“I am Chassar uq-Ispad,” he said. His voice was deep and gentle. “I am told you speak Ersyri.”
Tané watched him sit in front of her.
“I have come here for a fruit of the orange tree,” she said, “to take to Eadaz uq-Nāra.”
“Eadaz.” Surprise jumped into his eyes, then pain. “Child, I do not know what you have heard of Eadaz, or how you know her name, but the fruit cannot bring back the dead.”
“She is not dead. Poisoned, but alive. With the fruit, I can save her.”
He froze as if she had struck him.
“Who told you about me?” he asked hoarsely. “About the Priory?”
“Lord Arteloth Beck.”
At this, Chassar uq-Ispad looked very tired.
“I see.” He knuckled his temple. “I suppose you also meant to take the blue jewel to Eadaz. The Prioress has it now, and she intends to execute you.”
“Why?”
“Because you murdered a sister. And because you rode here on the back of a sea wyrm. And lastly,” Chassar said, “because killing you would allow her to control the rising jewel.”
“You could help me escape.”
“Eadaz was able to steal the waning jewel from Mita Yedanya, the Prioress. She will not let its twin be taken,” Chassar said heavily. “I would have to take her life first. And that, I cannot do.”
Tané waited as he sat in silence.
“I trust that you will think of something, Ambassador uq-Ispad,” she said, “or Eadaz will die.” He looked at her. “Let me go, and she may not. The choice belongs to you.”
Chassar uq-Ispad did not return. He must have chosen loyalty to the Prioress.
All was lost.
Two women came at twilight. Their cloaks were pale brocade. Tané allowed them to lead her over tiled floors, through corridors that must never have seen sunlight. In every nook and alcove, there were cast-bronze figures of a woman holding an orb.
Tané knew she needed to fight, but suddenly she felt too weak to so much as bend a blade of grass. Her captors escorted her through an archway, on to a slim ledge of rock. A waterfall formed a veil on her right. The roar was so loud, she could no longer discern her own footsteps.
At least she would hear water at the end. The thunder of the falls reminded her of Seiiki.
“Sisters.”
Tané looked up. Chassar uq-Ispad was walking toward them.
“The Prioress has asked that I interrogate this one again,” he called in Ersyri. “I will not be long.”
The two women exchanged glances before letting Tané go. Chassar waited until they were out of sight, then took Tané by the arm and marched her back along the ledge.
“We have not long,” he said against her ear. “Do what you must, then leave and do not look back. All that awaits you here is a noose.”
“Will they not know you helped me?”
“That need not concern you.” Chassar showed her a stair carved into the rock. “That will take you to the valley. Only the tree can decide if you are worthy of a fruit.” He reached into his robe and withdrew her lacquer case. “This is yours. The coronation ring and the letter are still inside.” Next he produced a length of silk. “Carry the fruit in this.”
With his help, Tané knotted it around her body. “How will I get to Inys?” she asked him. “My dragon is gone.”
“Follow the River Minara until it forks and turn right. That way will take you north. I will send help, but you must not stop. The sisters will be on the hunt the moment they realize you are gone.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I will do what I can to delay them.”
“I cannot leave here without the rising jewel,” she bit out. “It answers only to me.”
Chassar looked grim.
“If I can get it from her, I will send someone after you with it,” he said, “but you must leave.”
He was gone before she could thank him.
There was no handhold on the stair. She cleaved to the stone on her left, watching the steps, mindful of the placement of her feet. Then the stair wound around the cliff side, and she saw it.
When Loth had spoken of an orange tree, she had imagined it as one of those that grew on Seiiki, small and unassuming. This was as tall as a cedar, and the scent of it made her mouth water. A living sister of the mulberry tree on Komoridu.
White flowers peppered its branches. Its leaves were polished green. Gnarled roots fanned around its trunk, snaking over the floor of the valley like patterning on silk. The Minara flowed around and beneath them.
There was no time to marvel. A shadow winged past, so close it ruffled her hair. Tané pressed her back against the rock face, watching the sky, still as prey in the eye of a hunter.
For a long time, there was silence. Then, out of the night, a firestorm.
Her body reacted before her mind could. She threw herself out of the way, but the stair was narrow and precarious, and suddenly she was tumbling, out of control, and the steps were a hammer on her back. Half-blind with panic, she grappled for something to break her fall as her body rolled toward a sheer drop.
At the last, she threw out a hand and caught the stair. She hung there, breathless.
She imagined herself on Mount Tego again. Steadying her nerves, she turned to see what had happened.
Fire-breathers. They were everywhere. Not pausing to question where they had come from, Tané dared look down. She was closer to the valley floor than she had thought, and time was running out. She let go of the stair, slithered on her back down the rock, and hit the grass with knee-jarring force.
The roots. The roots were thick and dense enough to protect her. As she delved into them, a fire-breather shrieked and crashed into the river, so close to Tané that she felt the spray of water from the impact. An arrow, fletched with a pale feather, was buried in its throat.
Chaos was unfolding in the valley. The trees around it were already on fire. Tané crawled on her belly, tensing whenever a hot wind blistered overhead. When she found an opening in the roots, she clambered back on to the grass and staggered to the foot of the tree.
Somehow, she knew what to do. She sank to her knees and turned her palms upward.
Cinders fell like snow on to her hair. She thought she had failed until a gentle snap came from above, and an orb, round and golden, dropped from on high. It missed her hands and tumbled into the tangle of giant roots. Cursing under her breath, she chased it.
The fruit rolled toward the rushing waters of the Minara. Tané threw herself forward and stopped it with one hand.
A flicker caught her eye. Between the roots, she saw a bird land, and as she watched, entranced, it turned into a naked woman.
Feather stretched to limb. The beak became a pair of red lips. Copper hair poured to the small of a slim back.
A shape-shifter. Everyone in Seiiki knew that dragons had once been able to change their forms, but it had been a long time since anyone had seen proof of it with their own eyes.
Another woman was approaching across the valley. A dark braid snaked over her shoulder. She wore a gold necklace and a scarlet robe with long sleeves, darker and more richly embroidered than those of the other women. When a fire-breather dived for her, she swept its flame aside as if it were a fly. Around her neck, on a chain, was the rising jewel.
“Kalyba,” she said.
“Mita,” the redhead answered.
They bandied words for a time, circling each other. Even if Tané could have understood their exchange, its content was of little consequence. All that mattered was which of them triumphed.
The Prioress moved toward the other woman. Her face was taut with hatred. The sun glinted off her sword as she swung it. Kalyba turned back into a hawk and swooped over her head. A heartbeat later, she wore a human shape again. Her laugh chilled Tané to the core. With a shout of frustration, the Prioress hurled a fistful of red fire.
Their battle brought them nearer and nearer to the roots. Tané withdrew into the shadows.
The women fought with fire and wind. They fought for an eternity. And when it seemed as if neither of them would ever best the other, Kalyba disappeared, as if she had never been there at all. The Prioress was so close now, Tané could hear her breathing.
It was then that the witch rose silently from the deep grass. She must have taken the form of something too small to see—an insect, perhaps. The Prioress turned a moment too late.
A sound like a foot crunching a shell, and she folded at the knees. Kalyba placed a hand on her head, as one might comfort a child. Mita Yedanya collapsed on to the grass.
Kalyba held up the heart of her enemy. Blood seeped from between her fingers. When she spoke, it was in a language Tané had never heard. Her voice rang through the valley.