Juliet Marillier - Cybele's Secret

Shouting came from beyond the trees. I heard Stoyan’s voice—thank God, he was still alive—and those of other men. They were much closer and heading my way. Think, Paula. I had been right along the tiled area; the only other course was to go all the way across the foot of the cliff, hoping somewhere there might be a cave or signs of a clearer way out. No time for that; they were coming now. Think.

There was a crashing in the bushes nearby. I hugged Cybele to my chest and backed against the tiles. A moment later Stoyan came bursting through, his garments stained with blood and sweat, his breathing labored. His hair had come untied and was over his shoulders and in his eyes, a wild dark cloud. Behind him was Duarte, still gripping his two knives. They halted in front of me, staring at the tiles.

“Where’s the path?” Duarte gasped. “Quick, Paula!”

Sounds of pursuit close at hand. My heart hammered. My mind edged into blank terror. Remember, remember, Paula. You are a scholar. Find what you need. I gazed wildly up at the pattern on the cliff, and something the crone had said to me, the part I had not understood, sprang into my mind.

Remember what once seemed the most important thing of all.

“Paula,” Stoyan said suddenly, his gaze on the tiles. “That’s the tree. Cybele’s tree.”

I had been too distraught, too dazzled to distinguish one tree from the others on the tiled wall, but he was right. Every branch, every leaf and little bird was the same as the image we had made in our sand tray, the one we had done our best to memorize. The tiny patterns hidden in the decorative border of the Persian manuscript were here in complete order, and Cybele’s tree flowered on the wall before us.

“They’re here,” Duarte muttered, and through the bushes came five or six of Irene’s men, not running to attack, simply moving toward us in a tightening semicircle, weapons in hand. My companions turned to face them.

“Paula,” came Irene’s voice, not in the least out of breath. She sounded as if she were welcoming me to a day of study, bathing, and good coffee. “How very clever of you. This must indeed be the place. I’m so glad you and the artifact have both come this far unharmed. You have such potential; I’d hate to see that snuffed out. Now might be the right moment to dispense with Paula’s guard at last, Murat. I feel he’s going to get in our way. Not the pirate. He’ll know the path. And make sure you spare Paula; she’s a real scholar, and that may come in useful to us. Besides, she’ll change sides quickly enough once she realizes how serious we are. Separate the Bulgar from the others, and let her watch him die.”

I was a hairbreadth from asking Duarte to hand over Cybele’s Gift to her. But that had to be wrong. The quest couldn’t end so bitterly. I must do the job I’d been given and trust Duarte and Stoyan to do theirs. As the two of them moved closer together, forming a protective shield between me and the attackers, I forced myself to look away, to concentrate on the tiled tree. Metal clashed, and Stoyan gave a muffled cry. It took all my will not to turn and launch myself into the conflict in a futile effort to help him.

A moment later I had it. Remember what once seemed the most important thing of all. The Other Kingdom. The key to a new portal. When my sisters and I had lost our doorway to the fairy realm, I had been given a bundle of papers and manuscripts. I had always believed that if Stela and I worked out the clues in them, we would be able to find another portal and go back. But we never had, and after six years of trying, I had given up hope of ever doing so. For all that time, there had been nothing in the world more important to me than that. And that was where I had seen the pattern before. In those papers, somewhere in the complex tangle of clues and maps and puzzles the scholars of the Other Kingdom had given me as a parting gift, this tree image had been present. No wonder it had teased at me so in Irene’s library.

“It’s a doorway,” I breathed as Stoyan was forced backward to the rocks by three fighters. Duarte, trying desperately to get close to him, was being held off by a blank-eyed Murat. “A secret portal…” Find the heart, for there lies wisdom. I reached out my hand toward the tiled tree, imagining its rotund form was that of Cybele. I placed my palm exactly where I thought her heart would be, closed my eyes, and prayed harder than I had ever prayed before.

Under my touch, a door opened. The whole panel where the tree was depicted swung inward, creating an entry just big enough for a person to step through. I glanced behind me. Stoyan had lost his sword and was on his knees, fending off his three assailants with sweeps of a knife. Murat and Duarte were wrestling for control of a dagger.

“Now!” I yelled. “Now, quickly!” But there was no way my companions could follow me. “Help us!” I added for good measure, not at all sure whom I was addressing, just knowing I could not do this alone.

The crow rose from its tree with a strong beat of the wings. As it flew by me, it became an old woman in flowing black, eyes fierce, seamed face deathly pale, arms extended toward the struggling men, long fingers tipped with pointed nails like the claws of a predatory bird. She shrieked; it was a sound to freeze the blood in the bravest man’s veins. For a moment, shock held everyone immobile. The combatants stared at the crone, their faces drained of color. One man crossed himself.

“Now!” I said again, pointing toward the dark opening that had been revealed in the rock wall. Stoyan was up with one quick slash of the knife and across to my side. Duarte slipped out of Murat’s grip and followed. Without another word, the three of us darted through the portal and into a shadowy subterranean passageway. A moment later the crow flew by us, heading deeper into the mountain.

Somewhere ahead of us there was a flickering light, perhaps from a candle. Behind us, on the other side of the portal, Irene was issuing sharp orders.

“Can you shut it after us?” hissed Duarte. “No, forget that, just run.”

We ran, not looking back. I heard Irene’s voice again behind us, and Murat’s, and shortly after they spoke, a creaking sound as if the doorway was being closed, or perhaps closing of itself. The passage had an earthen floor that muffled the sound of our feet and of theirs. It was not pitch-dark; the unsteady light was always there in front of us, though we saw no candle, lantern, or fire. The path curved around, went up sharply, then descended and became precipitous steps. At the foot of these, it branched three ways.

I halted abruptly. Each path was lit by the same uneven glow. There was no saying which our guide, if that name could be used for a crow, had taken. Sharpen your wits. My mind refused to cooperate. I had no idea.

“Paula.” Stoyan spoke hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“The tree. I think the tree is the path.”