Cybele's Secret - Juliet Marillier - Cybeles Secret
“Now!” I said again, pointing toward the dark opening that had been revealed in the rock wall. Stoyan was up with one quick slash of the knife and across to my side. Duarte slipped out of Murat’s grip and followed. Without another word, the three of us darted through the portal and into a shadowy subterranean passageway. A moment later the crow flew by us, heading deeper into the mountain.
Somewhere ahead of us there was a flickering light, perhaps from a candle. Behind us, on the other side of the portal, Irene was issuing sharp orders.
“Can you shut it after us?” hissed Duarte. “No, forget that, just run.”
We ran, not looking back. I heard Irene’s voice again behind us, and Murat’s, and shortly after they spoke, a creaking sound as if the doorway was being closed, or perhaps closing of itself. The passage had an earthen floor that muffled the sound of our feet and of theirs. It was not pitch-dark; the unsteady light was always there in front of us, though we saw no candle, lantern, or fire. The path curved around, went up sharply, then descended and became precipitous steps. At the foot of these, it branched three ways.
I halted abruptly. Each path was lit by the same uneven glow. There was no saying which our guide, if that name could be used for a crow, had taken. Sharpen your wits. My mind refused to cooperate. I had no idea.
“Paula.” Stoyan spoke hesitantly.
“Yes?”
“The tree. I think the tree is the path.”
“What?”
“A map. You put your hand on a certain point; that’s where we started, the heart. The shape of the tree we made, the one on those tiles, is the map of this underground tunnel. We are exactly at a place where the main trunk branched three ways.”
I remembered him on the night we had made the image in the sand poring over the tray and telling me he would memorize the pattern rather than sleep. “The crown is the destination,” I murmured. “We have to go to the top of the tree, the highest point. How well can you remember the image?”
“Well enough, I hope. Shall I go first?”
“Hurry up,” muttered Duarte. “I’m the one in position for a knife in the back. Can we run?”
So we ran, and the passageways grew narrower, and my nightmare engulfed me once more. Stoyan was leading, his strong hand clasping mine. Duarte came after me. The walls were close and the light dim. When we paused to check a turning or assess the safety of a crumbling stairway or shadowy tunnel, the pad of footsteps or the murmur of voices behind us was a reminder that death was only a heartbeat away.
Now our pursuers seemed to be keeping pace, letting us lead them, perhaps by footprints, perhaps by sound. I could not tell how many had followed us into the cave system, but I was sure they could have caught up with us if they’d so chosen. It came to me suddenly that it was Irene who had told me Duarte would head off in search of the second piece of Cybele’s Gift once he had acquired the first. That must be what she wanted—to put the whole together, just as he did. To follow him to his destination so she could have both. Perhaps she had gone to Barsam’s supper intending to bid. But once she knew the piece was incomplete, she had let Duarte do the job for her instead. A chill ran through me. She had wanted him to buy Cybele’s Gift so he could lead her to the missing piece. She had made sure the other serious bidder was out of the way before Duarte went to the blue house that morning. While I sat oblivious under her very nose, her henchmen had been attacking my father in the street. Irene had done that; Irene, whom I had trusted. In the nightmare, I had imagined the enemy a monster, a thing from the darkness. Remembering the look in the Greek woman’s eyes, cold and implacable, as she’d ordered Pero’s death, I recognized that the human monster was infinitely more frightening.
We emerged, panting, into a cavern. It was markedly colder and darker than the passageways we had come through. I took a step forward and Stoyan, with a sudden shout, grabbed me roughly by the arm, dragging me back.
“Wha—” I protested, then saw that across the center of the chamber was a deep crack in the stone floor, a chasm three yards wide and so deep that when I crept closer to peer into it, I could see nothing but fathomless dark. A rough rope hung down from the roof of the cavern above the gap and was hooked up against the rock wall on our side. No, not a rope, a tree root, perhaps the dangling remnant of an age when Cybele herself walked the earth, for only a forest giant of ancient lineage could have sent its feet so deep in search of nourishment. This was an old place, old and powerful.
“Dear God,” muttered Duarte. “The way across is to grab hold of that and swing.”
My eyes were growing more accustomed to the darkness. I saw that on the other side of the gap were five passages branching off from the cavern. Beside me, Stoyan stood gazing at them and moving his lips in silence, as if repeating a pattern. If his theory was correct, we needed to remember every bough and limb of that tree design, every leaf and flower and twig, to guide us through this maze of caves and tunnels. I hoped very much that if we chose the right way, we would reach the mountain village where Cybele’s Gift belonged. That seemed the only reason the crow, or the old woman, would have guided us in here.
I tried not to think too much about where we actually were. I had discovered that I did not especially enjoy being underground. My bones sensed the weight of earth above me. I found it hard to breathe.
We stood in silence as Stoyan did his best to remember the way. I thought it was the second from the right, but I did not say so, not until he had made his own choice. It seemed to me that he had more talent than I for tasks involving shapes and patterns and that in this matter he was more likely to be correct.
Stoyan cleared his throat, but it was someone else who spoke, the voice coming from a particularly dark corner. “You cannot simply make a choice here,” it said, and its tone reminded me of warm afternoons and rich cream and the smell of freshly mown grass. “In my chamber, the key to the door is using your wits. Which of you will attempt it? Choose one and one only.”
A figure emerged from the shadows, not the dark-robed crone as I had expected but a smaller personage, wrapped in a cloak of pale fur. The garment had a deep hood, and under this, all I could see was a pair of shining eyes. They were elongated and mysterious, the irises gleaming, one of brilliant blue, the other golden yellow. “Be quick,” the creature warned. “Others come after you. If you would pass swiftly, choose your cleverest and take the test.”
Both men looked straight at me. “Paula,” said Duarte. “The obvious choice. She’ll do it, whatever it is.” Considering his avowed disbelief in all things supernatural, he was coping well, but I could hear the nervous edge in his voice. His calm self-possession was not so much in evidence now.
I remembered the miniatures: someone talking to a cat. Great heavens, must we complete a whole set of challenges before we could get to wherever it was we were going? My mind shied away from memories of a figure dangling from a rope; another fighting; the girl who was possibly not picking apples, not if she was underground, but doing something a great deal more difficult…. I made myself fix on the fact that my companions had selected me as their champion this time around, that they respected my intelligence, that they trusted me. That the others were coming, so I’d better get on with this.
“I’m ready,” I told the catlike figure, passing Cybele’s Gift to Duarte, just in case. He stowed it in his pack.
“Good,” the creature purred. “Three riddles, Paula, one for each traveler, though you will answer all. With each correct answer, you win passage forward for one of your party. Here is the first:
Stronger than iron
Crueler than death
Sweeter than springtime
It lives beyond breath.”
“Love,” I said straightaway, hoping the other riddles were as easy.
The creature motioned toward the dangling root rope with a hand whose human fingers were clad in soft fur. “One may pass,” it said solemnly.
We waited, and after a moment the catlike being gestured again. “One must go now,” it said.
Stoyan looked over his shoulder and made a little sound under his breath. Following his gaze, I saw two figures emerging from the shadows of the tunnel from which we had come. A turbaned man in green and a stylish figure in a tunic and trousers, with her black hair piled atop her head. Only the two of them. All they had to do was listen to my answers and they’d be over the chasm in a flash.
“Too easy,” Irene said as if reading my thoughts. She walked forward, and Murat came a step behind, a tall shadow.
“Wait!” The cat creature’s voice was commanding, and the two of them halted. Irene lifted her brows. “Each in his turn,” the creature said, and now its tone was closer to a growl.
“That’s all very well.” Irene sounded cool and controlled. “But—” She fell suddenly silent, looking at the rift in the ground and the rope. “Astonishing,” she breathed. “Just the same as those miniatures in the library, the ones our little scholar here mysteriously found for us…What are you up to, Paula? What is this?”
Nobody answered. The cat creature looked at Duarte. “Go now,” it repeated.
Duarte unhooked the vinelike tree root, testing it for strength. His glance moved from time to time toward our unusual puzzle master but did not settle for long. I reminded myself that, of the three of us, only I was familiar with the Other Kingdom. I was frightened and nervous, but the creature itself did not trouble me. I had seen far odder in my time.
“You go first,” Duarte said to Stoyan. “I’ll bring Paula.”
“I will bring her.” Stoyan wore his most dogged look even as he, like Duarte, cast furtive glances at the robed figure. “She cannot do this alone. It requires too much strength in the arms and shoulders. I can support her and swing us both over.”
“Go now or lose your chance,” said the catlike creature. “One at a time. That is the rule.”
“I’m a sailor,” Duarte said, setting the dangling root firmly in Stoyan’s hand. “I know ropes. Besides, what about your shoulder? And I need you to catch her on the other side. Now go.”
“Shoulder?” I asked in alarm. “Are you hurt, Stoyan?” His clothing was so bloodstained, as was Duarte’s, that it was impossible to tell whether either had been wounded in the fight. Because both were able to talk, to run, to make decisions, I had assumed most of the blood was that of their enemies.
“Only a scratch,” Stoyan muttered. “It’s nothing.” Tight-jawed, he gripped the root, took a few steps back to gain momentum, then ran to the edge and swung. My heart did not beat again until he was safely over and had sent the rope back into Duarte’s hand.
“Gift of a raven
Sharp as a blade
Black is its burden
Wisdom its trade.”
The catlike being regarded me with its luminous, odd eyes, and I stared back, thinking hard. Raven, crow, what sort of gift might they offer…a feather…black is its burden…a black feather…no, something carried by the feather, something used to create wisdom…
“A pen,” I said. Crow feathers were the most commonly used for quills, being strong and relatively easy to obtain. Black ink, words of wisdom…The riddle was a good choice for a scholar. Perhaps these folk wanted me to get them right.
“Good,” said the questioner, and fixed its eyes on Duarte. “Go now. Do not delay. Time passes.”
“Paula, you must go next,” Duarte said, doing something to the rope. “We’re not leaving you to come last.” He glanced toward Irene and Murat.
“You will go now.” The creature sounded displeased. Its voice no longer held the melting softness of its first greeting but was all sharp edges. “She answers the riddles,” it hissed. “You chose her. She swings last. Go!”
“I’m not leaving her here on her own!” Duarte protested. “These people mean us harm!”
“Go, or forfeit your right to proceed.” The voice was implacable.
“Go on,” I muttered.
Duarte’s expression was stricken. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Look, I’ve made a loop. When it’s time, put your foot in that; it will be easier to stay on. Watch me, and when it’s your turn, try to do the same. Don’t be afraid; we’ll catch you.” He sounded more confident than he looked.
“Just go, Duarte. Let’s get this over with,” I said, not daring to glance across at Stoyan.
The pirate was, as he had said, familiar with ropes. I recalled my first glimpse of him on the deck of the Esperança, a nonchalant figure leaning far over the turbulent water of the Black Sea, one hand carelessly holding on, the other extended to whisk my scarf out of midair. As if the two of us shared the same thoughts, Duarte reached now to touch a corner of red fabric that protruded above his belt and turned his dimpled smile on me. He set his hands to the tree root and backed up, then ran almost to the brink, slipped his foot neatly into the loop, and swung across the divide as if it were nothing, jumping down nimbly by Stoyan’s side. They sent the rope back to me; I caught it and looped it ready. Paula, the scholar. Paula, who was not particularly good at tasks requiring agility or strength. Well, I had gone across that bridge. I could do this, too.
“Give me your last riddle, please,” I said, trying not to dwell on what was to come. Too much imagination can be a drawback in such situations. I did not want to consider what might lie in that pit, beneath the shadows.
“It sees the sailor and his crew
Through winter’s fiercest storm
It draws the traveler home at last
To the place where he was born;
It keeps the scholar working long
Though wisdom’s hard to find,
It soothes the weary, eases pain
And calms the troubled mind.”
Irene was coming toward me, eyes dark with purpose. Behind her, Murat walked with knife in hand. Now the cat being was making no attempt to hold them back. What they intended, I did not know. Not to kill me, surely. Hadn’t Irene said my head was a mine of useful information? But maybe once I’d answered the third riddle, they would already have all the information they needed. After this, maybe I would become superfluous.
“Lay a hand on her and your life will be measured not in days but in minutes!” yelled Duarte from the opposite side of the chasm.
Stoyan said nothing. His amber eyes were fixed on Murat, his expression truly frightening. He raised one hand above his shoulder. In it was a little knife, poised for flight. It was a warrior’s pose, full of a graceful, deadly purpose.
