“Not here,” Amris replied. “Here, there was some warning. Any who would leave the city, did. All who remained turned out to fight, and… I know not what happened to all of them.”
The storms broke hard—likely, I now know, it was as soon as Thryan was no longer there to control them—and the city was at the center. Those who fled headed south. A quarter survived the journey. They said it was better to die of exposure—or attack—in the storms than starvation in Klaishil.
“They left ahead of the storms,” said Darya. “Some of them made it.” She watched Amris take the news, face still. “One day,” she said, “I’ll get to tell you some good news.”
With that, she left, not wanting to make him hide his pain in front of an audience, and went through the doors into the main room of the temple.
Even Sitha’s power couldn’t protect a disused temple completely from every misfortune in a hundred years. Dust lay thick on every surface, the burgundy carpets were thin—moths and mice apparently did survive in Klaishil, resilient creatures that they were—and half the tall arched windows were broken.
The last light shone in rainbows through the ones that were still intact, though. The stained glass picked out golden spiders and female faces in the corners. In the centers, larger pictures showed fields of wheat, smiling families at dinner, scholars bent over their books, a woman at a spinning wheel, and other scenes of craft and civilization. As Darya reached the altar, she saw the cloth covering it was still fine and richly embroidered beneath the dust, and the candlesticks atop it were delicate creations of branching gold, studded with topazes in the shape of spiders.
“I’m bringing these back to the temple in Oakford,” she said as she reached for the first of them. “As a gift, not for sale.”
“It would’ve been no place of mine to ask,” said Amris.
“Well.”
He was right, and he wasn’t, and it was awkward as hell to suddenly have a witness other than Gerant, who’d gotten used to her long ago. Darya looked down at the candlestick. It was important to pack such things with care.
“And it would be a shame,” he added, “to let beauty be lost, when so much of worth has vanished already.”
That, said Gerant,is why I loved him. One of the reasons; nothing has only one cause, as I’ve told you on an occasion or seven.
“Without you,” Darya replied, only half-joking, “I’d be an uneducated clod.”
Amris’s chuckle drew her gaze up to his face again. His eyes were soft, but he didn’t seem quite as sad. “He’s not changed very much with the years, then.”
Piled up more knowledge, I would say, and only had one person at a time with whom to share it, but I fear neither time nor death has changed the essentials.
“Neither of us is really complaining,” said Darya, which drew another affectionate laugh from Amris. This time, she felt as though she was part of the connection between him and Gerant, not in a limbo between translator and intruder.
The inclusion was pleasant—too pleasant to linger in, or she’d come to expect it and start imposing herself. Darya fastened the flap of her pack and stepped back from the altar. “Moving on,” she said. “Unless either of you think we’ll be smote for it, I say here’s the best place to make camp.”
* * *
A hundred years before, Amris had knelt in front of the same altar and prayed for victory. Even then, most of the priests had left: fleeing the city, fighting with the army, reinforcing the walls, or helping with the wounded in Letar’s temple, where holy power had to be reinforced by human effort. Always tired, always hungry from half rations of biscuits and dried meat, a bandaged cut down one leg still aching, he’d looked up at Sitha’s gentle, contemplative face and wondered how much use she could be, even as he asked for her aid.
The face was still there, carved in relief into the wall behind the altar. Now, her smile seemed more knowing. Amris didn’t think the gods would have been vengeful enough to punish him for his doubts, but perhaps she was sayingAnd now you seeor something similar. He knelt and prayed again. It could only help, and he had time.
Darya was walking in a wide circle around the altar and the room beyond, one that covered as much free space as possible before bumping into the pews. She went slowly, with her sword naked in her hand and pointed toward the floor, and a line of green light appeared on the stone below it. As the circle grew, the light rose, slowly forming a dome half the height of the ceiling, until Darya came back to the point where she’d started and the structure closed.
A faint green hue tinted everything, but the air felt no warmer or cooler, and a breeze still stirred it; it wouldn’t go stale on them. Amris rose from his prayers. “May I touch the circle?”
“You can try, but you’ll go through,” said Darya. She sat, sword sheathed now, and Amris thought she was paler than usual. “It’s not really there to block passage for either of us. Gerant says it knows our souls.”
“Is the casting often so hard on you?”
“Not always.”
“That is to say, not without a second person to include. Once again, I’m in your debt.”
“It’s good practice.”
Amris joined her on the floor. It was stone, but as it was also smooth and not freezing, he’d had worse, and it was good simply to take weight off his feet. He pulled off his helm and gauntlets, which was a greater relief, and began to undo the catches on his breastplate, while Darya divested herself of her simpler armor far more quickly. With supple grace and long practice, she toed off one boot, then the other, and leaned back with a contented sigh.
“At times I thought,” said Amris, “that I could be dead three days and still enjoy this moment.” The last catch finally fell away. He lifted his armor off and took a truly deep breath for the first time in…in more than a hundred years. So it always felt, but the literal truth was disconcerting.
“Here,” said Darya, holding out a small parchment-wrapped bundle. “It’s not much of a first meal, but you probably need it.”
