“Apologies, patriciana, but I’m afraid I can’t simply take your word for
it.” The commander of the militia troop,
a scar-faced warrior of middling years, waved a hand distractedly at the scene. “I haven’t seen a light-show like that since
the Solemnity. Half the population of
the harbour district’s shrieking about skyfire and hell-spawned fiends, and
there’s a draconardescus – or most of
one, anyway – lying in the water.” He
nodded at the dragon’s neck-stump, which trailed off the shattered stern of the
ship. A spreading slick of red-black,
stinking ichor still poured from the great vessels of its severed throat.
The warrior turned back to the
elf-woman. “This is unusual. I’m going to need some proof of your
identity.”
“You haven’t even introduced
yourself,” the elf-woman temporized.
“Gorian Retax, Captain of Horse,”
the man replied immediately. “Your turn,
my lady.”
Amorda struggled to maintain her
equanimity. “I understand your concerns,
decurio,” she said evenly. “But I’m afraid all of my belongings were...”
“...were in the cabin. Under there.”
The soldier rubbed his eyes wearily.
It had taken him a quarter of an hour to find a shore boat to row him
out to the damaged ship. “Yon roundear
told me the same story.” He grimaced at
the foredeck, where Fall was leaning over the railing, shouting at the dockyard
hands struggling to cram felled, bark-stripped logs under the ship’s kelson.
“It was his cabin,” Amorda
replied. “We were merely occupying it
for the duration of the voyage.”
The troop-leader’s ears perked
up. “ ‘We’?”
“My ancilla and I.”
“Ah.
And where is your ancilla
now?”
Amorda’s lip twitched, but she
showed no other emotion. She simply
nodded at the carcass atop the wreckage.
“I see,” the warrior sighed. “My condolences. Is there no one who can confirm your
identity, lady?”
Amorda thought about that. “Do you know Tomas Ark
The captain pursed his lips. “I know his shop. Corner of Winterwood and Nightmist
Lane , no?”
“That’s the one.”
“He knows you?”
Amorda barked a laugh. “I should hope so. I’ve just ordered about ten thousand aureae worth of gold and garnets from
him.”
Nodding, the soldier fished a
wax-covered wooden tablet out of his pouch and made a note on it with a
stylus. “That’ll do, I suppose,” he
said. “So long as he’ll testify on your
behalf at Milady’s inquiry tomorrow.”
“He will if he wants to be paid,”
Amorda muttered. Her expression
hardened. “Anything else, captain? I have a funeral to arrange.”
The warrior’s eyes grew flinty. “There are going to be a great many funerals
tomorrow, I’d imagine, lady. All thanks
to what transpired aboard this ship.
“I apologize if my questions
inconvenience you,” he went on heatedly, before she could reply, “but I have a
harbour full of floating corpses, one of them a scarlet wyrm, and if you think
I’m going to short my investigation because some northern noblewoman’s got her
knickers in a twist, then –”
“Is there a problem?”
Amorda and the soldier turned
simultaneously towards Myaszæron, who had emerged from the forward
companionway. She still had her bow in
hand.
“Who in the hells are you?” the
officer snapped.
Amorda’s lip twitched slightly.
The princess smiled. “Princess Myaszæron Æylliana,” she said pleasantly.
“A humble servant of the Forest Mother.
Marchioness of the Eternal Grove, daughter of Szæronýla Spadacódru, grand-daughter of Her Serene Majesty, Ælyndarka the Fair, Queen of Elves.”
The warrior’s eyes grew larger and
larger as the list went on. Amorda, doing her best to stifle a grin, leaned toward the princess
and whispered loudly, “You forgot
‘Duchess of Eldisle’.”
“Ah!
Yes, of course.” Myaszæron
beamed. “Duchess of Eldisle. I’ve just accepted the rose and the cup from
Lord General Kaltas, Primus of House Aiyellohax, and Commander-in-Chief of the Armies of the South.”
The soldier made a slight hissing
noise, like a kettle gone dry.
The princess pouted prettily. “I’m newly married, Captain. A gentleman would congratulate me.”
Amorda barely smothered a
snicker. Fortunately, the captain wasn’t
watching her anymore. His attention was
wholly on Myaszæron. To his credit, the officer squared
his shoulders, took a deep breath, and said, “Congratulations, Highness.”
“Thank you!” the princess squealed,
clapping her hands. Amorda cast her a
sidelong glance, wondering whether her companion had gone insane. “So, are you satisfied, then?”
The captain’s eye twitched, his
professional judgement at war with his fear of the storied capriciousness of
the royal family. “I still...”
The princess’ face fell. She looked positively tragic. “What’s wrong?”
“Your highness...I’m sorry,” he said
all in a rush, “terribly, terribly sorry...but can you prove your identity?”
Myaszæron tugged a heavy gold signet
ring from her thumb and tossed it to the officer, who in a sudden attack of
nerves fumbled at it for a moment before catching it. The man inspected it closely, then
blanched.
“How’s your heraldry, Captain?” the
princess asked brightly. “You do
recognize the crowned mermaid and Larannel’s tree, do you not?”
The officer passed the ring back as
though it were hot. “Forgive me, your
Grace...er, Highness. Sorry,” he
repeated, flushing.
“ ‘Your Grace’ is fine, Captain,”
Myaszæron replied, all smiles again. “I
had to work hard to get Kaltas to marry me.
I take more pride in that accomplishment than I do in a mere accident of
birth.”
The officer, his composure in ruins,
couldn’t think of anything to say, so he bowed.
It seemed the safest thing to do.
“You will congratulate my husband, too, won’t you?” the princess added
mischievously.
The captain, who had turned to
depart, paused and threw her a confused glance.
“Excuse me, your Hi...your Grace?”
Myaszæron smiled, showing her
teeth. “Novaposticum is the district
staging point for the Duchy of Imbrium.
He’ll probably be here in a fortnight or so. Haven’t you had word yet?”
The officer was blinking
rapidly. “I’m sorry...what?” he said at
last.
“Well, as you pointed out, my new husband is Imperator Maximus.
He’s raising the south,” the princess replied. “You’ve got about a week to polish your
armour and sharpen your sword, captain. I’d
buy a silver tree amulet or two as well, because you're going to war against the Grim Duchess, and in a month or so, I imagine you'll be hip-deep in revenants.”
She slapped him on the
shoulder. “Good luck, and good
voyage. I hope you live.”
Turning to Amorda, she took the
woman’s elbow, steered her towards the entry port, and said, “Come along. We need to find some place to sleep ashore
tonight.”
As an afterthought she glanced back
at the officer, still standing gobsmacked on the deck, staring at the
ichor-stained water. “You don’t mind if
we borrow your boat, do you?”
♦♦♦
“Don’t take this the wrong way, your
Grace,” Amorda mused as the boat pulled away from the wounded ship’s side, “but
you’ve a natural talent for shovelling horse dung. If you’d be willing to consider a different
trade, I could find you plenty of work.”
“I already have a job,” the princess
sighed. “Too many jobs, actually. Between the White Lady’s ministry, serving as
Eldisle’s duchess, and having to do my duty as an ornament of grandmother’s
court, I’m either going to have to learn how to stop time, or choose between
sleeping and bathing.”
They both ignored the oarsmen, a
pair of lower-class human sailors who, according to their tattoos, ran a shore
boat service. Just to be safe, though,
they kept to the court dialect.
“You could sleep in the bathtub,”
Amorda suggested with a grin. “Besides,
you forgot about your other duty. Marchioness
of the Eternal Grove.”
“The trees don’t need much
watching,” Myaszæron laughed. “Neither
do the dead. Most of the time,
anyway. Although,” she grimaced, “I wish
I’d been there a few months back when the Royal Crypts were violated, instead
of playing jailor to Kaltas.”
“Not your fault,” Amorda shrugged.
“Maybe not.” The princess shook her head. “I’m not convinced I could’ve done much
anyway. There’s a whole regiment of the
High Guard assigned to the Grove, and Uncle Landioryn let me hand-pick the
tribunes and centurions myself. They’re
the best we’ve got. Anyone good enough
to get past them, defeat Kalestayne’s wards, and make off with the Butterfly Crown and
great-uncle Bræagond’s bones would likely have been too much for me to handle anyway.”
“You’ll be able to take a look
yourself, I suppose,” Amorda agreed.
“Maybe you’ll find a clue.”
“Maybe,” the princess allowed. “Whenever I get around to it. First I have to report in to grandmother, and
then to Landioryn. I need to let
Shaivaun at the Shrine of the Spadacódru know that I’m back, and I have to see Kalestayne. And Kaltas wants me to see Uncle Ira, and
General Nascio too. And Generals
Harrekal and Terbesar. And my sister-in-law Inscia,
my idiot brother’s estranged lifemate." She sighed. "And the Traveler.”
“Busy schedule,” Amorda said, her
tone distant. She was staring out over
the water, eyeing with distaste the spreading red-black stains.
Myaszæron eyed her closely. “You’re off your game,” she said,
uncharacteristically blunt.
Startled, Amorda swung back to stare
at the younger woman. “Eh? I beg your pardon, highness?”
“You need to get your fingers ‘round
your troubles, woman, and squeeze them back into line. I regret your loss, but you stand to lose a
good deal more if you betray yourself again.”
Amorda’s face whitened. “I...I don’t...”
“Keep your countenance,” the
princess warned. “And keep to the high
speech, for Hara’s sake.”
Obeying her own advice, she composed
her features carefully before continuing.
“I don’t know who you work for, Amorda, or whatever your name is. But I know what you are.”
Amorda blinked, considering her
options carefully. At last she said,
“And what am I?”
“A spy,” Myaszæron breathed. “A good one, too. Which tells me that you’re not working for
criminals or other picayune operators.”
“I’m not your enemy,” Amorda said
quickly, casting a quick glance at the princess’ hands, and noting how far they
were from the hilt of her dagger. She
harboured no illusions about her ability to best Myaszæron in close
combat. Especially aboard a boat.
“Oh, I know that,” the princess replied easily.
“I can read you like a book.”
“That’s not possible.” Amorda’s voice was brittle. “My concealment is absolute. If it were possible to compromise it, I’d’ve
been dead a dozen times over.”
“I’m not questioning your
professional abilities,” Myaszæron laughed.
“I found you out using a far older power. One that’s a little less reliable than magic,
but that has seen a lot more use.”
Flabbergasted, Amorda turned her
palms up. “I’m all ears,” she said. Despite her easy tone, her heart was
racing. If it were true – if there were
some means of penetrating her eldritch concealment – then all bets were
off. She would have to flee, and immediately,
too.
“Simple enough,” Myaszæron
shrugged. “I’ve spent the last two
months watching you the way a hawk watches a field-mouse.” She snorted.
“You’ve been flirting with the man I’ve been trying to marry. It’s been most educational. I’ve learned more about you by long study
than I could have done through a thousand divinations.”
Amorda was making a mental inventory
of her jewellery and the variety of pills it contained. She wasn’t carrying anything that would help
her deal with an angry warrior-priestess, especially one as fearsome as the princess
was reputed to be. “And what did you
learn, highness?” she asked carefully.
“That you don’t love him,” the
princess replied, deceptively calm.
“That was a relief. Although you
do like him a good deal – that’s obvious enough – and you certainly respect him. That you’d do anything necessary to help
him.
“And,” she added with a wink, “that
you’d probably die before betraying him.
That last one was what sold me on you.”
“Just because I didn’t betray him
yesterday,” Amorda said, blushing furiously, “doesn’t mean I won’t betray him
tomorrow. Or you.”
“I know,” Myaszæron nodded. “But understand that I don’t come by these
judgements swiftly. I’ve spent my life
around the creatures of the woods. Once
you learn their characteristics, they’re fairly predictable. We elves are a lot like that, too. I had you figured out a month ago, my sister.
“Kaltas does, too,” the princess
added with her signature lopsided grin.
“He’s the one who put me on to you, you know. He’s had you marked for years. Everything he told you that you fed your
master – all those secrets, anecdotes, complaints and quibbles, plots and plans
– it was, all of it, a sham. Tidbits of
fact with a liberal salting of manure.
All of it carefully crafted to serve Eldisle’s interests.”
Amorda felt a sudden irrational urge
to dive over the gunwale and swim for the shore. It had been more than a century since she had
last come close to having her identity compromised. Tremors of something like panic were crawling
up her spine. “Is this the part where
you knife me and dump me in the harbour?” she asked.
“Hardly,” Myaszæron snorted. “If Kaltas wanted you dead, you’d’ve died in
Joyous Light, where his loyal vassals could’ve covered it up without an ounce
of perspiration. ‘Died in flagrante delicto with a centaur’,
perhaps, or something equally scandalous.
And he’d have done it himself, and told you why,” the princess added
with a wink. “Kaltas is honourable
through and though. He would never
back-knife anyone, much less a woman.” A hint of steel crept into her
voice. “He has me for that, now.”
“Then...why are you telling me
this?” Amorda asked, puzzled. “You’re
showing your hand, you know. When you
uncover a spy, you either feed her false information, or feed her to the fish.”
“Or you recruit her,” the princess
said. She was all seriousness now. “This is my lifemate’s offer, insidiatrix: serve the Realm by serving Eldisle. Reveal your true master’s name, and allow
Kaltas – and me – to judge how best to make use of you to safeguard our House,
the realm and the Queen, all without compromising your cover.”
“Or else, what?” Amorda asked
blankly.
Myaszæron raised an eyebrow. “Or else, nothing. Except that we know what you are now, which
means that we can warn our allies about you, and if necessary expose you. And it means that we can find out who you
really work for, and take whatever...steps
might be necessary.” She shrugged
eloquently. “We don’t have to do
anything at all to you, woman. Either you work for us now, or you’re
finished. Later, maybe, rather than
sooner; but eventually, it’ll all be over.
Someone you shafted will find out who you are, and you’ll be worms’ meat
on the roadside.
“And while I like you a great deal,”
the princess concluded with an icy stare, “I won’t lose a moment’s trance over
it.”
Amorda thought about that for a long
moment. She could find no fault in her
captor’s logic. At last she looked the
princess full in the face. “Swear to
me,” she whispered, “that your loyalty lies with the realm, and the Queen.”
Myaszæron help up a cautionary finger. “Kaltas keeps to the Codex,” she admonished
the spy, “and so do I. My
first loyalty is to therefore my lifemate. After
him, to the realm, and only then to the Queen.
In that order.”
“Good enough,” Amorda sighed. “Very well, then. Adsentio.” She placed her right hand over her breast and
held up her left.
The princess imitated her
gesture. Their palms met. “Placet.”
Amorda let her breath out in a
relieved gasp. “You terrify me, your
highness. Did you know that? I hope Kaltas knows what he’s got himself
into.”
“He’ll find out eventually, I
suppose,” the princess replied with a narrow smile. “I’ve had no complaints thus far. And call me Mya.”
"Mya, then." Amorda dipped a finger in the water
and watched the lazy ripples follow them as they approached the shore. “You know,” she said, “the Codex permits a
great many things that are no longer in vogue, even among the Duodeci.”
“Does it indeed?” the princess
replied distantly.
“For example,” Amorda went on,
watching her opponent closely, “have you ever considered that, if we three were
to pass the rose and the cup together, Kaltas might benefit enormously as bimaritus? Between my brains and your –”
Amorda glanced down. The point of the princess’ dagger was
pressing against the hollow of her throat.
“Just a thought,” she said in strangled tones.
“That’s just what I like in my
spies,” Myaszæron grated. “I like it
when they think. By all means, spy...keep thinking.”
The oarsmen glanced at each other in
a mix of confusion and terror.
“Yes, highness,” Amorda said,
staring cross-eyed at the razor-edged blade.
The princess smiled, sheathed her
knife, and leaned back against the gunwale.
“Now,” she said calmly. “Tell me
who your master is.”
Amorda hesitated only an
instant. Then she told her - and the princess, to the consternation of the oarsmen, laughed aloud.
♦♦♦
Befitting its status as a bit of a
backwater, the only temple in Novaposticum worthy of the name was the house of
the Protector – which, ironically, was only a stone’s throw from Domus
Ark
She had never been inside the
temple, and though she walked past the structure twice in the past two days,
she hadn’t paid it much heed. After her
encounter with the princess, however, she found herself in desperate need of
spiritual peace. Coming now as a
supplicant rather than a passer-by, she looked more closely at it, and was
touched by its beauty. Like most of the
buildings of the town, it was of half-timber construction, consisting of a
sturdy frame of wooden beams with the interstices filled with brick or stone.
Or so she had thought. On closer inspection, she could see that the
‘beams’ were not, as was usually the case, felled and trimmed logs, but rather
growing, living trees – trees that had been purposefully shaped into the frame
of a middling-sized house of worship.
And rather than being filled with the local brown brick, the interstices
between limbs and trunks had been filled with closely-packed stones set in
white mortar. To her surprise, there
were no windows; only high, narrow slits just below the eaves of the roof –
which looked to all the world as though it had also been shaped so that
overlapping branches would provide all of the coverage the building could ever
need, without recourse to shingles or to slate.
She paused by the great doors and
ran her fingers over the stone walls. To
her surprise, the stones were flint – great, head-sized nodules. Apparently they had been cemented in place,
and then the outer, protruding surfaces had been chiselled (or shaped) away,
leaving a subtle, muted pattern of browns, golds, ambers and even greens. It was an odd way to build any sort of
structure, much less a temple. But it
was certainly unique.
The doors, of bronze-bound oak, were
more conventional, and opened to a gentle shove. The instant she stepped inside, she
understood the purpose of the building’s construction. The inner face of the stone walls had been
chiselled flat as well, making each of the wall-stones, in effect, into a
thick, translucent window. They
transmitted the light of the Lantern, subtly changing its brilliant
luminescence into softer, earthier hues, bending the paths of the rays to form
glorious, shifting patterns of light.
The lack of windows emphasized the subtlety of the patterns.
She heard a low, trilling whistle,
glanced up, and was unsurprised to see that despite the last gusts of winter
outside, the trees overhead were still in full bloom. Birds decorated the branches like living
ornaments, whistling happily, evidently enjoying the light show as much as she.
Their cries echoed softly, reverberating
from the walls until they were absorbed by the thick canopy of leaves
overhead. The echoes were unavoidable;
the building, though certainly not enormous, was large enough, and apart from a
few modest furnishings near the nave (which stood at the opposite end of the
structure, between the trunks of two large morbannons) it was entirely empty.
She glanced around; it was
mid-morning, and most of the townsfolk were about other business. Apart from herself, the temple held only one
other occupant – a man. He was cloaked
in the colours of the forest, and knelt near the roots of one of the morbannons
framing the nave.
Grace and stealth were two different
things, and she did not want to surprise the fellow. As she approached, Amorda made an effort to
scuffle her feet over the leaf-strewn flagstones.
Seen close-up, there was something
odd about the fellow (she assumed he was the priest). Although not quite her height, he was a good
deal bulkier, and there was a hefty set to his shoulders, as if he were wearing
armour – heavy armour, like a breastplate or even a full cuirass – beneath his
cape.
She was still a good dozen paces
away when his head came up, cocked to one side.
“Good morning!” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Curious, Amorda stepped closer. The man was kneeling between two of the
roots, each of which was thicker than her thigh. His hands were cupped before his breast. Unable to mind her own business, she asked,
“Can I help?”
The man’s shoulders shook briefly,
as if he were chuckling to himself. “I
think I can manage,” he replied, grinning to take the sting out of his refusal
of her offer. “Although a word of praise
to the Protector is never amiss. Here or
anywhere.”
Amorda nodded to herself. She had never had much use for prayer. The Powers were capricious and fickle,
lending their gifts as they chose, and denying them for their own reasons. She preferred bending the flux as the
arcanists did. Wizardry left less to chance.
But she was curious nonetheless; and
after all, she had come here seeking divine assistance and a measure of inner
peace. So she whispered a few words
under her breath, repeating the invocations that her nursemaid had taught her
as a child, centuries before.
The man seemed to be doing the
same. But the end result was
considerably different. When he had
completed his entreaty, there was a brief pause; and then a soft, golden light
glimmered between his cupped fingers.
Beams of divine radiance sparkled briefly, ricocheting off the polished
flint of the wall-stones, and filling the temple with an unearthly glow that
made Amorda’s breath catch in her throat.
Then the man opened his hands, and a
tiny bird – a lark, barely more than a nestling – fluttered unevenly into the
air. Together, they watched the
miniscule creature circle the temple once, twice, before beating for altitude,
and finally settling somewhere among the leaves and branches of the roof.
“Fell out of her nest,” the man
remarked easily. “It happens every now
and then.” He pointed up and grinned
again. “One of the hazards of a natural
roof.”
Amorda smiled in return. The smile turned into a frown of puzzlement
as the man swept his hood back. He was
only half a hand shorter than she, and clearly an elf – but his features were
unusual in the extreme. He had the high
cheekbones of all their race, and his skin was as pale as any Third House
nobleman’s hide – so pale, indeed, that he seemed to glow in the subdued light
of the temple. Moreover, he was not
slender and graceful, like most of her countrymen; instead, he was compact and
muscular. She thought he would probably
tip the scales at half again her weight.
His hair was also unusual; an enormous, bushy white-blonde mane that
cascaded over his shoulders like a bucket of spilled sunlight.
Strangest of all, though, were his
eyes. They were as big and as delicately
almond-shaped as her own – but they were completely white.
The man’s smiled broadened. “A stranger!” he exclaimed.
Amorda frowned. “How did you know?”
The fellow shrugged. “The townsfolk – those who attend this place,
anyway – are used to my appearance. For
my part, I’ve grown accustomed to interpreting pauses such as yours.” He sniffed delicately. “And you smell...different.”
“Plus, you didn’t recognize me,”
Amorda drawled.
“Couldn’t,” the man shrugged. “I’m blind.”
He waved a hand before his eyes and grinned again. “Can’t see you.” His grin widened. “You sound pretty, though. Are you pretty?”
Amorda burst out laughing, her ready
sympathy at the poor fellow’s condition transformed into joy by the easy humour
with which he accepted it. “I’ve been
told I am,” she replied, struggling for modesty.
The man held up a hand. “May I?”
She frowned again, wondering what he
was asking. It suddenly dawned on
her. “By all means,” she replied.
The fellow stepped unerringly
towards her and held up his hand, fingers spread. Amorda took his wrist and put his fingertips
against her cheek.
The man ran his fingers lightly over
her skin, feeling for her brow, her nose and lips, and even her throat. She tensed a little at that point, ready to
pre-empt any excessive familiarity, but it proved unnecessary. His touch was tentative, gentle even.
When he withdrew his hand, she said,
“So?”
“It’s not often I miss my eyes,” the
fellow said, his smile baring his teeth, “but there are times...”
His manner was so outrageous that
she couldn’t help laughing. “I’m sorry,”
she gasped, “but you...are you really the priest here?”
The man nodded. “Lautitio Visum, an unworthy servant of the
Protector, my lady.”
Amorda frowned again. “That can’t be your real name,” she
protested. In the court dialect, Lautitio Visum meant
‘vision of splendour’.
“It could easily be yours, too, unless my
fingers are lying,” the man jested. “It
is my name of faith, lady. I took it
when I was called. My old name has no
more meaning.”
“I understand,” the elf-woman
replied. “I am Amorda, of Arx Incultus.”
“Your accent says ‘Astrapratum’,”
the man frowned.
The elf-woman ground her teeth
inaudibly, cursing herself for allowing herself to become distracted. “Originally,” she said. “I moved north to join my lifemate’s family.”
“Ah.
Well, Amorda of Arx Incultus,” Lautitio said, rubbing his palms in
anticipation, “I pray to the Protector that you have come for a laying on of hands.” As he spoke, he waggled his
eyebrows, and Amorda, her irritation forgotten, laughed again.
“What is it?”
“You don’t sound much like a
priest!” she snorted.
“We’re not eunuchs,” the man
averred. “The Protector commands
fecundity in all of his followers. The
service of the forest is the service of life itself.”
“So I take it you’re married, then?”
“Not at the moment.” Another eyebrow-waggle. “Do I sense interest, fair lady?”
“Forsooth, priest!” the elf-woman
snapped. “How do you know I’m not still
lifemated?”
Lautitio didn’t say a word. He merely raised a finger and tapped his
nose.
Amorda blanched. “You’re joking,” she said faintly.
“Not in the slightest,” the man
replied. "Your lifemate is gone to wind, but you are ready to take another. More than ready, I'd say." He seemed amused at her
discomfiture. “Perhaps, though, we
should save courtship for another time.”
“Per...perhaps,” she stammered. Gods!
Could the man sniff his way
through her disguise?
Lautitio smiled at her
discomfiture. “ I presume you came on a
matter of divine aid, rather than merely in search of prayer?”
Amorda nodded. They were near the heart of it now, and all
of the sorrow was flooding back. “You
know of last night’s battle in the harbour, yes?”
“Yes,” he replied, his eyes
widening. “I’d heard of it. My friends are telling the most marvellous
stories. An epic struggle, they say. Good versus evil, with good triumphant. Did you see it?”
“I was in it,” she said drily.
“Unfortunately, so was my ancilla.”
The priest frowned. “I think I see where this is going,” he
sighed.
“She was killed,” Amorda pressed on,
although her heart sank at the sorrowful expression that now coloured her
host’s face. “When the...the dragon
struck our ship...”
She fell to her knees on the rough
floor, and it was not affectation; for the first time in as long as she could
remember, genuine emotion had taken over, wrenching her carefully-cultivated
control out of her grasp. She put her
forehead to the stones at the priest’s feet.
“I beg you, servant of the Protector,” she wept, “please. Please! Bring her back to me.”
Lautitio put a gentle hand on the
elf-woman’s head, then grasped one of her hands and tried to pull her to her
feet. When she did not move, he sighed
again. “Daughter of Hara, I would if I
could. But I cannot.”
She ignored him. “Look,” she said urgently, fumbling at her
bodice. “Look. I know you require a sacrifice. Take this.”
With a wrench, she broke the hasp on the necklace she wore, piling the
mass of gold and precious stones into his outstretched hands. “It’s worth thousands. Tens of thousands! It ought to be enough.”
When he said nothing, she looked up
into his face; and what she saw there crushed the few remaining shreds of
animation out of her spirit. “It’s not,”
she whispered. “Is it?”
“Nothing would be,” Lautitio
replied. “No sacrifice suffices where
grace and might are wanting.” He put the
precious bauble back into her hand and folded her fingers gently over the
chain. “Dear lady, I am truly sorry. I lack the power and the mastery to do what
you ask.”
She blinked, and felt tears coursing
down her cheeks. “Then...perhaps someone
else...” She broke off when he began
shaking his head.
“Not here,” he said gravely. “My colleagues, the clergy of Hara and of the
Forest Mother – they are good people.
Wondrous people! But they are
even less experienced in such things than I.”
The elf-woman’s face fell. “Then there is no hope,” she said
hollowly. “She is gone, and forever.”
Composing herself to the best of her
ability, Amorda climbed slowly to her feet.
“Servant of the Protector,” she said with a formal bow, “I thank you for
your time.”
“I can offer you some small help,”
Lautitio temporized. “I can, if you
wish, lay hands upon your departed friend, and prevent time from ravaging
her...her remains. For a seven-day or
so, at least. Maybe long enough for you
to get her home.”
Amorda thought about that. Assuming that Reticia’s remains could be
found amid the wreckage of the stern, and assuming that she could arrange
passage on another ship, they could be back in the capital in less than a
week. And she knew of at least half a
dozen clergy in Starmeadow who were reputed to possess the kind of power she sought. Elcaradon, the First of Hara Sophus, was one such; so was Shaivaun Shabat, Istravenya’s
arch-priestess, at the great temple near the Lucum Spadacódru. Larannel’s
highest prelate, she thought, would likely be of little use; he was a warrior
first, and a servant of the forest second.
And she who stood for the Forest Mother was another such. And Csæleyan’s high priestess wasn’t even
Kindred.
But there was also – or at least, so
it was said – a high priestess of Miros somewhere in the city, reputedly at the
College...and the Disciples of Miyaga, too, might, if properly motivated, be
willing to...to...
“Yes,” she said decisively. “Yes.
Good. Please come with me,
then. I’ll show you the way.”
Lautitio raised an eyebrow. “It is customary for the remains to be
brought here, to the temple,” he said carefully. “We prefer to perform such rites on
sanctified ground.”
His words sparked another memory in
Amorda’s rattled brain; something that the shock and horror of the previous
evening, and the nervousness resulting from her interview with the princess,
had driven entirely out of her mind.
Their prisoner – the fiend.
“There’s another reason,” she said
in a rush. “A...patient. One who needs healing. The kind only a priest such as yourself can
provide.”
“Bring him here,” Lautitio shrugged.
“That would be unwise. She’s not a...a normal...” Amorda rolled her
eyes. “You’ll understand when you see
her.”
The man blinked, then frowned. “ ‘When I see her’...lady, are you
well?”
He put his palm on her
forehead. Amorda slapped it impatiently
away. “Please, sir, I beg you – come with me. Your services are urgently required, and you
will be well compensated for your efforts.
A child of Bræa, a new one, is in dire need of your aid, and...and...”
She broke off again. She had suddenly remembered how the two torvae had reacted towards Beck. And the nymph too. She didn’t understand why...but she didn’t need to, did she?
“And, what?” Lautitio asked,
beginning to show a little frustration.
“And,” she grinned, “there’s someone
there I think you should meet.”
♦♦♦
