Sigquaya, Page 21

  And, she saw her opening.

  With his next swing, Arteura thrust upward with both blades, lightning fast, catching his sword in mid-swing and, with sheer strength, holding it fast. He grunted and pulled, but still she held firm. Her eyes raised, looking him in the face. She couldn’t help cocking a little half-grin as she twisted the swords and his weapon clanged away, bouncing across the floor and ricocheting off the wall.

  The man stepped back in surprise, and the first crack of fear crossed his face.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Arteura saw the first guard regaining his feet. Then, the two were in front of her, one armed, the other stunned, standing between herself and either door. Her back was to the windows. The decision seemed made for her.

  She sheathed her weapons and dove, arching her back as she’d done to avoid the second guard’s blade, springing from her hands and back-flipping once, turning on her side, and diving headlong out the window.

  And she realized she wasn’t on the first floor.

  ≈≈≈≈≈≈

  Rhiana could hear the scuffling behind the closed and somehow-bolted door. She hadn’t moved the entire time, and now she was surrounded by the three Rectors, angered that they had lost the girl and now looking for an outlet for their frustration.

  She looked between them, to the Elder. He was still sitting in his chair, his head resting on his hand, propped on the judge’s bench and looking back at her. She could see that he wasn’t ruffled in the least. He was calm. Almost amused. That hint of a satisfied smile twitching the corner of his mouth.

  Almost as if this were playing out exactly as he’d expected.

  ≈≈≈≈≈≈

  Arteura was falling, flailing her arms, contorting her body, trying to roll from her back and land on her feet. The robe she’d thrown out earlier was below her, draped over some thick, low bushes that adorned the base of the Temple. She hit it and fell through, tearing her tunic and her pants, and cutting and scraping her arms and her face. She landed hard, off-balance, on her left leg, and it buckled as she felt her knee twist at an unnatural angle. She screamed in pain as she tried to roll, falling on her shoulder and screaming again as she felt the bone snap.

  She rolled to her back and saw the guards thirty feet above her, eyeing her and wondering if they could follow. They disappeared inside, and she raised herself painfully to her feet, wincing, whimpering, and grabbing the robe, not waiting to see what they’d decided. She staggered around the side of the Temple. Luckily there was no one close, and she was able to limp behind the cover of shrubbery once again. With one arm, she was able to sheath her weapons as she wrestled the robe on over her torn clothes, throwing the hood over her head, hiding her face, and praying to whatever god would listen that it was enough of a disguise to slip out of the city.

  She raised her arm, stifling a cry, as she was barely able to get it away from her waist. That meant her shoulder was separated or her clavicle was broken. Either way, if she had to duel, it was going to be with one hand.

  She tested her knee.

  Gods, that hurts!

  She felt the joint through her clothes. She could tell it was already swelling. Whether sprained or broken, she wasn’t sure.

  I need to get to water.

  She steeled herself, braved the pain, stepped out of the foliage, and ran headlong into a Þrymm guard.

  She gasped. Her heart stopped. She looked up, panic-stricken, into the eyes . . . of her brother.

  She blew out a sigh of relief, but then caught it. It was Marcus, all right, but his weapon was drawn and his eyes were cold.

  “Oh gods, Marcus!” she cried, reaching out to embrace him.

  He stepped back. “What are you doing, Arteura!”

  “I can’t—I couldn’t,” she stammered. “That trial, it—it was a sham!”

  “It was justice.” His voice was like ice, and she could see his hand twitching on his sword.

  “You don’t really believe that.”

  “I am a guard of the Temple of the Cyneþrymm,” he spat. “What I believe is irrelevant.”

  “But, Marcus—this is your family! I’m your sister. That was your mother.”

  “My mother,” he spat, “is dead!”

  Her heart stopped. Her voice reduced to a pitiful whimper. “Oh gods . . .”

  “She died to me the minute she spread whatever damnable concoction she’d made onto our crops, causing this infernal famine.”

  “Marcus!” She gasped as a sliver of hope returned. “She wasn’t causing this famine! She was curing it!”

  “Curing it?! And you believe that?”

  “Believe it?” She was edging on being incredulous. How could she be having this argument? With Marcus. Here. Now. “I don’t just believe it. I saw it! It’s true! The crops, the grainfields—they were growing stronger and thriving where she had been.”

  “No, that’s not true,” he said, but she could see that doubt had begun to creep in. “It can’t be. That’s not what the witness—not what he—”

  “He?! You mean the Elder?”

  “Yes, of course the Elder. He is—”

  “You have no idea what he is, Marcus!”

  “I serve him!”

  “You serve the Cyneþrymm!”

  “WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE, ARTEURA?!”

  She stepped back. Whatever doubt had crossed his face was now gone. His eyes hardened and he brought up his sword, taking his stance and pointing the blade directly at Arteura’s heart.

  She breathed. Once. Twice. Then she stepped in, her blades still sheathed beneath the Rector’s robe; she looked him in the eye, unblinking, closing the gap. She pressed her chest against his blade, grimacing.

  “What are you going to do, Marcus?”

  ≈≈≈≈≈≈

  Through that somehow satisfied smile, the Elder said, “Well, Rhiana, this is an interesting turn of events, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “About your daughter?” The Elder shrugged. “That’s being handled by the Þrymm guards as we speak, I imagine.” He raised his head from his hand and leaned forward. “About you? That’s an interesting question. You obviously have none of the fighting spirit of your daughter, so you’re not a risk of doing anything rash.” He chuckled. “The gods only know where Arteura got it from.”

  He stood and walked down from the bench to stand before her. “No, no, no. You’re not going anywhere. But . . .” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You might be good as bait. If she miraculously escapes, your daughter might be foolhardy enough to return. To try and rescue you. So there’s that.” He looked to the Rectors on either side of him, still brandishing their weapons. “Or . . . I could carry on with the execution. That would solve the problem of the crowd, who I’m sure will be on the verge of riot once this news gets out. But it does nothing about your daughter.”

  He tapped his chin with a finger, making an excessive show of contemplating the various scenarios and how they could play out. Then, he stopped. And smiled. “But,” he drawled, “there is always a third option.”

  He motioned to the Rectors. “Return her to the dungeon. There is a ceremony in the morning that I must prepare for.” He leaned in, inches from her face. “The one you’ve tried so desperately to stop, remember?”

  His smile grew almost wicked. “You might actually have a role to play yet.”

  ≈≈≈≈≈≈

  They stood.

  Face to face.

  Marcus’s sword pressed against his sister’s chest, separating fabric, breaking skin as she leaned in. She stood like that, a determined fire in her eyes but a nervous sweat trickling from her temple. Waiting him out. Accepting her—their—fate.

  “What are you going to do, Marcus?”

  His hand began to shake.

  His eyes faltered.

  Then, with a fierce exhale, he relented. Stepping back. Lowering his weapon. Looking away.

  Arteura didn’t hesitate. Despit
e the pain in her arm and the swelling in her knee, she ran as best she could. Limping. Hobbling. Passing by Marcus. Across the open courtyard. Her Rector’s robe flapping. Her hood pulled tightly around her face. From shadow to shadow she went, until she was a good distance away, hidden by the colonnades of the main boulevard. Then, she risked looking back.

  Marcus was still there. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t raised his head. Hadn’t sheathed his weapon.

  She watched as the two guards she’d battled in the upper room ran to him, obviously questioning him. She watched him raise his head and point. Away from her. Then she saw the three of them take off at a fast jog.

  She saw Marcus glance back, and she risked stepping out. He saw her and he nodded, once. Then she saw him disappear around the far side of the Temple, away.

  He had given her a chance.

  He had spared her life.

  And, in acknowledging it as he had, she knew it would likely be the last time.

  ≈≈≈≈≈≈

  Rhiana, being carried along by the two Rectors, one on each side, was halfway to the door when a commotion grew from outside. Someone was yelling, almost frantic, and Rhiana thought she could hear her name called. The two Rectors stopped, backed a few steps, then angled Rhiana toward a side door, away from the disturbance on the other side.

  Before they could take a step, the door they were about to go through burst open, and Remè ran through. His face was ashen and glistening with sweat, his eyes were wild, and in his scraped and shaking hand was a bloody sword. Rhiana recognized it as his own ceremonial blade, worn only for show, and only a few times each year. Rhiana didn’t even think the blade was sharp, but obviously she’d been wrong; it looked sharp and well used, and her heart skipped.

  “Rhiana! RHIANA!!” he yelled, then he saw her. “Oh, thank the gods, Rhiana. What have they done to you?!”

  “Remè?! What are you doing?”

  “Apparently he’s rescuing you, dear,” the Elder said from behind her. She spun on him, and he merely cocked an eyebrow. “At least we now know where your daughter gets it from.”

  Remè brandished his sword at the two Rectors. “Get away from her!”

  Rhiana was fixed on the look in her husband’s eyes, unsure whether she saw bravery there, or the culmination of years of madness.

  “Remè, don’t,” she pleaded.

  “I would listen to her, Remè,” the Elder said, coming up to stand beside Rhiana. “These two are quite formidable with their weapons. And, between you and any hope of escape stands the bulk of the Þrymm guard.”

  “I’ve already dealt with several,” Remè snarled, angrily wiping away a bit of spittle from the corner of his mouth.

  The Elder nodded. “I can see that. But still . . .” Grinning with smug self-assurance, he took Rhiana by the arm and motioned to the other two Rectors, who advanced on Remè.

  “Remè, please,” Rhiana cried. “This isn’t you. You are not yourself. You’re not well.”

  His eyes flicked to her. “I am now.” He returned his attention to the Rectors. “Everything is clear now. This is a travesty, Rhiana. Everything, all along, has been a travesty. Our family has been devastated by this Temple. Ruined! For years!”

  He shot a quick look to the Elder. “I thought there was a purpose. I thought there was honor in all of this. Now I can see that it’s only been greed. Jealousy. Hatred.”

  Rhiana shook her head, lost. “What are you talking about, Remè?”

  “Yes, do tell, Remè,” the Elder said. “What is so clear to you now? What do you think it is you’ve uncovered?”

  Remè slashed at the Rectors, keeping them at bay as they split to each side of him.

  “I think you know full well, Elder,” Remè answered, the last word dripping with spite and venom. “This trial of my wife and daughter. The sacrifice of Tristan. Even before, with your family, Rhiana. This was never for honor. These sacrifices were never for the good of the Empire, or for the pleasure of the gods. This was hatred. This was ensuring silence. Rhiana, your father—”

  “Kill him!” the Elder roared.

  The Rectors attacked.

  Remè spun to his right, blocking the man’s overhead slash, holding his blade aloft and driving his elbow into the man’s sternum, knocking the air from him.

  He turned to his left and dodged a wicked thrust aimed at his kidney. He parried the sword away, stepping in with his own thrust. The Rector backed a step and batted Remè’s sword, countering with a backhand slash. Remè jumped back, turned, and kicked out with his leg, sweeping the other man off his feet, landing him on his back with a thud.

  Remè turned again. The first man was still winded but raising his blade. Remè parried it away and slashed deeply into the man’s ribs, tearing fabric and slicing bone. The man screamed and crumpled.

  Remè faced the second man again, who was scrambling to his feet. Remè kicked him a second time squarely on the jaw, knocking him back. This time, he didn’t move.

  Remè saw a side door fly open and two Þrymm guards run through, their weapons already drawn.

  He turned back to the first man . . .

  And felt two hands, like vises, clamp down on either side of his temples. Felt them press together. Felt unbearable pain, like the blood was rushing up to his brain and seeping out and into the hands holding him in their steel grip.

  A voice behind him shouted, “Get her out of here!”

  It was the Elder.

  Then, past the ringing in his ears, and the pounding rush of blood, he heard Rhiana’s screaming protests as she was carried out of the chamber. Then, he heard a snarling voice right next to his ear. “I should have her stay. To watch your death, and to know the truth as you know it. To know the truth, and to know that it will be her final thought, just as it will be yours.”

  Remè moaned as the last gasp of air left his lungs.

  “She will join you soon enough, Remè. You and your whole cursed family. But know this, above all else: Everything I do is for the good of the Empire. And everything you claim to know may well be truth. But everything you claim to know . . . will die with you.”

  And with that, the last thread of consciousness seeped from Remè’s mind, like the living water the Elder had just drained.

  The Elder released him, letting his pale, wrinkled, and lifeless body crumple to the floor. He let out a long sigh and dusted off his hands. Two more Þrymm guards appeared through the rear door, and he swept his hand to the body at his feet.

  “Get this out of here,” he growled. “And see to these two Rectors as well.”

  Then he turned and brushed past a Þrymm guard and through the nearest door. “I’ve had enough interruptions for one damn day.”

  24

  Lost, Found, and Loss

  I hadn’t yet found the others.

  What I had found so far were a couple of dead rats, a few indentations in the rocks where mushrooms grew, and what I was pretty sure was Daina’s tunic. I also came across several small sticks, one passable enough to be a torch; the flame I’d been carrying eagerly jumped to the tip, engulfing it and bathing my surroundings in decent light.

  I moved along with the Waters, fighting my footing when they shot along in waist-deep rapids, swimming as best I could when they were languid and vast. I’d been calling and calling with no response. Slogging along, I was afraid I would lose my voice if I kept this up much longer. I called out again.

  “Rahn! Marshaan!”

  “Here,” came a faint reply. “Caden?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “All of us. Rahn and Telluras are here with me. I can see your light. Keep coming!”

  I did. Rounding a bend, with the Waters pushing firmly at my back, urging me on, I saw their faint outlines in the distance, no more than bobbing heads and swinging arms.

  “Are all three of you all right?” I asked when I’d finally caught up with them.

  “We’ve all taken a tumble, as you can well imagine,” said Marshaan,
squinting against the light of my makeshift torch. “Rahn was a little touch and—”

  “I’m fine,” Rahn said sharply. But then he let out a horrendous cough that betrayed he was anything but fine. The Waters flowed quickly here, and it was hard to hear and probably harder to speak with lungs full of the stuff.

  “Do you have any idea how far you’ve come?” Telluras asked.

  “Maybe a couple of hours,” I said, shaking my head. “Daina was almost inconsolable back there. She’ll be so relieved that you’re all alive.”

  “I can imagine,” Marshaan said.

  I turned and looked back upstream. “Shall we head back?”

  “Have you noticed the current?”

  I shrugged. “Yeah. Why?”

  “We were hesitant to head back up toward Estemere,” Marshaan said. “None of us had any idea what that surge was that hit us, where it came from, or if there might be more. We were thinking this river has to surface somewhere. And judging by the rising speed of the water over the last bit we’ve covered, I would say we’re close.”

  “But then what?”

  “We try to find our bearings and head to Cierra overland.”

  “You know it’s not going to be that easy.”

  “Nothing ever is. But at least we’ll be out of this godsforsaken river.”

  I couldn’t fault them there. Cierrans have never been fond of water, and I for one had had about enough of the stuff for a lifetime.

  Sadly, Marshaan added, “Daina will have to be patient a little longer.”

  “You should have seen her, Marshaan.”

  “Trust me,” he said. “I did.”

  I bit my lip, held the torch aloft, and looked downstream. “So, that way then?”

  Marshaan nodded and, without another word, we fell into a line and started along. A little ways in, I heard Marshaan behind me. “That’s got to be the mangiest-looking torch I’ve ever seen in my life. How do you even keep that thing lit?”

  I chuckled to myself as I kept moving. “Faith,” I said. “Faith and good wishes.”