The Other Side of the Sky - Amie Kaufman Page 0,82

he looks, because he takes the bundle from her with one hand, and with the other he draws off the cover in one quick movement, dropping it to the floor. He’s left holding what looks like a bundle of metallic sticks, and he sends them clattering to the ground in a great pile, directing them toward Inshara with a jerk of his hand.

I expect them to start rolling in every direction, but instead, they animate immediately. It’s like watching a broken robot reassemble itself in a vidshow, except the sticks are surrounding Inshara. They snap together and rise up, building one atop the other at a furious pace until she’s within a tightly woven lattice that rises high above her head. A cage.

Everyone else is outside it—Elkisa, Daoman, the priests—and only hints of movement can be seen within.

Daoman speaks calmly. “Now perhaps we can talk, Insha. As you can see, your threats will avail you nothing.”

Inshara shifts within her enclosure. Her hands lift again, and Elkisa jerks in place—her body taut, her back arching.

“No,” the guard gasps, looking straight at the woman holding her captive. “No.”

“No,” Nimh echoes beside me, eyes huge and horrified. “It’s not possible… .”

But we’re watching the impossible unfold right in front of us. Daoman’s mouth opens as if to protest, but no sound comes out.

And then the shield dissolves, the pieces of it losing their grip and dropping to the ground with a deafening clatter, the temple’s most powerful weapon falling apart like a toy kicked by a toddler.

Inshara stands among the debris and shoots the shaking Elkisa an almost maternal look, a please be reasonable sort of glance, as if Daoman’s attempt to rob her of her magic was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. Then she lifts her hands once more.

Elkisa can’t resist. Her white-knuckled hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife, she abruptly straightens her arm, flinging it out to drive the blade straight through the deep yellow silk of Daoman’s robes. It sinks all the way in, smooth and soundless, and his whole body stiffens.

He looks down at where the knife protrudes from his chest.

His eyes meet Elkisa’s, and I can’t imagine what he sees there.

And then he collapses at her feet, crimson pouring out across his robes, so sudden, so much, that I know without any doubt that her strike found his heart.

Cries of horror and fear rise around the hall, but as Daoman’s robes flutter and settle around him, the loudest cry is from beside me.

“No!” Nimh screams, throwing herself at the wooden wall that hides her bathing chamber, grabbing at the carvings as though she wants to tear them apart, climb through them. At her feet, the cat rises onto his hind legs to sink his claws into the wood, yowling his distress.

“Nimh,” I whisper, helpless. “Nimh, no!”

But it’s too late.

Out in the hall, Inshara is staring directly at us, as if she can see right through the wall. “High Priest,” she says to Daoman’s body. “What do you have to say for yourself now? Liar.”

She leans down to pull the knife from his chest with a soft sound of effort, and wipes it clean on his robes. Then she points the tip of the blade in our direction.

“Our quarry’s within the walls,” she says, turning her head a little to address her guards. “After them. Quickly!”

Horror sweeps through me. She knows about Nimh’s hidden corridors.

Nimh tears her gaze away from the woman standing over her high priest’s body, both hands covering her mouth as she looks across at me, as though she needs to hold in all the sounds she wants to make.

“Run,” she whispers.

NINETEEN

NIMH

In the darkened corridors, my mind is free to conjure images with blinding clarity. A time when I was small, chasing and being chased by Elkisa all throughout these corridors. Daoman, stern-faced and with hair still a youthful brown, chastising me for “running away” to one of the bolt holes in these walls and hiding there all night.

Daoman lying on the floor, still and …

Daoman.

North’s breath is quick and harsh behind me. Some distant part of me is glad we have to run—glad I don’t have to explain.

I blamed Daoman, in my mind, for the scroll that went missing—Daoman, who died for me. Oh, gods. I jerk my thoughts away again, unwilling to see in my mind the crimson stain spreading out across his saffron robes, the glazed, staring eyes.

No.

But how did Inshara’s people steal the scroll I need so badly? A