costumed as the Childe Goddess emerged from the crowd by the side of the road. She was playing her role to the hilt, tossing colored rags and straw 48
instead of the Childe’s fabled profusion of flowers to those on whom she showed favor. As Tris passed by, the young girl looked up, and her eyes met Tris’s.
You are my chosen weapon, Tris heard a voice ring in his mind, disorientingly clear, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, and as he stared into the eyes of the young girl, he thought for an instant that he saw them glow amber as the face now seemed not that of a mortal child, but of the Childe Goddess Herself. Die not until I call for thee. Thy time is not yet come. And as the girl’s eyes stared into his, Tris felt a sudden fire touch the wound in his side, as if a red‐hot poker were laid against the torn flesh. He stiffened and arched, biting into his lip to keep from crying out.
The voice was gone as quickly as it came, and when Tris looked around, the girl had vanished.
Shaken, Tris closed his eyes. I’m seeing things, he thought, swallowing hard. Goddess help me, I must be dying.
“If Harrtuck’s found us horses,” Soterius whispered, “he’ll be down the next alley with them.”
Carroway veered off from the procession at the dark maw of the next street, and they made their way down the cluttered, twisted thoroughfare that was barely wider than two riders abreast. Harrtuck appeared from the shadows and motioned for them. Carroway and Soterius followed the soldier to where four sturdy horses waited impatiently, tethered to a rickety hitching post. Carefully, Harrtuck helped them rest Tris’s litter on the ground. “Can you ride, my liege?” Harrtuck asked as
he bent over Tris.
Tris nodded. “There’s no choice,” he said, and gritted his teeth as he started to rise. To his amazement, no answering pain throbbed through his side. Tris accepted Harrtuck’s assistance in swinging up to his nervous mount. Cautiously, the four made their way back to the 49
procession.
“Damn the Fates,” Soterius hissed as they ventured out among the pilgrims and revelers.
A handful of palace guards milled at the gate, far from their usual station. They were unmounted, but their horses were saddled and waiting nearby. Tris and Harrtuck exchanged worried glances.
“Are we ready?” Soterius’s flat voice cut through the confusion.
“We’re going to have to bluff our way through,” Harrtuck appraised. “If we get separated, head for the road north.”
“Give the signal,” Tris assented, never taking his eyes from the guards at the gate.
They waited until the procession swung wide to round a bend, taking the stream of revelers as close as possible to the gate. They were still at least twenty yards away, and while the gates were open, anyone who entered or left had to pass between the guards.
“Now!” Soterius shouted, wheeling his horse from the procession and driving straight for the gates. The others did the same, as nearby revelers scrambled to get out of the way. The gates seemed a lifetime away as Tris leaned low over his mount and spurred the horse into an all‐out gallop.
The move caught the guardsmen by surprise and the fugitives took the advantage, driving through their line. Soterius and Harrtuck charged first, freeing their swords and cutting past the guards who blocked the gates. Tris could almost feel the breath of Carroway’s mount behind him 50
as their horses plunged into the darkness just beyond the city gate. Behind them came the cries of the guardsmen giving chase.
“Almost there,” Soterius shouted.
The horses pounded down the slope from the city to the road below. As he reached the thoroughfare, Tris felt a dizzying lurch, as if he had passed through an unseen boundary. He clung to his reins as a fog swelled around them, rising from the road as their pursuers closed the gap.
The fog thickened and swirled up to the horses’ bridles. In the mist, something
instead of the Childe’s fabled profusion of flowers to those on whom she showed favor. As Tris passed by, the young girl looked up, and her eyes met Tris’s.
You are my chosen weapon, Tris heard a voice ring in his mind, disorientingly clear, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, and as he stared into the eyes of the young girl, he thought for an instant that he saw them glow amber as the face now seemed not that of a mortal child, but of the Childe Goddess Herself. Die not until I call for thee. Thy time is not yet come. And as the girl’s eyes stared into his, Tris felt a sudden fire touch the wound in his side, as if a red‐hot poker were laid against the torn flesh. He stiffened and arched, biting into his lip to keep from crying out.
The voice was gone as quickly as it came, and when Tris looked around, the girl had vanished.
Shaken, Tris closed his eyes. I’m seeing things, he thought, swallowing hard. Goddess help me, I must be dying.
“If Harrtuck’s found us horses,” Soterius whispered, “he’ll be down the next alley with them.”
Carroway veered off from the procession at the dark maw of the next street, and they made their way down the cluttered, twisted thoroughfare that was barely wider than two riders abreast. Harrtuck appeared from the shadows and motioned for them. Carroway and Soterius followed the soldier to where four sturdy horses waited impatiently, tethered to a rickety hitching post. Carefully, Harrtuck helped them rest Tris’s litter on the ground. “Can you ride, my liege?” Harrtuck asked as
he bent over Tris.
Tris nodded. “There’s no choice,” he said, and gritted his teeth as he started to rise. To his amazement, no answering pain throbbed through his side. Tris accepted Harrtuck’s assistance in swinging up to his nervous mount. Cautiously, the four made their way back to the 49
procession.
“Damn the Fates,” Soterius hissed as they ventured out among the pilgrims and revelers.
A handful of palace guards milled at the gate, far from their usual station. They were unmounted, but their horses were saddled and waiting nearby. Tris and Harrtuck exchanged worried glances.
“Are we ready?” Soterius’s flat voice cut through the confusion.
“We’re going to have to bluff our way through,” Harrtuck appraised. “If we get separated, head for the road north.”
“Give the signal,” Tris assented, never taking his eyes from the guards at the gate.
They waited until the procession swung wide to round a bend, taking the stream of revelers as close as possible to the gate. They were still at least twenty yards away, and while the gates were open, anyone who entered or left had to pass between the guards.
“Now!” Soterius shouted, wheeling his horse from the procession and driving straight for the gates. The others did the same, as nearby revelers scrambled to get out of the way. The gates seemed a lifetime away as Tris leaned low over his mount and spurred the horse into an all‐out gallop.
The move caught the guardsmen by surprise and the fugitives took the advantage, driving through their line. Soterius and Harrtuck charged first, freeing their swords and cutting past the guards who blocked the gates. Tris could almost feel the breath of Carroway’s mount behind him 50
as their horses plunged into the darkness just beyond the city gate. Behind them came the cries of the guardsmen giving chase.
“Almost there,” Soterius shouted.
The horses pounded down the slope from the city to the road below. As he reached the thoroughfare, Tris felt a dizzying lurch, as if he had passed through an unseen boundary. He clung to his reins as a fog swelled around them, rising from the road as their pursuers closed the gap.
The fog thickened and swirled up to the horses’ bridles. In the mist, something
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