The heart of the temple is built of stones so massive they must have been assembled by giants. A handful of relics are displayed on plain pedestals, broken pieces of gold and marble from earlier epochs winking in the firelight. The main chamber is a veiled statue of a goddess with her arms raised. The gods here are not the ones who watch over us in Alarice, but in the presence of this ancient deity of old Estyrion, I feel welcomed. Harvest Mother would not be slighted that I give thanks to my savior today, her sister goddess.
Siena bows her head before the statue. “This is the temple of Sirona, goddess of health and healing,” she explains. “The goddess without a face who welcomes all.”
As we shuffle forward, holding up an unconscious Dietan between us, we lose ourselves amongst veiled acolytes dressed in the same robes as Siena. There are other weary travelers bowed in prayer.
No one pays us any mind.
I surmise this place is more than just a house of healing. I wonder how many others—escapees or otherwise—have come through these doors seeking sanctuary from the king’s cruelty.
Siena leads us to a high-ceilinged chamber deep within the temple, where an older woman in flowing robes lights candles and incense. She turns when she hears us approach, her wrinkled face kind and welcoming. When she sees Dietan, she simply extends one hand toward the table, and we guide him to lie on it. He’s completely unconscious, but he’s breathing.
“Thank you, sister,” Siena says, bowing with folded palms. I do the same.
The healer leans over Dietan, whispering some enchantment as she stuffs his mouth with herbs. She inspects his wounds with sure hands, rubbing them with ointments drawn from a series of tiny golden pots. I can see their faint glow from the other end of the table.
“Leave us,” she orders. “This will take a while, and I don’t want you to hear him in pain.”
I can’t bear the thought of Dietan suffering further, but I know too well from Veteria that many medicines require some measure of pain to do their work.
As I watch the healer tend to his wounds, my shoulders relax. The woman knows her craft. I can only hope that despite his many injuries, Dietan will be in a condition to leave soon, before we bring Namreth’s forces to this temple’s doorstep. He looks like death warmed over, and I pray the healer is endowed with all Sirona’s blessings.
“Come on,” says Siena. “You must be hungry.” It’s only then that I realize the air is ripe with the scent of seared meats, roasted vegetables, and fresh-baked bread.
Siena leads me to a dining hall and passes me a plate. She piles it high with all manner of hearty fare. We sit down next to each other at a long table with many others, including priests and priestesses in their imposing headdresses. I’m so hungry that I don’t talk for a long time, focused on filling my mouth with the temple’s bounty.
“Do you know what happened to the others?” I finally ask, when I’ve scraped my plate clean. “Did they get out?”
“I don’t know. I imagine some of them did, but I could be wrong. I…” Siena’s brow furrows with concern.
“The alarm—they figured out we escaped,” I say.
“We can’t be sure,” says Siena hopefully. “But why else would they have sounded it?”
I nod. So much for my grand plan. I hope they all got to safety. I hopewecan get to safety in time. I glance at the door, toward the room where we left Dietan with the healer.
Sienna pats my arm. “Don’t worry. Sister Dosha is a true talent,” she says with a note of pride. “She’s from my home village, where they teach this art.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’s talented,” I say. “But it’s going to take a miracle to get Dietan on his feet before the king’s men arrive.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Dietan
“Please just kill me,” I say.
But the healer tending to me only shakes her head and continues her work. Not one inch of my body has been left untouched by Namreth’s brutality. Every injury screams in protest.
Still, I feel better than I did a day ago.
“Who are you? Where am I?” I ask, my voice scarcely more than a whisper.
“I am Sister Dosha,” the healer says. “You are at the temple of Sirona.”
The name rings a bell. Dosha was the name of a famed Loegrian healer who came to court at my father’s invitation when I was a boy. Against all warnings, she decided to make the pilgrimage to Sirona’s temple in the Waste, and we had little word of her since. We’d all thought she perished in the desert.
“I’m relieved to see you are alive,” I say with some effort. “I remember you. You healed my leg when I was thrown from my first horse.”
Dosha smiles. “It has been a long time since I set foot in Loegria. I have learned much here, in Sirona’s light. More than King Donnel’s medicine men were able to teach me after three years at your father’s court. But your father is a good king. May he bring the Rings of Fate to bear in the coming war and free us from the mad king’s rule.” My heart sinks as I watch her wipe her hands on a clean white cloth.
