Even with their temple wardens to protect them, the priests never stood a chance. Dead people lie strewn like leaves on walkways and in courtyards, Saroese and Efean alike, marking the course of the battle. By now the surviving priests and servants are surrendering and being herded into a livestock corral. In the training courtyard boys kneel in rows with heads bowed.
A rush of frightened energy seizes me: Where are Maraya and Polodos?
A group of wardens has been backed up against the entrance of the temple Archives, fighting a losing skirmish against the press of furious soldiers. I descend as fast as I can manage, and even that is a struggle. Fortunately the Archives are close to the main entrance because I’m wheezing as I reach the forecourt. The final rank of wardens give way, slapping hands atop heads to beg for mercy as they accept the day is lost.
I spot Ro charging ahead. Of course a poet goes straight for an Archives. Inside I discover him yanking an armful of scrolls out of reach of a soldier who is trying to set them alight.
“No! Don’t burn books or scrolls,” Ro shouts. “Don’t burn anything!”
The smell of smoke already wafts from distant rooms as Efeans rampage through the building.
“Ro!” I call, and he turns.
“Jessamy! Go back to the wagons. It’s not safe—”
“My sister is being held prisoner somewhere in the temple!”
An Efean soldier appears, a young man about the same age as the honored poet. “Hey! Ro! There’s a barred door deep in the complex. Should we batter it down? The people inside claim to be innocent scholars.”
“How would you know?” Ro asks him. “You don’t speak Saroese.”
“An honored lady is negotiating in perfect Efean.”
“It has to be Maraya,” I say.
The soldier leads Ro and me through a series of rooms that ends in a set of iron-reinforced doors. About ten soldiers are pressed up against them, and at first I think they are shoving, trying to open it. But when several gesture at us to keep quiet I realize they are listening with intent interest to a voice muffled by the heavy doors. The voice is declaiming in the manner of a teacher.
“We have always been told the Saroese priests brought magic from old Saro, but listen to this account, which I discovered three days ago. ‘This holy metal called “winged silver” occurs in traces near the gold mines of the Stone Desert. It is rumored that this holy metal is strong enough to draw out the very spark of life from a beating heart—’”
“Maraya!” I shriek in a most undisciplined way. “Is Polodos with you?”
Silence answers me. Then, in a voice half broken by repressed tears, she says: “Yes, he’s here. He’s fine. Jes? Are you safe? What is Amaya’s favorite mask?”
“A cat! Open the door.”
“I mean no insult by this, Jes, but I need assurance from someone in charge that the scholar in here with us won’t be killed. He’s an elder and in poor health.”
“Surely an old man won’t be killed,” I say with an accusatory look at Ro. “Where is the captain?”
“What need for a captain when you have a poet beside you?” Ro offers me a mocking bow and a steady look that makes me unaccountably embarrassed. Then he grins, happy to have discomfited me.
“A captain would have settled this already,” I snap.
The barb digs deeper than I expected. His smile vanishes and he turns to the door. “Honored Lady, I am the poet Ro-emnu, with your permission speaking out of turn and before you have addressed me. If you shelter the head priest of this temple, I cannot offer any assurances. We have come to take back the holy temple of our Mother. That means tearing down the edifice that was erected atop her body.”
“Ro-emnu! Thank goodness it’s you!” She switches to Saroese. “There is a wealth of old Archives kept in this locked chamber, including a complete history of the reign of Serenissima the Third written by the philosopher and poet Sokantes.”
“The one that Serenissima the Third executed for writing rude poems about her?” Ro is so excited that he gasps like a child being given a toy.
“Yes, the very one!”
I have never heard of the philosopher and poet Sokantes.
“Also his treatise on metals, which I was just reading an excerpt from. And other material I haven’t had a chance to look at. This is a treasure-house of knowledge that we can ill afford to lose to people rampaging about looting and burning.”
“What? Like the Saroese did to Efean archives and records when they conquered us?”
Unlike me, Maraya takes no offense at such jabs. “In my opinion no one should ever burn archives or murder old people. Both are repositories of priceless knowledge that can’t be replaced if they are carelessly or callously eradicated.”
“Can we just get them out?” I demand impatiently. “Where are we going after this?”
“I will take you wherever you wish to go, Honored Lady,” Ro says with a lift of the eyebrows that makes me flush and starts all the people around us guffawing because that, evidently, is Efean humor.
Maraya calls, “Do I have your assurance, Honored Poet? For myself, for my husband, Polodos, and for the old scholar?”
“I give my oath as a poet bound to the Mother of All that I will personally intercede for the safety of all three of you.”
“My thanks, Honored Poet.”
A bar scrapes as it is lifted away. A bolt is drawn. A latch clunks, and the door opens.
The armed people pile in, weapons ready for an ambush, and I shove my way in after them, ready to throw myself in front of Maraya if any dare strike at her. But the musty chamber looks just as Maraya suggested: an isolated storeroom with shelves, cubbyholes, windows set so high into the walls that only an adversary could climb out, and a white-haired man seated in a chair holding a cane across his lap. Maraya stands beside him with a hand on his shoulder. His hands tremble with palsy, his skin has the papery delicacy of extreme old age, and he has the distinctive nose and chin of the Kliatemnos lineage. That he’s blind is obvious by his scarred-shut eyes.
“This is Warden Kallos.” She ignores me as she meets Ro’s gaze in the way of a person sharing a conspiratorially significant moment.
Ro whistles softly, like the name means something to him, then drops to one knee in a show of respect the old man cannot see.
“I am Ro-emnu, Domon,” he says in Saroese.
“That is an Efean name,” says Warden Kallos in a whispery voice. “Efeans are not allowed into any temple of Lord Judge Inkos by order of the holy priests.”
“I mean no disrespect, Domon, but the temple belongs to us now. What your ancestors took, we are taking back. I have a feeling you have a great many stories you can tell us.”
“I lost my eyesight and my youth and all that came with it long ago. I have nothing to share.”
“If you will accept our escort, Domon, I have something in my keeping I would like to show you. It may inspire your memory.”
With attentive respect, Ro assists the old man in rising and guides him out. Polodos eyes the armed Efeans nervously, but Maraya has no fear. Her tone blends Mother’s firmness, Father’s bark of command, and her eldest-sister bossiness.
“These boxes must be handled with the greatest care. I will pack the loose scrolls and books into chests. In fact, if you organize yourselves into groups of four, you can help me pack.”