Saeng backed away from the hut and made for her aunt’s house across the village. It seemed strange to her that her mother should have gone to Chana’s — ever since she could remember the two had only bickered and argued. Nearing the dwelling she found light flickering within and she stopped at the steps up to the front porch. ‘Hello? Auntie Chana? It’s Saeng …’
Thunder rumbled in the distance while she waited, and a thin mist of the last of the evening rain brushed her hair and face. Clouds appeared from the east, massing for another downpour. ‘Saeng?’ a voice called, her mother’s. ‘Is that you?’
She appeared on the veranda, a young child at her shoulder. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
Saeng nearly gaped. ‘Mother,’ she answered, outraged. ‘What kind of welcome is that? I was worried sick about you. I came to check-’
Her mother waved a hand. ‘Oh, I am fine. I’m helping Chana.’ She indicated the child. ‘Look, little Non.’
Saeng frowned her puzzlement. ‘Non?’
Her mother rolled her eyes. ‘Chana’s husband’s sister’s son! You know! Non.’
‘No, I don’t — I mean, I know the name,’ she finished lamely.
‘Oh, and old man Pelu? Next door?’
‘Yes?’
‘He’s dead. His heart gave out when the Thaumaturgs came through.’
‘Ah. Thank you, Mother. I really needed to know that.’
‘Well, I thought you’d be interested. You liked him. He always gave you candied pineapple. Remember when you were four you ate so much you threw up?’
‘Mother! Our house has been ransacked!’
She pressed a hand to Non’s head. ‘Quiet! You’ll wake him. Yes, they came stomping through in their muddy sandals.’ She looked to the lad nuzzling her neck. ‘But we’ll clean it up, won’t we, Non? Would you like to help your auntie?’
Saeng took a step backwards to steady herself. She felt outraged. Didn’t her mother care? Yet here she was busy and needed — getting on with her life. Holding on to what she has. ‘I was worried about you …’
Her mother smiled warmly. ‘That is sweet of you, Saeng. But worry about yourself. They asked about you, you know. Questioned everyone. They claimed you were an agent of the demoness! What silliness! No one said anything, of course.’
Now Saeng thought she was dreaming still. No one said anything? Her thoughts must have shown on her face as her mother tsked and said, ‘Saeng, really … you’re related to half the people here. And everyone’s proud. You’ve kept the Nak-ta quiet for more than ten years now. No one’s been taken in that time. Not like Pra-Wan. What a terrible time they’ve had of it there!’
Saeng felt like sitting down to steady herself. Was this really her village? And what of Hanu? Should she tell her? Perhaps not — she would want to see him and that would be too cruel.
Her mother reached out to smooth her hair. ‘Poor Saeng. You always held yourself apart. You spent more time with those awful spirits than the living.’
Saeng bit back her argument that it was her beliefs and manners that had held them apart — wasn’t it? Yet it was too late to revisit such ground. Gently she removed her mother’s hand. ‘Well, I know what to do now, Mother. You were right. There is somewhere I must go.’
‘Of course, Saeng. I knew it would come to you. You are the eldest daughter of the eldest daughter going back generations. It has always been so.’
‘Goodbye, Mother. Take care of little Non.’
‘Of course. That is also how it has always been.’
Saeng kissed the palm of her mother’s hand and turned away. On a path east of the village Hanu fell into step with her. Other than the firmness of his footsteps only the deep green glint from the inlaid stones of his armour revealed his presence in the absolute dark of night.
‘And Mother?’
‘She is safe, Hanu,’ Saeng sighed. ‘She is safe and well.’
* * *
When the door to her private chambers was thrown open, Hannal Leath, abbess of Tali’s monastery of Our Lady of the Visions, threw the covers over the naked body of her latest lover and glared at the offending acolyte. She wanted to say something properly majestic and abbess-like, such as: What is the meaning of this intrusion? But what slipped out was a high-pitched: ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
The young acolyte stood blinking at the bed, wide-eyed. Hannal followed her gaze to the impressive tenting of the sheet over her lover’s midsection. She slapped Javich’s thigh and he rolled on to his side. ‘What is it?’ she repeated.
The young woman swallowed, flushed. ‘She’s on her way, m’lady.’
‘What? Whatever do you mean?’
‘The contemplation pool. It’s glowing. She’s coming. Now.’
Hannal leaped to her feet on the bed, naked. ‘What? Now? Great impotent gods! You,’ she kicked Javich, ‘get out of here! You,’ she pointed to the acolyte, ‘collect my clothes.’
‘Yes, Abbess.’
Hannal paced the bed. ‘Of all the shrines and temples and schools … she has to come here?’ She clutched at her neck. ‘What have I done? Have I displeased her?’
Javich opened his mouth to say something but she pointed to the door. Bowing, he backed out, a sheet gathered at his waist. The acolyte handed over her clothes and she hurriedly dressed.
Ahead, up the hall of the monastery, a silvery light played among the pillars and stone arches. It rippled over the marble flags, the domed roofs and wall niches making it seem as if the entire building were underwater. As Hannal approached the inner sanctuary, she saw that the light spilled out of the doors to the central cynosure. She paused at the threshold, hands on the tall door leaves, already short of breath, and took in the milling crowd of nuns, guards and acolytes. She snapped a finger. ‘All of you — out. Now!’ She stood aside and they hurried past her, robes hiked up, feet slapping the polished marble floor. She took hold of the leaves. ‘No one enters,’ she told the guards. ‘Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Abbess.’
‘Good.’ She slammed shut the doors.
Oh, gracious goddess, what am I going to do? She ran to the stone lip of the central reflecting pool. Its quicksilver liquid rippled and shook as if agitated by her own anxieties. What am I to do? One touch and I’ll burn to ash!
The surface of the liquid metal bowed upwards in a wave as if disturbed from below and she hissed her uncertainty. Tongs? A fork? No — anything would burn. Centuries of Warren-ritual have gone into this instrument and I don’t even know how it works!
A hand emerged through the surface. The quicksilver beaded from it, running between the fingers. Hannal gaped, then thrust up her sleeves. Well — only thing for it. She reached out and clasped the hand, then gasped her exquisite pain as she found the flesh beyond frigid cold.
The hand tugged, almost heaving her over the raised lip of the pool. But Hannal had been a soldier before answering the call of the Queen and she had strong thighs. She braced herself against the ledge, pulling back just as insistently. An arm emerged — and not a shapely dancer’s arm: a thick muscled limb, and quite hairy. My goddess has the arms of a washerwoman!
Hannal yanked even more strongly despite the fact that the skin of her palm and fingers was cracking and the blood was hissing and smoking as it dripped to the pool’s juddering surface. She slapped her other hand to the wrist and hauled. A scalp emerged bearing straight brown hair. Another arm splashed up from the pool spraying droplets that burned where they touched, but Hannal clenched down on her agony and heaved with all her considerable muscle and heft.
Something gave, or a tipping point was reached, and the figure slipped towards Hannal as if down a slick chute to flop over the lip of the pool and fall to the stone floor in a slapping of limbs and grunts of pain. The quicksilver liquid ran over the marble, hissing and eating into the surface until it dissipated into mist.