longer, if he did not return to his own body yet. The Blackdog slid back into the water and swam, beneath the surface like an otter, after his goddess.
The boat, half-filled with water and riding low, bobbed behind him, and a rising wave climbed the top strake. It settled lower, filled, and sank, pulling down the raider's body with it. On the holy islet, flames rose from the kitchen roof.
T he roar of falling stones still echoed in Attavaia's ears. A pillar of dust and smoke climbed over the western end of the temple, visible as a reddish cloud, holding the glare of fire. Crouched on the roof near the Inner Court, she had seen women suddenly flee the bell-tower, her uncle and Spear Lady leading them, and the tower crumbling in on itself, the gates hurled across the Outer Court, mowing down her sisters. She had bitten, hard, on a hand jammed into her mouth, not to scream. As the warlord rode in, Otokas had gone, no doubt to the goddess, vaulting the gate to the Inner Court, a shadow blacker than night. He never saw her there on the roof, though he of all of them would have been able to. The warlord—wizard, all too clearly—shouted something, raised a hand, but the dog was gone by then and the surviving sisters charged. She saw Spear Lady caught in torchlight a moment, lost her in the roar and the darkness and the raider army rolling in like the leading edge of an avalanche.
Jump down, run along the top of the Inner Court wall, join them, for all the good one more sword would do. For a moment it seemed right, as though that one sword might tip the balance, or perhaps because it would be easier to die here, now, than later.
She had orders. Attavaia turned away and crawled up the gentle slope of tiles to the flat roof, caught a higher eave and heaved herself up, and so over the jumble of interlocking roofs she had learned as a novice, sneaking out for sins no worse than unlawful feasts by moonlight and rooftop games of It, played on silent, heart-pounding tiptoe.
It was amazing no one had been killed, or even broken an ankle. It was amazing no one had been caught, as though all the old sisters forgot, once their novitiates were over, what they had once done.
Or it was winked at, if the girls did not make their breaking of rules too obvious, because the stealthy exploration and the nighttime frantic scrambles were training.
Sister Chanalugh had not asked her if she could find a way over the roofs to see what was happening at the western gate. She had just said, Go. There was no other way to see; once there were no more arrows left in the armoury, the outward-opening door behind those in the Lower East Court had been barricaded within as a further line of defence, at Sister Chitora's orders.
Attavaia slid at the last, knocking tiles loose, clumsy with more than weariness. They shattered on the pavement hard on her hissed warning, and she caught the eaves and hung a moment before she dropped, a firm hand catching her, steadying—Sister Chanalugh, who had charge of the water-gate defence now that Sister Chitora was lying insensible. A brazier glowed on the paving stones, shedding a little light, and someone was making tea.
Attavaia laughed and gulped and bit her lip before it turned into something Sister Chanalugh would call hysterics.
“The raiders are in the Outer Court and almost everyone's dead,” she reported in a whisper. “I saw it—the warlord made the tower fall and the gates flew across the court. It was like a scythe mowing hay. They just…” She tipped a hand. “And then the raiders poured over the rubble. Uncle—the Blackdog's gone to the goddess. He couldn't stop that wizard. If he could have, it'd be over now. What are we going to do, Sister? They'll be into the Inner Court by now.” She rubbed a sleeve across her face. There was blood on it. Sister Chitora's. Attavaia had helped carry her down from the wall.
“Hold the water-gate, as Spear Lady ordered,” Chanalugh said.
“Until when?
The boat, half-filled with water and riding low, bobbed behind him, and a rising wave climbed the top strake. It settled lower, filled, and sank, pulling down the raider's body with it. On the holy islet, flames rose from the kitchen roof.
T he roar of falling stones still echoed in Attavaia's ears. A pillar of dust and smoke climbed over the western end of the temple, visible as a reddish cloud, holding the glare of fire. Crouched on the roof near the Inner Court, she had seen women suddenly flee the bell-tower, her uncle and Spear Lady leading them, and the tower crumbling in on itself, the gates hurled across the Outer Court, mowing down her sisters. She had bitten, hard, on a hand jammed into her mouth, not to scream. As the warlord rode in, Otokas had gone, no doubt to the goddess, vaulting the gate to the Inner Court, a shadow blacker than night. He never saw her there on the roof, though he of all of them would have been able to. The warlord—wizard, all too clearly—shouted something, raised a hand, but the dog was gone by then and the surviving sisters charged. She saw Spear Lady caught in torchlight a moment, lost her in the roar and the darkness and the raider army rolling in like the leading edge of an avalanche.
Jump down, run along the top of the Inner Court wall, join them, for all the good one more sword would do. For a moment it seemed right, as though that one sword might tip the balance, or perhaps because it would be easier to die here, now, than later.
She had orders. Attavaia turned away and crawled up the gentle slope of tiles to the flat roof, caught a higher eave and heaved herself up, and so over the jumble of interlocking roofs she had learned as a novice, sneaking out for sins no worse than unlawful feasts by moonlight and rooftop games of It, played on silent, heart-pounding tiptoe.
It was amazing no one had been killed, or even broken an ankle. It was amazing no one had been caught, as though all the old sisters forgot, once their novitiates were over, what they had once done.
Or it was winked at, if the girls did not make their breaking of rules too obvious, because the stealthy exploration and the nighttime frantic scrambles were training.
Sister Chanalugh had not asked her if she could find a way over the roofs to see what was happening at the western gate. She had just said, Go. There was no other way to see; once there were no more arrows left in the armoury, the outward-opening door behind those in the Lower East Court had been barricaded within as a further line of defence, at Sister Chitora's orders.
Attavaia slid at the last, knocking tiles loose, clumsy with more than weariness. They shattered on the pavement hard on her hissed warning, and she caught the eaves and hung a moment before she dropped, a firm hand catching her, steadying—Sister Chanalugh, who had charge of the water-gate defence now that Sister Chitora was lying insensible. A brazier glowed on the paving stones, shedding a little light, and someone was making tea.
Attavaia laughed and gulped and bit her lip before it turned into something Sister Chanalugh would call hysterics.
“The raiders are in the Outer Court and almost everyone's dead,” she reported in a whisper. “I saw it—the warlord made the tower fall and the gates flew across the court. It was like a scythe mowing hay. They just…” She tipped a hand. “And then the raiders poured over the rubble. Uncle—the Blackdog's gone to the goddess. He couldn't stop that wizard. If he could have, it'd be over now. What are we going to do, Sister? They'll be into the Inner Court by now.” She rubbed a sleeve across her face. There was blood on it. Sister Chitora's. Attavaia had helped carry her down from the wall.
“Hold the water-gate, as Spear Lady ordered,” Chanalugh said.
“Until when?
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