Sanctuary

EIGHTEEN

AND the people are doing what?” Kaleth demanded of the messenger, who shrugged wearily.

“The people are doing nothing. The Healers have been trying to foment discontent ever since the burning of the temple,” he replied. “The Magi finally took notice. They say—” He paused, and his brow wrinkled in exhausted thought. “They say that the Healers hear much—and a great deal of truth—from those who are in pain or otherwise vulnerable. They say the Healers must speak for the good of Alta. They demand that the Healers are to turn over to them any who have spoken against the Magi, and also all those who Heal by touch, rather than by herb or knife.”

“All those who Heal by touch. . . .” Nofret’s lip lifted. “It seems they have decided to drain even Alta’s most precious resource to serve their own needs.”

“And they demand that the sanctity of a Healer’s silence be broken.” Marit was absolutely white-lipped with anger. Odd. Kiron would have thought that it would be Heklatis who would be furious, but the Akkadian only looked sad and resigned.

“It is said—” the messenger began, then stopped.

“It is said, what?” Ari demanded sharply.

“It is said that the Magi are looking—older. Older than they have in years, though who knows what their true ages are.” He shrugged. “I have not seen them, so I cannot be sure.”

Ari looked to Lord Khumun. “How goes the war?”

“My spies tell me that it has stalled on the edge of the marshlands,” Lord Khumun replied. “The Tians are reluctant to go into the true marshlands, and the Altans are reluctant to come out of them.”

“So the Magi are not battening on the deaths that they had hoped for.” Ari looked to the messenger and then to Kaleth. “Mouth of the Gods, I think it begins.”

There was silence, and Kaleth bowed his head. Kiron held his breath.

“It begins,” Kaleth said, from behind the curtain of his hair. “And only the gods know how it will end. I have seen the beginning; I cannot thread my way through the maze that will follow this bad beginning.”

Ari nodded, as if he had expected exactly this answer. “Then it is for mortals to decide. And one thing I do know; we cannot let the Healers stand alone. Agreed?”

Heklatis’ eyes lit, as if he had not expected that answer. Kaleth, however, raised his head again, and regarded Ari with a wry smile—as if he had.

Time was not on their side, they needed to act quickly, and the means of getting messages to the Healers were very limited. There was, in fact, only one sure way, and reluctant as he was to use it, at least the time of year was in their favor. The rains had just begun, and the Magi would not be able to use the Eye even during daylight hours if there was no sun.

Which was a good thing, since the way to get a message to the Healers was to drop it on them from the sky. While the best time to drop such a message was at night, it could not be too late at night, or it might be lost. Furthermore, with the Magi now aware that there were dragons and Jousters still in the world, and acting as the heart of the rebellion, they would be watching the skies.

There was a great deal of sky between Sanctuary and Alta. And of all the dragons that were capable of such a journey, there were really only two of colors that would blend in with the storm clouds. Bethlan was one, and Kiron had no issues with Menet-ka taking the task. But the other was Re-eth-ke, and Aket-ten’s reaction when she discovered that Kiron had assigned Menet-ka without even considering her was . . . emphatic.

In fact, she stormed into Avatre’s pen as if she was taking a citadel, and with nearly as much noise.

“I can’t believe you simply assumed Menet-ka was the only person fit to take this job without even considering me!” she shouted, as she shoved her way past her brother, who was lingering in the doorway, listening, while Kiron went over the plan with Menet-ka. “You must be insane! I’m the smallest Jouster, I’ll be less of a burden to my dragon—”

“Menet-ka is not much larger than you, Bethlan is bigger than Re-eth-ke, and both of them have more experience flying in the rain than Re-eth-ke does,” Kiron countered, as she stood there with her fists on her hips, glaring.

“Not as much in storms!” she shouted back.

“He won’t be flying in a storm!” Kiron replied. “And Bethlan is steadier in bad weather than Re-eth-ke!”

“Who says?” she demanded furiously.

“I say, and I’m the wingleader!” he replied, his own anger rising to meet hers halfway.

“Oh, fine. Use that as an argument.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Abandon logic altogether and fall back on ‘I’m the wingleader.’ Never mind that I have more communication with my dragon than he has with his, or that I have more experience flying high and in storms and long distances, or that I’m lighter, or that silver and blue-black blends into clouds better than indigo and purple. Ignore all that. Ignore the fact that if you’re going to do something risky, it’s better to have two people doing it to double your chances of getting through. And completely forget about the fact that it looks as if you’re cosseting me because I’m a girl. . . .”

There were tears in her voice when she said that last, and he couldn’t meet her accusing gaze, because he was trying to protect her, and it was entirely true that the only reason he had dismissed the idea of her going was because she was who and what she was—his beloved, and yes, “a girl.”

“How can I expect to deserve equal treatment if you won’t give me equal responsibility?” she asked tearfully when he still wouldn’t look at her.

“She has a point, Kiron,” Orest said, not at all helpfully.

He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. He wanted to tell Orest to mind his own business, but that would mean he would have to pull wingleader rank again, and that ploy was growing weaker by the moment.

“Don’t you think you ought to give her the chance?” Orest continued, even less helpfully. “It’s only fair.”

He glared at Orest and decided to bring up family instead. “Lord Ya-tiren wouldn’t thank me for putting her in danger. Neither would Lady Iris-aten.”

He’d hoped invoking both parents would get Aket-ten to reconsider. Unfortunately, she was made of sterner stuff than he’d thought.

“I’ll get his consent,” she said, clenching her own jaw. “When he gives his consent to anything, Mother simply steps aside and lets it happen. If I get his consent, will you assign this to me?”

Dear gods. Well, at least Lord Ya-tiren won’t be able to put the blame on me for sending his daughter into danger. He’ll know it was all her own idea. “And Lord Khumun’s,” he replied, transferring his glare to her.

She traded him glare for glare. “And Lord Khumun’s,” she agreed. She sounded confident. He only hoped that confidence would be shattered.

“If both of them give their consent, then you can go,” he said, sure that even if she could convince her father, Lord Khumun would never agree.

Lord Khumun agreed.

So did Lord Ya-tiren, although he was not at all happy about it, which left Kiron without any reason to forbid her. He even went to Heklatis to beg something that would make her feel too ill to fly; the Healer stared at him as if he thought Kiron had gone mad, and simply answered, “Are you daft? It would be worth my life, because you know she’d know I’d done it. No. Absolutely, positively, no.”

And Kaleth was no help either; he simply shrugged, opined that no one could hope to stop Aket-ten from doing anything she really wanted to do, and repeated that he could not “see” past the Magi interference, not into the city, and not into the future.

So, despite his misgivings, despite the nebulous feeling of dread in the bottom of his stomach, there was nothing Kiron could say or do, reasonably, to keep her from going. All he could do was to make her swear to be cautious.

She and Menet-ka were going to drop sandbags with messages in them into the inner courts of the Healers, messages detailing what the Jousters already knew, and advising them that when there was a huge distraction, the Healers should escape by whatever means they could.

The distraction was already well in hand. Heklatis knew the formulation of some vile concoction called “Akkadian Fire,” a substance that stuck to anything it splashed on and burned and couldn’t be put out with water.