When she’d indulged in her self-pity long enough, Shyla returned to the scroll, skimming Tamburah’s long list of horrors and increasingly erratic behavior. One comment snagged her attention. The scribe claimed Tamburah frequently stared at his sculpture—the oversized relief of Tamburah’s face carved into one of the walls of his judgment room. The king had referred to his sand visage as his legacy many times. The scribe had assigned the behavior as another sign of the king’s megalomania, but Shyla wondered if there was more to it.

A memory tugged. She’d studied the carving closely when she had waited for the Invisible Sword. Something about Tamburah’s face…the configuration of the blue and purple sand had reminded her of a map. Excitement pumped through her. If she examined the pattern with her new sight, would it reveal more?

Of course no one would agree that it was worth the risk to go to Tamburah’s judgment room to examine it. Both the Water Prince and Heliacal Priestess might be watching the temple. However, the Invisible Sword’s old hideout was in the lower levels so the upper ones might be safer.

She sensed that pattern might be a key. To what, she’d no idea.

Good thing she didn’t need anyone’s permission.

Instead of dashing off to Tamburah’s temple, Shyla remained in the Second Room of Knowledge until she read through all the scrolls and tablets she’d collected on Tamburah. It took the rest of the darkness to finish. Nothing else mentioned or even hinted at the existence of another vault or buildings. Because that would just be too easy. She returned the materials to their proper shelves.

Stiff, sore, exhausted, and with a headache that throbbed behind her eyes, Shyla staggered to her room in the empty wing of the monastery. Sinking into the soft sleeping cushion, she wondered if anyone would notice if she stole it. An image of her hunched over with the cushion on her back as she trudged through the desert made her giggle. Perhaps the monks on guard would think she was an oversized velbloud looking for its flock.

She dreamed she flew high above the sands, connected to the ground by a thin thread. Her pleasure over the view warred with her fear as the fibers in the thread slowly unraveled. She woke the instant the thread snapped. Or was it the sound of her door opening that had jolted her from sleep?

Either way, she was on her feet when Easan entered her room. He held a druk and the young monk’s face was creased with worry.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Captain Yates is here with a platoon of guards. They’ve orders to search the monastery for you.”