Kaneth twitched the letter from his hand, glanced at it and handed it on to Nealrith. "This time he's making sure Jasper knows."
"That's mine," Jasper said in agonised protest. "It is addressed to me." He stopped. Then, "This time?" His gaze shifted from one to the other as his mind raced in disbelief. They had known she was alive and hadn't told him?
"I'm sorry," Nealrith said when he had finished scanning the sheet. "Kaneth, see that the apothecary Bankor that's mentioned here is dealt with."
Kaneth nodded and walked away. Ryka watched him go, biting her lip, then walked briskly after him.
When Nealrith went to continue up the steps into the hall, Jasper-outraged-stayed where he was. "This time? You knew?" he accused. "You already knew that he had Terelle?"
Nealrith paused and turned back. "Not at first. But a while back Taquar tried to send you a message, and it was intercepted. He said he had her, but we had no way of knowing whether it was true, so we didn't tell you. There is no question of your leaving Breccia, Jasper," he added gently. "The idea of you going back to Taquar is unthinkable. You know that."
"She is my-my friend." The only one I've ever had.
"I know. And I'm sorry. I'm sorrier still for her."
Jasper took a shuddering breath. Sandblast them all. She is nothing to them!
Aloud he said, "You don't understand. I made her a promise. I said I would look after her." He shoved his hands behind his back so Nealrith did not see his fists clenching in anger. "I had a little sister once. I promised myself that no one would ever harm her. And they slaughtered her in front of my eyes, throwing her around from spear to spear until she wasn't recognisable as anything but a piece of meat. And I had a brother taken as a slave. I made myself another promise about him, too. I promised I'd free him. I'm very good at making promises, Lord Nealrith. I'm just not good at keeping them. Do you understand what that's like?"
Terelle, ah, Terelle-be brave. I haven't forgotten you, I swear.
"Look." Nealrith took him by the shoulders and roughly turned him to face the entrance hallway, where Granthon's litter had just arrived and the Cloudmaster was laboriously climbing out. "He should not have gone to the temple today. But he needs to be seen. People need to know he is still alive, still able to read the prayer of sacrifice as he did today. His presence gives them hope and comfort, so he went. And now he will go back to his room and call up another cloud for you to move. That's what sacrifice is, Jasper. That is what is required of us all."
"It's not my sacrifice I'm worrying about. It's all the people who trust me to fulfil my promises to them, only to have me discard them as if they are no more than zigger fodder. Do you know what that's like?"
"Of course I do! Iani has been closer to me than my own father-and look what we did to him. And to Moiqa. Their whole city!" Nealrith's voice cracked. "I pray every day that the Sunlord will forgive me, Jasper, because I can't forgive myself. I have so much blood on my hands I don't know how I can ever wash them clean."
They stood there in the entranceway, staring deep into each other's souls. Nealrith put a hand on Jasper's shoulder, and Jasper felt the message there. A seeking of understanding, a request for respect, a sharing of pain so deep that it was inexpressible any other way. Jasper knew Nealrith wanted a sign from him, a sign that he understood what they shared.
He withheld the indication.
Nealrith took a deep breath. "If I were to send anyone except a rainlord to free Terelle, they would simply die in the attempt. Taquar's guards use ziggers, remember. And I can't afford to send a rainlord. Not now. Not when our own safety is in jeopardy. If I had sufficient rainlords, I would send them to the defence of Qanatend and other cities, not to rescue a single young woman in Scarcleft."
"Then I will ask this of Granthon."
"I forbid you to worry him with this."
"Today in the temple, Granthon proclaimed me a stormlord, Nealrith. You cannot forbid me a voice. Besides, it is still your father who rules the Quartern, not you."
Nealrith drew in a sharp breath, but it wasn't anger Jasper saw on his face; it was grief, that and despair. "Speak to him, then. It will make no difference to the outcome. Your friend Terelle must look after herself. For you to put her safety before your own would be a terrible misjudgement of what is important. The life of no individual can be more important than your safety, Jasper. None. You are the only hope for the Quartern. Don't you understand that?"
Jasper came close to slamming a clenched fist into Nealrith's jaw. He halted the movement in time, and let his anger explode in words instead.
"Even if she was just ordinary, she's in trouble because she helped me. That makes me responsible. On top of that, I have been trying to tell you that Terelle is important. Perhaps even more important than I am. You just aren't listening."
"There is no such thing as magic, Jasper. I don't know what you saw, but it was just trickery."
"You think I am lying?"
"No, just misguided."
"Oh-a fool, then."
"You are being ridiculous."
Jasper choked back his words. He could not trust himself to speak.
"Do I have your word that you will not try to leave Breccia City in some misguided attempt to rescue her?"
Jasper hesitated, gritting his teeth in angry frustration. Citrine, Mica, now Terelle. Was he bound to betray everyone he had ever cared for? "Yes," he snapped, his bitterness spilling out in words. "You have my word. Without me, Granthon would not manage another rain cloud. Without me, there would be no rains anywhere. I know my value. It's a pity you can't recognise hers."
"I'm sorry," Nealrith said again.
Jasper snorted and walked into the hall. Grief spilled from his every pore, and every step felt as if it left its imprint of pain behind. The beat inside his head repeated the same words over and over: betrayer of friendship, betrayer, betrayer…
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Scarpen Quarter Scarcleft City Had she screamed? She couldn't remember. If she had, then the sound would have been lost in the noise that saturated the air anyway. A deep groaning from a tormented earth. Screams of naked terror from outside. Crashing, creaking, cracking. Unidentifiable explosive sounds. Things falling, bursting, breaking. Then the candle tumbling, going out, so that when the outer wall crumbled, she saw it only as a darkness that disappeared into choking dust.
When it was all over, she continued to lie where she had fallen, unable, in her shock, to move. Everything was suddenly awfully, unnaturally quiet. Dust settled around her, coating her skin with grit, sifting into her hair and silting through her clothes. She moved then, to cough, to retch, to grope around for a cloth so that she could cover her nose and mouth. She found her bedcover, already ripped by a falling shutter, and tore a piece from that.
When she had control of her breathing, she was able to think. Yet her thoughts made no sense. What had happened?
In the distance, someone shouted into the silence. There was another far-off crash. She lay and thought about it, forced her wits to work. The building. Something had happened to Scarcleft Hall. Part of it had fallen down, that was it. There was a hole in the wall. She had no idea why, and didn't want to know, but one idea was as clear as water in a cistern: she had to get out while she had the chance.
She scrambled up, coughing in the swirls of powdered mud-brick. In the darkness she couldn't see much, and the air was as thick as a spindevil wind full of desert dust. She groped her way over to the dayjar, toppled but still stoppered, in the corner. The idea of leaving her prison without a supply of water was tough to accept, but there was no alternative. The jar was too heavy and cumbersome to lug far, and she didn't have a water skin. She found her mug and poured herself a drink, and then another and another, until she could drink no more. Extravagantly, she used the last to wash away the grime and wet the cloth that covered her face. Once that was done and she could breathe more easily, she felt around for what was left of her paint jars and brushes. There was no way she would leave those behind. She made a bundle of the rest of the bedcover and tucked the painting things, Russet's paintings of her, Viviandra's mirror and a spare suit of clothes into it. Everything was covered in dust.