A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 23 (Part 2 of 2)

He struggled to sleep that night.  His wounded arm pained him, though with the right sort of pain: healthy and strengthening, not the burning of an infection.  The blanket he lay under itched; the floor he lay on was uneven and hard.  Such things did not trouble him overmuch.

She wanted something.  There would be an expectation of services in return for her aid, despite her denials.  Perhaps her Caste home could offer them refuge, or perhaps she wanted them there for a reason.  Theano’s impassive face disturbed him as he tried to sleep.  He knew powerful women – the Duchess of Roethenna foremost among them – but not one who held power as plainly as she did.  Yet she was an arcanus, amongst the least plain people on the continent.  He could not guess what she did with her days.  He had no idea what any arcanus did with their days.  Temith could probably tell him some dark stories.

The first time he woke to see light, he also saw Menentor sat on a stool, staring out through the pale glass.  One of the pathfinder’s hands played over his lips; the other tapped nervously on the table.  He had hardly spoken since the arcanus had departed the previous afternoon.  Once Imlon, Isendrin and Temith had risen, however, he seemed to have collected himself.  He went out early to get food, coming back with the usual fare.

“We should have gone last night,” he said on his return.  “There’s a guard on every corner.”

“You weren’t seen?” said Temith.

“Let’s hope not,” said Menentor, handing round the meagre breakfast.  They ate in silence.  Isendrin expected Temith to blurt something out at any moment.  He shook his head when the Erluethan finally gave in.

“Is there anything we can do?” said Temith.

“Wait till midday, then go back to sleep,” said Isendrin.  “We’ll need all speed through the marsh tonight.  No roads until we’re well away from Pekderzhun.”

“Surely we can’t risk the marsh at night?”

“The surrounds of the city are firm enough, it’s not like the deep marsh,” said Menentor.  “We won’t have much speed, but neither will anyone else, if it comes to a pursuit.  Stay in my footsteps and you’ll be fine.”

Temith did not look reassured.  For once, Isendrin took no pleasure in his discomfort.  It would be a grim night.

He tried to sleep in the afternoon, to no success.  Taking a ragged cloth, he cleaned his sword, stopping to watch the slow progress of light through the window, the shortening and lengthening of the shadow.  When the sun itself came into view, a bright white gleam buried behind the mist of the marsh, he thought it like a slow signal fire, watched by ambushers.  When it passed the horizon, they would pounce.  Menentor could have been recognised, this Barcha could still be in pursuit of Imlon, Theano’s motives could be worse than they suspected.  There were too many loose threads.  Minute by minute the night drew on, and minute by minute the Temple knew more. 

* 

The four of them sat together as midnight closed in.  None of them spoke.  Isendrin remembered a sea voyage he had taken with the Legion, when the Fifth was sent to fight the Crassathians for an island east of Emmares.  There had been eighty men crammed below decks in near total darkness, the groaning sea aching to break through the hull.  If the ship foundered, death by water.  If the ship arrived, death by the sword.  Some of the legionaries had prayed, clutching at winged talismans.  Some had stared at the creaking timbers.  He, amongst others, had vomited on the deck.  No one had spoken.

He observed his companions.  Temith prayed silently.  Imlon stared upward, his eyes flicking back and forth.  Menentor lay in the corner, eyelids shut, but clearly awake.  The hour was drawing on.