Authors: Hilari Bell
“B
IRD TRACKS
,
MICE
,
SOME SQUIRRELS
. But that’s all.”
The reporting Tracker was as muddy as Tobin, and he looked almost as tired. He couldn’t be more tired, for these days weariness seemed to drag at Tobin’s bones.
Today he had a headache, too. But this long marsh was the best water source in miles, and anything that approached it would leave its mark in the mud. Tobin had hiked along one section of the slippery shore himself—though even with their magic drained, the goblin Trackers were better at it than he was.
When Tobin had scouted around their previous camp, it had mostly been as part of another task; wandering away when the log cutters didn’t need him, or accompanying the Greeners who hunted foodstuffs farther and farther afield.
When they reached the new village site, Makenna had sent him out to search the area before he’d even had a chance to unpack. And she’d sent a handpicked band of Trackers and
Flichters with him. It was a perfect scouting team…had there been anything to find.
No predators larger than a fox. No sign of building, of any intelligent life. No trouble even from the weather, except that it was hot in the afternoons.
Tobin rubbed his aching temples gently.
“We’re going to head back,” he told the Tracker. “All the way back to the main camp. I’ll send the Flichters to round up the others and bring them in.”
“That’s assumin’ none of them found anything either, right?”
“If anyone’s seen anything, then of course we’ll investigate,” Tobin assured him.
But in his heart he knew they hadn’t. And it wasn’t because he wanted to get back to Makenna, although he did. Despite being surrounded by goblins, as she’d been most of her life, her connection with her own humanity was growing every day. Every time he looked at her, Tobin sometimes thought.
That was why he’d followed her through the gate; to keep her human. He needed her human.
But the real reason he wanted to return was his nagging conviction that the goblin camp was the
reason
all these strange things were happening. Erebus had pointed out that peculiar events could be taking place all over the Otherworld, all the time, and they’d only know about the things that affected them. Tobin was certain that even that mountain had been moved just to drive them out.
If they had an enemy, the new camp was where it would strike.
Tobin rubbed his aching head again. “Round up the others,” he repeated. “We’re going home.”
T
HE DAY BEFORE
M
ASTER
L
AZUR
and Nevin departed seemed eternal. The night, most of which Jeriah spent reviewing his plans, was even longer.
He caught a glimpse of their departure from the dais as he carried petitions from the crowd to Master Zachiros, but dealing with the Hierarch under the secretary’s sharp eye took all his attention. To his disappointment the old man had forgotten his name again, but Jeriah hoped he’d start remembering it soon.
After the petitions he helped the menservants put the Hierarch to bed, and then pulled Mohri, the most senior of them, aside.
“Before he left, Master Lazur asked me to conduct some business for him. It was scheduled before his departure and can’t be delayed.”
“Yes, sir.” The man didn’t even look curious.
Don’t say too much
.
“The problem is, I may not be back by sunset—can you
attend the Hierarch at prayers?”
“Yes, sir. But what about his medicine?”
“I’ll be back in time to give it to him,” Jeriah said. He’d better be finished by then! “But if I’m not, I’ll brew it for him when I get in. I’d have done that before, if I’d realized…”
“All right, sir.” Mohri turned away, and Jeriah hurried to the stable to put his plan in action.
He saddled Glory and rode into the city in case someone checked his story. Was he making this too complicated? He had to make people believe he’d left the palace, or he’d be forced to attend the Hierarch this evening. Jeriah wished he knew how to pick locks. He hoped St. Cerwyn, the patron of wild and desperate ventures, would favor him once more.
He was going to need the help of all the saints to get into the Otherworld in time to save his brother. Tobin could become ill any day now, and the Lesser Ones still hadn’t contacted him!
At least after tonight he could set the goblins searching for the spell notes. While they were doing that, Jeriah would track down that cursed tinker and choke the information out of him! He’d have to make some excuse…What excuse could he make to abandon the Hierarch? Especially if Nevin wasn’t there to take his place. Could the menservants alone keep the Hierarch’s condition secret? And if they couldn’t, would that be so terrible?
Yes, Jeriah realized grimly. Only a divinely guided Sunlord could have convinced the Realm that relocating was
truly necessary. That the barbarians couldn’t be defeated in battle. If the Hierarch and Master Lazur’s shadow government fell, the relocation would fall with them. And then, if the barbarians won…
Catastrophe. A catastrophe beyond imagining.
Jeriah thrust the thought away. He had to save Tobin. The servants could make some excuse for the Hierarch’s non-appearance, claim he had some minor illness until Nevin returned.
Half the government was looking out for the relocation—Jeriah was the only one who was trying to save his brother.
A different guard shift was stationed at the gates when Jeriah added himself to the crowd that came to the palace to attend the Sunset Prayer. The few grooms still in the stable paid him no attention when he returned Glory to her stall. Jeriah joined the people climbing the temple stairs, concealing his identity simply by pulling up his hood and keeping his eyes lowered.
The warning chime sounded as Jeriah got off the steps at the fourth-level terrace—he could have been rushing to change his clothes before the prayer. He dashed into his room and shut the door behind him, then he changed his mind and cracked it open. When the ceremony began, he could hear the distant murmur of prayer and response clearly.
Jeriah slipped around the terrace to the dining chamber, hugging the wall. Everyone was supposed to be in the
temple, but what if someone was late? Or was using this emptying of the palace for their own purpose, like he was? Jeriah grinned.
I won’t tell if you won’t
. It was a bargain he’d made several times, working pranks in the past. He hoped he wouldn’t need it tonight.
If anyone else was shirking their pious duties, Jeriah didn’t meet them. He took the laundry stairs to the third level, and the narrow servants’ staircase to the corridor that ran between the Hierarch’s rooms, Master Zachiros’ offices, and the petitions court. At the end of that corridor, a ladder with a hatch at the top gave access to the crowded storeroom under the chorus steps.
Jeriah quietly opened the hatch—the Hierarch’s strong voice and the chorus’ rumbling response came clearly through the steeply angled ceiling. The first third of the prayer was already over. When Jeriah had been in this room before, he’d been looking for spell notes, not chests of amulets. The high wall held narrow cabinets, where the priests of the chorus kept their robes. They were labeled with their owners’ names, and Jeriah took a few seconds to read down the line. If one belonged to a friend of Master Lazur’s, he’d take a moment to check it for the notes—but the only name he recognized was Herb Mistress Chardane’s. If Jeriah could find those cursed notes, he wouldn’t need the amulets—but that wasn’t going to happen now.
On to the storage compartment. Jeriah had to shift several crates to reach the small door. Quietly—if he could hear the
prayer this clearly, they might be able to hear loud sounds he made.
The last crate he pulled aside revealed a keyhole, but Jeriah reached out and tugged the handle anyway. Locked! Jeriah swore under his breath. But at least he knew where these keys were probably kept.
He climbed down the ladder and ran down the hall to Master Zachiros’ office. No locked doors here. Jeriah had been in the secretary’s desk several times, fetching things he’d “forgotten.” He knew exactly where the keys were.
Snatching them up, he ran back to the chorus storeroom and began fitting keys into the lock. The prayer was almost two thirds done now.
Come on, one of you, fit!
Key after key—he was halfway through the ring when he heard the sweet click.
The locked compartment was a narrow wedge, the ceiling too low for anyone to stand inside. It was full of chests, crates, boxes. Jeriah tore them open, desperately balancing silence against speed. At least each needed just a glance to tell him it held only prayer books, crockery, pennants—an infinite number of things he didn’t care about. This was taking too long! Chests of medallions, copper medallions. Jeriah grabbed the next chest and shook it. No sound. The next chest thudded dully. Jeriah kicked a crate but nothing jangled. No sound. No sound. Wood on wood, like a child’s blocks. No sound. The next chest was only medium sized, but so heavy Jeriah could barely shift it. Metal, lots of small
pieces of metal, jangled within. Please, please,
please.
It was locked.
“Dung!” He slammed his fists on the lid. There were several small keys on Master Zachiros’ ring, but the prayer was almost over. He was so close!
Try!
Jeriah snatched the key ring back out of his pocket. His fingers shook as he searched the smaller keys.
“Praise the Bright Gods.”
It was ending. Next key.
“Praise them.”
“Praise their rule, whose justice gives order to our land.”
“Praise their rule.”
“Praise their sun, whose light gives life to our land.”
Key, key, key. They clattered in his trembling hands.
“Praise their sun.”
Come on, you demons, one of you fit!
“Praise their love, which lights our souls.”
“Praise their love.”
One more try
.
“Praise and farewell.”
Just one more try!
“Praise and farewell.”
The lock clicked open.
Footsteps rang on the steps above him as the chorus began to descend, but Jeriah couldn’t quit now. Most people spent a few moments chatting after the ceremony. He flung open the lid, sobbing with relief at the dull green and brown
of tarnished copper. He yanked open the sack at his belt and thrust in handfuls of amulets, as fast as he could, careless of the noise. No less than fifty, curse them. His sack was full. Slam down the lid, snap the lock shut. Jeriah grabbed the keys and scuttled to the low door—no one there! He shot into the storeroom, the sack dragging at his belt. It took several precious seconds to relock the door. If he could make it to the Hierarch’s rooms, he could hide the sack of amulets, pretend he’d just arrived…
Jeriah dashed across the storeroom and opened the hatch in the floor, but just as he started down the ladder, three priests came down the east stairs, talking easily among themselves. Jeriah had no excuse to be seen coming out of this room! He closed the hatch and gazed around frantically—the chorus would come through the main door in seconds, the only other door besides the hatch led to the locked storage area, and there was no time to reopen it. As the door from the temple swung open, Jeriah rushed to Chardane’s robe cabinet, crammed himself in, and pulled the door shut—it closed on the hem of his tunic. He could hear people coming into the storeroom, talking, banging cabinet doors. He didn’t dare to free his tunic—someone might notice the movement.
Would the grandmotherly herb mistress, who’d been so sensible about the Hierarch’s tea, turn him in? Why wouldn’t she? If she was anything like Jeriah’s grandmother, she’d thoroughly enjoy the drama of his exposure. How could he
have been so stupid? He might have made some excuse for being in the storeroom, but there was no possible excuse for hiding in a cabinet! He had panicked. Maybe Chardane was ill today. Maybe she’d be delayed outside until the others left. And maybe Master Lazur would personally present Jeriah with the spell notes, and offer to create the gate himself! He was still panicking and it wouldn’t help.
Calm, calm.
What could he say when the door opened? Jeriah’s heart pounded. He was breathing in gasps. Calmness was a joke. What could he—
The door opened.
Herb Mistress Chardane gazed at him for a moment, draped her robe neatly over his head, tucked his tunic into the cabinet, and closed the door. Jeriah heard the latch click shut.
Why hadn’t she exposed him? Why hadn’t she screamed, pointed, cried out? And why in the Dark One’s name had she locked him in?
He didn’t dare to move—not that he could have moved far. The robe cabinets’ latches were simple, but they were on the outside of the doors.
Jeriah waited until the last voices had faded away before he stirred. Crushing the robe into a corner, he wiggled around till he could run the tip of his dagger up the door seam—it didn’t penetrate far enough to reach the catch. He tried until his muscles began to cramp before he resigned himself. St. Cerwyn was
not
going to help him this time.
Until she came back and released him, Jeriah was stuck here. Pray gods she’d be back before the Hierarch’s servants missed him in the morning!
The knights of legend never got stuck in closets. But those knights were more competent than Jeriah—as his father would attest!
Jeriah stretched as much as he could and tried to sit down. The cabinet was too narrow. He tried to stand, but even with his head bent the cabinet was too short. He ended with his knees braced against one wall and his back against the other. If Chardane took too long to return, he was going to pay for his sins.
Why had she trapped him here, instead of raising the alarm?
Jeriah had plenty of time to think about it as the hours passed. There was a grilled vent at the top of the door, so breathing was no problem, but even though he shifted position as much as he could, his muscles spasmed and ached. He tried carving away the door beside the latch, but the wood was too hard—Dawn Prayer would arrive before he succeeded. Jeriah tried to distract himself by speculating about the woman’s motives, but his guesses led nowhere and the pain was beginning to disrupt his concentration. He’d have tried to break the door, but the guards who stood night watch outside the Hierarch’s rooms would investigate the noise. As more time passed, Jeriah began to think that his screams would draw them just as surely. He had to get
out of here! His back muscles burned; his thighs cramped and shook.
He heard a door open, and light steps crossed the floor—if this wasn’t the herb mistress, he would pound on the door, demand release, think up some excuse.
The door opened. Jeriah burst out and would have fallen if Chardane’s plump hands hadn’t caught him. She was awfully strong for a grandmother.
“Sorry it took so long,” she said softly. “Some of Zachiros’ clerks were working late. Try to walk a bit.”
She didn’t look sorry, demons take her; she looked amused, and a bit rueful. But she supported Jeriah as he staggered back and forth until his trembling legs would support him and he could straighten his neck. If she noticed the clinking sack at his belt, she didn’t mention it.
As the pain eased, Jeriah’s curiosity returned. “Why didn’t you expose me? Why trap me there?”
“In a minute,” she said. “Can you walk without falling?”
“I think so.”
She opened the main door and peered out before leading Jeriah out to the temple. Moonlight coated the flagstones, and the fresh night air felt wonderful after the cramped cupboard. Chardane took him down the west stairs, where the Hierarch’s guards wouldn’t see them, then entered the third level and crept down several servants’ stairs to a room Jeriah thought was somewhere behind the kitchen. The herb mistress opened the door confidently and whisked him in.
The scent struck Jeriah first, green and spicy. The darkness rustled in the draft from the door. Chardane lit the lamp without fumbling—she knew the room well. The flaring light winked on rows of jars, sitting on the shelves that lined every wall with small sacks nestled between them. The ceiling, hung with bunches of drying herbs, resembled an upside-down meadow. A worn worktable with a pump and a sink at one end completed the small herbery.
“I thought priests worked magic to cure themselves,” said Jeriah softly.
“It’s easier to drink a tea than cast a spell,” the woman replied. “At least for small things. And sometimes herbs work better. The priests come here with their stomachaches, just like the other palace folk.” Her voice sounded loud in the stillness. “No need to be quiet now. If anyone comes by, we can say you came for a headache tea. And speaking of tea…” She gestured him to one of the stools by the table, filled a kettle, and lit the fire pot beneath it. Jeriah wondered what the tea would have in it and resolved to watch her closely when she chose the herbs.