Good fortune had never been close at hand for Sarka, though, and coming to a new land did little to change her ill luck.
The city of Deynaport was much more than Sarka had been prepared for. There was such a diversity of sights, sounds, and people that Sarka did not know what to look at first. She drank in each new thing, no matter how mundane. The docks bustled with hurried workers carrying crates, barrels, and sacks to and fro on their burly shoulders. Carts pulled by mules weaved through the crush of people. Sarka narrowly avoided collision more than once, clutching her satchel of precious thread to her chest as she made her way on alone.
The vast stone wall surrounding Deynaport was breached only by a set of huge, iron-clad doors. Sarka crossed through these and onto a cobbled street, which stretched straight onward, lined with stalls and shops. Just looking around exhausted her. She stood like a tree in the stream of humanity with a never-ending current of people brushing past her, some of them glancing in startled interest at her scarred face.
But Sarka had grown quickly accustomed to her ugliness. The stares of strangers did not provoke her so much as tire her even further.
On either side of her, the oppressive facades of buildings rose on either side of the street, two or three stories high and built in rows with no space between them. The brick and wooden walls stretched up to an arching blue sky touched here and there with wisps of white cloud. Large, painted signs hung above some of the doors. Sarka could barely read the words on them and did not understand half of what she could. On the higher levels, boxes full of green plants and blooming flowers hung from the glass-paned windows.
All of this struck Sarka as bewildering largesse. Feeling directionless and overwhelmed, she closed her eyes. You have come too far to lose your way now, Sarka, she said to herself.
When she opened her eyes again, Sarka saw a familiar face, eerily calm and still, peering at her from the shadows of an alley. The sight of Tayo's face registered with a drop in her stomach and an urgent, panicked thud of her heart. She hadn't seen him since the night he had nearly killed her. Had she thought to be free of him now that she had made land in Galdren?
In the light, Sarka could see the bricks of the wall through his pale face, and he radiated a cold aura. But his eyes, for the first time, were dark and calm, as if the fire in him had burned down to embers.
"Tayo," Sarka whispered. People crossed to and fro between them.
You have crossed the sea. I allowed it. You must keep your promise to me, Absconder. The words echoed in Sarka's mind, both plaintive and threatening.
"I will. But I can do little of worth without a place to sleep. You must give me time." The worry that she might once again go hungry gnawed at her, her primary focus. Her obligation to herself outweighed her obligation to him. Freeing Tayo could wait-must wait-until she had secured her own survival. Sarka resented him for tormenting her, and any threads of pity she had mustered the night she promised him help had been cut.
Her debt to him was for self-preservation alone, and his mercy would mean nothing if she starved.
Daylit reality flickered before her eyes, and Tayo was gone. Though she did not see him, she heard his voice: Do not forget, or I will bring a dozen of my brothers to take you. We will each bear a shard of your soul back to the ashlands.
She turned her head to look up and down the street; the pedestrians around her seemed not to have noticed anything amiss. She began to walk in search of a tailor's shop, her head swimming with sensory assault: sight, sounds, smells.
A man trundled down the side of the street, pushing a cart. Sarka hailed him. "Excuse me, sir."
"Deyna's blessing upon you. Hot roll?" He lifted the lid of a heavy iron trough on his cart, revealing a jumble of steaming sweet rolls. At the same time, he took in Sarka's bedraggled appearance with a doubtful eye, sensing, perhaps, that she did not have the coin to pay for the food.
Sarka's mouth watered. "Deyna?" she echoed.
The baker cocked his head at her. "A foreigner, eh? Lady Deyna is our patroness," he said. He turned and pointed up the road. "Pay your respects and you will have her blessing, friend. Her temple is that way. Turn to the left once you reach the Opal Road. That statue there, it's where you turn-do you see it? All of the city's temples stand on the Opal Road, My Lady's being the grandest of all, of course."
Even as he finished his instructions, he was lifting his cart back up and moving on. He did not wait for a response, and Sarka missed her chance to ask about a tailor's shop, as had been her intent in hailing him.
She continued up the road, her curiosity about the temple piqued. She noticed a connection between the goddess's name and the city's; Deyna must be a special patroness to Deynaport, and perhaps there would be work for her there. Temples needed trappings and vestments. Sarka was a heathen, but even she knew that.
To reach the statue the baker had indicated, Sarka walked past a garden. There, flowers, bushes, and trees blossomed in a rainbow of color. She stared in wonder at it all and slowed down so she could touch the waxy leaves of the bushes and the feathery fronds of ferns. At a glance, she could not tell whether any of the plants were edible. She saw no evidence of fruits or vegetables...could this entire stretch of land have been cultivated purely for its decorative value?
She shook her head and moved on. The statue stood in the center of a circular opening between buildings; the current of pedestrians, carts, and beasts of burdens skirted around it. The figure was a woman in a long robe and sash, her arms outspread in a gesture of blessing. She wore a circlet on her brow. Daintily clasped in one of her hands was a branch of fern. To have such pride of place, Sarka thought, the statue must have been Deyna.
Just beyond the statue was a courtyard surrounded with tall columns supporting a roof of red tile. Near the main entry point, a well-groomed official stood in conversation with a woman and her child.
Curious, Sarka went to get a closer look. She was too unsure of herself to pass through the columns and chose instead to observe from outside. It was another garden filled with trees, bushes, and blooming things, this one crisscrossed with walking paths.
Nearby, a pair of people knelt in obeisance to a tree with ribbons trailing from its branches. Beyond them was a familiar figure: a being crowned with a crescent. At intervals along the paths were other statues and constructions like altars, some of them carven with images, covered with cloths, or littered with offerings of bread and fruit.
Sarka felt a tap on her shoulder. Startled, she turned to see the official she had noticed before.
"Welcome to Deynaport," he said, extending a hand palm up.
Sarka, thinking this might be some Galdrenite greeting, placed her hand in his. "Thank you."
The man frowned, glancing down at her hand and then at her face. His gaze skated over her scar. "The tax, miss?"
"Tax?" Sarka echoed. The word was unfamiliar to her.
"Yes. The tax. Foreigners wishing to make offerings to their gods must pay a copper to gain entry into the Hundred God Grotto. A small fee, you understand, to help our great city preserve the beauty of this sanctuary to the deities of our friends and allies."
Sarka stared blankly in the wake of this well-practiced pitch. "Oh. No." She drew back from him and turned away. "I have no gods here."
Facing the statue of Deyna again, Sarka looked up the street. The way to the left was narrow; to the right, the street was broad, lined with monumental buildings. Sarka recognized right away what must have been the temple to the presiding goddess of Deynaport, which stood close to the honored statue in the center of the street. This temple was constructed of brown stone. Rows of the feathery ferns that seemed to be Deyna's symbol had been planted down the short walk up to the huge carven doors. Gilt statuary framed the entrance, and blue pennants hung from a wide balcony on the second story. A round window near the top was crafted of colored glass, something Sarka had never seen.
The baker had said there were other temples, too, and from where Sarka stood she could see them: not only the courtyard with its holy trees and tax collector, but a dozen buildings varying in size and appearance, each one apparently dedicated to a different deity of the land. It was impossible to take it all in from where she stood.
How many gods must there be in the world if there were a dozen temples on this street alone and a hundred altars in the Grotto? Sarka wondered how a pious Galdrenite could have sufficient time to honor all his pantheon.
The Annari had it easier, she thought; they had only two gods. Thinking of this made her think of Etza and, in turn, Ro. She wondered if his foot had healed. Was he still in Horn Harbor, or had he made his way back toward Eagle's Rock?
She hoped Etza would carry the news of her triumph back to the ashlands someday. She wanted Ro to know she had made it. It was good to prove him wrong.
With a newfound confidence in her victory, Sarka struck out toward the Temple of Deyna, gathering her wits and her will.