Silent Hall (43 page)

“
A
re you insane
?” Narky shouted at her. “We can't go there! We can't even get out of 
here
, and if we could, Tarphae's the last place we can go!”

“Whichever God sent the plague could still be looking for us,” Phaedra protested. “We've talked about this already. If the plague was sent just to punish the king, it was still obviously meant to leave him alone among his dead subjects. It doesn't matter how long we've been away. If we go back, the plague will find us too.”

Psander looked unimpressed. “So you say,” she said. “But you also say you have spoken with Eramia, and that means that She is watching you. Not right now, perhaps, but She will find you again once you step out the door. Everything you have told me indicates that the Love Goddess wants nothing more than to release the Dragons' Prisoner back into our world, which means that She has every reason to protect you from the other Gods while you journey to Tarphae and back.”

“How about the sea voyage?” asked Narky. “We've managed to anger Mayar since the last time you saw us.”

Psander sighed in exasperation. “It's the only option,” she said. “We'll just have to hope that Eramia's protection is enough, or that God Most High takes a hand in your protection too. As for Bestillos and his army, it's true that She can't shield you from them, and that means that we can't let them see you leave this place. Luckily, I've become something of an expert in making things hard to see.”

With that, she swept away from them. “Where are you going?” Narky asked.

Psander did not even turn her head. “To prepare,” she said. “Sleep now. You'll need it.”

She left them standing in the hall, looking at each other with wonder and fear and more than a little curiosity. Criton could barely fathom the idea that they would be going back to Tarphae. Tarphae, the island of his birth and his oppression. The island where his mother had died.

Bandu balanced Goodweather against her hip and took his hand. She knew what he was thinking about. Phaedra looked over at them and smiled. Then she said, “Bandu, we'd better get you some proper clothes before we go. That dress won't make it to Atuna before it falls apart.”

“Where are you going to get more, though?” Narky asked. “From the villagers?”

“Some are dead,” Bandu stated. “They don't need.”

“We're not going to steal from the dead!” Phaedra cried, shocked. “Psander's thin, but she's also a little taller than you. We can ask her for a spare dress, and I'll alter it.”

Bandu looked surprised, but then she shrugged. “You want to ask her now?”

Phaedra nodded, and Bandu squeezed Criton's hand. “I come back,” she said. “You can hold Goodweather?”

Criton held out his arms. “Of course.”

He took the infant from her and she followed Phaedra up the steps to Psander's library. Goodweather remained beautifully asleep, her little breaths barely ruffling his shirt even as her chest fairly heaved with them. Such a tiny little thing, he thought. Bandu had found her some strips of cloth the day before, which Phaedra had shown them how to use as a swaddle. He was glad she knew about these things.

They slept uneasily that night. Criton still had not recovered from their nocturnal travels, and Goodweather woke frequently, demanding to be fed and changed. There were barely any clean swaddling clothes left by daytime.

Late the next morning, after Criton had washed the dirty clothes but before they had dried, Psander arrived carrying a small box. The islanders gathered quickly and Psander took off the lid, revealing a number of irregular candles.

“I don't have the power for anything permanent,” she apologized. “Maybe if Magor were not searching for me… well, these will do. I made one, two, three, four… I made twelve of them. You should only need eleven. Hold them while you walk, and so long as they burn, no man will see you.”

“Even Bestillos?” Criton asked. “He has the Wizard Sight, you know.”

“I do know,” Psander said. “But you have it too. Tell me, how close do you have to get to my home before you finally see it?”

“Close,” he admitted.

“Keep Bestillos at the same distance, and you should have no trouble evading capture.”

Psander gave out two candles to each of them, and then gave the two that remained to Phaedra.

“Use only one candle on your way out,” she said, “so that you will have one for the return journey. These last two are for your king, though he should only need one.”

“What about our daughter?” asked Criton.

Psander blinked. “She's very small,” she said, slow and patronizing. “As long as one of you is holding her, she shouldn't need her own candle.”

Hunter jerked his head toward the door. “Let's go then.”

They walked over to the gatehouse together, Psander carrying along a wooden torch. Criton was about to take it from her when Bandu said, “Wait. Where is Goodweather's seed?”

Psander stiffened. “It will remain in my library until you come back,” she said. “I will need to study it for longer if we are to be successful. It would only weigh you down on your journey.”

“Don't worry,” said Phaedra, coming to the wizard's defense. “Psander is right. It'll be easier if we don't have to carry it around. We were planning to use it here anyway.”

Narky frowned. “And if Magor tears this place down before we get back? It would be good to have some fallback, wouldn't it?”

“That's a risk you'll have to take,” the wizard said with finality. “The seed stays here.”

She didn't trust them, Criton realized. They had never failed her once, and yet Psander, the woman who had fooled the Gallant Ones into serving her, and whose fortress had devoured an entire village, did not trust
them
. The thought infuriated him.

Still, what could he do? The wizard thrust the torch into his hands and walked back toward the tower door.

“Come back with your king,” she called over her shoulder, as she closed the door behind her. “You do not have long.”

“Well,” said Narky, “I guess that settles that. Let's get on with it.”

Criton blew gently on the torch and a flame sprang up on its end. At the gate itself, they stopped and lit their candles. When that was done, Criton placed the torch in a sconce, opened the gate and stepped out into the daylight.

The Ardisian guards stood before him, staring straight through him without any recognition. The army bustled noisily behind them. Men and horses were carrying cut logs into camp from the forest, to be sawed and carved and hammered by their comrades into something new. Ladders. Criton looked to the others to see if they saw what he saw, but they had vanished. He was standing alone.

“Bandu?” he whispered. “Are you still here?”

“Yes,” her voice came back, from only a few feet ahead. “We go now. Candles don't burn long.”

“Try to go due east,” said Hunter's voice. “We'll regroup when the army's no longer in sight.”

Criton nodded, then realized that they could not see him. He sighed, and, shielding the candle flame with his hand, strode for the enemy ranks.

Luckily, the Ardismen were far louder in the day than during the night. Criton slipped between tents, wagons and workers without so much as a single one of them noticing him. He dodged a pair of soldiers as they nearly walked into him, then turned and hopped to one side as a horse trampled by. Even so, his progress was swift. Soon he was halfway through the camp, and his candle had barely burned down by a quarter. He silently congratulated Psander for her excellent work. This was going quite well, so far.

He stopped at the sound of Bestillos' voice. He spun around to find the priest standing not far to his left, talking to Charos of the Gallant Ones.

“We've caught them now,” the priest said. Then he turned and looked directly at Criton.

Criton froze under his gaze, and his throat seemed to swell shut. Psander's magic hadn't worked after all – the red priest was too powerful even for her.

“Hey you!” Bestillos called to him. “Yes you, fool. Come here.”

There was so much power in his voice that Criton began to obey. Yet he had only taken a single, unwilling step when a voice behind him suddenly said, “I'm sorry, Your Holiness. How may I serve you?”

Understanding came to him slowly, and Criton only barely leapt aside in time to avoid colliding with the young man who had been standing behind him. He was so close that he felt the man's shirt sleeve brush against his arm as he walked by. Criton's throat reopened. Bestillos hadn't seen him after all!

His nerve left him, and he fled. He ran, leaping over obstacles and dodging between soldiers as he sped through the camp. His candle nearly went out as he ran, but he lifted it to his mouth and kept it alive with his own flame. The hot wax dripped down onto the scales of his hand. The whole thing would melt before he got out of here!

He forced himself to slow down, but it was too late. In his hurry he had already melted the candle to a tiny nub, and he hadn't even left the camp yet. He considered simply running or flying onward, trying to escape despite his visibility, but that would be disastrous. It would spark a chase and a search that could only end up with the others, at least, being captured. He thought too about disguising himself as an Ardisman, but here in the camp,
someone
was bound to notice his sudden appearance out of thin air. It was no good. Criton lit his second candle.

As soon as the camp was behind him and he was alone in the woods, he brightened his skin and blew out the flame. His claws transformed into hands as he stuffed the half-length nub in his pocket. All he could do now was keep walking eastward, and hope that his friends would eventually find him.

He stopped to rest after a while, sitting down on a fallen tree. The others were likely somewhere behind him, assuming that only he had been reckless enough to run.

It took only half an hour before Hunter came tromping through the woods to meet him. After that, Criton climbed a tree and spotted Narky and Phaedra, who had found each other on their own. But wait as they would, Bandu did not come.

“She'll find us,” Hunter reassured him. “Nobody can track like she can.”

Criton nodded, but he was troubled. He wanted to tell them about his encounter with Bestillos, but the words wouldn't come.

After two hours of waiting, Criton began to suspect that Bandu was ahead of them rather than behind. “Either way,” Narky said, “we haven't got forever. Let's go.”

They made camp in the woods that night, taking watches. Though the night was warm, Criton sat by the fire and shivered. With every rustling leaf or snapping twig, he thought he heard Bandu approaching. Or had Bestillos somehow captured her? No, it couldn't be. She would come. Any minute, he would hear Goodweather's cries and know that everything was all right.

When she arrived the next morning, Criton was so relieved he wept. Bandu embraced him until he pulled away to wipe his eyes and really look at her. She looked strong and healthy and covered with dirt. Being alone in the woods with their tiny daughter had apparently done her no harm at all. He asked her where she had been, but didn't understand her garbled answer. He hardly cared, though. She and Goodweather were safe. That was all that mattered.

The journey to Atuna went by in a blur. They had no money but ate whatever they could find, be it a handful of mustard greens or a stray lamb from some inattentive shepherd's flock. Only when they finally reached the city did they realize that having no money meant that they could board no boat, for Tarphae or for anywhere else. They stood helplessly watching merchantmen and fishing boats come and go, wishing they had thought to ask Psander for money before they left. Then, without saying a word, Hunter strode away from them toward the docks.

“Hey!” called Narky, “Where are you going?”

“To claim my inheritance,” Hunter said.

They followed behind him, wondering what he was talking about, until finally he stopped and pointed. “There,” he said. “That's the one.”

Criton followed his finger and saw, moored to the farthest dock, a familiar fishing boat bobbing on the tide. Hunter set off toward it with long, confident strides, and they all hurried across the planks after him. When they arrived they found a man inside, mending a net with a needle and thread. The man was perhaps twenty, with the olive complexion of Atunaeans and a dark scraggly beard.

“This is my boat,” Hunter told him, ignoring his stares. “I will be needing it today, to go to Tarphae. You can take us there, if you like, or you can get off.”

“This ain't your boat,” the man answered, looking simultaneously confused and intimidated. There were five of them, after all. “I bought it myself,” he added.

“The man who sold it to you did not own it,” Hunter told him. “The boat is mine.”

“I don't know anything about that,” the fisherman said. “All I know is, I paid good money for it, and I'm not just going to give it to you for nothing.”

“Where is the fisherman who sold it to you?” Phaedra asked. “If you take us to him, I'm sure we can sort this out. He'll have to give you your money back.”

“I don't need to take you anywhere,” the fisherman retorted. “I bought the–”

Hunter drew his sword with such speed and violence that the fisherman fell over backward in terror. Hunter leapt into the boat after him.

“Get out,” he said. “Show us the way. We'll all go together.”

The house he led them to was large, with an extensive vegetable garden visible through a tall fence. A servant answered their knocks.

“We're here to see your master,” Hunter said.

When the old fisherman saw them, his face froze. He was sitting in a padded chair with a crutch resting at its side. He had lost a leg since they last saw him, and from the horrified way he stared at Bandu and the way his eyes fell to waist height as he glanced nervously past them, Criton had no trouble guessing how. Infection. It had killed Four-foot, and it had nearly killed him.