Doors at the end of the hall were opened, and the Chronicler was carried through into a great tower and the foot of a staircase. Straining his neck, he saw that there were no floors to break up the dreadful height of this tower, merely landings, almost like perches in a falconry mews.
They carried him up, higher and higher, his legs swinging, and the Chronicler thought he might shame himself and faint. He tried closing his eyes, but that was worse, so he forced them to remain open, refusing to look down. One of the priestesses went before, the short one. Behind there were others; how many he could not guess, but he heard the tramp of their feet.
They did not climb to the crest of the tower. Instead, they stopped at one of the final broad landings. There still was no barrier between a false step and the long fall to the floor below, but it was large enough to fit a crowd of fifty or more comfortably. In the center was a high-backed wooden chair covered with animal hides stained the same red as the robes of the priestesses. It took a moment before the Chronicler realized someone sat upon it: a tall, solemn woman whose face might have been handsome had it not been heavily scarred with sorrow and cruelty.
The high priestess, he guessed. The Speaker.
The Chronicler’s head whirled with vertigo when the slaves threw him facedown before that red throne. He saw the priestess withdraw her feet in apparent disgust. Then she spoke sharply. He could guess what she said.
“Is this the one? Is this the heir to Fireword?”
One of the priestesses answered in a deep voice what seemed to be a tentative confirmation.
“It is what was brought, Speaker. They never fail in their hunt.”
The Chronicler raised his head and met the eyes of the high priestess. She blinked once, then shook her head and looked away with something between repugnance and . . . could it be embarrassment?
He grimaced and pushed himself upright. They hadn’t bothered to bind him. What was the need? He looked around and saw that a large crowd had gathered, most of them women, but slave men stood on the edges, their faces implacable as stone.
The high priestess spoke again, and though there was doubt in her tone, the Chronicler thought she was agreeing.
“If they brought him, he must be the one.” Then, after a pause, “Where is the girl?”
The crowd parted. The Chronicler looked around and saw Mouse, more ragged than ever amid the sober grandeur of the priestesses. Another priestess, the short one the Chronicler had glimpsed earlier, walked behind her, a hand upon her shoulder. And yet, he thought, Mouse did not look like a prisoner somehow. Not quite.
“Come to me, Mouse,” said the Speaker, holding out a hand.
Mouse went, passing the Chronicler without a glance. She fell upon her knees and face before the high priestess, her hands pressed to her chest in a manner of complete subservience. The Speaker leaned down and cupped her by the chin, lifting her gently upright. Even then Mouse could not raise her eyes to meet those of her mistress.
The Speaker said: “Well done, child. You have served the Flame with utmost courage and devotion. You shall have your reward.”
The Chronicler stared. The words passed without meaning through his ears, but the tone was unmistakable.
“You betrayed us,” he said. His voice was cold as ice in that hot realm.
Mouse started and spun around to face him. Her face was stricken, for she too understood his tone.
“You betrayed us,” he said, struggling to his feet. “You led us here to hand us over to them. And what became of the cat-man, eh? What became of Alistair?” She winced at his cousin’s name, which she recognized. But he did not hold back, only raised his voice in an angry shout. “Are they dead, then? Are they killed?”
“Take him away,” said the Speaker quietly. The two slave guards stepped forward, and though the Chronicler struck out in his fury, he could do nothing against them. They once more lifted him from his feet, and he burned with humiliation and wrath. Writhing in their grasp even as they passed through the crowd, he shouted over his shoulder:
“You’re not a mouse, do you hear me? You’re not a mouse; you’re a rat! A dirty, gnawing rat!”
Mouse, still kneeling, her mouth open, watched him disappear into the throng and heard him shouting in his barbarous tongue as they bore him back down the winding stair. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone as dry as the world beyond the tower.
The Speaker placed a hand upon her head. “We will clean you and make you presentable,” she said. “Then you will have what many long for and never achieve. You will look upon the face of your goddess.”
I will look upon the face of holiness, Mouse thought. And then I will be cleansed of my sin.