Mouse shuddered but followed Eanrin through the gate without a word. He wore his cat form, a better disguise in this land of black hair and eyes. He stopped in the middle of the road, his tail upraised, his pink nose sniffing uncertainly. She knew he hated to admit any deficiency of knowledge, so she took the lead, still without speaking.
Then it was the long trek through the city temple, which had become more familiar to her than the mountain of her childhood, but which was, she saw now, far more treacherous. Every shadow was a threat where dragons or ghosts or Black Dogs might lurk, and she felt the presence of the Netherworld beneath her feet.
“Dragon’s teeth!” Eanrin swore quietly as they climbed the road toward the Citadel. “I know that building. It looks just like the towers of Etalpalli!” His tail lashed uneasily. “That settles it for sure.”
Mouse did not understand what he meant by this, so she made no answer. She didn’t like leading Eanrin through the broad front entrance of the lower temple, but she knew it would be the safest way, especially this time of night. The big entrance doors stood open, as always. Mouse clung to the shadows along the wall as she and the cat slipped inside.
To her surprise the cat scampered ahead, tail high, nose twitching. It was too dark to see anything of him save the faint gleam of his white paws and chest. He came to a stop, one paw upraised, then looped around back to her.
“I smell her,” he said in a low voice. “I smell Imraldera. She came this way, did she not?”
Mouse nodded, afraid to speak. The cat’s voice seemed to echo around the pillars, but that might have been her imagination.
“Which way to the dungeons?” Eanrin demanded.
Mouse shook her head vigorously. “Not yet. If you draw attention now, I’ll never reach my chambers.”
The cat’s ears flattened, and his eyes glinted with their own light. “You do what you must, little girl,” he said. “Infiltrate their ranks as you infiltrated ours. Follow Etanun to the Netherworld and see if you can push back the tide of prophetic events. I, however, will find my comrade, with or without your help.”
With those words, he slinked away, vanishing into the heavy shadows of the pillared hall.
Never before had Mouse felt quite so alone.
“There’s no one to tell you what to do now,” she whispered to herself, forcing her feet to move. “You’re on your own. Time to start making decisions for yourself!”
So she crept like a thief through the temple that was her home and succeeded in gaining the privacy of her room without being seen. Or so she fervently hoped.
Mouse entered the Speaker’s chambers as she had always done, before the last of the sun’s glow had quite vanished beyond the horizon, and prepared the braziers for evening incense. As she knelt to her task, her hands shaking with fear and exhaustion, she didn’t hear the rustle of the high priestess’s robes and remained unaware of the Speaker’s presence until she felt the clasp of a hand on her shoulder from behind.
“There you are, child,” said the Speaker, her voice cold but not ungentle. “I was beginning to worry.”
With an effort Mouse kept a hold on her brand. She turned and made the sign of blessing and reverence but did not trust herself to speak. She had slipped into her acolyte robes, discarded her disguise, and hastened about her daily tasks as though everything was as usual.
But one look in the Speaker’s eyes told her that everything, in fact, was not as usual, and no one was deceived otherwise.
She’s going to kill me, Mouse thought and dropped her gaze again.
“I sent for you this morning,” the Speaker said, the pressure of her hand still firm on Mouse’s shoulder. “I thought you might need comforting after the experiences you underwent yesterday. The near presence of the Flame can be distressing even to the holiest among us.”
Mouse couldn’t speak. Her mouth was as dry as the land beyond the temple grounds.
“Though they searched, no one could find you to bring you to me.” How stonelike was the Speaker’s voice. Like those of the goblins who had taken Gaheris, Mouse thought. Only the goblins’ voices were of volcanic rock, ready at any moment to burst into heat and danger. The Speaker’s, by contrast, was a voice of marble.
The tall woman released her hold on Mouse and stepped back, her arms folded, the sleeves of her robe draping down her front. She wore her evening wig, woven ornately with gold, lacking its usual crown of starflowers. Her robe was the finest, softest, most vibrant in her collection. Bangles decorated her arms but could not hide the burns. Some of these were fresh burns, Mouse realized, and wondered what agonies the high priestess had suffered under the Dragonwitch’s passionate flames last night.
Yet the Speaker served, and if she questioned the rightness of her service, she never did so out loud. She was, Mouse realized, a woman who could never be wrong. No matter the evidence to the contrary, she would cling to the rightness she had first decided to grasp. It was this more than anything that bound her in chains.
“Poor child,” the Speaker said. “You went into hiding, didn’t you?”