He waited until the bright shape of the man was just opposite him. The assassin would turn in a moment and see him. Gripping his amulet, Ash swept out his arm, flinging out what he hoped was a spray of flames toward the priest. The gloom before his eyes brightened briefly. There was a scream of pain, and then the sound of something heavy falling. Ash didn’t wait. He scrambled to his feet again, circling to avoid treading on the man, and staggered across the storeroom. If he were indeed under the kitchen, there should be a staircase off the hallway at the far end.
He heard movement again behind him, and the brother’s voice returned, thick with pain and menace. “For that, I’ll kill you slowly, mage, and drink your blood many times before you die. This will be our temple for an extended ceremony.” The man was still coming after him, but moving more slowly now, as if he were injured. Ash shoved over barrels, rolling them into the path of the hunter behind. He staggered to his left, as far as he could, until he found the wall. Then he followed along it, hoping to find the way to the stairway. In his mind, he could see the shape behind him, mad with rage and need. His groping hand found a small cask, stacked atop a barrel, and he lifted it and tossed it blindly over his shoulder. It smashed on the stone floor, and something splashed against his ankles. He caught the pungent scent of kerosene.
Finally there was vacancy under his questing hand, and he knew he’d found the doorway. He launched himself through it. The stairway should be somewhere along the corridor to the left-hand side. Unless he was completely lost. Then he was a dead man.
At least there were not so many obstacles in the corridor, and he moved along more quickly, trailing his hand along the wall to keep himself oriented. And then, once again, there was an opening. As he turned into it, something sang past his ear and clattered on the stone floor ahead of him. He flinched ineffectively, unsure which way to jump. His questing foot found a step. It was the staircase.
He flung himself upward, half-stumbling, half-crawling up the stairs, afraid a misstep would send him tumbling backward. The blade man was close on his heels, his breath rasping in and out. Something slashed across his ankle and he felt a searing pain. The Darian was trying to cut his tendon to disable him, perhaps still hoping to prolong the kill. Ash kicked wildly, felt his foot crunch into bone, then turned and threw his knife. The priest shrieked, but Ash kept climbing, sucking down painful breaths until he crested the stairs. The darkness before his eyes seemed a little brighter, and he could feel the dry heat from the ovens. He must be in the kitchen.
His hand struck a tall wooden vessel standing at the top of the stairs with a round, indented top. Another barrel. Apparently someone had brought it up the steps, but had not bothered to move it to wherever it was to be used. Ash grabbed its top, lifting and manhandling it into position. He gave it a shove and heard it bumping down the steps. The assassin screamed and then there was the sound of the barrel exploding as it hit the stone floor at the foot of the stairs. Ash sent what he hoped were balls of wizard fire rolling down after it.
He heard a whoosh! as if all the air had been sucked away around him. The heat was suddenly blistering, and he staggered away, in what he prayed was the direction of the door.
The door to the outside had been left open to release some of the heat of the kitchens, and the cool draft of air guided him. He crossed the threshold and felt the dirt and stones of the courtyard under his feet. The well would be ahead, at the center. Although he knew he should just keep moving, should try to get as far away from his attacker as possible, he just had to wash the awful dust away and hope. He had heard of blind healers, those who used only the gift, but he didn’t want to be one if he had a choice.
He almost stumbled over the low wall around the well. There was always a bucket of water sitting on the ground beside it with a gourd for drinking. He groped for it with both hands. When he found it, he dropped to his knees next to it, grasped each side of the bucket, and plunged his head into the water.
The water was icy cold, and there was almost immediate relief, although his eyes and face still burned. He scrubbed at his face with his hands, rinsing it again and again, opening his eyes to allow the water to sluice the burning powder away. When he lifted his head, the cold water sliding down his neck, he found that his vision was returning. He could see the shapes of the buildings that surrounded the courtyard, the bright bloody haze around the torches in the niches along the wall. Shuddering with relief, he immersed his face once again.
He felt rather than heard a concussion, like an earthquake under his feet, and then another. He sat back on his heels, shaking his head like a dog, flinging water everywhere, and looked back toward the palace in time to see one wall of the kitchen slowly collapse into shards of stone. In his panicked state of mind, he thought at first it was the work of the Darian priest, bent on vengeance.