Cybele's Secret - Juliet Marillier - Cybeles Secret
A tumult of emotions churned inside me: anger, hurt, bitter disappointment that this man I’d been beginning to trust and to like very much had dismissed the precious secret I had confided in him as if it were nonsense. I sat there, mute, as furious tears welled in my eyes. I held them back and found words.
“You’re a fool,” I told Duarte bluntly. “I have firsthand experience of such phenomena—not dreams and visions but reality. During the years of my childhood, I regularly visited a place beyond the human world. That was a magical time, the best time of my whole life, and that realm was just as real as my everyday world. The two exist side by side. One is not fact and the other imagination. They are equal but different. If you cannot accept that, then I believe your mission is doomed to failure, because what Stoyan and I have been shown tells me you cannot succeed without us. Dismiss that at your peril.”
“Paula is right.” Stoyan’s voice was deep and certain. “I did not wish to say this, for the last thing I want is to see her put in still more danger. But I believe, Senhor Duarte, that unless she accompanies you up this mountain of yours, your quest cannot be achieved. And where she goes, I go. You have no choice but to take both of us with you.”
The next day, after sailing eastward from first light until the sun was roughly overhead, we still had not shaken off the red sails of our pursuer. I went up on deck to use the rudimentary privy and washing facilities and caught sight of our captain with Pero by the rail, the two of them shading their eyes as they gazed intently forward. I followed their gaze and my heart skipped a beat.
“Those are the cliffs he spoke of, no doubt,” said Stoyan, coming to stand beside me. A massive rock face rose above the sea a few miles ahead of us. It was formidable, a bastion. Behind it were the purple-green forms of mountains, the highest of them capped with snow. I considered my single set of borrowed clothing, in which I often got quite cold up on deck. If that was where Duarte intended to walk, I was not sure I wanted to go with him.
“I thought he was crazy before,” I said. “Now I’m sure of it.”
“And he believes we are out of our wits, the two of us—you because of a young girl’s overactive imagination, and I because…”
“Because of what? An excess of duty?”
Stoyan shrugged. “I can imagine what he thinks.”
I didn’t press the issue, for Duarte was striding over to us now, looking grim. “We’ll be there soon,” he told us. “You’d best go below, Paula. Once we come close to the cliffs, get into a small space and try to keep hold of something solid. If we need to tack to take advantage of the wind, things will get uncomfortable for you. Make sure everything is in the boxes or trunks, safely stowed.”
I nodded, my words deserting me, and headed for the ladder down to the cabins. Stoyan came behind me.
“Not you,” Duarte said. “We’ll need every able-bodied man on deck. Don’t look like that; Paula’s capable of fending for herself. We need those muscles of yours.”
In the cabin, I stowed everything in perfect order, then wedged myself into a corner, knowing that beyond the porthole the wall of cliffs must be looming closer and closer. I had lashed the strongbox that held Cybele’s Gift to the foot of the bunk with a length of rope. I might break if we had an accident, but with luck she wouldn’t. And since this whole sorry affair was because of her, that seemed the right order of priorities.
“I’m your best chance,” I told her. “You keep me safe and I’ll do the same for you. I just wish I knew what it is Stoyan and I have to do. Help Duarte get you over the mountains safely? Or something more?” The quests set by the Other Kingdom were always designed to make human folk grow and learn and lead better lives by achieving whatever task it was. They’d done it to Jena and Costi and they’d done it to Tati and Sorrow. They’d tried to do it to my cousin Cezar, but it had been too late for him to mend his ways; he had not been able to learn. “Why can’t I work it out?” I whispered.
I did not expect an answer, spectral or otherwise, and I got none. Before I could draw another breath, the Esperança leaned heavily to starboard, and I was pressed back against the wall, my stomach dropping in terror. After a little, the ship righted herself, and I got up, staggering over to the porthole and dragging out the stool to balance on it and look out. A wall of stone confronted me for an instant; then a wave of white water buffeted the glazed window as the ship heeled over the other way.
I crept back to the bunk and hugged the blanket around my shoulders. I wondered if God would be angry if I prayed to him now, since I had not been particularly good about seeking out an Orthodox church in Istanbul. Some had been converted to mosques when the Turks took over the city, but the Sultan had allowed several to remain open for Istanbul’s Christian residents. It was a long time since Father or I had attended a service.
I muttered a prayer, the kind that comes out of abject fear, in which I said I was sorry for a lot of things, such as losing my temper too quickly and not taking time to think before I spoke, and in particular for deserting my father and causing him grief. I asked God to keep Father safe and well, and to protect all of us on this voyage, and to look after my sisters, the three who were back home in Transylvania and the one in the Other Kingdom. “And look after Stoyan,” I said. “He’s the grandson of a…a znaharka, I think it was. That’s something like a white witch, the human kind. Some folk frown on people like that. Some folk believe all manifestations of the Other Kingdom are evil, that they’re the same as the devil. But I don’t think that can be true. I think all things exist together and their destinies are tied up together, like a great book of stories that weave and pass and thread through one another, making the most astonishing tale anyone could dream up. Keep us all safe, Heavenly Father, and please, please help me work out what my mission is. I need to know what I’m supposed to learn from this.”
I did feel slightly better after that. But only slightly; the Esperança was creaking and groaning like a huge, dying creature, and beyond the porthole it was almost dark. How close to the cliffs would Duarte sail? Was he so reckless, or in such haste, that he would risk battering his beloved ship to smithereens?
It was probably a good thing that I could not see out properly without staggering to the porthole and climbing up. Glancing over, I thought perhaps it was underwater for a bit. My teeth were chattering. I clenched them together until my jaw ached, then buried my face in the blanket, pressing my back into the corner. I felt how fast the ship was moving, hurled forward by the fearsome funneling of the wind. I saw it in my mind, the vessel skirting so close to the cliff face that scraps of sail caught on rocky protuberances and tore off, the gale so strong the men on deck struggled not to be blown bodily overboard, the masts bending and flexing under the strain of yards and yards of wind-stretched canvas. It was insanity. I was too scared even to cry.
The Esperança changed tack again, everything tipping the other way, and a groan of protest shuddered through her timbers. I fell off the bunk and landed in a heap on the boards of the cabin floor, jarring my elbow and bruising my knee. There was shouting from the deck, a series of commands and responses, and we barreled forward like a piece of debris washing down a chute, as if even the crazy pace of that last run had not been quite quick enough for our captain. I lay where I had fallen, one hand gripping on to the bunk to stop me from sliding helplessly around the floor. My arm hurt, and my leg. Tears came to my eyes, stupid tears, for if a person was going to drown anyway, what did a few scrapes and bruises matter?
“Paula!”
A pair of large boots appeared at eye level; then a pair of strong arms reached down and lifted me up, depositing me gently on the bunk in a sitting position. I held on to Stoyan as if he were a lifeline, burying my head against his chest.
“You are hurt? You fell?”
“It’s nothing,” I muttered against the none-too-clean wool of his tunic. “I’m fine. How much longer?”
“Not long. I will stay with you.”
“Don’t they need you up there?” I sniffed, the tears really flowing now that I felt almost all right again. It was amazing what a difference it made, not being alone.
“I do not care what they need. I will stay with you.” His words sent an odd feeling through me, like the ringing of a low, soft bell or the sudden sensation of falling into deep water. Then his arms came around me, more tentative than his voice. He had held me like this once before, for comfort, and I had accepted it gratefully without thinking beyond that. But something had shifted between us on this voyage, and I knew this time was different. With my cheek pressed against Stoyan’s heart and his body warming mine, I had a clear image of my sister Iulia, the one who was knowledgeable about men, lifting her brows and saying to me, This is only natural, Paula. You’re a healthy young woman; he’s a fine-looking man. What else do you expect? Just don’t make it into something it can’t be, that’s all. He’s a farmer, uneducated and penniless. He’s a foreigner. Imagine what Aunt Bogdana would say! As the wind carried us on through churning waves and blinding spray, past murderous cliffs and jagged rocks, I sheltered in Stoyan’s arms and pondered this. At last, the Esperança sailed into the smoother waters of a wide bay. We had survived the suicide run, and when we disengaged ourselves a little awkwardly and ventured on deck, it was to find that the red sails of the pursuing vessel were nowhere to be seen.
We sailed out of the bay on an easterly course. The necessary things happened on the run: an inspection of the ship to ascertain whether she had sustained any damage—it seemed not—and hasty individual trips to pick up rations from Cristiano. I smiled at him and he gave me a double scoop of olives.
“You survived, then,” observed Duarte laconically as Stoyan and I walked past him on our way to a sheltered corner where we could eat our meal.
“What did you imagine?” I raised my brows at the captain. “That I would expire from a fit of the vapors? I’m made of stronger stuff than that, Duarte. They tell me we’ve made good distance and lost the pursuer. Your gamble paid off.”
“I don’t gamble. Not where human lives are concerned. I was certain we could do it. Almost certain. Now we are ahead, and we must stay ahead. I hope to reach the place the day after tomorrow, by midday if we are lucky. The moon is waxing; we may attempt to make some progress by night. If there is any chance the pursuer can sail by moonlight, we must do the same.”
“Your crew will be tired.”
“I am not as heartless as you imagine. They sleep in shifts, a few hours at a time. Once we make landfall, there will be no rest for those who continue on foot until Cybele’s Gift is safely delivered.” There seemed to be a question in his eyes.
“Then it’s fortunate you are taking us,” I said. “We, of everyone, have the best opportunity for sleep, thanks to your generosity in allowing us the use of your cabins.”
Duarte regarded me through slitted eyes. “I have made no decision on that matter,” he said. “It’s a hard climb, and I’m not convinced you can keep up.”
“I see you have decided not to take me seriously,” I said in withering tones. “I thought you had better judgment. Come, Stoyan, I’m getting the impression Senhor Aguiar doesn’t want us here.”
“Not at all,” came Duarte’s mocking voice from behind us. “Baiting you is great entertainment.”
“Let it go, Stoyan,” I warned as my companion’s cheeks flushed angry red. “He means nothing by it. And if he does end up taking us with him, we’re all going to have to cooperate whether we like it or not.”
“With one breath he praises you, with the next he insults you. What is his game?”
“Sheer mischief,” I said, sitting beside him on a wooden shelf out of everyone’s way and wondering whether to eat the olives first, while I was hungry, or save them until last. “Or maybe nobody ever taught him good manners. Would you like some of these olives? I have extra.”
We reached our destination at the time Duarte had predicted. It was at that point I realized there were some possibilities even our well-organized captain had not allowed for in his planning. For the last few miles, we had sailed close to the southern coastline, and Stoyan and I had stayed on deck, well wrapped in borrowed cloaks, watching with awe as the mountains marched closer and closer to the water, their dark forms towering over us, their upper reaches thick with vegetation until the blanket of trees gave way to stark, rocky peaks patched with snow. Pero came up to me, pointed ahead, and said, “Village there. High path. We come soon.” We had almost reached our landfall. Not that it mattered so much now. Duarte had told us we could not come with him.
The village had a scattering of low buildings and a little wooden mosque with a single minaret. The Esperança sailed into the bay, ready to drop anchor while a rowing boat ferried Duarte’s party ashore. Stoyan and I were to remain with the ship, in hiding, until he and Pero, with three other men, returned from their mission. There had been no point in pleading with him. On the surface, his decision made good sense. I willed Tati to appear and explain to Duarte that he was making a terrible mistake, but she did not. The cruelest thing about this was that if I failed to complete my own mission, that would mean Tati failed hers as well.
The rowing boat was about to be lowered into the water when Duarte gave a sharp, one-word order. The men who were untying the ropes paused.
A flag was being raised in the settlement: a black flag. Pero crossed himself, muttering in Portuguese. I heard him say peste, and the men close at hand echoed the same word as the color drained from their faces. As we watched, a boat headed out from the shore with two men rowing. They came within shouting distance, shipped their oars, and called in Turkish across the water between us. Duarte shouted a response in the same tongue, asking a question. When the reply came, he gave a series of quick orders to the crew. We put on canvas. The Esperança shuddered and creaked and turned, and we sailed out of the bay. Peste. I did not know any Portuguese, but I did know Latin. The word meant “plague.”
The charts came back out. Duarte and Pero pored over them as the ship headed along the coast to the east and the mountains lowered on our starboard flank.
“I can’t see anywhere at all where there could be a track over,” I said to Stoyan. “What do you think he’ll do?”
Stoyan frowned. “He will not return home,” he said. “Such a man never abandons his mission. Besides, he must continue to evade this pursuer. He will search for another way.”
We gazed up at the impossible slopes, where mountain goats, if they were especially nimble, might perhaps find a path.
