With a start, Iwa opened her eyes. She was back in the room, the air pressing in cold around her as the water, cooler now, dripped from her limbs. Slowly she got up, the oil clinging to her skin. No matter what happened, she had her father to save. By the candle there was a towel and a silken gown trimmed with gold. Getting out, she dried herself before putting on the gown; the silk slipped strange and unfamiliar across her skin. How could Alia wear such a thing? What she wouldn’t have given for the heavy comfort of her old clothes. The gown felt so light that it was almost as if she had nothing on, and even the slightest draught pressed in on it. Despite the candle and the scented oil there was a coldness to the room, a faint musty smell of stale air as if it was a deep cave. How could anybody live in a place of stone?
‘So you have found your gown,’ Miskyia said from the doorway.
‘Where have you taken my clothes?’ Iwa replied uncertainly. More than ever she wanted something familiar around her; anything so long as it belonged to her and not this stone place.
‘Do you not like the gown? It is of the finest silk, and not even the richest of the Arab lands could boast anything so splendid.’
‘Can’t I have my old things back?’
‘All in good time.’ Miskyia beckoned her forward. ‘But first you must follow me.’ She turned to go, but Iwa hung back. Anything was better than this place: even getting lost on the forest track. At least the wind would be fresh. ‘Come,’ Miskyia said as she paused to hold out her hand.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Somewhere safe where you can eat. You must be so very hungry.’
Iwa had little choice but to follow, hurrying down the corridors as Miskyia’s gown rustled before her. The sorceress was right and, now that she was rested, Iwa had begun to remember how long it’d been since she’d eaten last. Her stomach grumbled as she walked, her feet slippery on the stone.
Still she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that pricked along her skin. This place was all wrong, the stone smooth and unnatural under her tread. Was that why Miskyia wore shoes? But that didn’t seem any more natural, at least barefoot she could feel the ground beneath her properly. Her toes curled slightly as they crossed an ancient hall, the walls patterned with strange symbols, and somewhere in the distance there was an echo, like the rush of the firmament.
At least they were going back into the part of the temple which was relatively well known to her. As they walked Iwa began to pick out familiar landmarks: the broken ruin of a room or the line of a column.
Finally they came to a courtyard on the edge of the lake. In the middle of the yard was the burnt-out husk of a tree, its branches webbed black against the moon. At the foot of the tree lay a drum. It was a battered thing, the sides crawling with strange symbols like those in the cave, and the skin was cracked and worn. But it was not the drum that held her attention. From the lower branches of the tree hung the head of a pig. As she passed, its eyes seemed to follow her, its teeth poking through its lips to shine a savage white as Iwa mouthed a prayer of protection. But something told her that the gods rarely listened in this place.
‘What kind of tree is it?’ she wondered out loud, and tried her best not to look up at the pig’s head.
‘It is a species that has not grown in the outer world for many centuries. Not since the mountains were young has the outer world seen its like.’
‘And your boat, the one that brought me here, is it made from the same wood?’
‘You learn fast, child. That’s good: you will have to learn many things if you are to serve Lord Bethrayal. But now you must regain your strength.’ Miskyia stroked the side of the tree, her fingers lingering longingly on the bark before she pulled herself away and led Iwa into a large room. The roof had long ago caved in and the tiles cracked beneath their feet. In the centre two rough wooden chairs stood on either side of a long table. Miskyia sat and beckoned to Iwa, who followed clumsily. Such things were for krols and traders and she didn’t much like the thought of using them.
‘How long has it been since you last ate?’ Miskyia pushed a plate of food across the table.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Iwa lied, though the grumbling of her stomach betrayed her. She didn’t like this room much either. Braziers burned on either side of the doorway; the scent of incense choked the air and made her want to sneeze as she shuffled uncertainly on the chair. How did anyone keep from falling off? These krols must be idiots to sit like this, so that their feet can’t touch the ground.
But it wasn’t only that which made her nervous. There was something wrong with the room. It wasn’t just that she hadn’t noticed it before, more the fact that it didn’t fit in with the rest of the temple. Before, when she was planning her escape, she’d built up a mental picture of the rooms. This place shouldn’t be here. There had never been a doorway in the wall and behind there should have been another ruined yard, not this room.
‘You should eat,’ Miskyia said as she picked up a strange-looking root. At least it looked like a root; a round, flat thing that tapered at one end like a giant egg. One side was dark and hard with a thick crust along the top. ‘Take this,’ Miskyia said as she tore off a hunk. Inside, the root appeared
