Strange Attractors (13 page)

She looked him up and down in turn, taking in the bare feet, foreign weapon and sawn-off arrow protruding from his thigh, a trickle of fresh blood oozing from his torn leggings. ‘I could ask you the same, Father.’

‘I’ve been covering your back,’ he said, his eyes going to the bottom of the stairs. He spotted the guard room, door ajar, and he limped back down.

‘What are you doing now?’ she said.

‘Just a quick look. And I have to piss.’

Scylla tore after him.

‘A quick look for what? We have to get out!’

‘I’ll be right there.’ He ducked into the guard room. He didn’t want to leave his blade behind, not if it was within easy reach.

The guard room was empty; the only troops on duty were locked in the adjacent cell. They pounded on the bolted door; smoke was sneaking out between the cracks and the heat was rising. His fire had spread to adjoining cells. He ignored the cries and searched, finding his blade among a stack of other booty. He strapped it on, then frowned as he lifted up a small silver flask. It was sheathed in an embroidered leather case with long straps—perfect for wearing on a journey. ‘Demon’s death.’

He turned it around, rubbing his thumb over the outline of a Lemur raven burned into the leather.

What is it, Rowan?
Scylla asked as she stood watch by the door.

‘I think they have La Makee.’ He limped back up the stairway to join Rosette and Drayco on the landing. ‘We have a problem,’ he said, lowering his head to whisper into Rosette’s ear.

She was peering down the hall, looking both ways. Drayco’s tail snapped as she turned around.

‘I think there’s more than one,’ she said. ‘How long’s that been stuck there?’ She tilted her head towards the protruding arrow.

‘I don’t know, but it can wait. Rosette, I found this in the guard room.’ He held up the flask, letting it speak for itself.

Rosette’s eyes went wide. ‘Makee?’

‘I thought so too.’

‘Would she be in a cell?’

‘If she’s still alive.’

‘Can you contact her?’

An’ Lawrence shook his head.

‘Then let’s hope she’s in her raven form.’ Rosette turned to her familiar. ‘Dray, can you sniff out La Makee?’

Scylla sat on her haunches and tipped her nose towards the ceiling.
There’s a Lemur raven in the tower, Rowan. Everyone is frightened of it.

‘That’s her!’ An’ Lawrence said, clutching his familiar’s neck. ‘Scylla says…’

‘I know,’ Rosette cut in. ‘Drayco told me.’

‘Do you know which stair leads to the tower?’ An’ Lawrence asked.

‘We passed one when we entered. That must be it.’

‘Guarded?’

‘Somewhat.’

‘Then conjure us up another glamour, apprentice. That fire’s blazing, fit to take the whole citadel down. There isn’t much time.’

Rosette closed her eyes and rubbed her hands together as if to warm them. He felt the glamour settle around him, surprised by the low-ranking uniform that replaced his clothes. Rosette was back in her High Guard finery, the temple cats again death dogs, snapped onto their leashes and snarling.

He cleared his throat. ‘A foot soldier?’

‘You’ll go unnoticed.’

‘And you?’

‘These are death dogs, An’ Lawrence. No one’s questioning me tonight.’

A blast brought flames and smoke up the steps. They launched out the door, racing up to the ground floor. The wide spiral stairway to the tower was unguarded, though alarms were sounding and people were running everywhere, smoke billowing behind them.

‘Did you light the tower on fire as well?’ Rosette asked as they ran up the stairway.

‘I’m guessing that is the work of La Makee.’

‘Alive and well then, I suspect. Let’s hope she doesn’t blast us to another world before we can introduce ourselves. Where now?’

They’d come to a split in the stairway, one way leading to a series of circular walkways, the other continuing up.

‘To the top. That’s where I’d put her, if she were my captive.’

They ran on, the flames below them crackling.

Shaea tried not to gape when they entered the temple hall. It was all she could do to keep from exclaiming aloud. The setting was luxurious beyond her dreams, the people astonishing. No one from her end of the city, not even the mounted warriors on the drill grounds, ever looked this fine. The men were remarkably well groomed—clean and smelling fresh like a forest. She had no idea a man could smell good. Her lips widened, letting out a sigh.

Many of the women had red or golden hair with sapphire ribbons and jewels woven into their long braids. Some were darker-complexioned, like Rall, and they had red stars sparkling in their ebony curls. They were all dressed in purple robes—like the ones Rall had obtained after they’d cleaned up. They’d worn them to get out of the city and had attracted little comment. No guard would dare to detain a temple priestess for long, and those robes were their garb. They’d changed in the coach, bringing out the dark cloaks that marked them as visiting priestesses before they could be recognised as imposters. They planned to slip away as soon as they could. The portal was a good hour’s walk to the south and they wanted to make the trek while the moon was up.

‘Close your mouth, girl,’ Rall said. ‘You’ll give us away.’

Shaea lifted her chin the way Rall had coached her and smoothed her hands over her hips. She kept her excitement contained, but she still took it all in. ‘Where to now?’ she asked, giggling as she spoke.

The hall was filled with men and women, and a few groups of temple children were racing about the periphery. It was the young ones’ job to offer refreshments but for the most part they were leaving the bite-size food on the long tables and playing hide-and-seek. Shaea was mesmerised by the sight of fresh food, freely offered, and from the hands of children. She’d never imagined anything so wonderful in her life.

‘Don’t gorge,’ Rall said, pulling her away from the trays.

‘Others are eating.’ Shaea pouted until Rall daintily took a morsel from the table and passed it over. ‘Just one.’

‘Thank you, Mistress.’

Most of the women were witches of the Corsanon order, with only a few visiting from other areas. They were relaxed and elegant, their hoods thrown back to reveal gowns that shimmered when they moved. Their graceful arms drew attention here and there as they talked—hands touching someone’s shoulder to capture their smile, gold bangles sliding to their wrists when they lowered them again. Shaea knew she and Rall were at least as well presented, and that her long lace dress covered the rough skin and scabs. It felt like a dream. Had Xane only died this morning? Maybe she had died too and this was another life. She moved closer to a group of men, hoping to hear news of the battle.

‘Get back here,’ Rall said, catching her arm. She shook her head.

Shaea rankled though she soon realised that these men were not talking about battle or strategies at all. They were not warriors, at least not tonight. Dressed in fine light robes themselves, with loose-legged pants, unfit for riding or battle, and open shirts of raw silk, the men, with their heavenly scents, were engaging the women, telling little stories or reading snippets of poetry, describing the moonlight, a flower or an animal until all their words were a string of adjectives and the thing they described was no longer the moon or flower or animal but the feelings they had for the women in front of them. Shaea shivered. How could she keep up this sham? No one had ever spoken to her that way and although Rall had taught her to read and write, she knew her limitations, and she knew her accent too. Gutter slang. It would never do. It would never pass.

She panicked, looking for a way out, but before she could bolt, Rall grasped the crook of her elbow and whisked her down a hallway. As they turned a corner, they bumped straight into two men, tall and smiling.

‘Off to gaze at the stars?’ the older man asked, nodding his head. ‘We would be honoured to join you, if so.’

Shaea was stunned, unable to keep her mouth from hanging open. She pushed it closed with her free hand, Rall still gripping the other. The men smelled of sandalwood and myrrh, their clothes were clean and their voices gentle. They weren’t yelling and they weren’t sicking their dogs on her or beating her with a stick. A quick jab from Rall snapped her back to attention. She tried to soften her eyes, as coached.

‘That would be lovely,’ Rall said.

Shaea turned to the old witch. She wanted to ask
how in all of Gaela that would be lovely, since their aim was to slip away to the portal undetected.

‘My apprentice and I will meet you on the terrace? We’re just going to change.’

That renewed their smiles. They bowed and drifted off towards the terrace, no doubt to wait patiently for their return.

‘What’s this about?’ Shaea whispered as Rall herded her in the other direction.

‘The young one’s applying for initiation,’ the witch answered.

‘Initiation? But we’re not temple priestesses, are we?’

‘We are for the moment.’

‘I thought we were visiting priestesses—no purple robes.’

‘Tonight’s a special occasion. We’re in the shadow of the eclipse. All priestesses are open to initiates, purple robes or not. We have to appear to be considering.’

‘Considering what?’

Rall looked at her and clicked her tongue. ‘Taking on a man for training, of course. Don’t you listen to my words?’

‘I do.’ Shaea frowned. ‘I get it. They think we’re off to find our purple robes so we can…’

‘They’re hoping.’

Shaea blanched. ‘We aren’t, are we?’

‘Of course not. Initiation by a temple priestess is a sacred commitment. It lasts the entire transit of Mars and…’

‘Two years?’

‘Exactly. I don’t plan on us being here for more than two minutes. Besides, you would have no idea where to begin. Have you ever even kissed a man?’

Shaea touched her lips and looked away.

‘Thought so. Get our bags. They’re by the alcove. I’ll meet you at the gates.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Never mind. Keep your head up—back straight and step light. Act as if you are the High Priestess of of the Temple Corsanon. Can you imagine what that would be like?’

‘I can’t.’

Rall pressed her lips into a thin line. ‘Of course you can’t. What about top dog of the bakery alley?’

‘I think so.’

‘Close enough.’

Before Shaea could say any more, Rall had disappeared into the crowd.

Shane scraped his bowl, taking the last spoonful of his meal. ‘Delicious,’ he said to their host. ‘Thank you.’

Selene murmured, an agreeable sound. She had made herself comfortable in a large overstuffed chair near the crackling fireplace. She held her bowl of pumpkin soup as if it were her child. She was wearing a dusky black dress of finely woven cotton with tiny red flowers embroidered at the sleeves and hem. Shane thought she had never looked more beautiful, or peaceful. He wondered how long that would last.

Their luck had changed but he wasn’t comfortable with it. Something wasn’t right about this place out in the middle of nowhere with only a tiny path leading to or from the front door. The woman who had taken them in, fed and clothed them, seemed jovial enough. She shared stories and music with the most dramatic delivery. Polished, and very hospitable. No argument there. But he couldn’t shake the prickly feeling, and that was a sign he’d learned to trust. Who were these people, playing music like master bards, treating them
as if they were royal blood? Where in the many-worlds could they be?

‘More soup, Shane?’ May asked.

May was a large woman with soft thick arms and stubby fingers. He was amazed at her expertise on the guitar. She picked out arpeggios at lightning speed, accurate to the note, perfect intonation. Her face became angelic when she played, as if she had lifted off to another realm. Her hair was spun around on top of her head, and loose strands swept across her face as she tapped out the rhythms. Her voice was pitch perfect as well. She had to be formally trained, but what temple or school she came from, she wouldn’t say. That was the peculiar thing. They had spent hours together and he still had no idea who she was or, more importantly, where they’d landed.

The lad was the opposite of his mother, if indeed that was the relationship. He was lithe, with long fingers, dark eyes and no voice at all. He could play the fiddle, though. Remarkably so. Shane was in musical heaven. Why couldn’t he just enjoy it?

‘No thank you, May. I’m fully satisfied.’ It was almost as if they were being fattened for a Beltane feast.

‘Selene?’ May turned to her. ‘There’s plenty in the pot and you’re all but skin and bones.’

‘I’m fine, May. Thank you. It was the perfect amount.’ May was about to turn away when Selene stopped her with a light touch. ‘I would like to talk to you about our location, though. Do you have a map of this region? We need to make plans and I’m afraid we’ve lost our orientation since the river crossing.’

‘A map?’ May repeated. ‘I can’t say I’ve got one of those.’ She pushed a wisp of hair back from her eyes. ‘What is a map, exactly?’

Selene looked at Shane.

‘It’s a drawing,’ he said, miming a square. ‘Marks written on a single page that represent the lie of the land.’

May wrinkled her nose. ‘Lie of the land? Never heard of one. But there might be something in the river chest.’ She turned to the lad. ‘Tamin? Have you ever seen anything like that—a map?’

Tamin shook his head. He wasn’t a mute—he’d giggled loud enough when they’d first arrived—but so far no words had passed his lips.

‘Have a look anyway, can you? Then we’ll play one last tune before bed.’

When Tamin had trotted up the steps that led to the loft, May sat with a sigh, scooting her chair closer to Selene and Shane. ‘I’ve a favour to ask.’

‘You’ve been very kind,’ Selene said. She put her hand on Shane’s shoulder briefly and smiled. ‘We’d like to help you, if we can.’

Shane’s neck prickled again and he rubbed the guitar strings with his cuff, nodding agreement and keeping his brow from creasing. ‘What do you need?’ he asked.

‘I need you to take Tamin.’