Chapter Four
The Scribe and the Priestess
Targon led me down a cramped corridor, dimly lit by the same kinds of small light cube possessed by the black-robed man. Their tiny pools of illumination overhead served mainly to point out the various sturdy wooden doors we passed on either side. A couple weren’t even waist high, but through small barred panels I caught the tip of a fingernail or even a whole hand that hung out. We were passing the holding cells for new slaves. Once in a while, if the light was right, a pair of gleaming eyes tracked Targon. I wondered which cell was my new home.
To my surprise we strode past them, then up many stairs to emerge in a large, well-kept garden. Many columns and curved arches that reminded me of a Moorish design rose up several storeys on each side,
