Within the Sanctuary of Wings (The Memoirs of Lady Trent #5)

The beast finally received my messages and trudged up the road. The path was steep, but not arduously so, curving through a series of lacets that snaked their way up the mountain’s face. I could see my destination long before I reached it, but only in tantalizing glimpses of some monumental entrance, its lower parts blocked from view by the remainder of my route. Above that I thought I glimpsed something else, but it was even more difficult to see.

My wind had improved greatly since I first woke up in the sisters’ house, as had my injured leg. When at last I reached the road’s end, I was breathing hard, but not gasping. If my breath faltered, it was for the sight in front of me, and no physical weakness on my part.

The entrance carved into the mountainside looked like it belonged to the ancient world—and yet not quite. I could see the heritage of the Draconeans in the flaring, leaf-like capitals of the pillars which flanked the doors, but their bases were much wider than those I had seen elsewhere in the world, and no inscriptions marked their sides. The lintel above would have borne an intricate frieze if this place were in the Labyrinth of Drakes; here it showed only an abstract, geometric pattern, akin to those I had seen on pots and wooden implements in Imsali. And the doors—well, it is unfair to say how the doors compared, for the only surviving doors from ancient times I had ever seen were those in the Watchers’ Heart. But these were heavy and bound with corroded bronze, as if to hold out winter’s presence.

Had it been necessary to swing open one of those enormous portals, I would never have gone inside. The snow blanketing the flat, courtyard-like area in front of the doors was not terribly thick, on account of the continual wind, but it was still enough to hamper the swing of a door; and these were large enough that I would have had difficulty moving one even at the height of summer. But set into one of the doors was a smaller gate, such as one often sees in the main entrances of large Anthiopean tabernacles, through which an individual can pass without troubling to open the entire thing. And when I put my hand to this little door, it shifted.

Whatever this place was, I knew I should not be there. If anyone caught me, I might find myself in a great deal of well-deserved trouble.

But I had not forgotten the day I drew pictures on the wall of the yak barn. Kahhe, I thought, had suggested bringing me here, or at least telling me about this place; she had nodded her head in the direction of Anshakkar, and the mere suggestion had enraged Zam. I could only guess at what Kahhe thought to achieve—but knowledge was power, and right now I sadly lacked that resource. Sooner or later my life here would change, and if I went into that transition blind, I did not like my chances. However much I trusted Ruzt and her sisters, I did not want to leave myself wholly at their mercy.

I looked at the yak, who was ambling around nosing into the snow, as if wondering why I had brought her to a place with no grass. “No one will believe I chased you inside,” I said to her. She flicked one disinterested ear. “But I am not willing to relinquish you, either. Therefore, you will have to stay out here.”

There were five posts in the forecourt, whose purpose was no doubt ritual in some way or another. I tethered the yak to one of these. Then, before I could let myself think the better of it, I hauled the door open far enough to admit me and slipped inside.





THIRTEEN

The temple—A discovery upstairs—Exploration—The trespasser found—Images of the past—Nowhere to run




The interior was quite dim, but not wholly dark. Several unglazed openings above the entrance admitted both light and a small quantity of snow to the chamber beyond. These gave enough illumination for me to identify freestanding braziers around the edges of the room, with small objects set on shelves built between the legs of the braziers. When I bent to examine one of these, I found it was a lamp—much like those I had been using these past two months, but more finely made. The yak butter within was solidified, but kindling sat in the brazier above, bone dry. It was the work of a mere moment to light the brazier, and then I held one of the lamps above it to warm while I looked at my surroundings.

We humans have long been prone to identifying every impressive Draconean site as a temple, but I had no doubt that I stood in the antechamber of a holy place. Historically speaking, there are two types of buildings to which people will devote great amounts of labour: the religious and the kingly. It was possible the Draconeans of the Sanctuary had a king or equivalent ruler, but the remote location of this place did not lend itself to political use. This was, of course, assuming that Draconean motivations were like those of humans—but my experiences with Ruzt, Kahhe, and Zam gave me moderate confidence that their ways were not so alien as that.

The walls of this antechamber were richly decorated, in elaborate circular patterns reminiscent of the mandalas found in many Dajin countries, but different in style. Their meaning was opaque to me: I could recognize that it must be there, for nestled among the spirals and geometric figures were repeated symbols, but they could have signified anything. Each was painted in vivid colour, predominantly yellow, blue, and white, with rare touches of red. The artist in me wished to examine these more closely, because I was curious about the pigments they used; surely the Draconeans did not trade with the outside world to obtain the necessary materials. But the white and yellow might be derived from lead-based minerals, and the blue … copper? Cobalt? There might even be lapis deposits in the region; certainly they were known elsewhere in the Mrtyahaima.

I shook myself from my trance. The yak butter had warmed enough for me to light my lamp; with that in hand, I set forth to investigate.

Three different paths lay before me. Staircases ascended from the right and left corners of the entry hall; between them stood a pair of doors, almost as large as those through which I had come, but much more elaborately carved. I suspected they would be easier to move, for they were not a tenth so weathered as their exterior brethren, but for the time being I chose to leave them untouched. Instead I took the right-hand staircase upward.

Partway up this lengthy, spiral path, I realized why the climb was so fatiguing: the steps had not been cut for human legs. The Draconeans I knew were all a good thirty centimeters taller than me, and their legs were long to match; this meant that a comfortable step upward for them was a heave for someone my size. “I feel like a child again,” I grumbled to myself—and then snapped my mouth shut as if I could somehow swallow my words.

For as I spoke, I came around the final curve and found myself at the periphery of a large, open room … which was full of sleeping Draconeans.

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