Shadow War - Deborah Chester [138]
Praying under his breath, he kept moving, refusing to let fear stop him.
At last, the grouping of temples loomed ahead, silent and unlit, ignored by the combat at the other end of the compound. To reach the Temple of Gault, Caelan would have to run across the open. He hesitated, caught between the steady trickle of time and the intense need for caution.
Beside him, Elandra sank to her knees, sobbing for air. Yet her grip never slackened on his. “The Penestrican temple is closest,” she whispered.
“Are there underground chambers, for the secret rites?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
He considered it, a trifle uneasy about invading the sanctum of the women priestesses. He knew nothing about the Penestricans, save that they were barely tolerated officially. The cults surrounding the earth mother were very primitive and old. He shivered a little, but hesitated no longer.
“We’ll go there,” he said.
Looking in all directions, his heart in his mouth, he led her out from cover and ran across the open distance. Overhead, the clouds parted to release a finger of moonlight along the steps. Caelan loped up them, two at a time, the empress’s feet pattering swiftly beside his.
They reached the top, darting past the columns, and he lunged across the vestibule for the inky shadows behind the altar. Slinging the empress around it, he crouched beside her and pressed his sweating face against the gritty stone side of the altar. His breath came in loud, hoarse gusts. The empress had doubled over, pressing her face against her skirts, but still he could hear her muffled sobbing and panting.
He listened hard, every sense straining, but heard no sound of discovery or pursuit.
They had made it.
His taut shoulders sagged in relief, and he rolled his head back against the stone. Time to take stock. How long could they reasonably expect to hide?
There was a chance they might elude discovery altogether, especially if there were numerous hiding places below the temple, and depending on the degree of Madrun superstition and caution.
But what good was hiding? And how long could they last without food and water? Caelan knew he could hold out for several days. The empress was another matter. If they starved beneath the ground, what was accomplished except they did not die by Madrun hands?
Again, he drove such defeatist thoughts away. His goal was to keep this woman alive and well. Thus far, he had done that. If the gods were kind, he would find a way to get her out of here. Every moment of survival he carved out gave them a better chance.
Regaining his breath, he touched her arm gently. “Come.”
She rose to her feet, although she swayed in his hold. Worried about her, he let her lead the way to the temple’s entry.
A stout door of thick wood blocked the way. Though he put all his strength against it, it would not budge. Refusing to let a mere lock stop him, Caelan traced the metal with his fingertips, intending to pick it with the empress’s dagger.
But intense heat seared into his fingertips.
Biting back a cry of pain, Caelan jerked his hand away.
“What happened?” Elandra asked. “What’s wrong?”
Grimly he reached out again. Once more, his hand was repelled by a blast of heat.
He stepped back, wary and respectful now, and nursed his aching fingers.
“What’s the matter?” Elandra asked insistently.
“It is spell-locked,” he replied, flexing his hand. Although his fingers still hurt, there was no actual burn. “We cannot enter.”
She drew in her breath audibly. “Even here, so close to the palace, the sisters fear desecration of the sacred places. By order of the emperor they are not permitted to keep this temple open, and so when they leave they lock it tight. It is a pity—”
“Pity for us,” he said angrily. “We are denied refuge.”
“Then we’ll go to Gault,” she retorted. “The Vindicants are always here. Surely it is open, unless the priests are cowards and have locked themselves inside.”
He thought of the Vindicants,