Crossroads of Canopy (Titan's Forest #1)(24)
“Don’t say such things,” Ylly breathed. “Warmed One, you’ve kept your word, you’re great of heart, but you’re also young and made moon-mad by your anger at the friends who left you behind. The Garden serves Audblayin. They will come to find you if you don’t join them right away.”
Part of Unar wanted to recline in the hammock with her hands behind her head, smiling and waiting for them to come. Yet some wiser part of her set her pulling on the clean clothes Ylly had brought, rinsing her mouth and slicking her hair back with water from the waterfall, wandering down to the Temple to find her fellow Gardeners.
She still hadn’t bothered to learn their names, but she stood by a serious-looking, shaved-headed girl that she recognised from barrow-repair duty and tried to assume a similar expression of deep gravity. The girl had dirty hands. They all did. Obviously they’d been up and working for some hours before the soldiers had arrived.
Unar’s stomach growled.
Before she could sneak over to the blueberry bushes and stuff some of the ripe fruit into her mouth, the twenty-eight Gardeners were forming a single line, and the fourteen Servants were moving along it, led by Servant Eilif, who asked questions about who had seen what.
Unar lined up by the shaved-headed girl. Soon, she could see Oos, Aoun, and the five others who had been raised ahead of her. With her magic, she felt inside their bodies, seeking some identifying aspect of their magic, of their capability to reproduce, that would allow her to not only follow the movements of others in the Garden, but know exactly who they were. The shape and scent of Aoun’s magic, she recognised well enough, but what about Oos? Her femaleness felt like a pod bursting with peas under a tracery of Unar’s fingers, but the clothes-dye aroma seemed to disguise whatever else might have been beneath.
Somebody else’s magic cut off Unar’s breath and sense of smell at the same time, like fingers pinching her nostrils shut. She stifled a snort and withdrew.
“Impertinent!” Servant Eilif said, glowering. That one smelled of wormwood and fig fruit dried to dust.
Unar bowed deeply and said nothing, but Servant Eilif stood before her and didn’t move on down the line.
“The others say you’ve been slow to wake, Unar of the Garden. They say you’re barely coherent at breakfast, use your magic for tasks that can be accomplished by hand, and fall asleep during the day.”
“I haven’t slept well at night since Audblayin’s death.”
“Do you think yourself my equal?” the Servant thundered.
Unar couldn’t answer that question truthfully and avoid punishment. She remained bowed.
“Forgive me. I haven’t slept well since Audblayin’s death, Warmed One,” she repeated dully.
“Did you leave the Garden last night? Did you steal from the king of Odelland?”
Unar straightened and looked the white-haired Servant directly in the eye.
“I am no thief, Warmed One. I stole nothing. The Garden is my home. If I’d stolen from the king of Odelland, I’d still have been standing outside the Great Gates when the soldiers came.”
The old woman turned, looking for Aoun; she found him, and they shared a glance.
“The wards hold,” Aoun said mildly.
“And just as well,” Oos chimed in. “The Odelland king’s soldiers are mostly murderers. Some are rapists. A few are thieves. One who walks in the grace of Audblayin senses only one or two who could pass through the Gate, even if you invited them, Servant Eilif.”
“You must never invite out-of-niche soldiers into the Garden,” Eilif said. “Listen. All of you. Even our own king’s men should set foot inside the wall only as a last resort, should the wards fail and Understorian warriors breach our sanctuary. As for the Temple itself, it must remain pure at all costs. The Garden is for women, male Servants and Gardeners who have given themselves to Audblayin, and male slaves who have been given as tribute.”
“Yes, Servant Eilif,” Oos and the other Servants chorused, but Unar turned the stricture over in her mind. She could see no good reason for women being seen as safe. They were no less dangerous than men. She thought of Odel’s Bodyguard, the scarred woman who had taken her machete and bore-knife without her knowing.
“Our own king’s soldiers come at last,” Eilif said, turning abruptly away from Unar, heading for the Gates. In the absence of an explicit order to remain behind, Unar and the mass of Gardeners and slaves followed along behind her, crossing bridges and traipsing over stepping-stones, avoiding flowering groundcovers and fragile, brightly coloured fungi.
The Gates stood wide open with Odelland soldiers clearly visible on the other side. They wore scarlet leaf-skirts over leather loincloths, pale yellow bracers and shin guards, and lacquered breastplates studded with beetle carapaces over peach-coloured tunics that bordered on trespassing on their god’s reserved colour.
“Your people lack discipline in the absence of your goddess,” their leader called to Servant Eilif as she approached the invisible barrier.
“The person you are looking for,” Eilif said with conviction, “is not among my people. You have my oath. Now you must leave.”
“We’ll question your people ourselves.”
“Our king’s men are close.”
“You think one who walks in the grace of Odel cares about your king’s men? Your king is weak. The magic of this niche is faded. You’d better do as our king demands, or who will protect you in the raids when they come? You’ll be begging us for help.”