Chapter Forty-Eight
Aren
Breakfast is a temple-wide affair.
Meals are sacred in the House of Healing, and everyone is invited to share in the bounty. Siena explained when I first came that all the food is free, gifts to honor the goddess and her healers from the faithful and the grateful among the city’s denizens.
In the dining hall, platters piled high with warm bread, fresh dates, and ripe persimmons are laid out alongside carafes of wine and tea. Dietan and I peruse the selection. I decide on a piece of fruit. Before I can even reach for it, I hear a door slam open and stop short.
Siena rushes into the chamber, eyes wide and bangles jangling. Footfalls pound on the floorboards above us. She runs right up to us. “You need to hide. They’re coming. Downstairs, now.”
“Downstairs?” As far as I can tell, we’re on the ground floor, and there’s nothing below.
She ignores me, and without a word, breakfast is forgotten as acolytes and disciples shove tables and benches aside. Siena kneels and pulls back the rug underneath our feet, revealing a hidden door in the wooden floor.
“Help me,” she says, and two of the nearest healers tug on the handle, prying it open to reveal a staircase. “Go!”
“What about you?” I ask.
“They aren’t looking for me. I’m just a kitchen girl, a dime a dozen. They only care about you and the prince,” she says with a shake of her head. “And my veils will keep me hidden.” She pulls them forward, covering her face completely.
We don’t need to be told twice. Dietan leads us downward into the darkness.
Behind us, the hatch slams closed with a loud thud that echoes through the underground chamber.
He finds my hand in the dark and squeezes it.
I’m too terrified to even whisper, and for a moment there is no sound but our breathing.
Above us, we hear footfalls on the floorboards, some heading away, others drawing nearer.
Then a thump, followed by a soft rolling sound that means the acolytes have rearranged the rug, then the scrape of chairs and tables sliding back into position.
The chatter and clink of silverware sounds once more, as if nothing is amiss and no one is hidden beneath their feet.
I hold my breath.
Then we hear it: a door creaking open, raised voices, and heavy boots clomping into the dining hall. I strain to listen over my pulse pounding in my ears. Dietan gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. He leans down to whisper, “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
I squeeze back. But it’s him who needs protection, I want to say. It’s he who’ll be killed—or worse, tortured and killed—if the king’s men find us here.
My blood freezes when the heavy boots thump above our heads, raining dust on my face. I clamp a hand over my mouth to hold in a cough.
“We’re looking for two fugitives,” barks a stern voice. “A criminal who’s escaped the dungeon and a cook from the kitchens who helped him.”
So we were right, the alarms were because our ruse had been discovered.
“A criminal? Who is it?” asks one of the sisters with an innocent air.
“Some visitor who snuck into the palace and was caught. He faked his death. When guards went to retrieve his body for burning, he was gone. The king’s beside himself with rage,” the soldier says.
Dietan tightens his grip on my fingers while his other hand moves to the knife he’s strapped to his hip. He’s kept it close since I returned it to him this morning.
“This is a place of worship,” we hear Sister Dosha say in her calm voice. “And you’ve interrupted our sacred meal.”
The guard utters a muffled response I can’t make out. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. My muscles are wound so tightly it feels like I might snap.
“You’re certain you haven’t taken in anyone injured? A badly beaten, light-haired, Loegrian man? A dark-haired Alarician woman would be accompanying him.”
“No, no one of that description,” says Sister Dosha, sounding unruffled and slightly annoyed to have to answer such questions.
“Lying to the kingsguard is treason,” the soldier warns.
“I am aware, and you should be aware that we serve King Osian well here.”
“You serve at the mercy of the king, and if it’s discovered you have harbored fugitives, the king will raze this temple.”
Sister Dosha wisely doesn’t reply. Then there’s the sound of boots circling the hidden door, raining dust on us once again. I pray to the goddess Sirona to keep me from sneezing.
I bow my head to keep the dirt out of my eyes and lean on Dietan, strong and silent next to me, focusing on him to keep the paralyzing fear at bay.
At last, the heavy footsteps recede. The clatter of breakfast resumes once again.
Then, after what feels like forever, silence takes over as the room empties and acolytes and pilgrims go back to their tasks.
We wait longer still, breathing more easily now, hoping the danger has passed.
At last we hear the scraping of tables, chairs being pushed away, and the carpet being rolled back.
The door springs open, and the light is painfully bright, stinging my eyes.
For an instant, I fear it’s a guard.
But then I hear Siena’s voice tell us, “They’re gone.” She reaches for my hand, helping me up the steps. Dietan follows with a steadying hand on my back.
We are back in the dining hall, which is empty not just of people but of food. My stomach growls. Thankfully, Siena hands us each a slice of date cake folded in a cloth napkin. “They’re combing the city, looking for you,” she says as we eat.
Dietan wolfs the cake down gratefully. I thought I was starving, but now I find my appetite is gone.
Namreth is looking for us.
He knows that Dietan is alive and I helped him. I hand my slice of cake to Dietan, who raises a questioning eyebrow before gulping it down, too.
“We can’t stay here,” Dietan says when he’s finished eating. His jaw is set, his eyes hard and determined. “They’ll be back,” he adds, just as Sister Dosha returns to the room. She looks relieved to see us.
“Yes, they will. I don’t think they believed me, but they can’t move against the temple without proof.” Worry creases her gentle face. “Are you sufficiently recovered?”
He stretches out his arms. Though I know he’s sore from crouching in our cramped hiding spot, he is no longer in pain.
“More than you know. You’ve done a magnificent job.
Thank you, sister, for everything,” says Dietan.
“We need to get out of here today. We’re putting everyone in this temple in danger. ”
The priestess nods. “We have use of a place near a grain storehouse that belongs to the temple,” she tells us. “You can stay there as long as you need until you find a way to leave the city.”
“I’m guessing we aren’t the first people you’ve had to hide from Namreth?” he asks.
“No, and you won’t be the last. The accommodations aren’t as comfortable as here at the temple, but—”
Dietan nods sharply. “It will be more than sufficient. How do we get there without being discovered?”
“The wagon we usually use to transport supplies will be most inconspicuous. I’ve already called for it. It should be here before the next call to prayer. Siena can help you get ready.”
I look at the former scullery maid. “Aren’t you coming with us? We were all supposed to escape.”
She shakes her head. “I’ve no home to go to, and I’m needed here. There are too many pilgrims who need help right now.”
The king’s wrath has been felt by too many of his subjects.
While I want to take her with us, I know it would only put her in more peril. She’s safe here at the temple, for now. “Thank you for everything,” I say with a sob in my throat as I pull her in for a close hug.
“No, thank you for getting me out of the castle,” she says. “Be safe.” To Dietan, she bows and says, “Sirona keep you, Your Highness, and may Loegria prevail against the Usurper.”
…
We don’t have much to pack.
I still have the satchel from the night of our escape.
I give Dietan his royal knife back. The only things I brought from the castle are a change of clothes and a skillet I stole from the kitchen to replace my own.
I ask Siena to replenish the casket of herbs Namreth took from me when I arrived. She does so happily.
She stuffs my satchel with dried meats and fruit while Dietan and I change out of our plain tunics into temple acolytes’ robes, with hoods that hide half our faces when pulled up.
Siena leads us out the back, where a covered wagon waits. Dietan and I climb in to find that it’s stacked to the canvas top with provisions. We squeeze between large woven baskets of grain, nestling beside two of the tallest. I hope they’re big enough to hide us if the wagon gets stopped.
“It’s going to make its usual rounds, but you should be in the safe house before nightfall,” Siena says. “Here’s a map. The wagon will drop you off a few streets away from the safe house. Good luck, and may Sirona heal your troubles.” She hands us a scroll.
“May the Harvest Mother bless your bounty,” I reply.
“As the gods will,” says Dietan, who takes the map, and then we’re off.
The sun beats down on the tarp, and the wagon shakes and rattles each time it finds some little divot in the road. Dietan jumps whenever we hit a rocky patch, his head bashing against the wooden frame holding up the tarp. “I thought you were used to riding in the back of carriages,” I tease.
“Most definitely, but never with the produce.” He draws an apple out of the nearest basket and takes a bite as the cart lurches to a halt.
“I think we’re here,” I say.
The driver opens the flap on the tarp. “Hurry. I can’t stop long.”
Dietan tosses the apple and lifts me out of the wagon, and then we scramble into the nearest alley. Without a goodbye, the driver is back at the reins. The wagon trundles down the street, leaving us with the crude map and only the slightest notion of how to find the safe house.
“Come on,” says Dietan, squinting at the piece of paper. “I think it’s this way.”