The Obsidian Temple (22 page)

Contain yourself, my child,
Ivanha reproved.
We still have much to do before your successor steps in.

“The children,” the Crone reminded her.

Yes, the children.
Ivanha's tone turned puzzled.
You care very much for them. So much that you would bargain for their lives with these infidels.

“They are your children,” the Crone said out loud. “They are dedicated to you, and you are their patron. I have cared for them in your ser­vice.”

She felt a wave of dismissal from Ivanha.
There are so many humans.
Her goddess sighed.
There have been so many children. There will always be more. Humans are ever reproducing.
Ivanha must have felt the Crone's frustration and disbelief, because she went on quickly.
But of course these are important, as they are important to you. As a parting gift, we will let these Forsaken go, we will bargain with them this once. They cause too much trouble to stay in the city. Once they are gone, the remaining ones, the ones who know their place, will return to their jobs. The rebellious ones will starve in the wilderness and will not bother us anymore. You will tell the Templar that. He is coming now to tell you of the Forsaken's demands. Report to me when the children are returned. I must focus on waking my senses to the world once again.

The Crone nodded as her deity left her and her
feli
. She rose on shaky legs, cramped from kneeling so long. She settled at her desk just before the knock on her office door.

Her aide poked his head in.

“Sorry to interrupt, but you asked me to tell you if the Templar arrived,” he said politely.

“Send him in,” the Crone ordered. The aide ushered the Templar in, settling him in a chair, then brought in tea ser­vice for both. She enjoyed the Templar's discomfort at her aide's pink robes and fussy manner. It was nice to see the Templar confronted with a man who wasn't a warrior and did not dance to his tune. The Crone hid her smile behind a cup of tea as her aide handed the Templar a dainty cup and saucer like her own. The aide winked at her behind the Templar's back before he closed the door behind him. The Crone idly wondered if Ivanha had ever chosen a male Crone before. She was certain her goddess would just as happily watch Voras squirm as she did Voras's Voice.

“This isn't necessary,” he growled, holding the china, which looked ridiculously small in his large, callused hands.

The Crone smiled sweetly at him. “It is good to have some semblance of civility in these uncivil times,” she told him.

He drank his tea in one gulp and set the china aside.

“The Forsaken sent a message with one of the kidnapped children.” He waved away her exclamation. “No, she doesn't know where they were being held. She was kept blindfolded and separate from the rest of the children. I already questioned her.”

“What are their demands?” the Crone asked, glad she'd spoken with Ivanha before the Templar came.

“First, they want free passage out of Illian for any Forsaken who wants to leave,” he said. “Next, they want supplies for those Forsaken to make a long journey, and for me to withdraw my troops to the city while they travel. And last, they want a date set for that committee the Herald is putting together, to make certain the Forsaken statuses are reviewed.”

“Didn't the Herald already set a date?” the Crone asked.

“Yes, but she delayed announcing it when the Tribune became unresponsive.”

“I'll speak to her about it,” the Crone said, making a note. “Ivanha wishes us to accede to the rest of the demands.”

“I don't like it,” the Templar growled. “Letting the leaders of this rebellion go. We have a tip, a beggar who overheard a conversation between a Southerner and a richer man. I think we should wait, see if the tip leads us to something.”

The Crone shook her head. “The children are of primary importance to Ivanha,” she insisted, her voice firm and stern. “Ivanha feels that once the troublemakers are out of the way, Illian will settle down, and the rest of the Forsaken will return to work. Your men did too much damage, massacring the Forsaken. The city needs to return to peace, or it will be permanently damaged.”

The Templar snorted. “Typical housebound thinking. The 'troublemakers,' as you call them, will go and create more trouble elsewhere. But as long as it isn't here, you don't care, right?”

“Our children are of primary importance,” the Crone repeated. “Ivanha takes precedence in this matter. It is against her the crime was committed. Do not test her.”

Voras flipped a palm as though waving away a gnat. “As things go, this is the smallest difficulty facing Voras. Tell Ivanha that war with the South is coming, just as Voras predicted. One of our soldiers finally found a way into the heart of the desert, training with their men. He was accepted as an elite warrior at a place called Kabandha.” The Templar leaned forward. “Crone, they have built an army. There is a prophecy, and they are training ­people to carry it out, take over the North, and banish the deities.”

The Crone sighed and shook her head. “Ivanha has known about this so-­called prophecy for hundreds of years,” she said condescendingly. “It is nothing but a fever dream, wishful thinking by the infidels.”

The Templar stood, frowning. “The Southerners believe it is coming true this generation. They say the missing person, the one who completes the prophecy, has been born here in the North. This matter with the children is small compared to this. We'll do as Ivanha asks, but tell her Voras's focus is stopping this Southern invasion and finding the Northerner who would betray us all.”

He slammed the door behind him as he left, and the Crone sighed and massaged her temples. Her children would be returned, Ivanha would find a younger successor, and she would handle this prophecy and problems the Templar would cause with the Southerners. The Crone knew a peaceful mountain temple she could retire to, far north, near where she grew up.

Bells began ringing around the Temple, and the Crone looked up. The Templar had not mentioned another attack, so these must be mourning bells. The Tribune had passed on, his deterioration much quicker than predicted. The Crone called her aide in. There would be a state funeral, and they needed to organize mourning colors for the altar. Pilgrims would be visiting from all over the territory to send the old Tribune on and get a blessing from the new, young Voice.

THE CARAVAN WAS
organized faster than Kadar would have imagined, with four other families and their guards leaving besides Aunt Raella. They left three shuttered businesses behind them on the merchant street.

Kadar fetched a bag of supplies from the kitchen and paused in the doorway, arrested by the sight of Uncle Tarik and Aunt Raella standing facing each other, clasping hands.

“You will come,” Aunt Raella asked softly. “Once this mess is sorted out?”

“I don't know,” Uncle Tarik answered. “This is where I'm called to be, love.”

Aunt Raella lifted a hand and caressed his cheek. “Keep out of the mess, Tarik, no matter what your mother says. You are the light of my life, my true love. I couldn't bear if anything happened to you.”

He reached up and clasped her hand in his, pressing it against his cheek, then kissing her palm.

“I will love you always,” he answered.

“Time to go,” Aaron called from the courtyard.

Kadar brushed past the ­couple as they shared a final kiss, pretending not to notice the tears on their cheeks as they pulled away.

Uncle Tarik stayed at the hall as Kadar escorted the group, riding near the front wagon that carried his daughter, watching for troublemakers. Most of their household guards were with the caravan, leaving Nabil and another behind to watch the salesroom.

There was some jeering from city folk as they rode through the outskirts of town, and some rotted vegetables thrown at the wagon. Kadar managed to keep his temper even when he recognized an Illian shouting “Southerners go home” as one of their good customers and tried not to look at the faces after that. Uncle Aaron stopped his leading wagon when Joaquil tapped his shoulder. After a short consultation, Joaquil exchanged seats with Kile, sitting beside Uncle Aaron to let her pink robes, golden hair, and priestly glare silence the crowd. They had no trouble after that. The soldiers guarding the road on the edge of town saw Joaquil's robes and waved them through without searching the caravan. Kadar saw Uncle Aaron wipe a sweaty brow and relax a little after they left that way station behind.

Kadar parted with the caravan midmorning, after the last of the houses of Illian had fallen away. He sat in his saddle, watching them until they became specks in the distance. His horse became restless, and he turned it back to the city and headed to the quiet, seemingly empty house.

The Forsaken servants now outnumbered the family, and Sanuri ate last meal with Kadar, Uncle Aaron, and Simon now that Aunt Raella was gone. Sanuri muttered constantly to herself now, with very little coherency. Amber was either on Sanuri's lap or close by her at all times, her blue eyes fixed on the girl. Kadar had to encourage the girl to eat, then wipe her face for her when she made a mess of it. He wondered if he should send for Alannah, if she could help calm the girl and make some sense of her ramblings. He shook his head. The city was already filling up with ­people for the funeral, and soldiers were everywhere. Alannah would have her hands full as Counselor. They couldn't leave Sanuri on her own, so Kadar took her to the salesroom with him and gave her leather to braid into belts to keep her occupied in the back room.

“Kadar.” Nabil ducked into the hall late afternoon. Despite the unrest, sales were brisk, with so many visitors in town because of the funeral. There was a lull in customers, so Kadar caught Simon's eye, and he nodded and waved for Kadar to go. Kadar and Nabil stepped into the break room and closed the door.

“What is it?” Kadar asked.

“A Forsaken boy just gave me a message, from Severin,” Nabil said, keeping his voice low. “Any Forsaken who wants to leave is going to be allowed to, starting tomorrow morning. He wants me to ride ahead and alert the Forsaken town.”

“How will they get there?” Kadar asked. “All our wagons are gone with Uncle Aaron.”

“The boy didn't say. He said Severin has everything arranged, including a guard. They'll let the kidnapped children go the day after once the Forsaken are gone from the city.”

Kadar nodded, thinking furiously. “The funeral and crowds will help, I think. The soldiers won't dare attack the Forsaken with so many witnesses on the roads right now.”

Nabil shook his head. “But so many witnesses to where they're going, as well. Hope he's thought of that.”

“They can release the kidnapped children into the crowds,” Kadar said. “That's a day before the funeral, and the city will be packed.”

Nabil nodded. “But if I go, that leaves you with just the one guard Aaron left from the caravan.”

Kadar nodded, thinking. “Uncle Tarik, Simon, and I are all able to defend ourselves,” he said. “I'm assuming the Forsaken who are with us will leave tomorrow with the others, so we won't need to defend them. We can't hold off an army, but one more person won't help in that case.”

Nabil rode out at first light, on one of their fastest horses. Uncle Tarik and Kadar used the goods Uncle Aaron had brought to prepare packs for the Forsaken who were leaving. They escorted the Forsaken they employed to the city limits, where the soldiers grudgingly let them pass with a stream of other frightened but determined brown cloaks. There were soldiers assigned to take down the names of the Forsaken leaving, and they gave each Forsaken a small ration of supplies.

It was clear news of the exodus hadn't been spread through the city, as townsfolk and visitors glanced over curiously but went back about their business when they saw soldiers were involved.

There weren't as many Forsaken as Kadar expected, and he headed over to their district to see why. Severin was on horseback, surveying the neighborhood and directing guards, but turned and rode away when Kadar approached him.

He found the healer Nala at Farrah's home, helping the residents pack and prepare.

“Severin ordered the Forsaken to go out in a trickle,” she explained. “They'll blend in with crowds better and make the towns­people less suspicious. He thinks townsfolk will react with violence if they know Ivanha is bargaining with the Forsaken.” She looked around at the bustle. “It won't completely clear the Forsaken from the city, though. There are some who refuse because they feel they'd be going against the deities. And some who are simply too old or infirm to go, and their families are staying with them. I'm sending a healer and a ­couple of apprentices with the Forsaken who leave. One help them all.”

When Kadar returned to the sales hall, Simon and Uncle Tarik were training new employees, youngsters from Southern families that Uncle Tarik had hired to replace the Forsaken. They would need lots of hands for next month's Festival of the Founding, with most of the family gone to the desert. Business was brisk, and they didn't get a break most of the day. The city was full of bored Northerners who were in for the funeral the next day, and Kadar was wishing for their Forsaken help and Aunt Raella.

Midafternoon, Sanuri wandered out from the backroom, babbling loudly to herself. Their customers looked askance at her, and Kadar apologized to the woman he was serving and went to the girl. When she saw him, she began to scream incoherently.

“Get her out of here,” Uncle Tarik growled.

Kadar picked the struggling girl up and carried her to the side room.

She calmed slightly as Kadar set her down, and Amber rubbed against her. Then she looked straight in Kadar's eyes.

“Danger,” she whispered urgently. “Death, he knows, Datura's mommy, he knows where she is. She will die.”