She hit the mattress in a rush of frustration. All her life she'd fought the natural expectation of weakness that came with being what she was-a girl, and a princess at that. Now she was a weak, pitiable hostage. Well, she thought grimly, not for long. The first chance I get, I'm either getting out, or I'll die trying. Better that than for them to use her as a knife at Kessligh's heart. Even if she lived to tell of it, she wasn't certain she could survive the shame.
Soon enough, a plate slid aside on the door and a man peered in. Then the door unbolted and an armoured guard stepped in, carrying a tray. Sasha eyed him from her bed. If she was going to try something, it was better she scouted a little first. The guard wore black over chain mail that covered head and arms. There were metal gauntlets for gloves and extended forearm guards, to say nothing of shin guards and helm. He even carried a shield-square on top, pointed at the bottom. Emblazoned in silver on his black vest was an eight-pointed Verenthane star.
He set down the tray and left the room, with barely a glance in her direction. Sasha sighed as the bolts clacked shut once more. At least now she knew where she was. She'd not seen a man of the Holy Guard before, but she'd heard them described. They were heavily armoured after a little incident half a year back when Rhillian had managed to sneak inside the temple and confront Archbishop Augine directly. Exactly what she and the archbishop had discussed, Rhillian had never exactly said…but she had admitted to killing three of the Holy Guard before making her escape. There would be no tackling one of the Holy Guard barehanded, that was certain. But all that armour slowed a man down. If she could deprive him of a weapon, perhaps…
Then she would have to think of a way to escape from within the confines of the Porsada Temple. Once again, she'd only heard it described. The Holy Guard were numerous these days. Even if she stole a guardsman's sword, it would not have the balance of a svaalverd blade, nor the sharpness. Fighting her way out single-handed was possibly not the smartest plan.
She ate the meal, figuring that light bread, soup and water meant it was still lunchtime. The lack of shadow from the window seemed to confirm that. The food was plain, but not bad. At least it seemed the priests did not wish her punished in any way. Yet.
To better absorb her lunch, she sat cross-legged on her bed, and meditated. Kessligh swore by it, but Sasha was more sceptical; she'd never been one to sit still and think of nothing for any period. Still, it made her feel better to be doing something, an activity she could control toward her own ends. And, when thinking of nothing lost its appeal entirely, she thought instead of everything she knew about Porsada Temple: which way the road came in along the ridge, the nature of its cliffs, the proximity of its walls to the sheer drop below.
After her headache had cleared somewhat, she sat on the flagstone floor and did stretches. It was common Nasi-Keth knowledge that poisons or potions of any sort could be hastened from the body by exercise. When she felt up to it, she tried sit-ups and push-ups, and then jumps and running on the spot…which felt a little ridiculous with the dress bouncing around her legs. The air inside the cell was stifling and she was soon dripping with sweat, making unsightly dark stains beneath the armpits of her dress sleeves. Take that, horrid thing.
She turned her attention to the slit window, but it seemed entirely out of her reach.
She shifted the bed directly beneath the window-the bedframe was heavy wood and squealed on the flagstones. Jumping from the end, she came close, but not enough.
She examined the mattress, which seemed to be stuffed with straw. Beneath, the bed frame was wooden slats. Easy solution. She wrestled the mattress off the bed, with some effort, and set about turning the bed frame on its end. Her balance was still not fully recovered, but she finally managed it and pushed the frame as close as possible to the wall. Then she climbed the slats.
Peering through the window slit, she could see nothing but ocean, and the sun seemed to be now to the right…so she guessed she was facing roughly east, straight out to sea. Right at the tip of the promontory, perhaps. If she were not, she should be able to see the huge temple spires. Perhaps she was directly beneath a spire. Or in one.
The door bolts squealed and clacked, but Sasha didn't bother moving. The door swung open and she looked down to see a guard blinking up at her. “Hello,” she said cheerfully. “Have you come to look up my dress?”
“Get down from there.”
It would have been too much to ask for the Holy Guard to have a sense of humour, Sasha supposed. “You think I'm going to escape through this little thing? I can barely get my arm through.”
“Get down or I'll knock you down.” If he risked physical contact, she could grab his sword, or his knife. But there was his companion behind, and doubtless more outside. She'd do better to wait.
Sasha sighed and climbed down the slats. “You could have at least put me in a room with an accessible view.”
“The archbishop wants to see you,” said the guard.
“The Archbishop of Torovan?” said Sasha, feigning astonishment. “Gosh. But I have nothing to wear!”
The guard tied her wrists with tight cord first. Sasha decided against resisting or refusing-they could have beaten her senseless first, had they chosen. Besides, she wanted to get out of her cell and take a look around. The guard escorted her out of the door, which opened onto a downward spiral of stairs. She was in of one of the spires then. One guard led the way, another at her back, each with a shield and a sword at the hip.
The stairs descended into a grand room, high-ceilinged with great, gilt-framed paintings on the stone walls. Gold filigree traced patterns across the ceiling, from which golden chandeliers hung. On the right, large windows looked onto Petrodor Harbour and a warm breeze whispered at white, billowing curtains. At a table before the windows sat an old man in black robes. He sipped at a golden winecup and gazed out at the harbour below. He had white hair about a bald spot and a big chin that had surely once been square, but was now developing jowls. Upon the stand behind him hung a tall, black hat. A cane rested against the wall beside his chair.
He studied Sasha with sharp blue eyes and smiled thinly. “Dear girl.” His voice was educated, and condescending…and yet, somehow, not entirely convincing for a man of his stature. “Please, do sit.” He gestured to the chair opposite.
Sasha walked, a guard at her side, testing her bonds as she went. They were tight and her right hand was going numb. The guard pulled the chair for her and she sat.
“It is customary, my dear, to first kneel before the archbishop, when entering his presence. Even for a princess.”
“Is it also customary to bind the hands of your lunch guests?” Sasha retorted.
The archbishop made a vague gesture with his winecup, sunlight shining upon his many gold rings. “You are not my lunch guest and I'm certain you can kneel with your hands tied.”
“And get back up again? Not when I'm dizzy from that needle.”
The archbishop looked at her, his blue eyes cool. “You are a pagan. That is why you do not kneel. You have rejected your gods.”
“Not my gods,” said Sasha. They regarded each other. This was the most powerful Verenthane in all Rhodia, she knew. With the holy temples of Enora, Rhodaan and Ilduur in the Saaalshen Bacosh out of direct Verenthane control, Petrodor had become the centre of Verenthane faith in Rhodia. For no better reason, Kessligh said, than it was where all the money was. This was Archbishop Augine himself, one of the very greatest men of all the lands. And yet she was not impressed.
He tried to look at ease. He tried to look comfortable. Yet unease lurked behind his smile and the comfortable remark. Perhaps the archbishop simply suffered from being compared, in her mind, to great Lenay men she had known. Men who wore power comfortably, and indeed radiated it as a cloak of honour. Or perhaps he was simply not a very impressive man. In Lenay opinion, there was nothing more contemptuous than a fraud, except perhaps a coward. Sasha resolved to find out.