When the Heavens Fall (16 page)

Ebon hissed at the first stab of fire. He glanced at the harp. “I heard you playing when I arrived. You're getting better.”

“I've had lots of time to practice.”

He tried to turn his head to look at her, but she held him still. “I missed you too.”

The needle paused a moment. “I know. One day, though, you won't come back to me.”

“Meaning?”

“Balia tells me stories of things wandering the plains. About the Watcher's Light fading in the temples. They've started shutting the city gates at night, had you heard? Now Balia says I can't go riding in the Forest of Sighs.”

“What of the Kingswood?” Even as he spoke the words, Ebon wished he could take them back. His gaze flickered to her leg. “I am sorry, I did not mean to reopen old wounds.”

Lamella did not respond. Tying off the thread, she set the needle to one side. Then she uncapped the clay pot and dipped three fingers inside, scooping out a pungent gray paste. “I heard about the kingship,” she said. “Were you going to tell me?”

“Why would I not?”

Lamella applied some of the ointment to the insect bites on his arms and shoulders. Immediately the flaming itch of the stings subsided. “I'm sorry. About your father, I mean.”

Ebon frowned. There was a strange formality to Lamella's words tonight, a self-consciousness in her speech. “My father has always gloried in his power. Now the sickness has taken hold … I fear his spirit is broken.”

“It isn't easy living with weakness when all you've known is strength.”

“He does not have your courage.”

Lamella was a long time in answering. “My courage, yes.” She resealed the pot of ointment, then wiped her hands on a cloth. Levering herself to her feet, she hobbled over to sit on the divan across from Ebon, her hands folded in her lap. She would not look at him. Ebon found he was holding his breath. “Is it over between us?” she asked suddenly. “I have to know.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Rosel has put up with me—”

“My mother?” Ebon cut in. “What does she have to do with this? Has she been here?”

“A king needs a queen, Ebon. And we both know I can never be that.”

“That is my mother speaking, not you.”

“Is it? What happens when Mercerie or Koronos comes calling, offering an alliance in return for the hand of some padishah's daughter? What will your answer be?”

Ebon shifted in his seat. “My mother wants only to deny me what she could never have herself.”

Lamella's expression was resigned, but there was something else in her eyes, something she was trying to keep from him. “You always do your duty.”

His eyes narrowed. Is that all she thought she was to him? A duty? A way to assuage his guilt for what had happened in the Kingswood two years ago? Before he could voice the question, though, Lamella continued, “I knew today would come. We both did. I have no regrets.”

Ebon's breath was tight in his chest. He moved to sit beside her.

“You have to let me go,” Lamella said.

“I cannot.”

“The longer we leave it, the harder it will get. If it has to end, let it be at a time of our choosing.”

“No!”

Lamella stiffened, then shied away.

“What is it?” Ebon said, his anger fading as quickly as it had come. “Lamella?”

She searched his gaze. “I don't know. For a moment something stirred behind your eyes. As if your face was just a mask.”

Exhaustion swept over Ebon, and he bowed his head. He had been a fool to think he could hide the spirits from her. Lamella was the one who'd got him through it last time, but could he lean on her again? He drew a breath. “It is the voices. They are back.” He watched a host of emotions play across her features: pity, confusion, hurt—because he had tried to hold back the truth from her, he realized. The hurt stung him most.

After a while she drew him into her embrace, his head on her chest. He could hear her heart beating rapidly. “Who else knows?” she said.

“Vale, Mottle, that is all. It must stay that way.”

Lamella made as if to say something, then seemed to change her mind. “Why, Ebon? Why are they back?”

“I suspect they never truly left. Just faded and … slept.”

“Then what woke them?”

“I do not know.” He told her about his conversation with Mottle. “It is not just voices this time. I see fragments of blurred images, shadows that should not be there, as if I were looking out through another's eyes.”

The footfalls of Corporal Balia could be heard outside as she paced the grounds. When Lamella pulled away, some of the ointment from Ebon's skin had transferred to her susha robe. “You overcame the spirits before,” she said. “You can do so again.”

Ebon didn't have the strength to disagree. “Sometimes I wonder … The voices, the visions … Are they even real, or just delusions? What if my mind—”

“Hush,” Lamella said, putting a finger to his lips. “Doubts can wait for tomorrow. You need to rest.”

Ebon rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Rest, yes. Until now I have been afraid to close my eyes for fear the spirits would overwhelm me. But here, with you, the voices are stilled. I feel at peace.”

“Then stay with me.”

“I will. Until dawn.”

A shadow fell across Lamella's face. “For as long as you wish.”

*   *   *

Parolla paused at the doorway of the temple to look out. The shrine's unnatural shadow now extended all the way across the Round. The walls of the tenement blocks on the far side were covered with cracks, and one of the buildings listed so acutely it seemed it might topple at any moment. Its occupants would be suffering from the touch of death-magic too, Parolla knew, but she would waste no pity on anyone stupid enough to live within spitting distance of a shrine to the Lord of the Dead.

She scanned the alleys leading off the Round, but nothing stirred, and so she moved outside and followed the wall of the temple to the right, stepping over the corpse of the beggar. As she left the shrine's shadow she was enveloped by breathless heat. Sweat broke out on her forehead. The sun had dipped to the level of the roofs of the buildings across the Round, and light now reflected off the tiles as if the skyline were aflame. Far away, a blacksmith's hammer kept up an even clang like the tolling of a bell.

How long had it been since she'd entered the temple? Two bells, maybe? If she had thought she'd be returning this way she would never have spent so long talking to Olakim. Ceriso di Monata would have delivered his message to the high priest of the Antlered God by now, and the Hunt would be under way. But then where were the Huntsmen? Parolla scowled. Closing in at this very moment, no doubt, while she stood waiting for them to arrive.

Keeping to the shadows cast by the tenement blocks, she set off for the Inner Wall.

By the time she reached the Fire Gate, a quarter of a bell later, her nerves were aflutter. She hadn't seen a soul. On her way to the temple, the din of the crowds had set her ears thrumming, but now Xavel was like a plague city, hushed and empty. Ahead the roof of the Fire Gate's archway had long since fallen, and the dirt road that bisected the surviving pillars was lined with blocks of stone, each one taller than Parolla. The front of the Gate was pockmarked with holes housing nesting blackcraws, and more of the squabbling birds crowded the tops of the pillars.

All at once they took flight in a raucous cloud, and Parolla ducked into a side street. Her heart pounded in her ears. Was it her approach that had caused the birds to scatter? That must be it, she decided, because when she risked another glance round the corner at the Gate, she saw the road passing through it was deserted.

But then why weren't the birds returning?

An ululating cry pierced the dusk, followed heartbeats later by an answering call, shrill but distant. Parolla swore. She knew that sound better than she would have liked.
A dactil.
Pressing her back to the wall, she looked up. There was a flap of wings like the crack of a whip, then a huge form sailed over the rooftops, its barbed tail snaking behind. The dactil's long, sinuous neck twisted from side to side as it scanned the ground beneath it, but the creature could not have seen her, for it banked south and flew out of sight.

A scout.

Parolla had encountered the Hunt enough times to know how the Antlered God's followers operated. While mounted riders quartered the city in small bands, dactils would range far and wide in search of their quarry. Once Parolla was flushed out into the open, the other hunters would converge. The fact the high priest was using trackers suggested he did not know where Parolla was, but then doubtless he would have expected her to flee Shroud's temple as soon as she received Ceriso's message. If that were the case, this part of Xavel—still close to the shrine—might be the last place he thought to look for her. That gave her time to consider her options.

So what now?

Hide? No, when she'd tried that in Axatal the Hunt had sniffed out her bolt-hole soon enough. Fight? It might come to a clash, but she would not go looking for one. The high priest himself led the Hunt, Ceriso had said, and with him would be a host of priests,
magi,
warriors and other hangers-on, all keen to win their god's favor by spilling her blood. And yet, hadn't the high priest himself warned Ceriso she was dangerous? Was he oblivious to the scores of innocents that would be caught up in a confrontation? Or had he chosen the setting for the Hunt for that very reason, hoping Parolla would hold back part of her power when she attacked?

That left flight. The problem was, Parolla had arrived in Xavel only yesterday. If she tried to run, she might wander the streets blindly until she stumbled into a party of Huntsmen. And even if she
could
navigate the maze of alleys, where would she go? The Serpentine Bazaar, perhaps? Speaker's Mount? The whole city could not be deserted, and if she found a crowd she might slip away unseen. But would the high priest stay his hand if he caught up to her when there were others present? Parolla could not afford to take the risk.

There was always the Xavellian Barracks by the palace complex, somewhere to the north. The city's padishah must be less than thrilled to have Huntsmen running amok in his city, but would he risk the wrath of the Antlered God by intervening? Parolla doubted it. If she went to the barracks seeking refuge, she might find herself detained and ransomed to the Hunt. Her best plan was to escape the city. But how?

She remembered suddenly the route she had taken when she entered Xavel from the north and west: through the Guild Quarter, past the Temple of Ral, over the river …

The river.

The Water Gate was no more than a quarter-league to the east round the Inner Wall. From there, a northerly course would bring her to the Xintha River. But then what if north also delivered her into the lap of the Hunt?

She would have to chance it. She would wait until the light faded further, though, before—

A triumphant cry sounded above, and Parolla looked up to see a dactil plummeting toward her, its taloned feet outstretched, its near-translucent wings tucked in to avoid the eaves of the buildings to either side. Her right arm snapped out, and she unleashed her power. Waves of sorcery struck the creature, and its jubilant screech rose to an agonized shriek. For an instant it flapped its blazing wings in a vain attempt to reverse its descent. Then its outline dissolved in a flash of white.

A handful of smoldering feathers fell about Parolla.

Brushing herself down, she muttered an oath. A hollow victory, for even if no one had seen the dactil fall, the Hunt's
magi
would have detected her sorcery and would now be directing their companions in this direction. Already she could hear distant hoofbeats to the south.

Time to leave.

Releasing her power in a trickle, she cloaked herself in shadow and set off east for the Water Gate in a half crouch, half scamper, not knowing whether speed or stealth was her main concern and no doubt failing to achieve either. Reaching a crossroads, she checked it was deserted, then darted across into the street opposite. Her heart was doing a quickstep, and in response to her fear the darkness within her began to rise. She took the next left, then right, then left again, always choosing the narrowest, darkest alleys where her shadow-spell would hide her from any watching eyes.

But the hoofbeats were getting closer. Parolla could now hear voices as well, no more than a couple of streets behind. She broke into a run. A bend to the right, a left turn, past a fountain swarming with needleflies, over another crossroads. Parolla hadn't heard any barking, but in case the Huntsmen were using dogs to follow her scent she splashed through the effluent running down a channel in one of the alleys.

Still the hoofbeats drew nearer.

Breathing heavily, Parolla halted and looked up. There were no dactils overhead, but the Huntsmen had to be tracking her somehow. Odds were they had a
magus
in their party—someone powerful enough to detect her spell of concealment—but if she let the spell fall she'd only make it easier for the other Huntsmen to spot her. What choice, though? The hoofbeats had reached the corner behind her.

Cursing, she surrendered her power and ducked into a doorway.

From her left, a dozen horsemen came riding along the street carrying spears, crossbows, and nets. Their breastplates were adorned with the emblem of a stag, and antlers protruded from the conical helmets on their heads. At the sight of them, a shadow fell across Parolla's vision. It would be easy to cut them down as they approached, but instead she shrank back farther into the gloom, and the Huntsmen cantered past to the noise of jingling harnesses, leaving in their wake the smell of waxed leather.

Twoscore heartbeats later, shouts of confusion sounded to the east. It wouldn't be long before the
magus
doubled back and found Parolla's hiding place. She had to think of something quickly. If she raised her shadow-spell again, the sorcerer would hone in on it, but how far could she get without it before someone saw her?