When she was little, her father had taught her how to mend fishing nets. They would sit for hours on the hut floor, clumps of netting spread out in front of them. He showed her the trick of methodically running each section through her fingers so she would never miss a join. When mending was needed, he bent her fingers around the needle, fashioning them into the correct hold. “Loose and nimble,” he used to say. The flax had to be darned just so. Even one small hole could ruin a day’s fishing. If the links were too weak, the strength of the shoal would break them.
She lifted her empty hands and ran through the pattern like it was a dance. It was comforting to retreat into muscle memory. A place where she didn’t have to think or feel.
The lock clicked. Instinctively, she grabbed the empty cup and thrust it out in front of her, despite having no idea how she could use it to defend herself.
The door creaked open. A guard in full helmeted armor entered the room. He looked like he was going into battle. Her fingers dug deeper into the wooden cup.
“You’re to come with me,” he said in a gruff voice.
She didn’t move. They were going to torture her. That’s why they’d let her live.
The guard edged a hand to the pommel of his sword. “Now.”
In the face of his blade, she reluctantly got to her feet, the useless cup tumbling from her hand.
“Lose the cloak.”
She hesitated. “Why?”
“Take it off.”
She undid the clasp and reluctantly let the novice’s blue cloak slide to the floor. It had, briefly, been the most expensive thing she’d ever owned. Well, stolen.
Impatiently, the guard grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out into the empty corridor. He marched her swiftly through a labyrinth of tunnels. The cells seemed endless. Door after door punctuated the catacombs. She wondered why a city dedicated to worship needed the capacity to hold so many prisoners.
“Where are you taking me?”
He didn’t answer, but his stride quickened. Fear bubbled in her throat. She had to jog to prevent herself from tripping as he hauled her along. Two more guards came around the bend from the opposite direction. Her guard’s grip tightened around her arm. The men nodded and passed them by.
She was breathing hard by the time they came to a thick wooden door, secured by an iron lock. With his free hand, the guard drew a ring of keys from his belt. They jangled together as he slid the first one into the lock.
It wouldn’t twist.
He dropped Danae’s arm and tried the next, then the next, swearing under his breath as the bolt didn’t move. There was something different about his voice, it didn’t sound as deep as it had done in the cell.
She stepped away from him. “Who are you?”
The metal bar slid back with a clink. The guard didn’t have time to reply as voices came echoing down the corridor. He yanked open the door. Sunlight blinded Danae as he pushed her up a flight of steps.
“Run!”
She hesitated for a heartbeat, then her legs jerked into motion.
She squinted against the glare, her eyes adjusting to the brightness of the outside world. She was in a small courtyard at the rear of one of the treasure houses that lined the sacred way. Manicured cypress trees and bronze statues were positioned at precise intervals in front of the high walls, and mosaics swirled within uniform squares on either side of a gravel walkway.
She barely had time to take it in before her rescuer was behind her. He slammed and locked the door, then slipped his hand into hers and pulled her across the courtyard to the wall.
When they reached it, he dropped her hand and threw himself against an empty plinth. To her surprise it toppled under his weight and smashed on the ground, revealing it to be hollow. There was a hole in the base of the wall behind it, where the bricks had been removed, just large enough for an adult to crawl through.
“Go!” He removed his sword from his scabbard belt.
She didn’t hesitate this time. Heart thumping, she flung herself to the ground and crawled through the hole, ignoring the pain as the stone grazed her knees. She emerged the other side and found herself in a bustling street. Only the official buildings, dedicated to worship or hoarding offerings, were made of stone, but the holy city was swollen with a patchwork of wooden stalls and dwellings that had sprung up around them, selling goods to present to the oracle, or offering food and shelter to waiting pilgrims.
Danae barely had the time to take it all in before a sword clattered at her feet and the helmeted head of her rogue guard followed.
He was halfway through when he was suddenly yanked back. Danae lunged forward and grabbed his hands, gritting her teeth as she tried to pull him toward her.
“Let go,” he grunted.
