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Serials - parts and parts.

Blade Light, Episode Two

Written by Michaele Jordan

CHAPTER FIVE

"Dreadful.” Zhravig directed a hurt glare toward Dreysa as though she had perhaps deliberately contrived to offend his delicate sensibilities. "I blush to think that once I suspected you were possessed of some small talent. But it seems even the pettiest earth magic is beyond you."

Dreysa cast on her work a rather more appreciative eye. "And what, pray tell, is the matter with it?” It was with difficulty that she maintained her proud manner, but she did not intend to give Zhravig the satisfaction of seeing her wounded. The vile brute would doubtless revel in it indecently.

"And what, pray tell," mimicked Zhravig with a simper Dreysa found unnecessarily insulting, "is not the matter with it?” He waved a hand toward the workbench from which there appeared to be growing a miniature tree. "Firstly, it is lacking in imagination. From a bit of wood, you bring forth a tree. If I gave you a rock, would you bring forth a larger rock?"

"And what else is there in wood?” burst forth Dreysa indignantly. Zhravig did not deign to answer but cut her off with a wave of his hand. "And such a tree. It is not even of the proper type, for the chip I gave you was oak, but this... this creation is a beech. I believe.” His imperious tone grew doubtful, and he mumbled, more to himself than the girl, "Not a beech? The leaves are not veined as beech. Perhaps she meant an elm."

He leaned closer to study the illusion with more care. Then he straightened with an angry yelp. "The leaves are not veined at all. 'Tis but a mockery of a beech. And at that, I can still see the oak chip through it."

He whirled on his pupil. "Remove this lifeless sham from my house before the powers take it into their minds that I condoned it. Do you hear? If you're too fog-brained to cast the simplest illusion, you can at least refrain from vulgar jests on beeches.” He waved a hand, and the offending tree vanished before Dreysa could remove it, leaving only a largish splinter on the bench. "Do some other thing.” He paused, and amended his statement. "Do something better."

Dreysa stared at him with narrowed eyes, reflecting how penitent he would be on that day when she was the greatest sorceress on the earth, and kings trembled at her name. She pointed a trembling finger toward the wood chip and started to sing softly. Be magnificent, she directed it mentally, and a soft, glowing haze obscured its shape. Be wonderful, she whispered in her mind, and her singing grew stronger. Be everything old Zhravig dares to dream of. Be... be… But she could not think of what she wanted it to be, and her singing faltered and hit a sour note. The haze on the workbench turned an ugly green and disappeared with a small pop. Dreysa burst into tears.

Zhravig made a small gasping noise that somehow turned into a hiss. Pulling himself up sharply, he stalked into a corner of the chamber and flung himself onto a stool. There he sat for some while, occasionally muttering to himself such phrases as, "Tears, the lady Sophya would have me teach. Females. Apprentices. The priestess supposes I have forgot apprentices.” After this had gone on some time, he snarled to Dreysa, "Are you quite finished?"

"No!" she howled and redoubled her crying in the hope that, if she must be utterly miserable to the end of her days, she might at least annoy him all the while.

He leaped furiously up. "Stop that diabolical weeping or I'll turn you into a toad!"

"You will not!" she screamed back at him. "And I won't. Not 'till that... that thing stops laughing at me.” She grabbed the wood chip up from the workbench and flung it with her entire strength at the doorway. There it narrowly missed the bandywight, which was convulsed in the appearance of uncontrollable mirth.

"Perhaps," her master suggested coldly, "it has good cause to laugh.” Dreysa regarded him with venom an instant before emitting a wail so woeful that it seemed her death was on her. Zhravig clapped his hands to his ears in the starkest horror, then rushed toward the creature, shooing at it. "Out, out, you insolent imp. I don't keep you about to laugh at my apprentice--her wits won't stand the strain. Now get along."

The bandywight fled with a speed more seemingly magical than anything Dreysa had yet seen in Zhravig's domain. Before Zhravig could turn back toward his pupil, she had entirely composed herself and assumed a countenance of demurest gravity. "I know I am a dreadful trial to you, sir," she murmured into his angry glare. "But I do wish fervently to learn. Could I beg you to explain it one more time?"

Zhravig favored her with a look of deepest mistrust. Then he shrugged, sighed and pulled his stool up to the workbench. "You're wasting all your strength on singing. But any fool can get the notes right. The important thing is to conceive a true image of what you would evoke. See, if you wish to call up any idea of wood, you must first confront the fact of wood. For if your idea is not rooted in reality, then surely it is a false idea, and all its emanations must be rendered false as well by derivation from that source.” He stared at the bench in dismay. "Now, where has that bit of wood got to?"

Dreysa marveled that he could have forgotten so quickly but, rather than remind him, she fetched back the little chip. However, on returning to the wizard's side, she caught her breath to see he had drawn his sword from its hanger. Glass it might be, but it looked sharp on close inspection, and Dreysa's inspection was very close indeed, the point having been thrust up before her face.

"Now, Dreysa, hold the bit in your hand and learn the fact of wood.” Zhravig spoke quite gently and stabbed his sword into Dreysa's eyes.

Strangely, the glittering needle tip seemed never to meet her flesh, yet the world dissolved around her as surely as if it had. For an instant it seemed to her that she had died and drifted now, a ghost. There was light about her, and yet she could not see it; a rich strange music in the air that could not penetrate the ears she did not have. She was surrounded by intimate companions to whom she had never spoken. She turned, or tried to turn, for although she was rocked in shivering movement she remained immobile.

Why, I'm a tree, she thought, but the notion brought her no amazement. Indeed, it required all the strength she could muster merely to summon up the thought alone without response. The way of her life now was not a way that called for thinking. It was a way of slow repose and slower growing, a way only of drinking sunlight down and water upwards. She was an unawareness poised in a thought of separate flowings, and if she had any knowledge left at all, it was only a dim, sweet yearning whisper underneath her life that breathed, I am.

How long she stayed within the oak she could not say, for trees do not look at time, and if they did they would surely see it strangely. The lifetime of a young girl seemed but little to the oak, and the moment of an oak was like an eon to the girl. But there was peace first and after the peace, great pain.

A great, sharp, shrieking sensation bit across her and spilled the sweet things rising from her roots back into the dirt. Some parts of herself were cast into frigid darkness as the path of light within her was slashed into ruin. A sudden coherent thought leaped into her mind, and she screamed and flung herself back from Zhravig's sword. But of course there was no sword, for the blade was the blade of an ax.

The ax was in her hand, and she swung it mightily, although the feat was not one so much of strength but of balance and swing. Caught up in the rhythm, she swung again. The woodsman she'd become was not hugely more thoughtful than the tree, for he did not like to let his mind interfere with what his body was doing. There was an underlying babble of thoughts, none of them very important, relating as they did to dinner and dance halls.

Beneath, there was a good deal of knowledge, knowledge learned so long ago that it need never rise to the surface. He judged easily the height of the tree and its probable weight and the depth and angle of the notch required to render its stance unstable. He knew the hardness of the wood and the resistance it would present to his ax.

He was a man who thought he didn't like his work because he had never stopped to consider how it would be to do without the forest around him. In truth, he loved the dappled light and the chirping of birds and the thick smell of growing things. He liked the flow of his own muscles and the challenge of the tree before him, and especially he liked to see the crashing fall as the great bulk of it surrendered. It was coming down now, he decided, and slammed his ax into its trunk one last time before stepping back to watch it drop away from him.

The descent was stately at first and then momentous, culminating in a valkyric plunge and a thunderous impact that must surely have rent the world from its foundations. Beneath the sudden weight, the earth shuddered and trembled and kept on trembling.

The ground was shaking, but then the ground always shook. Dreysa was only a child, but she knew that much anyway. Everybody knew that. It was because of the vibration of the saws, Papa said, just before he shooed her out of the mill. That was the one advantage of getting caught--Papa always let her get one question in before sending her back to Mama, except of course he always did send her back to Mama.

He said the mill was too dangerous for a baby, but Dreysa wasn't a baby, and she dearly loved the mill. Wonderful things always happened there with enormous long planks spitting out of the old dead trees, and great clouds of sawdust jumping out of the corners, and huge piles of shavings just right for falling down in, and once there was even a fire because one of the hands brought a pipe.

Papa got all red in the face then and yelled and called the man a fool and fired him and told him he'd see he never worked again. And there was lots of smoke and crackling and men running every which way with buckets, shouting at each other. Dreysa got a big burn on her hand, but she forgot it and sneaked back in to see the black, charred places and smell the wet, woody, smoke smell that hung around such a long time afterward.

"Just a brush fire," Papa said later, laughing a little--but not very much--because most of the great timbers and blocks didn't catch. Papa said they'd have had to go begging alms if that happened, and it hardly took any time at all to grow wonderful new heaps of sawdust and shavings. Of course Papa said the boards were more important than the shavings because people built houses out of the boards.

At least some folks built houses, reflected Dreysa with a mental sneer, and some folks built boxes with tunnels between them and called the bloody tangle a house. With great care Dreysa directed a juicy globule of spit onto the plans. New rich showing off again, it looked, and the honest workman getting the sweat as usual. Just manhandling the summertrees and sills onto that monster foundation had eaten most of the day.

It'd be another full day tomorrow getting the floor joists down, and three more days after that mortising and tenoning and hoisting the walls. And all that work and all that time because some folks thought you could grow up an oak in twenty minutes and wouldn't have a sensible house that would take half the time to build without cutting down a small forest. Dreysa didn't even want to think about the work of getting the roof up, not with most of her crew barely knowing a hammer from a saw.

Even then there'd be another three days getting the planking and the shingles done although Dreysa wasn't going to break her heart over poplar and cedar wasted, those were imported, not her woods. But it was sure to rain by then and ruin those floor joists, and then there'd be hell to pay and more oak wasted. Dreysa eyed the cloudless sky suspiciously. It looked clear enough, she granted, but it was a bad time of year for building anything big, a very bad time of year indeed. Days like this, she half wished she'd apprenticed to a cabinet maker instead, back when she'd had the chance.

It was cabinets and furniture that took the real craft. There was no doubt in Dreysa's mind about that, and she stepped back to view her work with pride. The long dining table looked fit for any king's banquet, as far as she could see. And well it might, for it had been no easy task book-ending that great slab. But there was a pretty warping in the grain right through the center that, when doubled back from itself, made the whole job worthwhile.

She turned a critical eye on the point where the spline pierced the rim. She ought perhaps to have made it from oak as well, but the scraps left over from the bulk of the table were not sufficient, and she had always preferred a good hard cherry for those pieces that did not require much girth. The red against the gold looked a bit odd all by itself, but the tones set well against each other. A series of matching inlays all around the rim would be just the thing for it, and she certainly had more than enough cherry left to do that.

Inlays wouldn't take long. Dreysa thought she could have them finished by the end of the day. That would mean she could get a fresh start on the scraping in the morning. She feigned a small groan and mentally prepared a few colorful complaints for the neighbors about the tedium of scraping.

Actually, beneath the pose, scraping was Dreysa's favorite part of the work. It was the time when she finally got her hands directly on the wood, not just to bully the parts into position, but to stroke and smooth the surface into life. Wood always looked dead before the scraping, and touching it offended the hand. But just beneath the nasty shell lurked a rich luster that gladdened Dreysa's heart. It was a pleasure, for all the monotonous drudgery of it, to let that soft glow out, then trap it in oil.

Dreysa clenched a hand feebly as though perhaps she expected to find a scraper within her grasp. There was of course no such thing. Indeed, had there been a scraper or anything else within her reach, she would have been hard-pressed to close her fingers around it. She was stiff and numb with cold and aching in every muscle.

She was entitled to ache, she decided with a groan, for she was lying on the stone floor of the wizard's study and apparently had been doing so for some time. Raising her head with difficulty, she noted that the chill, too, was easily accounted for. The fire was long out. Struggling to a sitting position, she found the bandywight wrapped around her foot and snoring softly.

"Get off me, you filthy thing," she told it with somewhat less energy than was her wont. The bandywight, missing perhaps her usual fire, only shook itself before resuming its nap. Dreysa thought of slapping it hard as long as Zhravig wasn't looking. But the strength simply wasn't there. Besides, the dratted creature's body heat was doubtless all that stood between her and death from freezing.

Still, she could scarcely walk or even crawl to her room with one foot bound in flesh. Regretfully she pulled the appendage toward her. The bandywight clung briefly and then jumped up, spat at her and ran. Dreysa climbed to her feet, gripping the workbench. The effort left her dizzy and breathless. Fleetingly she wondered if she could make it to her room. Then she shook her head and tried groggily to remember how or when she had got out of her room. An image of Zhravig's sword came into her mind, and she shivered and gripped the edge of the workbench.

A sudden snap behind her nearly startled her into falling. The fire blazed suddenly to life and Zhravig strode into the study with a briskness that caused Dreysa to shudder. In one hand he was tossing and catching a small chip of wood that looked ominously familiar. "Back so soon, chit?” He tossed the splinter of oak onto the workbench, patted Dreysa on the head and pulled up his stool. "It seems you may be a trifle cleverer than I thought. Now, shall we see what you have learned?"

Dreysa stared at the chip on the workbench and wondered if he were still angry about her crying, earlier. If he were, then she was in trouble, for she felt more tears throbbing back behind her eyes, tears of supernatural exhaustion and helpless disorientation. She feared she would collapse if the old brute kept her standing much longer, and she wanted... she wanted to be back in the oak tree. "I'm very tired, sir," she whispered.

"But of course," agreed Zhravig, smiling, and waited. He waited a long time. Finally he said very softly, "There's only one way back into the oak, Dreysa."

She looked at him but he did not meet her eyes. Instead, he watched his damned bit of wood expectantly. The tears were very close now, like blasting furnaces consuming her eyelids, but she thought she might hold them off a few instants longer if there really was a chance of getting back into the oak.

So, instead of weeping, she sang. Her voice was thinner than it ought to have been, but steady and clear. The haze growing on the workbench was smoky and irritating and brought the tears leaking out. So she shut the treacherous eyes and sang a little louder.

She sang about the oak and how lovely it had been to be there--all warm and soft and sweeter even than sleeping late in the morning, with all the world for her bed and essence of sunlight for her coverlet. She sang how much she wanted to be back there after all her dreadful labors of chopping and building and scraping and facing fire and cruel wizards. She sang about how much so many people had loved her when she lived inside the oak, and how they had sweated for the privilege of her company whereas she and the oak had never worked at all.

When the song and the weeping were done, she stopped and opened her eyes. Zhravig had waved away whatever her song had made, but he was still looking at the place where it had been.

He lifted his head at last. "That was competent," he remarked distantly. "Perhaps tomorrow we can get on to water magic.” He glanced briefly at her. "Don't faint here, child. Go to your room.” She went.

CHAPTER SIX

The Reverend Mother Sophya sighed deeply and dramatically. “I very much doubt that Aryanu is amused, Dreysa.” Dreysa stopped dead, and looked at the Mother-Adept. She said nothing, hoping against hope that Mother Sophya could not really see her and was just guessing. After all, she was supposed to be invisible, and Aryanu certainly seemed unable to see her.

But as she knew from long experience, Mother Sophya was not in the habit of guessing. The priestess met her eye squarely and directly. Dreysa sighed and set Aryanu’s cup down on the corner of the desk. As soon as she let go of it, Aryanu--who had been searching fruitlessly for her drink for several minutes--gasped and grabbed it up. She clutched it to her chest and glanced anxiously about the room. Then, with an inquiring look at Mother Sophya, she asked of the empty air, “Dreysa, are you in here?”

Dreysa found herself compelled by a sort of modesty to step around a corner to a spot where she would be out of sight anyway before humming the little catch phrase that restored her visibility. She rejoined her teachers to find Mother Aryanu sipping her tea, and Reverend Mother Sophya tapping her toe. Aryanu shot her a wounded look.

“If the two of you are quite finished playing,” remarked Mother Sophya, “the situation in the hospital is quite urgent.”

Aryanu rose with a look of some concern. “Urgent, Reverend Mother? Has something ill occurred?”

“Indeed,” replied the elder. “There was a riot last night.”

Dreysa started forward with a gasp. “A riot?” She had never heard of such a thing actually happening, and found she was not even sure what it might entail, except that it was plainly a great evil.

Aryanu sank back into her chair with a stunned expression. “A riot? Here, in Bar-Jahnek?”

Mother Sophya nodded and continued, “It seems that a couple of these damned Assassins accosted a Sister in an insulting fashion. There were witnesses who took issue with their manners. Words were exchanged, and then blows. All concerned summoned friends to their assistance. By the end of it, there were nearly a hundred involved, and it required troops--both from the Assassins and the Servants of the Mistress--to suppress further fighting. We have many injured, some quite seriously, and most are still awaiting care.”

All the hurried way down to the hospital, Dreysa smelled water as if they were approaching the sea. Water was the only magic practiced or permitted in the Temple, but that one magic they used often. Water was the realm of change and flow, movement and life. It was therefore the power behind all healings, natural or magical. Indeed, the Sisters of the Maiden claimed that the music of the sea was the model for Temple harmonics.

The hospital--when they reached it--proved to be a great, circular chamber, dominated by a broad, shallow pool. In the center of the pool, a spring bubbled up into a small fountain. The water was fresh, not salt, but there were also great ewers filled with sea water standing around the perimeter. A number of lay-sisters circled the pool with mops, in a never-ending battle to keep the floor dry, lest the stone grow slippery.

The air was cool and moist, but not oppressively so. Dreysa glanced about at the dozens of little alcoves around the edge of the room, each with its own stone slab and torch, each equipped with a small stool, a rough table and a wall niche containing supplies. Most of them were already in use. “How may I help?” she demanded.

Mother Sophya smiled, “You will assist Vra.” She led Dreysa to a treatment alcove where a tall priestess was gently stroking a prone patient . She did not look up from her ministrations but continued humming over the injured man--an Assassin, Dreysa was surprised to see. “I’ve brought you an aide, Vra,” said Mother Sophya. “This is Dreysa. She has basic water magics.” She turned back to Dreysa to inquire, “You did complete your proficiency, did you not?”

Vra turned around and Dreysa saw that she was a Maiden-Adept. She therefore crossed her arms and bowed quite low before replying, “Yes, ma’am. I’ve covered internal harmonics and tidal unsinging. But I only just started on deep water counter melodies yesterday.”

Vra smiled. “Well, you’ll have no need of those today. We are too far from the harbor to draw on deep water, and must rely on our little pool. How many healing patterns have you learned?”

Dreysa hung her head. “Only invocation of general health, Reverend Miss, and basic straightening. Begging your pardon.”

Vra shook her head gently. “No need to beg pardon, Little Sister. We know what we know, and Hertha asks no more than the possible. And most of these...” she gestured to the outer room, where many downcast folk sat waiting, “...are not very badly injured. Let me show you a clean closure, and that together with what you already have will be sufficient.”

She took Dreysa’s hand and led her out toward the waiting patients. Behind her the injured Assassin looked up anxiously from the treatment bench. Vra gestured to him to wait, and then approached an alcove where a young boy lay. There was a nasty gash across his forehead. “Your hands, so,” she murmured to Dreysa, shaping a circle around the injury with her forefingers and thumbs, “and the tune is thus.”

She sang wordlessly in a very clear, sweet voice, more than a hum and a little louder than when she had been working alone. Dreysa listened carefully until she felt able to join in the song. The song blended intimately with the music of the water, and she fell instantly into its ancient flow and rhythm, buoyed only by Vra’s heartbeat. Then Vra gently disengaged.

“Continue, until you hear his song join you. Then repeat the invocation of well-being ten times. He should fall asleep by that time, and you may move on to another patient. If he does not, you may come get me.” She smiled and stroked Dreysa’ s head. “You will be fine, dear, I’m sure. Hertha sees your heart is willing.” She returned to the Assassin who smiled gratefully at her approach.

Dreysa leaned over the boy and sang. Without the support of Vra’s harmonics, the water seemed oblivious to her inadequate little song, as if she had by some chance reached out all the way to the sea and found it too great to be moved. She raised her voice, reaching consciously for the little spring so nearby yet seemingly so far. She heard nothing at all from the boy, and singing into his lack of response was wearing.

Finally his blood answered her song, just a little at first, like a shivering over the surface of a pool. Then his heartbeat shifted, and he was singing with her, and they were both in perfect tune with the water, which surrounded and enfolded them without crushing them. The gash on his head ceased to ooze blood and lymph, and started to close and scab over.

She drew the tune to a restful close, and began the invocation of general health. She knew it well, for Zhravig required her to sing it over herself regularly, just in case. It proved much harder to call it down on someone else, let alone someone who was not already in good health. It took some while just to perform it once, let alone ten times. When she was done she was hugely pleased to see the boy fall into a deep, healing sleep.

She turned and was presented by a large, angry woman with a broken arm. A simple straightening was all that should have been needed, but the woman was in such a temper that her blood struggled against the healing. So Dreysa drew the straightening to a rest, and instead began the invocation of well-being even though the arm was still broken.

She looked nervously toward Vra, who proved too engrossed in her own work to have overseen Dreysa’s performance. She felt the lack of confirmation bitterly. But the invocation of good health could not possibly do any hurt, so she continued to sing it until the woman was calm enough to sit still and cease muttering profanities. Then she resumed the straightening. After it was done, she glanced again at Vra before moving on. Again, Vra could not spare her a glance, but Dreysa remembered that her instructions had been perfectly clear. So Dreysa sighed and sang ten more invocations.

After that, she came to a small child who could not possibly have participated personally in the riot; perhaps his mother had dropped him? Or had he been trampled on? Along with a variety of bruises and scrapes, he sported an egg-sized lump on the back of the head, and was already unconscious. Dreysa was beginning to understand that the invocation could be used, not merely to heal, but to determine what healing was necessary.

She sang several before deciding that the poor thing’s skull was caved. Maybe the brain was pierced or bruised, or maybe it was just inflamed from the shock. She could not tell for sure, and anyway she had no idea what to do in either case. Certainly neither a closing nor a straightening would be any help, so she carried the child to Vra. Vra, of course, did not look up so she laid the child on the table beside her.

She returned to the alcove where she had been working, only to find it occupied. Brief as her absence had been, her work area had already been claimed by a young Sworn-Servant of the Maiden who apparently had no magic, as she worked with herbs and poultices. Even as Dreysa watched, the priestess took a needle and thread to a cut hand, repairing it as neatly and a good deal more quickly than Dreysa might have done.

Another Holy Maiden caught Dreysa’s arm and almost dragged her to a man with a horrible deep cut all the way across his chest. With a shock, she realized that it must be a sword wound. It looked so awful she could hardly bring herself to touch it, and there was no way in the world she could get her little healing circle around the entire wound. Indeed, with the blood pouring out she was not entirely sure that she had her hands correctly over the wound at all.

But she took a deep breath--suppressing a retch as she did so--and laid her hands on one end of the wound, healing as much of it as she could reach. Then she moved her hands further along the gash to heal another section, while the priestess held the remainder of it closed.

There was so much blood that she heard plenty of water music--albeit with a salty note--without bothering to call on fresh water, and she discovered that using his own blood helped keep it flowing inside of him instead of out of him. When she finally had the entire wound closed, it took far more than ten invocations of good health to put him to sleep, but at least by the time she was done she was fairly sure that his internal organs were not chopped up.

No sooner had she got him resting then an old man was carried up and laid before her. His hip was broken--badly broken so that it required half a dozen separate straightenings to set his bones back in their proper places. And because he was old, the bones were fragile and prone to crack when called on to straighten.

His blood was also thin and tired, so that it preferred to lie stagnant, declining to participate in the rhythm of living water. She tried placing the old man’s hand in a bowl of spring water, which helped but only a little. In the end she grasped the Holy Maiden’s hand and pulled her heartbeat also into the singing.

Before she was finished there came a tug on her sleeve, indicating another patient required her attention. She nodded faintly and continued with what she was doing, and even as she did so it occurred to her that she was acting just like Vra. With a mental shrug she finished singing the old man to sleep. Doubtless there were worse models.

There were plenty of sprains, slashes and broken bones waiting. She lost track of how many in the necessity of focusing completely on each new arrival with no attention left for remembering the last. At the back of her mind, she was dimly aware that she was growing tired, very tired. But water was a restful power; drawing on it was almost like swimming in it. It supported her even while it wearied her. So she continued as long as there was work to do, simply because no one had told her to stop.

It came as quite a shock, when she turned to treat another victim and none was waiting. She looked about as if wondering where her patient had got to, and there was Vra coming towards her with a weary smile. ”Oh, well done, Little Sister, very well done indeed.”

She sighed and let her head drop forward, and the accidental glance of her sodden blood-soaked robe brought a gasp to her throat. Then she sang a different tune, one of the first ones Zhravig had ever taught her. Water was movement and flow. So Dreysa commanded the water that had blood or dirt in it to move and flow away. She was tired and off balance so the little spell did not go as smoothly as usual. Instead, the filth jerked itself out of her robe and splattered into a nasty little puddle by her foot . But no matter--her robe was clean and fresh.

The Reverend Vra stopped, and blinked, and looked at the horrible puddle. “We do have a laundry, dear.” A lay sister came running over with a mop, and set to work on the mess on the floor. Belatedly, Dreysa recollected that the Temple did not allow magic for personal gain. Clearly cleaning a robe without the bother of laundry was viewed as personal gain. For the first time in her life, Dreysa found herself grateful for Zhravig’s teachings. He, at least, saw nothing virtuous in hours of scrubbing.

Vra thought it over carefully, and apparently decided that Dreysa was simply too tired to think clearly. She raised her voice in a final invocation of well-being. She was a stronger singer than Dreysa, and her voice washed away Dreysa’s weariness and caught up her spirit in a wonderfully refreshing manner. No one had ever sung the invocation for her, and Dreysa sighed with pleasure. “Thank you, Reverend Miss,” she whispered.

Vra smiled down at her with great warmth, and put an arm around her. Leading her away from the hospital in the direction of the Great Hall, she said, “Will you come dine with the Maidens, Little Sister? Certainly you have earned the right to sit among us tonight, and my Sisters would take great pleasure in the presence of one so young.” Dreysa cast her a slightly injured look. “I hope I have not wounded you, calling you young,” continued the priestess. “We are not allowed to see the children, so to us, you look very young indeed.”

Dreysa thought back on those years when she had lived in the Temple. It was certainly true that she had never been tended by Maidens, or Mistresses either. Only Mothers--and of course lay sisters, who were everywhere, doing most of the work--were permitted to tend the Temple children. Now that she thought of it, it seemed strange, but she hesitated to ask. “I would be honored, Reverend Miss, “ she replied, and then added with a giggle, “Oh, will dinner be soon? I am so awfully hungry.”

They proceeded almost all the way to the Great Hall before turning off toward Maiden’s Refuge. Then, as they passed the corridor from the entrance, Dreysa stopped dead. A priestess was conducting a guest down the corridor. Even seen from behind, there could not be a second’s doubt as to the man’s identity. It was Vhulf. Her heart leapt into her throat and she stared. He was as beautiful as she remembered, and more so. How had she failed to note the elegant angle of his shoulders, his graceful step and the perfect curve of his wrist?

He clearly sensed there were eyes on his back and turned with an inquiring look. He saw her and smiled. He had such a smile. Dreysa could have gazed at his smile for a century, and never minded the time. He broke away from his guide and strode towards her, and her hand reached out to him without her even noticing. “Dear Dreysa,” he murmured. “Such a delight to see you again.”

He dropped down in a bow. It was a very peculiar looking bow, with one leg kicked back behind, and the arms spread wide. And yet, it was clearly a practiced, formal gesture. Rising, he caught up her hand and raised it towards his lips. “You are not angry with me?” His glorious smile grew brighter still, and he kissed the hand.

She was so entranced by his manner that she almost forgot to answer. Instead she imitated his strange bow. Judging by the little twitch at the corner of his mouth she did not get it quite right. “How could I be angry with you?” she whispered. Then she blushed and dropped her head, reminded of their unhappy parting by the scar on his cheek. The details were fuzzy in her mind and some scattered moments were missing entirely, but she was fairly sure she had put that scar on his cheek.

Strangely, it only made him the more handsome, perhaps because it was too high up to distort his smile, and too far down to drag at his eye. But it must once have been painful. She marveled that he could worry she might be angry with him. Surely it was he that should be angry with her.

The priestess who had been guiding him came forward, and regarded their conversation with a cold and suspicious eye. “The Reverend Mother is waiting, Commander,“ she announced in peremptory tones.

Vhulf turned on her with a haughty look. “Is the Reverend Mother so impatient that she would expect me to be rude to an old friend?” The priestess blinked, and opened her mouth. Then she closed it again. She was a Mistress-Adept, Servant not of the Lure but of the Whip. Doubtless she was unaccustomed to being spoken to in such a fashion.

Dreysa was also startled to see a Reverend, and a Whip, challenged. Her heart swelled to think that Vhulf was doing it for her. “If the Reverend Mother is waiting you must go,” she assured him earnestly. “But thank you so much for taking the time to speak to me. I have... I have thought of you so often.”

“And I have thought of you too, many times,” he replied. “Perhaps when my business with Her Reverence is done, we could dine together?”

“She’s dining with us,” snarled Vra, jerking on Dreysa’s arm with such force that the girl nearly fell over. She was halfway down the hall with Dreysa stumbling behind her before she continued in sullen tones, “Kind of you to ask. Perhaps another time.”

****

Vhulf watched with considerable amusement as the skinny old priestess dragged the girl away. He almost chuckled at hearing a muffled bleat from around the corner as the girl protested the brusque treatment. Such an infant. At his side, Mistress Naryu fumed almost audibly over his refusal to rush off at her say so and that, too, enhanced the moment.

But he shortly returned his attention to Mistress Naryu. For all her rudeness, she was the first of these Servants of the Whip he had been permitted to meet. And he was definitely curious to meet them, as they had provided what little (very little) police service Bar-Jahnek had enjoyed prior to his arrival with Assassin troops. The merchants had assured him gratefully that his men did a significantly better job--as if he could have doubted it--but the Servants of the Whip still commanded considerable influence and prestige. Nor had his people ever officially quarreled with them.

So he favored her with one of his best smiles and softened his tone. “I do apologize for keeping the Reverend Mother waiting, ma’am. No disrespect was intended. But I have known Dreysa such a long time--she would have been hurt had I ignored her.” It was not difficult to be polite to Naryu; she had once been stunning and advancing years had only slightly diminished her charms. Was she getting too old for the Grotto? Was that how the progression worked? He had been baffled more than once by the internal politics of the Temple.

There was a hint of smugness in her answering smile. Clearly she supposed that he was cowed by her beauty and rank. He smiled again. She was more than welcome to think whatever she pleased. “I hope that none of your... folk were injured,” he continued. He had almost said ‘none of your men’; it still struck him as strange that the senior fighters were women. He seemed to recall there were some male troops called the Sons of Jahnek, but they were a secular militia answering to the Council, not the Temple.

He had chosen the right tack. She responded with real interest. “Some bumps and bruises, but nothing serious, thank Hertha.” She gave him an appraising look. “I gather some of yours suffered worse.”

“Only one of any note.” They reached a door. There were not many doors inside the Temple; the priestesses seemed to feel little need for privacy. Vhulf would have liked to pause for a conversation that promised to grow interesting, but Naryu knocked and the door swung open.

Reverend Mother Sophya rose from behind her desk, and gestured to a couple of chairs. “Commander.” She did not bow, but did at least incline her head which, for her, meant she was trying hard to be polite. Vhulf noticed with interest that the office was a sham; a desk with only two papers on it and no scroll rack behind, too neatly organized ever to have been used for real work. With a sudden twinge of homesickness, Vhulf recalled Jarnag who respectfully stepped away from a real desk for meetings, rather than hiding behind a false one as a symbol of rank.

Then, just to keep him off balance (an art in which the Temple excelled), Reverend Sophya stepped forward and claimed one of the chairs, while Reverend Naryu seated herself behind the desk. She straightened her shoulders and smiled with the air of one who made no bones about enjoying rank. Then she turned to Vhulf. “You were saying, Commander, that one of your men was seriously injured. Have you had a chance to see him? Has he been tended to your satisfaction?”

He did not doubt that she knew the answer perfectly well, but he nodded and pretended to be pleased by her concern. “I just came from seeing him, Reverend. I am happy to report that Ragna was treated promptly and effectively, and will be back on his feet in no time. In fact, he was so tenderly treated that I fear he is half in love with the priestess who treated him.”

There was a long silence while the two priestesses slowly deduced that he was making a small jest, and finally concluded that if it was humor, then it must be in poor taste. They were not quite sure enough, however, to take him to task for joking around when the situation was so serious. Vhulf sighed. It was going to be a very long meeting. At last Reverend Sophya replied, “Your Ragna was healed personally by the Reverend Maiden Vra. It would not be appropriate for him to fall in love with a Maiden.” Or likely, considering her age and appearance, reflected Vhulf, but he said nothing.

“Typical, though.” snorted Naryu. “It seems to me that the whole trouble here is that your Assassins can’t seem to distinguish between a Mistress and a Maiden, and don’t know how to treat either one, anyway.”

Vhulf regarded her levelly. “There is some truth to your view, Reverend. Most of my men know little of the Goddess, or her acolytes. But, then, neither the Goddess nor her acolytes have accorded them any opportunity to learn. Your Temple is barred to us, and the citizens of Bar-Jahnek are forbidden to associate with us.” He shrugged. “So instead the men make up stories and spread rumors, stories and rumors, I might add, that are fueled by their resentment at being excluded. What exactly did you think would happen when you made us into pariahs?”

“You call us Temple whores,” snarled Naryu, “and expect us to welcome you? You assault innocent Maidens abroad on errands of mercy, and wonder why you are not popular?”

She was clearly prepared to say more, but the Reverend Sophya intervened. “But your men are not barred from the Temple, Commander.” Vhulf turned to face her. He had never doubted she was in charge of the meeting. “They are simply expected to observe polite forms when they enter--forms they would find easy to learn, if they troubled to try. It is true we have evicted several. They came in drunk, shrieked profanities and groped all the women--most of whom were worshippers, not priestesses. Would such behavior have been tolerated in one of your temples back home? Nor are our citizens forbidden to associate with you.”

“Just to do business with us, or to accept our employment?” Vhulf was careful to keep his voice civil. “If some of your local men were to enter our ranks, they might educate their fellows as to the proper forms. We are understaffed, and as things stand all our new recruits must be brought in from outside, and so they are all men who know nothing of your Goddess.” He paused to draw breath but saw Naryu preparing to interrupt. “The men you refer to were disciplined, you may recall. We have never encouraged or knowingly permitted disrespect to the Temple.”

“Of course,” spat Naryu. “And the man who attacked Sister Yahn’ki? He’s been disciplined also?”

“Actually, he is dead’” murmured Vhulf which certainly stopped Naryu cold.

Even the Mother-Adept gasped. “Surely that was excessive?”

Her concern was so evident that Vhulf was almost touched. Apparently these priestesses believed in their own cant, which--in all fairness, he had to admit--was more than he could say for most of the priests back home. “Not from discipline,” he replied. “Call it rather the judgment of Hertha, or at least the wrath of Her people. He was killed in the riot.”

Sophya and Naryu regarded each other for a long time. Finally Reverend Naryu returned her attention to Vhulf. “What would you have done to him if he had lived?”

He shrugged. “I can not give an exact answer. He would have faced a tribunal, and with so many local witnesses, and so much damage done, he would certainly have been sentenced. You will be sorry to hear that he probably would not have been drummed out. It’s a possibility, but we are short of staff and he was a good soldier. Mostly likely he would have been whipped, and ordered to pay restitution.”

“Whipped.” Mother Sophya’s voice was faint. Vhulf recollected that she had been invited to the previous whipping, and had not liked it at all. She at least did not doubt that the Assassins’ Guild had been serious about punishing disrespect to the Temple.

Mistress Naryu had not seen the whipping, and as a fighter would probably have been less disturbed by it anyway. “How much restitution?” she demanded.

Vhulf suppressed a smile. Naryu was a practical woman. “Isn’t that what we are here to negotiate?” he answered. He was looking forward to the negotiations. He had, or hoped he had, a secret advantage. He did not care how much money they wanted; he would pay it. He wanted more access to the Temple.

Reverend Sophya might almost have heard him thinking. “Unimportant,” she announced. “Sister Yahn’ki is not seriously injured. The guilty party is dead. What further restitution is required?”

Naryu stared at her as if she had suddenly sprouted horns, or turned blue. “There was a great deal of damage done,” she pointed out. “And many injured.”

“The injured have already been tended,” answered the Mother-Adept.

“But the damage,” wailed Naryu.

“The damage is not extensive enough to justify letting foreigners into your affairs,” said Vhulf. Both priestesses stared at him. “Surely you see, Mistress Naryu, if these Assassins are permitted to make any significant restitution, the public will see them as honest folk who pay their debts and help the community.”

There was a very long pause. The priestesses thought about his words. Then, to his surprise, the Reverend Sophya laughed out loud. “Well played, Commander,” she admitted. “And you are quite right. I do not want the Assassins’ Guild interfering in Bar-Jahnek’s affairs, not at any price.”

“You do not want the Assassin’s Guild in Bar-Jahnek at all,” he replied. “Why do you hate us so?”

She laughed again. “So very clever, and yet you miss the point,” she answered at last. “Of course we do not want you here. You are killers. Apparently your foreign gods do not object to murder. But Hertha does.”

“We are not killers. We are soldiers.” Vhulf was not so much angry at the charge as startled. These priestesses lived in the material world; they held and exercised power. Surely they could not be so monumentally naive. But he let a note of testiness enter his voice to remind them that petty insults were not appropriate negotiating tools.

“Do you really think there is a difference? Truly?” Mother Sophya, usually so sharp of tongue, spoke in the same gentle, questioning voice that she might have used with a troubled child.

A flicker of real anger crossed Vhulf’s mind at the patronizing tone, but he forced himself to lay it aside. So they really were that naive. “Have you asked the Servants of the Whip that question?”

Reverend Naryu did not bristle, but she sat up very straight. She answered levelly, “We are not killers or soldiers either, not as you seem to mean the word.” She managed a grim smile. “If we were, you wouldn’t be here, would you?” She looked into his eyes intently, as if trying to see if he understood her. “We represent the cold hand of justice; we impose order. We punish; we even fight, if evil defies us. But only Hertha can give or take life.”

Vhulf met her gaze directly. “But surely you have the authority to... to execute? In an emergency?” Both priestesses shook their heads emphatically. “Not even if you were disciplining, say a murderer? You say you can punish and fight evil. Suppose you had to intervene to save a victim and the perpetrator resisted so fiercely you had to kill him?”

Sophya shuddered, and fell back in her chair. The Mistress-Adept nodded seriously. “It could happen. It has happened. That is not to say it is permitted.” She sighed, and leaned forward over the desk to address him more earnestly. “See, if a citizen were to be attacked, and should happen to kill his attacker while fighting him off, that is self-defense and he is not guilty of a crime.”

“Of course.” Surely that much was painfully obvious.

“And if he were not himself attacked, but intervened to save someone else that had been attacked, and accidentally killed the attacker, he is still not guilty of a crime, per se.” Vhulf nodded again. “But neither is he innocent if there is blood on his hands. He has still killed a child of Hertha, and he must beg Her pardon.”

“Beg pardon?” Vhulf was genuinely startled.

“And if even an ordinary citizen must atone under such circumstances, how much more so Her Servant of the Whip, a priestess educated to know better, and carefully trained to do what is sufficient, and no more, without accidents. A Whip who kills must do penance. Generally she is removed from the Service of the Whip, although she might be permitted to remain as an administrator.”

Vhulf almost gaped. “You would turn her out of the Temple? For killing a criminal? By accident?”

“Oh, no.” Mother Sophya intervened. “She would not be turned from the Temple. No one is ever turned away from the Temple, least of all an unhappy Sister. But she would have to set aside the Whip.”

Vhulf’s mind boggled. It was the silliest thing he had ever heard. He nearly asked what these Whips were supposed to do if Bar-Jahnek was attacked. But he realized he knew the answer to that one perfectly well. What had Naryu just said? ‘If we were soldiers, you wouldn’t be here.’ She hadn’t been referring to him personally, but rather to the entire Empire of the Danaan which had walked right over Hertha’s silly Whips, and the Sons of Jahnek too, to conquer Bar-Jahnek in about twenty minutes. He sighed. So much for establishing a sense of military kinship.

He spread his hands and smiled his most charming smile. “Is that the end of it, then? There’s to be no compromise or forgiveness? I am simply to go away, and until such time as I do, you will pretend that I did? I cannot go away, Reverend Mother--I am here at the express desire of the Danaan. And if we cannot work out some sort of peace between us, there are bound to be more unpleasant incidents. Perhaps the next death will be one of yours.” The women looked at each other, looked for a long time.

At last the Mother-Adept murmured, “'The express desire of the Danaan,’ you say. But surely he has no real interest in us. We have nothing to offer him.”

Vhulf noticed--could not help but notice--that she was lying. It was the first time he had ever known her to do such a thing, and indeed she did it very badly. Her eyes flickered everywhere but to him, and her voice dropped in a sudden lack of conviction. And how odd that she chose to lie about the Danaan’s interest, of all things--the one item about which he would have expected her to know nothing. Who had told her of the Danaan’s interest? How much did she know? “You are mistaken, Mother Sophya,” he told her quite gently, using the informal--and more intimate--title. “The Danaan is interested. Very interested. I know it personally.”

“Personally? You are acquainted with the Danaan?”

He marveled. She was not lying now--apparently the Temple had been told nothing about him. Which made it even more incomprehensible that she knew something of the Danaan’s secret plans. “He is my father.”

Sophya’s shoulders dropped, as one defeated. The silence seemed to go on forever. Naryu looked down at the desk and furled the papers there into a scroll, then unfurled them again and pressed them flat.

Reverend Sophya sighed deeply. “It changes nothing. If the Danaan wishes you to be here, then you are here. But the Temple can not permit the men of Bar-Jahnek to enlist in your organization. Eventually some of them will do so anyway--we never permitted our merchants to hire you but some of them have.” She managed a faint smile. “Perhaps we will even the scales by drawing some of your men into the Temple. I understand that many of them are curious about the Grotto.”

“You would let my men into the Temple?”

“They would have to be cleansed,” snapped Reverend Naryu. “They’re most of them poxed.”

Mother Sophya smiled. “There are forms and ceremonies of entry they would have to learn. But no one is ever turned away from the Temple.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Place your bets, Gentlemen and Ladies! Ladies and Gentlemen, place your bets!” The game was "Love of the Goddess" and Tuck had discovered--to his enormous delight--that he was good at it. It took three players to make up a game, counting the barker, and it was played with three large dice. The highest possible score was three Maidens. Any roll involving a Mistress-Whip was a loser. Tuck consistently came up with Jahneks which beat out Mother-of-Babes. And, of course, a Mistress-Lure set off a whole separate game with its own special throws and penalties.

He placed a generous wager and threw. Two Jahneks and a Maiden. The barker--a tall, tawny creature who could easily have served Mistress-Lure in her spare time, and perhaps did--threw a Whip, and so declined her remaining rolls. His last opponent threw a Mother-in-Mourning (the lowest possible throw) and two Lures.

The barker called out “Game of love! Game of love!” in a very loud voice and banged a clapper onto a triangle. Several spectators took up the chant while the barker dramatically unfurled the special mat on which the Lure game was played. But before the jollity climbed to its usual levels, the door opened. Everyone glanced at the new arrivals, and apparently found them so interesting that they stopped and stared. Tuck looked, too.

Two men entered. The were dressed alike with plain dark tunics over linen shirts, and both carried dark half-robes over their arms, like Guild members just off work. But what made them so interesting was that one of them was obviously a foreigner. Skinny but very tall, he boasted a complexion of a most unusual hue, and pale curls as tight and thick as a young lamb’s. There were plenty of foreigners in town these days, but they all lived in their own neighborhood on the south slopes and didn’t mix much.

The young one that was not a foreigner looked around and called out, “Hey, don’t stop playing on our account.” He laid a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Nav here is okay. Really. I met him in Temple. I’m showing him about.” His eye lit on the barker, the Lure mat still dangling in front of her like a shield, and he grinned. “Look,. Nav--a Game of Love. Let’s play.” He hauled Nav over.

It was too late for them to join the Lure toss but that gave Nav’s friend time to explain the rules, as Tuck and the man who had rolled Lures played off. It was a complicated multiple toss, because the Lure was doubled and Tuck’s initial roll had been so high. But in the end it came down to Tuck with three Jahneks and his opponent with another Lure and two Whips.

“Well played,” said Nav’s friend--whose name turned out to be Yehanik. “Clearly I need to play a round with you, just to see which of us the Goddess loves best.”

“Are you sure this is all right?” murmured Nav.

He had spoken quite softly, but his words drew every ear. “What do you mean, all right?” said Tuck.

“Well, it just seems... I mean, isn’t it disrespectful? Gambling on the Goddess.” He turned to Yehanik. “I thought we’d be playing with ordinary dice, or cards.”

Tuck was raking in his winnings but stopped. “What’s wrong with the dice?”

Yehanik laughed. “Never mind him, Tuck. He’s just discovered the Goddess. Had his first trip to the Grotto. Can’t think of anything else.” To his friend he chuckled, “These are ordinary dice, Nav. The only kind you’ll find in Bar-Jahnek.”

Nav picked up a die and rolled it around in his palm. “But there’s no numbers on it. Just little Goddess signs. It looks like you should be praying with it.”

Tuck started stringing his winnings on his money chain. “Why would there be numbers on dice?”

Yehanik took the die from Nav. “You are praying with it, sweetie. All chances are in the hands of the Goddess, right? Win or lose, it’s always Her will. So it would be disrespectful not to have Her on the dice. You’re requesting Her kindness.”

“But it’s so....” Nav sighed. “Is it the same with the cards?”

Tuck almost laughed. Poor Nav looked so confused. “Is it really so different in the City of the Danaan?”

Nav grinned. “I couldn’t tell you that--I’ve never been there. But it sure is different in Miallo.” Tuck searched his mind. He’d done three years of Temple school. They’d shown him a map of the world. Miallo: a province just north of Sands-of-Gold, the first province taken into the Empire, centuries ago. “We... they worship Ehyah there, and--trust me--if they caught you putting Ehyah on dice, they’d have stoned you.”

“So they put... numbers on dice?” It still sounded very strange to Tuck.

“Sure. One through six. Ehyah still says it’s a sin, but at least he doesn’t have to take it personally.” Tuck found they were drifting away from the game, toward the bar. When they arrived his companion continued, “Ehyah thinks this is supposed to be a sin, too.” He plunked a couple of coins down and pointed at a bottle shaped like a fish. “Hertha is more understanding.”

The bottle arrived. Tuck smiled and proffered a toast. “To Hertha and Her infinite understanding.”

Nav, bless his heart, laughed just as loud as if it had really been funny. “To Hertha,” he bellowed in tones that commanded the attention of the entire room. “Bartender, another round for everyone.” He lifted his own glass. “To Hertha.” A hum of answering blessings rose up around the room, as the drinks arrived. Nav didn’t just grin. He smiled with his entire face. His eyes glowed.

Tuck poured another. “So you’ve been to the Grotto.”

Nav pulled up a stool, and leaned in toward Tuck. “I was transformed.”

He wasn’t drunk, or at least he was not drunk on alcohol for all that the bottle shaped like a fish was soon emptied and replaced by another. He laid a great deal of money on the bar, enabling everybody else in the games parlor to grow very drunk indeed. But Nav was not drunk. He had been to the Grotto.

He told Tuck all about it, and Yehanik too, along with everyone else in earshot. He blissfully described and explained every little detail of ceremony or spirituality, even though every other man in the room had been there at the very least once, and some of the sadder ones, many, many times. But they heard it again from Nav, and Tuck found himself as much touched as amused by his new friend’s childlike sense of revelation. He was also pleased that even a foreigner could plainly see that Bar-Jahnek’s ways were the best in the world.

Nav may not have been drunk, but by the end of the evening Yehanik certainly was. Indeed, he grew so very drunk that Nav and Tuck concluded they had best escort him home, which turned out to be almost a matter of carrying him home. In all fairness to Yehanik, it should be said that his feet were on the ground, and moving. They were, however, supporting little of his weight. But with Nav in an exalted state, and Tuck less than entirely sober, Yehanik seemed little burden and was transported with considerable good cheer.

Yehanik lived on the western edge of the Middleflats, tucked under the cliff leading up to High Circle, and looking down over the inner city and the bay. It had once been a fashionable neighborhood, and while it had grown a bit shabby--perhaps even dilapidated in spots--it still retained an air of genteel comfort. Yehanik’s home was elderly but sound, being cut from the cliff and built out with solid stone.

He pointed it out and whispered in stentorian tones that they must be utterly silent, for his granny (who actually owned the house) was doubtless asleep. So Nav and Tuck piously shushed each other at length, and approached the door with exaggerated if imperfectly quiet stealth. Upon reaching the front door, Nav commented, “If your granny’s asleep, why are the lamps still lit?”

It was true that, although the curtains were drawn, light poured cheerfully through the chinks and onto the street. Yehanik made a whistling noise and sagged so suddenly they nearly dropped him. In tones more subdued than he