The yellow light of the torch made a puddle of light Fiona tried to stay within. Behind her, Sebastian and Holt shuffled along, Sebastian bumping into Fiona once and apologizing under his breath. There were no windows in the white walls, turned gold by the torch’s fire, and the floor was of a rough stone that matched the walls in color. It was like being inside a man-made cave, angular and cool and dry, with a ceiling that rose beyond the extent of the light and walls close enough to touch at the same time. Fiona tried not to hunch in on herself. She wasn’t afraid of small spaces; she just didn’t like not being able to see where she was going. That was it.
The corridor turned frequently at odd angles, and after a few turns Fiona lost track of what direction she was facing. Not that it mattered much, here in this narrow, twisting space…she made herself breathe calmly. It wasn’t all that narrow, and it had to open up somewhere.
The woman never turned to see if they were following her. She wore her hair cut short enough to brush her chin, and it bobbed as she walked, making interesting shadows on the walls. She was, strangely, dressed in the clothes of a Veriboldan commoner, the wide-legged trousers and wraparound shirt they’d seen so often in the last two days. Both looked ivory in the torchlight. Fiona had expected more formal garb on someone belonging to the most important temple in Veribold. It was probably a bad idea to make assumptions when she knew practically nothing.
Just as Fiona was about to break the silence by asking where they were going, the narrow corridor opened up into a room shaped like the inside of a pyramid, lit by a dozen more torches. Two more women were in the process of sorting papers into a portfolio like Sebastian’s own and looked up when Fiona entered. Their guide carried her torch to a wrought iron stand in the far corner and wedged it securely into the top. Then she went to join the women, who’d stopped sorting, and said in Veriboldan, “This is the last one for the festival.”
“It’s too late. Past sunset,” one of the women said. Both women were dressed like the torch bearer, down to the short haircut, though one’s clothing was pale green rather than ivory.
“The border sent word about this one. She’s to be watched,” said the torch bearer.
All three women looked at Fiona. She did her best impression of someone who had no idea what was being said. “Did they say why?”
“Government officials never say why,” the torch bearer said sourly. “Just that she was suspicious. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”
“She looks clever.”
“Cleverness isn’t a crime.”
The woman in the green clothing came forward with her hand outstretched. “Papers,” she said, and Sebastian pulled them out of the portfolio. She examined them, nodded, and handed them to her partner. “We will take you to your lodgings,” she said. “You will of course be housed separately, so as to preserve the purity of the festival.”
“Of course,” Fiona said. “We understand.” That had been part of Sebastian’s instructions; she was to have her own “cell,” a term which unsettled her somewhat but was, Sebastian assured her, temple terminology for a private room. “What if we need to communicate?” she’d asked the night before.
“You’ll have to come to us,” Sebastian had said. “Men aren’t allowed within the temple proper. I think you’re allowed to visit but not stay, but I’m sure you’ll be able to figure something out if you have to, Miss Cooper.”
The woman in green made a complicated salute which, thank heaven, she didn’t seem to expect Fiona to answer. Taking another of the smelly torches, she indicated that they should follow her.
A second doorway opened off the pyramidal room onto a corridor much wider than the first, and Fiona felt tension drain out of her shoulders. Even so, with Sebastian and Holt at her back Fiona felt like someone being escorted to prison, an illusion not helped by the mysterious shadows the torch cast on the walls and the slightly limping gait of the woman in green. Fiona gritted her teeth. She was letting her imagination rule her, and that was unacceptable.
Soon, they came to an even wider passage, a long one lined with doors on both sides that Fiona sternly told herself did not look like a prison corridor. The woman went to a door about halfway down the hall and opened it. “For your attendants,” she said. “They will care for your belongings while you are in meditation and prayer. Leave your bag and follow me.”
Fiona and Sebastian exchanged glances. She hadn’t anticipated being separated so abruptly. She sent up a silent prayer for his success—maybe being in one of the oldest temples in the world might make heaven inclined to hear her plea—and handed her bag to Holt. To her surprise, Sebastian clasped her hand briefly before she could turn away. His skin was warm and dry and his grip strong, and she squeezed his hand in return. Then she followed the woman back the way they’d come.
A few minutes later, they came to a steep, narrow staircase going up, blue-tinged with moonlight, and Fiona had just enough time to realize what that meant when she reached the first of the windows and could look out over Haizea. The windows were tall and thin, barely as wide as her two palms outstretched, but there were dozens of them, spaced closely together. It was like looking at the city through a grille.
And Haizea was as beautiful as she remembered. Veribold had little source, and what Devices they had were imported—they dealt more extensively in what they called mechanics—but one thing Veriboldans had enthusiastically embraced were the light Devices that kept most Tremontanan cities aglow all night long.
The stairway curved, following the rounded shape of the Irantzen Temple, and as she ascended Fiona saw the Jaixante laid out below her, and beyond that, the city proper. One of the bridges between the two was a streak of silver light that glimmered on the river running beneath it. The stairwell grew darker, and Fiona realized she’d stopped to gape and had to hurry to catch up to her guide.
They climbed, and climbed, not fast enough to exhaust Fiona or leave her short of breath, but steadily, until they must surely have reached the top spire and gone beyond. Finally, the stairs ended at a smoothly paved passage whose ceiling arched to a sharp crease. Plain white doors lined it on one side. The woman in green went to one about halfway down the corridor and opened it.
“Your cell, while you are with us,” she said. “Change your clothes into the garments provided for you, set your own clothes outside your door, and someone will take them to your attendants. All you will need is within. You will be called at dawn.”
“Thank you,” Fiona said. “What’s your name?”
The woman blinked at her. Fiona had the feeling she hadn’t expected Fiona to speak. “Sela,” she said.
“Thank you, Sela.”
Sela nodded. “Restful sleep to you.” She walked away in the direction of the stairs.
The first thing Fiona did was establish that the door of her cell couldn’t be locked from the outside. It couldn’t be locked at all, which annoyed her. She shut the door and examined her cell. It was much nicer than the name implied, with its white stone walls gleaming blue in the moonlight from the single window. There was a pallet on the floor, which she remembered was typical of Veriboldan bedroom furniture. This one was a couple of inches thick, with no pillow, also typically Veriboldan, and was made up neatly with a linen sheet and thin cotton blanket. Against the wall, beneath the window, stood a flat-topped wooden chest bound in leather and brass, also without a lock.
Next to her, on a squat round table near the door, was a brass lamp that reminded her of a ship’s lantern, with a matchlighter that looked like mechanics rather than Devisery next to it. She lit the lamp with a touch of her finger and turned it up until its glow filled the whole small room.
She opened the chest and peered inside. A pile of dark fabric turned out to be a pair of those wide-legged trousers, woven expertly of black linen, and a black wraparound shirt of the same material. She laid them on the pallet. Linen, good for warm climates, but it wrinkled if you so much as breathed on it. Well, it was either sleep naked or look rumpled.
Beneath those were a loose cotton robe in a rich gold that looked even more golden by lamplight and three pairs of undershorts. So they wanted all her normal clothes gone. That would be interesting.
There was a wooden hairbrush with bristles of some natural material Fiona couldn’t identify, a bag that rustled when she picked it up and proved to be full of thumbnail-sized white crackers, and a heavy pendant the size of her palm. It hung from a woven, knotted silk cord, creamy green jade carved with raised patterns Fiona recognized as meditation rituals.
Finally, there was an unnaturally thick copy of the Book of Haran. Fiona leafed through it; it was actually three copies bound in one volume, in Eskandelic, Veriboldan, and Tremontanese. Fiona had never been particularly religious, but Roderick had owned a copy he referred to sometimes. It contained the revelations Haran had received about ungoverned heaven, as well as commentaries by later clerics, and Fiona hadn’t read it in years. Apparently she’d now have the opportunity.
She shucked off all her clothes, put on the undershorts and the linen, folded her own clothes neatly with her undergarments in the center—oh, lovely, they were going to take her things to Sebastian and he’d see her underwear. The thought was unexpectedly embarrassing. It wasn’t as if he was seeing her in her underwear, and she couldn’t imagine why the notion of him handling her clothes unsettled her so. She set the pile outside her door and pinched out the lamp, then settled in to sleep.
The pallet was thick by Veriboldan standards, but uncomfortable by her own, and she turned restlessly, trying to find a good position for sleeping. Sebastian’s face again came to mind, lit by that amused, sardonic grin. It occurred to her that he might not be allowed to roam outside the Irantzen Temple, if he was intended to be her attendant. She hoped his plan had provisions for that. It was unthinkable that he’d come all this way only to be denied the chance at saving his family.
Fiona rolled over again. He’d think of something. He was smart, and clever, and stubborn, and he wouldn’t let any setbacks stop him accomplishing his goal. And she liked him. How strange, that a friendship could begin under such odd circumstances. He’s handsome, too, her inner voice chuckled, and she rolled her eyes at its persistence on that subject. True, but irrelevant, because they’d be friends no matter what he looked like. And yet…
She groaned and rolled onto her side. There was no “and yet.” It was an idiotic notion that probably came from her empty stomach. She’d only been single for a few months and she was still getting used to the idea that she didn’t have to worry about anyone but herself. She didn’t need another romantic relationship, not now, possibly not ever. Certainly not one with a man she barely knew.
It was only hunger, and the hardness of the pallet, that kept her from sleeping soundly all night. Of course it was.