatly pregnant,” I say, and then start coughing.
“You look awful, scarcely like yourself at all. This wound needs treatment.” She brushes fingers over the scar on my brow. When I flinch because it’s still tender and oozing, she frowns, then glances up at the Efeans watching us. She snaps, “Be respectful! And get moving!”
I sit in the chair as a whirlwind of activity spins around me, content just to watch her and know that she is safe. She has so much energy. Eventually Ro-emnu returns with drink and food. I’m thirsty but not hungry, but he and Maraya won’t stop haranguing me until I eat.
“Was she always this stubborn?” Ro asks her in a joking way that I really dislike but am too feeble to protest.
“She’s not the stubborn screamer,” says Maraya as she finishes packing the last box and ties it shut with a satisfied nod. “She’s more of a sullen schemer.”
Ro winks at me in the most annoying fashion.
My chin comes up. “Is that where Ro’s sister Coriander got the phrase? From you, Maraya?”
She doesn’t answer. Now that she’s assured I’m alive, her chief concern is the books.
The soldiers carry the boxes out to waiting wagons, where they are stacked beside expensive furniture and gold vessels. The pavilions are burning. The surviving priests and servants are being forced to carry the corpses of the dead Saroese to wagons, where they pile up like cordwood. Boys stand in ranks, stripped down to loincloths. I scan their frightened faces but I’m not sure if Lord Menos is even among them. When I spot the crow boy, looking forlorn and helpless, I can’t help but pray his birds haven’t been shot dead.
“What will happen to the priests?” I ask Ro as we head back into the heart of the temple. Around us the buildings are being methodically stripped of treasure, and the statues of Lord Judge Inkos dragged off their plinths and sent crashing to the ground.
“We negotiated an agreement with the Shipwrights.”
“The same group who went with Thynos?”
“That’s right. They will be paid a certain portion of all precious items from temples and estates, like gold and ivory. And they will be allowed to sell into slavery all the priests we capture.”
“What about the boys?”
“We are commanded to bring all children to the council, where their fates will be determined.”
“Where are we going right now?”
“Where do you think we are going? This was once our temple. For a hundred years it has been closed to us, to whom it is holy.”
Amid a stream of other people we cross under an arch, into the circular, walled enclosure that lies at the heart of the compound. Djesa in her rags limps forward with an arm supporting Beswe. Menesis carries Anu as other children straggle after them. All the conversations around us cease.
The central area is nothing much to look at: a simple garden with gold chrysanthemums, white jasmine, purple betony, and red anemones set around a circular pond rimmed with stone.
In silence people walk to the edge and kneel. One by one, they dip their cupped right hands in the pool and pour a bit of water over their heads, then step back to make way for others.
Ro drops my hand. I hadn’t realized he was holding it.
He paces forward, feet dragging like they are grown heavy, and falls to both knees. Only then do I realize he is weeping. His lips move but the poet has lost his voice. He scoops up a handful of water and splashes it over his head, then braces himself on both hands as he stares into the mirror of still waters. I step up beside him. For an instant, because of the angle of the sun, I don’t see my face at all, and I’m terrified, because if the person I thought I was has vanished, then surely my five souls will dissolve and I will fade with them until I do not exist at all.
But he smiles at the water, and thus his face in the water smiles at me, and there I am, my reflection swimming in the depths, half in shadow and half in light.
21
Three weeks later, after a blisteringly hot crossing of the Stone Desert, we reach the walled town of Furnace Gate and the blessed waters of the Great River. The Lion Guard remained in Maldine to garrison the harbor now that Princess Berenise, Queen Menoë, and the West Saroese have departed. They have also secured the mines, and many of the freed miners stayed to rebuild the Mother’s temple. It is a much smaller group that disperses in the streets of this northernmost outpost of Efea. I say good-bye to Djesa, who is reunited with her loving aunt.
Ro, Maraya, Polodos, and I embark on a boat to take us downriver while the captured boys and the Tonor clan men follow on a separate vessel. Standing at the rope railing, under the enviable relief of an awning, I gawk at the powe
rful current that sweeps us along. The waters are dark and deep and the flow inexorable. I will never think of the obstacle called Rivers in the same way again.
“Why did we never travel upriver out of the delta?” I ask my sister. “Could we never afford it? Did Father not want to go?”
Maraya puts an arm around me. On the journey she has been much more affectionate than usual, fussing over me as if I can’t care for myself. “We did travel upriver one time. Father had just gotten his captain’s commission and a large amount of prize money. Mother wanted to celebrate the Festival of Masks in the city of Ibua so we took a family trip.”
Ro stands on my other side. On the whole journey I have come to feel boxed in between them and their solicitude and their endless boring conversations about history and Archives. At least their discussions soothe my ears when I still feel so raw and confused. My head pretends to follow their lively talk but my heart lies buried and mute.
He adds, “To celebrate the Festival of Masks in Ibua is to stand where the last Protector and Custodian once ruled all Efea. People go there to remember that we once ruled ourselves. But the festival was different before the Saroese came.”
“How?” Maraya asks.
“Every elder has a different opinion about that, depending on what part of Efea they come from and which traditions were passed down through their dame council. All records were destroyed by the Saroese priests at the same time as the worship of the Mother of All was banned and Efean priests executed. I personally don’t believe there actually was a Festival of Masks in old Efea. All we know for sure is that Efean officials used to wear masks, so I think the Saroese made up the festival as a way to turn mask-wearing from a symbol of authority into a frivolous holiday.”
“Why would officials wear masks? Isn’t that like hiding their faces?” Maraya never stops probing.
“Officials wear masks to represent the authority they wield, because the office is not the person. Once the two become the same thing, people will come to believe the authority they wield is part of their own body and lineage rather than a borrowed responsibility—”