of the yellow-and-white painted deathboat: House Favonius’s colors. Its wooden sides were already dented and splintery from earlier collisions with the shore and rocks, but it floated gamely on, a hollow cylinder with no up or down, no captain, no passengers save the dead.
When the deathboat went over the falls, it would smash to flinders. Sara comforted herself that at least it would only contain the ashes of the dead, not bodies or even bones, the death rites having been performed upriver to spare the mourners the long journey to the falls. Or perhaps it was to spare Mek’s priesthood from having to live in such a lonely spot.
To meet this particular deathboat was such ill luck that Sara saw the hand of the gods in it. But which god? Mek? Hana, God of Justice? Or worse, Vez? Was it a bad omen or a warning that her time was running out?
Her father’s timetable needed to be advanced by a day. The boat would have passed through Temborium at least a day and a half ago, bringing the news of the massacre with it.
Sara faced the deathboat, ready to bear witness when it went over the falls.
A diagonal chute that stretched from a place upriver to the temple kept the boat from crashing into the footbridge. Only, she squinted, it looked like the boat was going to catch on the low-hanging ropes on the east side. And then she saw why. A man was crossing the two-rope bridge, his weight pulling it taut. His companions back on shore yelled and gestured for him to come back.
The current bore the deathboat straight toward the man as if aimed by Vez’s malice. He scrambled out of the way, but his feet slipped off when the boat hit the ropes. Sara watched, heart in her throat, while he dangled from the top rope by only his hands, both legs in the monstrous current, a terrified look on his face. He was just a boy, Sara saw, a boy who’d realized he might die, not someday, but today.
His companions on shore yelled indistinguishable words and an older burly man with a scar began the treacherous trip out to help him.
“He’s making it worse,” Lance pronounced. Apparently having finished his prayers, he joined Sara at the temple wall.
The current spun the deathboat’s far end into the rope as well, sending a shudder up its length. “Will it hold?” Sara asked worriedly. “Is there anything we can do?”
Lance didn’t reply, the answer so clearly being no.
The youth got one foot back on the bottom rope. Sara let out a sigh of relief, and then jumped as a small long-bodied refetti ran over her foot. The men must have scared it out onto the bridge, Sara decided after her heart calmed down. Poor thing. It cowered around her ankles, its wet fur tickling her skin. It was about a foot and a half long, but half of that was tail.
Marcus stepped onto the temple slab, worry and dismay etched onto his face. “Lady Sarathena, you should go back to shore.”
“Why?” Sara wanted to see how things ended.
The boy’s older companion raised the top rope above his head. Sara shuddered at the danger he was putting himself in, but the tactic worked. The deathboat slipped through the widened space between the two ropes and vanished over the falls. Sara listened in vain for its impact at the bottom. It was as if Mek had eaten it.
“Why? Because those are Qiph warriors,” Marcus said grimly in her ear.
Qiph? Sara blinked. All of them wore green and white robes and had black hair braided in rows close to their heads, as Qiph did. Their arms were a shade browner than her own. But unlike the Qiph slaves and merchantmen she was accustomed to seeing at the market, all but one of these men had scabbards hanging by their sides and carried round shields slung across their backs. The exception was a priest, easily recognizable by his extra ‘eyes’—gems glued to his forehead.
What was a group of Qiph warriors and a priest doing here so many days travel from the border? They couldn’t be coming to the shrine—Sara’s old math tutor had
When the deathboat went over the falls, it would smash to flinders. Sara comforted herself that at least it would only contain the ashes of the dead, not bodies or even bones, the death rites having been performed upriver to spare the mourners the long journey to the falls. Or perhaps it was to spare Mek’s priesthood from having to live in such a lonely spot.
To meet this particular deathboat was such ill luck that Sara saw the hand of the gods in it. But which god? Mek? Hana, God of Justice? Or worse, Vez? Was it a bad omen or a warning that her time was running out?
Her father’s timetable needed to be advanced by a day. The boat would have passed through Temborium at least a day and a half ago, bringing the news of the massacre with it.
Sara faced the deathboat, ready to bear witness when it went over the falls.
A diagonal chute that stretched from a place upriver to the temple kept the boat from crashing into the footbridge. Only, she squinted, it looked like the boat was going to catch on the low-hanging ropes on the east side. And then she saw why. A man was crossing the two-rope bridge, his weight pulling it taut. His companions back on shore yelled and gestured for him to come back.
The current bore the deathboat straight toward the man as if aimed by Vez’s malice. He scrambled out of the way, but his feet slipped off when the boat hit the ropes. Sara watched, heart in her throat, while he dangled from the top rope by only his hands, both legs in the monstrous current, a terrified look on his face. He was just a boy, Sara saw, a boy who’d realized he might die, not someday, but today.
His companions on shore yelled indistinguishable words and an older burly man with a scar began the treacherous trip out to help him.
“He’s making it worse,” Lance pronounced. Apparently having finished his prayers, he joined Sara at the temple wall.
The current spun the deathboat’s far end into the rope as well, sending a shudder up its length. “Will it hold?” Sara asked worriedly. “Is there anything we can do?”
Lance didn’t reply, the answer so clearly being no.
The youth got one foot back on the bottom rope. Sara let out a sigh of relief, and then jumped as a small long-bodied refetti ran over her foot. The men must have scared it out onto the bridge, Sara decided after her heart calmed down. Poor thing. It cowered around her ankles, its wet fur tickling her skin. It was about a foot and a half long, but half of that was tail.
Marcus stepped onto the temple slab, worry and dismay etched onto his face. “Lady Sarathena, you should go back to shore.”
“Why?” Sara wanted to see how things ended.
The boy’s older companion raised the top rope above his head. Sara shuddered at the danger he was putting himself in, but the tactic worked. The deathboat slipped through the widened space between the two ropes and vanished over the falls. Sara listened in vain for its impact at the bottom. It was as if Mek had eaten it.
“Why? Because those are Qiph warriors,” Marcus said grimly in her ear.
Qiph? Sara blinked. All of them wore green and white robes and had black hair braided in rows close to their heads, as Qiph did. Their arms were a shade browner than her own. But unlike the Qiph slaves and merchantmen she was accustomed to seeing at the market, all but one of these men had scabbards hanging by their sides and carried round shields slung across their backs. The exception was a priest, easily recognizable by his extra ‘eyes’—gems glued to his forehead.
What was a group of Qiph warriors and a priest doing here so many days travel from the border? They couldn’t be coming to the shrine—Sara’s old math tutor had
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