The Other Side of the Sky - Amie Kaufman Page 0,57

the first sign of a thawing of his fury. “It never occurred to me that you would go on your own, Nimh.” The use of my name is a rarity these days. This time, it is a signal to lay down arms and call a truce.

I take a cautious sip from the goblet. For the most part, Daoman’s tinctures are quite tasty, although now and then they go down bitter and burning. I wouldn’t put it past him to make this one particularly nasty, as partial punishment for my recklessness. To my surprise, it is sweet and fragrant, smelling of serra buds and batala, and other herbs I have no hope of identifying.

Daoman seats himself opposite me, his posture mirroring my own, though his hands clasp in his lap rather than around the stem of a glass.

I know what he’s waiting for, and after another swallow of my drink, I draw a slow, careful breath. “I was right,” I say softly, keeping my voice as low as I can. This ancient temple is a honeycomb of secret passages and hidden spaces in the walls—a spy’s dream. Even I don’t know all its secrets. “I was right to go, Daoman.”

The high priest’s eyebrows shoot up. “You—what?”

Any other day, I’d be delighted to have surprised him. But what I have to tell him is too important. “I saw the Last Star, the omen described in the Song of the Destroyer and countless other prophecies—including the lost stanza from my vision.”

“Your dream,” Daoman corrects me, his brows lowering again in a frown.

“It was no dream then, and it was no dream last night, when I saw the Last Star fall. I saw it, Daoman—the herald of the Lightbringer himself.”

Daoman goes very, very still. “How can you be sure?”

I school my features—for the truth is that I can’t be sure what I saw, or found, except that North is important, and it was my destiny to find him. “Many of our prophecies speak of the Last Star, but my lost stanza told me where to find it, and it was right, Daoman. I am sure of what I found. Or do you doubt the power of the divine?”

It’s often struck me that Daoman would have made a better politician than a priest—I’ve wondered more than once just how deeply his faith runs. But he looks shaken, his long face grave. “Tell me what happened. Are you saying … Do you believe the end of days is approaching? That you will be the last …”

The last goddess? And you the last high priest?

I smile a thin, weary smile. “I will tell you what I found when I have had time to consider all that I have seen. You of all people know that prophecy is never straightforward—I must study, and meditate, and put the pieces together.”

Daoman’s eyes have lost a little of their focus, a habit he has when his thoughts are racing ahead beyond the conversation at hand. “A pity,” he murmurs, “that no one was with you to bear witness.”

My lips tighten, and I place the half-drunk goblet on the low table before me with a thunk. The bindle cat’s purr stops, and he fixes the priest with a level, steady stare. “You would accuse your goddess of lying?”

Daoman blinks, gaze finding mine again. “Of course not, Divine One.” He inclines his head, spreading his hands in a seated bow. “I was thinking only of the challenges to come. A witness would be useful for sharing this news with your people.” A pause. “Though you may wish to wait to share it until you know what it means.”

For that, I give him a little smile, though even I can tell how weary it must look. “You will notice I did not exactly stride through the streets declaring that the end of days has come. As I said, I will need to study and consider all that has happened. I must consult the Song again—the copy that my vision led me to find.”

Daoman’s eyes are suddenly hooded, and he leans back on the divan, long fingertips steepled together. “Ah,” he says, and the pause that follows that single word sparks an inexplicable tension in my heart. “Divine One … I had hoped this could wait until you had rested, until after the Feast of the Dying.”

“You hoped what could wait?” My voice is sharp, and I lean forward, using the very tactics of body language I learned from him. He leans back—and I press