Wings Over Talera - Charles Allen Gramlich [21]
I turned and ran. Toward the window. Shutters of tharspa wood covered that opening against the night’s chill. I went through them, shoulder and hip taking the impact, the thin slats of wood exploding outward in a rending shatter of sound.
The guards were close. I heard them shout. I heard Rannon. But I was dropping through debris and air. A dozen feet below lay one of the many small, protected gardens that dot the inner workings of Hurnan Jystral’s palace. I tucked my limbs close to my body, the blade of the sword beneath my left arm, hit a cropped sward with knees bent, and rolled before springing back to my feet.
Voices from the apartment above hurled orders at me like arrows. I ignored them. Ran. I leaped a row of sweet blooming goldenswords, dashed between bushes rich with hanris berries. A short wall welcomed me. It was barely six feet high—no need to keep people out when they already had to be in the inner court to reach this place—and I went over it easily.
Beyond lay a covered walk that sliced straight between the wall of the garden and the rising granite shoulder of the central keep. There were more apartments here—those of the royal family...and their guards.
I turned left along that brick-lined walkway, racing toward the backlit glory that marked the chapel of Sevarian, the major Nysphalian god. Behind the alabaster pile of that chapel stood the darkness of the stables, with the outer wall of the palace rising on the other side.
It was to the stables that I headed, thinking of the horses there, and of the saddle-birds. Thinking of escape. Rannon had betrayed me, had been in on the plan to have me arrested. And now I was running. As if what that piece of parchment had said concerning me was true. But I didn’t care. Rannon should have believed in me. She should have....
My feet slowed. I pulled to a stop with the chapel looming over me in marble splendor. In the distance I heard the sound of the guard being rousted. Soon the grounds would teem with hunters.
I thought of the stables again, thought of moments ticking away. My fists clenched. I tasted anger, smelled it in my own sweat.
“No!” I muttered to myself.
I turned away from the path to the stables and strode up the steps of the chapel, pushed through the doors and made my way down into the nave. A monk came hurrying toward me, to inform me that the chapel was closed for the evening. He didn’t yet know that I was an outlaw. I didn’t tell him before I punched him in the face and knocked him cold.
I trussed and gagged him, then stuffed him in the open space beneath his altar where curtains of costly silk would hide him from casually searching eyes. I regretted having had to hit him, but he had something I needed—his clothes.
I took his robe and his hood and slipped them on. They fit tightly, but they hid my sword and face. And with his garments I donned the respect due him as an attendant upon Sevarian.
It was well that I hurried. The robes were just settling around my ankles when there came the stomp of boots on marble and the doors thrust back to reveal a dozen guards with drawn steel. Half of them started down the aisle. They didn’t notice me at first, and when they did they stopped instantly.
Their leader was young, a devout man it seemed. He made no attempt to look into his monk’s face. He could not have seen it anyway.
“Forgive the intrusion, honored Phrer,” he said, bowing. “But we search for an outlaw. A dangerous man. Have you seen anyone?”
I placed my hands on the copper altar and inclined my head. “I have not,” I said. “But only moments ago I heard running feet outside the chapel. I think it was toward the stables that they headed.”
The leader nodded, eyes brightening in the candled dimness.
“Of course,” he said. “Thank you, Phrer.”
He turned abruptly, pushing his men ahead of him back down the aisle. In moments the chapel was empty, the air silent as the dead. I waited for the silence to enter me, waited for it to freeze my rage. And when my heart felt as cold as the copper of the altar under my