T’Tefur. The Sufaki swung the pistol left at Kurt and Kurt dropped, the beam raking the wall where he had been. In that instant two of the Indras rushed the Sufaki leader, one shot down, and Kta, the other one, grazed by the bolt.
Kta vaulted the table between them and Isthain swept in an invisible downstroke that cleaved the Sufaki’s skull. The pistol discharged undirected and Kta staggered, raked across the leg as t’Tefur’s dying hands caught at him and missed. Then Kta pulled himself erect and leaned on Isthain as he turned and looked back at the others.
Kurt edged over to the whining gun and shut it down, then touched t’Irain’s neck to find that there was no heartbeat. T’Tefur’s first shot had been true.
He gathered his shaking limbs under him and rose, leaning on the charred doorframe; the heat made him jerk back, and he staggered over to join Kta, past Ian t’Ilev’s sprawled body, for he was the other man t’Tefur had shot down before dying.
Kta had not moved. He still stood by t’Tefur, both his hands on Isthain’s pommel. Then Kurt bent down and took the gun from Shan t’Tefur’s dead fingers, with no sense of triumph in the action, no satisfaction in the name of Mim or the other dead the man had sent before him.
It was a way of life they had killed, the last of a great house. He had died well. The Indras themselves were silent, Kta most of all.
A small silken form burst from cover behind the couch and fled for the open door. T’Ranek stopped her, swept her struggling off her feet and set her down again.
“It is the chanof the Methi,” said Kta, for it was indeed the girl Pai t’Erefe, Sufaki, Djan’s companion. Released, she fell sobbing to her knees, a small, and shaken figure in that gathering of warlike men: but she was also of the Afen, so when she had made the necessary obeisance to her conquerors, she sat back with her little back stiff and her head erect.
“Where is the Methi?” Kta asked her, and Pai set her lips and would not answer. One of the men reached down and gripped her arm cruelly.
“No,” Kurt asked of him, and dropped to one knee, fronting Pai. “Pai, Pai, speak quickly. There is a chance she may live if you tell me.”
Pai’s large eyes reckoned him, inside and out. “Do not harm her,” she pleaded.
“Where is she?”
“The temple—” When he rose she sprang to her feet, holding him, compelling his attention. “My lord, t’Tefur wanted her greater weapons. She would not give them. She refused him. My lord Kurt, my lord, do not kill her.”
“The chanis probably lying,” said t’Ranek, “to gain time for the Methi to prepare worse than this welcome.”
“I am not lying,” Pai sobbed, gripping Kurt’s arm shamelessly rather than be ignored. “Lord Kurt, you know her. I am not lying.”
“Come on.” Kurt took her by the arm and looked at the rest of them, at Kta most particularly, whose face was pale and drawn with the shock of his wound. “Hold here,” he told Kta. “I am going to the temple.”
“It is suicide,” said Kta. “Kurt, you cannot enter there. Even we dare not come after her there, no Indras—”
“Pai is Sufaki and I am human,” said Kurt, “and no worse pollution there than Djan herself. Hold the Afen. You have won, if only you do not throw it away now.”
“Then take men with you,” Kta pleaded with him, and when he ignored the plea: “Kurt, Elas wants you back.”
“I will remember it.”
He hurried Pai with him, past t’Irain’s corpse at the door and down the hall to the inner stairs. He kept one hand on her arm and held the pistol in the other, forcing the chanalong at a breathless pace.
Pai sobbed, pattering along with small resisting steps, tripping in her skirts on the stairs, though she tried to hold them with her free hand. He shook her as they came to the landing, not caring that he hurt.
“If they reach her first,” he said, “they will kill her, Pai. As you love her, move.”
And after that, Pai’s slippered feet hurried with more sureness, and she had swallowed down her tears, for the brave little chanhad not needed to trip so often. She hurried now under her own power.
They came into the main hall, through the rest of the Indras, and men stared, but they did not challenge him; everyone knew Elas’ human. Pai stared about her with fear-mad eyes, but he hastened her through, beneath the threatening ceiling at the main gate and to the outside, past the carnage that littered the entrance. Pai gave a startled gasp and stopped. He drew her past quickly, not much blaming the girl.
The night wind touched them, cold and clean after the stench of burning flesh in the Afen. Across the floodlit courtyard rose the dark side of Haichema-tleke, and beneath it the wall and the small gate that led out into the temple courtyard.
They raced across the lighted area, fearful of some last archer, and reached the gate out of breath.
“You,” Kurt told Pai, “had better be telling the truth.”
“I am,” said Pai, and her large eyes widened, fixed over his shoulder. “Lord! Someone comes!”
“Come,” he said, and, blasting the lock, shouldered the heavy gate open. “Hurry.”
The temple doors stood ajar, far up the steps past the three triangular pylons. The golden light of Nephane’s hearthfire threw light over all the square and hazed the sky above the roof-opening.
Kurt drew a deep breath and raced upward, dragging Pai with him, she stumbling now from exhaustion. He put his arm about her and half-carried her, for he would not leave her alone to face whatever pursued them. Behind them he could hear shouting rise anew from the main gate, renewed resistance—cheers for victory—he did not pause to know.
Within, the great hearthfire came in view, roaring up from its circular pit to the gelos,the aperture in the ceiling, the smoke boiling darkly up toward the black stones.
Kurt kept his grip on Pai and entered cautiously, keeping near the wall, edging his way around it, surveying all the shadowed recesses. The fire’s burning drowned his own footsteps and its glare hid whatever might lie directly across it. The first he might know of Djan’s presence could be a darting bolt of fire deadlier than the fire that burned for Phan.
“Human.”
Pai shrieked even as he whirled, throwing her aside, and he held his finger still on the trigger. The aged priest, the one who had so nearly consigned him to die, stood in a side hall, staff in hand, and behind him appeared other priests.
Kurt backed away uneasily, darted a nervous glance further left, right again toward the fire.
“Kurt,” said Djan’s voice from the shadows at his far right.
He turned slowly, knowing she would be armed.
She waited, her coppery hair bright in the shadows, bright as the bronze of the helmeted men who waited behind her; and the weapon he had expected was in her hand. She wore her own uniform now, that he had never seen her wear, green that shimmered with synthetic unreality in this time and place.
“I knew,” she said, “when you ran, that you would be back.”
He cast the gun to the ground, demonstrating both hands empty. “I’ll get you out. It’s too late to save anything, Djan. Give up. Come with me.”
“What, have you forgiven, and has Elas? They sent you here because they won’t come here. They fear this place. And Pai, for shame, Pai,—”
“Methi,” wailed Pai, who had fallen on her face in misery, “Methi, I am sorry.”
“I do not blame you. I have expected him for days.” She spoke now in Nechai. “And Shan t’Tefur?”
“He is dead,” said Kurt.
There was no grief, only a slight flicker of the eyes. “I could no longer reason with him. He saw things that could not exist, that never had existed. So others found their own solutions, they tell me. They say the Families have gone over to Ylith of Indresul.”
“To save their city.”
“And will it?”
“I think it has a chance at least.”