suspicion or even much curiosity.
Beyond the edge of the shelf, the mountainside fell away in a slope shallow enough to permit cultivation. Slaves bent in freshly plowed fields, planting peas or beans in the furrows and grain on the ridges. Overseers with whips sauntered among them.
Nearby was a barn, and horses standing in a paddock. Gaedynn led Jhesrhi in that direction. “Grooms!” he shouted.
Two thralls scrambled into view. They had the same cringing demeanor as the man back on the shelf, and sets of scabby double puncture wounds on their throats.
“The lady and I are going for a ride,” Gaedynn said. “Saddle two horses.”
The men hesitated. Then one said, “The countryside can be dangerous. I can ask the soldiers in the towers to-”
“Now!” Gaedynn snapped.
The slaves flinched, then hurried to obey. He could see they were hurrying, even if the task seemed to drag on endlessly. But finally he and Jhesrhi were in the saddle and, moments later, trotting down the trail that meandered among the fields.
Jhesrhi shook her head. “Strange.”
“What?” Gaedynn asked.
“I wouldn’t have said it while we were doing it, but now that we’re out, escaping almost seemed too easy.”
He laughed. “By my estimation, we have about half an afternoon to put distance between Mount Thulbane and ourselves. Before you make up your mind how easy it was, let’s see how we fare come nightfall.”
SEVEN
GREENGRASS-7 MIRTUL THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
The scent of flowers filled the air. The prayers of druids and sunlords made it possible to grow them in time for the spring festival. Usually they went to decorate public places, or to worshipers to use as offerings, but Cera had diverted two bouquets to fill the vases in her bedroom.
At present, she lay on her stomach with the tangled covers concealing her from the small of her bare back down. Aoth studied her, and she reassured him that she truly was asleep by giving a soft buzz of a snore.
Moving carefully, he stood up, put on the clothes he’d left strewn on the floor, and picked up his spear where it leaned against a chair. She kept snoring.
So far, so good. Now what?
He could rummage through her personal effects, but it would be unfortunate if she woke and caught him. And it seemed likely that if what he was looking for was there at all, he could find some sign of it elsewhere.
He prowled through the rest of her apartments and peeked out into the corridor beyond. It pleased him that some thrifty soul had extinguished the oil lamp. The gloom would obscure him without hindering his own vision.
He skulked on past the chambers of Cera’s subordinates. Moans sounded from one and a rhythmic slap-slap- slap from another. For a moment he smiled. When he was young, the priests of Lathander had been a famously amorous lot, and although Amaunator was supposed to be a more staid and dignified god, perhaps their successors had inherited the same proclivity.
Or maybe it was just Greengrass sparking carnal urges in one and all.
He slipped from the cloister into the sanctuary, where it wasn’t quite as dark. Votive flames burned in one place and another, and the moon and stars shone through the skylights. He didn’t know a great deal about Amaunatori customs, and-concerned that he might encounter a priest performing some late-night ritual, or perhaps a ceremonial guard-he crept even more warily. But there didn’t appear to be anyone else around.
He trusted his fire-touched eyes to reveal the presence of concealed doors and the like, but there didn’t seem to be any of those either. Just stone stairs in plain sight descending into the floor. He headed down and came to a door in the form of a wrought-iron grille. He tried it, and it was locked.
He scowled. Jhesrhi could likely have opened the lock without breaking it. Gaedynn might have found a way as well. Both were better suited to spying than their commander, which was why Aoth had sent them into Threskel. But he regretted their absence now.
Well, he’d just have to proceed as best he could. He slipped the point of his spear into the crack above the latch, then pried, releasing a bit of the power stored inside the weapon to make the action more forceful. The grille lurched open with a snap.
He swung it shut again behind him. With luck, no one would notice the damage before morning at the earliest. He climbed down the remaining steps.
Which put him in a musty-smelling room with brick walls and a few old boxes scattered around. He stalked through an arch into a second rectangular space like the first.
Another grille separated the second room from a third. On the other side were coffers, jars, urns, and icons, some of the latter depictions of the Morninglord and thus no longer suitable for veneration. The wealth of the temple, locked away for safekeeping.
Aoth broke open the new barrier and explored the repository. No matter how intently he peered at the contents, and at the ceiling, walls, and floor, he still couldn’t find any trace of what he sought. And there was nowhere else to look, not down here anyway.
Warm golden light bloomed at his back. As he pivoted toward the doorway, it brightened. By the time he faced it, it was like looking directly at the sun.
Unfortunately, glare was one thing that could still impair his vision. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he leveled the spear with the other. “Stop what you’re doing. I don’t have to see you to hurt you.”
“I vouched for you,” Cera said, from inside the dazzling light or beyond it. “I told everyone you were honorable and came here to protect us. And you get up out of my bed and slink down here to steal Amaunator’s treasure!”
He wondered if she truly believed that. “You’re wrong. That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then drop your spear and surrender, and afterward we’ll sort it out.”
“I can’t do that.” She might kill him once she had him disarmed.
“Then this is your own fault.”
The blaze in the doorway seemed to leap at him, engulf him, and pain seared him. He willed a tattoo to life, and its enchantment dulled the agony. Maybe it even kept him from bursting into flame.
He growled a word of power, and a thunderclap boomed through the cellar. Hoping it had at least staggered Cera, he charged the doorway. And slammed into the grille. He’d left it open, so the priestess must have closed it and the glare kept him from noticing.
He rebounded and fell on his rump. The grille squeaked on its hinges and clanked against the wall. Footsteps pattered in his direction.
Cera evidently hoped the impact had left him dazed or disoriented, but though his head throbbed, it hadn’t. He could judge where she was, and he raised the spear to spit her. Then he flung himself to the side instead. Something, likely her golden mace, banged against the floor.
He scrambled, turned, and then he was facing her with his back to the glare. He was still half blind with floating smears of afterimage, but at least he could make out her silhouette and see that she had indeed armed herself with her mace and targe.
As he sprang to his feet, he feinted at her face with the spear. The round shield jerked up to block in a way that more or less blinded her. She was resourceful and commanded potent magic, but she was no expert at hand- to-hand combat.
He reversed the spear and swept her feet out from under her with the blunt end. She thumped down on the floor. He spun the weapon again and touched the point to her throat.
“Let go of the mace and shield,” he said.
She did.
