Shadow Gate by Kate Elliott Page A

the water and the sky, and out of all living things, which granted the wearer protection against the second death although not against weariness of soul;
    Ilu the Opener of Ways built the altars, so that they might speak across the vast distances each to the other;
    Atiratu the Lady of Beasts formed the winged horses out of the elements so that they could travel swiftly and across the rivers and mountains without obstacle;
    Sapanasu the Lantern gave them light to banish the shadows;
    Kotaru the Thunderer gave them the staff of judgment as their symbol of authority;
    Ushara the Merciless One gave them a third eye and a second heart with which to see into and understand the hearts of all;
    Hasibal gave an offering bowl.
    All she lacked was a staff of judgment, whatever that was.
    Really, a reeve who tallied up the evidence might suggest, against all likelihood, that these added up to an obvious conclusion:
    Here sits a Guardian.
    W AS SHE MERELY spinning and drifting on sweet-smoke, unmoored from the world around her? All she knew for sure was that she was being hunted by forces she did not comprehend, ones her gut—and Hari the out-lander, if that was really his name—warned her never to trust.
    She didn’t know what precisely she was now, but she had been a reeve once. She could investigate. And it would help to figure out where the hells she was, where her enemies were, and what they wanted.
    â€œY OU MIGHT WANT to turn back,” said the old woman as she scooped nai porridge into Marit’s bowl. They stood under the triple-gated entrance to a temple of Ilu, where Marit had come to beg for food. “Once you ford the river and cross through West Riding, you’ll have left Sohayil.”
    â€œMerchants will trade, and beggars will beg, and laborers will seek work wherever they can find it.” The nai’s richly spiced aroma made Marit’s mouth water; it was all she could do not to bolt down the food right there.
    â€œIn the old days that was certainly true, but not anymore. We can’t be so easy about things in these days.” Morning mist rose off the river and curled in backwater reeds. A last gust of night rain spattered on the waters, and stilled. On the grounds of the temple, an apprentice trundled a wheelbarrow full of night soil to the temple gardens, while a pair of children carried an empty basket to the henhouse. A trio of elders even older than the gatekeeper paced through the chant of healing from the Tale of Patience, their morning exercise. From the round sanctuary rose the sonorous chanting of male voices. “I don’t mind telling you, for your own good, really, that we’ve recalled all our envoys who’ve been walking the roads from here to Haldia and Toskala. Sund and Farhal and Sardia aren’t truly safe, although some still make the journey.”
    â€œYou must have envoys carrying messages to the Ostiary in Nessumara, to the other temples of Ilu. Not to mention your work as envoys.”
    The old envoy was spry, comfortably plump, and nobody’s fool. “Think you so? Why are you headed thatway? If you don’t mind my saying so, your clothes and walking staff mark you as a beggar or a laborer down on her luck—and the gods know we’ve seen enough of them in these days—but your manner doesn’t fit. The cloak’s nice. Is that silk? Good quality.”
    Her interest was genuine. She was envious, in an amused way. She didn’t trust Marit, not in these days with any kind of traveler out on the roads and every sort of awful rumor blown on the winds. The region of Sohayil remained a haven of relative calm probably only because of the ancient magic bound into the bones of the surrounding hills as a fence against trouble. But on the other hand, a lone traveler wasn’t likely to cause much trouble unless she was a spy scouting for—
    She glanced away, as if troubled, and the contact broke.
    â€œFor what?”