Priestess of the Dragons' Temple

Chapter 9: Outside Temple Walls-2

Thorat looked back at the group he’d come in with. “I’m on dawn watch,” he apologized. “I have to go soon. Send Iola my regards?”

“She wants you to come see her,” Myril blurted out. “She doesn’t like to leave the temple.”

“You couldn’t just visit, though,” Darna said. “You’d have to come as a petitioner.”

Thorat’s hand went to his pocket, which was none too fat. “But you’re harbor temple priestesses. I’d have to offer half my quarter’s pay just to get in the front gate.”

“I know.” Darna grimaced. “She does want you to come see her, though.”

“Tell her I’ll think on it,” Thorat said. He looked over his shoulder at his fellow guardsmen. “No, tell her I’ll come. Tell her that. I’ll come soon.” He clasped their hands, one in each of his, then stood and returned to the group around the fire.

“Is it really that much?” Myril asked Darna as they got up from their table, leaving the stodgy bread and most of Myril’s bitter ale behind.

“Of course it is,” Darna hissed, “and more at festival times. We’d better hurry back before one of those fellows makes an out-of-temple offer.”

The swordsmen’s talk had indeed led to a few speculative leers, making Myril feel half-dressed even in her thick street robes. She and Darna walked out, comfortably arm in arm and wasting no time.

“What’s the connection between Thorat and Sunna?” Myril asked as they walked back to the side house. She never would have guessed that the secret entrance was there, but someone like Darna might notice it.

Darna shrugged. “Sunna hasn’t told me, but she does leave the temple a lot. Most priestesses hardly leave at all, even though they can. We’ll have to get it out of Thorat next time we meet. Pity he’s a palace guard, I would have thought better of him.”

“It’s just temporary, he said.”

“You’re too forgiving,” Darna chuckled.

Myril breathed deep, glad to be in the open air again, still free of the temple for a little longer.

§

Thorat returned to the cluster of palace guardsmen.

“Ara’s Landing priestesses, eh? Pretty fancy for a young fellow like yourself,” laughed one of the older men.

Thorat blushed. “They’re just old friends, from my scrappling days.”

“Ah, just friends.”

Thorat endured more good-natured teasing as he and two of the others trudged back up the palace hill. He’d spent the past years learning to wield his sword under the tutelage of Sovara, the head of his secretive sword hall. He’d begun by running errands for her around the time when the girls entered the temple, and he’d been an apprentice there ever since. Training had consumed nearly every waking moment and sometimes his dreams, too. The Defenders had trained his body and his mind, but any change had been so slow he hadn’t noticed it. He was still the same boy, only a little taller and stronger.

Seeing the girls again had startled him. They had changed. Only Iola had seemed beautiful when they were young, but now the others had almost the same grace, even Darna, who’d been so clumsy and sharp. He’d glimpsed them at Midsummer, but there the crowd had held him back, and they were so covered by the ritual that they seemed scarcely real. It was disconcerting to be so close, with them so changed.

“So, we know where you’ll be after watch-keeping tonight,” laughed one of his companions.

“No more nights in the tavern for you,” said the other, “you won’t have a bead to your name after your proper offerings to the dragons’ girls.”

Thorat laughed a little. He was, indeed, counting the beads in his pocket. “What’s it like?” he asked. “Compared to the temples in the provinces?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about all of it,” said one, “but the place is a whole lot grander.”

“Right up next to the dragon realms, they say,” said the other. “I was talking to my sword-mender the other day, passing the time, and he said he’d just been to a priestess there. Must say he charges enough to afford the place.”

“What did he say?” Thorat asked.

“Said he felt like he was in the heart of the earth itself. Came back to his anvil and made the best blade he’d ever hammered out. Said the priestesses were prettier than the Cerean goddess of beauty.” The guardsman paused. “Must’ve been a pretty little thing, but maybe he exaggerated.”

“Maybe not,” Thorat shrugged. He’d seen more of the dragon realms than his companions had.

“You’ll find out then, won’t you?”

“I suppose I might,” Thorat said.

The guard at the palace gate greeted the returning tavern-goers with a careful inspection. Thorat stood stiffly at attention while the under-captain of the guard appraised his garb and sniffed his breath.

“You seem close enough to sober,” he pronounced of Thorat. “Patrol the back wall by the governor’s garden. Send the man you find there back here.” He turned to the others. “You two,” he said. “Walk the front wall until you’re steady on your feet.”

Thorat bowed and set off for the back of the palace. To the other guards here, he was just another hired blade, albeit a little quicker on his feet than most. In the sword hall, in the last shrine of the Defenders of the Dragons’ Gates, he was an apprentice, barely beginning to learn his art as one of Enat’s heirs. Once, there had been two orders of the dragons, Enat’s line alongside Ara’s. Enat and Ara had stood together on the shore of Anamat at the landing, pledging to mediate between the people and the dragons. Now though, Enat’s order had been in hiding for generations. They worked through subterfuge and by taking other work, placing their scattered members in the keeps and the palace, anywhere they might hear of threats to the dragons. Thorat was honored to have been chosen to keep watch at the palace, but he couldn’t hear everything.

The governor’s garden overlooked the eastern part of the city and had a long view north to the border hills of Coradun. Smoke spiraled up from the hearth in the governor’s private rooms. A servant departed with a tray of untouched dinner dishes. Thorat found the guardsman on watch gazing dully out over the city.

“You’re off,” Thorat said. “The under-captain says he wants to see you at the front gate.”

The guardsman nodded. “Thanks for coming, I’ve been out here since midday. You wouldn’t tell the captain I was dozing, would you?”

“Of course not,” Thorat said, puzzled. “Is there anything I should watch for?”

The other guardsman shrugged. “They brought the governor out into the garden a bit after midday, when it was sunny here for a spot. He can’t hardly so much as walk. Brought him out all wrapped in blankets and things. Hasn’t eaten much, either, by the looks of it. Lots of folks coming and going.”

“Who?” Thorat asked. “Who’s been coming and going?”

“Oh, the usual. Servants, his son, Parnet, and his daughter who was married off to the Prince of Seiganum. It must be serious, for her to have come so far. Then there’s always Illaya, our palace mistress. The chief chronicler came too, and a few others, that fellow from Getedun and one from Coradun. Oh, and the Tiadun prince.” The guard yawned. “Raise the call if there’s any disturbance.”

“I will,” Thorat said.

“Good then, I’m off.” The guardsman departed in the direction of the kitchens, not the front gate. Thorat thought about calling him back and reminding him to report to the under-captain, but a man needed to eat.

The traffic to and from the governor’s rooms annoyed Thorat. He had hoped to have a peaceful night of wall-walking, keeping an eye out for an occasional bold thief in the streets below while dreaming of Iola. With the governor’s apparent illness, it seemed as if every dignitary in the city had to come pay his respects. Thorat hovered at the doorway to assess the situation.

“Leave me be, Parnet,” the governor moaned. “Rest.”

“Very well, father. I’ll see you in the morning.” Parnet departed through the inside door, so Thorat couldn’t see his expression.

“Illaya, dear,” the governor called. “Be a good girl and tell them all to come back in the morning. I’m not intending to die tonight.”

“Yes, love. Shall I call the night-servant for the fire?”

Thorat peeked in through a c***k in the shutters. Illaya, the old priestess, sat on one side of the governor’s bed holding his hand. She had long gray hair and wrinkles around her eyes, but she still looked vigorous. The governor lay propped up on a bank of pillows, looking pale and drawn but very much alive. Illaya rose and knocked on a small inner door beside the hearth, where she whispered directions to a servant. The governor’s eyes closed wearily.

Thorat pulled himself away from the scene as Illaya turned back to the Governor and lay down on the bed beside him. It was such a quiet, personal scene that he felt like an intruder. In the provincial castles, he’d never seen a prince so relaxed. They seemed to have to constantly assert their authority by barking orders, day and night. Then again, the governor was old and ill. From the sound of it he expected to die soon, though not immediately. That would leave the governor’s seat open until a successor was appointed to it by the Council. Thorat went to look in again, but the lamps had been snuffed and the red glow of the fire revealed nothing new. He would have to tell his swordmaster about it.

The rest of the night passed slowly. A bit before dawn, a palace scribe arrived with her daily report for the governor and Thorat turned her away, telling her to return later in the morning. A servant left a covered bowl of broth by the fire. Illaya sipped at it and when the governor stirred she spooned a little into his mouth. He lapsed back into sleep. Thorat fought off the urge to doze until finally the morning gong tolled softly from the hill temple at first light and another guard came to relieve him.

“You’re off,” the new guard said.

“Thank you,” Thorat said. “The governor’s not feeling well, try to keep things quiet out here.”

“I always do, boy. This is my regular watch,” the guard said. “You’re new?”

“Temporary, for the season,” Thorat said. “I’m honored to have been given this patrol.”

“As you should be,” the guard said. “As you should be. Off with you then. I’ll give report in the morning. You can go to the kitchens, if you’d like.”

“Thank you.” Thorat stole a last glance toward the governor’s room. The light of a single lamp glowed softly from behind the shutters. Thorat thought of the lamps in wayside temples, all across the land, then hurried away down to the gates of Ara’s Landing.

§

By the time Myril and Darna got back to the side house, the moon was halfway up the dome of the sky and the Grandmother slept noisily on her couch, her breath coming and going in heaving sighs, filling the small room. Darna, slightly tipsy, stumbled on the threshold and managed to catch herself just before almost landing on the Grandmother. Myril stifled a giggle. As they mounted the stairs, the temple seemed to reach out to her, dragging her in. She was suddenly tired, so tired that she wasn’t sure she could even walk across the temple.

“I’m not sure I should,” Myril said when they reached the attic.

“Should what?” Darna burped.

“Go back in.”

“That’s the spirit,” Darna clapped her on the back. “You’ll be fine, now. I’ll keep an eye on you. Come on.”

Myril recalled that for all her worry, she’d only fallen too deeply into trance twice since her initiation, today and at Midsummer. The moment in the baths, while terrifying, had not lasted very long. After all, she was still alive. If she were careful, she should be able to hold onto everyday reality a little longer. It would probably help to stay away from Iola, too, who suddenly seemed like the earthly embodiment of all that drew her to the dragons’ realm.

Myril shook off that thought and followed Darna back into the temple. She yawned. She might even sleep soundly tonight, despite being in the temple.

As they walked into the peresi’s courtyard, the pale moon and flickering torchlight revealed a figure sleeping on the bench outside Myril’s chamber. As they approached, she stirred.

“Sunna,” Darna said, before Myril was even sure who it was. “You didn’t come.”

Sunna yawned. “Couldn’t get away. You wouldn’t have been able to if you’d spent a moment longer on the way out.”

“The Grandmother didn’t say anything,” Darna said.

“They decided not to trouble her.” Sunna turned to Myril. “The Aralel requests your presence.”

Myril’s heart sank. “Now?” The garden was still, quiet. “Surely she’s sleeping.”

“Immediately, that’s what she said, as soon as she gets back.”

Darna stepped closer. “Just Myril?” she asked.

“Yes. You might as well get some sleep, since you’re allowed to.” Sunna yawned, then shook herself awake. “Come on, I’ll escort you,” she said, taking Myril firmly by the arm. Her touch was light but inescapable.

“What does she want me for?” Myril said. “I can go myself.”

“She didn’t tell me,” Sunna said.

Myril got the distinct sense that although Sunna might not have been told, she knew, and she didn’t particularly like it.

“I’m coming too,” Darna declared. Sunna made no move to stop her.

They walked back across the silent sleeping temple and up the broad steps to the Aralel’s porch, where a single oil lamp burned behind a screen. Sunna led them straight in. They made no noise, rang no bell, but their presence alone seemed to be enough to rouse the temple’s leader. The Aralel emerged with a night robe wrapped around her shoulders.

“Come inside,” she said. “I have a brazier burning.”

Although Myril had been in the Aralel’s study many times, she’d never been invited past that heavy inner curtain before, into the bedchamber. The room was scarcely larger than her own chamber, maybe even a little smaller. It wasn’t built for the rite, though she suspected that the Aralel still sometimes took petitioners herself. The red light of the brazier’s coals showed a wide sleeping nook, lightly curtained, and a low table surrounded by floor cushions. A few chests stood around the walls with smaller boxes on high shelves. The walls appeared to be painted with a scene from the legends or a map, but it was too dark to make out the details.

“Sit,” the Aralel commanded, gesturing to the cushions on the floor. She fetched a small pitcher from one of the shelves just inside her door, along with four cups. Before she spoke again, she poured a little wine into each cup. It smelled of flowers and peaches, an early summer smell, strange now in the midst of the late winter night. Myril shivered and edged closer to the brazier.

“I’m glad you had a chance to go out,” the Aralel said, “but that will be the last of it, perhaps for a long time.”

“But why?” Darna said. “What about the chroniclers?”

The Aralel glanced at Darna, then at the door. “If you insist on staying, you must hold your tongue.”

“Pardon me, Your Holiness,” Darna murmured.

The Aralel looked at Myril sadly. “The chroniclers will have to wait. I understand you know what happened to Ganie. She is no longer in fit condition to serve the ambassadress, and you have been chosen to take her place.”

Myril’s mouth gaped open.

The Aralel nodded. “I know. I know it is not what you would have chosen, but the augurs had you in the forefront at Midwinter. Knowing your troubles with trance, we decided to place Ganie there in your stead, but the currents of the land push you into that position again, and I will not attempt to deny them this time.”

Sunna drained her cup and cast it down on the table with a clatter. “You can’t ask her to go under the earth, not if she doesn’t want it. I’ll go. No one would think anything of it. It doesn’t need to be all the youngest peresi attending the ambassadress.”

“I don’t deny that you’re still strong enough, Sunna, but the augurs have had their say. They suggested Lenasa, too, rather than Savasa, but the princes have a hand in things there which I would be loath to upset. Neither of them has any chance of being chosen in the end, so it hardly matters.”

“It’s not fair,” Darna protested, but the Aralel looked at her and Darna sat back, silent again.

“What about Ganie?” Myril asked. “What will she do?”

The Aralel tipped her head. “I believe you saw that already. She will go to a village temple and make the most of it. She will bear a son. Other than that, we cannot say.”

Myril nodded. She felt cold again in her bones, but somewhere, not far enough away, lay the scorching heat of the dragons’ fire, pushing up under the paving stones, cracking the earth under her feet.

“I had not intended to put you forward as ambassadress, but your self-sacrifice this afternoon for Ganie’s sake shows us that you have the character we would most like in our ambassadress. Besides that, the pull of the dragons is strong, strong enough that I think, if there is need, you can overcome your aversion to taking petitioners.”

Myril’s throat tightened.

“It’s not just an aversion!” Darna said.

“Silence!”

Darna bowed her head.

Myril shivered. Sunna put a hand on her shoulder, which steadied her a little.

“What if I don’t come back?” Myril asked.

The Aralel looked at her. In the long silence between them, Myril felt the Aralel’s mind reached into her, reading signs left there of where she had passed. “I, too, have been to the dragons’ realm,”the Aralel said. “You returned before, didn’t you?”

Myril nodded. Sunna’s hand dropped away but Darna came to her support.

“I don’t want to be ambassadress,” Myril said weakly. “That’s what Iola wants.”

“Conveying the dragons’ blessings is not always something we ask for. It is not all about our human desires.” The Aralel’s words were no comfort. They weren’t meant to be. “It is not decided yet,” she said, more reassuringly. “It is far from decided. The governor may yet recover and Jasela might even fly again. We do not know the dragons’ will, but you must be ready.”

Myril stood and nodded. She didn’t have enough breath to trust her voice.

“You will report to Jasela in the morning,” the Aralel said, “and I will have Geta teach you the rest of the cures for those who journey under the earth.”

“Yes, Your Holiness,” Myril managed.

Darna led Myril out through that heavy curtain, out through the Aralel’s study with its familiar and reassuring scrolls.

Behind them, the Aralel spoke again. “Wait, Darna. You have an apprenticeship paid for, don’t you?”

“Yes, but –”

“The ambassadress will emerge from seclusion soon. You will go then.”

“But what about Myril?” Darna said.

“You may visit,” the Aralel said. “That is all. You may go.”

Together, they left the inner sanctum of the Aralel, and Myril felt Darna’s anger like a warm fire beside her as they walked back to her imprisoning chamber, inside the crushing temple walls.

§