“What are you really afraid of?” I retort, made bold by the intimacy of him lying against me exactly as if we were lovers. The night, the danger, and our desperation make our closeness sharp and vivid.
“Of becoming like them,” he whispers, his tone so dark it makes me shiver.
“You aren’t like them because we are already fighting back.”
My fingers brush the bare skin of his neck and the lobe of his ear. A spark of pure sensation flashes through my body like a wave off the sea breaking over me.
He sucks in a breath. “Jes!”
“Go!” I say. “The Rings are opening. The time is now. If you need more help seek a man named Polodos at the Least-Hill Inn.”
Below, the lamp-warden booms a command. “You are under arrest for trespassing in the City of the Dead with the intention of desecrating a holy tomb. If you come quietly you’ll be given the mercy of a quick execution rather than torture.”
“I will return, I promise you on my honor as a man,” murmurs Kalliarkos against my cheek. “The rope and harness are up here on the roof. The clothing and jug are below. Wait for me.”
When he releases my hand my fingers feel so empty. He drops off the edge and hits with a loud-enough thump that the wardens exclaim. A moment later he appears on the other side of the tomb, walking with the knowledge that the world must give way before him. Both wardens make a deep obeisance.
“What trouble are you giving my servant?” Kalliarkos demands.
“My lord, criminals and troublemakers set a fire on the far side of the tombs. We are commanded to sweep everyone out while we search for the culprits. Our apologies, my lord.”
“Good Goat! Are you saying I am not safe here among the holy dead? Have you wardens shirked your duties?” His tone so closely matches that of the Angry Prince in The Hide of the Ox that I wonder if he is acting a part or if he has finally found his resolve.
For all Kalliarkos is a palace-born lord, the priests have their own authority separate from the court. “We must escort you to the gate, my lord, by order of our superiors.”
“I am outraged by this interruption of my peaceful communion with the memory of a Fives adversary I have long admired and studied, for I must suppose you did not know Lord Ottonor was an Illustrious in his youth.” His curt disdain makes me smile.
He allows them to escort him and Inarsis away. Lamplight bobs out across the necropolis as the wardens trawl the grounds for interlopers. I stretch to ease the throbbing pain in my muscles. So much for my brilliant plan. I have to believe he will do as he promised. Yet the truth is that I trust him because of the way he snared my fingers in his. That is the worst reason of all to trust, but my bitter heart will not stop singing its recklessly giddy song.
I lean over the shaft. Gilded by lamplight, Coriander stares up into a darkness in which she cannot see me. “I’m coming down in a moment. Stand away.”
I secure the climbing rope around the air shaft and slip on the harness, then rappel down the tomb wall to the outside alcove to gather up the bundled clothing and the jug. I lower it all down to Coriander. Although it is a risk to have the rope tied around the air shaft, where someone might see it from outside, I need to be able to show Coriander she has a way out in order to ensure her cooperation. As I descend hand over hand down the narrow shaft, my shoulders bumping the bricks, a muffled cry drifts eerily out of the tomb like the lament of the dead. Its timbre agitates me until I realize it is a newborn’s startled wail. The baby’s cry ceases just as I reach the floor.
Cook speaks in a voice of such calm cheerfulness that I marvel at her generous courage. “That’s right, Doma. See how strongly she suckles!”
“What happened up there?” Coriander’s gaze sears me. I never understood that her blank servant’s expression hid so much dislike.
“We have to keep quiet until Lord Kalliarkos returns. He’s going to free your brother.”
“I should just climb the rope and leave,” she says, chin jutting forward as if to dare me to forbid it.
“You still can. But I hope you will wait and help me get the others out.”
She frowns at her hands, then glances into the central chamber. “For Doma Kiya’s sake I will.”
Maraya continues to support Mother against the stone bier. She has rallied enough to become absorbed in the baby suckling at her breast.
Cook now has the knife and is cutting the afterbirth into small pieces. “Mistress, you must eat a bit of placenta to strengthen yourself.”
“I’m too tired to eat,” says Mother in a murmur that dies away as her eyes flutter closed.
Maybe I gasp at this sign of her intense weakness. Coriander touches me on the arm with a flash of unexpected compassion, then pulls back her hand and rubs it over her scalp. I wonder who gave her the scars on her head.
“How did my mother rescue you?” I ask.
“That is not your story to know since you never bothered to ask before now.” She sets the lamp beside the oracle’s chest and like a tomb robber opens it and begins rifling through its contents.
Chastened, I go into the central chamber.
The oracle huddles in a corner, still rocking the dead infant in her arms. I cannot forget the words she whispered to me any more than I could forget scars on my body. Even now she mumbles phrases that make no sense and yet flow with a poem’s music.
“The stars fall from the sky as blooms of fire… the infant bloomed with blood under the knife… the bird-haunted ship carries his sleeve of roses away from me… hope withers in a dying flower… poison has killed the flower that bloomed brightest.…”
Maraya grabs hold of me as soon as I am close enough. Her shaky voice worries me. “I thought I was dreaming when I saw you before, Jes, because then you vanished again.”
“I am really here, Merry.”
My voice jolts Mother’s attention.
“Jessamy?” She looks so worn and broken that I want to pour all my determination into her.
Kneeling, I press my face against her sweaty cheek. “You must drink some of this broth and eat, just as Cook tells you. We’re escaping tomorrow. We have to hide here tonight.”
“Hiding” sounds better than “trapped.”
“Is Esladas coming?” The way her voice quavers cuts my heart to pieces.
To lie to the ill or dying when they know you are lying is the worst kind of dishonesty. “No.”
“First Lord Gargaron poisoned Lord Ottonor to take Esladas away from me. Then your father threw us away.” She begins weeping bitterly.
“Mother, he has to fight in the war. Efea depends on the courage of its soldiers.”
Her eyes are all shadow. Blood is smeared along her upper lip, and a scratch reddens her left cheek near her ear. Yet for the first time, as her sobs fade, she speaks almost normally. “How like your father you sound, Jessamy. You always did.”
“He couldn’t defy Lord Gargaron,” I add.
“Oh, Jessamy.” Her gentle gaze makes me love her so much. I would do anything to protect her, she who has always protected me. “That is sweet of you to say even if we know it is not true.”
“Of course it’s true!” Maraya wrinkles her nose as at a bad smell but I forge on because I must give Mother the heart to live. “When he found out you’d been trapped here he sent me to rescue you. Everything is going as planned. Now you must eat.”
She allows Cook to feed her moist pieces of raw afterbirth. The baby loses hold of her breast and smacks her tiny lips. Tenderly Mother helps her find the nipple again. I pray that this frail newborn spark will fasten Mother’s self and shadow and heart to the earth.
I crouch beside Amaya. “Amiable, I have salty broth to settle your stomach.”
She claws for the jug. I trickle a little down her throat. At first she coughs; then she swallows the liquid greedily just as she probably gulped down the candied almonds.
“That’s enough for now,” I say sternly. I offer the jug to Maraya. Amaya doesn’t protest, just si
nks back onto the floor.
“Are we really getting out of the tomb?” Maraya asks after she has drunk.
“Yes!” I don’t tell her that I can save her and Amaya and Coriander but I have to leave Mother and Cook behind. I don’t say that Mother might die anyway from blood loss and despair, that she desperately needs a healer, food, rest, and comfort. Maraya knows it too.
Pitchers in the entry chamber contain wash water, for the priests do not wish the oracle and her servants to live in filth. Coriander refuses to wash Amaya so I am left to pull her nasty stinking shroud off, wipe her clean, and then dress her in the humble clothing I’ve brought.
She complains the whole time in her whiniest voice. “Why do I have to wear this coarse linen sheath, Jes? It’s too long. Why is it so dark? I want another lamp.”
I am pretty sure she is still too delirious to realize where she is. Her breath smells of bile made more sickening by being mingled with the ghastly scent of the sweet lotus potion. I pant in shallow bursts to avoid the stench. When I’m done, Coriander and I carry her to the oracle’s bed. The stench permeates here too, but sachets of spices and herbs hung around the bed to keep it free of bugs leaven the air somewhat. Amaya curls up, hands pressed to her belly.
Washing and getting dressed in ordinary clothing cheers up everyone more than I expected. Maraya and I settle Mother on the bed beside Amaya. Then I go back to examine Lord Ottonor’s bier. The wooden lid of his coffin is sealed with wax sigils molded and melted to prevent the spark-animated corpse from clawing its way out before the spark fades. By lamplight we study the lacquered offering tray with its poisoned morsels arranged pleasingly in decorative bowls and tiny ceramic platters. It looks so tempting that I almost pick up one of the artful little seed-cakes.
“Merry, aren’t oracles buried young to keep a lord’s name alive longer?”
“Do you know what else is odd, Jes?” I almost weep to hear the crisp tone so characteristic of Maraya before all of this happened, the one that means she’s sorting through her archive of knowledge. “After Amaya grabbed the candied almonds we took the tray away from her, greedy pig! Cook offered the food to the oracle because she is supposed to eat first. But she refused to touch anything. She just watched Amaya like a vulture. After a little while Amiable got sick and vomited.”
“As if the oracle feared poison.”
“It’s why the rest of us didn’t eat right away. Cook made us wait for the oracle. Although she didn’t mean to, the oracle saved us.” Maraya glances toward the oracle’s chamber, where Mother and Amaya sleep while Cook cradles the baby. Coriander is going through the treasures she has picked out of the oracle’s chest: a tidy pile of expensive silk clothing, pewter utensils and cups, and a trove of wristlets, anklets, and necklaces strung of beads, pearls, and polished stones. “I wonder what Father’s new wife is like.”
“Very rich. Young. Palace-born. Her grandmother is Princess Berenise.”
“Truly? Princess Berenise is the younger sister of Kliatemnos the Fourth and his queen, Serenissima the Fourth.”
“What do you know about her?” I try to keep my passionate curiosity from my voice. Knowing more about Kalliarkos’s grandmother will teach me more about him.
“In her youth Princess Berenise was married to King Sokorios of Saro-Urok. I can tell you his exact degree of relationship to our own royal family if you want.”
“No, no, that’s not necessary.”
Her voice lightens because now she is trawling through the dusty old Archives that often seem more real to her than the sisters chattering around her. “King Sokorios either died in battle or was murdered by his chief rival. It depends on which account you read and what faction the chronicle supports. They all tell a different story to make their side look good and the others look bad. After his death she married Menos Garon of Clan Garon. That is how Clan Garon became elevated to Garon Palace, through her status. She gave birth to one son. He served in the army, married a noblewoman from old Saro, sired Lady Menoë and Lord Kalliarkos, and died in battle. Gargaron is her husband’s brother’s son.”
Voices float from outside as a party of loud men argue in the distance.
“Hush! Coriander, blow out your lamp. We can’t let them see light in here!”
I rip several strips of cloth and hurry over to the oracle. She shrinks back as I loom over her. I must be ruthless even though she is just an old woman. If she screams, they’ll know we’re alive and Lord Gargaron will find out that his poisoned food did not work. She easily gives in as I tie her hands behind her back and gag her. This must be what they teach the girls raised in closed rooms to prepare them for a life in the tomb: to accept what others tell you to do without questioning.
Merry wraps the dead infant in cloth and sets him in the oracle’s lap. “Maybe our poor brother’s body will comfort her. How strange that she holds him as if he is her own. I wonder if she had a baby once? But how could she if she was raised in the temple to be an oracle?”
I blow out my lamp and we feel our way into the oracle’s chamber to sit huddled together by the bed. Amaya snores noisily, burps in her sleep, then farts with a long gassy whistle.
Maraya shudders against me, and I can’t tell if she is silently giggling or shaking with grief. I’m so grateful Amaya is alive that I can’t laugh.
When Maraya speaks I am surprised by how much anger heats her whispered words.
“Father could have sneaked us all onto a ship. It’s a lie to say he had no choice, that he wasn’t swayed by ambition. If he really wanted to, he could get work as a soldier in a mercenary company like the Shipwrights. Mother could have taken in washing or sold goods in a market. We could have sailed away together to another land.”
“Yes, that’s a lovely story, Merry, but it’s not that simple.”
“It seems simple to me!” She shivers as with a fever. “The worst thing was waking up. It took me a while to understand that we were trapped inside… and then I heard scratching… and I was afraid the corpse was trying to claw out of the coffin.” She chokes on the memory.
“Hush,” I whisper. “The coffin is sealed. Even if the borrowed spark hasn’t died, the flesh can’t get out past the seals.”
A long silence follows. Merry’s breathing deepens and slows. I need to sleep but I am wide awake listening to the baby’s fretting.
“Cook,” I whisper. “Why are you here? Why didn’t you leave with the other servants?”
“I could not leave your mother, Doma Jessamy, not when she was so distraught. Years ago she saved me from a bad place. I owe her my life, so obligation binds me to her. If the gods have led me to this place, then I am content with it.”
“But you’re a Patron, and she’s a Commoner.”
“I am a woman, and so is she. Now rest, Doma Jessamy. We need your strength.”
My eyes close as I allow myself to relax. The infant whimpers. Mother wakes and nurses the baby while Cook coaxes her to take more placenta and broth. Afterward Mother weeps wearily, the grief seeping out of her like blood from an oozing wound. Maraya crawls onto the bed to comfort her. They all sleep while I stretch out on the floor.
Again all grows quiet, a perfect stillness. In the half-aware state between sleep and waking I sense the stone’s contours beneath my legs, I breathe along its shadows, I feel through my skin the quivering of each vibration that stirs the earth beneath the tomb. Stone has a shadow and a secret name too, and maybe even a self.
A scratching like fingernails dragged listlessly along wood shudders me into full heart-pounding alertness. It sounds exactly as if it is coming from inside the coffin.
Is the body of Lord Ottonor trying to claw out?
My breathing squeezes tight as I pray it is only a rat. Yet rats might swarm at us out of the dark and gnaw out our eyes before we can wake up.
Scratch scratch scratch.
I wish I had the knife. What if Coriander murders us in our sleep? No, she loves Mother too. We are all here because Mother saved us
.
Finally the scratching stops. A low moan jolts me until I realize it is the wind in the shaft. I lie still for the longest time. At last with the hum of the wind as my lullaby I let go of my anxious thoughts and sink, praying that nothing attacks me while I sleep.
28
The horns of dawn wake me from a sound sleep. Morning light gleams through the tiny gap in the wall through which the oracle speaks. A man is coming up the path singing a familiar song about a sailor going to meet the lover who will wash his clothes just the way he likes.
Maraya leaps up. “That is Polodos!”
She hastens with her rolling gait past the sleeping oracle in the central chamber and into the entry chamber. I catch up as she kneels by the slit where offering trays can be slid into the tomb. Footsteps crunch up to the porch. She whistles the melody as in answer.
His intake of breath is sharp. “Doma Maraya?”
“Steward Polodos.” Her tremulous smile seems the brightest object in the tomb, the source of all light and hope.
“It is true,” he whispers in a raspy voice worthy of the tragic theater. “Buried in the tomb. Blasphemy against the gods! You must think I abandoned you, Maraya.”
She presses an open hand against the wall. “I knew you never would, not if you knew. How could you possibly have guessed?”
“I am here now, my dearest Maraya. If I must walk to this tomb every day for the rest of my life I will do so. I will not hesitate again, as I did in speaking to your father about us. You deserve better than my timid promises.”
The adoration in his voice stuns me. My single-mindedness has blinded me to everything going on in the house.
Embarrassment makes me snap. “Did you see Lord Kalliarkos?”
“Doma Jessamy!” His tone flattens as he realizes he and Maraya are not alone. “I apologize for not believing you when we met here that night. I must say that to have a lord walk into the Least-Hill Inn took me aback for it is not the sort of place—”
“None of that matters,” I interrupt. “What is the plan?”
“When Lord Kalliarkos told me about the poisoned food, I agreed to bring an offering tray so you would have something to eat and drink. As for the rest, I do not know. He was arguing with his advisers over a matter they considered too dangerous to undertake.”