Just as she joined him, stepping from the platform onto the rocky rim, a wooden thwock snapped the evening stillness, followed heartbeats later by a great shuddering. Kaden turned to find the barrel’s plug gone, dissolved finally, the water, which had drained so slowly, gushing from the spout, the whole of Ananshael’s Scale suddenly lurching out of balance. Then it collapsed. Triste wrapped an arm around his waist as the structure fell away, tumbling over and over, falling silently into the void. The crash, when it finally came, was so quiet it might have been nothing but the wind.
Triste laughed, a light, bright sound, and moments later Kaden found himself joining her.
When they turned, Gerra was studying them with open interest. “The ways of the god can be strange, hard to understand,” he said. “Today is not one of those days. Clearly, Ananshael wants the names of these Csestriim. You will give them to me. What will we give you in return?”
The weight of what had to happen settled on Kaden like a stone, crushing the laughter.
“You will give us a path,” he said finally, “a clear path, all the way from here, through il Tornja’s gathering army, to the kenta.”
Pyrre smiled, patted the knives at her belt. “Clearer of Paths. It sounds so much better than Assassin.”
* * *
Skullsworn, Assassins, or Clearers of Paths, the priests of Ananshael tore into their vicious work with a strange, almost joyful veneration. Three dozen of Pyrre’s brothers and sisters crossed the bridge first, drawing the Annurian soldiers from their hiding places between the stones. It seemed, at first, that the battle would be over before it truly began, but il Tornja had fortified his position. Instead of two dozen legionaries-the force that had first confronted Kaden in the canyons-there were hundreds, rank upon rank upon rank, so many that the dry dirt was slippery with their blood by the time Pyrre and Gerra herded Kaden and Triste through the swirling, screaming madness of the fight.
The two Skullsworn flanked them, Gerra’s short, quick stride somehow matching Pyrre’s lope. The man fought with a long spear, nicking throats and taking eyes as delicately as a gardener pruning back spring’s most eager shoots. Pyrre wielded her customary knives, throwing them sometimes, sometimes lashing out to cut those who came too close. It seemed like she should run out-one woman could only carry so much steel-but she plucked the weapons from the falling bodies of the dead and when those flashed from her fingers, she dipped into her flowing robes for another blade, and another, and another.
It took them only moments to cross the narrow open ledge. Half a dozen Annurians, a rear guard of sorts, blocked the trail where it dropped out of sunlight into the maze of canyons beyond. They hefted their weapons. Their commander managed half of a bellowed exhortation, and then Pyrre and Gerra were on them, among them, moving delicately as dancers through the thicket of sword and spear, leaving only corpses in their wake.
Pyrre slipped behind the last of the living, caught him around the chest with one hand, slit his throat with the other. The soldier sagged against her as though suddenly weary, and she lowered his weight to the thirsty stone, gentle as any lover, brushed his forehead with a kiss, then straightened up.
“Did someone say to stop running?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow at Kaden. “Gerra and I are making this look easy, but I’m sure you noticed that there is still a small, angry army behind us, and just because we cleared a path through them doesn’t mean they can’t chase us.”
Kaden glanced over his shoulder. The ledge was awash in blood and struggling bodies. Blinding sunlight shattered off steel. All human language was lost in a discordant chorus of screams.
Pyrre tapped the flat of her bloody knife against her thigh. “I understand. It’s a gorgeous day to give men to the god, and a shame to be leaving. Still, I promised to take you to your secret gate.…”
Triste lurched into a run before the assassin could finish, and a moment later, Kaden followed, hurling himself from the sun’s bronze hammer into the cool shadows of the canyon. For a long time, the four of them raced the rocky path in silence, scrambling over boulders, splashing through the gurgling streams, slipping down the more treacherous ledges, falling, gashing their knees and palms, getting up, fleeing again.
“Il Tornja,” Kaden said, the first time they paused.
“He is one of those you named Csestriim,” Gerra said. The Skullsworn priest was doubled over panting, hands on his knees, but his green eyes were bright, focused.
“He is,” Kaden replied, “and he wasn’t back there. Neither was his leach.”
Gerra frowned. Pyrre just laughed.
“If it were easy to give these undying to the god,” she said, “we would have given them long ago.”
“At the kenta,” Triste managed. She had dropped to her knees, was scooping water from a small pool between the rocks, dribbling it down her chin in her haste. “He’ll be waiting at the kenta,” she gasped, “like last time.”
Kaden nodded. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Behind them, farther up the canyon, boots clattered over stone. Soldiers called out to one another, fierce, urgent shouts.
“Afraid?” Pyrre asked. “I put on my boots this morning just so I’d have the chance to face this undying general of yours. If he’s not waiting somewhere between here and the hidden gate, I will be very, very put out.”
* * *
“I am put out,” Pyrre said, shaking her head as she eyed the pile of hastily thrown-up rubble.
Of il Tornja, there was still no sign. They had reached the ancient village-guided by Kaden’s memory of the route-without encountering a single soldier. The flight had seemed easy, far too easy, and now he could see why.
“They blocked the gate,” Triste said, staring at the huge stones where the kenta had been, some of which were almost as large as she was.
“A lot of work,” Gerra observed. “Why didn’t they just tear it down?”
“I don’t think they can be torn down,” Kaden said. “Not by any normal means, at least.”
Pyrre ducked into one of the crumbling buildings, emerged a moment later shaking her head. “No leach. No invincible Csestriim warrior. Quite a disappointment.”
Triste was turning in slow circles, as though trying to watch the whole town at the same time. “Where is he?” she whispered. “What’s he doing?”
Kaden frowned. “I have no idea. I’ve never really known.”
“Well,” Gerra said, “it’d take the four of us all day to excavate your gate.” He cupped a hand behind his ear, turned back toward the canyon from which they’d just emerged, “And I don’t think we have all day.”
Kaden could hear it, too, the racket of their pursuit. The way the sound echoed off the canyon walls, it was impossible to know how close the soldiers were. Maybe half a mile, maybe less. He turned back to study the heap of stone. It was almost twice as high as he was, thousands of pounds of rock, but haphazardly constructed. Clearly, the soldiers had dragged it together in a rush. Not that that mattered. Gerra was right; moving the whole thing, moving enough of it, even, for them to slip through the top of the kenta, would take the better part of the day. Maybe, though …
He stared at the pile a moment longer, then closed his eyes.
The stones were there, all of them, some the size of a man’s chest, others not much larger than his head, some balanced on a single corner, others bedded so deeply a team of oxen would have struggled to pull them free. Still, there were gaps in the pile, some almost wide enough that Triste might fit inside. And suddenly, Rampuri Tan’s words tolled in his mind, so strong it almost seemed the monk was still alive, standing just behind him, shaking his head: You need to see what is not there.