Chapter Fifteen
Alanna pushedherself up the slippery branches as the cold water dripped down her face and under her collar. Without her cloak, her arms were bare and ice-cold in the biting rain, and her neck, bereft of her braid, had never felt so exposed.
Her heart thudded in her chest as she pulled herself onto a high branch and nestled against the wet bark, surrounded by dripping leaves.
Val was going to sacrifice himself for her. Again.
She wanted to scream her grief and rage out at the world, but instead she did as he had asked and huddled, silent and alone, as the rain washed away the tears sliding down her face.
She heard the whistles first, then the thud of hoofbeats and running men just before the soldiers appeared. A squad of Blues followed the path below her, tracking the churned mud of their desperate flight. They paused briefly, horses nickering as the men pored over the sliding trail where Bayard stumbled. A few seconds later they took off again, following Val.
She stayed for a minute, clinging to the tree and whispering broken prayers. She didn’t know if she still believed in the Bard, the father who had sung the world into life. He had never answered any of her prayers before. But if there was any chance at all that he would hear her, she would take it.
She interspersed her frantic begging with pleas to the gods of Val’s people, hoping they might intercede where the Bard would not.
And then, with a final prayer for forgiveness from Val, she climbed back down the tree and jumped onto the path.
He would be furious. And there was every chance that she was about to utterly negate his sacrifice. But she had to do something. She had to try.
The whistles and shouts were ahead of her now and toward the road. She cast a quick glance in that direction and then ran down the path that led further into the woods. Away from the road—but toward the temple.
An exultant howl echoed off to her right, and she faltered. They had him. Bard. Listening to the distant battle was agony. Should she go back? Could she do anything to help? What would Val want her to do?
She stood, head bowed, knowing that there was only one choice. Then she lifted her head and ran on. Faster than she had ever run in her life.
Up the steep paths, slick with mud and riddled with roots and rocks and potholes, she ran, deeply thankful for the days of hard work and miles of rough walking that meant she could keep going, even as the air burned in her lungs and she tasted the metallic sweetness of blood in her mouth.
Occasionally she heard squads of soldiers, searching, off to her right, but she stayed left, always choosing the higher path. Slowly the walls of the temple rose above the trees, and the sound of soldiers grew faint against the harsh rattle of her own breaths.
She panted hard, the slope so steep she could bend over and use her hands to help pull her up. Her legs ached and trembled, and she began to worry that she would collapse before she reached the top. She gritted her teeth and pushed on. She could not allow herself the luxury of stopping, not even to collapse.
The clouds lifted slightly, grew lighter, and the rain petered to a dripping halt. Then, suddenly, the woods opened onto a narrow path flanking the dark reddish umber of the complex walls. She turned left and ran along the wall.
Birds began singing in the woods, delighted that the rain had stopped, and the rich smell of soil and autumn leaves rose all around her as she scrambled along the cramped path, the ground falling away treacherously to her side.
Long minutes passed as she ran, searching for some kind of entrance, trying to keep her panic at bay. It felt like forever since she’d heard the soldiers shouting. They would be busy dragging Val through the woods, back to the king. If he was even alive.
A slowly rising wave of despair threatened to engulf her, but she pushed on.
Finally, she turned the corner and saw it. A wide road, leading to a long, steep path and from there up to the massive red gatehouse. Its arched entranceway was profusely decorated in intricate plasterwork and vibrant ceramics, shining blue against the red walls.
The entrance to the Nephilim Temple at Eshcol. The legendary Gate of Judgement.
Flanking the path were colossal marble statues of eight majestic, winged beings, the archangels of the Nephilim. Messengers from the gods, bringing the gifts of heaven down to earth.
She jogged slowly past them, their huge, feathered wings outstretched above her. The Angel of Healing, lifting a sickle and a handful of herbs in her elegant hand. Truth and Justice, his face stern, holding scales in one hand, a fiery sword in the other. Wisdom, her slim arms bearing an array of ornate scrolls.
On she went, each massive, sculpted figure so lifelike that she could almost believe they truly stood above her, watching and assessing. Judging her. She stumbled forward, half expecting to be found wanting before she even reached the door.
The huge wooden gate was open, and she slowed to a walk as she entered the enormous tunnel, looking around for some kind of guardian or keeper and finding no one.
The archway opened onto a huge courtyard dominated by a square pool that reflected the elegant arches and spires rising high around it. Lush green vegetation climbed the banks of the pool, spilling to trail delicate fronds over the surface of the water.
A bell chimed as she passed, and she stopped walking, uncertain, just as a tall man dressed entirely in white stepped out of a small doorway. He had long red-brown hair sprinkled with gray and a thick beard.
“Good morning.” His voice was deep and calm, confident, but not unkind. She took a step forward and bowed her head politely.
“Are you a supplicant?” he asked, taking in her mud-drenched clothes, strained breathing, and trembling hands with a flickering look from eyes a shade of purple so deep that she almost couldn’t look away.
