Cybele's Secret - Juliet Marillier - Cybeles Secret
I was cold with terror. I prayed with every fiber of my being—Keep them safe, don’t let them fall, please, please—but on the other side was someone with different priorities. A calm figure stood there, turban neat, green dolman sashed in clean white, crossbow aimed squarely at the spot where Duarte and Pero balanced between life and death.
“No!” I shrieked. “Don’t shoot!” But this archer cared nothing for my protests. The bolt was ready—he fired. Not at Duarte, leader of this expedition; not at foolish Paula, who had thought her presence might make some difference in this pattern of darkness and death. Not even at Stoyan, the strongest and most dangerous of our party. No, this weapon was aimed at the weakest, the man whose life depended on the strength and skill of another. The bolt struck Pero through the chest. He grunted and went limp, half on, half off the bridge. Duarte lay there, holding on. I could not see his face.
“Stop it!” I screamed again. “Leave us alone!”
“Let him go, Duarte.” It was Stoyan, speaking calmly as he walked across the bridge toward the place where the Portuguese was lying, supporting the body of his first mate and friend. “You must let him go.”
I saw Pero fall, down, down, a last flight to oblivion. The seven children would wait forever for their father’s homecoming. He’d never again tuck them into bed, solving their small territorial disputes with benign efficiency.
Stoyan bent to help Duarte up, to guide his hand back to the supporting rope. The crossbow leveled once more, aiming toward them. This time I got a better view, and I saw the archer’s face. My heart stopped. It was the court-trained eunuch Murat: Irene’s jewel. And behind him, clad in an outfit that was a perfectly cut blend of Greek fashion and Anatolian mountain dress, full gathered trousers tucked into boots, long woolen tunic and embroidered waistcoat, was Irene herself, her expression cold as winter. Now that the shouting had died down, I could hear her voice with perfect clarity through the thin mountain air.
“Leave the girl, Murat,” she said. “Her head’s a mine of information; she may be useful to us. Don’t harm the Portuguese. He’ll have the artifact in his pack, and he knows the way. Kill the guard dog.”
Stoyan was getting Duarte up, ensuring the other man did not fall as he regained his balance on the swaying bridge. He was a clear and easy target. Murat sighted.
I had no time to think, no time to consider the monstrous betrayal that had taken place. I ran back out onto the bridge, heedless of falling. I saw the shock on Stoyan’s face, saw him open his mouth to shout at me, but all that mattered was to save him—somehow to save all of us. I reached Duarte, who was half up. Murat was holding fire. With me on the bridge as well, the thing was moving erratically, and he had been ordered to kill only one of three.
I reached up to Duarte’s pack, undid the strap, and lifted out a rolled bundle of cloth. Something beyond my own body seemed to be moving me—I do not know how I managed to work so quickly. I took a step back and yelled toward Irene: “You see what I’m holding? Harm Stoyan, harm any of us, and I’ll drop it. It’ll smash into a thousand pieces, and this will all be for nothing! You think I value a piece of broken pottery above the lives of my friends?”
She was staring at me, and I thought perhaps there was a little smile on her lips. “What, sacrifice Cybele’s Gift?” she called across the divide. “You couldn’t do it, Paula. Kill him, Murat.”
“You think I’m bluffing? Just watch me!” I shouted, and dangled the bundle out over the drop. It was only when I saw the horrified faces of the two men on the bridge next to me that I realized I had let go of the hand rope. I wobbled, arms outstretched, and my burden swung wildly, almost falling.
“Slowly over,” muttered Stoyan. “One step at a time. Stay close together.”
I did as he said, inching back with the two men following. I waited for a cry, the sound of another terrible descent, but there was nothing. It seemed Irene had at last believed me. In the balance, Cybele’s Gift meant more to her than the chance to pick off another of Duarte’s protectors.
When we set foot on solid ground, there was no time to speak of what had happened. Duarte was gray-faced, his hands visibly trembling. My legs felt like jelly and my head was whirling. The pursuer was not the Sheikh-ul-Islam but Irene of Volos, Irene, who had been so kind to me with her library and her hamam and her interest in seeing me reach my potential as an independent woman…. How could she do this? And why? Could Murat’s past connections with the Sultan’s household include some kind of link with the Sheikh-ul-Islam? Could Irene and her steward be here on the Mufti’s behalf? Not possible; an Islamic cleric would not use an infidel woman as his agent. The pursuit probably had nothing to do with the Mufti. Irene was wealthy. She could have paid for a ship and crew. Had she been using me all the time, cultivating my friendship so she could find out my father’s plans? I had been the one to invite her to Barsam’s supper, but she had offered her services as chaperone before I did so…. How could she have known Maria would be ill on the day? Surely she hadn’t had a hand in that? It didn’t bear thinking about. I felt cold with shock.
Stoyan took charge with quiet competence. “They will be over quickly,” he said. “They have killed the guards. No time to cut the bridge. You think the way is up there, Paula?”
I nodded.
“You must go first. Run ahead and find cover. We will hold them back. You have the artifact; get it to safety.”
I looked at Duarte. He eased off his pack, reached in, took out a wrapped bundle. I stuffed the rolled-up shirt I had been holding back in and took Cybele’s Gift from him.
“You mean—” Stoyan’s brows rose.
“It’s what people believe that matters, not what actually is,” I said. “They’re coming; there are three men on the bridge. Can’t we all run? What if—”
“Go, Paula,” Duarte said. “Forget about us. Run as fast as you can. Go with God, little marinheira.”
So, clutching Cybele’s Gift in both hands, I ran. I told myself that I would not look back, that I would carry the precious artifact safely all the way to the shelter of the bushes and not even think about who might have fallen and how many friends I might lose today. Behind me men shouted, arrows hissed, and swords clashed. The mist was freakish. It lay now in strands across the open ground, and when at last I looked behind me, I caught only glimpses of what was unfolding. I saw Stoyan with his sword drawn and three assailants around him. I saw Duarte with a knife in each hand, his eyes ferocious above a savage grin. In a fog of terror, I tried to count the opposition and failed, for the shreds of mist now concealed and now revealed five warriors, seven, ten, a whole small army. There were many. We were grossly outnumbered. Now Duarte and Stoyan were standing back to back, snarling and brandishing their weapons, a fearsome two-man fighting force. The crow shrieked in my ear. Unable to dash away my tears because my hands held the priceless burden Duarte had entrusted to me, I turned my back and headed for the cliffs.
The bird led me. Under cover of the bushes, in semidarkness, I paused to wipe my eyes. The crow’s harsh cawing hurried me on along the base of the cliff, following a snaking path between the myriad plants that grew thickly beside this rearing edifice of stone. I could no longer hear the sounds of battle on the hillside below. My mind refused to take in the possibility that it was all over, that my friends were lying in their blood out there while the enemy came on after me. Irene. I still couldn’t believe it. She had described Duarte to me as obsessive, a man who would do anything to get what he wanted. But she was the obsessive one. Not only had she exploited me and lied to me, but it seemed she was prepared to see innocent men die so she could get her hands on Cybele’s Gift. It made no sense at all. If she had the resources to mount this chase, why hadn’t she simply outbid Duarte? Why make such a secret of the fact that she wanted the artifact?
The crow had settled on a branch of a young pine, not far from the cliff face. I halted, my chest heaving.
“Is this the place?” I whispered, looking about me. The wind sighed in the trees; I could hear the trickling of a stream nearby. The breeze parted the bushes, and on the rock wall in front of me was revealed a brilliant display of color, gleaming white, blue, green, and a very particular red in the dim sunlight filtering through the leaves. Tiles. I blinked, stepping closer. Here in this unlikely spot, far from the mosques and palaces of the great cities, away from the well-traveled trade routes, someone had created a small masterpiece. The pattern seldom repeated itself but flowed along the rocks with its own life—vines, fruit, foliage, here and there the taller form of a tree. I tucked Cybele under one arm and reached out to touch the smooth surface, drawing my fingers across it and marveling that in such a wild corner of the country it seemed unscathed, not a crack or mark on it, only a glowing patina, as if its perfection had increased with the passing of time. What was it, a temple wall? The ruins of an ancient home of kings?
The bird croaked again, and I came back to myself. What to do? The tiles, the pattern, the tree…I was meant to make something of this. To find a way. I hurried along the wall, following the pattern to its end, where gleaming color gave way once more to bare stone. I went back; perhaps there had been an opening of some kind and I had missed it. But I found nothing, only that smooth unbroken fresco, the tiles stretching up twice a man’s height and running a good fifty paces along the cliff.
Shouting came from beyond the trees. I heard Stoyan’s voice—thank God, he was still alive—and those of other men. They were much closer and heading my way. Think, Paula. I had been right along the tiled area; the only other course was to go all the way across the foot of the cliff, hoping somewhere there might be a cave or signs of a clearer way out. No time for that; they were coming now. Think.
There was a crashing in the bushes nearby. I hugged Cybele to my chest and backed against the tiles. A moment later Stoyan came bursting through, his garments stained with blood and sweat, his breathing labored. His hair had come untied and was over his shoulders and in his eyes, a wild dark cloud. Behind him was Duarte, still gripping his two knives. They halted in front of me, staring at the tiles.
“Where’s the path?” Duarte gasped. “Quick, Paula!”
Sounds of pursuit close at hand. My heart hammered. My mind edged into blank terror. Remember, remember, Paula. You are a scholar. Find what you need. I gazed wildly up at the pattern on the cliff, and something the crone had said to me, the part I had not understood, sprang into my mind.
Remember what once seemed the most important thing of all.
“Paula,” Stoyan said suddenly, his gaze on the tiles. “That’s the tree. Cybele’s tree.”
I had been too distraught, too dazzled to distinguish one tree from the others on the tiled wall, but he was right. Every branch, every leaf and little bird was the same as the image we had made in our sand tray, the one we had done our best to memorize. The tiny patterns hidden in the decorative border of the Persian manuscript were here in complete order, and Cybele’s tree flowered on the wall before us.
“They’re here,” Duarte muttered, and through the bushes came five or six of Irene’s men, not running to attack, simply moving toward us in a tightening semicircle, weapons in hand. My companions turned to face them.
“Paula,” came Irene’s voice, not in the least out of breath. She sounded as if she were welcoming me to a day of study, bathing, and good coffee. “How very clever of you. This must indeed be the place. I’m so glad you and the artifact have both come this far unharmed. You have such potential; I’d hate to see that snuffed out. Now might be the right moment to dispense with Paula’s guard at last, Murat. I feel he’s going to get in our way. Not the pirate. He’ll know the path. And make sure you spare Paula; she’s a real scholar, and that may come in useful to us. Besides, she’ll change sides quickly enough once she realizes how serious we are. Separate the Bulgar from the others, and let her watch him die.”
I was a hairbreadth from asking Duarte to hand over Cybele’s Gift to her. But that had to be wrong. The quest couldn’t end so bitterly. I must do the job I’d been given and trust Duarte and Stoyan to do theirs. As the two of them moved closer together, forming a protective shield between me and the attackers, I forced myself to look away, to concentrate on the tiled tree. Metal clashed, and Stoyan gave a muffled cry. It took all my will not to turn and launch myself into the conflict in a futile effort to help him.
A moment later I had it. Remember what once seemed the most important thing of all. The Other Kingdom. The key to a new portal. When my sisters and I had lost our doorway to the fairy realm, I had been given a bundle of papers and manuscripts. I had always believed that if Stela and I worked out the clues in them, we would be able to find another portal and go back. But we never had, and after six years of trying, I had given up hope of ever doing so. For all that time, there had been nothing in the world more important to me than that. And that was where I had seen the pattern before. In those papers, somewhere in the complex tangle of clues and maps and puzzles the scholars of the Other Kingdom had given me as a parting gift, this tree image had been present. No wonder it had teased at me so in Irene’s library.
“It’s a doorway,” I breathed as Stoyan was forced backward to the rocks by three fighters. Duarte, trying desperately to get close to him, was being held off by a blank-eyed Murat. “A secret portal…” Find the heart, for there lies wisdom. I reached out my hand toward the tiled tree, imagining its rotund form was that of Cybele. I placed my palm exactly where I thought her heart would be, closed my eyes, and prayed harder than I had ever prayed before.
Under my touch, a door opened. The whole panel where the tree was depicted swung inward, creating an entry just big enough for a person to step through. I glanced behind me. Stoyan had lost his sword and was on his knees, fending off his three assailants with sweeps of a knife. Murat and Duarte were wrestling for control of a dagger.
“Now!” I yelled. “Now, quickly!” But there was no way my companions could follow me. “Help us!” I added for good measure, not at all sure whom I was addressing, just knowing I could not do this alone.
The crow rose from its tree with a strong beat of the wings. As it flew by me, it became an old woman in flowing black, eyes fierce, seamed face deathly pale, arms extended toward the struggling men, long fingers tipped with pointed nails like the claws of a predatory bird. She shrieked; it was a sound to freeze the blood in the bravest man’s veins. For a moment, shock held everyone immobile. The combatants stared at the crone, their faces drained of color. One man crossed himself.
