Smoke stirred Niamh’s nose until her other senses caught up. Groggy light—the rising sun through the crowded window’s glass fluttered her eyelids. The crawling of murmured voices danced in her ears. She slowly sat up on her pillows and saw her sisters of the Grey clustering about the windows once more.
For a disconcerting moment, she thought it was the day the raiders had first come to Saanazar all over again.
Niamh climbed out of bed and smoothed her pale night gown before creeping to an unoccupied corner of the wide windows. Her breath caught in her throat as she turned her gaze in the direction of this morning’s smoke.
It did not come from the harbour. Burnt Keep itself was burning—smoke billowed out of the windows and doors and a black smear obscured the sky overhead. The castle of Saanazar had fallen.
No one knew much. With Miril in tow, Niamh scouted the halls and asked any familiar faces what they knew. The Keep had fallen—surely not by drawn-out siege already. Miril and Niamh did not speak the chilling words that lay between them: someone had let the raiders inside the walls.
As they were crossing the courtyard, they heard shouts break out on the ramparts. “Man the wall!” someone hollered.
“Archers!” roared another.
Niamh tried to ignore it, continuing toward the crowded campground that was the Temple Green, until sounds of violence cut her short in her tracks. The archers began firing off the battlements at unseen targets beyond. Screams and clanging followed. Niamh flinched and looked away as one of the defenders was struck by an incoming arrow and floundered back against the railing.
Miril was only a few paces from Niamh, but Niamh grabbed her arm in fear. “Are they breaking in here, too?” she gasped.
“Come on, let’s find out,” Miril said, and led Niamh closer to the gate.
Niamh’s knees nearly gave out as they approached some of the priests that waited near the walls. The wounded guard was being helped down the stone stairs from above, while the grey-robed flock below waited to provide whatever aid they could. After only a few questions, Miril had the answers they sought from one of the older priests. “It’s the King and his advisors!” he told them. “They’ve escaped the Keep and are coming here.”
Just as Niamh received this stunning information, a group of Militant Creed soldiers arrayed about the wooden gates themselves. They lifted the hefty bar out of its rungs and let one of the doors swing inward—only a few feet. A group of them continued pushing against it to ensure no one shoved it open further—and then a servant burst through the narrow opening. She was followed by a man in the uniform of the royal guard, then another servant.
The sounds of fighting were growing into a din outside—smashing and clanging and shouting and moaning.
Shuddering, Niamh fixed her wide eyes on Miril. “The King is coming here—for safety?” she questioned. “How did the raiders even get into the Keep in the first place? They must have had twice the defenders as we do here…”
“Something must have happened…” Miril murmured in agreement.
A fresh wooden boom drew their attention back to the gate. Someone had fallen against the broad door. Then a spear came jabbing through the opening, catching the next royal guard in the side as he tried to cross the threshold. He fell against the wood, smearing blood as he floundered away from his assailant. The raider with the spear continued after his target, only to be greeted by the Militant Creed—a plethora of spears and blades pierced him half a dozen times.
Niamh’s chin sank in unison with her stomach. Pale and reeling, she turned to Miril. She tried not to let the tears out of the wells of her eyes as she pleaded, “Let’s get back inside.”
Miril nodded and took Niamh’s hand to lead her away. The crowd of priests in the courtyard was quickly joined by onlookers from the refugees, not to mention more warrior-priests of the Militant.
As they made their way into the Temple Great Hall, Tib found them, hurrying through groups of priests and priestesses to their side. “Is it true?” she asked, eyes darting toward the doors of the Hall. “The King is here?”
Niamh nodded. “It’s true,” she whispered. Even now, all she could see was the red stain on the gate—and all she could hear was the sound of death from beyond the wall, though none of it actually reached the Great Hall.
“Atmos protect us,” Tib whispered.
“I think we’re in danger now. More than before,” Niamh said, looking to Miril. “Do you think we can protect the King here?”
“I don’t know. How long must we wait for aid to come to Saanazar?” Miril breathed.
Niamh nodded. “It’s been weeks…” She shakily sank into one of the chairs near a dining table, pressing her hands onto her knees. Her friends and she had a box in their possession that made it impossible to trust anyone. There was an insider who betrayed the King and let the raiders into the Keep. Now the King was here—and the raiders were here—and…. Niamh winced, realizing she had dug her fingernails into her knees.
“Priests and priestesses!” called a loud, authoritative voice. It was Archpriest Par; Niamh could see him through a narrow gap between two grey robes in the crowd. “We know this is a terrifying and unusual time. But Atmos has seen fit to give us an opportunity to care for even more of those in need: the ruler of this city and his retinue. We will need to make some adjustments, of course. If we can have some volunteers…. We need to move all these tables to the outside edge of the room, so we can make space in here for cots for the injured, and—indeed—for sleeping arrangements.”
Miril stood to help, but noticed Niamh did not. She saw the panic in Niamh’s eyes. “You’ll feel better doing something about it. Let’s help.”
Wordlessly, Niamh stood up from the chair. She helped them clear the chairs away, before they got started pushing the tables. Soon, servants, guards, and advisors from the Keep were making their way into the Great Hall from outside. Some were injured, while others were just in shock or feeling displaced.
Niamh followed Miril’s lead. She knew they were to embody Atmos, but she didn’t understand why he was letting his happen. People were dying outside the walls, and Tib was blindly believing that Atmos would save them. It didn’t make any sense to Niamh.
As they helped bring supplies—rations, bedding, linens for bandaging—to the Great Hall, Niamh finally heard word that the gate had been sealed up once more. The fighting was over and the King was safely hidden away within the Grey Temple. The old ruler was, of course, under heavy guard and attended by his trusted advisors.
For a few minutes, there was nothing more to do. The halls were packed with people trying to help—or trying to hear the latest rumour. Niamh and her friends waited at the edge of the Great Hall to see how they could help.
Across the crowded floor of the Hall, Niamh noticed a few guards removing some of their dented armour and tending their minor injuries. One of them looked familiar, but Niamh couldn’t place the face. It wasn’t Aradar—whose fate she so often wondered about. Aradar was a member of the City Watch, not the royal guard.
Then she blinked. That was the man from the harbour-side tavern—the man with the Green Eye brooch. He was the one who had told them where to find Roithe’s box, once he and his ilk had studied its contents to their satisfaction. But…what was he doing here? And why dressed as a guard of the King?
“Miril,” Niamh breathed. “Miril, that’s the Green Eye man that told me about the box!”
Miril’s eyes wandered the crowd until they found the man wearing the armour of a royal guard. Her jaw dropped. She grabbed Niamh by the elbow and spun her away. Then, carefully, they led a confused Tib out of the Great Hall and into one of the adjoining corridors. “What’s he doing here?” Miril whispered.
“I think he works for the King,” Niamh said, as confused by Miril’s reaction as she was by the man’s sudden appearance. “That’s why he was after the truth about the Archpriests.”
“It could be…” Miril said, slowly. “So, does the King want the Archpriests revealed? That man told you to make the box’s contents public, right?”
“He told me that if we didn’t like what we found, we can report it to the Watch,” Niamh repeated. “I think we should talk to him!”
Miril pursed her lips, her brow furrowed. “What if he wants the box back? We haven’t done what he said, after all. He probably thinks we’re trying to protect the Archpriests’ secrets.”
Niamh looked down. “We kind of are,” she pointed out.
“I suppose you’re right,” Miril said, blinking.
Niamh looked up again. “I just think…maybe he can help us. I think he knows more than what we know. He’s the one who found the box first. If he wanted to hurt us, he’s had plenty of opportunity.”
“Should we get Anthin?” Tib asked.
Niamh nodded. “Let’s,” she decided.
A few minutes later—and with Anthin in company—Niamh and her friends crossed the Great Hall toward the strange man. He was acting casually, sharing a flask with his guard comrades, until he saw them coming. Then his eyes widened, and he took his leave of his friends with a word. Saying nothing to Niamh, he crossed toward the Great Hall’s main door and headed outside, into the courtyard.
Anthin sighed as they followed—they didn’t have much choice.
The man was waiting for them in the courtyard, away from the groups of refugees. “You cowards!” he blurted, as they got close enough. “We gave you the chance to reveal real truths about your beloved Archpriests, and then—nothing.”
Anthin shook his head. “You expected us to trust your word and your motives, but we don’t even know your name.”
Niamh said nothing, but she fixed her eyes on the guard, trying to read him.
“I’m not giving you a thing more,” he growled, rebutting the attempt to learn his name. “Keep your mouths shut about me, if you know what’s good for you. Or are you part of the corruption?” He started to walk away.
“You asked for our help at the same time as making it hard for us to trust you,” Niamh said. “But you’re just as vulnerable as we are.”
The guard turned back, fixing his eyes on Niamh. She felt the same intimidation as she had when he first sat down across the table from her in that bar. This time, he shook his head. “Have you looked around? We don’t have the luxury of trust anymore, youngling.” He took a step toward her. “We had a chance. We asked for a leap of faith—for the secrets to be seen coming out from the inside, not from a criminal gang—and you didn’t take it. Now what do we have?” He spread his hands to the ash-dusted walls around them. “War.”
When he spun to march away this time, Niamh and her friends let him go. Niamh hung her head. Her earlier fear was replaced by frustration. To bring down her own religion? With her own hands?
She met Anthin’s eyes and saw the same questions running through his mind. Above, dark clouds of smoke blocked out the sun.