From the locals she’d learned that most of the Fontisians who hadn’t managed to flee in time had been captured. Though it was easy enough to find sympathizers, and soon she’d learned that not all of them had scattered to the wind.
There was a monastery impossibly high in the mountains—the Order of the Light, it was whispered—that served as a sanctuary to any Fontisians who hadn’t been caught and deported back to Fontis. But the future of the monastery was uncertain. The borders and ports were closely monitored, and transport off Erawae would not be arriving soon: Martial law prohibited enemy ships to dock.
Rhee was certain the monastery was where she would have to go. She felt it in her gut. She was no longer misguided by memories venerated as half-truths, but driven by something else—a need to regroup, regain her throne, and take her true revenge on the man who had killed her family.
Of course, she might be traveling toward her own death too.
She had heard that the hillside of switchbacks and hidden stairs that led to the temple was full of hidden archers, and Kalusian forces trying to climb it had been pushed back from every angle. Even though the temple itself was rumored to be impenetrable, anyone seeking the temple was said to have no care for his or her life.
After passing through the business district, Rhee rode along the canal on the sidecar of a simple madùcycle until the rows of modular architecture faded away and the structures became simpler, sparser. Their tires kicked up white moondust on unpaved roads, and it reminded her of Nau Fruma, and of Julian. Dust in his hair. The way he licked his lips before he spoke. How he’d almost kissed her, how he would’ve if she’d just looked up that day in the dojo.
She looked up now at the surface of the dome. It was too large for climate control to be consistent throughout, and as she headed toward the city’s southern quadrant, it began to feel like monsoon season. Hot and wet, a fickle condensation that clung to the air like an indecisive rain.
Her guide was a droid, since no Kalusian who’d settled in the domed city was willing to take her. Its shiny exterior reflected her own image back at her as it pointed up to the mountain they approached. Huts were hemmed into the soil around the monastery, which was snug against the steep slopes as if it had grown out of the ground. The mountain itself made the shape of a tusked animal, reared up on its hind legs.
“This is where I leave you,” the droid said, stopping at the base of the mountain. Just beyond it she could see the transparent barrier where the dome enclosing them ended and the bleak, exposed surface of Erawae began.
It let her off, then pivoted the madùcycle and drove away. The low whizz of its engine grew fainter, until it was just silence. A makeshift staircase had been carved into white moonrock, switchbacking up toward the crest. As landscapes went, she couldn’t think of one more unfriendly or unwelcoming.
She pushed those thoughts aside as she scrambled up the mountain. The wet, white chalk crumbled below her feet, and wood cracked with every step. Everything could collapse under her—not just these stairs, but the entire known history of her family. She was the very last Ta’an, here on a bleak and forbidding planet, climbing toward a monastery for an order that might very well want her dead.
But it cleared her mind to focus on the landscape, where to put her foot next as she made her way toward the monastery. The blunt ends of her dark hair were plastered to her face with sweat. Rhee never thought she’d miss her neat braid, with all her thick hair tucked away, until now. It began to rain lightly—a condensation off the surface of the dome—but even this offered no relief from the heat. Glancing warily at the empty mountain plains to either side, Rhee knew someone was watching her. Like an electrical hum to the air, an energy generated by someone else’s gaze.
When she’d nearly reached the top and the door was in sight, she was startled to hear a creaking, like a tree falling, as the massive door opened—imported bark, as there wasn’t any true wood on this asteroid with the same deep color. She wondered if it was from the Dena forest on Fontis, made of the same wood as Dahlen’s ship.
“We don’t usually accept unannounced visitors.” A man had appeared in the doorway. He looked to be at least eighty, but he was still fit even if a bit hunched—she wondered if it was the gravity or merely old age that curled his shoulders in just slightly. The tattoos along his neck were blurry, soft shapes that barely resembled the severe angles of Dahlen’s markings. He wore a sash across his waist, which marked him as an Elder.