Juliet Marillier - Cybele's Secret

the path.

“Your Excellency!” exclaimed the first guard. “A thousand apologies! We are most honored…”

I turned my head, wondering if the pursuers were here already and had a dignitary amongst them. But the only person standing there was Stoyan, looking as bemused as I felt. He opened his mouth to speak, but Duarte, quick as a whip, got in first.

“His Excellency is traveling incognito,” was what I thought he said. “You are not to speak of this, you understand? Now let us pass, and be quick about it.”

And they did, ushering the four of us up to the bridge with many bows and polite apologies.

“Your Excellency, I did not realize…”

“We regret greatly…We wished only to carry out our orders….”

“Yes, yes,” Duarte told them airily. “His Excellency understands.” And he added something about others, speaking too fast for me to follow.

Stoyan said nothing at all. That was wise. If, as it seemed, he had been mistaken for someone else, the moment he opened his mouth and spoke with a Bulgarian accent, our permission to cross the bridge would be snatched away.

“Paula,” Duarte said, “you should go first. You are light-footed; we will be slower.”

I swallowed nervously, knowing I had to do it, wondering if I was going to be sick with sheer fright.

“One hand on the rope,” Duarte went on, his voice calm. “Don’t look down, don’t look back, keep moving whatever happens. Fix your gaze on a point opposite and walk toward that. Go now, Paula.”

Stoyan reached out, wordless; his fingers brushed my hair. Then I was on the shaky structure, stepping from one narrow, weathered plank to the next, my teeth clenched with terror, my whole body drenched in nervous sweat as the bridge began to bounce and sway under my weight.

Sometimes there is nothing to do but keep going. I didn’t like heights; the cliff path had tested me severely. If I’d been traveling alone, I’d never have dreamed of trying this. But somehow I did it. With one hand holding the rope and the other out to the side for balance, I walked across in my ill-fitting boots, keeping my eyes on the wall of rock ahead with its odd cap of mist, knowing instinctively that up there lay the key to the mystery. Find the heart, for there lies wisdom. The crown is the destination. Could that have something to do with this? Hearts. Crowns. Kings and queens had both, and maybe Cybele was a kind of queen. I imagined her bulbous form crowned with leaves and berries. She was also like a tree, I reminded myself as I stepped over a gap where one board had fallen from the bridge. I teetered, catching a glimpse of the ribbon of water far below me. Concentrate, Paula. Use your balance. Heart of wood; crownlike canopy. That was what Stoyan had suggested. And the tile pattern was a tree. What was the connection?

The men were on the bridge. I felt it shudder and sway with the extra weight and the movement. This would be hard for Pero. I was almost over. There were about four strides in it….

Someone shouted. Don’t look back, I ordered myself. I stepped forward, one slat, two, three, and I was on the far side of the rift, where the path continued up across the rocky slope. I breathed, relief spreading all through my body. I was here, I had done it.

Another shout. I turned and my heart froze. Halfway across the bridge, Pero had fallen. He was clutching on to the slats with both arms, his legs dangling down into the void. Beside him, Duarte was lowering himself into a crouch on the violently swaying structure, trying to establish his balance so he could use both hands to help his crewman. Stoyan was between these two and the far end of the bridge. As I stared in horror, more yelling broke out from over the gap—our pursuers had reached the sentry post. There was a small crowd of men there now, in spirited argument with the guards. Someone drew a curved sword.

On the bridge, Duarte had let go of the handhold and was lying at full length on the slats, grasping Pero’s shoulders, trying to haul him up to safety. Stoyan stood immobile; if he moved toward them, he would set the flimsy structure bouncing and swinging and perhaps topple the two of them into the depths. On the other side, the shouts rose in a crescendo. Weapons flashed. A moment later there was a scream, and someone fell from the path near the hut, disappearing down the cliff like a discarded garment. Stoyan looked back. As he did so, Duarte managed to pull Pero up a little, and the stricken sailor got one knee onto the boards of the bridge.

I was cold with terror. I prayed with every fiber of my being—Keep them safe, don’t let them fall, please, please—but on the other side was someone with different priorities. A calm figure stood there, turban neat, green dolman sashed in clean white, crossbow aimed squarely at the spot where Duarte and Pero balanced between life and death.

“No!” I shrieked. “Don’t shoot!” But this archer cared nothing for my protests. The bolt was ready—he fired. Not at Duarte, leader of this expedition; not at foolish Paula, who had thought her presence might make some difference in this pattern of darkness and death. Not even at Stoyan, the strongest and most dangerous of our party. No, this weapon was aimed at the weakest, the man whose life depended on the strength and skill of another. The bolt struck Pero through the chest. He grunted and went limp, half on, half off the bridge. Duarte lay there, holding on. I could not see his face.

“Stop it!” I screamed again. “Leave us alone!”

“Let him go, Duarte.” It was Stoyan, speaking calmly as he walked across the bridge toward the place where the Portuguese was lying, supporting the body of his first mate and friend. “You must let him go.”

I saw Pero fall, down, down, a last flight to oblivion. The seven children would wait forever for their father’s homecoming. He’d never again tuck them into bed, solving their small territorial disputes with benign efficiency.

Stoyan bent to help Duarte up, to guide his hand back to the supporting rope. The crossbow leveled once more, aiming toward them. This time I got a better view, and I saw the archer’s face. My heart stopped. It was the court-trained eunuch Murat: Irene’s jewel. And behind him, clad in an outfit that was a perfectly cut blend of Greek fashion and Anatolian mountain dress, full gathered trousers tucked into boots, long woolen tunic and embroidered waistcoat, was Irene herself, her expression cold as winter. Now that the shouting had died down, I could hear her voice with perfect clarity through the thin mountain air.

“Leave the girl, Murat,” she said. “Her head’s a mine of information; she may be useful to us. Don’t harm the Portuguese. He’ll have the artifact in his pack, and he knows the way. Kill the guard dog.”

Stoyan was getting Duarte up, ensuring the other man did not fall as he regained his balance on the swaying