“Ah,” said Andreyis. That was in central Enora, he recalled. They'd come that far from the border. Now they were squarely in the middle not only of Enora, but of the Saalshen Bacosh. “I'd thought the temple was atop Mount Tristen?”
“Mount Tristen is there,” said Yshel, pointing. Across the valley, a lone peak loomed, its upper slopes disappearing into low cloud. “Saint Tristen came down the mountain and showed his followers what the gods had told him, here, by the riverside. That is where the High Temple is built.”
Those were the twin spires in the town, Andreyis realised. He was in holy lands. Though not Verenthane himself, it raised a chill on the back of his neck.
“The Army of Larosa will be coming through this way, then,” he suggested.
“And everyone is leaving,” Yshel confirmed. “Now get back in the wagon, before I have one of the Enoran men come and put you there.”
Andreyis did as she said.
“Doin' well what your girlfriend says, then?” suggested Hydez. Of the six Lenays in the wagon he was worst hurt, since Ulemys had died two days earlier.
“This is Shemorane,” Andreyis told him. Hydez blinked at him. “Where the High Temple is.”
“You're joking,” Hydez said with suspicion. Hydez had fought with Hadryn forces during the Northern Rebellion. Andreyis thought it quite likely they had passed within armspans of each other during various battles, on opposite sides.
“No joke. My girlfriend told me.”
Hydez struggled to sit more upright, wincing at the pain. “The High Temple is here? Can you see it?”
“I caught a glimpse, just then,” Andreyis told him. “I imagine this road leads right past it, you'll get a good look.”
Hydez waved Sayden aside from the opposite bench and heaved himself across with a gasp of agony. He then leaned out the side of the shuddering wagon, and stared downslope, hoping for a sight of the Verenthanes' holiest temple.
“Regent Arrosh will be leading his priests to put the Shereldin Star back in there,” Sayden suggested. Sayden had long hair and thin tattoos upon one side of his face. He did not seem too excited by the prospect.
“This was always their main target,” Andreyis agreed. “It doesn't look very defensible, though.”
The wagon passed some villagers on the road, walking with several mules in a train, each with belongings lashed to their backs. Andreyis saw that Yshel had pulled off the road to talk to them. From the movement of hands, he guessed she was asking them where they were headed, and where the latest news put the various armies. Then she followed, red hair wet in the rain, her pale face worried.
Rounding a corner, the wagon train came into a courtyard and there before them towered the High Temple itself. Hydez levered himself as upright as he could manage on the rattling wagon, and gazed in awe as rain fell onto his face. It was no bigger than Saint Ambellion in Baen-Tar, Andreyis thought. Huge, certainly, but it was not the size that impressed. The High Temple was old…Saint Ambellion, like most Verenthane temples in Lenayin, dated less than two hundred years. The High Temple was so much older than that.
This is where it comes from, Andreyis realised as he looked at it. The great faith that had united the warring factions of Lenayin, even as it failed to convert much of the rural population. It was such a monumental part of the history of Lenayin, and a fact of Andreyis's life as immovable as the mountains…and it had all started here. Suddenly, he thought he could understand the look on Hydez's face. Not the joy, but the awe.
“The old builders built well,” Sayden observed, looking up at the twin spires. The wagons clattered across the courtyard. A bridge spanned the river to the courtyard's side, and the valley's far slope rose beyond. There was traffic across the courtyard, a steady stream of wagons stacked with belongings. The prisoner train slipped through a gap, and continued to an archway beside the High Temple.
Within, the wagons stopped in a secluded square. Guards leaped from the rear and front wagons, and ordered the prisoners out. Andreyis climbed out willingly and assisted those who needed it to follow. Hydez never ceased to stare up at the High Temple.
“We're stopping here?” he asked. As though amazed that his awful captive fate had led him to this blessed location.
Andreyis saw priests emerging from the nondescript stone building facing the temple. “A monastery,” he observed.
The priests, bald in black robes, talked to the guards, then gestured for the prisoners to follow. Andreyis walked supporting Sayden, as the priests hauled open large doors to reveal stables within. Andreyis smelled horses, and hay. He nearly smiled.
The prisoners sat or lay on the stable floor, which was dirt and straw with no pavings, while the priests brought food and water. Andreyis took bread and an apple and strolled, gazing over the stable doors at the horses. One stuck a long nose over the door and sniffed at his apple. Andreyis let her bite off that side, keeping the other half for himself.
“You're going to eat that?” Yshel asked behind him. Andreyis glanced back in surprise. She was following him, her bow unstrung, sword sheathed at her back. Keeping an eye on the wandering prisoner…but where would he escape to?
Andreyis took a bite of the remaining apple, then switched it to his bad hand so he could stroke the mare's nose with his good one. He measured her flank with a practised eye, noting the muscle tone, the shape of the hind quarters.
“She's being used as a cart horse,” he observed. “Pity-her breeding's better than that. She's not very old.”
A priest, passing with an armful of hay, overheard him. “Cavalry horse,” he explained, in heavily accented Torovan. “She have two battle. Second battle, she nearly kill. She pull down, rider pull off, kill, very bad. She lose friend horse. Now, she no like loud noises. Cavalry, they give her to us.” He pointed to the mare's other side in passing. Andreyis looked, and saw weapon scars.
“Poor girl,” he murmured, empathising. He gave her the rest of the apple.
“You do ride horses,” Yshel observed, watching. “How many horses did you care for?”
“Between twelve and twenty, depending on foals. I shared duties with Sasha, Kessligh, and one other. And sometimes lads from the town.”
“I grew up in Li'el in Saalshen,” said Yshel. “It's a city, or a large town, I suppose. A farmstead on the outskirts raised horses. I would go there and help the ranchers. Horses made me want to travel, to join the talmaad. I never really thought that they would take me to a war.”
Back at the stable doors, there came the sound of shouting. Andreyis and Yshel turned and looked. An officer of the Steel had entered, and was looking for able-bodied prisoners. He seemed disappointed to find so few, as none of the Lenays in the group had surrendered while still able to fight.
“I'd better go,” said Andreyis. “Before he tries to make the dying walk.”
The Steel officer looked haggard and worn, limping with a recent injury, as he inspected the prisoners. Finally finding nine who could work, he had them escorted by three Steel regulars out of the walled courtyard and onto the main one.
Here the flow of ordinary Enorans had increased, a steady stream of families all trudging or riding in the same direction, heads down, away from the advancing Army of the Bacosh.
The Steel officer led the prisoners up the wide stone stairs of the High Temple, and past two more soldiers guarding the huge doors.
Within, the air was cool and still. Light spilled from rows of small windows across the largest indoor space Andreyis had ever seen. It felt like something from a dream, vast and echoing. To stand beneath the high roof and gaze up at the patterned glass, it seemed to Andreyis that this must indeed be a house of gods.
“Right,” said the officer, tiredly. “Anyone here speak Torovan? Understand Torovan?” Blank stares from most.